The Baker's Boy (43 page)

He was not pleased
with his assassin; he had waited too long to make his move. He decided that
when Scarl finally did his job, he would have absolutely no qualms about having
the man's throat slit. There was no way he was about to give up thirty acres of
his orchards to a man who was so slow about his work.

Crandle entered
the chamber with a brief knock.

"What do you
want? Have you managed to locate the man named Scarl?"

"No, sir, it
appears that no one knows where to find him."

"Where has
that damned man disappeared to?" Maybor stamped his foot.

"Well, your
lordship, a thought has occurred to me. Of course, I might be wrong."

"Get to it,
man, do not dither." Maybor picked up his sliver of mirror and examined
the sores on his face.

"You know,
sir, that a fire occurred in the banquet hall after you left."

"Yes,
yes." Maybor was becoming impatient.

"Well, there
was one man killed in the fire. He was burned to death."

"What on
earth has that to do with you not finding Scarl?" With great satisfaction
Maybor squeezed a pus-filled boil.

"Not one
person could identify the body, your lordship, and nobody came forward to
report anyone missing." Maybor grew still. He knew what Crandle was
saying. He thought for a moment and then asked, "What state was the body
in?"

"I heard the
poor soul was bumt to a cinder, nothing of his face left."

"Was he found
with anything on him?"

"I'm not
sure. I heard his knife was the only thing that held up to the flames."

"His
knife?"

"That's what
I heard, sir. Right funny knife, too, by all accounts. Not your usual hand
knife."

"Be
gone!" Maybor spoke calmly, and watched as his servant left the room.

He had never seen
Scarl's knife, but Maybor knew it would be something special: it was the only
tool of an assassin's trade. He sat on his bed and pondered the implications of
what Crandle had said. Maybor had last seen the assassin the day before
Winter's Eve, he had not heard from him since, and Scarl had not carried out
his commission.

Maybor shivered
involuntarily. What if Scar] had attempted to murder Baralis and had failed?
Baralis might in turn have killed the assassin and started the fire to cover up
any evidence. Maybor had heard the strange rumors about the fire. Crandle had
even said that a squire saw a man in black walk away from the flames. Baralis
was known to be a man who liked to wear black. Maybor rang for Crandle. He
could no longer call, his throat would not take the strain.

"Yes,
sir," said Crandle, reappearing.

"I would
speak with the squire you mentioned. The one who saw the fire start."

"Oh, you mean
Squire Tollen. He met with a terrible accident just the other day."

"What
happened to him?" Maybor grew chill.

"Well, it
appears that he fell on a wheat scythe and ripped his guts open. He died
instantly."

"Does it not
seem strange to you, Crandle, that a man would fall on a scythe?"

"Now you
mention it, it does seem rather odd. Squire Tollen was no farmer."

"Leave me
now, Crandle. You have given me much to think on."

After his servant
had left, Maybor paced his room. No one, farmer or otherwise, falls on a
scythe. This was Baralis' doing, thought Maybor. He'd had the squire killed to
avoid any possible link between himself and the fire. Baralis had somehow
managed to kill his assassin. And Scarl was not just any fool with a knife; he
had been the best in his profession. The assassin had been right to be wary of
his mark. Baralis was becoming too ingenious. Maybor paced for a long time,
thinking about how best to eliminate his problem.

Bringe surveyed
the huge expanse of orchards. From his position on the hilltop he could see
hundreds of acres of the low and leafless apple trees laid out in neat lines as
far as the eye could see. Lord Maybor's orchards. Bringe smiled knowingly to
himself and felt in his pocket for the letter. His rough hands curled around
the smooth sheet and a tremor of anticipation ran through him.

Bringe knew the
great wealth that the orchards represented: they were home to the finest apple
trees in the Four Kingdoms. The best cider in the Known Lands was produced from
these succulent and sharp-tasting apples. Cider that was exported to countless
cities and towns where discerning drinkers were willing to pay the highest
prices for a mug of the honey-colored brew.

The apple orchards
were the most important industry in the east. If a man did not tend the apple
trees, he brewed the cider, or crafted the barrels, or grew hops for the
fermentation. Everyone from the youngest babe to the oldest woman in the town
of Nestor helped pick the apples when they grew ripe on the tree. The elders
held that the secret to fine-tasting cider was picking the apples when the
color was just right: light yellow with just the beginning of a reddish blush.
Too little red showing on the skin would yield a bitter brew, too much red
would turn the brew too sweet.

Bringe drew forth
the letter from his pocket and unfolded the document with elaborate care. He
peered at the contents, unable to read a word that was written therein. When
the dark rider arrived late the previous evening, delivering the letter, Bringe
had been forced to take the humiliating step of having his wife read it for
him. Of course, he had beaten the slovenly wretch senseless afterward, just in
case she got any ideas about blabbing the contents to anyone in the village. As
he brought his leather strap down upon her back, he felt he detected a glimpse
of arrogance in her watery eye. Bringe hated the idea that his wife might think
herself better than him just because she could read. Fueled by righteous
indignation-for it was only proper that a man show his wife who was master in
the home-Bringe looked around for something more brutal with which to hit her.
His eyes alighted on a heavy iron pot, and with vicious enjoyment he beat his
wife until she was bloody and senseless.

When he had
finished with his wife he realized he was feeling aroused. His thoughts turned
to his spouse's sibling, his young sister-in-law, Gerty. On Winter's Eve she
had sat in his lap, her bottom heavy and warm, swaying suggestively against
him. When his wife left the room to tend the stew, Bringe asked Gerty for a
kiss. The girl willingly complied. It was no sister's kiss. Gerty had slipped
her sharp tongue between his teeth, sending a thrill of excitement through his
body.

Bringe's thoughts
lingered over the abundant charms of his sister-in-law. It was, he thought,
high time he took a new wife, and the young and full-thighed Gerty would do him
nicely. There was, of course, the problem of his current wife to deal with.
Indignation rose in Bringe's breast. That ungrateful sow had held him back too
long. She did nothing but nag and harangue him, and now, because of the letter,
she felt she had something on him. He'd show her.

Bringe raised the
letter to the pale morning sky. He would be going up in the world soon. There
would be gold aplenty, a move to a new town, and a new wife to bed.

Bringe carefully
placed the letter in his good pocket and strolled down the hill toward the
village, a spring in his step and a glint in his eye.

The moment the
door closed behind the guard, Jack rushed across the dark chamber to Melli. She
was asleep, stretched out on her side on a low wooden bench. Jack tried not to
wake her as he felt the texture of the skin on her back through the thin fabric
of her dress. He could feel each individual welt, the skin still raised and
puckered. He shuddered to think what would have become of her if the flogging
had been allowed to continue. Melli had good reason to be thankful to the
mercenaries.

Jack gently
pressed the skin around the welts, testing for swelling and fluid beneath.
Melli's skin felt much firmer and he drew in a sigh of relief. The infection
which he'd drained some days back appeared to have abated: the skin was healing
normally. Jack felt a wave of concern ripple over him. Melli would undoubtedly
bear the scars of the rope for life. They would fade somewhat, but they would
remain, unmistakable, indelible marks of shame. With great tenderness Jack
brushed a lock of dark hair from Melli's face. Her beauty had been made only
more poignant by her sickness. He dreaded to think what horrors she'd been
through in Duvitt. Jack leant forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

Melli awoke. Her
eyes first registered panic, followed by recognition and then annoyance.
"What on earth are you doing hovering over me?" she said sitting up
and rubbing her eyes.

Jack immediately
felt like a fool-to be caught stealing a kiss! He hastily brushed his hair from
his face in an attempt to smarten his appearance. "The guard has just left
for a moment, so I thought I'd come and check on your. . . " Jack searched
for a delicate word. "Condition." Melli looked at him with barely
concealed hostility.

"I'm certain
my condition is just fine, thank you, and I know it's no concern of
yours." She drew her blanket around her shoulders.

"It's just
that after your ... er, after the incident in Duvitt, you took a fever."
Jack met his companion's gaze and Melli was the first to look away.

"I will hear
no further talk of Duvitt." Her tone was harsh, but she seemed to regret
it immediately, for she spoke her next words in a softer voice. "Please,
Jack, I cannot bear to think of that place."

"I won't
mention it again," said Jack in what he hoped to be a gallant manner,
bowing his head slightly. "We must talk of other matters while we can,
though. The guard could return at any minute."

"Where are
we?" Melli looked around the small, dark cell.

"We're about
an hour's walk from Castle Harvell. When they brought us here dawn was just
breaking. I caught a glimpse of the battlements."

"So we are in
the town?"

"No, from
what I could tell, we're in some kind of underground chamber. One minute we
were walking in the forest, the next we were being led down a tunnel, horses
and all. You were asleep the whole time. You've slept a lot these past
days."

Jack paused for a
second, took a deep breath, and then asked the question that had been on his
mind for some time now. "Who are you, MOB?" His hazel eyes challenged
her.

"And what are
you running away from?" Too late he realized he had laid himself open to
interrogation.

"I might ask
you the same question, Jack. What possible interest could a band of mercenaries
have with you?" Melli spoke in the manner, and with the confidence, of a
great lady. It was obvious to him that she was a noblewoman, used to giving
orders and taking charge.

"I am, or
rather was, a baker's boy at the castle. I did something that I shouldn't have
and ran away to escape the consequences." Jack hung his head low, it was
better that she thought him a thief.

"I too ran
away from the castle." Melli's voice was surprisingly gentle. He looked up
and saw that she was idling with the fabric of her dress. "I ran away
because my father wanted me to marry someone 'whom I could not bear the thought
of."

"So these men
are in the pay of your father?"

"No, my
father would never stoop to hiring mercenaries." There was more than a
hint of pride in her voice. She spun around at him. "You must know who
these men are paid by?" Before Jack could think of what answer to give,
the door opened and in walked Baralis.

"I think you
have your answer, my dear," he said in his low, alluring voice. Jack
glanced toward Melli; she was managing to conceal her surprise well.

"Lord
Baralis." She spoke graciously, inclining her head. "I trust you are
here to see to my release." Jack could detect an edge of anxiety to her
confident tone.

"If you would
be so kind as to follow me, my lady, I will show you to more comfortable
surroundings." Baralis made a slight gesture, indicating the sparse cell.
Jack caught sight of the lord's hands. They had always been gnarled and
twisted, but now they were horribly scarred. Baralis caught his glance; their
eyes met. Jack felt fear as he looked into the cold, gray eyes. He looked away,
unable to hold the gaze any longer.

Baralis turned his
attention back to Melli. "Follow me."

"And what if
I refuse?" Her head was high and her manner imperious.

"You have
little choice, my lady." Baralis beckoned and two armed guards appeared,
their swords drawn. Jack watched as Melli struggled to keep her composure.

"It appears
you leave me no choice, Lord Baralis." Jack could not help but admire her
calm aloofness. "I trust you will allow my man to accompany me." Jack
did not know whether to be insulted at being called her servant or pleased that
she had thought to include him.

"That
unfortunately, my dear, is out of the question. Your man-" Baralis left a
slight pause indicating to Melli that while he was aware of her lie, he was too
much of a gentleman to contradict her "-will have to stay here. Now,
please, come this way."

Melli stepped out
of the room, flashing Jack one last look. Baralis waited until Melli was out of
sight before tuming to Jack, his voice no longer alluring. "I will speak
with you later."

Melli's sharp ears
picked up what Baralis said to Jack and she realized that her companion had not
told her the whole truth. The king's chancellor would not be interested in
talking to a castle thief or minor criminal. There was more to the baker's boy
than met the eye.

Baralis led her
down a long, stone corridor and Melli felt the chill dampness of being
underground. Along the route she spied a pale, translucent moss clinging to the
stone walls. On impulse she reached out to touch it.