The Baker's Boy (14 page)

"Master
Trout, m'lady."

"Yes, Master
Trout. What would my brother need?"

"Well, it
depends on where he's going and how long for."

Melli struggled
for a plausible lie. "He's going west."

"West,
m'lady? There's no hunting to the west at this time of year."

Melli decided to
change her tactics. "Look, Master Trout, I really couldn't care less about
the hunting or lack of it in the west. I am purely here as a favor to my
brother. If you feel you can not supply me with what he needs, then I will go
elsewhere." She made as if to leave.

"M'lady,
please don't be so hasty. I will find you what you want. It's probably the
fishing that he's going for. Does he have a good pole for a rod?"

"He has a
rod, Master Trout. Now hurry, please!" She watched as he loaded a sack
with all sorts of strange-looking dry food. He then went in the back and came
out with an empty water flask and some miscellaneous cooking pots.
"Blankets?"

"Yes, and a
good warm cloak." Melli had found the one she was wearing to be most
inadequate.

"If I know
Lord Kedrac, he'll be wanting some snatch. I'll throw a tin in should I?"

"If you
please." She was beginning to get very impatient. This whole operation was
taking longer than she had hoped. Finally the shopkeeper handed her the sack.

"It's a mite
heavy for you, miss. Shall I have my boy carry it back to the castle?"

"That will
not be necessary, Master Trout. I have my own boy outside. Lord Maybor will
honor the bill."

"Of course,
m'lady. I wish you joy of the day." Melliandra carried the heavy sack
outside and quickly donned the heavy cloak. She decided on impulse not to throw
away her old cloak-it was not too heavy and the nights would be cold. She
turned toward the inn. She dared not stretch her father's credit as far as a
horse, so she would have to purchase one with her jewels.

She had waited
outside the inn for several minutes when a boy approached leading a rather
tired, old-looking horse. It was not what she was used to, but she was in a
hurry.

"Boy! How
much for the horse?"

The boy looked up
slyly. "This horse is powerful fast and strong, miss."

"I didn't ask
you that, boy. I said how much." Melli looked around nervously; the sun
was growing higher and the morning was almost over.

"I couldn't
take less than two gold pieces for it." Melli knew it was an outrageous
price for such an old horse. She turned away from the boy and fished in her
purse for her gold bracelet.

"Here, take
this." She watched as his face grew ugly with greed.

"That will do
right nice. Right nice indeed." He handed her the reins of the horse and
watched cunningly as she led it away.

Melliandra stroked
the horse's muzzle. "I never asked your name, did I, boy?" she said.
"I'm going to need a saddle for you, too." For a brief moment she
hugged the horse, placing her arms around its back and belly, resting her head
on its flank. "What will become of you and me?" she whispered softly.

Baralis ignored
Crope as he entered his chambers, but was forced to turn around when Crope
loudly cleared his throat. "What is it, you great oaf? Is the boy
found?"

"No, sir, but
I know he's not in the castle."

"How do you
know this?" demanded Baralis.

"One of the
guards saw him leave early this morningsaid he was heading for the woods."

"Ah, the
woods." Baralis mused over this fact for a few minutes. "Go now,
Crope, and tell the guards to search the woods. I must think a while on what to
do."

Crope hovered
uneasily, not making any move to leave. "There's one other thing, my
lord," he said sheepishly. Baralis looked up, annoyed. "Be gone, you
imbecile."

"Very well,
but I thought you might like to know Lord Maybor sent you his regards."

Baralis stood up.
"He what!"

"He sent his
regards. It was probably for the gift of wine you sent him last evening."

"You mean to
tell me that you have seen Lord Maybor up and about in the castle this
day?"

"Yes, sir, just
a few hours back. He smiled most pleasantly."

"Leave me
alone." Baralis' voice was coldly menacing and his servant wasted no time
in doing what his master commanded.

Baralis was in a
fury. He paced the length of his chamber, absently rubbing his pained hands.
How could this have happened? How could Maybor have avoided the poison? He knew
for a fact that the drunken lord took a glass of wine every night to help him
sleep. He must have discovered the poison, yet the drug had been odorless and
tasteless. Maybor had the luck of the devil!

Baralis calmed
himself. He needed to think clearly; he now had several problems to solve. He
could not allow the betrothal to go through. If he could not prevent it by
murdering Maybor, he would have to set his sights upon the daughter-the sweet
and lovely Melliandra. The girl would have to be disposed of. Maybe he would do
it with own hand. He shivered with anticipation; it would indeed be a pleasure
to steal the life from one so fair. He might even have a little fun with her
first. Women, he found, were always more appealing with terror in their eyes.

Then there was the
problem of the baker's boy. So Jack had headed into the woods, undoubtedly
seeking cover amidst the dense trees. Well, the boy was a fool to think he
could hide from him. There were methods by which a man could gain access to the
deepness of the wood. Baralis lifted the tapestry and entered his study.

He handled the
bird gently, trying not to damage any of its feathers. He had calmed it, and
although it was restless in his hands, it made no move to escape. He stroked
its small head and it cooed lightly. Baralis was about to change the nature of
the bird.

He was determined
to find Jack. The search would probably locate him, but it never hurt to make
contingencies. He didn't place great trust in the castle guards-it would take
them many days to scan the thick woodland that surrounded much of the castle,
and even then the feckless fools might miss him. He had other matters to attend
to and so would send something to do his work for him.

A dove. What
better creature than a bird to sight someone in the depths of the forest?

To this end he
would change the nature of the bird, superimposing his wishes over the natural
inclinations of the dove. Baralis had done such drawings many times before in
birds, in cats, in mice. It was a delicate operation requiring twinned animals.
Creatures born from the same egg. Baralis, like other masters, had ways of
cultivating such creatures and usually had an assortment of them at hand,
identical to each other in every way.

He soothed the
first bird into an uneasy sleep, then poured some fresh water into a bowl.
Next, he made a careful incision into the second dove, straight down the center
of its breast. The bird's blood ran into the bowl. Baralis took the still
beating heart between his fingers and made an invocation as the life drained
away from the bird. He raised the heart to his lips and swallowed it. The bond.
He then took the first dove and immersed it in the bloody water, its graywhite
feathers becoming pink with blood. Baralis then dried the bird with a soft
cloth and commanded it to awaken. The bird's eyes opened and it was eager to be
on its way.

He carried the
bird out of his study and let it out of the window. It flew away quickly: it
had no will of its own-it was Baralis' creature now.

He was pleased the
messy business was over. He had no taste for warm dove hearts, but, he thought
grimly, at least they were small.

It now was time to
see what mischief Maybor was cooking up. He was bound to have some unpleasant
revenge planned for the attempt on his life. Let him try, Baralis thought as he
made his way down to the second cellar, he will not catch me unawares.

Before long
Baralis was on the dark side of Maybor's chambers, listening with great
interest to the conversation between father and son:

"She has been
in the village this very morning, Father."

"Who saw
her?" Maybor's voice was low and strained. "Quite a few people,
Father. She even bought some supplies."

"What
supplies? She has no money to buy supplies."

"She never
paid for them. The shopkeeper gave me the bill. She said you would honor the
payment."

"Oh, she is a
sly one. What did she buy?"

"Apparently
she bought supplies for a fishing expedition."

"Fishing!"
Baralis could hear the amazement in May= bor's voice.

"Yes, and she
was seen heading east with a horse."

"Damn it! She
must be found, Kedrac. Put your best men on it and swear them to secrecy. I
want no one to know of this-especially the queen. Tell anyone who asks that
Melliandra is abed with a fever."

Baralis' lips
curved into a delicious smile. So his dove was not the only bird to have flown
the coop. Melliandra had done his work for him. As long as she remained
unfound, the betrothal could not take place. Furthermore, he thought with
delight, if the queen were to be told of the disgraceful behavior of Maybor's
daughter, she might well decide to call the match off altogether. He was almost
glad Maybor was still alive. He would enjoy witnessing the unraveling of the
great lord's plans.

Jack's confidence
was dwindling fast. He was cold, he was wet, and he was lost. What was he but a
baker's boy? He wasn't cut out for adventuring. Heroes never forgot to bring
warm clothes with them, or if they did, they killed then skinned some wild
beast and made a cloak from its hide. He didn't even have his knife.

Judging by the
gray of the sky, it was mid-aftemoon. Normally at this time he'd be mixing the
dough for the fancies. The fancies were the special pastries that he and
Frallit made for the noblewomen of the castle. The pastries were heavy with
honey and syrup, rich with butter and brandy, or aromatic with fruit and
spices. The mix depended upon two things: what ingredients were in season or
store, and what the current fashions were in the south. What Rorn did one day,
the kingdoms did the next.

Jack enjoyed
making the fancies. Unlike the daily bread, there was never any rush to get
them to oven, so he could spend time kneading and dreaming. And, if the
ingredients weren't measured too carefully and the sweet breads didn't bake to
plan, he could remove the threat of a beating by telling Frallit it was a new
mix he was trying out. The master baker had received much acclaim by taking the
credit for Jack's recipes.

At this time, two
hours before dark, the kitchens would be warm and busy, there'd be ale losing
its chill by the fire, and broth warming on the top of the stove. There'd be
the yeast to wash and spread, and then he'd be done for the day. If he were
lucky, Findra the table maid might have smiled his way and invited him to sit
beside her later at supper.

It was all gone
now. Everything he'd ever had. All the people he'd ever known. And for what?
One moment's madness and eight score of loaves.

For the first time
in his life he was truly alone. What had happened this morning had set him
apart. If he traveled to another town and became a baker there, the same thing
might happen. Only next time there might be people around and his condemnation
complete. Yet what alternative did he have? He was a baker with a baker's
skills. He would travel a while and settle where he could. Jack stepped up his
pace and tried to find his way out of the woods.

Harvell Woods
began sparsely at first, a mere sprinkling of bush and tree. The woods had a
way of sneaking up on one, though, and before he knew it was he in the heart of
the wood. Tree and bush crowded thick and close, and even with the dwindling
foliage of winter, little light passed through their branches. With every step
he took, he seemed to make an alarming amount of noise: twigs and bracken
crackled harshly underfoot, breaking the guarded silence of the wood.

The smells of
early winter assailed his senses: the ripe but cooling earth, the fragrant rot
of leaf, the dampening bark and the suggestion of rain upon the breeze.

Jack was a little
unnerved: the heady scents together with the denseness of the trees combined to
make him confused. He was sure he'd only walked a league or so and couldn't
remember the wood being so thick when he had collected berries in the past.

His leather
sandals were soaked with dew and his clothes were too thin for warmth. He was
afraid. The memory of the loaves haunted him. He recalled the sick feeling in
his stomach, the feeling his skull would surely burst. It was sorcery, and
every child knew sorcery was an evil used by heathens of old. Even Borc himself
had condemned it. Jack sighed deeply. He didn't want to be stoned as a heretic
or marked as an outcast.

The air of the
forest stirred within his lungs, slipping softly into his blood. He became
calm, and out of calmness came determination.

He was already an
outcast. At Castle Harvell he was known to be fatherless, his mother branded a
whore. People were usually kind to him, but when his back was turned, or when
he did something wrong, the whisperings would begin again. As long as he
stayed, he would never be anything but a bastard. To leave Castle Harvell would
be to leave his shame behind. There was hope. He could bake in another town and
never have to bite his tongue or stay his hand at the sound of people
whispering. He could begin a new life, where no one knew he had neither family
nor history of his own. Finding his mother's origins was an impossible dream;
he had nothing to go on. It was better to make a fresh start and put childish
fantasies behind him.

With renewed
optimism, Jack made his way through the trees. The wood presented a subtle path
and he was content to go where it led.