The Baker's Boy (5 page)

"You can come
out now, pretty one," he called. She could not believe he was addressing
her. She froze, not daring to take a breath. After half a minute, Baralis'
voice called again: "Come now, little one, step into the room, or I will
be forced to find you."

Melli was about to
hide under the bed when Baralis entered the bedroom, casting a long shadow
before him. "Oh, Melli, what big ears you have." He shook his head in
mild reproof. "What a naughty girl you are." His voice had a hypnotic
quality, and she found herself feeling sleepy.

"Now, Melli,
if you are a good girl and promise not to tell what you heard, I will promise
not to tell your father that you heard it." Baralis put down his goblet on
a low table and turned toward her, fixing Melli with the full impact of his
dark and glittering eyes. "Do we have an agreement, my pretty one?"

Melli's head felt
so heavy she found she could barely remember what she was agreeing to. She
nodded as Baralis sat on the bed. "That's a good girl. You are a good
girl, aren't you?" Melli nodded again dreamily. "Come here and sit on
my lap and show me just how good you can be." Melli felt her body move
forward of its own accord. She settled herself on Baralis' lap and put her arms
around his neck. She smelled his scent; it was as compelling as his voice: the
sensuous fragrance of rare spices and sweat.

"That's a
good girl," he said softly, his hands enclosing her waist. "Now tell
me how much can you remember of what you heard." Melli found she couldn't
speak, much less remember; her mind was a blank. Baralis seemed satisfied with
her silence. "Such a very pretty girl." She felt him caress the stiff
fabric of her dress. His hand moved lower, down her leg and under her skirt;
she felt his cool touch upon her calf. She was dimly frightened, but she
couldn't act, and his hand moved upward. Then, with his other hand, Baralis
traced his fingers over her thin breast. She noticed for the first time how
loathsome his hands were, scarred and swollen.

Repulsed by the
sight of the ugly hands, something in Melli stirred, and with great effort she
forced herself out of her lethargy. Her thoughts sharpened into focus and she
pulled away from him. Quick as a flash she stood up and ran out of the chamber,
the sound of Baralis' laughter echoing in her ears.

That little
whippet will be no problem, thought Baralis, as he watched her flee. It was a
shame that she had seen fit to leave so soon. The encounter had just begun to
get interesting. Still, he had more pressing matters to attend to and desire
was already thinning from his blood.

He exited Maybor's
chambers by means of a hidden passage, making his way to his own suite. He must
prepare the poison for the king's arrow: a delicate and time-consuming task.
Also a dangerous one-the many scars and blisterings on his hands could attest
to that. The poison that he would paint on the arrowhead would be of an
especially pernicious kind, and he would not be surprised if, before the day
was through, he had more welts and reddenings etched upon his tender palms.

Baralis had
another task he was anxious to do: he needed to recruit a blind scribe. He'd just
secured the loan of the entire libraries of Tavalisk-the events that he and
Maybor had been discussing were in fact part payment for the loan. He smiled
knowingly. He would have arranged the king's accident regardless of Tavalisk
and his precious library, but it suited Baralis for the moment, to have
Tavalisk believe that he was running the show.

Not that he'd ever
make the mistake of underestimating Tavalisk. The man had a dangerous talent
for trouble-making. One wave of his heavily jewelled fingers, and he could
sanction the wiping out of entire villages. Whenever it suited the interests of
his beloved Rorn, Tavalisk could be heard to cry loudly, "Heretics. "
Baralis had to admire the particularly potent power which the man's position
afforded him.

It was, however,
not too stable a position. In fact, that was part of the reason Tavalisk had
agreed to loan his library. He needed Rorn to be prosperous; as long as the
city was doing what it did best-making money by trade and banking-his place
would be assured. Rorn, much like a surgeon in times of plague, always did best
when others did badly. A spark of insurgency in the north would result in the
cautious money moving south.

There was more, of
course. With Tavalisk one always had to be careful-the man had knowledge of
sorcery. How much was hard to judge, as rumor was never a reliable source.
Baralis had met him once. It had proven difficult to take his measure-his
obesity had proved an effective distraction, yet it was enough for each man to
know what the other was. Yes, it was best to be wary of Tavalisk: an enemy was
at his most dangerous when he had intimate knowledge of the weapons at his
opponent's command. That one day Tavalisk would become his enemy was a fact
Baralis never lost sight of.

But for the time
being, the alliance served both men: Tavalisk was able to promote
income-generating conflict within the Four Kingdoms, and in turn Baralis was
given access to some of the rarest and most secret writings in the Known Lands.

He was no fool; he
knew, even before the huge chests had arrived' last week, that there would be
volumes missing. Tavalisk would have kept back those writings which he
considered too valuable or too dangerous for him to see.

There was still,
however, a wealth of knowledge in what remained: brilliant, fantastic books,
the likes of which he'd never imagined, bound in leather and skin and silk.
Relating histories of people he'd never heard of, showing pictures of creatures
he'd never seen, giving details of poisons he'd never made. Infinitely delicate
manuscripts, made brittle by the passing of time, tied with fraying thread,
providing insights into ancient conflicts, showing maps of the stars in the
heavens, presenting listings of treasures long lost to the world ... and much,
much more. Baralis was made lightheaded by the thought of so much knowledge.

One thing he had
determined to do was have all of Tavalisk's library copied before it was
returned. To this end, Baralis needed a blind scribe: someone who could copy
exactly, sign for sign, what was written on a page but not understand a word of
it. Baralis had no intention of sharing the rare and wondrous knowledge which
the books contained.

He needed a boy
with a dexterous hand and an eye for detail, a clever boy, but a boy who had
never been taught to read. Crope was out of the question; he was a blithering,
big-handed fool. The sons of nobles and squires were taught to read from an
early age and so were of no use. Baralis would have to look elsewhere for a
blind scribe.

Jack was woken up
by Tilly. The pastry maid took great delight in shaking him much harder than
was necessary. "What is it?" he asked, immediately worried that he'd
overslept. The light filtering through the kitchens was pale and tenuous, a
product of freshly broken dawn. Pain soared up his arm as he stood, and the
memory of Frallit's words the night before raced after it.

Tilly put her
finger to her lips, indicating that he should be quiet. She beckoned him to
follow her, and she lead him to the storeroom where the flour for baking was
kept.

"Willock
wants to see you." Tilly pushed one of the sacks of flour aside to reveal
a hidden store of apples. She selected one, hesitated a moment, considering
whether or not to offer Jack one, decided against it, and then pulled the flour
sack back into place.

"Are you sure
it's me he wants, Tilly?" Jack was genuinely surprised, as he had little
dealing with the cellar steward. He cast his mind back a few weeks earlier when
he'd secretly tapped a few flagons of ale on a dare from a stablehand. It
suddenly seemed quite likely that Willock had discovered the missing ale; after
all, the man was known for his scrutinous eye. Jack had a horrible suspicion
that the famous and slightly bulging eye had turned its gaze his way.

"Of course
I'm sure, pothead! You're to go straight to the beer cellar. Now get a move
on." Tilly's sharp teeth bit through the apple skin. She watched as Jack
smoothed down his clothes and hair. "I wouldn't bother if I were you. No
amount of grooming can make a stallion out of a packhorse." Tilly gave
Jack a superior look and wiped the apple juice from her chin.

He hurried down to
the beer cellar, wondering what form his punishment might take. Last year, when
he'd been caught raiding the apple barrels in an attempt to brew his own cider,
Willock had given him a sound thrashing. Jack sincerely hoped another sound
thrashing would be called for. The alternative was much worse: being forced to
leave the castle.

The kitchens of
Castle Harvell had been his home for life; he had been born in the servants'
hall. When his mother grew too sick to tend him, the scullery maids had
fostered him; when he needed food to eat, the cooks had fed him; when he did
something wrong, the master baker had scolded him. The kitchens were his haven and
the great oven was his hearth. Life in the castle wasn't easy, but it was
familiar, and to a boy without Father and mother or anyone to call his own,
familiarity was as close as he could get to belonging.

The beer cellar
was a huge chamber filled with rows of copper vats in which various grades of
ale were produced. When Jack's eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he was
surprised to find Frallit was there, standing beside Willock, sipping on a cup
of ale. Both men looked decidedly nervous to Jack. Willock spoke first.
"Did anyone follow you down here?" His small eyes flicked to the
door, checking if anyone was behind him.

"No,
sir."

Willock hesitated
for a moment, rubbing his cleanshaven chin. "My good friend the master
baker has informed me that you are nimble with your hands. Is this true,
boy?"

The cellar
steward's voice seemed strained, and Jack was beginning to feel more than a
little worried. He brushed his hair back from his face in an attempt to appear
nonchalant.

"Speak up,
boy, now is not the time for false modesty. The master baker says you have a
real feel for kneading the dough. He also tells me you like to carve and
whittle wood. Is this true?"

"Yes,
sir." Jack was confused. After last night's encounter with Frallit, he
hardly expected praise.

"I can see
you are a polite boy and that's good, but the master baker also tells me you
can be quite a handful and need a good whippin' from time to time. Is this
true?" Jack didn't know how to respond, and Willock continued. "A
rare opportunity may be coming your way. You wouldn't want to miss a rare
opportunity, would you, boy?"

The hair which
Jack had pushed from his eyes was threatening to fall forward again. He was
forced to hold his head at a slight angle to prevent its imminent downfall.
"No, sir."

"Good."
Willock glanced nervously in the direction of several huge brewing vats. A man
stepped out from behind them. Jack could not see him clearly, as he was beyond
the light, but he could tell the stranger was a nobleman from the soft rustle of
his clothes.

The stranger
spoke, his mellifluous tones oddly out of place in the beer cellar. "Jack,
I want you to answer one question. You must give me a truthful reply and do not
be mistaken, I will know if you lie." Jack had never heard a voice like
the stranger's before, low and smooth but charged with power. He didn't
question the man's ability to tell truth from lie and nodded obediently. At
this sudden move of his head, Jack's hair fell over his eyes.

"I will
answer you truthfully, sir."

"Good."
Jack could make out the curve of thin lips. "Come forward a little so I
may better see you." Jack moved a few steps nearer the stranger. The man
stretched out a misshapen hand and brushed Jack's hair from his face. For the
briefest of instances, the stranger's flesh touched his, and it took all of
Jack's willpower not to recoil from the touch. "There is something about
you, boy, that is familiar to me." The stranger's gaze lingered over him.
Jack began to sweat despite the chillness of the cellar. The pain in his arm
sharpened to a needlepoint. "No matter," continued the stranger,
"on to the question." He shifted slightly and the candlelight fell
directly onto his face. His eyes shone darkly. "Jack, have you ever been
taught how to read?"

"No,
sir." Jack was almost relieved by the question; the threat of being
banished from the castle receded upon its asking.

The stranger held
Jack enthralled with the force of his stare. "You speak the truth, boy. I
am pleased with you." The man turned to where Willock and Frallit were
standing. "Leave me and the boy alone." Jack had never seen either
man move so fast, and he might have actually laughed if it hadn't been for the
stranger's presence.

The man watched
with cold eyes as the two scuttled away. He moved full into the light, his
silken robes softly gleaming. "Do you know who I am, boy?" Jack shook
his head. "I am Baralis, King's Chancellor." The man paused
theatrically, giving Jack sufficient time to fully understand the importance of
the person who was facing him. "I see by the look on your face that you
have at least heard of me." He smiled. "You are probably a little
curious as to what I want of you. Well, I will prolong your wait no longer.
Have you heard of a blind scribe?"

"No,
sir."

"A blind
scribe is a contradiction in terms, for he is not blind, nor does he understand
what he sees. I can tell I am confusing you. Let me put it simply. I require
someone to spend several hours each day copying manuscripts word for word, sign
for sign. Could you do this?"

"Sir, I have
no skill with pen. I have never even held one."

"I would have
it no other way." The man who now had a name drew back into the shadows.
"Your job is merely to copy. The skill with pen is nothing. Frallit tells
me you are a clever boy-you will pick that up in a matter of days." Jack
did not know if he was more amazed at Baralis' offer or that Frallit had
actually spoken well of him.