The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  "It was the armed men, we had to fight them," retorted his son.

  "What armed men? What fight?" Maybor raged. "What were you doing fighting armed men when you were supposed to be looking for your sister?"

  "The men had her, that's how we found her. We heard her screaming."

  "What men were these?"

  "I'm not sure, father. They had no colors. I think they were mercenaries."

  "By Borc! What is this?" Maybor felt the pressure of blood pumping in the veins of his neck. "What were mercenaries doing with my daughter?" His eyes scanned the room looking for something else to hurl: he felt the need for destruction.

  "Father, they may have just come across her in the woods and decided to have a little fun with her."

  "What do you mean?" Maybor's voice was as cold as ice.

  Kedrac could not meet his father's eyes. "I think they tried to rape her. I can't be sure, but from the sound of her screams ... and then later we found her cloak." He watched as his father's face became ashen.

  "Did you capture any of these men?"

  "No, Father. We killed two of them and wounded another three, but they escaped deep into the woods."

  "And the bodies?"

  "We searched the two that we killed, and the only thing we found of interest was that each man had eight gold pieces." Maybor thought for a moment, growing calmer.

  "Eight gold pieces, eh? These men have been paid to do a job, and handsomely at that. Are you sure no one besides you and my men know that Melliandra is missing?"

  "Father, we have been most discreet. I myself asked around the town about her and made as if it was a casual inquiry. As for your men, you know they are loyal to you."

  Maybor nodded his head; what Kedrac was saying was the truth. Still, he had a feeling someone had paid the mercenaries to find his daughter. "Kedrac, you must go back into the forest tomorrow, take a tracker and the hounds. She must be found at all cost."

  "Yes, Father." Kedrac took his leave.

  When he had gone, Maybor went over and inspected the shattered mirror. He'd paid over one hundred gold pieces for it ten years back.

  He was sure that the mercenaries were in the pay of Baralis. The king's chancellor had no men of his own, so that would fit. How had that scheming viper come to know of this? Maybor struck the shattered mirror with his fist. The sharp glass drew blood, but he didn't notice. Baralis had sent mercenaries to capture and rape his daughter.

  Chapter Five

  Jack was beginning to feel the first signs of a fever. He was soaked to the skin and his bones felt the chill of water and air. He had no food or dry clothing, and somewhere in the chase he had lost one of his shoes.

  Jack had spent the rest of the day walking around the forest, hoping to catch sight of Melli. At one point he heard the clash of blades in the distance. He felt it would be unsafe to draw too close to the sound of fighting, so he veered off in another direction, his route taking him ever deeper into the heart of the wood.

  His clothes were slow to dry in the frosty air, and he found himself shivering violently. His ankle was still tender and he walked with a limp. He tried to find berries or nuts to eat, but winter was drawing nigh and the forest had little bounty to offer.

  Tired, hungry, and feeling the cold deeply, Jack had made a meager bed for the night. He curled up at the base of a great oak, hoping for some small protection from the wind.

  He covered himself with fallen branches and leaves and fell into a restless sleep.

  Jack awoke the following morning to the smell of rain. His eyes looked up past the naked canopy of the oak and the sky confirmed his fears. It was gray and water laden. Rain would soon fall. He noticed his body was acting differently from normal. All his muscles seemed to ache, his head felt unsteady, and his limbs were slow to move. His skin was clammy and drawn, and despite the obvious cold, he was feeling hot and sweaty. Jack had caught fevers before and he. recognized what the symptoms meant. What he was unsure of was what to do about it in a forest leagues from home.

  In the castle now the first batch of loaves would be baking, the air would be heavy with the smell of yeast, there'd be a bowl of pork broth for breakfast and an hour to waste by the fire. Jack had to laugh. It was quite ridiculous: how could he ever hope to be a hero when he'd only been away from home for two days, had already managed to catch a fever, and would have given the whole thing up for a hearty breakfast and a missing shoe?

  Laughter made him feel stronger and he struggled to his feet. Nausea swelled in his empty stomach. He stumbled and was long regaining his balance. It occurred to Jack that if Frallit were watching now, the master baker would think he was drunk and ration his ale for a week. The idea of a week's rationed ale seemed very appealing at this point-he would have gladly suffered Frallit's scorn for as little as a cup of soured water.

  Jack labored on. He remembered drinking from a spring the night before and headed toward it. His mind drifted from subject to subject: Bodger and Grift warned of the dangers of ditch water, and Findra the table maid mocked his bare foot. He was becoming confused and disorientated: the people from the castle seemed as real as the trees. He spent what he could have sworn was an eternity making his way through the woods only to end up at an oak tree that looked suspiciously like the one he'd slept under.

  Every tree and bush began to look like the last one. He was growing light-headed; he no longer even remembered what he was supposed to be looking for. He desperately needed to lie down, to stop the voices of reproof that were spinning in his head. A tiny part of him was aware that lying down was not a good idea. Jack ignored his own warning. He had to stop his body from reeling. He had to sleep.

  He collapsed by the foot of the tree. His last thoughts before he dropped into unconsciousness were that the rain had started to fall, and he was pleased. It felt cool and delicious on his hot skin.

  Other eyes watched as the rain fell, just as they had watched the boy wander in circles for most of the morning. The man to whom they belonged paused as he considered what to do. He knew the boy would die if left there for the rain and cold to take their toll. Yet, he was not a man given to acts of compassion. He lived in the heart of the forest and did not trouble himself with the world of men. He knew the beast and the tree, and had little interest in that which did not concern him.

  He was compelled to watch, though. He had seen much in his time; he had seen men murdered, men robbed, men hunting, and men hunted. He watched it all from his green havens and had never once intervened.

  The boy's plight had touched him. He was an innocent, and that was a rare quality to find in the forest. But there was more to it than that, for the man had seen people die many times from cold or hunger. The boy struck a chord within the man; he felt as if there was something more to this traveler. The man imagined he saw the pale glow of destiny around the lad. He shook his head, smiling at his own whimsy.

  The man thought at great length as he watched the still form of the boy. To act might threaten his own safety. It might bring unwanted scrutiny upon himself, and he had spent many years avoiding just such thing. Even as these thoughts formed, he knew he would ignore them. He walked forward from the deep trees and made his way toward the boy.

  Baralis met with his mercenaries outside of the castle walls. It was a chill day and he drew his cloak close. He already knew that they had failed, but it suited him to act as if he did not.

  "So, are the boy and the girl in the said place?" he asked Traff, the leader.

  "No, lord, they are not. We had both the girl and the boy, but Maybor's men descended upon us." Baralis knew the man lied. They had never caught the boy; his dove had watched the chase. Baralis was not concerned about the liethey were, after all, mercenaries not priests.

  "How many of Maybor's men were there?" he asked slyly, knowing full well there had been less than ten of them. "Two dozen," said the leader.

  "More, I would say," interjected another. The rest of the men grunted in agreement.

&n
bsp; "How many did you lose?" Baralis genuinely did not know this, as he had sent the dove to watch over the boy and had not been witness to the end of the exchange.

  "We lost two, but we took out double that number of Maybor's."

  "Hmm." Baralis was skeptical. "Go away now and conceal yourselves in the said place. I will call you to pick the fugitives up when I have better intelligence on them."

  The leader made no move to withdraw. "My men were not engaged as fighters. You said we would just be picking up two young'uns. Two of my men are dead and the rest are not content."

  "What is your point?" Baralis spoke coldly, knowing precisely what the leader was after.

  "We want more money. Eight more golds apiece." Traff rested his hand upon his sword-a subtle threat.

  Baralis was not so easily intimidated. With a sudden sweep he threw open his cloak. Once he was sure he had the full attention of the gathered men he spoke, his voice a harshly coiled whisper. "Do not be foolish enough to get greedy with me. With just one finger I could send you to an oblivion so deep your own families would forget you had ever existed." Baralis sought the eye of each mercenary, and not one of them could return his gaze. Satisfied, he modified the tone of his voice. "I will call you either later in the day, or on the morrow. Be sure to be ready. Now go!"

  Baralis watched as the men mounted and rode away, the faintest of smiles on his grim face. He drew his cloak around him once more and headed back to the castle. He had much to think on. For his plans to succeed, Melliandra's pretty face must never be seen again at the court of the Four Kingdoms. His mind travelled east to the dukedom of Bren-the mightiest of the northern powers. The duke was getting greedy: he wanted more land, more timber, more grain. Baralis knew he would have to tread carefully to bring about what was planned between them. People in the Four Kingdoms were nervous of the ambitions of Bren, yet ironically, that very same nervousness might actually help seal the pact. It was always easier to neutralize, rather than eliminate, a threat.

  Not that he would use that particular tactic with the lovely Melliandra. She was a threat which required swift elimination.

  When he was finally back in his room, sipping on mulled holk to relieve the pain in his fingers, he considered what his dove had shown him. After leaving the queen yesterday, Baralis had returned to his chambers, deciding he would look upon the capture after all. The dove had seen his men descend on the fugitives. It had watched as the girl and boy were separated. Baralis looked on as the greatest number of mercenaries had followed the girl, sending only three of the number after the boy. He had willed the dove to follow the plight of the girl, who he felt might be easily lost on horseback. He had seen the approach of Maybor's men and had watched as both sides let the girl slip away.

  His dove followed the girl and, satisfied that she would not go much further, he sent the bird to look for the boy. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

  Baralis had remained calm; the baker's boy was merely a puzzle that needed solving, while Maybor's daughter was a hindrance to glory. He sent the reluctant bird back to watch the girl. Once she'd made camp for the night, Baralis let the dove sleep. The bird was cold and exhausted, and he feared it would not be long before the unfortunate creature died.

  As the holk alleviated his pain a little, Baralis considered what to do next. In all likelihood, Maybor knew by now that the men out looking for Melliandra were in his pay. Maybor was sure to move against him-those damned fool mercenaries had tried to rape his only daughter! Maybor would bear watching closely: an indignant father could be a dangerous adversary.

  "No, Bodger, the way to tell if a man's well hung ain't the size of his kneecaps."

  "Old Master Pesk says it is, Grift."

  "The reason why old Pesk says that is because he's got kneecaps the size of watermelons."

  "They are unusually big, Grift. I can't argue with that."

  "No, Bodger, the way to tell if a man is truly well hung is to look at the whites of his eyes."

  "The whites of his eyes?"

  "Aye, the whites of his eyes, Bodger. The whiter the eye, the bigger the pole. It's right every time."

  The two men pondered this thought for a while, Bodger secretly planning to check out his own eyes at some point. They downed some more ale and then the talk moved to other matters.

  "Here, Grift, something's going down at the moment, mercenaries in the castle grounds, fighting in the woods. Just this morning I saw a face I hadn't seen in a long time."

  "Who was that, Bodger?"

  "Remember Scarl?"

  Grift took a sharp intake of breath. "Scarl. This bodes no good, Bodger. Scarl's one villainous fox. I wouldn't care to cross him."

  "Too right, Grift. Last time Scarl was seen in the castle more than one man ended up with his throat slit."

  "If I remember correctly, Bodger, last time he was here, Lord Glayvin met a sticky end."

  "He was the one who refused to sell his pear orchards to Maybor, wasn't he?"

  "Aye, Bodger. His widow had no such compunction, though. After her husband's death, she sold Maybor those orchards so fast you'd think they'd been riddled with brown worm."

  Maybor decided that this meeting was best held out in the open, away from the listening ears of the court. He had been careful to choose a place in the castle grounds where he and his companion would be undisturbed. Downwind of the middens was just such a spot. Maybor covered his face with a handkerchief to prevent as much of the foul smell from entering his nose as possible. This action also had the added benefit of concealing the greater part of his features.

  Maybor watched as the assassin approached. He was a slight man, not strong but rumored to be wiry and quick. No one, it was said, was craftier or more skilled with a blade. "Well met, friend," said Maybor.

  "I wish you joy of the day, Lord Maybor." The assassin scanned the area. "You have picked a foul spot in which to meet."

  " 'Tis a foul deed that needs be done."

  "Whose absence from the world do you seek this time, my lord?" The assassin constantly watched the surroundings, making sure no one approached.

  Maybor had no love for mincing words. "I seek the death of Baralis, the king's chancellor." Their eyes met and held, it was the assassin who looked away first.

  "Lord Maybor, I think you know just how powerful Baralis is. He is more than man; he is said to be a master." Maybor didn't like to think on such things. He tried to convince himself that Baralis' powers were nothing more than hearsay, but he never quite quite succeeded-a smidgen of doubt always remained. He wasn't about to let the assassin know that, though-the man's price would double if he thought sorcery was involved. "Listen, Scarl, Baralis is not as powerful and all-seeing as everyone thinks. He has his weakness. A keen blade will slit his throat the same as it would any man's."

  "His chambers will be warded against intruders."

  "That is not my concern. You must evade anyone who blocks your path," said Maybor, deliberately misinterpreting Scarl's words. He was damned if the assassin was going to talk openly about sorcery! They both suspected the riskswhy add weight to them by giving them air? "It is your job to find the time and place when he is most vulnerable. All I ask is that there be no trail leading back to me."

  "Are you presuming to tell me how to do my job, Maybor?" The assassin spoke lightly, but there was a hint of reproach in his voice.

  "No, no. I am anxious that the deed be done. Too long has Baralis held power in the court." Maybor took a deep breath, forgetting where he was, and his lungs filled with the stench of human waste. He coughed violently, ridding himself of the foul air.

  Scarl looked on, a hint of distaste showing upon his clever face. "I do not much like the sound of this commission. There is great risk."

  "Name your price," uttered Maybor, impatient to be away.

  "The price will be high." The assassin raised a querying eyebrow.

  "It is of no matter. I will pay whatever you ask."

  "I have no need of money, Maybor.
Well you know I am paid a good price for my work. No, I seek a little something for my retirement."

  "Yes, yes, name it."

  "I want land, Maybor. I fancy growing apples when I'm older."

  Maybor did not like the sound of this; nothing was more precious to him than his land. "I will give you two hundred gold pieces," he countered.

  "No." The assassin moved away as he spoke. "No, Maybor, I would have land in payment, or I shall take my skills elsewhere."

  Maybor relented. "Very well, I will give a stretch of land in the north. I have thirty acres outside Jesson that you can have."

  "Apples grow better in the east," said the assassin.

  "I cannot think why you would want land in the east with the war against the Halcus still raging."

  "Wars of man come and go. Land endures."

  Maybor relented. "So be it. I will give you twenty acres of orchards in the east."

  "You would give me thirty in the north," replied the assassin, once again stepping away.

  "Very well. I will give you your thirty acres. But you will not see a blade of grass until I have proof you have done your job."

  The assassin nodded. "I think we have reached a fair agreement. I will take the commission."

  "Good. Is there anything I can do to facilitate this undertaking?" Lord Maybor received the answer he hoped for. "No. I must find my own way. A good murder can often be an act of great inspiration. I prefer to work alone." With that the assassin bowed neatly to Maybor and was off. Maybor forced himself to wait for the passing of a few minutes and then followed in the assassin's footsteps. He was eager to be free of the smell of decay.

  Melli spotted the dove on her waking. It was high in a tree. It seemed to her to be a sign of hope, and she was glad of its presence.

  She had spent a surprisingly comfortable night. She had found a peaceful glade and wrapped herself warmly in blankets. The mossy floor was soft and springy, and she woke refreshed and hungry. Her horse had found its own food and was slowly chewing at a patch of grass. She wished there was something different for her to eat than just pork and drybread.