by J. V. Jones
As he thought, Jack made the batter, adding a combination of beer and water to thin the mix. He stirred it, seasoning the mixture with a touch of salt. He would let it sit for just long enough to enable the flour to soak up the water-if it were left too long, the yeast in the beer might cause the mix to rise. Master Frallit would beat a boy whose griddle cakes were anything less than flat.
Falk had just returned from one of his mysterious forays. Jack would have liked to ask what the man did on these outings, but could not find the right words to do so.
"So, you are indeed a baker," commented Falk, nodding toward the batter.
"I was never made a baker. I was a baker's apprentice."
"Words! Titles! If you can bake, surely you are a baker." Once again, Jack could think of nothing to say.
He checked the hot iron platter on the fire and greased it with a little pork fat. The grease smoked: the temperature was just right. He gave the mixture one final stir and then poured it in separate rounds onto the hot surface. The iron platter hissed and smoked but soon settled down, and minutes later the delicious aroma of griddle cakes filled the den. He had no wooden spatula to flip the cakes over with and had borrowed an old knife of Falk's to do the job.
Falk watched Jack with a certain skepticism at first, but then seemed genuinely interested in what he was doing. "Well, Jack, I am impressed," he said as Jack loaded a plate with the hot and fragrant griddle cakes.
After they had eaten their fill and were relaxing close to the warm stove, Falk made a simple request: "Tell me who you are."
The fire dimmed and the wind calmed, as if waiting for his reply. Time drifted away from him, and if asked later, Jack would never know how much had passed before he spoke.
"I don't know who I am. Only days ago I thought I knew, but now everything has changed." Jack waited a moment to see if Falk would speak. He didn't, and it was his silence that gave Jack the courage to carry on. He could trust this man.
"Over a week ago now, something happened to mesomething evil. I burnt some loaves, then I felt a terrible pain in my head. When I looked again, they were barely browning." As he spoke, Jack felt relief. It was good to speak it out loud; it lost power by being shared.
"That's why you left the castle?"
"Yes." Jack was glad that Falk didn't seem shocked. "I couldn't risk anyone finding out what I'd done. They might have stoned me."
"People in the Known Lands are fools. Anything they don't understand they seek to destroy!" Falk shook his head in anger. "They call themselves civilized, but they have no idea about the way things are."
"Sorcery, for that is what it is-I'll make no bones about it-isn't a gift from the devil. Sorcery is neither good nor bad-it is the person who draws upon it who controls its nature."
"But everyone at the castle says it's evil, and only wicked people use it," said Jack.
"They are right and they are wrong. It is mostly drawn by people who are wicked, or rather greedy. But it wasn't always that way. At one time, many centuries ago, sorcery was common in the Known Lands. It came out of its making and was as ancient as the land itself. Gradually people in power came to resent the random spreading of sorcerous gifts-a common laborer was just as likely to be favored as a great lord. People in high places could not tolerate such a dangerously indiscriminate scattering of power. They acted swiftly, eradicating all who could practice. 'Tis easier to rule by sword than sorcery."
"Only a few practitioners survived the Great Purge. Today the art endures more by rumor than practice. Its time has nearly passed; this world is too modem for it to continue. Like most things old, its worth has long been forgotten."
"There are still a few places where it thrives. Places cut off from the changes of time, places where the land itself is as magical as the people who stand upon it. But they are ever decreasing, and fewer and fewer people can draw upon its source."
Jack's mind was in a turmoil. Could what Falk had said be true? All his life he'd been taught that sorcery was devilment, and now this man had turned everything around. "So I'm not evil?"
"There is dark and light in every man, as there is in every day." Falk shrugged. "I doubt whether you are evil. Though there is much you are not telling me." He looked Jack squarely in the face. "You never really told me who you are. What about your family? Where were they from?" Anger flared within Jack. It was the same as ever, people asking casual questions, never realizing how hard it was for him to answer. "I'm a bastard! Satisfied? My mother was a whore and she didn't keep count of her customers!" He stood up and threw his cup in the fire.
"Where is your mother now?"
Was there no end to the man's probing? Jack watched as the wooden cup succumbed to the blaze. His anger left him as quickly as it came. He turned to face Falk as he said,
"She died eight years ago. She had a growth in her breast and it ate away at her."
"How did you manage with her gone?" Falk's eyes were impossibly blue. There was such compassion in them that Jack felt free to say things he'd never admitted before.
"It was easy. In some ways, it was even a blessing. After her death the taunting stopped for a while, and I could pretend I was normal."
For the second time Jack expected condemnation for his words and received understanding instead. "It's not a sin to be ashamed of your parents. What is wrong, though, is to accept the words of others without questioning. Just because people called her a whore doesn't mean that she was."
Jack turned to face Falk. "But why-"
"Why do people belittle others? It's the same as with sorcery. If they didn't understand, if she was different in any way, they would hate her for it."
"She was different!" Jack felt an excitement growing in his breast. Falk had not only freed his thoughts, he was altering the very nature, of them. "She was a foreigner. She came to the kingdoms when she was fully grown."
"Where was she from?"
Jack shook his head. "I don't know. She never said. I think she might have been afraid of someone or something in her past."
"Aah." Falk stroked his beard and thought for a while. Then he said, "Perhaps she was afraid for you more than herself. If she was just concerned with her own safety, then what would be the harm in taking you into her confidence? It seems to me that she might have kept her past a secret to protect you."
What was it about this man that he could so casually challenge beliefs Jack had held true for years? He cast his mind back to his childhood, to the mornings on the battlements. He remembered her words, "Keep your head low, Jack, you might be spotted." Spotted by whom? Jack's head was reeling with new ideas. Up until now, until this conversation with Falk, he felt as if he'd been looking at the world through a brewer's filter. Things had suddenly been thrown into sharp focus.
"As for being illegitimate, Jack, some of the most powerful men in the Known Lands had similar starts in life. Why, the archbishop of Rorn himself had no father to call his own-yet no one knows it." Falk stood up and put his arm on Jack's shoulder. "A word of advice. Don't hate the man who fathered you."
Jack moved away. "What makes you think I do?"
"I have experience with such feelings-I too was called a bastard. I made the mistake of letting it ruin my life. I managed well until I passed my twenty-third year. I had a wife and three children and land of my own. One night I overheard two people talking in a tavern. One man mentioned my name and said I was doing well. The other just sniggered and said, `Once a bastard, always a bastard.' I went for the man's throat; it took four men to pull me off. He nearly died. I was sentenced to work a year in the slate quarries. Instead of spending the time wishing I was with my family, I festered in a pool of hate. I hated my father for making me an object of contempt. I blamed him for everything."
"Unlike you, I knew who he was. When my year was up, I tracked him down. It took many years before I finally found him. I was full of anger and ready for battle. He was an old man, stiff with rheumatism and pathetic to behold."
"I held m
y fist to his face and he begged for mercy. I am thankful to this day that I gave it."
"We sat and talked and supped a while. He told me that the reason he never married my mother was because she came from a good family and would be better off not wed, for he had no money to look after a mother and child. I don't know if I believed him-it doesn't really matter. The point is, he was just a man-not evil, not cunning, not deserving of punishment."
"I left him and returned home. My wife and family had moved away and left messages for me not to follow. The rest of my tale is too long to tell. I've seen much of life and men, traveled to scores of cities, talked with countless people and been known by many names. I ended up here, alone. What I say to you, Jack, is don't make the same mistake as me. Don't spend your time inventing fantasies of revenge. They will only destroy you in the end." Falk put down his cup and made his way out of the den, leaving Jack alone to contemplate his words.
Baralis had decided to make his move on the girl, and to this end he had called his mercenaries to him. Once again they were meeting outside the castle gates. A vague uneasiness of late had caused him to take Crope with him on any of his expeditions. Baralis found a certain reassurance in the huge bulk of his servant. There was one unexpected bonus to this arrangement-- the mercenaries looked decidedly intimidated by Crope's presence.
"I want you to pick up the girl. I know her position. She is southeast of Harvell, four days hard ride." Baralis' gaze challenged anyone to doubt his knowledge.
"What about the boy?" asked the leader. Baralis had no intention of letting them know he had no idea where the boy was. He didn't like anyone to think he might not be infallible.
"I will personally see to the boy myself. He is not traveling with the girl anymore." Baralis watched with amusement as he saw that his mercenaries were wary of how he knew so much. One final twist of the knife, "When you pick up the girl this time, I strictly forbid you to lay one finger on her. I will not have her raped by mercenaries like a common tavern wench." Baralis saw the faces of the men register many emotions: amazement, guilt, hatred, and fear. He was not displeased. "Go now, and do not fail me again."
The men mounted and rode away. Baralis was wondering if he had left it too late. The girl would soon emerge from the forest and begin to encounter towns and villages. Still, he thought, as long as she is away from court there will be no betrothal. Once the girl was caught and in his haven, he could turn his full attention to finding Jack. The dove was weakening and would soon die. The baker's boy could be leagues away by now; a second bird might be unable to locate him. Baralis was not unduly concerned-a dove was not the only way to search the forest.
"Come, Crope. Let us get out of this bleak wind. There is much for me to do."
"Will there be anything for me to do, master?" asked Crope, his hand inside his tunic, doubtless holding his precious box. Baralis wondered what was in it-probably his dead mother's teeth.
"If there is not, I will find you something." The huge man smiled, and Baralis added, "Something tailored to your unique skills."
As they walked back to the castle walls, Baralis considered the queen. It was now common knowledge that the king's health had improved. It was only a matter of time before she would summon him again, and then they would strike a deal.
Baralis and Crope approached a remote section of the castle wall. Baralis' twisted hands felt carefully for the tiny protrusion in the stone. He caressed it gently and the wall swung open. The smell of dank earth met his nostrils. They stepped into the opening, Baralis closing it straight after, and headed into the dark depths of the castle.
The assassin watched as the wall sealed itself once more. Watch and wait. It always pays off in the end. Scarl had watched earlier as Baralis and his giant servant had discreetly left the castle. The assassin had been expecting them to return the way they had come. It was with growing interest that he watched master and servant as they veered off from the expected route and walked toward a seemingly unremarkable section of wall.
Scarl was not usually a man given to outward show of emotion, but when he saw Baralis uncover an opening in the wall, he permitted himself a satisfied smile. He sat back among the tall grass and, picking himself a long shoot to chew on, prepared to wait for a while.
After waiting what Scarl deemed to be an appropriate amount of time, he approached the wall. A thorough man, he checked to see he had exactly the right section. Yes, this was it. Two sets of footprints in the damp mud led into the wall: Baralis' light and, in Scarl's opinion, stealthy looking prints and Crope's large and heavy ones.
The assassin ran his fingers lightly over the smooth stone. Nothing. Undeterred, he attempted to repeat the gestures he had seen Baralis make earlier. To aid this ploy, Scarl cleverly placed his feet in Baralis' own footprints. Once again he ran his hands over the cool gray stone. Still nothing. The assassin was not alarmed; he was a patient man, well suited to his particular line of work. He tried again, this time scanning one stone at a time, his keen eyes searching for something unusual. He could find nothing.
The assassin moved away from the wall and considered his next move. He was sure that the entrance was not warded; he was able to smell out such things. No, there was some practical way to gain access, if he could just think of it. Scarl chewed on his blade of grass, finding its bitter taste pleasing, and regarded the wall.
He desperately wanted to gain access to the entrance; he was sure the castle would be riddled with secret passageways and rooms. All these old castles were built by people who knew the value of a discreet escape. Scarl's motives were more than just tracking his mark. Scarl loved secrets, underhanded dealing, deception, concealed motives-anything, in fact, that had the low whiff of subterfuge about it.
He had it! Why had he not thought of it sooner? Baralis was over a foot taller than he. He had his feet in the right place, but his hands had not been high enough. He then realized why it had not occurred to him sooner: the enormous Crope had the ability to make anyone appear small, when Baralis was in fact a tall man. Excitement grew in Scarl's stomach, registering only as a mere tightening of his thin lips.
He returned to the wall, feeling higher this time. The stone was smooth; his fingers trailed its length. There was something, a tiny inconsistency. His fingertips brushed over it, and then back once more. Scarl stepped aside as the wall sprang open.
The assassin stepped into the cavity. A smell old and damp assailed his senses. The darkness enveloped his unready eyes. He checked in his pocket and found flint and tallow--Scarl had been prepared for this event for some time now. With hands as steady as an assassin's must be, he lit the candle. The light it gave was feeble, barely enough. Scarl began to check the inside wall for a means to close the opening. Some time later, he detected a similar protrusion to that on the outside, and the wall moved back into place.
His eyes gradually became more accustomed to the blackness. Without his candle, he could not have seen anything. Scarl was faced with a choice: left or right. He chose the left. The passage took him downward and soon became a tunnel with rounded sides. The walls were dripping with damp, and pale mosses, of a kind that Scarl had never seen before. Impulsively, he reached out to touch some-it felt soft and springy and left a slight residue on his fingers. Scarl studied the sticky substance and then carefully wiped his fingers clean; one could not be too careful when dealing with strange moss. Although no expert on poison, Scarl was aware that certain mosses were often used in its manufacture.
The tunnel led downward for some time longer, and then there was another branching. Scarl decided to take it and soon came upon a flight of stone steps. He felt sure he must be under the castle by now. The stairway presented him with many options: it twisted around and upward and many passages led off on each new level. When the assassin had ascended enough for his liking, he took one of the passageways. It was long and straight with many doorways, some sealed. He was beginning to realize how vast and intricate the network of tunnels was.
; The assassin was full of admiration for the men who must have designed and built it. He was also a little envious of Baralis' mastery of the system. He, too, yearned to know where all the doors and passages led. He was sure he had seen but a tiny fraction of the whole. Scarl was aware that the maze of tunnels promised access to many forbidden places: bedchambers, supply rooms, meeting areas. He knew well how such an extensive system could be put to great use. The assassin revised his estimation of his mark-Baralis was not only a man of great power, but also of great resources.
He looked ahead, wondering how he could gain access to the inside of the castle. He picked a doorway at random and found himself at a dead end. Knowing that a passage usually leads somewhere, he felt the end wall and, sure enough, his fingers alighted on the tiny lump that marked an opening. Scarl stood to one side as the heavy stone wall drew back without a sound.
He found himself in a part of the castle with which he was unfamiliar. Looking around, he was surprised to find that he was still underground. He had calculated he would be on the first or second floor of the castle. Instead he was in what looked to be an unused dungeon. His gaze took in the old torture devices. There was a rotting, wooden rack, a wheel, a press, and many others.
Scarl looked over the devices with professional interest-before he became an assassin, he had gained some experience in torture. His trained eye told him that the equipment had hardly been used. It was also badly out of date. He had been in Rorn some months ago and had been impressed by the new devices they had there. Rorn was a city which kept abreast of the times.
The assassin looked for a way out of the dungeon, vowing he would make it his business to become familiar with the secret passageways. He was sure they would prove to be useful to him.
Melli noticed that the trees were beginning to thin out. The forest had gradually become less dense: there were more glades and patches of open land. She had even seen the roof of a small cottage the day before. She had been tempted to approach the dwelling, but caution won over curiosity and she had moved on.