The Baker's Boy (26 page)

For the briefest
instant, a look of cunning passed over the woman's face. "I have need of
some pots and pans, of course."

Melli did not
believe the woman, but the sound of hot food and a bed was very tempting to
her. "Is there somewhere to stable my horse?"

"There most
certainly is, my pretty. Follow me. I'll have a boy see to your horse."

Melli followed the
woman to a large tavern. Seeing Melli's puzzled look the woman said, "Oh,
I have my rooms upstairs. You'll be staying there with me." Melli was
forced to walk through the tavern to reach the stairs at the back. As they
passed one man, he shouted to her companion: "Mistress Greal, I see you
have a new girl." Mistress Greal did not look very happy at this outburst
and hurried her along. Melli wondered what the man had meant by his comment,
however she soon forgot about it when Mistress Greal showed her to her room.

"This will be
yours, deary. I'll see about some food and hot water for a bath." With
that she was gone. Melli looked around the small room-it contained a bed, a
chest of drawers, and a washstand. The room made Melli feel a little caged in
at first, for she had become used to the vast forest as her bedroom.

She started to
feel better when Mistress Greal returned carrying a huge tray full of delicious
smelling food. There was hot game pie, thick leek soup, a wedge of crumbly
white cheese, and crusty bread lavished with butter. To her delight Mistress
Greal left her to dine alone, and so she felt free to eat as much as she liked
as fast as she liked. When she had eaten her fill, she wrapped the leftovers of
pie and cheese in a piece of cloth and tucked them away with her other
possessions. Then, as an afterthought, she rummaged in her blanket and found
the cups and pot that formed her half of the bargain. She placed them on the
chest of drawers: no one would say she did not pay her debts.

Melli drained the
last of the tall mug of cider that Mistress Greal had provided with the meal.
As a lady of court, she had only been permitted to drink watered wine, and the
strong and heady cider of the region went straight to her head. She lay on the
bed, noting that it was rather lumpy, and fell fast asleep.

Lord Maybor was
not at all happy about what he had to do. He had asked the queen for an
audience and she had granted him one. Ten days had passed since the betrothal
was agreed upon, and now it seemed it was more unlikely to happen than ever. He
paced his room. Damn Melliandra. The girl had made a mockery of his plans, and
now he was forced into telling a dangerous lie to the queen.

He regarded his
reflection in his shattered mirror. He did not feel his usual satisfaction at
the sight of himself in fine robes. Nothing was going right-even the assassin
was slow in slitting Baralis' treacherous throat. Scarl had been much faster
the last time he'd commissioned his services. Lord Glayvin was seen to within
three days.

Reluctantly Maybor
proceeded to the meeting chamber, knocked on the door, and was bidden enter.

The queen held out
the royal hand for him to kiss, a warm smile gracing her lips. "Lord
Maybor. I take it you are here to discuss the details of the betrothal?"

"I am, Your
Highness. But I fear there may be a delay."

"Delay."
Gone were the queen's pleasing tones. "What delay? I had hoped to announce
the betrothal on Winter's Eve festival. It was to be a double celebration-the
king's improved health and the announcement of the betrothal to the court. And
now you speak to me of delay. I can brook no delay, Lord Maybor."

Maybor could
understand the queen's nervousness; just last week news had come from Bren of
the duke's advancement. This year alone he'd already conquered three towns to
the southeast of the city. The man would soon style himself a king. "Your
Highness, my daughter is not well." Maybor inwardly cursed his daughter
once more.

"That is no
problem. The marriage will not take place until spring. The betrothal ceremony
is a brief one. Surely your daughter could make an effort to attend."

"Your
Highness, Melliandra cannot leave her bed. She has a bad fever and is most
seriously ill." Maybor watched as the queen's face became grave.

"Maybor, has
she the pox? I can not risk marrying Kylock to a girl who has had the
pox." It was well known the pox caused disfigurement and impotence.

"No, Your
Highness, it is but a wet fever. She will be well in a few days. That is all I
ask for: ten days."

"Ten days is
more than a few, Lord Maybor." The queen paced the room. "Very well,
I will delay it."

Maybor breathed a
sigh of relief. "I have heard that the king's health has much improved,
ma'am."

"Yes, Lord
Baralis has made a medicine that seems to help him a little." Maybor grew
cold. What mischief was Baralis up to now-trying to ingratiate himself with the
queen?

"You may
leave now, Lord Maybor. I trust I will see you at the Winter's Eve
festival."

As Maybor made his
way back to his chamber, he decided he would meet with the assassin on the
morrow and order him to make haste with his task. Baralis was up to no good.

Tawl was shaken
awake. As he came to, someone splashed icy cold water on his face. "Come
on, my friend, wake up." Tawl opened his eyes.

"Look, he's
awake now. Leave off. The Old Man won't like it if you treat him too rough,
Clem." Tawl was now being slapped hard on his cheeks.

"I don't
think he's quite awake enough, Moth." Tawl felt another sharp blow.

"Clem, his
eyes are open. Leave off." Tawl looked around. He was in a small dark room
with two men looming over him. His hands were tied behind his back.

"Head hurtin'
a bit?" The smaller of the two was speak ing. "Sorry about that. Clem
gets a bit carried away, if you know what I mean. Don't you, Clem?" The
one called Clem nodded. The other man continued, "Nothing personal. The
Old Man says bring him in, and we bring him in. Is that right, Clem?" Clem
nodded once more. "Course, you'll have a few beauties on your head, but
you know what Clem says?"

"What do I
say, Moth?" asked Clem.

"You say,
better a lump on your head than a lump in your bed. That's what you say."

"That's what
I say, Moth," repeated Clem.

"Here, we'd
better get a move on, can't keep the 0 Man waiting. Will you do the honors,
Clem?" The one called Clem produced a huge and deadly-looking knife and
cut the rope that tied Tawl's wrists together.

"Clem's sorry
if he tied you up a bit tight. Aren't you, Clem?" Clem obediently nodded.
"He's also sorry that he's going to have to 'fold you. Aren't you,
Clem?" Tawl never got to see Clem's nod this time, as a thick black cloth
was pulled over his eyes. He felt his arm being taken and he was guided out of
the room.

"You look a
bit stiff, friend. Don't worry, Clem won't lead you off a cliff. Will you,
Clem?"

Tawl was guided
down some stairs and on a journey through somewhere that smelled strongly of
human excrement. "Never mind the smell, friend. It won't do you any harm.
Clem's spent his whole life down here and it didn't hurt him. Did it,
Clem?"

"No, Moth.
Should we go the usual route, or the fancy one?"

"I think the
fancy one, don't you, Clem? I feel like a bit of sea air." Tawl was guided
up some stairs and then into the sunlight. He immediately felt salty sea
breezes.

"Weather's
right nice today ain't it, Moth?"

"You've never
spoken a truer word, Clem. Beautiful, balmy breezes for so late in the
season."

"You
should've been a minstrel, Moth."

"Alas, Clem,
if a life of crime hadn't called, I might have been."

"It's
minstreling's loss, Moth."

Tawl was led down
another set of steps and the reek of the sewer returned stronger than ever.
After a while their route led upward and the odor became less pervasive. He was
then guided through a confusion of twists and turns and was finally brought to
a standstill. The scent of fresh flowers assailed his senses.

"The Old Man
likes things to smell sweet. Don't he, Clem? Could you stay with my friend a
minute while I tell the Old Man we're here?"

"Should I
take the 'fold off him, Moth?"

"Best wait
until the Old Man gives the nod, Clem." Tawl and Clem waited in silence
for a few minutes until Moth returned.

"Take the
'fold off now, Clem, if you would." Tawl blinked from the light. "Old
Man says step inside." Tawl was pushed gently through a door.

He found himself
in a room filled with flowers-a small, old man was sitting by a bright fire.

"Come in,
young man. Would you like a cup of nettle tea?" The Old Man didn't wait for
a reply. "Of course you would, eh. Nothing like nettle tea for a swelling
of the head. Everyone I bring in swears by it. Of course, to my mind, the best
thing to cure anything is the laces, but you know all about that, young man,
don't you?" The Old Man gave Tawl a shrewd look. Tawl decided his best
policy was silence. He watched as the Old Man poured him a cup of
greenishlooking tea and handed it to him.

Tawl made no
motion to drink the tea. "Come, come, young man, you'll regret not taking
the tea when those lumps swell to the size of your balls." Tawl
reluctantly took the cup of unpleasant-looking liquid. "Sit down, Tawl.
You don't mind if I- call you by your name, do you? When you get to my age
there's no time for formalities. I might drop dead at any second." Tawl
secretly thought that he had never seen a healthier looking old man.

"Of course,
I'm sorry about the way you were brought in, but I find it's the best method in
the long run. No awkward questions, no unpleasantries. I'm sure you
understand."

There was a. soft
knock on the door and Moth stepped into the room.

"Sorry to
interrupt you, Old Man, but Noad's just told me there's been a bit of trouble
with Purtilan."

"You know
what to do then, Moth." Moth nodded his head gravely and was about to leave
when the Old Man spoke again. "Make it unpleasant, Moth. You and Clem do
one of your specials. There's been far too much trouble in the Market District
of late."

Moth left and the
Old Man continued, "You are a man who attracts interest in high places. Do
you know that the archbishop of Rorn is having you followed?" The Old Man
did not wait for Tawl to answer. "Now whenever the venerable archbishop is
interested in a person, I'm interested in that person, too. Especially when
that person and I have a mutual friend." The Old Man was looking rather
smug. "Bevlin, the wiseman, is an old, old friend of mine."

Tawl finally
decided to speak. "And what if I have never heard of this Bevlin whom you
speak of?"

"You
disappoint me, Tawl. I would expect nothing but the truth from a knight of
Valdis." The Old Man crossed the room and chose an orange-colored
chrysanthemum from one of the many vases. He drew it to his nose and inhaled
deeply. "When you were captured by Tavalisk's cronies, they found a skin
of laces on you. Now, I have a few resources myself and I managed to obtain
that skin. As I suspected, it had Bevlin's mark upon it."

"Why did you
think he gave it to you? Let me explain. Bevlin is no fool; he knew that the
laces skin was marked, and he hoped that his mark might at some time prove
useful to you. He has many friends who would aid his causes. Unfortunately,
Tavalisk also saw the mark, and that is why you spent a year in one of his
dungeons." The old man replaced the flower in the vase, careful to maintain
the arrangement.

"Now, I would
help you. I owe many debts to Bevlin and I would pay one back."

Tawl considered
all the Old Man had said, he made a decision and then spoke. "I need a
fast ship to take me to Larn." The Old Man's sharp gaze did not falter.
"So be it. I will arrange it for you. Is there anything more?"

"I would
repay a debt of my own."

"The girl
Megan? I will see she is compensated for her troubles." Tawl tried to
conceal his surprise-was there nothing this man did not know? He was pleased,
however, that the Old Man had not questioned his reasons for heading to Larn.

As if reading his
thoughts, the Old Man said, "I have no wish to know what you do on
Bevlin's behalf. But I do have two warnings for you. First, I have many
contacts throughout the Known Lands, and I know that the knights are no longer
welcome in many places and hatred for your order grows. I say keep your circles
well covered; they will only bring you trouble." The Old Man spotted
Tawl's expression. "You're young and idealistic--you probably can't see
what's going on."

"I know the
knights are much maligned in Rorn."

"And rightly
so. Tyren is leading them astray. He wants money and power and seeks to gain
them while hiding behind a smoke screen of religious fanaticism."

Tawl stood up to
leave. "A man should not be condemned by hearsay alone. Tyren was a friend
to me when I needed one most." The Old Man waved him down.

"Sit down,
sit down, I meant no offense. The knights are not my concern. If you choose to
follow them, then I am not the man to block your path. You are full of dreams
and think that gaining the final circle is all that matters. Let me tell you, I
have known many knights and the third circle is just a beginning not an
end." The Old Man gave Tawl a sharp look. "What do you think you'd do
once you got it, eh? The sort of great deeds that guarantee your memory
outlives your flesh?"

Tawl felt his face
flush. It was so near the truth. He hadn't thought beyond the third circle,
except for vague dreams of glory. The future was not for him-the present was
the only currency he could safely deal in.

The Old Man smiled
pleasantly. "Now where was ?"

"You had two
warnings. I am yet to have the benefit of the second."