The Baker's Boy (22 page)

Jack spoke to fill
the silence. "If a bird does not ask your name, then neither will I. I
refuse to know even half of it."

The man smiled and
shook his head sadly. "My half name is Falk." Jack felt as if he was
being let in on a great secret. He wanted to offer some comfort to the man, but
found he could think of nothing to say.

Eventually the man
spoke again. "You have been sick, Jack. You caught a wet fever, and you
should rest for now and regain your strength. I must be off. I will bring you
more food later. Before I go, I would have you take a sip of this medicine."
Falk crossed the room and came back with a cup of pungent-smelling liquid. Jack
obediently swallowed all of the concoction, not at all sure he liked the taste.
He wondered what the medicine was made from. Jack gave the man a questioning
look, and Falk smiled kindly. "I have given you half my name, would you
know all my secrets, too?"

Jack felt suitably
chastened and handed the cup back to the man. He watched as Falk walked toward
the wall. With gentle hands, he pulled the weave of branch and twig apart,
creating an opening. He then stepped out into the cool air. Once on the other
side, Falk rewove the flexible branches which served to seal and conceal the
entrance to the den.

Baralis could
hardly contain his pleasure when the messenger arrived from. the queen. She had
not only taken the bait, she had swallowed it whole. She was on the hook now.
All that remained was to reel her in.

All his other
concerns were petty annoyances. The girl Melliandra he was still tracking; he
would move in on her more carefully next time. She would not elude him twice.
As for Jack, well, how far could a boy on foot get in a few days? He would find
him soon.

Baralis took from
his drawer a measure of the white powder that was his pain-killing drug. He was
about to swallow the foul tasting crystals when he thought better of it. His
head would need to be clear. He would have to endure the pain in his hands
until after his audience with the queen. It was a small price to pay.

He once again
dressed with care, ensuring he chose a different robe than the one he had worn
for his last meeting. It suited him to go along with the customs of the court.

This time the
queen did not keep him waiting outside the door. She beckoned him in the moment
he knocked. Her tone was still as cold as ever, though. "Good day, Lord
Baralis." She was dressed with exquisite care: her gown was embroidered
with rubies and pearls, and matching gems sparkled at her throat and wrist.

"Joy of the
day to Your Highness."

"I will not
keep you long. I would rather get straight to the point, Lord Baralis."
The queen smoothed her hair nervously; Baralis was gratified to note that her
hand trembled as she did so.

"As you wish,
Your Highness."

"You hinted
during our last meeting that you had something in your possession that might
help the king. Am I right to assume that was what you meant?"

"You are,
Your Highness." Baralis decided to say little, preferring to let her talk.

"Then am I
also right in assuming that you speak of some medicine or potion that will help
the king's illness?"

"Yes, Your
Highness." He watched the queen grow impatient with his short answers.

"Lord
Baralis, what is the nature of this medicine, and how do I know it will
work?"

"The answer
to the first question is that I cannot divulge its nature. The answer to the
second is that you cannot know it will work until you try it."

"What
guarantee do I have that it is safe? How do I know it is not poison or
worse?" The queen looked directly into his eyes, challenging him.

"I give Your
Highness my gravest undertaking that it will do the king no harm."

"And what if
I have no faith in that undertaking?"

"Your
Highness, I have a proposition." Baralis dug into the fold of his cloak
and brought out the small glass bottle containing the potion. He held the
bottle up to the light, and the brownish fluid sparkled with promise.
"This vial contains hope for the king." He handed it to the queen.
"In it is ten days supply of medicine. Take it from me this day, and
administer it to the king. If you see a noticeable improvement in his health, I
will be willing to supply you with as much of the remedy as the king will ever
need."

The queen regarded
Baralis impassively. He suspected that beneath her serene exterior was a frenzy
of emotions. "I repeat, Lord Baralis, how do I know this remedy is safe?"

Baralis remained
calm. He had expected no less and was prepared for it. He approached the queen
and noticed that she winced slightly as he did so. Slowly, for his hands were
in pain and he was anxious not to betray that fact to the queen, he pulled the
stopper from the bottle. He then raised the bottle to his lips and swallowed a
quantity of the thick, brown liquid. Baralis resealed the bottle and held it
out for the queen to take.

For what seemed to
Baralis like an eternity, but was in fact only a few moments, he stood there
offering the bottle to the queen. At last, she stepped forward and took it.
Their fingers touched for the barest of seconds.

"If this
works, what will you expect in return?"

"Your
Highness, let us first see if you are willing to buy before we talk of the
price."

The queen's face
was as cold as stone. "You may go now, Lord Baralis."

He left
obediently. Everything had gone perfectly. The medicine would appear to work
well. It would improve the king's condition, as it was part antidote to the
poison that had been on the king's arrow. Of course, the king would never be
himself again, but the medicine would halt further decline, and might enable
him to remember names and walk a little once more. Might even stop his constant
drooling. Nothing too drastic, mused Baralis. Nothing that would interfere with
his plans.

It would only be a
matter of days before the queen would come to him, eager for more of the
medicine. So eager, she would agree to anything he asked. He must remember to
make the second batch much weaker. It wouldn't do to have the king too well.

As Baralis
returned to his chamber, he had the vague feeling he was being watched. He
turned around, and no one was there. He shook his head. He was probably
imagining things; it might even be an aftereffect of the king's medicine.
Baralis smiled to himself. A little paranoia would go unnoticed among the
king's other ailments.

The assassin
watched as Baralis returned to his chambers. He was careful not to approach the
door too closely. He had seen markings like those before, and he knew they were
wardings. Maybor had tried to make light of the man's powers, but he was no
fool. He knew what the dangers were. In part that was why he'd accepted the
commission. Baralis' murder would be his finest achievement, the crowning glory
in his long dance with death. He was excited by the prospect of taking such a
craftily guarded life.

Scarl had spent
several days monitoring Baralis' movements. He suspected the king's chancellor
had access to secret passageways, for the assassin had waited outside rooms,
only to find that Baralis never left them, yet he would appear in a different
part of the castle later. The assassin liked the idea of secret passages as
much as the next man. He would make it his business to find out more about
them.

He was, he
admitted, a little afraid of Baralis. That the man possessed great power was
highly evident, despite Maybor's attempts to deny it. The secret of murdering a
sorcerer was to catch him unawares, to give him no chance for a defensive
drawing. Scarl would have liked to kill Baralis whilst he slept, but it was
impossible to gain access to his chambers-Crope and the wardings saw to that.
He would have to find a time when the man's attentions were diverted by
something just as compelling as sleep.

One moment off his
guard and the knife would be his fate. Scarl had yet to meet a man who would
not succumb to a blade. All died equally as fast when their windpipes were
severed. That was how Scarl liked to do his job: one clean, deep sweep with a
sharp knife. It had proved most successful in the past. It would do for
Baralis, too.

There was a lot to
be said for slitting the throat. It silenced the victim instantly, it was
quick, there was never a struggle, one approached one's victim from behind, and
lastly, if one was skillful, which Scarl was, one never got as much as a drop
of blood on oneself.

Yes, mused Scarl,
others might go in for the showier executions-the dagger in the eye, the blade
in the heartbut nothing beat a good throat slitting.

Scarl knew he had
to be careful to choose the right moment. The castle passageways were too
public, guards or others could approach at any time and foil his plans. He
would not rush into this. It was his nature to watch and wait. At some point
Baralis would be vulnerable, and that would be the instant he felt the keen
blade of Scarl's knife at his throat.

After Baralis
left, the queen sat for a long while, turning the small bottle in her hand. She
watched the tawny fluid move within the glass. On impulse she unstopped the cap
and smelled the contents. She pulled away from its strong and unpleasant odor.
She tipped one single glistening drop onto her fingertip and raised it to her
lips-she would rather endanger herself than the king. The taste was bitter.

She waited for
many hours, refusing food and drink, and could detect no harmful effects. It
was true she had only sampled a drop, but she was satisfied nonetheless. She
would take the medicine to the king.

As she walked to
the king's chamber, she came across her son Kylock. Seeing him thus, she
realized how very little she saw of him normally. He was a stranger to her. She
didn't know what he did from day to day. His chambers were out of bounds; he
had never once invited her past his door. Several months back, when she knew
Kylock was off for the day on a hunt, the queen stole into his rooms. The act
had been unworthy of her, but curiosity won over pride and she made her way to
the east wing. She chose her time well and met no one on the way. Her first
feeling on entering the chamber was relief. It was clean and orderly, every
chest in its place, not a fold falling amiss. Then it occurred to her: it was
too meticulous. The rugs were perfectly square, not a mote of dust on the sill,
not a flake of ash in the fire. Too orderly by far for a boy of seventeen, it
was as if he didn't live there at all. One particular rug drew her eye-the deep
crimsons of its weave seemed strangely random. The queen crouched down and ran
her fingers over the silk. Even before she raised her hand to her face, she
knew what it was: blood. Sticky, nearly dry, less than a day old.

The most
unsettling thing was not the blood itself as much as its presence in such a
pristine setting. Like a beautiful maiden in the company of old dowagers, the
blood seemed more striking by comparison.

The following day
she'd passed Kylock in the stables. He'd asked how she was and then, just as
she stepped away, he said, "So, Mother, what did you think of my
rooms?" His tone was mocking. He didn't wait for a reply, merely smiling,
then walking away.

She never felt
easy in his presence. He was so unlike her or the king, and not just in
appearance-though he was as dark as she and the King were fair. It was his
whole bearing that was different. He was so secretive, so introverted. Even as
a child he preferred to be alone, refusing to play with other children. Baralis
was his only friend.

Kylock approached
her now, lips curved in an ironic smile. "Good evening, Mother." His
low, seductive tone reminded her of another's, but she could not remember
whose.

"Good evening
to you, Kylock." Her son looked at her, and she could think of nothing
else to say to him.

"What have
you there?" He motioned to the bottle she carried.

"It is
medicine for your father."

"Really. Do
you suppose it will do him any good?" The queen was troubled by his
nonchalant tone.

"Lord Baralis
has prepared it for him."

"Well, in
that case it is bound to do something."

The queen could
not make out what her son meant by the ambiguous comment. She regretted
mentioning that the medicine was from Baralis. Her son had that effect on her:
he either robbed her of speech entirely or impelled her to speak unwisely, as
she had done now. She looked up to say something else, but he had gone.

She found herself
wishing that she had never been queen-she had little joy in it. Of late, she
had been king in everything but name. She would have liked to give it up, take
her sick husband away to their castle in the Northlands and live a peaceful and
quiet life. Something stopped her, though. It was partly her pride, but there
was also something in her that balked at the idea of her son as king.

She had never
loved him properly, not with a mother's true affection. She remembered the day
he was born, when he was handed to her-pale and silent and smelling of cloves.
There had been no surge of warmth in her breast, no pull of emotion. The
midwife nodded her head wisely and told her love would come. And it had in a
way, for she loved her son with an almost jealous frenzy, but she felt no
tenderness, no affection.

It upset her to
think of the many years she had been childless. The years of longing for a
baby, the countless disappointments, the unceasing humiliations. She had been
married to the king for ten long years before she had conceived.

For the first few
years the king had been full of gentle encouragements and considerations.
"No matter, my love," he would say as her blood flowed anew each
month. "There is time aplenty. You are young and fertile; the Gods choose
to make us wait until they are ready." He would smile and squeeze her hand
and invite her to bed to try again.