The Baker's Boy (48 page)

"Didn't hurt
one bit," said Nabber with exaggerated dignity. "I was just rubbing
it to improve the circulation." Tawl ignored the boy and made his way
around the room. Gathering together his things, he checked in his bag to make
sure the boy had not stolen anything else. Once satisfied that everything was
in his possession, he made his way toward the door.

"Hey, wait a
minute," said the boy, chasing after him. "Leave me be, boy. I have
much to do this morning and I have no need for company." Tawl descended
the stairs of the small inn and walked into the dining area. A middle-aged
woman approached him.

"What can I
be bringing you, sir?" The woman smiled invitingly, adjusting the ruffle
around her bosom. He had no time for a dalliance this morning. He was anxious
to be on his way. Now that he'd paid for the seeing at Larn, it was time to act
upon it. He needed to head for the Four Kingdoms and find the boy.

"I'll take
some mulled holk and a plate of bacon and mushrooms." Tawl knew the cost
would be high, but he would leave the city this day and this could be his last
chance for a proper meal for some time.

"And for your
son?" Tawl looked around to see Nabber standing behind him. The woman
waited expectantly.

He relinquished.
"The same for the boy. Half portion." The woman scuttled off. Tawl
spoke to Nabber, "Sit down, boy, and enjoy your breakfast. It will be your
last meal that I pay for."

Nabber sat down
and began to tear at the warm bread the woman had brought. "While you were
asleep, my friend," he said, "I took the liberty of casting my eyes
upon your circles. Nothing personal, mind, just testing your credentials.
Anyway, I couldn't make out what the scar in the middle was---sort of runs
right through 'em."

Tawl took a deep
draught of ale. "It's none of your business, boy." Nabber opened his
mouth to speak and then thought better of it. They ate the rest of their meal
in silence.

By the time the
Nabber was mopping up the last traces of bacon fat, Tawl was beginning to feel
he'd spoken too harshly. To make up for his bluntness, he offered the boy a
chance to show off his knowledge of Rorn. "Tell me, Nabber, how much would
an old nag set me back in this city?"

"Two gold
pieces," said the boy in between mouthfuls of bread. Rorn was an expensive
place.

"What could I
get for... " Tawl made a quick calculation, "..... ten silvers?"

"A sick
mule."

Tawl could not
help but smile. A mule was no use to him; he could move quicker on foot. He was
beginning to wish he'd kept back more than one gold coin from Megan.

The Four Kingdoms
was a great distance away; it could take him over two months to get there on
foot. Not to mention the mountains: the Great Divide, as they were called, ran
the length of the Known Lands. Tawl realized for the first time that he would be
forced to cross them in deep winter. He would need warmer clothes and supplies.
He decided he would wait until he'd left Rorn to purchase them, not only
because they would be cheaper elsewhere, but also because the climate in Rorn
was warm and he would be forced to carry any clothing he did not wear. If he
was to walk, then he must keep his belongings to a minimum.

Tawl briefly
pondered the idea of asking the Old Man for more money; he was sure it would be
freely given. He was proud, though, and liked little the idea of asking any man
for help. He would have to rely on his own resources. He was not too worried;
there were always ways for a man with a strong arm to earn some money. Still,
he would have to be careful with what money was left once he had paid for his
food and bed.

Tawl finished his
meal and paid his bill. The woman bit on the coin to test its worth, then
handed him twelve silvers in return-less than he had expected. "Where can
I buy some dried goods and a water flask?" he asked Nabber. "And I
need to find my way to the north gate."

"I'll show
you, if you like."

"No,
Nabber." Tawl was anxious to be free of the boy. "I'd rather you just
tell me where to go." The boy nodded and described a place nearby.

Tawl clasped
Nabber's arm in the knightly fashion and bid him farewell. The boy gave him an
unreadable look and wished him "profit on the journey," an unusual
saying, and one Tawl suspected was unique to money-hungry Rorn. He watched as
the boy slipped down an alleyway. Tawl thought he detected a certain reluctance
to his step, but paid it little heed. Nabber would soon be off finding more
lucrative possibilities.

Quickly finding
the place the boy had described, he made his purchases, and was pleased to see
that they were not too expensive. He checked the position of the sun in the
sky. It was time to be on his way.

It was a bright,
gusty morning and the odors of salt and filth mixed on the breeze--it was a
smell that summed up the city in one sharp whiff. Tawl approached the towering
north gate of Rorn. He would not be sorry to leave. Too much had happened here:
imprisonment, torture, the loss of a friend in Megan, and the comprehension of
just how low the knights' reputation had fallen.

Even now, though,
he had things to be thankful for: a chance meeting with a fortune-teller had
led him to Larn. And Larn, in turn, pointed his way west.

Was that always
the way things happened, he wondered, by chance? Fate he wasn't sure of, but
chance seemed a familiar tune. Its arbitrary strains had accompanied him more
than once in his life. It was playing brazenly the day he met Tyren: what were
the chances of a man, whose sole objective at the time was to find new blood
for the knights, being present the afternoon he'd been taunted into a fight by
the village bullies?

Dragonflies
courted in the shade. The breeze was warm on his skin, too warm to dry the
sweat. His legs felt weaknot from the fight, but from the shock of learning
that the man who stood before him came from Valdis.

Tyren looked at
the leg of mutton. "Come back to the village with me and I'll buy you
another-that one's too dirty for roasting."

Tawl was still out
of breath. Pride prevented him from accepting the man's offer. He shook his
head. "No, this will do. Sara can wipe it down."

"Who is
Sara?" asked Tyren. "My sister."

"I'm sure she
won't mind waiting on the joint a little while longer. Come join me for a
drink, and let me tell you about Valdis."

Tawl took a deep
breath; he was still shaken from the fight. "Sir, I don't want to waste
your time. I can't go to Valdis with you." There! he'd done it: put an end
to the matter. What alternative did he have? He couldn't run off and leave his
sisters.

Tyren seemed
amused. "You mean to tell me, boy, that you'd turn your back on the chance
of free training at Valdis?"

Free. Tawl could
hardly believe it. The cleric had told him training cost a small fortune. It
made his refusal even more difficult. "Sir, I have other
obligations."

"What
obligations? Are you an apprenticed baker, or a tied fieldhand?" Tyren's voice
mocked him. "What possible obligations could you have to prevent you
returning with me to Valdis?"

Blood dripped down
Tawl's chin-one of the boys had landed a decent blow. It would be so easy to go
with Tyren and never return home. But he couldn't do it: his sense of what was
right prevented him. "I have two sisters and a baby to care for. My mother
died three years back and they depend on me to live."

"Ah."
Tyren rubbed his short, slick beard. "What about your father? Is he dead,
too?"

"No. We don't
see him very often. He spends his days drinking in Lanholt."

"So you do
the honorable thing. It's a shame you're not free. We could do with more of
your kind in the knights." Tyren smiled, showing his teeth. "Not to
mention the fact that you fight like a demon." He shrugged. "So be
it. Perhaps when your sisters are older. . ."

"Sara is
twelve, the baby is three."

"Hmm. Well,
give thought to my offer, and if you change your mind I'll be staying at the
Bulrush in Greyving for a week." He bowed with grace, his dark cloak
brushing the dust, and then began to walk back to the village.

Tawl raised his
arm to halt him, but never said the words. The sight of the figure retreating
into the distance was more than Tawl could bear. He turned away and began the
journey home-down along the riverbank, across the drying mire. He grew bitter
with every step. He hated his sisters. He hated his mother. He hated his
father. The leg of mutton became a symbol of his duty, and raising it over his
head, he threw it from him with all his strength. The ribbons he crushed
beneath his feet.

His sisters were
at the window, watching for his return. Disappointment at seeing he was
empty-handed was quickly replaced with concern over his injuries. "You've
been beaten," said Sara, dampening a cloth for the blood.

"No, not
beaten," he said. "I put on a fair show."

"You
won?" asked Anna, her voice sharp with excitement.

"It doesn't
matter who won. Go and get me some ointment from the shelf." Sara turned
to Tawl. "They called you names, didn't they?"

Her sympathy
annoyed him. "So what if they did? I'm a grown man. I can fight if I
choose."

"What
happened to the meat? Did it get lost in the fight?"

"Yes,"
he lied.

"It doesn't
matter, Tawl." Sara kissed him on the cheek.

"As long as
you're all right, fish will be fine for Summer Festival."

Slowly, through
their gentle, good humor, they brought him round. He didn't mention his meeting
with Tyren, preferring to be alone with his loss. Three nights he lay awake,
tossing and turning in his bed, his imagination tormenting him with visions of
what could have been. He knew it was unfair to blame his sisters, and he made
an effort not to be short tempered with them. It was easy. Sara and Anna were
so pleased he was unharmed by the fight-and he suspected a little proud of his
performance-that they spent the next few days spoiling him: kissing and hugging
and making his favorite foods.

On the fourth day
they had a visitor. Chance played its final part. Tawl returned from fishing
about mid-morning. The door was ajar and a voice could be heard saying,
"See, I know what my beauties like!" It was his father. Anger boiled
in Tawl's breast. He marched into the room.

"Get lost,
you old drunkard. We've nothing left for you to steal!"

There was complete
silence for an instant. Tawl took in the scene. Sara and Anna were sitting at
their father's feet. The man had two large sacks with him and was dressed like
a king.

"Papa's not
come to steal," said Anna. "He's brought us gifts." She held out
a hand filled with brightly colored ribbons.

"Yes,
Tawl," said Sara. "Father's had a spot of luck at the table."
She looked a little guilty, like a crewman with thoughts of mutiny.

"You mean
gambling." Tawl's voice was hard. "Gambling, carding, call it what
you will. Luck kissed me then made me her lover." His father's voice was
surprisingly level. Though his breath still stunk of ale. "I won a small
fortune. And I'll be putting it to good use."

"How?"
Tawl didn't like the sound of this. He was jealous of the way his sisters were
so excited he'd saved for months to buy them ribbons, and now his father turned
up and was treated like a hero.

"I've come
home to stay. There's no need for you to do everything anymore, Tawl. I'll be
head of the family from now on."

Anna and Sara
looked at him, silently pleading. They were so innocent; they had no idea what
their father was really like. A proper family was the dream they were asking
him to accept.

"You think
you can just come here, after years of neglecting us, and just take over?"
said Tawl. "Well, we don't want you here."

Anna spoke up.
"Tawl, give Papa a chance. He promised us meat everyday and new dresses
each month."

"Ssh,
Anna," said Sara, looking directly at Tawl. "It's not meat or dresses
that we want. It's Father home again." She gave him a sad look.

"See?"
said his father. "My daughters want me home. It's my duty to be here. And
here I'll stay."

That night Tawl
made his way to the Bulrush at Greyving. Tyren came downstairs to meet him.
"I'm free to come with you to Valdis," he said. "My obligation
has been taken away."

Jack was aware of
feeling sick. He lay for some time with his eyes closed, in the hazy state
between sleep and waking. Eventually he opened his eyes. He was staring at the
stone ceiling. Drops of water seeped in through the cracks and threatened to
drip down. His eyesight seemed somehow clearer than he remembered. He could see
the rainbow of colors in the tiny droplets, and the minutest detail of the
stone. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The effect had gone away; he must
have imagined it.

He rose up from
the bench-a little too quickly. As a wave of nausea hit him, he leaned forward
and brought up the contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth clean and began
to feel a little better. His head felt strangely heavy, and when he turned it
seemed to take a minute for his mind to settle back into place.

He strained to
recall the events of the previous day: Baralis had come to him, questioning. He
could remember neither the questions asked nor his own answers, if indeed he had
given any answers at all. He did not believe he had any to give. A glimpse of a
memory tantalized his mind. Something about his mother. He tried to grasp at
it, almost made it out, and then it was gone. Was there some connection between
the questioning and his mother? Or was it just that he was badly shaken by
Baralis' probing and wasn't thinking straight?

He dismissed all
thoughts of the day before and tried to stand up. Testing the strength in his
legs, he found them a little shaky. He had a great thirst and he looked around
the room. There was no water. Jack hammered on the solid wooden door, calling
for water. As he waited for it to be brought to him, he made a decision: he had
to try and escape-he had been weakly submitting for too long. What right had
Baralis to capture him? He had done nothing wrong. One thing was clear: Baralis
suspected him of being more than what he was. If he remained here, he would
surely be subjected to more of whatever Baralis had done to him, or worse.