The Baker's Boy (45 page)

"Yes, Your
Eminence." The archbishop savored the wine then spat it it out.

"Sorcery
follows the same rules, whoever the practioner. It takes a strong aftermath to
warm metals, though. Sounds to me like Baralis acted out of desperation, not
cunning. He was trained at Leiss and should know the dangers of using such an
indiscreet amount of force."

The archbishop
paused to take a mouthful of wine. "This Marls white is quite delicious;
here take a sip." Gamil lifted his arm to take the glass; Tavalisk ignored
the gesture and handed the cup to the boy. "I'd be glad to hear your
opinion of it." The archbishop averted his eyes so not to see the look of
malice that momentarily passed over Gamil's features.

"Your
Eminence has a wide knowledge of many subjects."

"I have a
practical knowledge of sorcery, Gamil. As you know, I dabble from time to time;
the odd ensorcelment here, the briefest of drawings there, but it is far too
physical a pursuit to keep my interest long. Even simple things like the laying
of a compulsion upon a dumb creature can make one weak for the day. Sorcery
uses a man's strength as much as his mind, and can leave one's muscles as well
as wits sorely strained."

Tavalisk beckoned
the boy to bring him a glass from another barrel. "People make the mistake
of thinking magic comes from the land and the stars, but it comes from within,
and when it is drawn out, it makes its loss felt-a man could hardly be expected
to lose a quart of blood and then carry on as normal, could he? The same for
sorcery." The archbishop took the fresh cup from the boy. "Sorcery is
too debilitating for everyday use. I will use it when necessary, but on the
whole I prefer to conserve my strength for the good of Rorn. Sorcery is a poor
substitute for cunning."

Tavalisk grimaced,
finding the wine harsh and sour. "Here, Gamil, try this," he said
proffering his aide the cup. "Any news of our friend the knight?"

"He is back
in Rorn, Your Eminence. The first thing he did on leaving his ship was to make
his way to the whoring quarter." Gamil sipped cautiously at the wine.

"Probably
looking for his own little whore. Come now, Gamil, drink it all up. It's a fine
vintage." Tavalisk watched as his aide was forced to drink all of the
bitter wine.

"Well, he
won't find her, Your Eminence."

"Not much
chance of that, considering where she is." Tavalisk took the cup from
Gamil. "Of course, I do not want the girl harmed in any way."

"Of course,
Your Eminence."

"I'm merely
holding her on the off chance that she might prove a useful gambit to use on
our knight at some point. I understand he was quite attached to her?"

"By all
accounts he was indeed, Your Eminence."

"The whore
will prove the least of our knight's worries before long."

"What does
Your Eminence mean?"

"I mean,
Gamil, that it's high time I took some action against his brethren. I'm
considering expelling them from the city. The Knights of Valdis have irked me
too long and I feel the need to chasten their movements. I'm sick of them
manning our harbors and interfering with our trade. Ever since Tyren took over,
they've stepped up their patrolling-looking for illegal slaves, indeed! Only last
week they seized a cargo of spices, worth over a hundred golds it was. Said it
was pirated stock!"

"The
situation is intolerable. They hide behind noble motives when all they're after
is trade. They undercut our prices merely to gain a foothold in the market.
They have a near monopoly on the salt trade, and I need not tell you how
dangerous that is to our deep sea fishermen-they depend upon salt to preserve
the catch. I'm all for a man making a few golds, but let him not be a hypocrite
when he does so." The archbishop thought his last words had a gratifying
ring to them and ordered Gamil to write them down for the benefit of the
masses.

"You may go
now," said Tavalisk when Gamil had finished writing. He beckoned the
servant. "Fill a flagon of the last wine for my aide, boy. I can tell that
he enjoyed it enormously."

"There is no
need to bother, Your Eminence."

"Nonsense,
Gamil, it is my pleasure. Think of it as a reward for your scribing." The
boy returned with a large pot of the sour wine and handed it to Gamil. "Be
sure to drink it soon; it may lose its distinct flavor if left too long."
Gamil withdrew, struggling to carry the large pot.

"Now,
boy," said the archbishop, addressing the young servant, "let's move
on to the next barrel."

After a few moments
there was a soft patter of feet and a tall, thin man approached. "Ah,
Master Cellarer, it is always a delight to see you. I was just telling your boy
how much I value your opinion on wine."

Tawl picked his
way around the filth on the streets. The stench of excrement and putrification
was overpowering. The people of Rorn relied on the rains to wash the sewage
from the streets, but the skies had not unburdened themselves for many weeks,
leaving the city displaying its waste for all to see and smell.

He had taken his
leave of The Fishy Few earlier that morning. He'd been sorry to bid farewell to
the crew, for they had become his friends. Carver had told him he'd turned out
to be a better cook than the one they'd left behind. Captain Quain had grasped
his hand warmly and offered him help if he ever needed it. "Come down to
the harbor any time," he'd said "I'm usually here. 'Less I'm at sea
o' course. You'll always find a measure of rum and a helping hand." Tawl
did not doubt the offer for an instant, the captain was not one to promise his
help lightly.

Taw] first made
his way to the whoring quarter, hoping to see Megan one last time and perhaps
stay with her overnight before leaving the city. He needed to talk to her.

Ever since leaving
Larn, her words had played upon his mind: "It's love, not achievement,
that will rid you of your demons. " How had she known so much? Achievement
was all that mattered. It was all that he lived for, his personal curse. It was
this longing for achievement-this need for fame and glory-that had marked him
all his life. Searching for its elusive source had proven his downfall.

From the earliest
he could remember he'd wanted to be a knight. Every day while fishing, his mind
would soar eastward to Valdis. Knights were noble: they saved princesses from
towers and fought long battles with demons.

To become a knight
required money for training, and Tawl had started selling any surplus he
caught. Four extra fish a day meant a copper penny a week. One morning he
calculated it would take him fifteen years to make up the required sum. It made
him more determined than ever.

He hid his stash
at the bottom of the salt barrel. On many an occasion, when they were short of
bread or tallow, he'd been tempted to hand it over. By the time his mother
died, he had a cup full of coppers. Things were so bad for so long after her
death, that he was eventually forced to spend it. Anna caught wet-fever, and
the baby, by this time well over a year old, needed to be baptized. There was
no choice but to use his savings. Oh, he'd been furious, taking his anger out
on his sisters, storming and sulking and making everyone's life a misery. They
didn't realize how important it was to him, and how, by giving up his stash, he
was saying good-bye to more than money alone.

His sisters won
him over with tenderness. Sara did the fishing for a week and Anna painted him
bright pictures from her sick bed. Perhaps they had understood after all-he
just didn't see it at the time.

It was so hard to
see things clearly then. There was the family and nothing else. The
responsibility was so great. He took whatever labor he could find: as a
farmhand, a tavern boy, a peat cutter-there was always work for someone willing
to take his pay in goods, not coinage. The hours were long and grueling. He'd
go weeks without seeing the cottage by daylight.

The only time he
had to himself was the early morning. His stash might have gone, but the dream
still remained. He was strong; he'd known that for as long as he could
remember. His fishing hole was precious and he'd defended it many times against
newcomers. No one dared bother him anymore. The village cleric had told him
that strength alone wasn't enough to be a knight. So each morning there'd be a
book in his pocket as well as a knife. He could never manage to make much sense
of old Marod, but if it was important that he could read, then read he would.
Even after his coppers were gone, he still took his book along on his fishing
trips. He'd tell himself it was force of habit, that the book was useful for
securing his line, that old Marod would make a good weapon if he were attacked.
The truth was something deeper: as long as he had the book, there was hope. If
ever the chance to be a knight came along, and in his dreams it always did, he
would be ready for it.

His memory of that
time was marked with the sound of taunting. The village boys would never tackle
him one-onone but formed gangs, and when they spotted him going to
market-sisters at his side, baby in a basket-they'd laugh and call him the
"good housewife," and tell him to go home and suckle the baby. Sara
and Anna would pull on his arm, begging him to come away. The fear in their
voices was the one thing that stopped him from taking them on.

Only one day he
came alone. He could still recall it now: the sky was blue and full of flies,
the ground underfoot was firm. A leg of mutton was his downfall.

Summer Festival
was approaching and he'd promised his sisters a treat. To girls who lived on
fish and goose, a joint of meat seemed an unbelievable luxury, and no matter
how much they annoyed him, Tawl loved to see them excited. He'd left Sara
banking the fire in preparation for the joint. She was twelve now, and Anna was
eight, the baby just turned three.

There was joy in
his step that day. Not only would he buy a leg of mutton, there were extra
coppers for ribbons and preserves. Sara and Anna had only rope to tie their
hair. He'd seen the way they looked at the village girls with bright posies in
their tresses; they longed to have them, yet never dared ask. Sara and Anna
both knew there was no money to spare, and would not add to his burden by
asking for things they couldn't afford. They were good girls, really. What they
didn't know was that ever since the baby had been weaned and the wet nurse's
services no longer needed, he had extra fishes to sell. It wasn't much, just
enough for a little surprise on Summer's Eve.

Tawl bought the
mutton; it was stringy and a little tough. He was a novice at haggling and paid
the asking price. He had a hard time with the flies on the way back. They
buzzed and bothered, trying to land on the meat. Just as he left the town he
heard a voice: "Hey, mother's boy, best hurry home and brown the
joint!" Laughter accompanied the remark. Tawl didn't turn to look and
carried on walking.

"Trouble with
flies? They're attracted to the smell of girls!" A second voice. More
laughter.

"You'll be
sprouting breasts soon."

Tawl spun around.
"Say another word and I'll kill you!" He had the satisfaction of
seeing them flinch. Five of them. He knew them well. The leader smirked.

"What you
gonna do, housewife, poison us with your cooking?"

Something snapped.
Tawl lunged for the leader's throat. It was in his hands before he knew it. The
boy's face turned red then purple. Someone at his back kicked him. Spinning
round, he punched the attacker squarely in the face. Bone crushed beneath his
fingers. A third jumped on his back. Tawl threw him off with such frenzy, the
boy landed a horse's length away. A fourth boy hovered, clearly frightened;
Taw] chased him and pulled him down. He kicked and kicked until the fury left
him.

There was blood on
the ground and on his clothes, the leg of mutton lay in the dirt and there were
four men down, one wisely fled.

Tawl was close to
tears, not because of the fighting, but for the ribbons and the meat. All
ruined. He hated the thought of disappointing his sisters. Picking up the
joint, he tried his best to brush it free of dust. The ribbons were bloodied,
but might wash clean.

He started to walk
home, basket in hand, limping slightly from a blow to his leg. Seconds later
Tawl heard footsteps behind. He readied himself to fight again.

"You're
strong when angry, young man," came a voice. Tawl looked round. A man
stood in his shadow, a foreigner from his coloring and accent. "That was a
very impressive show you put on. You're vicious but badly in need of
training."

"I asked for
no opinion, stranger." Tawl studied the man. He was dark of hair and eyes.
A sword was at his waist and a dagger at his breast, a deep blue cloak gave
bearing, and well-oiled leathers suggested wealth.

"I am a man
who likes to get what he wants. And I'll not dance around the maypole: I want
you." The stranger spread his lips in something akin to a smile. He bowed.
"I am Tyren, Knight of Valdis."

Tawl approached
the whoring district. He was desperate to see Megan. More and more the past was
catching up to him, and he needed her tenderness to help him forget.

He was bitterly
disappointed when there was no answer at her door. Forcing his way into her
room, he tore off a section of his deep green cloak as a message that he'd been
there-Megan would be unable to read a written note.

He took a moment
to look around. It was obvious that Megan had not been there for several days;
rats scuttled across the floor, flies swarmed around a slice of rotting pie,
and dust lay thick on table and chair. Megan was a girl who liked to keep
things tidy. Puzzled, he searched around some more, noting that her few dresses
and belongings were still there. He looked under the heavy hearth stone where
Megan had kept her money; there was no sign of the gold coins. He sighed sadly.
She'd taken the money and left. He could hardly blame her-he had urged her to
go-it was just that he had not expected her to go so soon.