The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  For today, at least, people forgot about the darker side of life in the city. The festival had begun and the people of Rorn were determined to celebrate.

  Tawl was jostled and pushed by the heaving crowds. He had not liked the idea of coming out today, but Megan had been insistent that he stretch his legs and get some fresh air.

  He was pleasantly surprised by how his body responded. He had always been physically strong, but he hadn't expected his muscles to be so resilient. He was weak, yet already he could feel his blood pumping through his flesh, bringing new life to tissue and tendon.

  After his months of confinement, he was alarmed by the size and noise of the crowds. He was sure he'd never seen so many people in his entire life.

  Megan had given him six silver pieces with which to buy a knife. She had told him the saying that in Rorn, a man without a weapon is a man without a future. Tawl had disliked taking her money, and he suspected it was her last. But he needed a weapon of some sort before he risked leaving the city, so he had accepted, swearing one day to pay it back.

  He was surprised to find his unusual attire seemed to fit right in with the mood of the festival. In fact, his clothes seemed modest in comparison to what some were wearing.

  The men of Rorn paraded like peacocks in bright leggings and tunics, and the women wore shawls in the colors of the rainbow. As he walked through the streets, he noticed the advance of a great parade. People on horse and foot were bedecked in fabulous costumes, and the crowd made way to let the parade pass.

  He didn't take great interest in the parade at first; he had no love of jugglers and tumblers. Then, after a while, horns. sounded and the crowd grew quiet as a huge man on a massive horse rode through their ranks. A noticeable hush fell upon the people as they looked in awe upon the august figure of the rider. The man was dressed all in white and was adorned in fabulous jewels: bracelets, rings and necklaces, all sparkling with harsh luster in the bright sunshine. He even wore a crown. There was something about the man's fleshy profile that was familiar to Tawl.

  Instinctively he slipped deep within the crowds, searching out shadow as the rider passed. He watched from a distance as the man rode by. Tawl was certain that he was the same person who had supervised his torture. He turned to a young boy standing nearby and asked, "Who is the man in white?"

  The boy gave Tawl a disgusted look and retorted, "Why that's the archbishop. Every fool knows that." He then gave Tawl a kinder look and added, "I suppose you're from out of town." Tawl nodded and moved on.

  He headed toward the tavern which Megan had recommended for knife buying. He was feeling weak and his eyes were still not accustomed to the bright of day. As he neared his destination, he came upon yet another crowd of people. They were gathered around a handsome and brightly dressed young man. Tawl could tell from the red tassels on his hat that the man was a fortune-teller.

  "Yes, madam," the man was saying with dramatic flourish, "I can see that your daughter longs for another child. Tell her to offer a prayer up to the goddess Huska and her wishes will be granted." The crowd moaned in approval. The fortune-teller moved on to the next person, taking his hand and looking enigmatically toward the heavens.

  "Sir, you are a man in need of money." Tawl could not help but smile. Show me a man who is not in need of money, he thought. After a pause for theatrical effect, the fortune-teller continued, "You will find seven gold pieces under the floor of your house."

  "Whereabouts?" asked the man.

  "But two steps away from your door," said the fortuneteller, his voice gaining an edge of boredom, as if to say he was too important to be concerned with specific details.

  "You, madam," he called as a woman was about to leave the group. She came forward and he took her hand, once more looking to the sky. "I see a great future for you." He closed his eyes, as if receiving divine guidance. "I see that you will become dressmaker to a queen." The crowd applauded with admiration as the woman informed them that she did indeed do a little sewing on the side.

  Tawl prepared to move on, but the fortune-teller stopped him. "You, sir!" Tawl had no intention of moving forward, so he shook his head and stepped away. The fortune-teller was too fast for him and caught his arm. The man squeezed his hand and looked to the heavens. "You sir, are searching for a boy." Tawl's face remained impassive. The fortune-teller continued. "You will not find him in this city. You need to visit the Seers of Larn-they will tell you where he is." Tawl's eyes met briefly with those of the fortuneteller and then the man was off.

  "Madam, give me your hand. You are a widow in need of a husband. . . ."

  Tawl walked away, rubbing his chin as he reflected upon what the fortune-teller had said. He'd never heard of Larn or its seers. He tried hard to dismiss the incident as mere fancy or trickery, but as he walked the tawdy streets, it weighed heavily on his mind and he decided he'd find out more about Larn.

  He soon came upon the tavern Megan had named and slipped inside, glad to be free of the noise and the crowds. He settled himself in a dark comer and was relieved to take the weight off his still weak legs. A sour-faced girl approached him. "What d'you want?" she asked, making no show of welcome.

  "I'll take a cup of ale." The girl was obviously affronted at being asked for such a meager service. She huffed away, returned much later with a cup of flat and watery ale. "Before you leave, could you tell me if Tucker is here?"

  "Who's askin'?"

  "A friend of Megan's." The girl withdrew to the back room. Several minutes passed and eventually a man emerged. He looked critically toward Tawl and then approached him.

  He wasted no time with greetings. "What do you want?" The light from the window did the man no favors; it highlighted the depths of the pock marks on his cheeks.

  "I need a knife."

  "What sort?"

  "A long-knife." Tawl was hoping he had enough money to make a purchase. He suspected the price of such goods in Rorn would be high.

  "Cost you ten silvers."

  "We won't be doing business, then." Tawl motioned to leave. His bluff paid off.

  "Eight silvers," countered the man.

  "Six."

  "Done." The man headed to the back and returned minutes later with a long-knife, which he drew from within his coat. Tawl was surprised to see it was a remarkably fine knife. Undoubtedly contraband. The two men exchanged money and goods, and Tawl headed toward the door.

  "By the way," he asked, "have you ever heard of Larn?" The man gave him a warning look and then shook his head. Tawl got the distinct feeling the man knew something but would not say. He stepped out into the bright sunlight and headed back toward Megan's. The fortune-teller had planted a fertile seed, and Tawl was determined to find someone who could tell him about Larn and its seers.

  Jack had watched as Melli sped not an arm's length away from him. She had neither seen nor heard him. He listened to the approach of the mounted men and quickly turned in the direction from which he had come. There was nothing he could do to help his companion now, but he took some comfort in the fact that she was at least on horseback.

  To his untrained eye, Melli had appeared to be an expert horsewoman.

  He ran as fast as his long legs would take him; over bracken and fallen log he raced, his breath coming fast and heavy. As he looked back to check on his pursuers, he misplaced a step and his ankle twisted painfully. He fell forward onto the damp floor of the forest. He struggled to his feet and attempted to put his weight on his leg, but the ankle could not bear it. "Damn!" he whispered, half in pain, half in anger. He knew he would have to hide now, for he had no chance of outrunning his pursuers with a twisted ankle.

  He made a quick scan of the terrain and his eye spotted a low ditch. He hobbled as fast as he could and flung himself into the trench. It was not very pleasant; fungus clung grimly to the sides and at the bottom lay cold, foul-smelling water. He still felt he was too exposed and lay down in the icy wetness, covering himself in a blanket of wet, dead leaves. The water stole thr
ough his cloak and breeches, chilling him to the bone.

  As he waited he couldn't help feeling a little ashamedMelli was being chased by Baralis' men while he crouched in a ditch like a coward.

  There was no doubt in Jack's mind that Baralis was behind the chase. If anyone in the castle knew anything of sorcery it was the king's chancellor. It was widely murmured that the man dabbled in the ancient arts; however, he was so powerful that no one dared mention it aloud, let alone challenge him about it. A breath of revelation passed through Jack-he'd felt it. Looking back on his time scribing, there had been instances when he'd felt sick and head sore. Up until now he'd dismissed it as a result of eyestrain and late nights, but the sensation was akin to what he'd felt yesterday morning. Baralis had practiced sorcery and somehow he had perceived its use. Jack recalled many instances of nausea, and whenever he'd seen Baralis the same day, the man usually looked pale and weak.

  Excitement over his discovery quickly turned to worry: all it had done was confirm that he wasn't normal.

  The thing Jack wanted most in life was to be normal, to be able to walk through the castle without someone calling him a bastard. He wanted a father like everyone else, and a mother who no one called a whore. He wanted to be on the same footing as legitimate offspring and have the same sense of belonging. Now, more than ever, it seemed impossible.

  He could move to the east and become a baker's apprentice. But the best he could hope for would be to conceal his past. He wouldn't lie. No. When someone asked about his parents, and they surely would, it would be an insult to himself and his mother to make up stories about a life he'd never had.

  Jack shivered violently, chilled to the bone. It seemed there would be no easy option for him. Wherever he went, he would be an outsider. The incident yesterday had merely sealed his fate. The sooner he accepted that and stopped dreaming about finding his mother's family and being welcomed with open arms as a long lost relative, the better. He had to deal in realities. The ditch was a reality, the loaves were a reality, and he would never be more than a bastard.

  He settled down in the cold water and listened to the progress of the mounted men. Before long he felt the ground tremble as some of their number drew near to his hiding place. Judging from the sound of hooves, they were only few in number. He heard them slow down and then shout to each other. They spoke with accents unfamiliar to Jack's ears.

  "You said the boy ran this way."

  "He did. I'm sure of it."

  "He can't have gone far. You head over there and we'll take this path. Go now and hurry." Jack heard one horse gallop off. The two remaining riders were quiet for some time. Jack imagined them to be listening very carefully. He lay as still as he could manage, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually the two riders were off. Only when they had run a fair distance did Jack feel safe to breathe again.

  He decided not to risk moving, unpleasant though his circumstances were. His ankle was throbbing, but more distressing was the slow chill of the water upon his skin. He noticed a slight pressure under his left leg and tentatively felt for the cause of it. It was something furry. Jack could risk no further movement but was now sure that the foul smell in the ditch was due to the decomposing carcass of a small animal. Jack hoped it wasn't a rat. He was afraid of rats. The one thing he'd hated most about his job with Frallit was going to the storeroom for the flour. As soon as he opened the door, he would hear the sound of rats scurrying. He always gave them a few moments to hide before bringing his lantern forward, not wanting to see their fleshy legs and tails. Even with the lantern ahead of him, there were always some rats who defied its light and carried on feeding. Those were the worst-their beady eyes cold with defiance. Jack had kicked one once, and its bones crunched against the wall. The next day when he entered the storeroom, there were a score of rats feeding upon the carcass. There had been something else, too dark to make out; its teeth glinted for an instant, then it was gone.

  Master Frallit gave him a beating over the incident. "Live rats are bad enough," he said, "but dead ones attract the devil."

  According to Frallit, there were no end of things that attracted the devil. Long hair and daydreaming were two of his favorites. Jack knew the master baker said such things just to bully him, but he wasn't about to take any chances over a dead rat.

  He scrambled out of the ditch. His clothes were soaked in mud, and he shivered as the wind picked up. As he limped deeper into the wood, his thoughts were with Melli: he hoped she had not been caught instead of him.

  "There's a good boy." Melli's horse reluctantly stepped into the flow. Her pursuers were only feet away. She ignored their approach as she coaxed her mount to cross the stream. The horse was now up to his fetlocks in icy water. "Good boy, good boy." She spoke more to comfort herself than the horse. The creature stumbled a little as he found his footing on the rocky streambed. "It's all right, boy," she whispered gently.

  The guards came to a halt only a few yards from where she was. Two of their number moved forward to the stream.

  One of them had his sword drawn. "Go no further, lady," he warned. As he spoke, he motioned to his men to surround her. Melli waited in the middle of the stream as she was encircled by seven men. All now had their swords drawn. She stroked her horse and tried to control the wild beating of her heart-she would not demean herself by showing fear.

  "Take her down and bind her." Hands pulled cruelly at her legs and body, some lingering unnecessarily over her breasts and thighs. She was pulled down and carried to the bank, where she was thrown hard to the ground. The smell of dead leaves and earth assailed her nostrils.

  "She's a pretty one," said the man who appeared to be in charge.

  "Aye, and she's well filled out under that cloak," commented one of the others who had just handled her. Melli grew frightened. The men had sheathed their swords and were looking to their leader.

  "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we had a little fun with her," he said, grinning to his company and moving toward Melli. He knelt beside her and untied her cloak. She lashed out at him. "You bitch!" The leader slapped her cruelly on her face, the force of the blow sending her head reeling. The men cheered.

  One of them shouted, "Give it her rough, Traff, and hurry up about it so we can all have a go."

  The leader grabbed the bodice of Melli's dress and tore it from her. Her pale breasts were exposed to the men. She tried desperately to cover her chest, but the leader was pressing down on her, forcing his lips on hers and roughly handling her breasts. The man was fumbling with his belt buckle with one hand while pushing up her skirts with the other. Melli was screaming hysterically, trying to fight him off.

  Suddenly, the pounding of hooves could be heard. The leader stood up quickly, worry creasing his brow. Melli used this opportunity to pull her dress together as best she could.

  "To your mounts," cried the leader, flashing a look of contempt at Melli. "Draw your swords."

  A group of horsemen were bearing down on them. Melli could tell from a distance they were her father's menthe silver and red was clearly visible. Relief flooded through her. She noticed the men were now paying her little attention as they waited tensely for the approach of the horsemen, and she slipped under the cover of some nearby bushes.

  The two parties met. Her father's men had drawn their swords and the sound of clashing blades filled the air. The adversaries seemed to be evenly matched at first. They thrust mercilessly at each other, eager for blood.

  To Melli, the fight she watched bore no resemblance to the dainty exchanges that were demonstrated at court. The swords were yielded with no finesse; the men sliced and hacked with savage frenzy, caring not if they injured man or horse. The fight grew long and bloody. The dull, heavy swords cut through leather and into flesh. Melli thought she spied her brother amongst her father's men, wielding his sword in the fray. She could watch the fighting no longer.

  Unheeded, she crept silently away. On her hands and knees she crawled, the dry growth of winter brushing against he
r tender belly. As she went, she could hear the sounds of combat, the grunts and cries of the men, the squeal of frightened horses and the ringing of blades.

  Melli headed downstream until she found a place that was easy to cross on foot. She waded into the stream, welcoming the sensation of cold water on her legs; it helped cleanse the stain of unwanted hands.

  When she reached the other side, she found a small glade and fell to the ground. She was shaking, and tears soon followed. She wept for a long time. Leaving home, being robbed, the chase and the capture and finally the fight-it had all proven too much of a strain on her emotions. She cried quietly, hugging the remains of her dress close to her body. She didn't really care anymore if her father's men found her as long as the first men did not. Melli swore she would rather be killed than ever touched again.

  After a while she grew calm. She could no longer hear the sound of fighting, but couldn't remember when it had ceased.

  She pulled the cord from her hair and tied her dress together as best she could. She no longer had a cloak; she'd left it at the scene of the fight. She doubted that she could survive the night without it. Her head turned quickly as she heard the snapping of twigs and rustle of leaves that announced someone's approach. She would not run anymore. She stood up and held her head high, prepared to return to the castle.

  It was her horse! He must have left the stream after she had been pulled from him. Running to the tired creature, she flung her arms around its neck. Melli kissed the old horse many times, and then her eye was caught by its back. Somehow it had managed to keep possession of her precious supplies! Quickly she untied the sack, letting it fall to the ground. She would use one of the blankets as a cloak. She drew a blanket around herself, beginning to feel much better: she was warm; she had her horse and her supplies.

  She decided it was high time to eat. With relish she tucked into the dried pork and drybread-never had a meal tasted so good.

  Lord Maybor was in a terrible rage, and his eldest son Kedrac was feeling the full strength of it. "You imbecile, how could you let her get away?" Maybor threw his cup across the chamber, where it hit his precious mirror, shattering the glass. "How could you let this happen?"