The Baker's Boy (52 page)

The night Baralis
had questioned him, he'd been on the brink of remembering. There'd been a light
and two figures; one was his mother. She'd been trying to tell him something
and then everything had gone blank. Each time Jack tried to grasp at its
meaning, the memory seemed to become less solid. At first he'd thought it was a
dream. But dreams didn't leave you feeling as if you'd understand everything if
only they'd go on for a few moments more. At least none of his used to.

Jack had always
slept soundly. Master Frallit had often said the only way to wake him was a
good kick to the shins. Since leaving the castle, though, his dreams had given
him no rest. They taunted him with glimpses of places he'd never been and
people he'd never met. Images flashed in his mind like fat on a fire: men in torment,
a city with high battlements, a man with golden hair. It didn't seem to mean
anything, and when he awoke in the mornings he was more tired, more confused,
more restless, than when he lay down his head the night before.

One minute he was
just plain Jack the baker's boy, the next he was running for his life, being
chased by guards and questioned about powers that he had no control over.

Judging from what
he'd overheard the mercenaries say, the king's chancellor had not emerged from
the questioning unscathed. What was in him that was strong enough to repel
Baralis' will? For there had been a fight, Jack was certain of that, and
somehow, although he hadn't emerged the victor, he had managed to keep the man
at bay. Like a boar on the scent of truffles, Baralis had burrowed into his
mind in search of the truth. He nearly found it, too. They both had.

There were answers
inside him, and Baralis' probing had brought them tantalizingly close to the
surface.

Walking through
leagues of empty passageways had given Jack time to think. Despite all that had
happened since leaving the castle, he realized that he wouldn't change a thing.
If he hadn't burnt the loaves and left Harvell, he would never have met Falk
and Melli. Falk had given him the gentle gift of understanding. He'd taught him
to question his views on the world and introduced ideas that challenged a
lifetime of beliefs.

As for Melli:
well, she was proud and beautiful, and somehow managed never to be out of his
thoughts. He'd known girls and had kisses aplenty, but no one had made him feel
the peculiar mix of attraction and bewilderment that he felt in her presence.
Jack was glad the mercenaries had caught him; Melli might have died without
someone to tend her wounds. Capture seemed a fair exchange for her life.

Now all he had to
do was free her. He'd read many books in Baralis' library where heroes saved
beautiful damsels. If they could do it, so could he. Skill with a blade might
be lacking, but lifting sacks of grain had made him strong, and dodging Frallit's
blows had made him fast on his feet.

He knew it would
be better to lie low for a few days before returning to the haven. Right now
the mercenaries would be vigilant and anxious for revenge. The longer he
waited, the more chance there was of catching them unawares. Jack was under no
illusions; if he was going to free Melli, it would be by sneaking past the
guards, not fighting his way through them. Bakers had to live by more practical
rules than heroes.

For the moment,
food and water were his priority. He needed to find a way up to the inhabited
rooms of the castle. One of the strange things that he found while searching
for entry into the cellars was that many tunnels ended in stone walls. It
didn't make sense to Jack that someone would build an elaborate tunnel only to
deadend it. He thought back to the conversation between the two mercenaries;
they had mentioned Baralis opening up walls with his hands. Jack attempted to
find some sort of mechanism on the wall that formed part of one dead
end-perhaps Melli was being kept behind the featureless stone. He found nothing
and gave up. Why waste his time with secret openings when there was so much
that was not concealed to explore?

Finally, after
some time, Jack came across a narrow flight of stairs. He headed up them and
found a low wooden door at the top. His heart beat heavily as he turned the
handle and looked out. He could not see much as his way was blocked by a large
object. There was something familiar to Jack about the shape blocking his view.
He brought the torch forward and was able to see clearly what it was ... a huge
copper brewing vat. He was in the beer cellar.

Jack decided to
leave the torch in the tunnel-it would only serve to draw unnecessary attention
to him-so he quickly ran down the stairs and placed it in the wall bracket.

Seconds later he
crept through the door. He slipped down the side of the copper vat, careful to
stay in the shadows. There appeared to be no one around. He realized that it
must be sometime in the evening, maybe even in the middle of the night.

The smell of hops
and yeast pervaded the air, reminding Jack of the good times he had spent there
as a child, fetching ale for the castle guards-more often than not taking an
illicit tipple of his own. His youth seemed a long distance behind him now, and
he knew in his heart that he would never be a baker's boy or kitchen help
again.

He made his way up
the cellar stairs and into the castle kitchens. They were hooded in shadow,
only an occasional candle burning. Jack knew he had to be careful. Even late at
night there were people in the kitchen: scullery maids scouring the pots and
damping fires, drunken guards looking for a bite to eat.

Jack heard
whispering coming from the larder. He glanced around and was surprised to see
that the door which was usually kept locked was open. Lying on the floor inside
was a man with his britches pulled down around his knees with a girl
open-legged beneath him. Jack recognized the man at once. He was about to
withdraw when the man called out to him: "Who goes there?" Jack froze
on the spot, hoping the shadow was deep enough to conceal him. The man pulled
up his britches and the woman smoothed down her skirts. "I know there's
someone there," said the man, moving forward.

Jack took a chance
and stepped into the light. "Master Frallit, it's me, Jack."

"Jack, lad,
what are you doing here? I thought you'd run away." Master Frallit came
out of the shadows. He was short of breath and decidedly red in the face.

"I did."
Jack hesitated. "It's a long story."

"Just a
minute, lad." Frallit turned back to the girl and motioned for her to go.
The master baker waited for her to be out of earshot before he spoke again.
"I trust, Jack, that what you saw tonight won't go any further?"

"I would ask
the same of you, Master Frallit." The two men nodded in understanding.

"Is there
anything I can do for you, boy?" Frallit looked eager to be on his way.

"No, I don't
think so, Master Frallit." There was no mistaking Frallit's sigh of
relief. "However," continued Jack, "if I could just take a few
things to eat from the larder?"

"Go ahead,
boy, and be quick about it." Jack made his way forward into the larder.
"Don't be taking any of the roast venison, though. The sharp eyes of the
cook can notice missing venison a league away."

Jack quickly
filled a cloth with cheese and pie and anything else he found appealing.
"Hurry, boy," hissed the master baker. Once satisfied that he had
enough food, Jack tied the ends of the cloth and stepped from the pantry.
Frallit's eyes rested disapprovingly on the size of his bundle. "Be on
your way, boy," he said, intent on locking the larder door. Jack thanked
Frallit and made his way back toward the cellar, pausing to pick up some
candles and a jug of water.

Once Jack was back
in the passageways he lit one of the candles from his torch and laid himself
out a feast of a meal. He munched on grouse pie and blood sausage, blue cheese
and apple dumpling. Nothing, however, tasted as good to Jack as his one slice
of cold roast venison.

Jack lay down for
the night in a partly concealed recess off one of the tunnels. The torch had
burnt out, and although he knew it was tempting discovery, Jack kept the candle
burning while he slept. He realized that he should have brought a flint and
decided he would obtain one the following evening. He would need some warm
clothes, too.

He awoke the next
day stiff and cold. He ate a light breakfast and spent the morning exploring
the tunnels once more. Jack had no doubt that Baralis used the passages
regularly-a few of them were even lit by torches, and those Jack stayed away
from. He did not want to chance a meeting with the man or his mercenaries.

Baralis had
decided it was time he had a word alone with Traff. The head of the mercenaries
had let him down badly by allowing the boy to get away. The man had expected to
be rewarded when he performed his job well; he must also expect to be punished
when he did it badly.

He watched as
Traff made his men leave the room, and was pleased to note that each of them
had looked afraid at his arrival. Traff poured himself a mug of ale. Baralis
felt nothing but contempt for men who sought strength in liquor. "So,
Traff," he began with misleading mildness, "have you any news on the
boy, any sign of him?"

"No, nothing.
If he's still here we'll find him, and if he's outside he won't have gone far
in this weather." Traff took a large gulp of ale.

"I'm very
disappointed. I thought ten men would be able to guard one boy."

"He caught my
man off guard, surprised him-"

Baralis cut him
short. "I hate excuses." He could see that Traff was getting nervous.

"Since I've
been working for you, I've had two men killed and another's so messed up even
his own wife wouldn't recognize him." Traff took another gulp of ale.
"Let me tell you, I'm about ready to get the hell out of here." The
mercenary started to get up.

"You aren't
going anywhere." Baralis drew gently from his power. He watched the panic
in Traff's face as the man realized he couldn't move.

Baralis looked
around the room for something suitable, his eyes alighting on a wooden-handled
knife. He casually picked it up and caressed the blade with his fingertips,
drawing heat to it. In seconds the blade glowed red, and Baralis was amused to
see Traff's expression turn from fear to horror. He brought the knife within a
hair's breadth of the man's face and watched him wince as he felt the heat from
the blade.

"Now, my
friend." Baralis spoke with a voice smooth as oil. "I think you know
I could hurt you quite considerably." He moved the knife a fraction,
nearly touching Traff's skin. "Quite considerably, indeed. But I won't,
because you and I both know you will come to your senses. You are not about to
walk out on me ... no, my good friend, nobody walks out on me."

Baralis shook his
head lightly. "I know you'll do a better job in the future." He
gently grazed the blade over Traff's cheek, the flesh reddening beneath.
Baralis suddenly drew the knife down to Traff's bare arm and laid the red-hot
blade against his skin. The skin reddened and warped and then turned black.
Satisfied, Baralis removed the blade and drew back his power. Traff fell
forward against the table and began to whimper, tears of pain coursing down his
cheeks.

"Well,
Traff," said Baralis briskly, "I trust you have a better
understanding of matters now." He let the knife drop into the jug of ale,
causing the beer to sizzle and steam. "I must be off now. I will, of
course, expect the boy to be found within the next few days." Baralis
paused a second by the doorway, contemplating the sight of Traff cradling his
arm, and then was off, back to the castle.

Baralis made his
way to his chambers through the underground tunnel and up into the castle. As
he walked he noticed a torch was missing from one of the walls. He puzzled over
it for a second, making a mental note to ask Crope if he had it.

Once in his rooms,
Baralis rubbed his hands, soothing them-gripping the knife handle had been a
strain upon them. The wet weather was having a direct effect on the joints in
his fingers, causing them to swell and stiffen. He resisted the urge to take
the drug; he would endure the pain rather than risk losing his sharpness of
mind. He poured himself a glass of holk instead. The drink afforded him a
little relief.

Crope entered the
room, his clothes wet. He had obviously been out in the rain. "I expected
you back before now. Is the girl safely locked up?"

"Yes, my
lord."

"You must not
get too attached to her, Crope," warned Baralis. He had a feeling his
servant had a soft spot for the girl. "Tell me," he said, satisfied
that he had made his point, "why are you soaked through?"

"I've been
outside, my lord. I've found out from one of the stablehands that Lord Maybor
has left on a journey."

"Oh,
really." Baralis was suddenly interested. "And where is Lord Maybor
journeying to?"

"First to
Duvitt and then on to his eastern holdings. Stablehand says that there's been
some sort of trouble on his lands. "

Baralis smiled. He
was well pleased. Maybor would be out of the way for a couple of weeks. By the
time he returned the deadline the queen had agreed to would be up, and there
would be nothing to be gained by finding his daughter.

Crope was about to
leave when Baralis called him back. "Crope, did you remove the torch from
the room leading off the tunnel?" His servant looked blank. "Think
carefully."

"Whenever I
take the torches down, my lord, I always replace them with new ones."

"Are you
sure?" Crope nodded vigorously. "Very well, you may go now."
Baralis' mouth tightened to a thin smile. So, he thought, the boy is in the
castle.

Tavalisk read the
edict on his desk, then dipped his quill in the inkpot and drew the loaded tip
across the paper, signing his name with a flourish.