Sardon didn’t walk, he shuffled. He shuffled when he left his cramped corner in a slum common building, even if it meant suffering curses when he stepped on an arm. He shuffled when he opened the door and doddered around those even poorer than him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t walk straight; he simply didn’t see the need to. Shuffling brought in more alms, and staying in character was vital to a profitable day of begging. Sardon lodged in the center of Achart on the outskirts of the Realm of Marvels. It was a small slum that was neither here nor there. Detested by the city folk for his begging and shunned by the slum dwellers for his mocking character, Sardon himself was neither here nor there. He had been born poor, but not into that grinding poverty that had no escape. The beggar had chosen his own miserly path when he had refused his masters in the Church of the Whole and since then had scrounged out an existence. Sardon had drifted from job to job and had fallen on hard times when he had been accused of stealing from his employer, a tanner on the western[AR1]  outskirts of Achart. Such fuss for a few unfinished hides, he thought. After his run from the law, he’d taken refuge in the city and worked as a gong farmer until he nearly drowned in shit. It was then that he took up begging.

         Sardon shuffled down the busy street towards the markets to begin his day of solicitation. It was cloudy and threatened rain, but if the weather held for a few hours, he could beg enough to spend the afternoon in the alehouse and have a plate of stew, likely his only meal of the day. He shuffled around a stubborn mule and grinned sardonically at two pie sellers who argued while pulling and pushing their cart inside the market square archway.

         “If the king were good and just, then why don’t he tax the nobles? We ’ave to pay for all his wars wif the Norf!” A rail-thin, balding middle-aged man spat.

         His younger, short, rotund companion glared. “’e is good and just, our king! ’e keeps them barbarians in the Norf in the ice and away from the city.” Sardon enjoyed begging near these two men. They sold hot pies, and there was always a chance of a spare copper falling into his cap.

         “Morning, Radiric. Morning, Scorlar.” He suppressed a grin at the two black looks.

         “Piss off, Sardon. You scare away our customers.” The skinny Radiric always looked comical. Sardon imagined him in a cornfield with crow droppings on his straw hat.

         “Come on now, Radiric. I’ve never bothered you. I’ll sit all quiet-like next to that pillar for alms. You won’t even know I’m here.”

         “Behind the pillar, beggar. I don’t want to see yer ugly mug, or I’ll box them ears of yers.” Scorlar scowled and puffed up. Sardon found the fat man obnoxious, but not dangerous. Sardon had spent his youth stick-fighting along the Jehad River, and he still carried two short iron-rod canes in his boots. His ability to “flick the stick” would be more than enough to stop them both.

         “Scorlar, who will trade banter about good King Ardok II with you if I’m behind a pillar?”

         “Eh, you watch yer mouth! King Ardok II is our lord protector, eh?” Scorlar had taken a step forward and shook a pudgy fist. Sardon wondered if the oaf even knew what “lord protector” meant. The beggar knew much more than his letters after he had spent a few winters in the institution of the Church of the Whole, first as cleaner, then as an apprentice scholar. There Sardon had learned how to bow, scrape, and extol the virtues of House Gotharus. As much as he hated the obsequious doctrines, his voracious mind had devoured the intricate teachings behind the words and naturally began to copy out the Fluid Canons. The priests had recognized his intelligence, and he was singled out for advanced reading and writing. Troubles had started when the High Priest discovered his special gift and lusted to use Sardon as a weapon. Sardon hated himself for having acquiesced to the “holy missions,” as the High Priest called them. After several missions he’d refused to continue as a servant-assassin for the Whole God prelate, but he had stayed long enough to complete advanced instruction in artistic calligraphy with the quill.

         “Scorlar, I’m a staunch believer in the king.” Sardon smirked as he watched the fat man try to puzzle out the word “staunch.” “And it is a right and just measure that King Ardok II defends us from the Northern heathens and their false god. May the four-god protect the king.” Sardon was careful to use the peasants’ name for the Whole God. Church scripture and praise of House Gotharus were winning tactics with Scorlar.

         “Eh, yeah, that’s what I say! King Ardok II is right holy blessed by the four-god! But Radiric’s got porridge ’tween his ears!”

         “I ain’t got no porridge in my ears! We pay all them taxes!” Radiric growled. “What do them Poppy bankers pay? What do them counts pay?”

         “They put food on yer table, they do! They buy our pies.”

         “Ah, they don’t buy nothin’! It’s them poor folk that buy our pies.”

         Sardon enjoyed these pauper exchanges, but he had to be careful not to exacerbate the situation. Angering Radiric wasn’t much of a problem, but if their arguments attracted the city guard, he would have to find another place to beg.

         “Scorlar, I’ll just sit in front of the pillar.” Sardon shuffled to the column. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

         “Yeah, you just sit quiet-like, eh?” Scorlar said.

         Radiric grabbed Scorlar’s sleeve. “Eh, I don’t want no beggar scaring off our customers!”

         “Come now, Radiric. I’m a loyal subject of King Ardok II. You can trust me.” Sardon watched Scorlar out of the corner of his eye.

         “Eh, Radi, you leave Sardon be, eh? ’e’s a king’s man like me!”

         “’e better not scare off none of our customers, eh?” Radiric grumbled as he set out the savoury pastries. Sardon didn’t bother to hide his triumphant smile in front of the dim-witted pie sellers as he sat at the base of the pillar.

         Sardon was thankful that the morning held. He made a few coppers and even managed to convince Scorlar to give him a squashed salty tart for a midmorning snack despite the vigorous protests of Radiric. As the pie sellers were closing their cart after lunch the first drops fell, and Sardon suggested they go to the alehouse together for lunch. Radiric swore he would never drink with a beggar, but Scorlar wanted to exalt the king with the seemingly compliant Sardon. He thought he would have to play his hand carefully to weasel a free lunch. Too brazen, and he would lose the opportunity.

Inside the common room they ordered stew and ale near the hearth. They ate while Radiric grumbled that the miserable beggar would pay his own way. Sardon quickly engaged Scorlar with exploits of the Holy Gotharus Army fighting off the incursions of the Kall Warriors in the northeast and the war with House Ulfurum in the northwest. Sardon said the rumors in the slums were that House Gotharus had lost all of Targotinrok province, port, delta, and city. Sardon grinned and ordered another ale as the pie sellers heatedly debated the news.

         A small boy with wet hair appeared beside Radiric. “’scuse me, lords hot-pie men, sirs. Me Baron of the Marvels wants to speak wit the lord Sarldon.”

         “What? Ye mean Sardon?” Radiric’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “Baron Farrier want this ’ere beggar Sardon?”

         The boy stood placidly as he watched Sardon. “Yes, lord hot-pie man, sir.”

         Radiric sneered at the beggar as Sardon tried to hide his dismay. Baron Farrier was the lord of the slums and held his court just outside the city center. The Realm of Marvels was the most notorious part of the city, but also the least dangerous quarter for those welcomed by the Baron. Entering the Marvels uninvited would lead to robbery or worse. Even the Achart city guard wouldn’t cross into the slumlord’s domain unless ordered at musket point by the Divine Gotharus Army.

         “’ey, lord Sarldon, is you gonna sit and brood like a garden hen? Me lord Baron Farrier is wantin’ you in the Marvels.” The boy garbled Sardon’s name again as he looked directly into his eyes. Sardon could see no challenge from the boy, just the quiet determination of a lad serving his powerful master.

         “What’s your name, boy?”

         “Pit Mouse, lord Sarldon.”

         Sardon grimaced. The boy’s name almost certainly meant he had been abandoned on the streets and raised in the Realm of Marvels by the Marvel Brats. A pit boy was a runner of the lowest level. But there were worse fates, and at least this runner didn’t appear to be half starved.

         “Okay, Pitty, take me to Baron Farrier.” Sardon stood and tipped his hat to the pie sellers as he followed the boy out.

         “Oi, beggar! You didn’t pay up yer ale and stew!”

         “Radiric, you don’t want me to keep the Baron of the Marvels waiting, do you? What would that mean for your business if he got word?” Sardon left Radiric gesticulating at Scorlar, who hunched his shoulders and stared into his mug.

         Outside in the light rain, Sardon pulled up his torn hood and followed Pit Mouse as the city grew dark. He had to hurry to keep pace as the boy scuttled down the side streets. For the first time in months, Sardon realized he was walking. His instincts told him there would be no shuffling in front of Baron Farrier, even if he was not a royal-blooded Baron. For that matter, neither was he a farrier. Achart street legends said the first slumlord of the Realm of Marvels had been a farrier and self-proclaimed baron. Since then, every slumlord that fought and killed for the role claimed to be a descendent of the first. Sardon was certain it was all nonsense, but belief in the tale and obedience to the Baron gave the paupers a cramped room and a full stomach in his realm.

         Sardon looked down his own street just outside of the Marvels and caught the envious stares of some of his fellow beggars. News travels fast, he thought. Most would cut off a finger to be called upon by Baron Farrier, but not Sardon. Sardon was certain he knew why the Baron had called on him, and he wanted none of it. But refusing to meet with the slum sovereign was out of the question. Displeasing the Baron could have dire consequences.

         As the rain slowed to a drizzle, Pit Mouse walked under an archway between ramshackle buildings that marked the easternmost entrance to the Marvels. Sardon flicked his eyes left and right to the shadowy figures that stood behind columns and in doorways and resisted the impulse to pull out his iron canes. They undoubtedly recognized Pit Mouse, but Sardon kept his guard up as they ventured deeper into the Marvels. They walked past brothels with leering whores, makeshift exterior kitchens with fires blazing, and tinkerers fixing stolen wares. Sardon recognized a clairvoyant from her extravagant turban as she approached.

         “Me lord, let me read yer palm and reveal your morrow.”

         Sardon was surprised to see the tiny Pit Mouse run forward to stand between him and the old woman boldly. “Lord Sarldon is ’ere for me lord Baron! You stand off, eh?” The clairvoyant shrank back without a word, and Pit Mouse motioned for him to keep walking.

         Sardon followed the runner through a narrow alley, which widened into a large oval court. In the center was a stone platform, which had likely been the foundation of a large communal oven. Sardon stared at the garishly robed figure sitting on a makeshift throne of wood and iron that squatted on the stone. The fabric’s mix of cobalt, orange, green, and mauve would have been comically out of place if not for the man’s ardent black eyes and a wicked scar that ran from his forehead to his cheek. His bulk was that of a strongman turned fat from years of slovenly living. Sardon regarded the powerful man as both captive and warden inside the curving bands of the throne backing. Snug in the middle of the twisted mass lounged Baron Farrier. As Sardon listened to the grating voice, he thought a chest full of arrows would suit the fat peacock lodged in his cage.

         “Welcome to my Realm of Marvels, Sardon.” Farrier thumped an ebony cane on a brass and wooden box that resonated dully in the square. “Will you take your dinner?”

         “Baron Farrier, I am not a man to refuse hospitality.”

         “No, Sardon, I would think not. Come, let us retire to Ivory Keep.” Farrier waved a hand, and a group of young men in tatters scrambled to hoist the makeshift throne up off the foundation and carried it down like a royal litter. Sardon followed the absurd procession of ragged men, women, and children into Ivory Keep. Farrier’s palace was a short, sooty, dilapidated square tower that had probably functioned as a guardhouse centuries ago. Sardon stared at the roof and wondered how it kept out the wind and rain. Inside the atrium there was a long, rough table set for two, complete with a magnificent gold candelabra. Sardon was pleased to see roasted meat and white bread along with ale, potatoes, leeks, and sweet tarts. He smiled at the Baron, rubbed his hands together, and thumped his angular body down on the plush chair.

         “Baron Farrier, you don’t mind if I begin, do you?” Sardon didn’t wait for an answer and tore a wing off of a bird that could have been a pheasant or a grouse, he never could remember the difference. He bit a hunk of bread and sloshed ale into his mouth as he chewed.

         “Sardon, you seem famished, and yet you had a bowl of stew at the Quag & Quarter.” Sardon chewed thoughtfully and searched for Pit Mouse. The boy hadn’t spoken a word to Farrier since their arrival, and he didn’t even seem to be present in Ivory Keep. How many moles he must have, and how quickly he works, Sardon thought.

         “Baron Farrier, a man of the streets never knows when he will have his next meal.” Sardon bit into a pork rib without taking his hand off the mug of ale.

         “Yes, the streets are hard on a man. Most would give anything for an easier life.” Farrier hadn’t touched his plate of food, and Sardon felt his eyes on him. He felt a judder and an attempt at probing his thoughts. Sardon tensed and concentrated, slinging a shield up in his mind. The Baron’s face split into a wicked grin. “You are strong for a modestly trained man.”

         Sardon wondered what the Baron knew of him. “The streets are all the training a man needs. And I am a man who knows where to find his bed after a long day.” He stared pointedly at the fat man. “My bed is outside of the Marvels.”

         “A filthy bed in a corner slum is not the life for you, Sardon.” Farrier’s expression grew cold. “You and I have a gift given to us by the Whole God. We were designated to govern the people beneath us.”

         “I’m not a man to govern others, Baron Farrier. I think your moles would have told you this, so why did you seek me out?” Sardon reached out and sensed an emotion from the Baron. Was it weakness or doubt? He couldn’t be sure, as Farrier had sealed his mind.

         “Times are difficult,” Farrier hissed. “You know the gossip in Achart is no longer idle words. The city is about to boil over.”

         Sardon hid his eyes behind a swig of ale. He knew Farrier was right. The citizens of Achart were openly talking about rebellion in the taverns inside the city and beyond. Taxes were impossible to bear when House Gotharus held lavish feasts inside Castle Conrad. Word travelled fast from the castle kitchens to the slums, and muttering turned to denouncing the king and his court. But the disasters in the North were the real problem. Gotharus had diverted large sums of gold to fund the war—gold that was meant to be used to clean and repair the broken cobblestones and buildings in Achart. The nobles, peasants, merchants, serfs, and slum dwellers were at wit’s end.

         “There is nothing men like us can do, Farrier.” Sardon watched Farrier closely for a sign of rage. “We just need to stand out of the way when the Divine Gotharus Army charges through the streets.”

         Farrier sneered under his jowls. “You and I are learned men, Sardon. We were not gifted by the Whole God to stand aside.” He fingered the onyx on his ring. “Your instruction by the priests of the Holy Church is uncommon amongst the peasants. There are not many men skilled with the quill, the knife, and our shared gift.” Sardon felt his nerves pulse and wondered how the Baron knew of his time in the Church of the Whole and his work with the blade. Their shared abilities did not include psychometry nor telepathy.

         “I have no services to offer you, Baron.”

         “You cannot live your life as a beggar. You were given a gift that does not allow for it. The gift is not yours to waste.” Farrier bent forward and stared. Sardon felt the thudding impact of Despair as emptiness and dread filled his bowels. He breathed to still his mind from the intrusion.

         “Do not do that again, Farrier.” Sardon burned a gaze at the Baron, who leaned back in his skeletal throne with a scowl.

         “I do as I wish in my realm, Sardon.” Farrier rapped his knuckles on the table, and in an instant, men in ragged black-and-white uniforms stepped forward armed with iron canes and daggers. Sardon felt the beads of sweat run down his forehead as the Ivory Army soldiers surrounded him silently. Sardon’s flash of anger had caused him to forget that the fat peacock could have him beaten, gutted, and thrown into the canal and none would be the wiser.

         “Farrier, you know I meant no disrespect.” Sardon spread his hands. “A slow day of begging has me a little on edge.”

         Farrier waved the Ivory Army back to the walls. “Hard times are coming to the Centerlands, Sardon. I can offer you employment and protection. Soon all of us will have to choose a side.”

Sardon stretched comically to reduce the tension. “A good night’s sleep in the Marvels common den will give me the answer.”

         “You had best make the right decision before the city is put to the iron. Or before I have you hanging from the Ivory Keep.” Farrier snapped his fingers, and the ragged men materialized to heave his throne upwards. He looked down at Sardon and smiled cruelly. “I will house you tonight, Sardon. Tomorrow, I expect you to accept your role as captain in the Ivory Army.”

         Sardon watched the Baron’s peasant caravan shamble off as paupers scrambled from the corners to eat the scraps on the table. Sardon grimaced at the desperate display of the poor. Though he had often gone hungry, never had he had the look of desperation that he saw in the eyes of the poor who jostled before him. He wondered if the original baron had treated his own like this.

         Sardon sighed and contemplated his life at the crossroads. If the city exploded into rebellion, it would touch every corner inside of the walls, and he risked being killed whether he stood with the Baron or not. Sardon suspected the Baron was an arm of control for House Gotharus, though he could not puzzle out their ties. Though he hated House Gotharus, his survival instinct told him to join the Baron. But his personal integrity refused to take orders from the fat peacock.

         Sardon stood up and slipped a chunk of meat in his pocket as he slid away from the table. He walked past the glaring Ivory Army to leave the keep. With long, lanky strides, Sardon walked into the square. He thought of the lowly Pit Mouse and couldn’t imagine him surviving the onslaught of the coming revolts. The least of the pit boys were often sacrificed as distractions. Against an armed soldier, it would mean certain death for him. Sardon swept a gaze over the square and spotted his guide.

         “Pitty! Pit Mouse!” He waved and saw the boy look around warily before he walked towards Sardon.

         “Yes, me lord Sarldon?”

         “Sardon, lad. My name is Sardon. You’ll have to get my name right if you are to apprentice with me.”

         Pit Mouse started. “Apprentice, me lord? Baron Farrier is me master.”

         “You take orders directly from the Baron? The Baron speaks with you?”

         “No, me lord Sardon.”

         “No, I didn’t think so. The Baron doesn’t even know who you are, Pitty. You take orders from the Marvel Brats, don’t you, son?” Sardon tilted the boy’s chin to look him in the eye. “A Brat gave you that black eye, didn’t he, Pitty?”

         The boy lowered his eyes. “I’m jus’ a pit boy runner. I’m jus' Pit Mouse.”

         “You were, Pit. You can keep the name if you like, but from now on you will be with me. No more running for the Baron or his Brats.”

         Pit Mouse looked at Sardon with wide eyes. “With you, me lord Sardon?”

         “Yes, Pit, with me. You’ll be my page boy while I serve the peacock,” Sardon muttered. “For a time.”

         “You’s gonna look out for me, lord Sardon?”

         “Yes, Pitty. And stop calling me lord.”

         Pit Mouse stared with bright blue eyes. “I never had a master who didn’t flick me.”

         Sardon felt his stomach sink. “No, Pit Mouse, I will never flick you.” He thought of the young boys he had mentored along the river to steal from the passing caravans. He’d taught many to “flick the stick” to defend themselves from their handlers. Never had he used the stick to discipline any of them. But he had broken the bones of those who hurt his boys. “I will protect you, Pitty.”

         “We is brothers?”

         Sardon felt his voice catch as his eyes misted over. He thought of his hard years in and out of the city without a friend to stand by his side. He smiled warmly at the boy. “Yes, Pit Mouse, I’m your big brother now. Are you sure you want to keep your name?”

         “It’s me name, that. Pit Mouse, it is.”

         Sardon handed him the chunk of meat and felt his chest bloom at the lopsided smile on the boy’s face. “Then Pit Mouse it is. I have a lot to I teach you.”

         “Whatcha gonna teach me, Sardon?” Pit Mouse wolfed down the meat with hunched shoulders.

Sardon had never wanted to use his special abilities, but looking at the boy, he knew he would if it meant keeping him safe. In an instant Sardon felt whole again, no longer a vagrant beggar but a man charged with keeping his little brother safe. His mind clouded as he thought of how he would deal with Farrier. A dangerous and difficult task. Sardon watched the boy chew and felt his body charge from his head through his feet with a soft wave of Despair.

         “What will I teach you, Pit? First, I will teach you how to survive this city, lad,” Sardon said. “We need to get you some iron canes down by the river.”

         “You’s gonna teach me to flick the stick?”

         “Not just that. I will teach you how to live, something that is more than just picking up scraps from the Baron’s table. And I will teach you your letters.”

         “Letters? Like them rich boys?”

         He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Yes, Pitty. And I will give you my life, and you will give me yours.”

         Sardon felt his mind drift as his gaze fell upon the Ivory Keep. It was a symbol of squalor to some, hope to others. There was no way to know the true history of the first Baron Farrier, but for generations the Marvels had provided order and a better life for many of the poor. But the current Farrier was brutal, not the stuff of legend. Sardon did not think he would defend the slum dwellers when the violence raged through the streets. He was certain Baron Farrier would side with House Gotharus and throw his own to the wolves to survive.

         Sardon couldn’t stop his mind from remembering his brief work as an assassin for the Church of the Whole. He had been ordered to kill several officers and even one noble that dared challenge the edicts of House Gotharus. He had nearly succumbed to the siren song of a lavish life, but his conscience turned against him. It had been a dispiriting time, but it had taught him more than how to eliminate a target. It had also taught him how to read the changing politic winds. Sardon felt the burning energy in the city and was certain war was on the horizon.

         Sardon shook his head and turned again to Pit Mouse, who smiled up at him as he wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. He gestured at the boy to walk with him to the common den, and under his breath he voiced barely audible words. “Hard times are upon us, Pitty. The cold winds of a dark revolution will soon blow on the gates of Achart.”

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END