The Baker's Boy (40 page)

Thanks to
Frallit's violent temper, Jack had a certain skill in tending wounds. He leaned
over Melli and called her name gently. She did not respond. "I'll try not
to hurt you," he said, more worried than ever. He felt her back, finding
the spot where the inflammation was at its worst. He delicately sliced into the
bloated flesh. Greenish-yellow liquid spewed forth from the incision. A fetid
smell assailed Jack's nostrils.

He lightly pressed
the skin, forcing all the remaining fluid from the wound. When he was sure that
it had all been drained, he called for more water and was brought it quickly.
He cleansed the wound and then patted it dry. He finished off by stripping the
soft inner lining from his cloak. He made a makeshift bandage, tearing the
fabric into long strips and bound it around Melli's back and chest.

Jack cooled
Melli's brow with the remaining water. He looked up to find that he was being
watched by all the men. Jack handed the knife back to Traff. "I think she
should be allowed to rest for a while to give the wound a chance to scab over.
If she were to ride now, it would take longer for the bleeding to stop."
The men looked toward Traff for an answer.

"All
right," he said roughly. "We'll make camp early, we'll ride no
further this day."

Jack was relieved.
He gathered the blanket around Melli. It was not enough to keep her warm, so he
took off his cloak and laid it over her. He was pleased to see that she had
fallen asleep-rest was the best thing for her. He regarded her pale, drawn
features; they were glistening with sweat, and he knew the fever would get
worse before it got better.

Brushing a strand
of hair from Melli's face, he settled down beside her. Night was nearly upon
them, and Jack closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. It didn't come. The moon made
a slow arc across the sky as he tossed and turned, unable to find peace. Images
of what might have been tormented him. Only hours earlier, he'd been on the
point of lashing out wildly. There was such potential for destruction within
him: he knew it as surely as bread needed salt. It took its strength from
anger, and when he thought he wouldn't get his way with Traff, it nearly
consumed him. Who could tell what might have happened? He was unpredictable-a
coiled spring. He could have hurt Melli, and although the mercenaries were no
friends of his, he didn't want their deaths on his hands. He was a baker's boy,
not a murderer.

Jack turned on his
back and faced the cold stare of the moon. He might not be evil, but he was
dangerous, and it seemed that there wasn't much difference between the two.

Tawl looked into
the distance. The mists shifted and he received his first glimpse of Larn. He
could see little except rocky, gray cliffs. Seagulls flew overhead, their
haunting cries the only noise to disturb the deathly calm.

The sea, which had
raged so the night before, was now still. It was early morning and a pale sun rose
over Larn, its rays enfeebled by the low, restless mist. The sea was like
liquid metal, heavy and slow, the color of silver. Tawl was filled with great
apprehension.

The crewmen were
lowering the small rowboat over the side. He would be on his way soon. Captain
Quain approached him, and the two men stood silent, looking into the mists for
some time.

When the captain
finally spoke, his warm, gruff voice seemed to break through the spell of
beguiling cast from the isle. "When you approach the island, head north
around the cliffs. There is a rocky beach that you can land on."

"I've never
seen a sea so calm," ventured Tawl.

"Aye, it
sends the shivers down my spine. It's almost as if they know you're
coming." Quain spoke the very words that Tawl himself was thinking.
"I should be glad that the sea's calm. My ship's in no danger of running
aground." The captain shook his head, speaking in a low voice as if he did
not want to be overheard. "I know it's not right, though. A terrible storm
like last night, and now, water as smooth as a maiden's belly. Take care. Lad,
may Borc lend speed to your journey." Quain moved off, leaving Tawl alone
once more.

After a while he
was called over by Carver. The redhaired man put his arm around Tawl's
shoulder. "Rowboat's all ready, lad. In it you'll find food and a bottle
of rum, courtesy of the good captain." Carver hesitated while he looked
toward the faint outline of Larn in the distance. "I understand, lad, I've
something to thank you for."

"I don't know
what you mean." Tawl was genuinely puzzled.

"I was the
one who was due to go with you in the boat. Captain says as you insisted on
going alone. Not that I was afraid to go, of course. It's just that my elbow's
been playing up, and a couple of hours of rowing would've played havoc with
it."

"Well, I'm
glad not to be the cause of any further discomfort to you, Carver." Tawl
spoke gravely, with no hint of mockery.

"Well, just
thought I'd let you know," Carver said brusquely, moving away.

The mists parted
for a brief instant and Tawl was given a clear look at the island-it was almost
an invitation. He breathed deeply, rubbing his chin with his hand. It was time
for him to be on his way.

He climbed down
the knotted rope ladder and into the rowboat. Once he was steady, he looked up
to the deck of The Fishy Few, where all the crewmen including Captain Quain
were lined up. They were silent with grave faces as Tawl took up the oars.

He started to row,
enjoying the feel of the smooth wood in his hands. He soon made his way from
the ship and into the mist. Just before he lost sight of The Fishy Few, he
heard the voice of the captain ringing out: "One day, lad. Back in one
day."

Tawl was surprised
at how much of his strength had returned in the few weeks since he had been
released from Rorn's dungeons. His arms pulled the oars with powerful grace. He
soon fell into a rhythm; it felt good to be doing something physical. Muscle
and sinew stood out against the flesh of his arms. It was the first time since
setting sail that he'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt he had taken the Old
Man's advice about hiding his identity.

The sea was
yielding and Tawl made good time; even the current was in his favor. He watched
the cliffs of Larn loom near. After a while he altered his course north, as the
captain had suggested. The banks of mist were lifting and sunlight was allowed
to nuzzle the water once more. Tawl looked over his shoulder. Although the
mists were clearing ahead, behind they were still thick-swirling and reeling,
hiding The Fishy Few in their lair.

He rowed for some
time and saw that the cliffs were lessening, gradually declining. He made his
way around a rocky precipice and finally caught sight of the beach Quain had
mentioned. Tawl rowed on, his arms growing tired, grateful that the tide was on
its way in, bearing the boat forward in its push to the shore. As he approached
the rocky beach, he could make out a solitary figure, black against the gray of
rock and sky. Tawl knew the man waited for him.

Minutes later, his
small rowboat landed on the shores of Larn. The figure in the dark cloak did
not move forward to meet him. Tawl dragged the boat from the surf and tied its
mooring to a sturdy outcropping. He made his way up the pebbled beach to the
cloaked man.

"Greetings,
friend," said Tawl. The man's face was hooded, casting his features in
shadow. He said no word to Tawl. He beckoned him to follow by the briefest
raising of his hand. Tawl trailed the stranger up the beach and onto a
well-concealed path that led between huge slabs of granite. Part of the path
had been hewn from the rock, enabling Tawl to see the many intricate layers
within the stone.

The path began to
steepen and bend as it headed upward into the cliffs. The path was cut entirely
from the rock now, becoming a tunnel. Tawl was plunged into darkness. His guide
did not seem concerned with the dark and led him further ahead. Light peeked
through at irregular intervals and Tawl managed to follow. The path ended
suddenly and he found himself in bright sunlight again.

He brought his
hand up to shade his eyes and looked around. They were on top of the cliffs and
the view out to sea was breathtaking. Tawl felt certain the shadowy object on
the horizon was The Fishy Few. He turned his gaze inland. Ahead lay a large
stone temple, stark and primitive, old beyond reckoning. Low and oppressive, it
was built from huge slabs of granite, their edges rounded by the weathering of
centuries, white with the droppings of countless generations of sea birds.

The cloaked man
beckoned Tawl forth, and he followed him into the shadows of the temple.

What struck him
first was the extreme cold. Outside the day was mild and pleasant, yet on
entering the temple the air temperature dropped sharply. The interior was not
at all gaudy and ostentatious like the temples he'd visited in Rorn and Marls;
the walls were left bare and unadorned. Tawl had to admit there was an austere
beauty to be found in the naked stone. They passed through several dark,
low-ceilinged rooms. Low ceilings on The Fishy Few had not concerned Tawl, but
these ceilings, formed by immense slabs of granite, caused him to feel a
measure of foreboding.

He was led into a
small room which contained nothing but a stone bench. His guide wordlessly
motioned him to sit. He then withdrew, leaving Tawl to wait alone.

Tavalisk was
toasting shrimp. He had by his side a large bowl of sea water, in it many live
shrimp. With his little silver tongs he plucked a large and active shrimp from
the water. He then impaled the shrimp upon a silver skewer. The specially
sharpened point pierced the shrimp's shell with no effort. Tavalisk was pleased
to see that the impaling had not killed the shrimp: the creature was still
wriggling. The archbishop then lowered the unfortunate animal over a hot flame.
The shell crackled nicely in the heat, blackening quickly, and the shrimp soon
wriggled no more. Tavalisk then waited for the shrimp to cool a little before
removing its shell and eating the tender crustacean within.

The archbishop
heard the usual knocking that always seemed to occur when he was about to enjoy
a light snack. "Enter, Gamil," Tavalisk breathed, his voice metered
with boredom. His aide walked in. The archbishop did not miss the fact that
Gamil was dressed in an old and decidedly green robe. "Gamil, you must
forgive me."

"I do not
understand what Your Eminence means. Forgive you for what?"

"For giving
you bad advice." Tavalisk paused, enjoying the puzzled expression on his
aide's face. "Do you not remember, Gamil? Last time we met I said you
would look better in a green robe. Only now I find I was wrong. It appears that
green becomes you even less than red. It makes you look decidedly
bilious." Tavalisk turned back to his bowl of shrimp, so as not to betray
his delight. "Maybe in future, Gamil, you should steer clear of the
brighter colors altogether. Try brown; you may look no better, but at least you
will draw little attention."

Tavalisk busied
himself with picking out his next victim. "So, what have you to tell me
today, Gamil?" He decided upon a small but lively shrimp: it was much more
interesting to skewer an active one. Many of this batch seemed decidedly
lethargic.

"I have
received word from our spy of who Lord Baralis' enemies are."

"Go on."
Tavalisk skewered his victim.

"Well, it
appears that Your Eminence was correct in assuming that Lord Baralis has many
enemies. The most powerful and influential one is named Maybor. He holds vast
lands and has much sway at court."

"Hmm, Lord
Maybor. I do not know of him. Gamil, I would like you to make contact with him.
Be subtle, see if he would be interested in ... keeping our friend Lord Baralis
in his place." Tavalisk thrust the shrimp into the flames.

"I shall send
the letter by fast courier, Your Eminence."

"No. Leave
that to me, Gamil. I will use one of my creatures to hasten its delivery."
This was an instance where it was worth using the debilitating art of sorcery.
He had to find out what was going on in the Four Kingdoms. Tavalisk was
becoming more and more uneasy about Baralis' doings of late. The man was
intriguing on too large a scale. The duke of Bren was a dangerous person to be
conspiring with; his greed for land, combined with his current association with
the knights, made many people nervous. Baralis' plotting would further sour an
already bitter mix.

The archbishop
removed the skewer from the flame. "Use discretion when you write the
letter, Gamil. Do not name me. These things have a habit of falling into the
wrong hands and I would see if Lord Maybor takes the bait before risking my
reputation." Tavalisk popped the hot shrimp onto the floor, where the
little dog scooped it up. Burning its mouth, the dog howled and dropped the
shrimp. The archbishop smiled-the sight of suffering never failed to delight
him.

"If there's nothing
further, Your Eminence, I will make haste to write the letter."

"One more
thing before you go. I wonder if you'd be so kind as to take Comi and rub some
oil into her mouth. The poor creature gave herself quite a burn." The
archbishop watched as his aide struggled to pick up the dog. "I'd be
careful of your fingers if I were you, Gamil. Comi has teeth like
daggers." Tavalisk smiled sweetly, waving man and dog on.

Tawl was beginning
to feel a little impatient. He had been kept waiting for some time now, and no
one had come. He felt as if he was being made to wait on purpose, to make him
feel uneasy. He noticed that his sleeves were still rolled up and his circles
were showing. Tawl quickly concealed them under his sleeve; he wanted the
people here to know as little about him as possible.

More time passed
before someone finally came. An elderly man approached, his shadow preceding
him. He, like the guide, was hooded, his face dark. The man led Tawl through a
stone corridor and into a large, dimly lit room.