The King of Beggars

The night seemed even darker in the ever dimly lit Outer Ring.

Daniel walked alone, his cane striking firmly against the uneven ground so he wouldn’t stumble along the way. He had insisted that Thanatos and Gupta go to the Chalice of the Magus without him; both knew well how to deal with the elite and their intrigue games, soaked in wine and bets.

That night, the traveler from another world had more urgent matters to attend to. And an audience with a king was no occasion for frivolities. Even if the monarch in question lived deep in dark alleys, stinking of urine and rotting food scraps.

Sallustia had stayed behind, keeping watch over the woman they had rescued from the Warlock’s Crypt and locked away in the dungeons of Fort Tinuso — at least until they confirmed who she really was. The paladin rarely complained about orders, but Daniel knew she would have preferred to be there, fulfilling her duty to protect him, rather than facing the silence of a cell with someone still too injured to reveal how much she knew.

The Outer Ring was always in motion. Voices mingled under the flickering light of torches, which could not truly dispel the darkness that clung between the half-ruined buildings: the crying of children, the whispers of prostitutes, and the improvised songs of drunkards at the corners.

Daniel paid little attention. That night he had traded the sumptuous clothes of a minor nobleman for simple, dark garments which, in addition to his skills as a Master Thief, rendered him nearly invisible.

He reached a square where a dry fountain served as shelter for skinny cats and two beggars wrapped in threadbare cloaks. The fountain was covered in charcoal scribbles, signs marking territory.

Here, in the heart of the Outer Ring, power did not belong to the Senate, nor to the First Citizen. Not to the guards of the Custodia Civilis, nor even to the gods of Orthodoxy, whose names were rarely spoken by the faithful here.

It belonged to the man they called the King of Beggars.

“You came early, foreigner” said a hoarse voice, though he could not see from where it came.

Suddenly, the air grew heavy with the odors of incense and cheap perfume. Daniel moved slowly toward the source of the sound.

The beggars at the fountain lifted their eyes but said nothing, withdrawing silently. Soon, nearby alleys began to spill out a crowd of hunched figures — men and women in rags, faces covered with grime, eyes watchful. Some limped, others concealed short knives beneath filthy cloths. They surrounded the square in a tide of wretchedness.

At the center of the throng stood out a thin man, walking without haste from one of the alleys. His skin bore a yellowish, almost sickly hue, as if he had spent years in infirmity. His face, though aged, still held a certain firmness in its gaze, and a sparse beard barely covered the scars on his chin. He carried a worn wooden staff, from which copper coins dangled as decoration.

With each step, their clinking rang softly.

The king’s garments were a parody of the elites: a senator’s toga sewn from scraps of cheap fabric, dyed in jarring colors to ridicule the exaggerated opulence of the Senatorial Ring.

“Your Majesty” Daniel murmured, inclining his head slightly. “The King of Beggars…”

“Some call me that.” The man smiled wearily. “Others say I am just another outcast living on scraps.”

Daniel tapped his cane against the stones.

“I’ll be direct, majesty. I came seeking information.”

With open arms, the king indicated the crowd gathered in the square.

“Everyone knows, nothing escapes my eyes.”

A few beggars let out harsh laughter.

“There are rumors of cultists acting in the dungeon below” Grace said bluntly, silencing the short wave of chuckles.

The King stepped closer until the musty stench of his garments filled the space between them, overwhelming the fainter scent of perfume Daniel had noticed at first.

“Rumors are always on the lips of the poor first. We are the ones who see, but are not seen.” He leaned his head toward Daniel’s ear, so close that the Deorum Tecit could smell the tomb-like rot in his breath, leaking past rotted teeth. “And why should I give you the only thing we have, Daniel Grace?”

Daniel startled at hearing his true name, yet kept his gaze firm, locking with the king’s. Being who he was, the man surely had his methods of obtaining such information.

“Because I can pay.”

“Payment?” The monarch of the gutters laughed softly, and once again the circle of beggars laughed with him, a coarse chorus. “With coins, agent of the Convergence? Gold buys food, yes, but not loyalty. Nor watchful eyes. No… what I need are the services of a… let us say, Master Thief.”

Once more, Daniel was surprised. The king was playing him, intentionally revealing what he knew to prove his value as an informant. It meant Grace had indeed come to the right place.

After a brief pause, he struck the staff against the ground, the coins clinking violently, and the beggars moved as if obeying a battle order. One brought forth a bottle of sour wine, another dragged a sack of chicken bones, spreading the stench of rot.

It was as if they staged their own misery before Daniel.

The King drew even closer.

“You travel with an artist and a poisoner. You are guarded by a bodyguard beyond compare, and you’ve made friends among nobles, yet you were not born with a crest in your blood.”

“What do you want in return?” Daniel asked, striving to keep his voice neutral.

“What we all want.” The old man smiled, baring more clearly the few stained teeth he still had. “A small charity on your part. In the slave market of the Outer Ring there is a man. A vendor who calls himself Varo. He took something from me that was not his. A special child, born here, who should be under my protection.”

Daniel frowned.

“You’re asking me to free her?”

“Exactly!” The king pressed his staff against Grace’s chest. “Bring me the child, and I’ll tell you what I know about the cultists.”

Daniel pondered, letting the silence stretch longer than he wished.

He glanced around. The beggars watched his every move. There would be no escape without violence, and violence against the king would be folly.

“And if I refuse? If I accept but fail to do my part?”

“Then you will have nothing.” The monarch withdrew his staff. “And worse — your enemies will have it. For do not think you are the only one seeking my eyes.”

Daniel drew a deep breath. He had no choice.

“Where do I find this Varo?”

“In the western pavilion of the market. He deals at nightfall, always surrounded by hired guards. It won’t be simple.” The King leaned closer, his voice low, as if sharing a secret. “But I know you are not a simple man.”

Daniel nodded, wondering if the monarch of the gutters was hinting that he knew where he truly came from.

“You shall have what you asked. But if your information proves false —” Grace hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully to avoid angering the wretched crowd — “let us just say the Convergence also has its means.”

The King only smiled, and the mass of beggars withdrew, opening a path for him to leave the square. The clinking of the staff followed his steps until it was lost once more in the alleys.