The Baker's Boy (21 page)

A large and comely
woman approached Tawl. "What's your favor, sir?" she asked, smiling
and thrusting her magnificent bosom out to its best advantage. Tawl, almost
against his will, was drawn into the familiar cadence of flirtation. Exchanging
smiles was enough to create the potential for a liaison. He was tempted to see
the dance through, to feel the joy-no matter how visceral-of shared intimacy.
The woman waited for a sign, confident of her attractions.

Tawl's gaze moved
from her eyes to the floor. "All I'll take is a mug of ale, if you
please."

She raised an
eyebrow, surprised but not put off by his restraint. "Certainly,
sir," she replied, her full lips curving slightly. "I hope the ale
serves to warm your blood." She retreated slowly, giving Tawl plenty of
time to regret the loss of her ample curves.

After a few
minutes the woman returned. He watched as the eyes of many a man appreciated
her generously proportioned form-she possessed an abundance of flesh that was
sadly lacking in many women of the day. "There you are, sir. Be sure to
let me know if you change your mind and take a fancy for something else."
She acknowledged Tawl's rueful smile and then left with a saucy turn of her
hips.

Tawl made himself
comfortable and sampled his ale. It was really quite delicious: foamy and cool,
with a pleasant nutty taste.

"The owner
here brews his own." Tawl looked up to find an old, red-faced man standing
over him. "Do you mind if I sit a while with you?"

"Please, feel
free to do so, sir. It would be my honor." The old man was clearly pleased
with Tawl's courtesy. "You have a nice manner about you, young man, but
you have a strange accent. I cannot quite place it."

"I'm
originally from the Lowlands." Tawl did not want to say any more on the
subject and the old man, sensing this, let the matter be.

"I'm known
hereabouts as Jem." The old man smiled kindly. "Do you have a name
you would share?"

"I am Tawl."
His name sounded short to his ears without its normal title.

"I wish you
joy of the day, Tawl." The man finished the last of his ale and placed his
empty mug loudly on the counter. Tawl offered to buy him another. The man
accepted graciously, and minutes later the two were sitting and supping.

"What is your
trade, Jem?"

"Better to
ask what was my trade." The old man sighed heavily and stared into his
ale. "I was a seafarer. I've spent the best part of my life on the high
seas. I'd be out there now if it wasn't for my bad leg-dry land is too still
for my taste."

"So you have
visited many places?" Tawl asked casually.

"Aye, that I
have, on both coasts."

"Tell me,
Jem, have you ever heard of a place called Larn?"

The old man sucked
in his breath. He was silent for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice had
changed its timbre. "Why would you wish to know of such a place?"

Tawl decided to
take a chance. "I would visit with the seers there."

"I would not
risk going there if I were you." Jem shook his head. "No, I would
not, indeed."

"You know
where it is?"

"How could I
call myself a seafarer and not know, eh?" he responded sharply, but then
continued more quietly. "Larn is not that far from where we stand. Only a
couple of days sailing southeast. It's a tiny island, so small you will find it
on no charts. But seafarers know it well. It is a deathtrap to sailors. The sea
for miles around is rocky and shallow. Woe betide the sailor who is blown off
course to that damned isle."

"There must
be a way to get there, though?" Tawl tried to disguise his eagerness by
taking a long draft of ale.

"No captain
who valued his ship would take you there. The best way would be to sail as far
as was safe, and then row the rest of the way in a small boat."

"How far
would one have to row?"

"A sane
captain wouldn't sail any closer than twenty leagues."

"Yet people
must journey there to consult with the seers?"

"No one in
his right mind would want to consult with the Seers of Larn, boy," warned
the old man.

"What have
you heard of them?"

"Plenty."
Jem sipped his ale. His eyes flicked around the room, and when he spoke again,
his voice was a whisper. "I've heard plenty. Tales so horrifying that even
an old man like myself doesn't like to repeat them."

"Why don't I
buy you another drink and you can tell me what you know."

Jem considered the
offer. "Very well, boy. You are getting a good bargain." Tawl called
for more drinks; both young man and old waited in silence. The drinks came and
neither man noticed the charms of the barmaid this time.

The old man spoke.
"The Seers of Larn have existed for as long as anyone can remember. They
were around long before the city of Rorn was founded. There is said to have
been seers on Larn since the time of the great purge. What strange beliefs they
have I don't know, what Gods they worship I cannot tell you. What I do know of
is the terrible way the seers are created."

"The powers
that be on Larn pick young childrenboys who are rumored to have a little skill
in foretelling. They pay the parents of these children one hundred gold pieces.
The parents never set eyes upon their sons again. The boys are shipped to the
dread isle, and they are kept in a darkened room for a full year to cleanse
their souls and minds. They are fed nothing but bread and water, for they
believe that all other foods interfere with the foretelling."

"After a year
in the dark, the boys are measured. A huge stone weighing many tons is cut for
each boy. The stones are then hauled into the Great Hall of Seeing and are laid
flat on the ground. Each boy is then bound to his stone."

"They lay the
boys out, limbs spread wide, and bind them to the stone with the strongest of
ropes. They lash them as tight as they dare. The boys cannot move as much as a
finger or a toe. All they can do is watch and breathe. They spend all of their
lives so bound. Never able to move a limb. As the months pass, their limbs
atrophy, becoming useless husks. All the better to think and foretell. It is
the worst fate I can imagine for any man."

"The powers
that be ensure that the seers are fed and cleansed. They claim the seers are
closer to God. They say that the seers are allowed, through their sacrifice, to
know the will of God. They spend their days contemplating the great pattern of
life. They live and die bound to the stone. Lost in a world of hallucination
and madness."

The old man grew
silent. Tawl could hardly believe what he had been told. He shuddered at the
fate of the seers and wondered how desperate a family would have to be to sell
their sons into such a living hell.

Tawl could stand
the silence no longer. "Old man, you have told a story that has chilled my
blood. I fear I owe you more than a drink."

The man spoke
quickly, as if he had already prepared his answer. "You owe me nothing.
Save a promise not to visit that cursed place."

"I can give
you no such undertaking. For I fear I am fated to go there." The old man
stood up to leave. Tawl caught his arm. "Tell me, what is the price for a
foretelling?"

The old man walked
away as he spoke. "The price is whatever they decide. Be careful they do
not ask for your soul."

Tawl watched as
Jem left. It was getting late. He wanted to get back to Megan. He needed to
feel her warm arms around his body.

The queen was in
the king's chamber, probably the most splendid room in the whole castle. She
watched as the king was bathed by his manservant. He had not remembered her
name this night. Baralis was right: he was getting weaker. Only last spring he
could sit a horse, now he barely left his bed.

Ever since the
hunting accident, she had lived with less than a man. At first the injury had
not seemed so bad. The wound had healed normally, and although it had left an
ugly scar, the physicians were not unduly concerned. However, as the weeks
passed a deep fever had set in that seemed to rob him of his strength.
Gradually, the weeks had turned to months. The physicians began to shake their
heads; they blamed infection, fever on the brain, poison on the arrow. But they
could do nothing to heal him.

First they tried
hot poultices to draw out the infection. Next they had tried leeches to cleanse
his blood of bad humors. The physicians had then attempted to expunge the
malignant biles by piercing the king's stomach. They had shaved his head,
pulled his teeth, and let his blood-all to no avail.

The queen had
watched these horrific remedies and many more, and she saw that they only
served to weaken her husband further. Finally, she had driven all the
physicians away, preferring to tend to the king herself. She engaged the
services of a wisewoman who knew the ways of herbs.

After the
physicians left, the king's health actually improved. The wisewoman's remedies
were a lot easier for the king to bear: mulled holk with a sprig of juniper,
herb-laden vapors, and rubs with therapeutic oils. Unfortunately, the
wisewoman's treatments seemed to slow down his decline, not stop it. Years
passed and his strength lagged further and his mind grew clouded. The queen
could not count the times she had lain alone in her bed crying through the
night. She was a proud woman and would allow no one to see her private anguish.

The attendant
wiped a speckle of drool from the king's chin. The sight of the small gesture
wrenched at her heart. What had her husband come to? The once proud King
Lesketh reduced to being spoonfed and nursed like a baby! He was not yet an old
man; others his age were in their prime. The queen thought on the audience
she'd had with Baralis. He'd hinted that he had something in his possession
that might help the king. No matter how much she loathed the chancellor, she
would have to summon him back. She was desperate to try anything that might
improve her husband's condition. She decided to see Baralis and find out what
he wanted from her. She was no fool; she knew there would be a price to pay.

Jack lay awake for
some time before opening his eyes. He could smell the freshness of trees and
ferns and the odor of wood smoke. Then he detected the smell of food, a savory
stew or soup. Lastly, he smelled the delicious aroma of warm holk.

Tempted by such a
beguiling array of odors, Jack opened his eyes. Soft, green light filtered
through the trees and onto his face. He looked at his surroundings. He seemed
to be in a sort of nest or den, which appeared to be woven out of leaves and
branches. He was lying on a low pallet that rested upon a blanket of ferns and
velvet mosses. He was alone.

Drawn to the smell
of food, he caught sight of a small brick stove in the middle of the den. A gap
had been left in the weave of trees to allow the smoke out. Jack tentatively
put his foot on the floor and found to his surprise that the moss was warm to
the touch. As he swung both his legs off the pallet a wave of nausea swept
through his body. Jack felt dizzy and wondered whether he should just stay in
his bed. The promise of hot food and holk proved too tempting to be put off by
mere physical discomfort, and Jack rose from his bed.

Shakily, he
approached the small stove. An open pot contained a rich, dark stew. Jack
scanned the den, and found various cups and plates lying in wait on a low,
wooden table. He ladled some of the fragrant mixture onto a plate, and poured
himself a cup of mulled holk.

The stew was
delicious; it contained mushrooms and rabbit meat, carrots and onions, all
flavored with robust herbs and spices. He felt sure he could detect the subtle
taste of apples and cider. He ate a hearty portion, and then another one-the
last time he had eaten seemed to be a long time ago. It didn't occur to him to
question where he was or how he'd gotten here. Food and warmth were quite
enough to occupy him for the moment.

After his meal, he
felt the need to relieve himself and he looked for a way to leave the den. He
could not find one. He was not too worried, as he had noticed a chamberpot at
the foot of his bed. After he had finished, he climbed back onto the pallet and
immediately fell into a deep and restful sleep. Some time later Jack was woken
by the sound of movement in the den. He opened his eyes to find a tall,
longbearded man staring back at him. "I see you have eaten well, young
man." He spoke in a curious lilting accent. Jack could only manage to nod
his head; he was feeling a little guilty for eating what he had not been
invited to. The man appeared to recognize Jack's concern.

"You did well
to eat, 'twas meant for you. I hope you found it to your liking?"

Jack nodded
enthusiastically. "It was delicious-the best stew I have ever
tasted." He hesitated. "I thank you for it, sir." Jack took in
the strange appearance of the man: he seemed neither young nor old and was
dressed in skins and coarse weaves. His most remarkable feature was his
magnificent, long, ash-colored beard.

"I am no sir,
young man. I have not been a sir in many years, and I do not wish to be one
now." A half-smile graced the man's lips.

"I am truly
sorry if I have offended you." Jack felt the man was amusing himself at
his expense.

"No matter,
no matter. I suppose I will have to give you my name."

"If you would
rather not, I will understand. My own name is Jack, though. You are welcome to
it."

This speech seemed
to please the man. "Well, Jack, you shame me. You would give freely of
your name to a stranger who has not given his. There are many people who
believe that if you know a person's name, you gain power over them. What do you
say to that?"

It was a little
difficult for Jack to follow what the man said, for his voice made speech sound
like song. The man continued, "I will give you my name, Jack, but I can
only give you half of it. I have lived without naming myself for many years.
The trees do not ask my name, the birds would gain no benefit from it, the
streams run and do not stop from want of knowing it. But I will give it to you,
Jack, for man, unlike nature, has need of names. People do well to be wary of
names-they have power. If I were to name a tree, I would make it mine, and no
man should have such a claim over a tree, or a brook or a blade of grass."
The man grew disheartened and breathed wearily.