The Baker's Boy (25 page)

The assassin
watched as the wall sealed itself once more. Watch and wait. It always pays off
in the end. Scarl had watched earlier as Baralis and his giant servant had
discreetly left the castle. The assassin had been expecting them to return the
way they had come. It was with growing interest that he watched master and
servant as they veered off from the expected route and walked toward a
seemingly unremarkable section of wall.

Scarl was not
usually a man given to outward show of emotion, but when he saw Baralis uncover
an opening in the wall, he permitted himself a satisfied smile. He sat back
among the tall grass and, picking himself a long shoot to chew on, prepared to
wait for a while.

After waiting what
Scarl deemed to be an appropriate amount of time, he approached the wall. A
thorough man, he checked to see he had exactly the right section. Yes, this was
it. Two sets of footprints in the damp mud led into the wall: Baralis' light
and, in Scarl's opinion, stealthy looking prints and Crope's large and heavy
ones.

The assassin ran
his fingers lightly over the smooth stone. Nothing. Undeterred, he attempted to
repeat the gestures he had seen Baralis make earlier. To aid this ploy, Scarl
cleverly placed his feet in Baralis' own footprints. Once again he ran his
hands over the cool gray stone. Still nothing. The assassin was not alarmed; he
was a patient man, well suited to his particular line of work. He tried again,
this time scanning one stone at a time, his keen eyes searching for something
unusual. He could find nothing.

The assassin moved
away from the wall and considered his next move. He was sure that the entrance
was not warded; he was able to smell out such things. No, there was some
practical way to gain access, if he could just think of it. Scarl chewed on his
blade of grass, finding its bitter taste pleasing, and regarded the wall.

He desperately
wanted to gain access to the entrance; he was sure the castle would be riddled
with secret passageways and rooms. All these old castles were built by people
who knew the value of a discreet escape. Scarl's motives were more than just
tracking his mark. Scarl loved secrets, underhanded dealing, deception,
concealed motives-anything, in fact, that had the low whiff of subterfuge about
it.

He had it! Why had
he not thought of it sooner? Baralis was over a foot taller than he. He had his
feet in the right place, but his hands had not been high enough. He then
realized why it had not occurred to him sooner: the enormous Crope had the
ability to make anyone appear small, when Baralis was in fact a tall man.
Excitement grew in Scarl's stomach, registering only as a mere tightening of
his thin lips.

He returned to the
wall, feeling higher this time. The stone was smooth; his fingers trailed its
length. There was something, a tiny inconsistency. His fingertips brushed over
it, and then back once more. Scarl stepped aside as the wall sprang open.

The assassin
stepped into the cavity. A smell old and damp assailed his senses. The darkness
enveloped his unready eyes. He checked in his pocket and found flint and
tallow--Scarl had been prepared for this event for some time now. With hands as
steady as an assassin's must be, he lit the candle. The light it gave was
feeble, barely enough. Scarl began to check the inside wall for a means to
close the opening. Some time later, he detected a similar protrusion to that on
the outside, and the wall moved back into place.

His eyes gradually
became more accustomed to the blackness. Without his candle, he could not have
seen anything. Scarl was faced with a choice: left or right. He chose the left.
The passage took him downward and soon became a tunnel with rounded sides. The
walls were dripping with damp, and pale mosses, of a kind that Scarl had never
seen before. Impulsively, he reached out to touch some-it felt soft and springy
and left a slight residue on his fingers. Scarl studied the sticky substance
and then carefully wiped his fingers clean; one could not be too careful when
dealing with strange moss. Although no expert on poison, Scarl was aware that
certain mosses were often used in its manufacture.

The tunnel led
downward for some time longer, and then there was another branching. Scarl
decided to take it and soon came upon a flight of stone steps. He felt sure he
must be under the castle by now. The stairway presented him with many options:
it twisted around and upward and many passages led off on each new level. When
the assassin had ascended enough for his liking, he took one of the
passageways. It was long and straight with many doorways, some sealed. He was
beginning to realize how vast and intricate the network of tunnels was.

The assassin was
full of admiration for the men who must have designed and built it. He was also
a little envious of Baralis' mastery of the system. He, too, yearned to know
where all the doors and passages led. He was sure he had seen but a tiny
fraction of the whole. Scarl was aware that the maze of tunnels promised access
to many forbidden places: bedchambers, supply rooms, meeting areas. He knew well
how such an extensive system could be put to great use. The assassin revised
his estimation of his mark-Baralis was not only a man of great power, but also
of great resources.

He looked ahead,
wondering how he could gain access to the inside of the castle. He picked a
doorway at random and found himself at a dead end. Knowing that a passage
usually leads somewhere, he felt the end wall and, sure enough, his fingers
alighted on the tiny lump that marked an opening. Scarl stood to one side as
the heavy stone wall drew back without a sound.

He found himself
in a part of the castle with which he was unfamiliar. Looking around, he was
surprised to find that he was still underground. He had calculated he would be
on the first or second floor of the castle. Instead he was in what looked to be
an unused dungeon. His gaze took in the old torture devices. There was a
rotting, wooden rack, a wheel, a press, and many others.

Scarl looked over
the devices with professional interest-before he became an assassin, he had
gained some experience in torture. His trained eye told him that the equipment
had hardly been used. It was also badly out of date. He had been in Rorn some
months ago and had been impressed by the new devices they had there. Rorn was a
city which kept abreast of the times.

The assassin
looked for a way out of the dungeon, vowing he would make it his business to
become familiar with the secret passageways. He was sure they would prove to be
useful to him.

Melli noticed that
the trees were beginning to thin out. The forest had gradually become less
dense: there were more glades and patches of open land. She had even seen the
roof of a small cottage the day before. She had been tempted to approach the
dwelling, but caution won over curiosity and she had moved on.

She'd been in the
woods for ten days now and was surprised at how quickly she had adapted to the
ways of the forest. She, Lady Melliandra of the Four Kingdoms, had actually
enjoyed sleeping under the stars and drinking water from bubbling streams.

Melli was both
excited and anxious about leaving the woods. The forest had in some ways
protected her from the worries of the outside world. Things were simple for
her: she walked, she ate, she slept. Now there would be other things to deal
with: people and money and shelter. She had been lucky with the weather;
although chill, it had not snowed, and the thick forest was a natural barrier
to the wind. Melli knew snow would come soon, and she realized she would need
warmer clothes when it did.

If only her purse
had not been stolen! She could have bought a saddle and hastened her journey.
As she was now, without her valuables, she did not know what she would do when
her food ran out. There was always her horse, but she suspected she would only
get a silver or two for him. Besides, she didn't like the idea of parting with
him.

As she walked in
the bright cold morning, Melli began to notice signs of human habitation: smoke
spiraling upward in the distance, a patch of grass grazed short, a cleared
ditch.

She quickened her
pace, and the forest began to give way to open land. A farmhouse appeared on
the rise, and then another one. Melli spotted a dirt track and led her horse
onto it.

By afternoon she
had approached a small village. It boasted a tavern but no smithy. Melli's
appearance garnered much attention from the village people: the women looked at
her with mistrust and the men with speculation. It was apparent to her that she
must present a strange sight to the hostile villagers. She still wore her sack
over her dress, and instead of a cloak she wore a blanket. She thought her face
was clean, for she splashed it with water when she could, but she suspected her
hair was a wild tangle.

Noticing the
inimical stares, she decided the village would not be a good place to stop. As
she passed the last of the buildings, a woman's voice rang out, clear and
shrill,

"Good
riddance to you. We don't want your sort here. Go to Duvitt-that's where your
kind belong." Melli could hardly believe she was being addressed in such a
way. All her life she had been spoken to with courtesy and respect. The cruel
tone of the woman's voice caused her more distress than all the days she had
been alone in the forest. Determined to be dignified, she did not look back,
and she and her horse walked away from the village.

Melli walked
through the afternoon, and the road she traveled became wider and better
maintained. Eventually, as it began to grow dark, Melli saw in the distance the
lights of a town. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, she took off the
woven sack and smoothed her hair as best she could. Sometime later, she entered
the town of Duvitt.

Duvitt was
enjoying a time of great prosperity. Situated between Harvell and the River
Nestor it was in an ideal locale to exploit the war between the Four Kingdoms
and Halcus. The past five years had seen a substantial increase in business, as
the town catered to the hundreds of soldiers that passed through each week.
Although Duvitt was firmly in Four Kingdoms' territory, the enterprising business
owners were not above catering to the needs of the Halcus. And so Duvitt had
become an unofficial neutral zone, where a weary soldier in any colors could
find lodgings and a cup of cool, albeit rather expensive, ale.

There were of
course drawbacks to this arrangement; drunken soldiers find it hard to remain
neutral for long, and so there were many violent brawls. Minor property damage
and a few dead men were considered a small price to pay for prosperity. The
town now boasted more taverns than anywhere else in the Four Kingdoms, and many
a tavern owner, in the privacy of his bed at night, prayed that the war would
continue indefinitely.

Melli approached
the town warily. There were many people in the streets, none of whom gave her
more than a second look. She had little idea of what she was going to do. She
would perhaps try to trade the few pots and pans Master Trout had included in
her purchase. Duvitt seemed bigger to her than Harvell; it was certainly
busier. She noticed that many of the people on the streets were soldiers, and
this she took as a sign that she had not gone too far off track.

She slowed down,
looking for a safe place to leave her horse, wishing that she'd had the sense
to tie him to a remote tree or bush before she'd entered the town. Melli
decided to risk tying her horse to a wooden fence in plain view of many people,
hoping that no one would steal a horse so openly. She smiled a little at her
own caution; her horse would hardly be a great prize for a thief.

She hailed a young
boy who was passing. "Can you tell me where I might be able to sell some
items?"

The boy was
immediately interested. "What items?" he asked, feigning casualness.

"Two tin cups
and a plate and a copper pot."

The boy's interest
visibly waned. "You might try Master Huddle, two doors down." Melli
was about to thank the boy, but he was off, looking for more profitable
prospects.

She duly followed
his advice and entered a small, dirtylooking shop crammed with all manner of
wares. The shopkeeper looked at her as she entered, took in the poor condition
of her clothes and then ostentatiously ignored her, turning his attention back
to his other customer.

"Yes,
Mistress Greal, I'll try and have your boots mended by this time
tomorrow."

"See that you
do, sir. And I want a good job, mind, no half stitches."

"I will
personally ensure that my boy does full stitches."

"Very well.
Good night, sir." The woman turned around and was about to leave when she
caught sight of Melli. Her eyes narrowed and she looked Melli up and down. She
watched as Melli approached the shopkeeper.

"What d'you
want, girl?" demanded the man in an entirely different tone than the one
he had just been using.

"I would sell
some items," said Melli with dignity. "What've you got?"

"Two tin cups
and a plate and a copper pot."

"Not
interested, girl. Now get out of here!" Melli's face flushed with anger
and embarrassment. She stormed out of the shop and was about to head for her
horse when she felt a tap on her arm. She swung around and saw it was the woman
customer who had stopped her.

"What's the
rush, deary?" said the woman. "Got no money, no place to stay?"
Melli did not reply, and the woman continued, "I can see you're a pretty
girl under all that dirt." Melli blushed further and tried to move around
the woman, who was now blocking her path. The woman stepped ahead of her and
spoke once more. "I'll give you hot food and a bed for the night."

"Why would
you do that?" replied Melli, suspicious of the woman's intentions.