The Baker's Boy (19 page)

In the castle now
the first batch of loaves would be baking, the air would be heavy with the
smell of yeast, there'd be a bowl of pork broth for breakfast and an hour to
waste by the fire. Jack had to laugh. It was quite ridiculous: how could he
ever hope to be a hero when he'd only been away from home for two days, had
already managed to catch a fever, and would have given the whole thing up for a
hearty breakfast and a missing shoe?

Laughter made him
feel stronger and he struggled to his feet. Nausea swelled in his empty
stomach. He stumbled and was long regaining his balance. It occurred to Jack
that if Frallit were watching now, the master baker would think he was drunk
and ration his ale for a week. The idea of a week's rationed ale seemed very
appealing at this point-he would have gladly suffered Frallit's scorn for as
little as a cup of soured water.

Jack labored on.
He remembered drinking from a spring the night before and headed toward it. His
mind drifted from subject to subject: Bodger and Grift warned of the dangers of
ditch water, and Findra the table maid mocked his bare foot. He was becoming
confused and disorientated: the people from the castle seemed as real as the
trees. He spent what he could have sworn was an eternity making his way through
the woods only to end up at an oak tree that looked suspiciously like the one
he'd slept under.

Every tree and
bush began to look like the last one. He was growing light-headed; he no longer
even remembered what he was supposed to be looking for. He desperately needed
to lie down, to stop the voices of reproof that were spinning in his head. A
tiny part of him was aware that lying down was not a good idea. Jack ignored
his own warning. He had to stop his body from reeling. He had to sleep.

He collapsed by
the foot of the tree. His last thoughts before he dropped into unconsciousness
were that the rain had started to fall, and he was pleased. It felt cool and
delicious on his hot skin.

Other eyes watched
as the rain fell, just as they had watched the boy wander in circles for most
of the morning. The man to whom they belonged paused as he considered what to
do. He knew the boy would die if left there for the rain and cold to take their
toll. Yet, he was not a man given to acts of compassion. He lived in the heart
of the forest and did not trouble himself with the world of men. He knew the
beast and the tree, and had little interest in that which did not concern him.

He was compelled
to watch, though. He had seen much in his time; he had seen men murdered, men
robbed, men hunting, and men hunted. He watched it all from his green havens
and had never once intervened.

The boy's plight
had touched him. He was an innocent, and that was a rare quality to find in the
forest. But there was more to it than that, for the man had seen people die
many times from cold or hunger. The boy struck a chord within the man; he felt
as if there was something more to this traveler. The man imagined he saw the
pale glow of destiny around the lad. He shook his head, smiling at his own
whimsy.

The man thought at
great length as he watched the still form of the boy. To act might threaten his
own safety. It might bring unwanted scrutiny upon himself, and he had spent
many years avoiding just such thing. Even as these thoughts formed, he knew he
would ignore them. He walked forward from the deep trees and made his way
toward the boy.

Baralis met with
his mercenaries outside of the castle walls. It was a chill day and he drew his
cloak close. He already knew that they had failed, but it suited him to act as
if he did not.

"So, are the
boy and the girl in the said place?" he asked Traff, the leader.

"No, lord,
they are not. We had both the girl and the boy, but Maybor's men descended upon
us." Baralis knew the man lied. They had never caught the boy; his dove
had watched the chase. Baralis was not concerned about the liethey were, after
all, mercenaries not priests.

"How many of
Maybor's men were there?" he asked slyly, knowing full well there had been
less than ten of them. "Two dozen," said the leader.

"More, I
would say," interjected another. The rest of the men grunted in agreement.

"How many did
you lose?" Baralis genuinely did not know this, as he had sent the dove to
watch over the boy and had not been witness to the end of the exchange.

"We lost two,
but we took out double that number of Maybor's."

"Hmm."
Baralis was skeptical. "Go away now and conceal yourselves in the said
place. I will call you to pick the fugitives up when I have better intelligence
on them."

The leader made no
move to withdraw. "My men were not engaged as fighters. You said we would
just be picking up two young'uns. Two of my men are dead and the rest are not
content."

"What is your
point?" Baralis spoke coldly, knowing precisely what the leader was after.

"We want more
money. Eight more golds apiece." Traff rested his hand upon his sword-a
subtle threat.

Baralis was not so
easily intimidated. With a sudden sweep he threw open his cloak. Once he was
sure he had the full attention of the gathered men he spoke, his voice a
harshly coiled whisper. "Do not be foolish enough to get greedy with me.
With just one finger I could send you to an oblivion so deep your own families
would forget you had ever existed." Baralis sought the eye of each
mercenary, and not one of them could return his gaze. Satisfied, he modified
the tone of his voice. "I will call you either later in the day, or on the
morrow. Be sure to be ready. Now go!"

Baralis watched as
the men mounted and rode away, the faintest of smiles on his grim face. He drew
his cloak around him once more and headed back to the castle. He had much to
think on. For his plans to succeed, Melliandra's pretty face must never be seen
again at the court of the Four Kingdoms. His mind travelled east to the dukedom
of Bren-the mightiest of the northern powers. The duke was getting greedy: he
wanted more land, more timber, more grain. Baralis knew he would have to tread
carefully to bring about what was planned between them. People in the Four Kingdoms
were nervous of the ambitions of Bren, yet ironically, that very same
nervousness might actually help seal the pact. It was always easier to
neutralize, rather than eliminate, a threat.

Not that he would
use that particular tactic with the lovely Melliandra. She was a threat which
required swift elimination.

When he was
finally back in his room, sipping on mulled holk to relieve the pain in his
fingers, he considered what his dove had shown him. After leaving the queen
yesterday, Baralis had returned to his chambers, deciding he would look upon
the capture after all. The dove had seen his men descend on the fugitives. It
had watched as the girl and boy were separated. Baralis looked on as the
greatest number of mercenaries had followed the girl, sending only three of the
number after the boy. He had willed the dove to follow the plight of the girl,
who he felt might be easily lost on horseback. He had seen the approach of
Maybor's men and had watched as both sides let the girl slip away.

His dove followed
the girl and, satisfied that she would not go much further, he sent the bird to
look for the boy. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Baralis had
remained calm; the baker's boy was merely a puzzle that needed solving, while
Maybor's daughter was a hindrance to glory. He sent the reluctant bird back to
watch the girl. Once she'd made camp for the night, Baralis let the dove sleep.
The bird was cold and exhausted, and he feared it would not be long before the
unfortunate creature died.

As the holk
alleviated his pain a little, Baralis considered what to do next. In all
likelihood, Maybor knew by now that the men out looking for Melliandra were in
his pay. Maybor was sure to move against him-those damned fool mercenaries had
tried to rape his only daughter! Maybor would bear watching closely: an
indignant father could be a dangerous adversary.

"No, Bodger,
the way to tell if a man's well hung ain't the size of his kneecaps."

"Old Master
Pesk says it is, Grift."

"The reason
why old Pesk says that is because he's got kneecaps the size of
watermelons."

"They are
unusually big, Grift. I can't argue with that."

"No, Bodger,
the way to tell if a man is truly well hung is to look at the whites of his
eyes."

"The whites
of his eyes?"

"Aye, the
whites of his eyes, Bodger. The whiter the eye, the bigger the pole. It's right
every time."

The two men
pondered this thought for a while, Bodger secretly planning to check out his
own eyes at some point. They downed some more ale and then the talk moved to
other matters.

"Here, Grift,
something's going down at the moment, mercenaries in the castle grounds,
fighting in the woods. Just this morning I saw a face I hadn't seen in a long
time."

"Who was
that, Bodger?"

"Remember
Scarl?"

Grift took a sharp
intake of breath. "Scarl. This bodes no good, Bodger. Scarl's one
villainous fox. I wouldn't care to cross him."

"Too right,
Grift. Last time Scarl was seen in the castle more than one man ended up with
his throat slit."

"If I
remember correctly, Bodger, last time he was here, Lord Glayvin met a sticky
end."

"He was the
one who refused to sell his pear orchards to Maybor, wasn't he?"

"Aye, Bodger.
His widow had no such compunction, though. After her husband's death, she sold
Maybor those orchards so fast you'd think they'd been riddled with brown
worm."

Maybor decided
that this meeting was best held out in the open, away from the listening ears
of the court. He had been careful to choose a place in the castle grounds where
he and his companion would be undisturbed. Downwind of the middens was just
such a spot. Maybor covered his face with a handkerchief to prevent as much of
the foul smell from entering his nose as possible. This action also had the
added benefit of concealing the greater part of his features.

Maybor watched as
the assassin approached. He was a slight man, not strong but rumored to be wiry
and quick. No one, it was said, was craftier or more skilled with a blade.
"Well met, friend," said Maybor.

"I wish you
joy of the day, Lord Maybor." The assassin scanned the area. "You
have picked a foul spot in which to meet."

" 'Tis a foul
deed that needs be done."

"Whose
absence from the world do you seek this time, my lord?" The assassin
constantly watched the surroundings, making sure no one approached.

Maybor had no love
for mincing words. "I seek the death of Baralis, the king's
chancellor." Their eyes met and held, it was the assassin who looked away
first.

"Lord Maybor,
I think you know just how powerful Baralis is. He is more than man; he is said
to be a master." Maybor didn't like to think on such things. He tried to
convince himself that Baralis' powers were nothing more than hearsay, but he
never quite quite succeeded-a smidgen of doubt always remained. He wasn't about
to let the assassin know that, though-the man's price would double if he
thought sorcery was involved. "Listen, Scarl, Baralis is not as powerful
and all-seeing as everyone thinks. He has his weakness. A keen blade will slit
his throat the same as it would any man's."

"His chambers
will be warded against intruders."

"That is not
my concern. You must evade anyone who blocks your path," said Maybor,
deliberately misinterpreting Scarl's words. He was damned if the assassin was
going to talk openly about sorcery! They both suspected the riskswhy add weight
to them by giving them air? "It is your job to find the time and place
when he is most vulnerable. All I ask is that there be no trail leading back to
me."

"Are you
presuming to tell me how to do my job, Maybor?" The assassin spoke
lightly, but there was a hint of reproach in his voice.

"No, no. I am
anxious that the deed be done. Too long has Baralis held power in the
court." Maybor took a deep breath, forgetting where he was, and his lungs
filled with the stench of human waste. He coughed violently, ridding himself of
the foul air.

Scarl looked on, a
hint of distaste showing upon his clever face. "I do not much like the
sound of this commission. There is great risk."

"Name your
price," uttered Maybor, impatient to be away.

"The price
will be high." The assassin raised a querying eyebrow.

"It is of no
matter. I will pay whatever you ask."

"I have no
need of money, Maybor. Well you know I am paid a good price for my work. No, I
seek a little something for my retirement."

"Yes, yes,
name it."

"I want land,
Maybor. I fancy growing apples when I'm older."

Maybor did not
like the sound of this; nothing was more precious to him than his land. "I
will give you two hundred gold pieces," he countered.

"No."
The assassin moved away as he spoke. "No, Maybor, I would have land in
payment, or I shall take my skills elsewhere."

Maybor relented.
"Very well, I will give a stretch of land in the north. I have thirty
acres outside Jesson that you can have."

"Apples grow
better in the east," said the assassin.

"I cannot
think why you would want land in the east with the war against the Halcus still
raging."

"Wars of man
come and go. Land endures."

Maybor relented.
"So be it. I will give you twenty acres of orchards in the east."

"You would
give me thirty in the north," replied the assassin, once again stepping
away.

"Very well. I
will give you your thirty acres. But you will not see a blade of grass until I
have proof you have done your job."

The assassin
nodded. "I think we have reached a fair agreement. I will take the
commission."