The Baker's Boy (74 page)

"I'm ahead of
you there, friend," said Traff smugly. "I wouldn't want my betrothed
to be buried in a shallow grave in the woods. No, it's my intention to go along
with the crew, help them find Melli and the boy, and then whisk your daughter
off to safety."

"Can you be
sure of succeeding in such a venture?"

"I've seen
what that boy can do when he's cornered. He'll create such chaos that no one
will notice me slipping away with the girl."

Maybor did not
think much of Traff's plan, but could not come up with a better one himself. He
wanted to question Traff further-there was much he needed to learn about
Baralis and his future plans. However, a stablehand and two grooms walked in
and broke up their meeting. The mercenary quickly lifted the wooden box and,
ignoring the curious stares of the grooms, made a quick exit.

Maybor made his
way across the courtyard. His meeting with Traff had proven most illuminating.
He was just beginning to comprehend the true depth of Baralis' scheming.

There was far more
at stake than he had imagined. Baralis had gone to great lengths to make sure
Melliandra would not marry Prince Kylock. Perhaps, thought Maybor, he had a
candidate of his own whom he would see marry the prince. It would certainly
explain his eagerness to get Melliandra out of the picture.

Bevlin laid his
hand gently upon the boy's forehead: his fever was high. Sleep and the lacus
would help to bring it down. He had stayed with Nabber for over an hour before
the boy had finally dozed off, partly to reassure the boy and partly to give
himself enough time to arrange his thoughts before speaking with Tawl.

The knight had
changed so much since his last visit five years back. Bevlin knew a lot of that
change was his responsibility. He had sent Tawl on an almost impossible task,
and that undertaking had served to shape the man he had become. He wondered if
he had been right to do such a thing, to rob a young man of his youth and his
optimism. He supposed it would have happened eventually: no man could live in
such a world as theirs and remain unchanged by it. Nevertheless, the wiseman
had to question his own judgment in setting one so inexperienced to such a
thankless task.

When Tawl had
ridden up to his door earlier that day, Bevlin had seen disillusion on the
knight's face, and something more . . . distrust. He took a deep breath and
made his way to the kitchen, where he found Tawl sitting at the table as he had
left him over an hour ago. The knight shot him a questioning glance and the
wiseman found some relief in the fact that he was obviously concerned about the
condition of the boy.

"He is
asleep. Borc willing, he will be a little better when he wakes. He may sleep
through the whole day tomorrow and into the next night. The lacus gives itself
time to work."

"He is a long
way from home." Tawl spoke quietly.

"So are you,
my friend," stated Bevlin simply. He came and sat opposite Tawl and poured
them both a mug of ale. "I brew it myself and I admit it's not very good,
but I find bad ale warms a man just the same as good, though it may leave him
with a worse hangover in the morning." Bevlin saw Tawl smile politely at
his jest, though the smile did not reach his eyes. The wiseman tried to
maintain eye contact with the knight, but Tawl looked down, guarding his eyes.
"So, you have come from Rorn?"

"I have not
found the boy, if that's what you mean." Tawl spoke with unnecessary
sharpness. "Though I suppose you know that already."

"Do you want
to give up the search? Just say and it will be so."

"You tell me
this too late, wiseman!" Tawl slammed down his mug. "There is only
one honorable way out for me and you know it. I would rather cut off my own arm
than admit defeat."

Bevlin could well
understand bitterness-he was a knight and would bring shame upon himself if he
did not achieve what he set out to do, or die in the attempt. But there was
more than that. It was not difficult to see that Tawl lived for his quest. Why
then was he suddenly so bitter?

"We are not
all dealt a fair hand, Tawl."

"I was not
dealt blindly, wiseman. The cards were stacked against me." He looked at
Bevlin then looked quickly away.

"Where have.
your travels taken you?"

"To the far
south, to the Drylands, to Chelss and Leiss and Silbur," he said harshly.
"Do you want me to go on?"

"You know of
the trouble between Rorn and Valdis, then?"

"I know that
Rom had banned knights from entering the city." Tawl gazed into the fire.

"It has
expelled them, too, and Marls has followed suit. The archbishop of Rom is
stirring up antiknight sentiment throughout the southeast. He is seeking to
bring about a confrontation. He wants to break the power of Valdis and the
knighthood."

"What has he
against Valdis?" Tawl spoke with genuine interest for the first time.

"Tavalisk is
the first man in the south to realize that dangerous forces are coming together
in the north. Tyren has placed himself as an ally to Bren, and Bren is about to
join with the Four Kingdoms."

"Marod's
prophecy is coming to pass: When two houses join in wedlock and wealth. The
empire which he predicted could encompass the Known Lands. Those who shape will
also corrupt. More than ever, Tawl, I need you to find the boy."

"I will find
him, Bevlin."

"Yes, I
believe you will. There is a link between you, and it is your destiny to help
him fulfill his." As he spoke, Bevlin felt the disturbing ring of prophecy
in his voice.

To break the spell
he stood up and poured himself a second mug of ale. He drained the cup dry.
With his heart still racing from the shock of foretelling, Bevlin made an
attempt to lighten the mood of the conversation. "Tavalisk is at heart a
mischief-maker. He is not happy unless he is at the center of events, scheming
purely for the love of it."

"Why do you
scheme, wiseman?" Tawl seemed to regret his words and he said with a sigh,
"I am sorry, Bevlin. I don't know what has gotten into me. I looked
forward to seeing you and now that I am here I find myself saying things that I
don't mean." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Bevlin was glad to hear Tawl
speak more kindly.

"Where will
you head to next?" he asked. "Bren, Annis, Lairston?" Tawl's eye
became hooded and Bevlin knew to expect a lie.

"Lairston.
I'm heading further north."

"The air is
bitingly cold so near to the northern ranges." Bevlin realized Tawl was
not listening to him anymore; the knight had lost his concentration to the
fire. He stared deep within the flames, and the wiseman wondered what torments
he saw there. "Tawl," he said gently, placing his hand on the
knight's arm. "Go to bed. You can sleep in my room-it is dry and
warm."

Tawl looked up at
him, and for the briefest moment Bevlin saw something in his eyes, something he
could not name, but familiar nonetheless. The knight cast his eyes downward,
almost in shame. "I am tired, Bevlin. I have ridden hard all day."

"Maybe a
touch of the lacus would help you. You have been long in the south
yourself." Bevlin wanted to reach out and help him; he could tell the
knight was in some kind of anguish. He instinctively knew that any offer of
help would be unwelcome.

"No, save the
lacus for those who need it. I am not suffering from anything a good night's
rest won't cure." Tawl stood up. "So, Bevlin, how about showing me to
my room?"

The wiseman led
him to his room. He pulled the bedclothes back and removed the warming pan,
took the knight's pack and laid it on the chest. Bevlin then went to bid Tawl
good night. As he did so, Tawl lowered his head and the wiseman laid a kiss
upon his brow. "Sleep well, friend," he said as he left the room.

He awoke with the
taste of salt on his lips. He tried to recapture the fleeting images of his
dream: he remembered the sea, cold and unforgiving, the color of slate. He sat
up and was disappointed to feel the sound earth beneath his feet. He walked to
the window and opened the wooden shutter. There was solace to be found in the
sky; it was not unlike the sea. They bore the same color and neither could be
bound by man. Earth was the weak link; it allowed itself to be divided and
possessed and consumed.

The pale moon
lowered as he watched. It was time to move on, time to pay his debt.

With the grace of
a ghost he moved across the room. He dressed with great care ... it seemed
fitting. He pulled on his soft leather shoes and buckled his hard leather belt.

He wanted to look
upon himself, but there was no mirror. With anxious hands he felt for what he
needed. His fingers enclosed the cool metal, warming. He was ready. The
prospect of unburdening was a salve upon his heart; it lured him forth with
promises of peace.

The door opened
noiselessly-he knew it would. He slipped into the room. The lazy fire cast him
a long shadow. He moved forward discovering his perspective, deciding his
course.

The man was there
as he expected, lost in sleep, snoring with gentle determination. The knife was
warm now; it grew large in his hand, shifting its position. He drew near. He
felt the thrill of anticipation and the pain of regret. He watched the man,
unafraid he might wake. He was old and not unready for death.

He raised the
knife, a beautiful move, well mimicked by his shadow. He paused for a single
instant and then brought it down. Cleave of bone and through to the heart. The
man's eyes opened-confusion and then understanding-they closed.

He freed the knife
and dark blood flowed forth. He raised it once more and thrust again. Again and
again. Blood spattered his face and he welcomed its cooling touch.

He was finished;
the man moved no more. His debt was paid.

With great care he
cleaned his knife, spitting to bring off the last of the blood. He returned to
his room and undressed. He stood naked in the moonlight, receiving benediction.
He slipped between the smooth sheets and slept the sleep of the innocent.

"No, Bodger,
there's only one cure for the ghones and it ain't soaking your privates in
boiling water."

"Master
Frallit swears it's the only way, Grift."

"Well,
there's little doubt that Master Frallit has need of a cure, Bodger. I'm pretty
sure he hasn't tried boiling his privates, though. If he had we'd be calling
him Mistress Frallit by now."

"So what's
the proper cure then, Grift?"

"The only way
for a man to rid himself of the ghones is for him to rub his privates with
virgin's water ever'day for a week."

"Virgin's
water, Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger,
of course the difficult bit is actually finding a virgin."

"I would have
thought getting the virgin to piss for you would be more difficult, Grift."
Bodger smiled ruefully at his companion and the two men drank heartily. Once
they had finished supping, they leaned back against the wall, both belching
loudly.

"Lord Maybor
and Lord Baralis are both trying to double-cross each other, eh, Grift?"

"What d'you
mean, Bodger?"

"Well, Lord
Maybor's talking to Baralis' mercenary and Lord Baralis is talking to Maybor's
son."

"I wouldn't
care to place bets on which side's going to win, Bodger."

"I'd bet on
Baralis, myself, Grift."

"I think
you're right, Bodger. I'd bet on Baralis, too."

"Course
there's something big going to go down in the next few days, Grift."

"Why d'you
say that, Bodger?"

"Well, I was
passing the storerooms this morning, you know the ones where they keep all the
regalia, and the servants were bringing out the carpets and dusting down
banners."

"Sounds like
someone is planning a ceremony, Bodger."

"Let's hope
it's a celebration, Grift. I've a yearning for some special brew."

"I wouldn't
build my hopes up if I were you, Bodger. It would take nothing short of a royal
marriage to make that old tightpurse, Willock, break open a barrel."

Baralis awoke with
a feeling of great contentment. His audience with the queen yesterday had gone
extremely well. Oh, she had played it cool, she was good at that, but she could
not hide the interest in her eyes-and when he gave her the portrait there was
no mistaking her attraction. He had, of course, left it with her; it was a far
better persuader than he.

Baralis knew,
however, that the portrait would not be inducement enough. The queen was
fearful of the ambitions of the duke of Bren-everyone in the north was. This
was her chance to neutralize the threat by means of a judicious alliance. And,
perhaps more importantly than anything else, the queen wanted power: for
herself, her son and her descendants. A union with Bren would bring such power
and she would see herself participating in its wielding-she was an ambitious
woman, and that fact would seal her fate.

Yesterday had
indeed been most fruitful. After he left the queen's chamber, he had the good
fortune to run into Maybor's son, the arrogant and conceited Kedrac. Baralis
had simply offered his greetings and Kedrac had offered his back. It was a
start, no more, but it would do for now. Families were sensitive and required
delicate handling.

Baralis warmed
himself some holk and sat and drank it by the fire. Sometimes he thought that
the heat of the cup in his hands did more than the actual liquid it contained.
Whichever it was it eased the pain a little, making it more bearable. He
thought of his mother for the first time in years. She would always warm him
some holk whenever he had a chill or an ache, and sometimes for no more reason
than it was cold outside and she wanted to show her love.

Baralis was
disturbed from his memories by the appearance of Crope. "What is it,
man?" He spoke harshly, annoyed at the interruption.