The Baker's Boy (20 page)

"Good. Is
there anything I can do to facilitate this undertaking?" Lord Maybor
received the answer he hoped for. "No. I must find my own way. A good
murder can often be an act of great inspiration. I prefer to work alone."
With that the assassin bowed neatly to Maybor and was off. Maybor forced
himself to wait for the passing of a few minutes and then followed in the
assassin's footsteps. He was eager to be free of the smell of decay.

Melli spotted the
dove on her waking. It was high in a tree. It seemed to her to be a sign of
hope, and she was glad of its presence.

She had spent a
surprisingly comfortable night. She had found a peaceful glade and wrapped
herself warmly in blankets. The mossy floor was soft and springy, and she woke
refreshed and hungry. Her horse had found its own food and was slowly chewing
at a patch of grass. She wished there was something different for her to eat
than just pork and drybread.

She thought to
monitor the direction of the sun, for she still intended to head east. The sun,
however, was not on show. The sky was bleakly gray, and she realized she would
soon need to find shelter, for the clouds held promise of rain. Melli had scant
protection from the rain: the blanket that served as her cloak was not oiled
and water could easily soak through. Suddenly she had an inspiration: she could
use the heavy sack that contained her supplies as cover. The fabric was woven,
but its coarse and prickly thread promised more protection than her woolen
blanket.

Melli emptied the
contents out of the sack. Then, taking the small but sharp fish-boning knife
that Master Trout had so thoughtfully packed, she cut holes in the bottom and
the sides of the sack. She secured her blanket around her chest and then
slipped the sack over her head, sliding her arms through the side holes. It was
a perfect fit, covering her body to below her knees. She burst into
laughter-how silly she must look. What would Master Trout say if he saw what
had become of his sack?

She reveled in the
sound of her own laughter, skipping gaily around the glade, making mock
curtsies to imagined ladies of the court. "Yes, Lady Fiandrell, this is
all the rage in Rorn. I had the materials brought in from beyond the drylands.
But, if I do say so myself, the expense was well worth it." Melli had now
succumbed to a wild fit of giggles as she imagined herself at court, dressed in
a sack.

Her old horse
looked up, attracted by the sound of her laughter. "What are you looking
at?" she shouted. "I won't be the one who gets wet when it rains."

Melli took a guess
at where she thought the sky looked a little lighter and headed off in that
direction, munching on a piece of drybread. Her belongings she had made into a
neat package with the help of the second blanket. As she walked, she considered
names for her horse: he wouldn't suit a romantic name like Goldarrow, nor a
military name like Warrior. He needed a simple name like Pippin or Brownie.
Only she didn't like either of those.

"I'm afraid
you're destined to be the horse without a name," she said, patting the
creature's back. One thing was certain: she had no intention of riding again
without a saddle. The experience had proved to be most uncomfortable and her
thighs chafed sorely as a reminder.

As she walked, her
thoughts turned to her lost companion, Jack. She fervently hoped that he had
not encountered her pursuers. He may have abandoned her, but she bore him no
ill will. She even wished that he was still with her, for she didn't like the
idea of traveling alone with only a fish-gutting knife for protection. In the
space of two days she had been robbed and violated. What will be next? she
wondered, for everyone knew that trouble came in threes.

Eventually the
rain started, and Melli led her horse on a route that promised as much
protection as possible. She headed toward the most dense forest she could see,
thankful for the trees' broad branches, as they prevented some of the rain from
falling upon her. She sang a few songs to keep her spirits up and tried not to
think too much about the future.

Tavalisk was
eating one of his favorite delicacies: raw oysters. It was oyster season in
Rorn, and their supply was plentiful. Tavalisk, however, would eat no common
oyster. His were brought in fresh each day from the cold seas of Toolay. The
expense of such an endeavor did not concern him; it would be bome by the
church. After all, he thought, an archbishop deserves whatever meager pleasures
life affords.

Tavalisk prised
open another shell with an expert hand and sprinkled vinegar over the milky creature,
noting with pleasure the faint shudder as vinegar touched oyster flesh. The
shudder was a sign of a healthy, live oyster. He cupped the half shell up to
his lips and savored with relish the sensation of oyster in his mouth. He was
careful not to puncture the creature with his sharp teeth. He liked to swallow
them alive and whole. With displeasure, he heard a knock on the door. Why must
that fool Gamil always come while he was eating?

"Yes. What is
it?" he asked, careful to keep his voice sounding bored and indulgent.

"I thought
you might like to know what our friend the knight has been up to."
Tavalisk ignored his aide while he opened another shell. He could tell straight
away the oyster was bad: it had a grayish bloom to its skin.

"Would you
care for an oyster, Gamil?" he said, proffering the unsavory creature to
his aide. Gamil looked rather astounded; Tavalisk never offered him food. He
was obliged to accept the morsel and swallowed it quickly, making an unpleasant
slurping noise.

"Now, wasn't
that delicious?" The archbishop smiled with benign indulgence. "I
have them brought in from Toolay, you know." Gamil nodded in agreement.
"You were saying about the knight?" Tavalisk opened yet another
oyster.

"Yes, Your
Eminence. The knight visited Frong Street yesterday and went into The Grapes,
where he bought a long-knife."

"Very good,
Gamil. Is he showing his circles?"

"No, the
marks were concealed beneath his cloak."

"He is wise
to keep them hidden; the people of Rorn have no love for the knights of Valdis."
Tavalisk allowed himself the smallest of smiles, parting his lips just enough
to reveal the glint of teeth. "I think I've made sure of that. Though
their hatred needs little prompting at the moment. The knights paint themselves
as religious fanatics, but what they're really after is trade, not
conversions." He poured a clear, heavy liquid into his cup. "Anything
else?"

"One more
thing. The knight was asking about Larn." Tavalisk, who had been about to
drink from his cup, put it down quickly. "Larn. What was he asking about
Larn for?"

"I can't say,
Your Eminence."

"If I
remember rightly, that old fool Bevlin has no love for Larn. He tried to put a
stop to what went on there once. Of course, he failed miserably. Larn is not a
place to suffer interference gladly." Tavalisk paused while he toyed with
his cup. "Perhaps he's using the knight to mount a second offensive. He
really should keep to his books and prophecieshe's far too old to be indulging
in moral causes."

The archbishop
turned to Gamil. "You may go now. You've made me lose my appetite with all
this talk of Larn." Gamil obediently withdrew. As soon as the door was
closed, Tavalisk immediately returned to his oysters, his eyes scanning them
greedily for the biggest.

Tawl was out on
the streets of Rorn again. When he returned to Megan the previous night, he had
questioned her about the Seers of Larn, but she had never heard of them. Today
he was determined to do two things: first, he wanted to build up the strength
in his muscles by walking several leagues, and second, he was going to find
someone to tell him about Larn.

The crowds were
still out on the street, but there were not nearly as many as the day before.
What people there were seemed pale and drawn, heavy drinking and overindulgence
stealing the spring from their step.

Tawl was feeling a
lot better. His arms and wrists were slowly recovering and his legs were
feeling stronger. His training as a knight had left a legacy of physical
resilience that even now, five years later, could still be drawn upon. With
concentration, he could control the blood flow into his muscles, swelling the
arteries, making the tissue supple and ready for action. Tawl found that this
technique, taught to be used in preparation for battle, was helping his damaged
muscles recover their strength more quickly.

His training
seemed far behind him now. He was a different person than the young, idealistic
boy who'd presented himself at the gates of Valdis so many years before. There
was hope, then, and dreams and the thrill of achievement.

During his first
year at Valdis, the emphasis had been on physical strength. Novices were set a
series of tasks to test and develop their skills of endurance. Tawl was sent
into the Great Divide with only a knife at his side. He was lucky; some before
him were caught in blizzards and never came back. Two months it took him to
reach the mountain shrine. Even now he could remember the terrible cold, his
hair stiff with ice, the saliva freezing on his teeth. The shrine was set upon
the second tallest peak in the Known Lands. It was a symbol, and to meditate in
its barren chamber was essential for gaining the first circle.

When he returned
to Valdis, flushed with pride at his success, they sent him out again, this
time to search the length of the milk flats. Pride was not tolerated at Valdis.

The milk flats,
which were located south of Leiss, were deceptively named. They were formed
from white porous rock and were flat when viewed from a distance, but up close
they were a maze of tunnels and sinkholes. The rock was as brittle as old
bones: one wrong step, one sudden rain shower, or even the smallest of earth
tremors, could lead to death. Tawl was ordered to bring back a knight who'd
gone to the flats in search of Borc's sword. Nothing lived on the sterile
rocks. Night and day were cruel masters: the sun was merciless and the moon
cold-hearted. Close to starvation and madness, he eventually found the body.
The knight had slit his own throat. Before he died, he etched the words es nil
hesrl into the face of the rock. I am not worthy.

To a knight of
Valdis the only thing that mattered was to be worthy. It was what all the
training, all the learning, all the searching was for.

Tawl looked back
on his time as a novice with mixed feelings. The first circle had brought him
renown. He'd surpassed all others in the art of swordplay, though before his
training he'd never even handled a sword. He'd gained the shrine in two months,
when most took over three. And then there was the body, carried home from the
milk flats on his back. Valdis liked to bury its own.

Renown brought
resentment, and his first conferment had been marked by subtle tensions. He was
called too young, too common, too favored.

The second circle
brought derision. He had no learning; the only book he'd ever read was Marod.
Yet after gaining his first circle, he was thrown into the company of men of
culture. It was a struggle to master the classic texts, to learn the great
histories, to speak in foreign tongues. He was constantly shown for what he was:
a lowly boy from the marshlands. Most of the knights came from the nobility;
they had manner and bearing and speech on their side, and they never once let
him forget that he wasn't one of them.

Tawl had gone
through a hundred different humiliations: he didn't know how to bow, how to
dress, how to speak with great lords. It made him more determined than ever to
learn their ways-not because he wanted to be what they were, but to prove that
any man could be a knight. If it hadn't been for their taunting, he wouldn't
have gained his second circle so fast-at least he had that to be thankful for.

He did have some
friends, good men who'd been like brothers. Once he got his second circle and
was free to go out in the world, they'd planned to go on a journey together,
beyond the drylands in search of sacred treasures. But it all changed.
Everything changed when he came home to visit his family. His life had been
forever altered and now only the quest remained.

Tawl walked
aimlessly through the streets of Rorn, searching out diversions. When his
thoughts circled too closely around his family, he became desperate to change
their path. Women, with their ability to give so tenderly of themselves, could
usually lead his body to a place where his mind would follow. And if he'd been
in a different city, he might have gone in search of some comfort. Megan was
here in Rorn, though, and she'd done so much and asked so little that the least
he owed her was fidelity.

Tawl chose streets
that were bright with people, seeking out distractions where he could.
Eventually he found himself heading down to the harbor. The smell of the sea
was sharp but not unpleasant. Tawl found his spirits reviving with each salty
breath.

Rorn was the
greatest trading city in the east: rare spices, exquisite silks, fabulous
gemstones, and fresh seafood all found their way through the great port. Rorn's
main source of income came from trade. The terrain to the north of the city was
both rocky and barren, and Rorn grew no crops, or reared no livestock to speak
of. The city owed its prosperity to the fortunate trade winds which gently drew
ships from all the Known Lands to its safe harbors.

The harbor was
large, spread over several leagues of seafront. Tawl enjoyed the brisk, salty
air. It made a change from the smell of decay in the whoring quarter.

He walked for some
time before deciding upon a likely looking tavern. THE ROSE AND CROWN, declared
the old and peeling sign. Tawl slipped inside out of the wind.

The tavern
appeared to be doing a fine business. Customers were talking loudly, there were
people shouting for ale, a group of men were noisily proposing toasts to famous
local beauties, and others were placing bets on times ships would come to
harbor. There were those who sat around tables engaged in heated discussions
and others who drank alone. It was a seafaring tavern, a place where sailors
came to talk about the sea.