The Baker's Boy (37 page)

As the night drew
on Melli became colder, her body shivering. Eventually she fell into a fitful
sleep, her body curled into a tight ball to keep warm.

In the morning she
was wakened by someone pouring something foul over her head. Mistress Greal
stood above her, carrying her now empty chamber pot. "That won't be the
worst that happens to you this day, missy! You ungrateful little tart."
Mistress Greal then turned on her heel and walked away.

Melli had spent
the rest of the morning being cruelly insulted and having the remains of
people's breakfasts thrown at her.

She knew she was
due to be flogged this day, and her stomach fluttered with fear at the thought
of the rope. She could think of no way out of it. She had attempted to tell the
magistrate who she was, but in her current state not even her own father would
recognize her. Melli suddenly wished very badly that she was with her father
now. It was true he had slapped her and tried to force her into marrying
someone she didn't want to, but he had loved her. She had been his precious
daughter. He had bought her anything she wanted and delighted in seeing her
dressed up and looking pretty. What a shock he would get today, she thought.

The time passed
very slowly. Every minute seemed to drag on interminably. She was terribly
thirsty, for she had not drunk anything in over a day. She was not hungry,
though; the terrible, putrid smell of rotting vegetables kept her appetite in
abeyance.

Melli noted with
growing trepidation the angle of the sun in the sky. It was already noon: soon
they would come and flog her.

Jack was thinking
about Melli. He was worried that the soldiers who had caught him would soon
capture her. Earlier, they had ridden through a small village. The horsemen had
been met by hostile stares from the villagers. Traff, the leader, had asked one
of the women if they had spotted a girl heading east, away from the forest. The
woman's tongue had been successfully loosened by two silver coins.

"Yes, there
was a girl, right odd-looking creature. Dark haired, like you said. Wearing a
sack she was." The woman's eyes narrowed as she assessed the situation.
"I felt sorry for the poor girl. I told the sweet thing she'd be better
off in Duvitt."

"How many
days back?"

"Oh, I can't
be sure, maybe four or five days ago."

"How far is
Duvitt?"

"Oh, about
half a morning's ride east. Can't miss it, all roads lead to Duvitt around
here."

They had sped from
the village, riding much faster than before since they were now on open road.
Jack did not get to see much of the change in territory from forest to farmland
because of his position strapped over the horse's back. He could see that the
road was wide and well maintained-a sign of large population and prosperity.
The place they were headed for was obviously a wealthy town.

He fervently hoped
that Melli had decided not to stay in Duvitt for any length of time. It seemed
certain that if she were in town this day, she would be picked up by Baralis'
men. They rode on toward Duvitt.

A rope was being
lowered down to Melli. "Grab hold!" came a harsh voice. Melli found
the idea of being dragged out of the pit by a rope very distressing. She didn't
know if her shoulder could take the strain. A thought occurred to her: if she
didn't grab hold of the rope, they wouldn't be able to haul her from the pit,
and so they wouldn't be able to flog her. She refused to take the rope, shaking
her head stubbornly.

"If you don't
take hold of the rope, you little tart, I'll make sure your whoring days will
be over for good." Melli still refused to take the rope. "Look, missy,
I'll give you one last chance: take the rope or I'll get Master Hulbit to heat
up some chicken fat, and I'll pour it all over your pretty face. Now move
it!"

Melli grabbed for
the rope. Pain coursed through her shoulder and hot tears prickled in her eyes.
She took the rope and wound it around her waist, holding on tightly to the
slack. She braced herself, gritting her teeth and then felt the pull. The skin
of her arms scraped against the stone as she was pulled from the pit. The pain
in her shoulder was unbearable. Once her head was level with the ground, two
men grabbed her arms and hauled her out. Melli felt herself about to faint from
the pain and she struggled to control herself. She had her father's pride and
was determined not to give the crowd the satisfaction of seeing her swoon like
a giddy maiden.

She looked around.
There was a much larger gathering of people in the town square than the day
before. The crowd hissed as Melli looked at them. The cries of
"whore!" and "thief!" had little effect on her now and she
ignored them. The crowd, seeing what they took to be arrogance, grew nasty.
They hissed and shouted vile insults. One man, who called her "a
pox-ridden trollop," she recognized as Edrad. Despite great discomfort,
Melli could not help but smile at the irony. This, as far as the mob was
concerned, was the worst thing she could have done.

"The brazen
hussy!"

"The little
bitch is pleased with herself." Melli was once again pelted with rotten
fruit and vegetables. The men who held her shouted at the crowd to stop, for
they themselves were being bombarded.

The two men led
her into the middle of the town square. A wooden scaffold had been erected. One
of the men pushed Melli forward so her back was to the crowd. He took hold of
her arms, bringing them up level with her shoulders, and tied her wrists to the
scaffold.

Melli was
beginning to feel scared. She could no longer see the crowd but she could hear
their taunts and jeers. As soon as the man backed away from the scaffold, the
pelting started once again. Melli bit her lip in pain as hard objects were
hurled at her back and legs. Her arms, spread out as they were, put great
strain on her sore shoulder. Despite all of this, the worse thing to Melli was
the wait.

No one seemed in
any hurry to start the flogging. Melli supposed that being tied to the scaffold
at the mercy of the crowd was part of the punishment. The mob called to her,
heckling and insulting. She could feel the excitement of the people: they
wanted a good show, they wanted blood.

The crowd suddenly
became silent. Melli strained her neck to look around. The magistrate had
appeared, walking with a man who carried a rope whip. It was no delicate riding
whip-it was thick, coarse and stiff, with a knotted end. Melli shuddered and
the crowd cheered.

The magistrate
began to speak, telling the people once more of Melli's various crimes. With a
dramatic flair the magistrate listed each crime individually, allowing suitable
time for the crowd to hiss between each one. The list seemed longer today; it
now contained the charge of horse thief and swindler. By the time the
magistrate had finished the list, the mob was in a frenzy:

"Whip the
bitch!"

"Take the
skin off her back."

"Show no
mercy."

The magistrate
then pronounced her sentence: "Thirty lashes with the rope!" The
crowd erupted into a fit of cheering. It had been twenty yesterday! Melli grew
stiff with fear. The man with the rope whip was now showing it to the admiring
crowds, holding it above his head so small children and those at the back could
see. He then silenced the crowd by bringing the rope down to his waist,
catching the knotted end in the palm of his hand.

He moved forward
to the scaffold, his shadow falling over Melli's back. The crowd seemed to hold
their breath. Melli tensed in preparation for the blow. The man drew the whip
back, paused for the tiniest instant and then brought the rope down on Melli's
back. She heard the crack before she felt the blow. Melli convulsed with shock
and pain. The crowd aah'd in appreciation. The magistrate started the count:

"One."

The whip was drawn
once more and brought down with terrible force upon Melli's back. The rope
knocked the wind from her body and tore at the fabric of her flimsy dress.
"Two."

Tears of pain
flowed down Melli's cheek. The man flexed the whip, bringing it high above his
shoulders and lashed cruelly at her slender back. This time rope met flesh.
".Three."

The whip was up
again, and down it came once more, welting Melli's tender skin. The first
pinpoints of blood were drawn.

"Four."

The rope dug deep,
raising skin and tearing flesh. "Five."

Melli felt the
sting of the rope and then the warm trickle of blood down her spine.

"Six."

Just as the whip
was drawn again, a disturbance in the crowd distracted the man from his action.
Melli was too weak to care.

The sound of
hooves ringing on stone could be heard; the horsemen pushed through the crowd.
The magistrate was livid about the interruption. "Who comes here?" he
demanded. "Be off and do not disturb this flogging any longer."

"If you don't
untie the girl this instant," came a cold, deadly voice, "I will
order my men to slice these good people to ribbons."

"You wouldn't
dare," said the magistrate with little conviction.

"Wesk,
Harl," the voice called and two of the mounted men urged their horses
forward. They were both wielding long swords. The crowd was now scared. None
moved.

"Do as he
says, untie the girl," murmured the magistrate.

The man tucked the
whip in his belt and came forward, cutting the ties on Melli's wrist with a
knife.

Released from the
scaffolding, she could barely stand. She swooned and stumbled. She was weak
with pain and her back was on fire. Dazed, she looked up and saw the leader of
the armed men come forward. Melli recognized him as the man who had ripped her
bodice in the woods. She was confused. He smiled grimly, grabbed her firmly in
his strong arms, and scooped her up on his horse. Melli could hold out no
longer; her world became black as she passed out.

Baralis lay in his
bed. The past few days had been the worst of his life. He had come close to
death. He was only now recovering a little of his strength. He had tossed and
turned in his bed, sweating and weak. Unable to think clearly, he had been
tormented by images and demons, and his body could find no rest.

He had been badly
burned, but that was, not the worst of his injuries. He had made a dreadful
mistake. The moment he knew the assassin was upon him, he lashed out with all
the power in his body-a reflex action of survival. There had been no
calculation, no moderation; he had drawn his power with no thought except to
obliterate the threat to his life. So furiously did the power flow through him,
he could gain no control over its frenzy.

In the instant
that he realized he had drawn too much from himself he tried to draw back, but
it had been impossible. It was too much, too furious. It had a will of its own.

Baralis could only
watch the effects. He'd done something no master ever should: he lost control.
Everything in him had been drawn forth. There had been nothing left, all his
strength had been used in the drawing. He was left expended. If it had not been
for the care of his servant, Crope, he might have died.

He'd made a
mistake a novice would have been ashamed of. All the years of training in his
youth was underlined by one basic principle: never outreach yourself. He could
remember even now his teacher's hand upon his shoulder: "Baralis, you have
a gift and a curse," he said. "Your gift is your ability, your curse
is your ambition. You draw too wildly. There is no temperance, and one day you
will pay a high price for your boldness."

They always tried
to hold him back, they were envious of his talents. Who were they but a few old
fools who defied convention by setting up a school to teach sorcery? They
wanted to bring people around to the idea that magic wasn't all bad and that
Borc had been wrong to condemn it. The only reason they were allowed to go on
for so long was that Leiss was a city that prided itself on its liberalism. Of
course, all that had changed now.

So close to the
Drylands, it took a farmer of genius to coax crops from its soil. Genius, and a
little sorcery in his father's case. He'd come from a long line of successful
farmers, their skills defying the thin soil that Leiss rested upon. Like
savages, they married close: a half-sister, a distant cousin, a stepdaughter,
it all served to thicken the mix. Sorcery was instilled in their blood, and the
poor simpletons hadn't even known it-they thought it was skill alone that
nourished the grain.

His mother had
known differently, though. Too clever by far for a farmer's wife, she had seen
the truth behind the record crops. She had seen the potential in him, too, and
had sent him to the one place in the Known Lands where he could be trained.

Yes, he'd been
lucky to be born in that once liberal city. If it wasn't for his training, he
wouldn't be here today, King's Chancellor. His teacher was wrong: ability and
ambition were his gifts.

He'd traveled far
and wide to learn all the skills that were now in his possession. In the Far
South they'd taught him how to command animals and make them his own, from the
herdsmen of the Great Plains he'd learnt his skills with potions, and beyond
the Northern Ranges he'd discovered the art of leaving his body and joining
with the heavens. Many cities had he visited, many people had he talked to,
many manuscripts had he read: no one in the Known Lands could match him.

But Winter's Eve
had proved he wasn't infallible. It would have been easy to eliminate the
assassin with much less power, leaving himself with nothing more than a
moderate fatigue. Instead he'd been unconscious for two long days before his
mind returned to him. Sorcery took its power from the essence of a man: from
his blood, his liver, his heart. To perform even the simplest of drawings made
one weak for several hours. To perform a drawing of the scale he'd done on
Winter's Eve could drive a lesser man to madness or oblivion.