“You’re in a load of shit now, Toren,” Giles said, sitting across from Toren in the sitting room of his prison. Toren had been put in a holding room for noble prisoners of war, to be ransomed back to their families with stories of the comfort and generosity of the Kingdom of Illiestar, and so his accommodations had been acceptable.

“You think I don’t know that?” Toren asked, twirling a silver spoon between his fingers. It had only been one week since the debacle at the amphitheater, and his father had already disowned him, washing the family’s hands of any responsibility for Toren’s actions. On the bright side, Toren thought as the spoon whirled around his finger, I no longer have any responsibility to father children for money.

The major problem now was that, without any noble backing, if the king said he was a traitor, it was true. Unless Toren’s situation changed, he would be executed at best, tortured to death for information he didn’t have, at worst.

“What about the Headmaster?” Toren asked. “He knows it’s his fault I’m in this mess.”

Giles shook his head. “The Headmaster admitted that he vastly underestimated the severity of the bad fortune surrounding the event, but he still had your name struck from the record to mitigate the backlash to the Academy.”

Toren slumped back in the couch, setting the spoon aside. “So I’m dead,” he said, staring up at the ceiling.

“No one ever said your graduation test would be easy,” Giles said with a shrug. Toren grunted, inspecting the fanciful mural on the ceiling.

“So there’s no way to become an official wizard of the kingdom, or to continue my studies,” Toren said, glancing over at Giles.

“None,” Giles said. “I’m sorry, boy, this is our fault, but we can’t invite disaster on our heads by officially supporting you.”

“Officially?” Toren asked, his head turning to Giles. Giles glanced at the guard impassively watching the hallway outside, then back to Toren with a wink.

A seed of an idea formed in Toren’s mind. “Do you remember the incident with the staff?” Toren asked

Giles chuckled, “Sure do boy, no one’s gotten the better of Kyle like that since… ever,” he said.

Toren leaned forward. “Can you do me a favor?” he asked, lowering his voice so that the guard couldn’t hear.

Giles shrugged. “Depends,” he said.

“Could you get them to increase security on me?” Toren asked, watching Giles brows raise. “Perhaps get someone arrogant to be in charge of it, with a lot to lose if I were to escape… someone similar to Kyle perhaps?”

“Like the staff incident, eh?” Giles said, leaning back in his chair, and pondering. Before long he slapped his knee. “Say no more. Something like that is easily within the power of the Headmaster to arrange.” Giles stood and glanced down at Toren. “Anything else, Toren?”

Toren relaxed back into the padded recliner, throwing his hands behind his head. “Would you mind sending my belongings to my fourth brother? He’s been excited about magic ever since I visited my family last summer.

Giles nodded. “I’ll see that it gets done,” he said, striding out the door. Toren leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting. Toren sought out a grape with one hand and popped it into his mouth, inwardly applauding the generosity of the kingdom of Illiestar.

The next day, Toren was rudely awoken as the door of his bedroom slammed open. Within moments, gauntleted hands clamped down on his arms, pinching his skin where the joints came together. “Wha?” Toren blearly asked, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

A slap jostled Toren’s world, and his vision swiftly came into focus. In front of him stood a severe man with a perfect shave, wearing the white and gold garb of an Inquisitor. The gold symbol on his collar denoting a high ranking one at that.

“Toren Reinbahm, traitor to the kingdom of Illiestar,” the man said, confidence oozing from his voice like sap from a majestic pine. “Your former Academy has provided the crown with a dossier on your abilities and suggested an increase in security, with no one less than a High Inquisitor to guard you.

A High inquisitor was one of five candidates to succeed the Grand Inquisitor, a highly political position rife with backbiting and blackmail. The one in front of him was Franco De’bann, the youngest man to ever hold the title, and a power-hungry, image-obsessed fool.

He’s perfect. Toren thought to himself gratefully, smiling. Another slap wiped the smile from his face before Franco began speaking again. “You have nothing to smile about, fool,” he said, motioning for the guards to follow him. He walked out the room, with Toren stumbling along after him, the guards still holding him tightly.

“Where are we going?” Toren asked, his brows furrowing as they went deeper into the castle.

“Somewhere more appropriate for a traitor to the realm,” Franco replied pompously. “Where I can keep a personal eye on you, in case you try anything.” They continued marching, and Franco rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I almost wish you would, I’m sure to be awarded far more honor as your executioner than your guard.”

“Just think how much you’d lose if you let me escape alive!” Toren chimed in, lacing suggestion into his words. “I mean, what if, hypothetically, I escaped the same day I came into your custody? That would be embarrassing. Suspicious, even.”

Franco rounded on Toren and delivered a gauntleted blow to his ribs. “Forget escaping, let alone alive. I’ve read about your parlor tricks, and you can be assured that they will not work on a High Inquisitor.”

Toren curled in on himself, gasping for breath even as the guards continued to haul him along. Toren rolled his eyes at the man’s arrogance. High inquisitor is just a title, it doesn’t actually protect you from magic. He thought to himself as his legs dragged behind him.

Toren hung his head and sported a hidden smirk. Confidence could protect you from some forms of illusion and enchantment. It even helped against other forms of magic, protecting you with sheer will, but Toren’s junior thesis in wizardry had touched on the subject of taking advantage of confidence to strengthen enchantments.

Franco snorted with disgust and turned, continuing to march. After another few minutes, Franco took out a key and opened a sturdy iron-bound door, stepping aside as the guards threw Toren in. Toren tumbled headfirst into the tiny cell, with nothing but a pot and a cot. Toren rolled to a stop as his head slammed into the wall, dotting his vision with stars.

Franco dusted off his hands. “Well, that’s that. I’ll see you for dinner, traitor.” Toren studied the man through tear-blurred eyes, and realized he was about to leave and opened his mouth.

“Youngest High Inquisitor in history,” Toren said, catching Franco’s attention. The pompous fool straightened.

“So you know of me,” he said, preening.

“Oh, I know you, I know your daddy bought you the seat and you’re desperate to prove you’re as good as the rest of them,” Toren said with a wry smile as Franco paled. “But they treat you like a child, don’t they? It doesn’t matter what you do with the title from now on, no matter how good you are at your job, you never earned it to begin with. It’s painful isn’t it? Having every action you take overshadowed by one facet of your past. Who knows, maybe when the other High Inquisitors have died of old age, no one will be left who remembers what a slimy cocksucker you are.”

Franco stormed into the cell and began kicking Toren, who curled up and guarded his head and stomach, receiving most of the blows on his arms and legs. “I’ll. Not. Suffer. Slander. From. You!” Franco shouted as he punctuated his words with kicks.

Toren summoned the illusion of spiders crawling up Franco’s leg, and the High Inquisitor leapt away with a yelp. “Something the matter?” the guard on the other side of the door asked.

“I’m fine!” Franco stammered, his voice higher as he batted at his leg. He shot Toren a vicious look. “This isn’t over, young man, I’ll have to find ways to correct your behavior before you are ultimately executed.” He turned and strode to the door.

Toren pointed a finger at him as Franco reached out to the handle of the door. Toren covered Franco in an illusion, making him look exactly like himself. The guards on the other side of the door opened their eyes wide when Toren hauled the door open, his face murderous. Behind the wizard in the doorway was an illusion of the High Inquisitor, his face bloodied, laying on the floor.

The guards tackled Franco to the ground, and Toren slipped out the door in the scuffle. “Cover his mouth to keep him from bespelling you!” Toren said, mimicking Franco’s intonation. In the struggle, the guards didn’t have the presence of mind to pay close attention. Toren laced his words with suggestion as he retreated. “You’ll be well rewarded for this!” Toren gave the struggling Franco a wink, before leaving the light of the doorway that framed him.

The muffled sounds of Franco’s shouting was music to Toren’s ears as he donned the guise of a guard, changing faces regularly as he made his way out of the keep. Toren felt the thread of magic that held the illusion together snap as he got too far away, and he put some extra speed in his step, unsure if the guards would continue to gag ‘Toren’ when he suddenly looked like Franco.

Toren, wearing Franco’s appearance, walked out the front of the prison, waving congenially to the gatekeeper, who motioned him through with a bored expression on his face. Toren walked out into the street, stooped over and began limping, his form becoming a beggar that blended in with the crowd.

****

Giles supported himself with the Headmaster’s shoulder as the two of them devolved into gales of laughter, watching Toren get away disguised as an old crone through the Headmaster’s seering table.

***

Toren limped away, grinning toothlessly as he made it to the market. The smell of fresh fruit and vendors selling sizzling meat assailed his senses. Toren approached a stall and raised his hand. “One skewer of hare, please.” Toren said, his mouth watering in anticipation. He hadn’t had breakfast since he’d been rudely awoken by Franco, and his stomach was rumbling, and his head experienced a mild ache from all the enchantments and Illusions he’d been flinging around in his escape.

His legs were burning from the awkward stoop and limp he’d adopted, and his bruises had begun to make themselves known in full. The exuberance he had felt at his successful escape had faded away, leaving an aching body.

“Get lost, beggar,” the stall owner said, watching Toren’s other hand closely. “Unless you’ve got coin or something to barter.”

Toren opened his mouth to respond, and found himself at a loss for words. He didn’t have any money on him now, but he was a noble, so it should be fair to say that he was good for it. Not any more, you’ve been disowned. The reality of the situation suddenly struck Toren. Without peerage, a job, money, or the skills to actually make something, he was a beggar.

After the debacle at the show, Toren was unsure how long it would take for Illusion magic to become a fixture of theater, overshadowed as it was by the resulting manhunt and rumors of a girl attempting to impersonate a dead princess. Until it became more widespread, Toren couldn’t afford to be the only illusionist in theater.

“I didn’t think so,” the vendor said, flicking a spoonful of hot grease at the mute Toren, who stumbled back with a yelp as the grease burned his skin through his clothes. Toren hissed in pain and lifted the grease splotched cloth away from his skin, skittering back to an alleyway to regroup.

Toren glanced around the alley, his nose crinkling at the smell, and his gaze settled on a wooden crate that was relatively free from the grime that slowly flowed down the gutters on either side. With a shrug, Toren carefully arranged his robes and sat on the crate, pondering his next move. Toren’s head ached from changing his appearance to the rags of a beggar the entire morning, and he released the illusion with a sigh.

Perhaps he should try the life of a beggar for a while, Toren thought to himself. If he had a way of proving his identity, he could sell his services to a foreign country, but that would require learning another language, and they would probably make him do something heinous to prove he wasn’t a spy.

Toren got a brief image of himself being forced to execute a captive noble from his homeland, and his stomach turned. Toren’s magic meant he could steal from people effortlessly, but Toren banished the idea from his mind for two reasons. First, he would eventually alert the crown to a wizard stooping to petty thievery and scams, and second, he was vehemently opposed to using his magic to steal. It felt to Toren that if he begun down that path, that would be all he amounted to. Sure, he would be an excellent thief, but that would be all.

Toren shifted on the crate as he thought, and it let out a squeak as it settled beneath him. “Hey!” a voice came from beneath him, and an emaciated man unfolded from inside the crate, looming over Toren menacingly. “Get off my bed, you little prick!” the man’s expression turned pale when he took in Toren’s fine clothes and shoes.

“Nevermind, M’lord,” he muttered, averting his gaze downward. “Sit wherever you like.” He began to stoop down to crawl back into the crate when Toren stopped him with a raised hand. The man stood stock still, staring wide-eyed at Toren in near-panic.

“I’m participating in a treasure hunt with some of my fellows,” Toren said with a smile. “One of the items on my list is a beggar’s clothes. Some of my less respectable compatriots simply have some lookalikes tailored for them, but fakes like that are easily distinguished by the smell, or lack therof. What, pray tell, could I do to convince you to part with yours?”

The beggar glanced down at Toren’s fine leather boots, then back up to his face, gulping with terrified expression. “Of course, M’lord,” he said, shrugging out of his clothes, pushing them toward Toren as he babbled. “You need do nothing, M’lord, I’ll just be on my way, you can have whatever you want.” The man gave a crooked grin, and Toren recoiled inwardly at the man’s rotten teeth.

“Come now,” Toren said, standing to face the naked man holding his rags in front of him. “I can’t simply take from you without recompense of some kind, can I? That would be stealing.” The beggar glanced past Toren, toward freedom, as his arms shook.

Toren lifted one leg and slid a boot off, while the beggar watched in astonishment. “Here,” Toren said as he finished removing his second boot. Toren held the boots out toward the beggar, ready to exchange for the rags. The man flinched away from the boots.

“m’lord, I cant… those aren’t…” he stammered at he backed away from Toren. Toren felt like a thug mugging people in alleys. Why was this man so reluctant to take the boots? Perhaps he was afraid that Toren would switch moods and beat the man as soon as he touched the valuable leather.

“I’ll tell you what,” Toren said, gently placing the boots atop the crate. “I’ll leave these here, whether you take them or not is up to you, okay?” Toren lifted the clothes out of the man’s hand and began to strip. The beggar backed away even further as Toren disrobed.

“Please, sire, Please don’t,” The man began to sob, curled in on himself at the back of the alleyway, warding him away with trembling arms.

“The hell is wrong with you, man?” Toren demanded, tugging the itchy clothes over his head. Toren shuddered. He could practically feel the fleas investigating their new home. “Thank you for your help, sir, and though I don’t know what exactly I did, I apologize for causing you distress.”

The beggar sobbed uncontrollably.

Toren sighed and set out from the alley to make good on the life of a beggar. “Dress a king in rags,” Toren muttered the beginning of the proverb to himself as he stepped out into the street.

Toren spotted a guard. “First order of business,” he said to himself as he approached the armed man watching the street with a steely gaze. First order of business, testing the new identity. Toren stepped up close to the guard, letting him get a whiff of his new clothes.

The guard wrinkled his nose as he looked at Toren. “Whaddya want, beggar?” he said with a scowl.

Toren studied the man’s square jaw and thick stubble for a moment before speaking. “The truth is, I’m not a beggar,” Toren said, and the man’s eyebrow raised. “In fact, I’m a talented wizard that needs your help to-“ A casual backhand from the guard sent Toren sprawling to the ground, his eyes swimming with stars.

“Get lost, cur.” The guard said, his lips retracted in a snarl, before his eyes returned to impassively studying the street. I think the disguise might work a bit too well, Toren thought, rubbing his bruising jaw. Toren pushed himself up and scurried away from the guard when he was poked with the butt of the man’s pike.

Toren limped away, outside the range of the man’s weapon. “Second order of business,” Toren said as he went. “Money.” Toren asked around, and found that the beggar community was rather tight knit. He received advice and sympathy, forcing him to come up with a story about how his master had foisted the blame for shoddy work for a noble onto Toren’s head, making him unemployable.

He was advised on the best places to get food, and the best places to beg. Toren thanked them, and found an unoccupied corner to set up shop. Toren watched from his unique vantage point as the beggars made up injuries, covered their eyes, set up small children as their front to garner sympathy. Toren didn’t hold their lies against them. They did it to survive, in a sense, it was the business of making other people feel morose, then holding their guilt hostage at the edge of a coin.

It was quite interesting, but after a half an hour, Toren was beginning to get hungry, and his improvised collection box was empty. Toren was at somewhat of a disadvantage compared to the other beggars. He was too old to be endearing, too young to be feeble, too healthy to be pitiable, and too handsome to be scorned.

Toren sighed. He didn’t want to use any more magic than he already had, as he had nearly exhausted himself this morning, he could stand to go a day or two without eating, couldn’t he? Toren decided to simply wait it out, ignoring the bitter gnawing of his stomach.

****

Two hours later, Toren was throwing himself at the legs of passerby, “Please sir!” he shouted. “My mother is suffering from congenital annositas! Any help you could offer would ease her troubled mind!” The man kneed Toren aside with a curse, and Toren tumbled back to his streetcorner, his eyes scanning the crowd. Over the last two hours, he had yet to get enough to pay for the damned skewer of meat.

As his insides felt like they were hollowing him out, Toren spotted the perfect mark. Licking his lips in anticipation, Toren dropped in front of the noble with a pitiful wail. When Neil tried to walk around him, Toren flopped down, cutting him off. “Oh mother, what will become of us now! We’re lost!” Toren shouted at the sky and wept while Neil looked down at him impatiently.

The wizard apprentice tried to step over Toren, rolling his eyes, and Toren latched onto his leg. “My mother’s caught the Spitting Plague!” Toren projected well enough to be overheard by the entire street, not three feet away from Neil’s face.

Toren know for a fact that Neil’s mother had died of the same disease, tormenting her family for years before she finally passed away. Toren knew it was unkind and dishonest to pick at Neil’s wounds like that, but he would trade the kingdom of Illiestar for a sandwich right now, and it hadn’t even been an entire day. Toren didn’t know how the other beggars did it, and he didn’t want to know.

Toren caught a faint glint of sympathy in Neil’s eyes and pushed. “She’s wasting away, can barely speak, the poor woman!” Toren shouted. “There’s not even enough time to set her affairs in order, the price for a necromancer to delay the end is far out of our reach! All that we know and love, gone!”

Neil tried shaking Toren off at first, but his expression began to mix annoyance with sympathy, and he reached into his vest. “It’s not wise to delay the end indefinitely, it only leads to suffering.” Neil said as he brought out a jingling pouch and held it out to Toren. “Use this only to set her affairs in order.”

Toren wept and bowed his head, accepting the money and slumping to the ground, sobbing in gratitude. After Neil was out of sight, Toren glanced inside the pouch and returned to the street corner, shrugging off the gazes of the other beggars.

“You, sir, are a god,” Toren’s neighbor said, to which Toren shrugged. “How in Caliva’s name did you manage that?”

Toren glanced over to the man beside him, whose hands were bound with bandages. In truth only one of the wiry man’s hands was lame, but it sold better that they were both injured. “Fifth rule of enchanting,” Toren said, grinning. “Understand your opponent, and capitalize on their greed, hopes and fears.”

The man barked a laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he said chuckling. “You, a wizard. I’ll admit it looked like magic when you got him to hand you his money, but you just got lucky, kid.”

Toren shook his head. “No, I’m serious,” Toren said. “I was groomed to be a wizard, but things didn’t work out. I’ve found the techniques and training to be helpful.”

“That would explain the flush in your fat cheeks, then,” The beggar said, chuckling.

“Alright,” Toren said, standing in front of the beggars with his arms akimbo. “We’re going to have a talk, you and I.” The man tensed up, expecting violence.

Toren glanced around at the rest of the professionally pitiable. “Come with me, I’m taking you lot out to dinner.” Toren strode away, shaking the money pouch as he walked, which tinkled with a silver ring. The quickest and hungriest hopped up and followed Toren immediately, while a few more stared after him in confusion before they too stood and followed.