The Baker's Boy (8 page)

Money was ever an
interest, too. It was gold that had brought the knight here-though Bevlin was
certain Tawl had no knowledge of the transaction. Tyren had probably told him
there was a great deed to be done, a chance to bring honor to the knighthood.
And there was, of course, but Valdis didn't know it. All he was to Tyren was a
foolish old man with a dream of stopping a war that hadn't even started. Well,
if his gold had spoken more seductively than his prophecies, so be it. The
result was still the same. He got what he wanted: a strong young knight to help
him search for the boy. And Tyren got what he wanted: more money to finance his
political maneuverings.

It hadn't always
been that way with the knights; they had been glorious once, famous for their
chivalry and learning. They were counted on to keep the peace in times of
unrest, famine, and plague. No city was powerful enough to intimidate them, no
village too small to ask for their help. A whole legion of them had once ridden
a hundred leagues with barrels on their backs to bring water to a town that was
dry. A thousand songs were sung about them, generations of women swooned at the
sight of them. And now they had stooped to intrigue.

Exactly what the
knights hoped to achieve by their maneuverings was difficult for Bevlin to
understand. Valdis was not as great a city as it once was; Rorn had long
eclipsed it as the fiscal capital of the Known Lands, and Valdis was obviously
envious of its rival's success. Tyren, perhaps in an attempt to regain a
foothold in trade, was quietly buying up interests in salt pans and mines. If
the knights gained control over the salt market, it would mean they could
virtually hold cities for ransom, especially the ones dependent on the fishing
trade in the south. But there was more than trade at stake: Tyren had only
taken over the leadership a year ago, but he was already advocating a more
zealous approach to their faith.

The major southern
cities-Rorn, Marls, Toolay-all followed the same religion as Valdis, but they
were more liberal in their interpretation of the creeds and dogmas. Hence
Valdis was positioning itself as the moral leader in the south and had begun
stirring up trouble in the name of religious reformation.

All in all, it
added up to trouble. Bevlin foresaw conflict ahead. It was really quite
ironic--the knights, who with their peculiar mix of greed and religious fervor
could conceivably spark off a major war, had sent one of their number to find a
boy who could conceivably end one! Indeed, by sending Tawl here, with gold not
good deeds as their motive, they may well have put Marod's prophesy into
motion: When men of honor lose sight of their cause.

Bevlin sighed
deeply; there would be much suffering ahead. He turned and looked at Tawl. The
young knight was sitting quietly, lost in thought. There was something about
the way he sat, with his whole body enthralled by the fire, that affected the
wiseman deeply. The knight was trying to deal with some inner torment; every
muscle in his face, each breath from his lips, attested to it. Bevlin made a
silent promise that he'd never be the one to tell Tawl the truth behind Valdis'
reasons for sending him here. "Well, my friend," he said. "Have
you made your decision? Will you help me find the boy?"

"There was
never any question." Tawl looked up, his blue eyes deep with need. "I
will do as you ask."

Baralis entered
King Lesketh's chamber. All the members of the hunt were there, still wearing
clothes soaked in boar's blood. The queen was at the king's bedside, her
normally cool and haughty features stricken with worry. The surgeon was busy
stripping the clothes away from the king's shoulder while murmuring the
appropriate prayers of healing.

"What
happened?" asked Baralis.

"The king was
shot." Carvell looked down at the floor, as if he bore part of the blame.

"Who would
dare do such a thing!" exclaimed Baralis, careful to keep a note of
indignant surprise to his voice. "Where is the arrow? Did anyone get a
good look at it?"

"Maybor
removed it," answered Carvell.

Maybor moved
forward. "Yes, it is true I did, but in my panic to withdraw it from the
king, I threw the damned arrow away." His gaze met Baralis'.

"That was not
a wise move, Maybor." Baralis turned to look at the other men present.
"What if the arrow had been barbed? You might have caused the king worse
damage by removing it." There were murmurs of agreement in the room.
Baralis noted the quick flash of hatred in Maybor's eye.

"How do you
know the arrow was not barbed?" asked Maybor coolly. The room grew quiet
as they waited for Baralis' reply.

"I could tell
the moment I saw the king's wound that a barbed arrow had not been used."
The men reluctantly nodded their heads. Baralis promised himself that one day
he would deal with Maybor; the man was altogether too unpredictable. Furthermore,
he was beginning to suspect Maybor regretted entering into the conspiracy.
Well, I have one more card up my sleeve that you don't know about, Maybor,
thought Baralis, and it is time I played it.

"Did anyone
else get a look at the arrow?" he asked, his voice pitched low to gain the
attention of everyone in the room. "I did, my lord." One of the
houndsmen stepped forward. Maybor looked up, his face ashen.

"And who are
you?" Baralis knew well who the man was-he had paid him ten gold pieces
only days ago for his part in this little performance.

"I am Hist,
King's Houndsman."

"Tell me,
Hist, what exactly did you see?"

"Sir, I can't
be exactly sure, but the shaft did seem to have a double notch." Maybor
stepped forward, his hand raised in protest, about to speak. Baralis did not
give him the chance.

"A double
notch!" he exclaimed to the room. "We all know the Halcus arrows are
double notched." The room erupted into an uproar:

"The Halcus,
those treacherous bastards."

"The Halcus
have shot our king."

"To hell with
the peace at Horn Bridge," pitched in Baralis.

"We must
avenge this deed."

"We must beat
the Halcus senseless."

Baralis judged the
time was right. "We must declare war!" he cried.

"Aye,"
cried the men in unison. "War!"

"No, Bodger,
there's only one way to tell if a woman has a passionate nature and it ain't
the size of her orbs." Grift leant back against the wall, arms folded
behind his head in the manner of one about to impart valuable knowledge.

"How can you
tell, then, Grift?" Bodger drew closer in the manner of one about to
accept such knowledge.

"Body hair,
Bodger. The hairier the woman, the more passionate the nature. Take old widow
Harpit. She's got arms as hairy as a goat's behind and you won't find a randier
woman anywhere."

"Widow
Harpit's not much to look at, though, Grift. She's got more hair on her upper
lip than I have."

"Exactly,
Bodger! A man would count himself lucky to bed her." Grift smiled
mischievously and took a long draught of ale. "What about your Nelly, how
hairy is she?"

"My Nelly has
arms as smooth as freshly turned butter."

"You won't be
getting much then, Bodger!"

Both men chuckled
merrily. Grift filled their cups and they relaxed for a while, sipping their
ale. They liked nothing better, after a cold morning patrolling the castle
grounds, than to sit down with a cup of ale and bandy ribald remarks. There was
usually a little gossip exchanged, too.

"Here, Grift,
last night while I was relieving myself in the ornamental gardens I heard Lord
Maybor having a real go at his daughter. He even gave her a good
slapping."

"Maybor ain't
what he used to be. Ever since this damned war with the Halcus he's been
getting nasty and hot tempered-you never know what he's gonna be doing
next." Both men turned at the sound of footsteps.

"Here comes
young Jack. Jack, lad, do you fancy a sup of ale?"

"I can't,
Bodger, I haven't got time."

"If you're
off wooing, Jack," said Grift, "you'd better brush the flour from
your hair."

Jack smiled
broadly. "It's there for a purpose, Grift. I want the girls to think I'm
old enough to be gray just like you!"

Jack didn't wait
around to hear the guard's reply. He was on his way to Baralis' chambers and
was late as usual. The king's chancellor had been making him work long hours
recently, and he was often scribing into the early hours of the morning. Jack
suspected that the library he was copying would soon be due back to its owner,
and that Baralis was eager to have what was left copied down to the last page
as quickly as possible. In consequence, Jack now spent his days baking and his
nights scribing. There was little time left for rest, and he had been close to
falling asleep at his copying desk on more than one occasion.

Jack found that
scribing became easier with practice. At first he could barely copy a page a
day, but over time he'd grown better at his job, managing to complete as many
as ten pages in one session.

Jack now had a
guilty secret. For the past few years he had been able to read every word that
he copied. Five summers had passed since Baralis had first recruited him to be
a blind scribe, only Jack was no longer blind.

It had begun after
the passing of three moons. Jack had started to notice patterns in the words
and symbols. His main breakthrough had taken place over a year later when
Baralis had asked him to copy a book full of drawings of animals. Each drawing
was meticulously labeled, and Jack recognized many of the creatures in the
book: bats, bears, mice. He began to understand that the letters underneath the
drawings corresponded to the animals' names, and gradually he became able to
comprehend simple words: the names of birds or flowers or animals.

Eventually Jack
had learnt other words-connecting words, describing words, words that made up
the basis of language. Once he had started he raced ahead, eager for knowledge.
He found a book in Baralis' collection that did nothing but list the meanings
of words. Oh, how he would have loved to have taken that precious volume to the
kitchens with him. Baralis was not a man to grant favors lightly and Jack had
never dared ask.

Over the past
years he had read whatever he copied, stories from far lands, tales of ancient
peoples, lives of great heroes. Much of what he copied he couldn't understand,
and nearly half of it was written in foreign languages or strange symbols that
he could never hope to decipher. All that he could understand made him
restless.

Reading about
faraway places made Jack yearn to visit them. He dreamt of exploring the
caverns of Isro, sailing down the great River Silbur, fighting in the streets
of Bren.

He dreamt so
vividly he could smell the incense, feel the cool spray of water on his cheek,
and see defeat in the eyes of his opponents. Some nights, when the sky was
brilliant with stars and the world seemed impossibly large, Jack had to fight
the urge to be off. Desire to leave the castle was so great that it became a
physical sensation-a pressure within that demanded release.

Usually by morning
the pressure had lost its push. But more and more these days, Jack's gaze would
wander to the map pinned to the study wall. He scanned the length of the Known
Lands and wondered where he'd visit first: should it be to the north, over the
mountains and into the frozen waste; should it be to the south, through the
plains and into territories exotic and forbidden; or should it be to the east,
where the power lay? He needed a place to head for, and eyes following the
contours of the map, he cursed not knowing where his mother had come from, for
he surely would have headed there.

Why had she kept
so much from him? What was there in her past that she needed to hide? When he
was younger,

Jack had assumed
it was shame that held her tongue. Now he suspected it was fear. He was nine
when his mother had died, and one of his most enduring memories of her was how
she would insist on watching the castle gates each morning to see all the
visitors arrive. They would go together arm in arm, up to the battlements,
where they would have a good view of everyone applying for entry into Castle
Harvell. It was his favorite part of the day; he enjoyed being out in the fresh
air and watching the hundreds of people who walked through the gates.

There were great
envoys with huge retinues, lords and ladies on fine white horses, richly
dressed tradesmen from Annis and Bren, and farmers and tinkers from nearby
towns.

His mother would
keep him amused by telling him who people were and why they were important.
What struck him now was how keen a grasp she'd had on the affairs of Harvell
and its northern rivals; she kept herself well informed and was always eager
for news of politics and power plays. For many years after her death, Jack had
thought it was curiosity that made her watch the gates. Yet curiosity wouldn't
make a dying woman, who toward the end could barely walk, drag herself up to
the battlements each day to search the faces of strangers.

It was fear that
marked her features at such times. Oh, she tried to hide it. She had a hundred
anecdotes at her lips to take his mind from the cold and from her true reasons
for being there. She had nearly succeeded, as well. Even now, though, he could
recall the pressure of her fingers as they rested upon his arm and feel the
delicate strain of her fear.

What had caused
this watchfulness? This fear of strangers? To discover that, he must first find
where she came from. His mother had left nothing for him to go on. She had been
ruthless in withholding all information about herself. He knew nothing, save
that she wasn't from the Four Kingdoms and had been branded a whore. Through
the long nights, when sleep refused to come, Jack dreamt of tracking down her
origins like a knight on a quest, of finding out the truth behind her fear.