The Baker's Boy (33 page)

Maybor had not
spotted Baralis all evening. He hoped most fervently that his assassin would
not wait much longer before murdering the demon! The thought of the man's
imminent death cheered him and he downed more ale, feeling its liquid coolness
most welcome on his burning throat. It was time to have some fun.

He picked the most
becoming of his companions, a young woman with generous hips and gray eyes. He
patted her rounded bottom. "You are indeed a pretty one, my poppet,"
he said, trying hard not to slur his words. The girl looked at him coldly, but
Maybor was not to be discouraged and gently squeezed the curve of her breast.

"Lord Maybor!
Please take control of yourself!" admonished the girl, scowling at him.
Maybor was oblivious to this warning; he was more interested in feeling the
wealth of flesh on her curvaceous posterior. He grinned at the girl and pressed
his hand deep into the folds of her dress, grabbing one of her buttocks. The
girl spun around angrily and dumped the contents of her cup all over Maybor's
face.

"You
bitch!" he shouted, looking wildly around for some sympathy. People were
either staring at him coldly or openly laughing at him. He looked down at his
precious robes, soaked in sickly fruit punch.

He had been
humiliated in front of the entire court. He was a laughingstock. He would have
to leave the celebration and get out of his sticky, sodden robes. The gray-eyed
vixen had ruined them! He would never be able to wear them again. Maybor beat a
hasty retreat from the hall, the crowds parting to make a path for the raging,
drunken lord.

Baralis was aware
there was an incident happening at the front of the hall, but could not make
out what it was. Probably some drunken lord making a fool of himself, he thought
with contempt.

He was about to
bring his golden cup to his lips, when he heard the faint rustle of satin
behind him. In that flutter of an instant, he knew what was happening.

Without another
thought he wheeled around, unleashing the great forces of his power. He saw a
man with a knife about to strike. The man's face filled with terror as the
first waves of Baralis' discharge tore through him. He screamed in agony as his
eyeballs were scorched by the fury. He dropped his blade and raised his hands to
protect his head. It was too late: his face contorted grotesquely as his skin
was burnt black by the heat. His clothes blazed into flame and his body became
a torch.

The satin curtain
caught light and the man staggered back, grasping at a face that was no more.
Baralis had no control over the furious forces that he released. He watched
grimly as the man's blackened body was consumed by flames.

He felt the
backlash of power hit him, searing his skin and singeing his hair. He stepped
backward to avoid further damage, and as he did so he was overcome by
tremendous weakness. Never before had he released so much power. He tried to
draw it back into himself, but it was too late. Trembling and exhausted,
impelled only by the sheer force of his will, he staggered away from the blaze.

Bevlin was
enjoying a late supper of greased duck when his bowels turned to water. He felt
the wave that accompanied the drawing of great power. He dropped his knife, and
a trail of grease streaked unnoticed down his chin. The hair on his arms and
neck stood up and he shuddered, suddenly cold. He could not remember the last
time he had felt the unleashing of such force.

Whoever had drawn
power this night was mighty indeed. However, Bevlin perceived the power had
failed to be drawn back; it had been allowed to continue and dissipate.

The wiseman slowly
shook his head: a man who drew such power and failed to repossess it would be
so physically depleted, he would be in danger of collapse ... or worse.

The wiseman
suddenly felt very tired. He got up and closed the book he had been reading,
then retired to his bed, the duck grease left to slowly congeal. He had lost
his appetite.

Maybor was in his
chamber. He had relieved himself of his wet and stained robes and was now lying
on his bed. He was not feeling very well. Apart from being as drunk as a newt,
his throat was burning and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He called
feebly for his servant.

Crandle duly
arrived. "Yes, Lord Maybor." The servant looked shocked at his
master's appearance.

"Why are you
looking at me that way, fool? Have I grown two heads?"

"No, sir. You
just look a little flushed and there is a slight rash around your face and
throat."

"What do you
mean, slight rash?" Maybor was finding it harder to speak. "Get me
some water, and bring me a sliver of the mirror so I might look on
myself."

"Yes,
sir." The obedient Crandle rushed off. Maybor brought his hand to his
throat-it felt hot and fevered. When the servant returned with the shard of
glass, Maybor snatched at it eagerly. He was horrified by what he saw. The skin
around his nose and mouth and on his neck was red and inflamed.

"What is
this?" he cried, bewildered and distressed by the sight. His servant
brought over water, but seemed reluctant to get too close to his master.

"Maybe it's
just the drink, sir," he said with little conviction. Maybor drank the
cold water and it was like a balm on his painful throat.

"If this is
the pox, Crandle, I will have your balls whipped off if you mention it to
another living soul." The pox was one thing that everybody at court feared
catching; the mere rumor of it was enough to have the unfortunate person
ostracized. So whenever anyone did catch it, they kept the fact well concealed.

"I will not
breathe a word, sir."

Maybor was
beginning to struggle for breath. He motioned his servant to prop up the
pillows, thinking that he would feel better if he were sat up. The reluctant
Crandle was forced to drag Maybor's heavy body up toward the pitlows. Once
placed there, his breath came a little easier.

"I will have
missed all of the goings-on in the banquet hall," he complained. "I
only had chance to down a jug or two of ale."

"Maybe it was
just as well you retired early, sir. You wouldn't have wanted anyone to see you
looking as you do." Crandle had not seen the stained robe and was unaware
of the true reason for his master's hasty departure.

"Don't be so
damned impertinent!" Maybor spoke with little fury as he was finding it
difficult to breathe once more. He started coughing, his whole body shaking as
he did so.

With horror he saw
that his undershirt was speckled with blood.

The sight of the
tiny, scarlet drops filled Maybor with fear. What illness was this that stole
upon one so fast? This very day he had been on his horse, riding over fields, feeling
as healthy as ever. Now, only hours later, he was coughing up blood and short
of breath. Frightened, Maybor settled down amongst his pillows and fell into a
restless, wheezing sleep.

Crope heard a
faint noise outside the door. He was in his master's chambers, as was his duty
whenever Baralis was absent. He wondered whether to see what the noise was--no
one could enter the chambers without Baralis' permission, so Crope was not
worried about intruders. It could even be some castle children, the ones who
liked to taunt him and follow him around. They might be outside the door,
waiting for him to open it so they could throw sour milk at him, as they had
done once before. Deciding that the faint noise had indeed been children, he
ignored it and went back to looking at his books.

Crope could not
read, but his favorite pastime was looking at pictures of flowers and animals.
His master, noting the delight Crope took in this particular activity, had
given him certain books to keep for his very own. These books, filled with
beautifully rendered drawings of plants, insects, animals, and fish were
Crope's most treasured possessions. He looked through them countless times,
always careful to clean his hands before he touched the precious pages.

Tonight he was
looking at his favorite, the one with all the beautiful flowers in it. He
immersed himself in his book, and it was some time before he heard another
faint noise. This time it occurred to him that it was too late for children to
be up, and so he opened the heavy wooden door. On the floor by his feet lay
Baralis.

Crope wasted no
time in scooping Baralis up in his arms. He hurried to the bedchamber and, with
a gentleness surprising in such a huge man, laid his master down on the bed.

Crope wondered
what to do next. He noticed that Baralis was trembling, and so he rushed off
for extra blankets. He returned moments later and carefully laid them over his
master's body. Next, he fetched water and a length of cloth and proceeded to
dab his master's fevered brow with cool water. Crope saw that his master looked
as if he was burnt: the skin on his face and hands looked red and sore.

He tried to
remember what to do for bums. Baralis, he recalled, had special ointments for
such things. Crope went off to look in the library where some such medicines
were kept. He returned minutes later with what he hoped was the right ointment.
He poured a little on his hand to check. It was some kind of oil and felt smooth
and cool. With great care he applied the ointment to Baralis' burnt face and
hands. It did appear to lessen the heat a little.

Finally, Crope
poured a glass of rich, dark wine into a cup and, holding Baralis' head up a
little, poured a small quantity of the liquid between his master's lips. Some
of the wine dribbled down Baralis' chin, and Crope patiently dabbed the excess
away with a soft cloth.

During all of this
his master had not stirred. Crope was beginning to feel worried; he was
convinced that there was more wrong with Baralis than burnt hands and face.
There seemed little more that he could do. He went over and stoked the fire,
and then sat by his master's bedside, once again wetting his brow. He would
watch over Baralis through the night and hope his master became no worse.

Tawl made his way
down to the harbor. It was chill in the burgeoning dawn and he drew his cloak
close. As he rounded a comer, salty air blasted his face, and he sighted the
deep gray sea that Rorn considered its own.

Tawl, having
reached the waterfront, now made his way north. His route took him past rows of
ships and boats; there were many humble fishing craft, a few mighty warships,
some elaborate pleasure barges, and a great number of cargo ships. Tawl had
never seen such a variety: boats from the south painted exotic colors with
pictures of fantastic sea creatures or naked women on their hulls, vessels from
Rorn with yellow sails, ships from Toolay beautifully varnished but unadorned.

He soon found
himself at the north harbor and hurried down the line of ships, aware that he
was late--first light had been some time back. He found the boat he was looking
for: two masts, The Fishy Few. Men were at work uncoiling the huge docking
ropes. The Fishy Few was preparing to set sail. Tawl walked up the gangplank
and was immediately met with a harsh cry. "Hey, you, what d'you think
you're doing?" The voice belonged to a small, red-faced man with a head of
hair to match.

"I'm here to
sail to Larn. Captain Quain has already agreed to it."

"Borc's
balls! So you're the mad devil who wants to go there." Tawl could only
nod. "Come aboard then, quick about it." Tawl boarded the ship. The
red-haired sailor looked him up and down critically. "You ain't gonna take
to the sea. I can tell that just from looking at you."

"I've sailed
before," said Tawl.

"When was
that, eh? Dainty pleasure trip down the River Silbur." The man spat in
disgust. "No, you're not a sailor. You're the type who'll be puking your
guts up as soon as we've raised anchor." Tawl had in fact sailed several
times before, and although not enjoying the experience, had never been seasick.

"What you
called, then?" asked the man. "Tawl."

The man spat
again. "Tawl! I'd be ashamed to go to sea with a name like that." The
man eyed him with mild disdain. Tawl decided he would ask for the captain. He
had no intention of standing here and being insulted any longer. "I'd like
to speak to Captain Quain."

"Captain!"
shouted the man in a voice so loud it set Tawl's ears ringing. Moments later another
man appeared, also red haired.

"You're
late." He looked Tawl up and down.

"I didn't
realize the north harbor was as far as it was."

"Excuses! The
sea doesn't care that for excuses." The captain spat to illustrate his
point. "Tell the sea you're late." Quain's voice was scathing.
"See if it'll make an exception and keep the tide in a little longer just
for you." Tawl was wishing he'd never boarded The Fishy Few. The captain
then shouted in a voice rivaling that of his crewman in loudness. "All
hands on deck."

The ship became a
flurry of activity-there were ten crewmen. The captain noticed Tawl counting
them and said, "I'm a man short because of you." He was obviously
waiting for Tawl to ask why, and so Tawl obliged.

"Why is that,
Captain Quain?"

"I'll tell
you why. Eleven crewsmen and me, plus you, would make thirteen. No man in his
right mind would set sail with thirteen aboard. Sailing to Larn is lunacy
itself. Sailing to Larn with thirteen would be suicide. And let me tell you
now, boy, gold's not worth losing my ship over. First sign of danger and we'll
be heading back to Rorn so fast the seagulls won't be able to shit on us."
The good captain then turned on his heel, leaving Tawl to contemplate what had
been said.

He decided the
best thing he could do would be to go belowdeck. Seeing the man who had spoken
to him when he boarded, he asked where he would find his cabin.

"Cabin!
Listen to this, mates." The man was now shouting to the other sailors.
"He wants to know where his cabin is. Not happy with makin' us sail to the
godforsaken isle of Larn, now he wants a cabin. The next thing you know, he'll
be asking us to bake him cake." Tawl decided he would take no more of this
taunting, but before he could say a word another man chipped in: