The Baker's Boy (30 page)

"Nine, but
they were slow to bite."

She sighed in
sympathy. "Never mind, you may need fewer tomorrow."

So she knew. For
an instant a weight was taken from his shoulders, but then, just as quickly, it
returned, heavier than ever. "Mama, I'm sorry."

"Ssh,
Tawl." She clasped his hand in hers. "Don't worry about me, it's your
sisters who need you now. You must be strong for them." His mother's eyes
held such strength of purpose, it was impossible to believe she was so weak.
"You must promise me you'll look after them."

The pressure of
her hand upon his was almost unbearable. "And the baby," he said,
half statement, half question. "And the baby, if it lives."

Megan took his
hand. "Tawl, are you all right?" His legs buckled under him and he
sat down on the floor. The mixture of present and past disoriented him-the
images took longer than normal to leave. The baby had survived, and the midwife
had known of a wet nurse. The pay was two fishes-his mother's portion. She'd
been wrong, then, his mother: the catch had remained the same.

Megan handed him a
cup filled with steaming liquid. Its sharp tang of oranges brought him to the
present more forcefully than any words. Oranges were unheard of in the marshes.

"Forgive me,
Megan," he said. "I am still a little weak."

"Are you sure
you should be on your way, then? Stay a little longer. Not for my sake, but for
your own."

He had to go. The
quest was all there was, and he couldn't allow anything else to matter. He was
destined to always leave like this: a soft good-bye with no chance of
returning. "No, Megan. I must be on my way." He searched for the
familiar words of parting, but they wouldn't come. By giving so much, Megan had
taken something from him-he could not leave her with glib phrases. She deserved
more than that. He took her face in his hands. "I'm afraid that if I stay
any longer, I might never go. You would be better off with someone else. There
is much about me you don't know."

"I know
you're in pain." Megan's voice was tender. "Tawl, I can tell you're
not happy. You make the mistake of thinking that once you finish your quest and
find who you seek, everything will be all right. But you're wrong-it's love,
not achievement, that will rid you of your demons." Was he that
transparent? Or was she just perceptive? He kissed her gently-it was his only
reply.

Later, when
passion had gone, leaving tenderness in its wake, Tawl handed Megan the heavy
purse. "Take this, it will help you live a life of your own
choosing."

Megan took the
purse and opened it up. Seeing the many gold pieces, she handed it back to him.
"I want no payment from you, Tawl, save your promise to keep yourself
safe." Tawl gently pushed the purse back to her.

"This is no
payment, this is a gift. I beg you to take it." Megan picked up the purse.
"Will I see you again?"

"I am a
knight of Valdis, Megan, sworn to make no promise that can't be kept."
Tawl found strength in the formality of his words. He knew he sounded cold, but
he was a knight first and foremost, and it was time to do his duty. Megan drew
away from him, just as he expected. It took all his willpower to stop himself
from pulling her back.

Baralis slipped
into the concealed passageway and headed for Maybor's chamber. On his way, he
noted what he thought to be an entirely new moss clinging to the wet, stone
walls. He made a mental note to come back another day with a specimen dish.
Mosses were always a thing of great interest. A new one could mean interesting
innovations in his poisoning skills.

He decided he
would take a less direct route to Maybor's chamber than usual. He felt the need
for great caution, but could not exactly say why. Finally, having taken a
twisted path, he found himself outside the lord's bedchamber. He checked that
the room was empty and then slipped quietly through.

Baralis knew
little of such things, but even he could tell that Maybor's rooms were
furnished with more money than taste. Hideous scarlet tapestries lined the
walls, silver and crimson rugs covered the floor, even the bed was covered in
lurid red silk. He had little time to amuse himself with Maybor's bad taste,
however, and stole toward the small dressing room, which was just off the
bedchamber.

Baralis allowed
himself a thin smile as he took in the contents of Maybor's wardrobe. The man
had more robes than most court ladies-in colors to outdazzle any peacock.

He quickly decided
that Maybor would wear one of two redcolored robes that evening. The queen was
to be in attendance at the Winter's Eve dance and Maybor would surely use this
chance to display himself in his richest. The two robes that Baralis picked out
were by far the most ostentatious: gold embroidery, ruffles, and pearls.
Baralis shuddered. He himself would wear a discreet black. He never liked to
draw unnecessary attention upon himself.

With haste, he
sprinkled the poison on the shoulders and neck of the robes. He then beat a
quick retreat. He knew just how deadly the poison was and he had no intention
of being in a small room with the lethal fumes for an instant longer than
necessary.

Pleased that the
task was done to his satisfaction, he slipped out of the chamber and returned
to his own rooms by the same indirect route he had used coming.

The assassin was
not unduly worried that he'd lost Lord Baralis when he slipped into the
passageways. Baralis was ' probably spying on someone, or up to some other ill
deed. That no longer concerned him. What did concern Scarl were his plans for
this night.

Tonight he would
make his move, carry out his commission. The assassin had thought long and hard
over how best to do his job and had finally decided on carrying it out on the
night of the Winter's Eve dance. The great banquet hall would be crowded with
people, all drinking and eating. Baralis would not dare to bring his servant
Crope to such a grand event.

The assassin had
found, on his many explorations of the labyrinth, a passage that led to a small
antechamber just off the banquet hall. It would be easy for him to slip into
the hall, unnoticed amid all the drunken revelry and watch his mark.

The assassin knew
Baralis' ways well: he was not a man who liked to keep in the forefront;
eventually he would retire to a remote comer to better observe the foibles of
his fellows. Then, as Baralis watched with studied boredom, the assassin would
make his move. The great lord would barely feel the touch of the knife before
he fell dead to the floor. Scarl would return to the passage before anyone
noticed what had happened.

The assassin was
beginning to feel the familiar knot of excitement in his stomach which always
accompanied the time leading up to his task. He was eager that it be done, and
anxious that it be done right. He did not doubt his own skills-he was the best
with a knife in the Known Landsbut he did worry in case anything should go
wrong. Still, he had never failed before and he had a fine plan.

It really was a
most beautiful plan. To carry out a murder in a room full of people would
actually be a lot easier than it seemed. He would wait until such a time when
the crowd's reactions were dulled by drink; no one would notice a shadowy
figure move about the room. In addition to the plan's other merits, Lord Maybor
would be in full sight of the room, and so no guilt would fall upon him.

Scarl considered
Lord Maybor-he did not trust him. It was true that Maybor had paid willingly in
the past for his services, but the assassin had seen something in the lord's
face when they had met last that boded no good. The assassin would be wary. He
had taken a risk by not requesting his payment in gold-for if he had been paid
in the traditional manner he would by now have half his fee in his keeping. As
it was, he had nothing more than a promise from Lord Maybor to deed him some
land after the job was done. He sincerely hoped that Maybor would not try and
renege on his word ... that would be most unfortunate-most unfortunate, indeed.

These matters the
assassin put to the back of his mind; he would deal with such difficulties when
and if they arose. For today and tonight he would need his complete
concentration for the task in hand. Almost as a reflex, Scarl took his knife
from his belt. He ran his finger lightly over the blade; the subtle motion drew
blood. The assassin was well pleased at the sight: his blade had never been
keener.

Jack was heading
east through the forest. He was making a good pace; sometimes he even broke
into a short run, his sack banging against his side. He had never felt more
free in his life. It was a joy to him to be in the woods running at his own
speed. All his life he had been at the beck and call of others: Master Frallit,
the head cellarer, Lord Baralis. Now, for the first time he was experiencing
what it was like to do things when he wanted, to eat when he was hungry and to
sleep when he was tired.

He was
light-headed with freedom. He owed so much to Falk. Thanks to him, he didn't
feel that what he'd done to the loaves was evil. Now, with time and the
goodness of nature to give perspective, Jack realized Falk was right: he hadn't
intended to do anything bad. All he'd felt the morning of the loaves was
worried. A worried man was not necessarily an evil one.

Still, he had done
it. He couldn't hide from it. In fact, part of him didn't want to. It made him
different, and he no longer felt the overpowering need to be the same as
everyone else. A thought drifted through his mind, and when he realized its
importance, he spoke out loud: "I might have inherited it." Whatever
it was that he had-power, sorcery, magic-he could have got from his parents.

Falk had led him
to believe that his mother had not been afraid for herself but for him. What if
she'd been afraid for both of them? If 'she'd had any similar power, she would
have needed to keep it hidden in order to continue living in Harvell. If only
she'd taken him into her confidence. But had he really given her the chance? He
had been too young, too keen to be out at play when all she wanted to do was
sit by the fire and talk.

Jack wished Falk
was with him; he would know if magic, like hazel eyes and large feet, could be
passed down in the blood.

It was really
quite unbelievable: he, a baker's boyand, according to Frallit, not a
particularly good one at that-had somehow managed to change the natural order
of things. He felt no differently-perhaps a little wiser since his visit with
Falk, but for the most part he was unchanged. He was still unsure what to do
with his life; various ideas warred in his mind, and depending on his mood he
either wanted to search for his mother's family, settle down to be a baker in
an eastern town, or wander through the world finding adventures as they took
him, ideas of revenge against his father, which Falk had so shrewdly guessed
at, were not something he would let govern his life.

For today, though,
he was content to be out in the forest. Decisions were for the future. The food
was good, the ground was firm, and time, at last, was his own.

He began to feel a
chill once more, and broke into another run to keep himself warm. He leapt over
ditches and fallen logs, dodging trees and trampling the undergrowth.

When he finally
stopped, his feet were a little sore. The boots that Falk had given him were
not a very good fit; he was grateful as they kept his feet warm and dry, but
they pinched at his toes. He'd always had a problem with shoes and clothing,
everything was always too small, and he'd become accustomed to tying his jerkins
with string and cutting holes in his boots for his toes.

Breathless, Jack
fell to the ground. Hungry as ever, he decided upon a bite to eat. He cut
himself a slice of venison and chose an apple to round it off. He dreamt of
where he would go: there was Annis, the jewel of the north, beautiful and
proud; Highwall, austere and majestic; or Bren, powerful beyond measure. Jack
took a hearty bite of his apple. There was only one choice that seemed right,
one city where he felt he needed to go. He would head to Bren.

The noise was
unclear at first, masked by the apple crunching against his teeth. He swallowed
quickly and concentrated. Jack's stomach churned with fear as he recognized the
sound of horses galloping in the distance. Baralis had come for him! It had
been so long, he'd thought himself safe. Quickly, he searched for somewhere to
conceal himself. The surrounding land was flat and without bush just the thin
trunks of taIl trees. Jack grabbed his sack and started to run.

The horses were
drawing closer. He decided his best course would be to run toward a distant
rise. He was already short of breath, but forced himself to run further. The
horses were almost upon him and he dived to the ground, hoping the riders would
not spot him. The cold earth echoed with the thunder of hooves. He was now able
to see the riders as they raced through the trees: they were the same men he
had last encountered, only this time there were more.

He thought he
might go undetected, for he had managed to clear the riders' path, and they
were obviously headed in a specific direction. However, the first rider shouted
something and the troop slowed down. Jack tried to make his body as flat as
possible against the ground. The first man had now dismounted and was examining
the undergrowth. He bent down and picked something up and showed it to the
others. At first Jack could not see what it was, then he realized the slice of
venison and the apple had been left behind when he had fled. He cursed his
stupidity-his brain was as addled as crumpets!

The mercenaries
were now looking in his direction. Running, he had probably left tracks. Jack
became weak with fear. Should he stay where he was or should he at least try to
outrun the men? He didn't feel comfortable hiding-the need for action was upon
him. Grabbing a tight hold on his sack, he jumped up and started to run. As he
fled, he heard the shout of the armed men as they spied him in the distance.
With speed born of desperation, Jack ran like the wind.