The Baker's Boy (23 page)

The pressures of
sovereignty had eventually taken their toll, and the king became desperate for
a son-an heir was essential to the stability and continuity of the country. Sly
whispers assailed the king's ears:

"A country
without an heir is an invitation to war."

"It is your
sacred duty to provide an heir for the kingdom."

"The queen is
not fertile."

"Strike the
marriage asunder."

"Replace the
queen with a breeder."

The king had loved
her dearly and could bear no talk of setting her aside. But the fulsome urgings
of the court had their effect upon him. She could hardly blame him-they were
right, the country did need an heir.

She had been
desperate to conceive. She tried everything from scalding poultices to arcane
ceremonies ... all to no avail. Of course there was no mention that the king
could be infertile. The very thought was preposterous. He was the king: symbol
of life, renewal, and continuity. Even the queen dared not harbor that
treasonous thought, and she resigned herself to her barrenness.

The king had not
once spoken to her about annulling the marriage, even though he was legally
entitled to do so as she had been proven barren. Instead he brought other women
to his bed, hoping to father a child and later legitimize any issue resulting
from the union. He'd tried to be discreet, but servants whispered and courtiers
talked. The queen shuddered at the memory of the shame-surely no other queen in
all the histories had ever had to bear such humiliation-to carry on at court
each day as if nothing was wrong, to appear regal and composed while her
husband dallied with numerous women.

The strange thing
was that none of those women had borne him sons. The few women who did conceive
gave birth to daughters, and a daughter was of no value in maledominated
Harvell. The king had sent the women and babes away, caring little for their
fate.

Eventually, he
gave up his attempts to conceive a son and they both became resigned to
remaining childless. Then, one chill winter month, nearly eighteen summers ago,
her blood had failed to flow. She hardly dared hope: ten years without a child
was proof beyond doubt that she was barren. A second month had passed and then
a third; her body swelled and her breasts grew tender. She was with child. The
king and court were jubilant. There were parades and dances and feasts in her
honor, and she had duly given birth to a son.

She'd counted back
nine months from her son's birth. Kylock had been conceived in mid-winter and
the queen had no memory of the king visiting her bed at that time. Of course,
she could not be certain, and she did remember one occasion when she'd drunk so
unwisely that she had no memory of the night before. She recalled waking in the
morning and feeling the familiar soreness of lovemaking. Her husband must have
taken her while she was drunk. A disturbing thought.

The queen raised a
finger to her lips and bit softly upon the fleshy tip. The sting of pain brought
her back to the present and she was glad; there were too many unanswered
questions in the past, too much sorrow, too much lost.

She made haste
along the lofty corridors, eager to try the medicine upon the king.

Tawl slipped into
the shaded alleyway. Although it was daylight, it was almost dark between the
tall buildings, their overhanging eaves serving to prevent the light from
reaching the ground. He was on his way to see a man recommended by Megan for
being able to arrange passages on ships, no questions asked. He had no money to
pay for such a passage, though, and Megan's small savings were down to the last
few coppers. He decided he would talk to the man first and see if he could
persuade him to do business. He would come up with a way to find the passage
fee later.

Like so many
districts with bad reputations, the whoring quarter of Rorn had its good and
bad areas. A good area was considered to be one where whores and touts felt
free to ply their trade, where pickpockets slunk amidst the crowded streets,
places where people said, "At least it's not as bad as Sharlett
Street."

Sharlett Street
was in fact much more than a street-it was a small district within the whoring
quarter. There were no half-dressed prostitutes on these streets. No amiable
pick-pockets, no hopeful con artists, no one in fact who valued their life.
Sharlett Street was for those who didn't value their lives, those so tortured
by disease, or their own dark consciences, that they didn't care if they ever
saw another day.

It was more than
the pestilence and the filth that kept people off Sharlett's bleak streets.
There was a feeling of corruption in the very air, an atmosphere that held
promise of ill deeds and decay.

It was to this
place that Tawl was headed. He noticed the gradual changes that took place in
his surroundings: fewer people on the streets, rats scurrying through the slop
of human refuse, failing to observe the usual after-dark hours of their kind.

As he walked,
picking a careful path through the filth, Tawl considered the tale the old man
in the tavern had told him. He shuddered to think of the helpless seers leashed
to the rock for the length of their lives. Tawl knew what it was to be bound.
He'd felt the snag of rope upon his flesh. He wondered at the nature of the
powers who would do such an inhuman thing. And he bitterly wished that he did
not have need of their services.

To go to Larn and
consult with the seers was condoning what was done there, when he, as a knight
of Valdis, should be striving to free them from their captivity. The knights
were founded upon one basic principle: to help their fellow men. For over four
hundred years the order had striven to alleviate human suffering. Their
greatest triumph was the campaign against slavery in the east. Thanks to their
actions, cities such as Marls and Rorn could no longer trade in flesh from the
far south. Even today the knights still manned the eastern harbors, checking
the hulls of merchant ships.

Tawl uncovered the
double circle on his arm. He had hoped, many winters ago, that he would gain
the third and final ring. That was why Tyren had sent him to Bevlin in the
first place. To attain the final circle and become a ranking knight, a novice
was expected to go out in the world and not return until he had "achieved
merit in the eyes of God."

The first circle
was for physical excellence, the second for learning, and the third for
achievement. What constituted merit in the eyes of God was hard to judge, and
many knights spent many years in search of a glorious, but often elusive,
cause. Most chose to go on missions. The year Tawl had been conferred, two
knights went to the northwest to mediate in the dispute over the River Nestor;
a few sailed down the Silbur in pursuit of river pirates; and his friends had
traveled to the far south in search of lost treasures-Tawl didn't know what had
become of them.

At the end of it
all, when the knights thought they were ready, they presented themselves at
Valdis to be judged. Four men heard the testimony and then acting upon their
recommendation, the leader, Tyren, either conferred the knight with his final
circle, or sent him out to begin again. It brought great shame to a knight if
he presented himself and was found unworthy. To avoid this humiliation, many
knights spent years, even decades, away from Valdis. Some never returned.

Tawl couldn't
imagine a time when he'd be ready for judgment. He'd been set a nearly
impossible task, and until it was completed he couldn't show his face at
Valdis. It seemed many years since the head of the order had sent him on his
way. He still remembered Tyren's words: "Go visit with the wiseman Bevlin.
You will find him in the north. I have faith that you will do what he
asks." It had been a difficult time; he'd come close to giving it all up.
The feeling that he was needed, and-if he were honest-the promise of glory, was
all that kept him going.

The reality was so
much different than the dream. He had spent all save one of the last years in a
fruitless search: he'd traveled through much of the Known Lands asking people
if they knew of a boy who was different in some way from others.

He had been told
of boys with six fingers, boys with yellow eyes, boys with madness eating away
at their brains. These and countless others Tawl had sought out, only to know
in his deepest soul that none of them were the one.

Eventually he had
come to Rorn, his spirits low, his task appearing hopeless. He'd made the
mistake of asking in the wrong place and had been picked up by the authorities.
It was a risk one took being a knight of Valdis, for the knights were no longer
in favor. They were used as scapegoats for any problem a particular city had-if
crops failed in Lanholt, it was the knights who willed it; if trade was down in
Rorn, it was the knights who slowed it. Tawl sighed heavily. He had heard all
the rumors about how the knights were building up stockpiles of cash, of
religious fanaticism and greed for political power. If the knights were
corrupt, then so was their leader, and Tawl would hear nothing malicious said
about Tyren.

He had many things
for which to thank the head of the order. Tyren had been good to him. He was
the one who had made it possible for him to join the order. He, a common boy
from the marshlands, with no rich family to sponsor his training. Tyren had
helped him through the worst time of his life. When everything seemed
meaningless, and the burden of guilt was too new to be bearable, Tyren had sent
him to Bevlin and given him reason to carry on.

The skitter of
soft feet brought Tawl back to the present. He was being followed.
Surreptitiously, he felt for his knife. His fingers closed around the cool
blade, and its deadly smoothness was a reassurance. He was much stronger than
he had been a week ago, and he was ready for an attack if one should come.

Tawl walked calmly
on, careful not to speed his step and thereby give away the fact that he knew
he was being followed. His ears strained to hear the soft patter of feet; his
shadow must have shoes of cloth. Tawl managed a grim smile. He wouldn't enjoy
walking these streets with only a thin stretch of fabric between him and the
filth.

He was forced to
slow down. He was not entirely sure if he was following Megan's instructions
correctly. She'd directed him to what he thought was this alleyway, but she had
told him it would branch off to the left. There was no such opening: the
alleyway ran straight up without any turnings. He felt his skin prickle. There
was a breath of air, a flash of blade, and the man was upon him.

He swung to meet
his foe, drawing the long-knife with one graceful stroke. The man had a curved
sword. Tawl had seen such blades before and knew that when handled well they
were deadly. The man slashed at him, forcing him to move back. He slashed
again, a wild and reckless attack. Tawl jumped out of the way of the blade. As
his foe prepared for another onslaught, Tawl took the opportunity to strike
with the long-knife. He caught the man's arm and blood welled quickly to the
surface. Distracted for a fatal instant by the sight of his own blood, the man
looked up to see Tawl knife him in the chest.

It was a clean
strike. Tawl had no liking for those who sought to prolong a fight with cruel
and intentionally torturous blows. The man fell to the ground, blood rushing
from his wound. His curved blade fell by his side, clattering harshly upon the
dull stone.

Tawl was feeling a
little shaky. It had been a long time since he had last drawn a blade. He took
no delight in his win, it was merely something that had to be done.

He considered the
curved blade. It was sorely blunted: not the weapon of a man who was serious
about murder. He had probably been a thief ... and a desperate one at that.
Tawl picked up the sword, noting with surprise its goodly weight. It would look
better once polished and sharpened; maybe he would be able to sell it and gain
some money for his passage. He tucked the sword in his belt, ensuring that it
could not be seen by casual eyes.

Now he had to find
the right alleyway. He decided to continue down the one he was in. He walked
for a while, and found to his annoyance that it came to a dead end. He turned,
resigned to walking the length of the treacherous street once more. As he
wheeled around he felt a powerful blow to his head. He attempted to draw his
long-knife, but another crippling blow to his skull made the world go black.

Jack was slowly
recovering from his bout of wet fever. He could now walk around the den without
feeling dizzy and light-headed.

His recovery was
definitely aided by Falk's various arrays of medicines and ointments. Jack,
however, lay most of the credit to the delicious food that Falk served up.
Every day there was a savory stew or a roasted rabbit, or turnips baked in rich
meat juices. Jack had spent his whole life in the castle kitchens, but had
never been allowed to eat food this tasty. The diet for a baker's boy was
usually thin gruel and all the bread he could eat.

Jack felt almost
guilty in the delight he took from eating. It didn't seem right. He was leagues
away from home, supposedly on a grand adventure to find a new life, or the
truth behind his mother's origins, or whatever seemed the best idea of the day,
yet here he was comfortably settled in the warmth of the den eagerly awaiting
his next meal.

Each day Falk
would bring the makings of a fine meal into the den. He would carefully prepare
the ingredients, chopping onions and slicing carrots, skinning rabbits and
grinding spices. Jack could see Falk enjoyed his work and admired how content
he was doing such ordinary tasks. There had been times at Castle Harvell when
he too felt a similar joy, but as he grew older, dreams and dissatisfactions
had conspired to take it away.