The Baker's Boy (11 page)

She caught hold of
her straight, dark hair and pulled it back with a leather thong, thinking it
suited her a lot better than some of the overelaborate court styles. Next Melli
put on her plainest woollen dress, tied the cloth bag containing her jewels
securely around her waist, and then selected her thickest riding cloak. All she
had to do was wait for Lynni to return with her supper and she would be off,
stealing out of the castle under the cover of darkness. Never for a moment did
she consider leaving without her supper-that would be foolish.

Melli slipped
beneath the bedclothes to wait, and thought of where she would go. Her mother,
before she'd died, had spoken of relatives in Annis. She would head there.

Lord Maybor was
having a very good day. The queen had approved the match between Kylock and his
daughter. He had supped well this night.

As he dined, he
looked around the hall. The huge tapestries caught his eye. They showed the
story of how the Four Kingdoms had been ripped asunder during the terrible Wars
of Faith. They went on to depict the one man who, over a hundred years later,
was responsible for reuniting the four glorious territories in defiance of the
Church. The Four Kingdoms boasted the most fertile soil in the north. It was
well placed for farm land and timber, its people were plump and prosperous, its
armies well trained and well fed. Harvell the Fierce had been the driving force
behind the Wars of Reunification. Thanks to him, the green and vibrant country
was made whole once again.

Maybor fancied
there was a little of Harvell's nature in himself, and certainly before the
year was out he would form part of the great tradition that was the lineage of
kings. He would be father to a queen! He could barely contain his excitement.

He noticed that
many of the lords gathered around the great table were puzzled by his uncharacteristic
good humor, and it pleased him greatly that they were ignorant of his impending
elevation. Maybor felt an overflowing of goodwill. He called for more venison
and ale, and even cheered the minstrels, who he normally enjoyed pelting with
vegetables and chicken bones.

The king must be
made to step down, he thought. He is an empty vessel and has no place on the
throne of the Four Kingdoms. Fresh blood should flow into the leadership, the
blood of his future son-in-law, Kylock. True, Kylock was young, but Maybor had
plans to use that youth to his advantage, guiding Kylock's decisions, molding
the new king. He, Maybor, would be the power behind the throne.

He paused in his
delicious reverie for a moment and considered Prince Kylock. There was something
about the lad that gave him the shivers, but no mind, he thought, he will make
a fine king with me to guide him. Melliandra, his ungrateful rebel of a
daughter, had actually said she would not marry him. Well, it was too late for
her objections now.

He would
personally beat the defiance out of her if necessary.

The first thing he
would urge the new king to do would be to end the war with the Halcus once and
for all. He was tired of his lands being used as campsites and battlefields.
Once the war was over, he would claim the land to the east of the River Nestor
for himself: it was fine land for growing cider apples.

Personal profit
aside, there were other more pressing reasons why the war should be won
quickly. Bren was up to no good. The duke had already started a program of
annexation to the southeast, and it wouldn't be long before his eye turned
west. Highwall and Annis were strong and well armed. The kingdoms, however,
were so distracted by warring with Halcus that they were practically asking to
be invaded. No matter they were a distance apart, the good duke's ancestors had
once held land west of the Nestor, and a prior claim, no matter how tenuous,
always served to incite the indignant passions of would-be invaders.

Maybor drained his
cup. It was getting late, and he took his leave of his dinner companions, his
feet a little unsteady from the large amount of ale he had drunk. As he
returned to his chamber, the only thing he wanted to do was have a glass of
lobanfern red to aid his digestion and then to bed for a deep sleep.

"Kelse, you
idle lout," he shouted before entering his chamber. "Come and turn
down my bed and stoke up my fire. There is a bite in the air tonight."
Maybor was surprised not to hear the scurry of his servant's feet on the stone;
Kelse was usually quick to respond. He might already be in the chamber, warming
the sheets with hot bricks.

Maybor entered his
room. It was cold; the fire had gone out. "Damn!" he muttered.
"Kelse, where in Borc's name are you?" Maybor crossed to the table where
he kept a jug of his favorite wine. He poured himself a generous cup and moved
through to the bedchamber.

As he lifted the
cup to his lips, he caught sight of a body on the floor near his bed. It was
his servant Kelse. Puzzled, he put down the cup, moved toward the body and
slapped Kelse hard on the cheek.

"Kelse, you
drunken malingerer. Awaken this instant, or I swear I will have your innards on
a platter." Kelse did not respond. Maybor grew alarmed; the man had not
moved. "What treachery is this?" His eyes alighted on the upturned
cup that lay beside Kelse's body. Maybor drew the cup to his nose and smelled
it: lobanfern red. He felt his servant's lifeless body: it was cold.
"Poison," he spoke.

Maybor felt the
hairs on his neck bristle. He was in no doubt that the poison had been meant
for him. The unfortunate Kelse had stolen a glass of the tainted wine and had
paid for it with his life. Maybor smiled grimly. Kelse had unknowingly
performed the greatest service a servant could do for his master: lay down his
life. He trembled to think what might have happened if the drugged wine had
passed his lips. He would be the one lying on the cold stone, dead. He knew who
had done this.

"Baralis,"
he whispered under his breath. He had almost been expecting it. For many months
now he had seen the look of hatred on Baralis' face. They both had scores to
settle, and it seemed that the king's chancellor had made the first move to
resolve them.

Poison was just
the sort of cowardly method that Baralis favored. Maybor was a fighting man, a
veteran of many campaigns, and had only contempt for such underhanded tactics.
If he were to plan an assassination-and, after the events of tonight, it would
seem likely he would have to, a man could hardly be expected to ignore an attempt
on his life-he would resort to more conventional techniques. There was more
beauty and certainty to be found in a knife to the throat than in a jug of
poisoned wine.

"Your plans
have gone wrong on this dark night," he murmured softly. "Sleep
soundly in your bed, Baralis, lord and chancellor, for there may not be many
nights left for you to dream in."

Jack was, as
usual, up at four. He no longer had to keep the ovens fueled all night-that job
had passed on to a younger boy. He was now in charge of supervising the first
baking and, after the oven-boy left, he usually had the kitchen to himself for
an hour before Master Frallit and the other bakers appeared.

He dressed
quickly, the temperature in his room giving speed to his actions. His breeches
were four months old and he was pleased to notice they fitted him now exactly
as they did when newly made, which meant he'd finally stopped growing. About
time, too. It wasn't much fun being the tallest person in the kitchens. He was
always the one called upon to chase spiders from their webs and to shake the
moths from slow-drying herbs.

Pulling on a light
tunic, he noticed it smelled a little too strongly of sweat. He'd hoped to
cross the path of the tablemaid Findra later on in the day, and had recently
found out that girls didn't appreciate too generous a smell. Of course the
confusing thing was that Grift had informed him that no smell at all was worse
than the most terrible stench: "Women choose a lover with their noses
first, so a man's odor must declare his intentions," was a favorite saying
of his. Deciding that he'd flour his tunic down later to create the delicate
balance needed for wooing, Jack made his way to the kitchens.

The first thing he
did was add fragrant woods to the furnace. Frallit maintained there were only
two types of wood in the world: one for heating and one for cooking. Overnight
the oven was fueled with plentiful woods such as oak and ash, but a day's
baking called for more delicate fuel. Hawthorne, hazel, and chestnut were added
before the bread was put to bake. The master baker swore by them: "They
give a fragrance to the dough that becomes a flavor when the flame is
high," he would say.

Once that was seen
to, Jack brought the dough down from the shelf above the oven. The shelf
benefited from the heat of the furnace and the dough rose well overnight. He
removed the damp linen cloth from the tray and absently punched each individual
portion of dough down and then kneaded them, his hands deft with experience.
Quickly, he formed neat rows on the baking slabs and then opened the huge iron
door of the oven, its blazing heat hitting Jack in a familiar wave. He had
singed his hair on more than one occasion in the past. He loaded the slabs onto
shelves and closed the door. Next, he threw a measure of water into the
furnace; the steam produced would add extra vigor to the crust.

Jack then turned
his attention to mixing the "noon loaves." These would be the third
and fourth batches of the day. The population of Castle Harvell was so great
that the oven had to be in use nearly every waking hour. The first batches of
the morning were maslin loaves. Formed from rye and wheat, maslin loaves were
the staple of lords and servants alike. What was cooked next often depended
upon who was visiting the castle. When foreign noblemen and envoys were in
attendance, the master baker usually honored them by baking their native loaves
and delicacies. Later in the afternoon, when the sweet breads and fancies were
still cooling, Frallit would indulge in what he called his "baker's
privilege."

Harvell, like most
towns, had several communal ovens where women brought their dough to be baked.
A copper penny a loaf was the charge. Frallit had taken to renting out space in
the castle oven for a similar rate. Being a canny businessman, the master baker
offered the women one free loaf with a dozen, and now had rather a profitable
sideline going. The head cellarer and the chief cook were given a silencing cut
of the proceeds. Jack's inducement for keeping quiet was nothing more than the
threat of a sound thrashing.

Once the noon
loaves were mixed and the yeast set to proof, Jack was free to find himself
something to eat. He usually spent the proofing time visiting the servants'
hall for a measure of ale and a bowl of whatever was served the night before.
This morning, however, Baralis had kept him up so late scribing, that all he
wanted to do was sit down for a while and have a short rest.

He settled himself
on the baker's bench and rested his head against the ledge. His eyes were heavy
with lost sleep. He'd only managed to snatch about three hours rest last night
and he was tired beyond measure. Before he knew it, he had drifted off into a
light and dreamless sleep.

When he next
opened his eyes, he saw the alarming sight of black smoke bellowing from the
oven. "Copper pots!" he exclaimed, immediately realizing he had
fallen asleep leaving bread baking in the oven. He rushed over to the oven, but
his nose had already told him what his eyes could see: the loaves were burnt. All
eight score of them. Jack grew cold with fear. Frallit would surely kill him
for this. Half the morning's bread bumt to a cinder. Oh, if only he hadn't
fallen asleep.

His mind was
racing with panic as he stared at the charred loaves in the oven, desperately
wishing they were not burnt. Master Frallit had whipped the hide off a boy once
for burning the loaves. The boy had never been seen in the kitchens again. Just
this week the master baker had warned Jack about sloppy work, threatening to
send him away from the castle if he didn't improve. It was one thing to dream
about leaving, but quite another to be thrown out.

What was he going
to do? Master Frallit would be along any minute. If only he could change
things, make the loaves dough again. His brow creased with desperation and he
felt pain course through his head. He suddenly felt faint and light-headed, and
stumbled to the floor, losing consciousness.

Baralis had not
slept all night. His head was full of what he'd overheard outside of Maybor's
chamber. The queen was obviously trying her hand at politicking, seeking to
consolidate her position by marrying Kylock to Maybor's daughter. She would be
a fool to think that the king would be made safe by an alliance with Maybor.
The first thing Maybor would do would be to oust the old king and put Kylock in
his place, thinking he could control the young and inexperienced boy.

Only now there
would be no betrothal: with Maybor dead, the queen would find his charming
daughter, Melliandra, to be less useful a bride for her son. Baralis smiled,
his teeth glittering in the firelight. He had a more glorious match for Kylock
in mind. He would see the prince married to one more exalted than the daughter
of a mere lord. It was time that the kingdoms took up a more central position in
the arena of the civilized world.

Baralis tossed and
turned in the pale morning light, imagining gleefully what the new day would
bring. To finally have that scheming viper Maybor out of his way! He must be
careful to rehearse Crope in his alibi: he and Crope were to have been out
yesterday gathering special herbs for medicines, and indeed it was partly
true-he had sent Crope to the woods and told him to pick some flowers. Flowers
to place on Maybor's grave.

Suddenly, Baralis
felt something, the unmistakable sensation that signaled the use of power.
Someone was drawing raw, untrained power in the castle. Foreboding crept over
him. The power being wielded was mighty indeed but strangely crude. Baralis'
body was a razor edge of perception. He shot out his mental awareness,
searching out the source of the drawing.