The Baker's Boy (17 page)

He made his way
down to the queen's chamber. Once he arrived at the beautifully carved door, he
knocked loudly. He was not a man to meekly tap. He waited for several seconds
and was about to knock again when the queen's voice rang out coldly:
"Enter."

Baralis stepped
into the great room. The walls were hung with exquisite silken tapestries;
chairs and benches were upholstered in the richest of fabrics, worked with gold
and silver thread. The queen issued an unspoken insult by not turning to greet
him as he entered. He was forced to address the back of her head: "I wish
Your Highness great joy of the day."

She whirled around
quickly. "I have no wish to exchange pleasantries with you, Lord Baralis.
Say quickly what you will and then leave."

Baralis remained
unruffled by the queen's venom. "I have a gift for Your Highness."

"I want no
gift from you, Baralis, save your quick withdrawal." She was beautiful in
her aloofness, her back straight and noble, her profile cool as marble.

"The gift is
more for your husband, the king, than for yourself." Baralis watched with
amusement as a flicker of interest crossed the queen's brow. She worked quickly
to conceal it.

"What could
you have that would be of interest to the king? You tire me, Lord Baralis.
Please withdraw from my presence." The queen was indeed a fine actress.
Baralis found himself admiring her.

"Your
Highness, this gift of which we speak will do more than interest the king. It
may very well help him."

"How will it
help him, Lord Baralis?" The queen's voice was scathing. "The king is
not so ill that he would need your help."

"Oh, Your
Highness." Baralis shook his head with mock sympathy. "We both know
the king is seriously ill and is only getting worse. These past five years
since the unfortunate hunting incident, he has deteriorated visibly. All the
court is deeply saddened by his decline."

"How dare you
speak so of the king!" The queen drew close, and for a brief instant he
thought she would strike him. Her blue eyes met his: he could smell her, the
subtle fragrance stirring up memories in his breast. Unsettled by his nearness,
she took a single step back. "I cannot bear your presence an instant
longer. Be gone now!" She spoke the last words in a fury and Baralis
obligingly withdrew.

As he walked the
distance back to his chamber, there was a suggestion of a smile upon his thin
lips. Things had gone very well. The queen had, of course, been most proud and
indignant-he had expected no less. She had failed to hide her interest, though,
and the bait had been taken. All that remained for him to do now was to wait
for her inevitable summons. Proud she might well be, but she would regret her
hasty words and would soon seek him out, demanding to know the nature of the
gift.

It seemed that
every person who lived in the huge city of Rorn was out on the streets. People
were drinking and dancing and gathering in groups to exchange pleasantries and
gossip. Buildings had been hung with brightly colored banners, and flowers were
strewn amongst the filth on the streets.

Vendors cried
their wares, proclaiming fresh apples or hot pies or cool ale. Children ran
unchecked through the crowds, and old women found the shade. Young girls wore
dresses cut so low that their breasts seemed ready to spill out. Indeed, some
voluptuous curves did-to the great delight of the men, who watched lecherously
as the unfortunate girls tucked their bounty back beneath their bodices.

It was the
greatest day of the year for the city. The annual festival attracted scores of
people from many leagues away. There would be a huge parade, exotic performers,
great singers, and amazing fireworks displays. The city would feast and frolic
for three days. These three days were the single biggest event of the
pickpockets' year.

Thousands of
people on the streets, money in their pockets, their minds dulled by drink.
Why, the pickings were so rich and easy that the pickpockets almost bemoaned
the loss of their art. It wasn't a skill to take a purse from a man who was
pickled in ale-it was child's play. Still, there were proceedings to be
followed even on these three idyllic days of plenty. It wouldn't do for a
'pocket to encroach upon another's turf. Not if he valued his life. For Rorn,
like all other cities, was controlled by an established system of extortion and
corruption.

"Pockets,
cutthroats, thieves, prostitutes, con men, they all lived in fear of the men
who ran the city. These men collected their dues, and they in turn answered to
one man. The man who ran the crime in Rorn was without face or name. He was
known simply as "the Old Man." Tales of the Old Man's power and
influence abounded in the city. It was said that not a thing happened on the streets
or in the taverns that he did not know about. If a whore was overcharging, he
knew it; if a trader loaded his scales, he knew by how much; if a thief robbed
a house, he knew the value of what was taken down to the last tin spoon. Rorn
was said to be riddled with his spies and informants, and it was rumored that
he had friends in the highest of places."

For today, at
least, people forgot about the darker side of life in the city. The festival
had begun and the people of Rorn were determined to celebrate.

Tawl was jostled
and pushed by the heaving crowds. He had not liked the idea of coming out
today, but Megan had been insistent that he stretch his legs and get some fresh
air.

He was pleasantly
surprised by how his body responded. He had always been physically strong, but
he hadn't expected his muscles to be so resilient. He was weak, yet already he
could feel his blood pumping through his flesh, bringing new life to tissue and
tendon.

After his months
of confinement, he was alarmed by the size and noise of the crowds. He was sure
he'd never seen so many people in his entire life.

Megan had given
him six silver pieces with which to buy a knife. She had told him the saying
that in Rorn, a man without a weapon is a man without a future. Tawl had
disliked taking her money, and he suspected it was her last. But he needed a
weapon of some sort before he risked leaving the city, so he had accepted,
swearing one day to pay it back.

He was surprised
to find his unusual attire seemed to fit right in with the mood of the
festival. In fact, his clothes seemed modest in comparison to what some were
wearing.

The men of Rorn
paraded like peacocks in bright leggings and tunics, and the women wore shawls
in the colors of the rainbow. As he walked through the streets, he noticed the
advance of a great parade. People on horse and foot were bedecked in fabulous
costumes, and the crowd made way to let the parade pass.

He didn't take
great interest in the parade at first; he had no love of jugglers and tumblers.
Then, after a while, horns. sounded and the crowd grew quiet as a huge man on a
massive horse rode through their ranks. A noticeable hush fell upon the people
as they looked in awe upon the august figure of the rider. The man was dressed
all in white and was adorned in fabulous jewels: bracelets, rings and
necklaces, all sparkling with harsh luster in the bright sunshine. He even wore
a crown. There was something about the man's fleshy profile that was familiar
to Tawl.

Instinctively he
slipped deep within the crowds, searching out shadow as the rider passed. He
watched from a distance as the man rode by. Tawl was certain that he was the
same person who had supervised his torture. He turned to a young boy standing
nearby and asked, "Who is the man in white?"

The boy gave Tawl
a disgusted look and retorted, "Why that's the archbishop. Every fool
knows that." He then gave Tawl a kinder look and added, "I suppose
you're from out of town." Tawl nodded and moved on.

He headed toward
the tavern which Megan had recommended for knife buying. He was feeling weak
and his eyes were still not accustomed to the bright of day. As he neared his
destination, he came upon yet another crowd of people. They were gathered
around a handsome and brightly dressed young man. Tawl could tell from the red
tassels on his hat that the man was a fortune-teller.

"Yes,
madam," the man was saying with dramatic flourish, "I can see that
your daughter longs for another child. Tell her to offer a prayer up to the
goddess Huska and her wishes will be granted." The crowd moaned in
approval. The fortune-teller moved on to the next person, taking his hand and
looking enigmatically toward the heavens.

"Sir, you are
a man in need of money." Tawl could not help but smile. Show me a man who
is not in need of money, he thought. After a pause for theatrical effect, the
fortune-teller continued, "You will find seven gold pieces under the floor
of your house."

"Whereabouts?"
asked the man.

"But two
steps away from your door," said the fortuneteller, his voice gaining an edge
of boredom, as if to say he was too important to be concerned with specific
details.

"You,
madam," he called as a woman was about to leave the group. She came
forward and he took her hand, once more looking to the sky. "I see a great
future for you." He closed his eyes, as if receiving divine guidance.
"I see that you will become dressmaker to a queen." The crowd
applauded with admiration as the woman informed them that she did indeed do a
little sewing on the side.

Tawl prepared to
move on, but the fortune-teller stopped him. "You, sir!" Tawl had no
intention of moving forward, so he shook his head and stepped away. The
fortune-teller was too fast for him and caught his arm. The man squeezed his
hand and looked to the heavens. "You sir, are searching for a boy."
Tawl's face remained impassive. The fortune-teller continued. "You will
not find him in this city. You need to visit the Seers of Larn-they will tell
you where he is." Tawl's eyes met briefly with those of the fortuneteller
and then the man was off.

"Madam, give
me your hand. You are a widow in need of a husband. . . ."

Tawl walked away,
rubbing his chin as he reflected upon what the fortune-teller had said. He'd
never heard of Larn or its seers. He tried hard to dismiss the incident as mere
fancy or trickery, but as he walked the tawdy streets, it weighed heavily on
his mind and he decided he'd find out more about Larn.

He soon came upon
the tavern Megan had named and slipped inside, glad to be free of the noise and
the crowds. He settled himself in a dark comer and was relieved to take the
weight off his still weak legs. A sour-faced girl approached him. "What
d'you want?" she asked, making no show of welcome.

"I'll take a
cup of ale." The girl was obviously affronted at being asked for such a meager
service. She huffed away, returned much later with a cup of flat and watery
ale. "Before you leave, could you tell me if Tucker is here?"

"Who's
askin'?"

"A friend of
Megan's." The girl withdrew to the back room. Several minutes passed and
eventually a man emerged. He looked critically toward Tawl and then approached
him.

He wasted no time
with greetings. "What do you want?" The light from the window did the
man no favors; it highlighted the depths of the pock marks on his cheeks.

"I need a
knife."

"What
sort?"

"A
long-knife." Tawl was hoping he had enough money to make a purchase. He
suspected the price of such goods in Rorn would be high.

"Cost you ten
silvers."

"We won't be
doing business, then." Tawl motioned to leave. His bluff paid off.

"Eight silvers,"
countered the man.

"Six."

"Done."
The man headed to the back and returned minutes later with a long-knife, which
he drew from within his coat. Tawl was surprised to see it was a remarkably
fine knife. Undoubtedly contraband. The two men exchanged money and goods, and
Tawl headed toward the door.

"By the
way," he asked, "have you ever heard of Larn?" The man gave him
a warning look and then shook his head. Tawl got the distinct feeling the man
knew something but would not say. He stepped out into the bright sunlight and
headed back toward Megan's. The fortune-teller had planted a fertile seed, and
Tawl was determined to find someone who could tell him about Larn and its
seers.

Jack had watched
as Melli sped not an arm's length away from him. She had neither seen nor heard
him. He listened to the approach of the mounted men and quickly turned in the
direction from which he had come. There was nothing he could do to help his
companion now, but he took some comfort in the fact that she was at least on horseback.

To his untrained
eye, Melli had appeared to be an expert horsewoman.

He ran as fast as
his long legs would take him; over bracken and fallen log he raced, his breath
coming fast and heavy. As he looked back to check on his pursuers, he misplaced
a step and his ankle twisted painfully. He fell forward onto the damp floor of
the forest. He struggled to his feet and attempted to put his weight on his
leg, but the ankle could not bear it. "Damn!" he whispered, half in
pain, half in anger. He knew he would have to hide now, for he had no chance of
outrunning his pursuers with a twisted ankle.

He made a quick
scan of the terrain and his eye spotted a low ditch. He hobbled as fast as he
could and flung himself into the trench. It was not very pleasant; fungus clung
grimly to the sides and at the bottom lay cold, foul-smelling water. He still
felt he was too exposed and lay down in the icy wetness, covering himself in a
blanket of wet, dead leaves. The water stole through his cloak and breeches,
chilling him to the bone.

As he waited he
couldn't help feeling a little ashamedMelli was being chased by Baralis' men
while he crouched in a ditch like a coward.

There was no doubt
in Jack's mind that Baralis was behind the chase. If anyone in the castle knew
anything of sorcery it was the king's chancellor. It was widely murmured that
the man dabbled in the ancient arts; however, he was so powerful that no one dared
mention it aloud, let alone challenge him about it. A breath of revelation
passed through Jack-he'd felt it. Looking back on his time scribing, there had
been instances when he'd felt sick and head sore. Up until now he'd dismissed
it as a result of eyestrain and late nights, but the sensation was akin to what
he'd felt yesterday morning. Baralis had practiced sorcery and somehow he had
perceived its use. Jack recalled many instances of nausea, and whenever he'd
seen Baralis the same day, the man usually looked pale and weak.