The Baker's Boy (38 page)

Baralis could not
help but wonder at the power he had drawn. True, it had been dangerous to
himself, but the feeling of strength coursing through his body--fast and
terrible--had filled him with elation. He had not known he had such potential
in him. Once he was fully recovered, he would put his newfound abilities to
good use. He would be careful, though, never to put himself at risk again.

He had much to do,
much he needed to find out. He could not afford to let fatigue hinder his
plans. He called for Crope.

"Yes,
master." His servant entered the bedchamber. "Crope, you have looked
after me well and I thank you for your care."

Crope smiled, the
many scars on his huge face pulling tight. "I did my best, master,"
he said, pleased that his efforts had been appreciated.

"Now, on to
more important matters. How is the court taking the news of Lord Maybor's
death?"

Crope looked
puzzled at the question. "Lord Maybor isn't dead, master."

"Isn't dead!
What devilry is this! Are you certain of what you say, you dim-witted
fool?"

"Yes,
master." Crope seemed pleased to be insulted. "Lord Maybor isn't
dead. But he is powerful sick. People are saying that his face is covered in
sores and he can't breathe very well. The priests were even called."

Baralis could not
understand it. The poison had been lethal. He had tried it out on an old horse
and it had killed the pathetic creature in a matter of hours. "When did
Lord Maybor leave the dance?"

"Everybody's
talking about that." Crope paused for a minute, struggling to remember the
story. "He was said to have had punch poured all over him by a young girl.
He was made a laughingstock and left before the fire started."

It seemed to
Baralis that Maybor had the luck of Borc himself. He knew that the poison would
have been rendered less potent by having liquid poured over it, and Maybor may
have taken the robe off early because it was wet. Damn him! Baralis thought for
a moment. "Is Lord Maybor's condition improving?"

"I can't say,
master. The queen was said to have sent her wisewoman to look after him."

"The queen
has visited him?" Surely the queen would want nothing to do with Maybor
now that his lies had been uncovered.

"Yes, master.
The queen's messenger came here the other day, said the queen wanted to see you
as soon as possible."

"How did you
reply?"

"I told the
messenger that you had caught a slight fever while out riding."

"Good, Crope.
You have done well." Baralis paused and then asked: "What are people
saying about the fire on Winter's Eve?"

"They're
saying it was caused by fallen candles, master."

"Good. Were
there any witnesses?"

"One drunken
squire said a man in black caused it, master."

"What is his
name?"

"I don't
know, master."

"Well, find
out, then! And once you have found out, arrange for him to have an
accident." Baralis' eyes met those of his servant. "Do you understand
what I mean, Crope?"

The servant
nodded. "Good. Now go. I need to be alone to think."

Baralis watched as
Crope lurched away. Once he had gone, Baralis rose from his bed. He was
surprised at his own weakness; his legs were shaky and unused to his weight. He
made his way slowly to his study. Once inside, he hunted among the many bottles
and vials until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the stopper and
drank the entire contents of the small bottle-he needed all the relief he could
get from his pain.

He looked down at
his hands, burnt by the aftermath of power. They were scarred, the skin shiny
and taut. The curative oils had undoubtedly helped, and most of the scarring
would heal. But it was the healing itself he was afraid of. The skin might
permanently tighten, making it impossible to straighten his fingers. If that
happened, he would be forced to slit the skin at his joints.

A drawing to
quicken their healing was out of the question--he was too weak. There would be
no sorcery for several days, which meant he would be unable to make contact
with the second dove he'd sent to track Melliandra.

Maybor had a lot
to answer for. Baralis was almost certain that he had been the one to arrange
for the assassination attempt. He had many enemies at court, but none would
like to see him dead as much as Maybor. The lord of the Eastlands was no fool;
he would have wanted no blood on his hands and would have hired someone to do his
dirty work for him.

Baralis had much
to occupy his mind. He had to concentrate on bringing his plans to fruition. He
must step carefully, for it seemed as if the queen was still sympathetic to
Maybor despite his fabrications. He needed Maybor out of the way. He could not
risk the queen becoming close with him.

Baralis decided he
would not waste any more time trying to poison Maybor. The lord appeared to be
almost charmed against such methods. He would arrange instead for his
attentions to be diverted from the court. He knew the one thing that Maybor
loved more than himself was his eastern lands. They were rich and fertile,
planted with seasoned apple orchards from which the best cider in the Known
Lands was produced. A curve of a smile stole across Baralis' face: he would
arrange for Maybor's attention to be diverted eastward for a while.

Tawl squinted in
the direction that Fyler indicated. "I can't see a thing," he said.
Fyler had told him that Larn was on the horizon, but Tawl could spot no sign of
it.

"You from the
Lowlands, boy?" asked Fyler. Tawl nodded, amazed at how the seaman could
know such a thing. The navigator winked and then explained, "People from
the Lowlands are known for their bad eyesight. All those marsh gases affect the
eyes. It was just as well you left home before they had a chance to do worse
damage."

The two men were
on the bow of the boat. All day the waters had been growing choppier. A strong
easterly wind was blowing, whipping up the waves, causing them to crash
mightily against the hull of the small boat. The Fishy Few, which for the first
two days had seemed so sturdy to Tawl, was now at the mercy of the restless
sea.

The crewmen, who
had come to accept Tawl's presence, were now grave and silent. All hands were
on deck. The sails needed to be constantly turned to accommodate the unruly
wind.

Even as Tawl and
Fyler stood on deck, conditions were worsening. The sky darkened ominously and
the first spits of rain were felt. The wind blew hard and picked up the waves
in its path, driving them high and rough. Tawl was forced to hold on tightly to
the railing.

"How far
before we reach Larn?" he asked. Fyler, who was much more used to the
unstable sea than Tawl, stood with his arms folded.

"Well, I'm
sure it was on the horizon, only it's gotten so damned dark and nasty that I
can't see it no more. I'd say we're half a day away. Course in these sort of
conditions it could take a lot longer. The wind is against us. And I -don't
fancy navigating low waters in a storm."

"How
dangerous are the waters around Larn?" Tawl was now having to shout to
make himself heard.

"Well, I've
navigated worse waters, but Larn's are pretty bad. It's not just the shallows
... though if you're not careful you could find yourself run aground."
Fyler looked to the horizon. "No, the real problem is the rocks. The sea
bounces off 'em and becomes unsettled. There's no telling which way the current
runs, but one thing's for sure-if you're not careful, it'll run you onto the
rocks."

"Captain
Quain said he wouldn't take the ship too close."

"Aye, lad.
Captain's no fool. Still, it won't be easy. You can see what's happening to the
boat already." As if to illustrate this point, the sea swelled suddenly,
causing the boat to roll beneath their feet.

"I thought it
was just bad weather," shouted Tawl. "There's always bad weather
around Larn, boy. That's the problem. I can navigate shallows and rocks in a
calm sea with my eyes closed. Larn's one of those godforsaken places that
allows the sea no rest."

"Is is
because of where Larn is?"

"No, it's
because of what Larn is."

Tawl watched as
Fyler walked away, marveling at the man's ability to walk so steadily with the
boat heaving as it was. Tawl stayed at the bow, the wind and rain driving into
his face. He looked ahead, trying to spot the island on the horizon. He could
not see it. Something within Tawl knew that Larn was there: it called to his
blood, beguiling and inviting. He looked ahead at the bleak gray of sky and
sea, and he became afraid.

He did not know
how long he stood, blasted by the elements. A sharp voice interrupted his
thoughts: "You there! What d'you think you're doing? You'll catch your
death there in this storm." Tawl looked round to see Carver. "Best
get belowdeck, captain's askin' after you." Tawl realized that he was cold
and his cloak was soaked through. The sky was growing darker, the waves higher,
and the rain was now driving in sheets against the ship.

"See what
trouble Larn brings," muttered Carver as Tawl made his way belowdeck.

The captain's
cabin was warm and cozy and smelled of old leather and rum. "By Borc!
You're soaked to the skin, lad. What have you been up to?" The captain
swiftly poured Tawl a full cup of rum. "Take your cloak off. Here, wrap
yourself in this." Quain handed Tawl a rough blanket.

"I was on
deck. I didn't realize how long I was there."

"Lost in
thought, eh?" The captain gave Trawl a questioning look.

"I was
thinking about Larn."

"You're not
the only one, boy. Larn's the sort of place that's hard to put from your
mind."

"You've been
there before?"

The captain
nodded. "I came close as a lad and it's haunted me ever since."

"What purpose
did you have with the island?"

"No purpose
at all, it was my first job as navigator and I was as green as seaweed. We were
bound for Toolay, but I was so nervous the ship veered off course." The
captain took a deep draught of rum and was silent for so long that Tawl was
surprised when he spoke again. "Can't say that I was sorry, though. To
this day, I still hold that it was fate, not I, who steered the ship that cold
and windy morn." Quain slammed his glass down on the table, effectively
ending the subject.

"You'll be
there tomorrow. Course if the seas don't calm you've no chance of landing. No
one in their right minds would set a small rowboat on these waters. I'm
beginning to think I've lost mine coming here with The Fishy Few. " Quain
lifted his glass. "Come on, lad, drink up. That rum will warm you better
than any fire." Tawl obliged the captain, finding his words to be true.
The rum warmed him to his toes.

"Once you're
on the island, you know I won't wait longer than a day for your return. The
waters are just too treacherous. I'm sticking my neck out putting down anchor.
If the waters don't calm by the morrow, no anchor will be able to hold her.
That's not your concern, though, lad. I just want to make sure there's no
misunderstanding. If you're not back within one day, then I'm off. And God help
you; you could be stuck on Larn for many months." Quain gave Tawl a hard
look.

"There is no
misunderstanding, Captain. I've decided I'll go alone-you're one man short as
it is. I can row myself." Quain grunted and poured them both another cup
of rum.

"Pray for
calm waters, boy."

Tavalisk was
taking an afternoon stroll in the palace gardens. The gardens were famous
throughout the east for their spectacular beauty. Tavalisk was more interested
in what he was eating than the breathtaking surroundings. Walking a few steps
behind the archbishop was a liveried servant holding a platter of delicacies.

"Boy, be
careful no flies land on the chicken livers." Tavalisk beckoned the boy
forward so he could pick what he would eat next. The brisk air had given him
quite an appetite.

Tavalisk decided
on a large, juicy specimen and popped it in his mouth. It was just as he
expected-rare and tender.

The archbishop
sighed heavily as he noticed the approach of his aide, Gamil. "Come,
boy," he said to the servant. "Let us make haste." Tavalisk
hurried away in the opposite direction, his voluminous robes flapping in the
breeze. "Do not drop the platter, boy," he warned as they turned into
a hedged walk. Gamil's feet proved faster than Tavalisk's, and he eventually
caught up with master and servant.

"Gamil, what
are you doing here? I didn't see you approach. Did you see him approach,
boy?" Tavalisk looked to his attendant; the boy obediently shook his head.
The archbishop reached forward and took another liver from the tray.
"Though I must admit you're difficult to miss in your splendid new robe.
Silk, if I'm not mistaken. I didn't realize I paid you so well."

Gamil became a
little red of face. "It's nothing, Your Eminence. I picked it up cheap in
the Market District."

"Well I'm not
at all sure I like my aides dressing better than L" The archbishop could
not resist the exaggeration: his robes were by far the finest that could be
bought in all of Rorn. "Now tell me why you're here." Tavalisk
daintily spat out a piece of gristle.

"About the
knight," said Gamil, brushing the offending piece of gristle from his robe.
"My spies. . . "

Tavalisk cut him
short. "Your spies, Gamil? You have no spies. I am the one who has
spies." Tavalisk's small eyes took in the look of animosity on his aide's
face. He pretended not to notice, though, and busied himself picking out another
delicacy.

"Your spies
have confirmed our suspicions, Your Eminence."

"What
suspicions are those?" Tavalisk had now turned to admire a late-blooming
flower.

"The Old Man
paid for the boat that sails for Larn."