The Baker's Boy (46 page)

Tawl ran his
fingers through his hair. It was better this way. He could only have stayed one
night and they would have parted once more, bringing each other new pain. Tawl
closed the splintered door behind him.

He walked for a
while down the dirt-ridden streets, marveling at the warmth of the sun-at this
time of year the marshlands would be bitingly cold. He took the two letters
from his belt and shuddered to see that the wax seals they bore were embossed
with an elaborately fashioned letter "L." He would rest a lot easier
once they were out of his possession. Never having heard of the streets where
they were to be delivered, he called to a young boy who was running past,
"Hey, young fellow."

The boy looked
surprised at being beckoned. "You mean me?" he said, stopping in his
tracks.

"Yes, you. I
wonder if you can help me. I need someone to direct me to a couple of
streets."

"What's in it
for me?" The boy looked squarely at him. Tawl could not help but smile at
the boy's audacity.

"What do you
want?" he asked.

"Two
coppers," replied the boy, quick as a flash. Tawl regarded the boy: he was
no more than eleven summers old, poorly dressed in a torn cotton tunic. He
looked as if he had not eaten in several days.

"I will give
you no money, young man, but I promise you a hot meal." Tawl could clearly
see the boy sizing up his offer. "How do I know you won't let me swing,
once I've shown you to where you want to go?"

"You have my
word."

"People round
here say the word of a foreigner is as good as no word at all."

"So you think
me a foreigner?"

"It's as
obvious as my own left foot."

Tawl stifled a
smile. "What would you say if I told you that I'm a knight, pledged to
honor my word?" He bowed slightly and watched as the boy decided what to
do.

"Very well,
I'll take you where you need to go. Not that I'm impressed by you being a
knight, not that I believe you either, mind. I'm only going with you because
I've got nothing better to do at the moment and I quite feel like stretching my
legs a bit. O' course I'll hold you to that hot meal."

"I'm grateful
for your help. Now the places I need to find are called Mulberry Street and
Tassock Lane."

The boy whistled.
"You're getting quite a bargain."

"Why do you
say that?"

"Because
those streets are both on the other side of town. We've a long walk ahead, I
can tell you. You must know someone in high places."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning
Mulberry Street ain't for the likes of you and me. High and mighty that place
is." The boy was obviously impressed.

"Let's get
going then," urged Tawl. He was not interested in the people whom the
letters were for, he just wished to finish his duty as messenger as soon as
possible and be off.

"What's your
name?" he asked as the boy led him down the street.

"You tell me
yours first."

"Tawl."

"Is that
all?" The boy was clearly disappointed. "I thought knights had long,
fancy names like Culvin the Daring or Rodderick the Brave."

"We're only
given the fancy bit once we've died a hero's death." Tawl's eyes twinkled
merrily. The boy seemed pleased with his answer and was silent for a while as
he led Tawl through a series of alleyways.

"A word of
advice, Tawl, if I may be so bold." The boy spoke in the hushed tones of a
conspirator. "If I were you, I wouldn't go around telling complete
strangers I was a knight. Knights aren't the most popular people in Rorn these
days, if you get my drift."

Had it come to
this? Had the knights' reputation fallen so low that even street urchins warned
him to hide his identity? But then what did he expect-Rorn and Valdis had long
been at each others throats. Tawl wanted to believe it was rivalry, nothing
more, that spurred the hate for his order. But it was getting harder for him to
ignore the rumors. He knew Valdis would not answer its critics--that was not
the knight hood's way-and although Tawl respected the silence, he also saw the
harm it did. Indeed, he had been a victim of the silence: the archbishop had
felt free to imprison and torture him for a year, because he knew full well
that Valdis would do nothing to retaliate.

The boy spoke up,
distracting him from his thoughts, "I'm known as Nabber, by the way."

"Well,
Nabber, seems as you know so much about Rorn, what sort of food would you
suggest I buy you for supper?"

"The best
dish in all of Rorn is eel pie. I'll have a slice of that, some fried fish
ends, and some leek soup-no carrots o' course."

"Of
course," echoed Tawl absently, his thoughts far to the west in Valdis.

Maybor was in the
process of being fitted for a new set of robes, when he was interrupted by the
entrance of his servant. "What is it, Crandle?"

"A letter has
just been delivered to you, my lord. A handler awaits your reply. Most excited
he was, says it was flown by an eagle."

"Who is it
from?" asked Maybor distractedly. He was trying on a particularly
magnificent tunic and was admiring his reflection in his new mirror.

"I can't say,
sir."

"Tell me,
Crandle, do you think this tunic a little tight? My robemaker assures me it
fits perfectly." Maybor casually slapped the unfortunate man. "Be
careful with those pins, you sniveling dolt!"

"I think the
tunic looks most becoming, sir."

"Well,
Crandle, I'm inclined to think you are right, I do look rather ... what's the
word I'm looking for?"

"Regal,"
ventured Crandle.

"Yes, that's
the one. Now tell me more about the letter." He turned to the robemaker.
"You can go now. Remember I want more embroidery and jewels on all of
them; they are far too plain at the moment." The man backed out of the
room, taking his work with him. "Damn fool, he has no idea how to make
fine robes. I'll have to send to Bren to get some decent attire and that will
take nearly two months. If Baralis was here this moment, I would gladly squeeze
the life out of his treacherous frame with my bare hands. Now, where were
we?"

"The
letter."

"Yes, yes,
let me have a look at it, man. It must be something pressing to be sent on the
leg of a bird." Crandle handed it to Maybor, who examined it carefully.
"Go now!"

Maybor was
beginning to feel a little excited. The letter had obviously come a great
distance; the writing on its exterior was crafted in a style unfamiliar to him.
He broke the seal and unraveled it. Maybor was not an accomplished reader and
that, combined with the unusual handwriting, caused him some difficulty
deciphering its contents. Once he was sure he understood what the letter said,
he sat down on the side of his bed, rubbing his chin reflectively.

Maybor sat for
some time, deep in thought. After a while there was a knock on his door. He was
about to tell his servant to go away when in walked his eldest son, Kedrac.

"Father, you
look pale, what is the matter?"

"Nothing is
the matter, my boy. I am feeling quite well." Maybor looked down at the
letter and then to his son. He made a decision. "I have just received an
interesting proposal."

"From
whom?" His son's tone conveyed studied disinterest.

"I'm not sure
... I could hazard a guess, but I won't. Suffice to say I believe it to be from
someone with great power and influence." Maybor watched his son's face
become more attentive.

"And what
does this person of power and influence propose, Father?"

"He proposes
an alliance of sorts." Maybor picked his words carefully. "He
suggests that we have mutual interests and that we would do well to combine our
resources."

"You speak in
riddles, Father."

"Baralis!"
Maybor shouted angrily. "The man who sent this letter seeks to keep that
foul upstart in his place."

"Surely,
Father, we have no need of such an alliance. Can we not arrange for Baralis to
be done away with ourselves? Say the word and I will slit his slippery throat
myself."

"No,"
warned Maybor, his thoughts darting to the fate of the assassin. "I order
you to stay clear of him." His tone invited no argument on the subject.
The eyes of father and son met for a brief instant, and the son relinquished.

"So, Father,
what will you do about the letter?"

"I will reply
that I am interested in an alliance. I will be careful not to appear too eager
and will insist that the sender names himself."

Kedrac nodded his
approval. "How will you know where to send your reply?"

"There is a
handler waiting upon it. I will pen it this very day."

"The person
in question must be anxious to have used a pigeon."

"An
eagle," corrected Maybor. Both men were silent for a moment. It was
rumored that sorcery was the only thing that could compel an eagle to act as a
messenger. Maybor thought it wise to change the subject:

"Tell me, is
there any news of your accursed sister?"

"That is what
I came to talk to you about. The search is not going well. She's been gone
twenty-four days and her trail is cold. The Royal Guard have swept the forest
and the nearby villages. They have found no sign of her."

"Melliandra
cannot have vanished into thin air. She must be somewhere."

"There have
been rumors."

"What
rumors?"

"A girl
fitting her description was said to have been whipped in Duvitt."

"Duvitt! Why,
that treasonous town is five days hard ride from here; she would surely have
not made it so far on foot."

"We already
know she bought a horse in Harvell the first day she escaped."

"Still,
Kedrac, no one would dare to whip a nobleman's daughter. It must be nonsense
made up by idle minds." Maybor considered for a moment. "Look into
it, anyway. Do not leave it to the Royal Guard, send one of your trusted men to
Duvitt to check out the rumor. Time is rushing on, she must be found."

"Very well,
Father, I will see to it right away."

Maybor watched his
son leave the room, and once the door was closed he read the letter once more.
A ghost of a smile played at his lips, this was indeed a most interesting
development. He sat down at his writing table and started the painstaking task
of penning a reply.

Baralis was making
his way from the meeting chamber; he'd just had an audience with the queen. He
had given her the medicine for the king-much watered down, of course and he was
now feeling quite pleased. The queen had reluctantly admitted that the search
for Melliandra was not going well; not only was there no trail leading back to
him, there was no trail at all. He should have expected no less. All the Royal
Guard was famous for was looking good in uniform!

It had been many
days since he and the queen had struck the wager, and now all he had to do was
hold the girl for a further few weeks to win the bet. And what a prize! His
plans would at long last start to come together-he would force the queen to
marry Kylock to Catherine of Bren, the duke of Bren's only child. It would be
the greatest match in the history of the Known Lands. Kylock would rule over
the two largest powers in the north. With the great military might of Bren and
the Four Kingdoms combined, Kylock would be able to crush the other northern
states. The Halcus were already weak-he had seen to that. Annis and Highwall,
and as far east as Ness-they would all fall. Kylock would rule over the
mightiest empire ever known. He, Baralis, son of a farmer, would be kingmaker,
shaper of an empire.

Kylock was his
creature. With more subtlety than a courtesan's smile, he'd drawn him in. A
tantalizing conversation here, a glimpse of greatness there, a provocative use
of power, and the boy was his. Kylock's mind, so like his own, craved intimate
knowledge of those forces that could neither be seen nor touched. It had been
so easy; the boy was set apart from birth-and he knew it-a loner, incapable of
making friends, gradually retreating to a world of inner torment. Kylock was on
the edge of madness. 'Twould be so easy to guide him along-he was born to it!

Baralis made his
way into the castle courtyard. Once he was sure he was not being observed, he
slipped into the concealed entrance of the passageway that led to the haven.

Thinking about the
future was one thing, making it happen was another. He would let no one, no
matter how small and inconsequential, stay his path. It was time he questioned
the boy.

Jack was sitting
on the wooden bench, his legs drawn up to his chest for warmth. He had no
cloak, as he had torn it up and used it to bandage Melli's back. There had been
much time to think over the past days. He'd been entirely alone except for the
occasional guard who came to taunt him. So much had happened since that fateful
morning with the loaves: it wasn't worth denying the incident; it had happened
and he was responsible. What it made him varied according to who he spoke to.
Tradition would call him a demon. Falk would call him a man capable of making
his own choices for good or evil.

Too many times now
for denial he'd felt the buildup of power within. It set him apart, but was
there a purpose behind it? Or was it random, like a scattering of autumn
leaves? There had always been a part of him that felt different from everyone
else. For so long now he'd thought it was due to a lack of background in his
life. With a mother full of secrets and a father unnamed, it was a form of
escape to believe he was special. In his mind his father had been a spy, a
knight, a king. His mother was a gypsy princess in hiding from her family. Such
romances were his greatest conciliation as a child.

Yet one of them
had given him this. Did his power come with some obligation? Was it meant to be
used, or hidden? Jack had worked as Baralis' scribe for several years and knew
some of the powers the man possessed. Was his fate to be like Baralis? A man
who concealed more than he showed, a man who frightened small children and
provoked warding signs when his back was turned?