The Baker's Boy (65 page)

"I see you
could resist me no longer." Maybor began unlacing his tunic. He was
puzzled at first when she did not reply, but then decided she was feigning
sleep or shyness.

Maybor liked to
play games as much as the next man and found his interest growing.

He took off his
robe and tunic and then pulled off his leggings. He stood naked and erect. The
girl kept her eyes firmly shut. "So you are too modest to look upon me,
are you?" He strode toward the bed, his ardor swelling. "Then I must
look upon you!" With that he tugged the covers off the bed.

He reeled back in
horror, gorge rising in his stomach. The girl was skinned from the neck down.
Her body was a mass of red flesh. "Oh my God, oh my God." Maybor's
knees weakened beneath him. He fell to the floor and vomited, his whole body
racked with spasms.

Jack awoke and was
eager to be up and on his way. Melli was still asleep, but the old woman had
obviously been up for some time as the fire was well stoked and there was
porridge cooking in the pot. She smiled her good morning and put finger to lip,
urging him not to speak; she wanted Melli to sleep a little longer.

She ladled some
porridge into a bowl and topped it with a spoonful of pig lard. Before she
handed the bowl to him, she slipped something into his hand. Jack looked down
to see one shiny gold coin. He immediately went to give it her back-a gold coin
to the old woman probably represented five years of savings. She shook her head
insistently and forced the coin back on him. Because they could not speak, Jack
could neither protest nor thank her; he suspected that was the way she wanted
it.

Jack enjoyed the
pale warmth of the early morning kitchen. The banked fire and the smell of pork
in the cauldron reminded him of life in the castle. He felt the need to be
busy. He wanted to feel the soft touch of flour beneath his fingers and the
familiar tang of yeast in his nostrils. He stood up and began to look around
the kitchen for what he needed. His days at Castle Harvell were behind him now;
at least by baking bread he could ensure they weren't forgotten.

"What you
doing, boy?" whispered the old woman.

"I thought
I'd bake you some loaves. It's the only thing I can repay you with."

"There's no
oven for baking, I take my dough to the village."

"You have
flour and yeast and plenty of pig fat?"

"That I
do."

"Then I'll
make pitchy bread."

The woman brought
out the ingredients and Jack measured the flour into a bowl and set it to warm
by the fire. He mixed milk and water, not adding the yeast until the liquid was
warm to the touch. Master Frallit swore that the secret of good pitchy bread
was not to combine the ingredients until they were as "warm as the blood
of a lustful virgin." Once Jack had mixed in eggs and pig fat, he set the
batter to rise. It would be two full hours before it was light enough to form
the countless tiny holes that gave pitchy bread its unique texture.

Jack was surprised
to find he had an audience. Melli was awake and quietly watching him. There was
an unfamiliar expression on her pale face. She smiled gently. For one brief
moment Jack let his thoughts arch upward. Was there something between them?
Melli's expression was so tender; her eyes so dark and expressive as she looked
upon his face. He began to feel self-conscious under her scrutiny: his arms
were brushed with flour and there was grease beneath his fingertips. He
resisted the urge to brush himself clean, to straighten his hair, to turn his
back. He was a baker's boy and he would not pretend otherwise. Let her see him
for what he was.

Melli was the
first to look away. She stood up and poured herself a cup of buttermilk. Her
hand was shaking as she put down the jug.

Determined not to
rush, Jack picked up the cloth and began to wipe the lard from his fingers. He
wondered what had happened between them yesterday. She had grown cold and
afraid all of a sudden, as if she were looking beyond the present. He didn't
want to think about the future. The past weeks had demonstrated to him that it
was anything but set. Why, less than two months back he thought he would be a
baker for life, and now he didn't even know where he'd be spending the next
night.

As a baker he
would have led a secure and stable life, food on his table, warmth and shelter,
but Jack knew he wanted more now. The world of the castle kitchens seemed small
and confining. It was true that he had been forced from it, but now he realized
it had freed him to do what he wanted, to shape his own future. Never mind that
Melli had seen bleakness ahead; nothing was preordained, he could change things
for the better.

"Here you go,
lad." The old woman handed him a new tunic and a cloak. "Try them on
while the batter's rising, see of they fit. They were my husband's and
unfortunately he was not as tall and broad as you are." Jack pulled the
tunic on. It was a little tight. "Hmm, if you were only staying one more
day I could alter it a bit more."

"It will do
fine. I thank you for everything." Jack held the woman's gaze. He knew he
would insult her if he mentioned the coin and so did not.

"Your turn,
my girl." She held out a heavy wool dress, plain but beautifully colored.
"This should fit you. I have taken the hem down." Melli looked a
little reluctant to take her dress off, so Jack volunteered to step out for a
while so she could change.

The day had begun
clean and chill, no sign of rain-a good day for traveling. He walked down the
dirt track to the road and looked east. Halcus, Annis, Bren-they all lay ahead,
places of wonder and possibility. He almost wished he could walk away now,
alone, so avid was he to begin his future. He wanted to be free from running
and fear, to walk a path without having to look back.

Suddenly, the
image of the terrified mercenaries being blasted from their horses flashed
before his eyes. It was a warning-this was what he was capable of. He was
unpredictable, a danger to those around him. Jack shuddered involuntarily, his
mood of optimism gone in an instant. He headed back to the farm, feeling the
need for company.

He entered the
small door, bowing his head to get through. He was met by a beautiful sight:
Melli had put on the deep blue dress; the color matched her eyes and
complemented her dark hair. This, thought Jack, was Lord Maybor's daughter. How
could he have thought, even for an instant, that a girl as high born and proud
as Melli could be interested in him?

"Just in time
for hot cakes," cried the old woman. She'd turned the batter onto the
baking stone, and the pitchy bread was almost done. Catching Jack's look, she
said, "Come now, lad, I'm too old to wait half a morning for a few extra
holes." Her eyes twinkled brightly. "Besides, you'll be off soon, and
I don't want you to spend your last hour baking when you should be resting."
She piled the bread rounds onto a platter. "Eat up, you've a long day
journeying ahead, and a full stomach is a traveler's best friend."

Jack and Melli sat
down across the table and made a feast of piping hot pitchy bread smothered
with butter and cheese. As they ate, the woman bustled about the room making
bundles. "Jack," she said, "I noticed you have no blade."
Jack realized he must have lost his sword at some point. "We all know
there is trouble on the road, so I want you to take this." She handed him
a long, nasty-looking knife. "I use this to slit the pig's throats
with."

"How will you
slaughter them without it?" asked Jack, swilling down the last of his food
with a mug of ale.

"I'll have to
club 'em to death." The woman smiled brightly and Jack couldn't tell if
she was speaking the truth. "Now, in these packs," she indicated the
two bundles on the table, "you will find hard cheese and as much salted
pork as you can carry. I also put a few other things in there you might
need."

Jack picked up the
bundles, they were both surprisingly heavy. "You have been so kind to
us."

"Yes,"
Melli interjected. "We owe you so much, how can we ever thank you?"
The old woman's face crumpled up as she forced herself not to cry.

"It is I who
must thank you. You have both brought me joy." She opened the door.

"There is
something I must warn you about-" Jack was about to tell her to beware of
people searching for them, but she interrupted him.

"Say nothing,
lad. I am a woman who has outwitted the world for many years; I must have a
certain skill at deception by now." She was telling them, in her own way,
that she would lie to protect them. Jack came forward and kissed her cheek.

"I will
remember your kindness always." He turned to Melli, who was close to
tears, and beckoned her forward. Together they walked away from the farmhouse
and down the road.

"Tawl, are
you all right?" Tawl flashed the boy a warning look, but it went unheeded.
"It's just that you've been acting strange ever since we left that tavern
yesterday." The boy waited for a reply. None was forthcoming, so he
continued. "You shouldn't let the mad rantings of some old drunk get to
you. He didn't know what he was talking about." Nabber hesitated an
instant and then added, "What is Larn anyway?"

"Ssh,
boy."

They were riding
to the flank of tall, silvery peaks. The foothills provided a treacherous path:
loose rocks and loose soil were a constant danger. The rocky slopes were ideal
for Nabber's pony but a challenge to the mare. Tawl had to pick his trail
carefully, less the horse misstep and lose her footing. The pony found its own
path and seemed more content now that the weather was colder.

Tawl knew he was
being unfair to the boy by ignoring him, but he couldn't get the man's words
from his mind: "Larn! You have the mark of Larn in your eyes. " Those
were more than the rantings of a madman. The drunk had known he had been to
Larn. What was it about that cursed place; why was he in some way marked?

He was three times
marked now, he thought, glimpsing the circles upon his forearm and the scar
running through them. Once for Valdis, once for his family, and now Larn. He
could never remove the first and second marks; one told of what he was, the
other told of what he had done. The two were bound as closely as the seers to
their stones. They could never be separated: they were his fate and his past.

Now it seemed he
had another mark. What did it mean, had Larn altered him in some way?
"Beware the price, " the Old Man had said. Maybe Larn had extracted a
price he was not aware of. He felt the same, in excellent health if not
spirits. Perhaps he bore the anguish of the seers in his eyes. Their torment
had certainly left a mark on his soul. The more he thought about it, the more
anxious he was to see Bevlin. The wiseman could help him; he would know the
answers.

Impatient to make
his way to Ness, he urged his horse faster. Ness was surely only a day or two
away and from there, Bevlin was but a few days further.

"Tawl!"
His thoughts were interrupted by the boy. "You're going too fast. Your
horse is not used to the high ground."

"Don't
presume to tell me how to ride, boy." He had not intended to sound as
sharp as he did.

"What's the
matter with you?" The boy sounded afraid and Tawl felt sorry for being
short-tempered.

"Take no
notice of me, Nabber. I mean nothing by my anger. My mind has had much to dwell
on of late." He slowed his horse down. "Why don't we stop and take
our midday meal? There is a snatch of grass ahead, enough to give the horses
something to chew on." Tawl watched as relief flooded over the face of the
boy. He was glad to be the source of it.

"I still have
some roast goat and a pat of cheese left from yesterday," said Nabber,
eager to please.

"Sounds good
to me," cried Tawl, making an effort to be light-hearted. "I'll take
the cheese-you can have the roast."

"Too
late," said the boy stuffing the last of the goat cheese in his mouth.

"So, Nabber,
you never told me about your life in Rorn." Tawl contented himself with
chewing on a slice of roast goat. The flavor was little enhanced by being
carried around in the boy's sack all day.

"What d'you
want to know?" Nabber belched loudly. "Well, how come you ended up in
a life on the streets?"

"That's easy,
Tawl. The streets are the only way for an enterprising boy with no trade or
education to make a living. I started out as a grout."

"What's a
grout?" Tawl stretched himself. out on the grass, pulling his cloak around
him; the weather was beginning to get cooler.

"Don't they
teach you anything in the marshlands besides how to cut peat! A grout's a boy
who works for a runner." The boy saw Tawl's perplexed look and explained
further: "A runner is someone who collects dues for the Old Man. I take it
you've heard of the Old Man?"

"What did you
do for this runner?"

"You know ...
fetching payments, running errands, delivering notes, scattering sawdust on the
blood ... that sort of thing. Course I was young and didn't get paid much so I
moved on, or rather I moved up."

"So what did
you do next?" Tawl was wondering if the comment about the blood had been a
joke. The boy had spoken it in such a matter-of-fact way that he doubted if any
humor had been intended.

"Well, next I
became a lookout. Not just any old lookout, mind. Lookout to the greatest thief
Rorn has ever known." The boy waited expectantly.

"Who was this
man?" Tawl asked the required question. Nabber tapped his finger against
the side of his nose. "Can't tell you his name, friend-that's why he's the
greatest-he's the only one who's never been caught. He made me swear a vow of
secrecy, told me I'd be smitten down with the ghones if I ever spoke his name.
Taught me everything I know, he did. He was the one who gave me my name. He
told me I was a boy of considerable talent and that I needed a name to match.
Nabber, that's what he called me, and I've been known by it ever since."
The boy spoke with great pride. "He was a honorable man and a fine
thief."