The Baker's Boy (47 page)

Jack looked up as
the door creaked open. Standing on the threshold was Baralis. He was not
surprised to see him, and in fact felt relieved that he had finally come. Jack
had not enjoyed the waiting. It was time they sorted things out. He started to
stand, Baralis raised his arm.

"No, Jack, do
not rise." His voice was smooth and commanding. "You know why I am
here?"

"You are here
to question me." Jack stood up in defiance. He would not look up to his
captor.

A flicker of
annoyance registered on Baralis' face, but he remained unprovoked by Jack's
action. "I am here to find out the truth." Baralis stepped forward,
his shadow falling upon Jack. "What are you, Jack? Who do you work
for?" His voice was almost a whisper. "What happened that morning in
the kitchens?"

Jack shook his
head. He was frightened, but nothing in the world would make him show that to
Baralis.

"You refuse
to tell me, boy?"

"I can't tell
you what I do not know myself."

"Don't play
games with me, boy. You will regret it if you do." Baralis continued, his
voice menacingly low. "The loaves, Jack. You and I both know those loaves
had been ... altered. Tell me what happened. Were you practicing your skills of
drawing and lost control?"

"I don't
know." Jack struggled to keep his voice level. "If I made anything
happen, it was not by intention." He'd spoken the truth, but it held no
charm of protection. He was more afraid than ever.

Baralis thought
for a moment, his gray eyes the color of blades. "Tell me, boy, has this
happened to you before?"

"No."

"Come, come,
now." Baralis' voice was a silk sheath with a dagger at its center.
"A trick to please the maidens? A prank to annoy Frallit? What have you
done before?"

"Nothing. The
loaves were an accident."

"An accident!
Power is never drawn by accident."

Jack felt the
stirring of something, the same pressure as before, only minutely different. It
took a moment to realize it came from Baralis, not himself. Fear consumed
Jack's consciousness, leaving barely enough space for thoughts of survival.

Baralis' voice
became louder. Jack had never seen the man so riled. "Look at me,
boy." The weight of Baralis' will pressed against him, and he looked into
his eyes. "Tell me the truth. Where did your power come from?" Jack's
head began to feel heavy, burdened with a force he could not name. He felt in
danger of losing himself, of his mind being crushed by the strength of Baralis'
will.

"I don't
know."

The burden lifted
a little. Jack felt his stomach heave with nausea. Baralis held him in his
thrall. "Oh yes, you do, Jack. All the answers are there within you. If
you choose not to tell me, I will be forced to pry them out."

Strangely, amidst
the turmoil, Baralis' words stood out like glowing embers in the dark: was the
man right, were the answers within him?

A sharp stab of
pain followed by unbearable pressure stopped all thought of answers. It felt
like a hundred tiny incisions were being made in his brain. Baralis was the
surgeon.

"Who are you
working for? Tell me. "

"I work for
no one." Pain made Jack strong. "Leave me alone!" There was
something growing, something of his own. Bile came to his throat. Such sickness
it made him dizzy.

For an instant,
Baralis backed away. A second later Jack was in agony. Pain coursed through his
spine. His eyes were drawn into their sockets; he felt as if Baralis were
wringing the power from him.

"I will have
the answers from you," he said.

The man was in his
mind, searching, burrowing deep within his being. The pain was all consuming;
it blazed away, kindling his very soul. His thoughts collapsed downward to a
place where they'd never been. Through suffering came peace. Everything was
clear. He knew what he was and what he must do. His mother was there, her
secrets revealed; she'd been so much cleverer-and braver--than he had ever known.
The figure in the shade was his father. Jack strained to make him out. A spasm
wracked his body, and he fought against it-he would not lose himself to the
force of Baralis' mind.

The pain was so
terrible it pushed the breath from his lungs. The visions fled with the light
at their side, and left him to darkness. Alone, he struggled till he knew no
more.

"Didn't I
tell you Mulberry Street was grand?" Nabber looked to Tawl for
confirmation.

"You did
indeed." They were in a part of Rorn that Tawl had never seen before. Fine
buildings lined the street, elegantly pillared, sided in marble and gleaming
white stone.

The road was
tastefully thread with trees and bushes, not a piece of rotting vegetation in
sight; even the air smelled fragrant. Tawl had just delivered the first of the
letters from Larn. He was anxious to deliver the second one.

"The
archbishop's palace is not a stone's throw away," said Nabber. Tawl had
found the young street urchin to be a wealth of information regarding Rorn.
Their journey to Mulberry Street had been marked by Nabber waving hellos at
every dodgy-looking character they'd passed. "Now, if you think that place
you delivered the letter was fancy, you should set your eyes on the palace. I
could take you there next, if you like."

"Another
time. Lead me on to Tassock Lane, Nabber." Tawl didn't know what it was
that made him so eager to be free of his debt from Larn. It was as if as long
as he held their letters, they had some claim upon him. "How far away is
it?"

"Not far, but
it's not as nice as this place." Tawl was glad to hear it; he had not
liked the feel of Mulberry Street one little bit. It seemed to him that beneath
all the splendor lay something rank and furtive.

Before long the
district changed. People walked on the streets, vendors sold their wares,
tempting passersby to purchase hot chestnuts or toasted onion cakes or rolls
stuffed with fragrant lamb. Tawl could see that Nabber was hungry, and he
admired the way that the boy ostentatiously ignored the food on display; he was
determined to show Tawl that he would complete his part of the bargain before
expecting the payment.

The two walked a
little further, and then Nabber slipped down a little side street.
"Tassock Lane," pronounced the boy. It was a dark street, the
buildings blocking out what little light was left of the day. It was home to
many traders: boot repair, sign painting, saddlers, none of whom appeared to be
doing much business.

Tawl bid the boy
wait and walked down the lane alone. The priest had told him to deliver the
letter to a man who lived above a small bake shop. He was beginning to think
the priest was mistaken. He had walked nearly the full distance of the street
and had found no such place. He could see a dead end looming ahead, but as he
drew nearer he saw that the last building was indeed a bakery. Tawl walked into
the small shop; what few items it had on offer looked neither fresh nor
appetizing.

The tired-looking
woman behind the counter was openly hostile. "What d'you want?" she
demanded. Tawl thought that it was rather an odd way for a shopkeeper to greet
her customers.

"I have a
letter for the man who lives upstairs."

"Oh, have you
indeed? And who might this letter be off?"

"I'm afraid,
madam, I cannot say." The woman snorted loudly and Tawl decided not to
leave the letter with her. "If you please, I would be grateful if you
could direct me upstairs." The woman snorted again, but stood up.

"Follow
me." She led him through a doorway and up a narrow flight of stairs. There
was a brief passageway with three doors leading from it. "You'll be
wanting the second door," said the woman.

"How can you
be sure who I want? I have not told you his name."

"You'll be
wanting the second door," she repeated. "All people coming here
delivering letters want the second door." She watched as Tawl knocked on
the door.

A slight, wiry man
answered. Taw] saw confusion and something more in the man's eyes. He spoke the
name he had been given by the priest and the man nodded, shaking slightly.

"I have a
letter for you." Tawl pulled it from his belt. Understanding dawned in the
man's eyes. He grabbed at the letter and shut the door in Tawl's face. Tawl
looked around for the woman, but she had withdrawn. He made his way down the
stairs and out of the shop, his mind trying to grasp what expression he had
seen flit across the man's features when he first set eyes upon him.

"I thought
you'd skipped out on me," said Nabber as Tawl walked up to him.
"You've been a fine time. A man could starve to death with waiting."
Tawl smiled, knowing this was the boy's way of reminding him about his part of
the bargain.

"Fish pie and
eel ends it is, then." They both laughed heartily. Tawl was relieved to be
free of his obligation to Larn.

Bringe drew his
blade once more over the whetstone. The action produced a scraping noise which
he found pleasing. He ran his thumb across the huge ax blade. Swords and knives
were for weaklings. The ax was the weapon of a real man. No simpering lord had
the balls to yield an ax. Bringe rolled his phlegm and spat in disgust. He
dipped his rag into the pot of congealing pig fat and proceeded to work it into
the blade; it would need to be well greased tonight. He scooped out a handful
of the soft, yellow lard and wrapped it in the rag in case he had want of it
later.

There was little
need for him to be quiet as he left his house. His wife was drunk, and that,
combined with a sound beating, had rendered her unconscious. As he passed the
inert form of his spouse lying on the dirt floor, he aimed a passing kick at
her chest. She groaned faintly in acknowledgment.

It was a fine
night, thought Bringe as he walked down the hill balancing the weight of the
massive ax on his shoulder. A crescent moon glowed weakly in the cold sky,
providing just the right amount of light he needed. A full moon would have been
too bright; sharp eyes could see on a full moon. His step was light and he
hummed a tune to himself. A fine tune, with words that spoke of the delights of
a certain young maiden. Bringe always thought of Gerty when he heard it. It was
true that she had neither the golden hair nor perfect skin of the girl in the
song, but she was warm and willing and he required no more in a woman. It would
not be long before she would be his. With his wife out of the way and money in
his pocket, he would take Gerty for his own.

After a short
while he reached his destination: a secluded area of apple orchards. The
portion of land lay in a gentle valley with the ground rising around it. Bringe
knew the nearest farmhouse was way over the rise. He would be observed by no
one. He was not a counting man, but he figured there were at least five score
of trees in the valley. It would be hard work.

He rolled up his
sleeves, the curve of his muscles catching the moonlight. He approached the
tree nearest to him, a sturdy, low specimen with a thick trunk. Probably more
than forty years growth, he reckoned. Bringe swung the huge ax above his head
and brought it down with all the force in his body. The blade hacked viciously
into the tree trunk, its cruel edge biting deep within the tree. Bringe swung
again, bending his back low and setting the ax at a different angle. Two more
blows and a large wedge of trunk fell from the tree, leaving it mutilated. The
tender inner wood was now badly exposed. There would be rain and then frost in
the coming days. The rain would permeate the trunk and the frost would cause
the moisture to freeze and swell, damaging the integrity of the tree. Even if
the tree did not wither and rot, it would be some years before it could once
again bear a decent quantity of apples.

Bringe moved on to
the next tree. He reckoned it would take him the greater part of the night to
hack all the trees in the valley, and he had no time to waste.

Tawl awoke with a
start. He was aware of someone moving around the room, and as a reflex he went
for his knife; it wasn't there.

"This what
you're looking for?" The boy held it out for Tawl to take.

"By Bore! How
did you get in here?" Tawl was annoyed at being caught off guard--and by a
mere boy no less. "Easy as can be," said Nabber. "After that
excellent meal last night, when I took my leave of you, I got to thinking that
I had no shelter for the evening, and I thought that you wouldn't be opposed to
the idea of sharing your room. So I made my way up here. You were flat out, so
I just made myself comfy and went out like a light."

"The door was
locked."

"You're a bit
green, ain't you?"

Tawl was at a loss
for words. The boy was right; he had been foolish to trust a locked door. He
had, however, always thought of himself as a light sleeper, yet the boy had not
only broken into his room but also managed to steal his knife. "What time
is it?" he asked testily.

"Dawn's just
about to rise. Time for breakfast, I'd say."

"Buying you
breakfast was not part of the bargain."

"Well, I'll
buy you some, then." The boy pulled a gold coin from his tunic and
grinned. Tawl checked in his belt only to have his suspicions confirmed.

"That's mine,
boy."

"Has it got
your name on?" The boy scrutinized the coin. "I don't believe it
has." Tawl whipped across the room and over to the boy, caught his arm and
twisted it.

"Give it to
me this instant, you little robber." The boy dropped the coin and it rolled
onto the wooden floor. Tawl released the boy and picked up the coin. When he
looked up, the boy was making a great show of rubbing his arm. "You can
stop pretending I hurt you; all I did was squeeze you a little bit. You
wouldn't want me to think you were a crybaby."