The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  Chapter Eleven

  Tawl made his way down to the harbor. It was chill in the burgeoning dawn and he drew his cloak close. As he rounded a comer, salty air blasted his face, and he sighted the deep gray sea that Rorn considered its own.

  Tawl, having reached the waterfront, now made his way north. His route took him past rows of ships and boats; there were many humble fishing craft, a few mighty warships, some elaborate pleasure barges, and a great number of cargo ships. Tawl had never seen such a variety: boats from the south painted exotic colors with pictures of fantastic sea creatures or naked women on their hulls, vessels from Rorn with yellow sails, ships from Toolay beautifully varnished but unadorned.

  He soon found himself at the north harbor and hurried down the line of ships, aware that he was late--first light had been some time back. He found the boat he was looking for: two masts, The Fishy Few. Men were at work uncoiling the huge docking ropes. The Fishy Few was preparing to set sail. Tawl walked up the gangplank and was immediately met with a harsh cry. "Hey, you, what d'you think you're doing?" The voice belonged to a small, red-faced man with a head of hair to match.

  "I'm here to sail to Larn. Captain Quain has already agreed to it."

  "Borc's balls! So you're the mad devil who wants to go there." Tawl could only nod. "Come aboard then, quick about it." Tawl boarded the ship. The red-haired sailor looked him up and down critically. "You ain't gonna take to the sea. I can tell that just from looking at you."

  "I've sailed before," said Tawl.

  "When was that, eh? Dainty pleasure trip down the River Silbur." The man spat in disgust. "No, you're not a sailor. You're the type who'll be puking your guts up as soon as we've raised anchor." Tawl had in fact sailed several times before, and although not enjoying the experience, had never been seasick.

  "What you called, then?" asked the man. "Tawl."

  The man spat again. "Tawl! I'd be ashamed to go to sea with a name like that." The man eyed him with mild disdain. Tawl decided he would ask for the captain. He had no intention of standing here and being insulted any longer. "I'd like to speak to Captain Quain."

  "Captain!" shouted the man in a voice so loud it set Tawl's ears ringing. Moments later another man appeared, also red haired.

  "You're late." He looked Tawl up and down.

  "I didn't realize the north harbor was as far as it was."

  "Excuses! The sea doesn't care that for excuses." The captain spat to illustrate his point. "Tell the sea you're late." Quain's voice was scathing. "See if it'll make an exception and keep the tide in a little longer just for you." Tawl was wishing he'd never boarded The Fishy Few. The captain then shouted in a voice rivaling that of his crewman in loudness. "All hands on deck."

  The ship became a flurry of activity-there were ten crewmen. The captain noticed Tawl counting them and said, "I'm a man short because of you." He was obviously waiting for Tawl to ask why, and so Tawl obliged.

  "Why is that, Captain Quain?"

  "I'll tell you why. Eleven crewsmen and me, plus you, would make thirteen. No man in his right mind would set sail with thirteen aboard. Sailing to Larn is lunacy itself. Sailing to Larn with thirteen would be suicide. And let me tell you now, boy, gold's not worth losing my ship over. First sign of danger and we'll be heading back to Rorn so fast the seagulls won't be able to shit on us." The good captain then turned on his heel, leaving Tawl to contemplate what had been said.

  He decided the best thing he could do would be to go belowdeck. Seeing the man who had spoken to him when he boarded, he asked where he would find his cabin.

  "Cabin! Listen to this, mates." The man was now shouting to the other sailors. "He wants to know where his cabin is. Not happy with makin' us sail to the godforsaken isle of Larn, now he wants a cabin. The next thing you know, he'll be asking us to bake him cake." Tawl decided he would take no more of this taunting, but before he could say a word another man chipped in:

  "Let him be, Carver, anyone would think you're afraid to sail to Larn."

  "1 ain't afraid," said Carver defensively. "I've sailed to worse places than Larn in my day, I can tell you."

  "Well, if you don't get on securing those ropes, we won't be sailing anywhere." Carver flashed the man a resentful look and moved on about his business. The man then turned to Tawl. "Good day, to you, friend. My name's Fyler. Don't worry none about Carver. He's got a harsh tongue, but nothing more."

  "I wasn't worried in the least, Fyler. I was about to tell him I did fancy a bit of cake." Tawl grinned at the seaman, who promptly slapped him hard on the back.

  "You're gonna do just fine aboard The Fishy Few, make no mistake about it. There are two things a sailor needs around here. First, he needs a sense of humor, and second, he needs to know how to swim." Fyler winked merrily at Tawl. "How are you at cooking?"

  "I'm not too bad." Tawl wondered about the question. "Good. We had to lose our cook to make way for you. You can do the honors. Course the good thing about being cook is that you get to sleep in the galley. Have it all to yourself, you can." Fyler smiled broadly, showing gaps among his large, yellow teeth. Tawl got the distinct feeling he had been successfully snared. "Why don't I show you to the galley. The men haven't eaten all day, and there's nothing like setting sail for increasing a man's appetite."

  Fyler led Tawl belowdeck, down a narrow corridor and into a tiny room. "This is it, friend," he said. "You'll find the supplies under the table and in the larder. I'm off. Can't sail a ship without its navigator." Fyler left Tawl to the tiny cramped room. It didn't look like any kitchen he had been in. There was just a long, wooden table banded around the edges to keep the various pots and pans in their place and a curious-looking brick stove.

  Tawl had no idea how to light the stove and could find no wood to fuel it. The crewmen, he decided, would have to eat a cold breakfast. He looked under the table and found sacks of vegetables in various stages of sprouting: old turnips, carrots and parsnips. Tawl could think of no worse things to be eaten raw. He smiled mischievously. He'd show the sailors of The Fishy Few a good breakfast!

  Tavalisk was soaking his plump, short-toed feet in a bowl of water. His hands were occupied with cracking open the shell of a huge, live lobster. With a dainty silver hammer he pounded viciously on the shell, eager to get at the tender, translucent meat. He was most annoyed when a knock came at his door.

  "Enter," cried the archbishop, venting his anger on the lobster by bashing its small legs off. His aide entered. "Yes, Gamil, what is it?" he demanded testily. The lobster apparently still had some life in it, as it snapped at Tavalisk's fingers with its huge claws. Tavalisk countered this indignity by smashing the lobster's head with all the might in his chubby body, sending flesh and shell flying.

  "I thought you might wish to know what has become of the knight, Your Eminence."

  "Say your piece, Gamil." Tavalisk noted with pleasure that his last blow had taken the fight out of the lobster: all it could do now was flail its one remaining leg.

  "Well, Your Eminence, it appears that our knight has had an early start this morning."

  "Yes, yes. Get to the point, Gamil." Tavalisk was now looking around for the missing lobster legs; he wasn't about to have their succulent meat wasted.

  "Well, Your Eminence, our knight has managed to commission a boat."

  "A boat! What sort of boat?" Tavalisk decided that one last bash would split the shell open nicely and proceeded to hammer at the lobster once more.,

  "A small sailboat, two masts. Name of The Fishy Few."

  "The Fishy Few!" Tavalisk now put down his hammer and with skilled hands prized open the lobster's shell, revealing the grayish, opalescent flesh.

  "Yes, Your Eminence. I looked into it. Captain's name is Quain. Ship usually cargoes fish from Marls."

  "Marls. How interesting, that's where my little friend here is from." Tavalisk motioned toward the ruined lobster, which was beginning to leak a greenish fluid onto the platter.

  "Well, I'm not sure that the b
oat's heading to Marls this time, Your Eminence."

  "You mean it's set sail? With the knight aboard?" Tavalisk was now cutting himself a sizable chunk of lobster flesh, careful to avoid its unpleasant discharges.

  "Yes, Your Eminence. It set sail just after first light."

  "Which way was it headed?" The lobster flesh was warm and salty. Tavalisk loved nothing better than freshly killed lobster. This one, however, was still alive: its leg continued to move slightly. The archbishop smiled and took up his hammer once more. It was most distracting to see one's meal hanging on grimly for its life.

  "Well, Your Eminence, it's hard to tell which way it sailed, but I asked around, and the harbor workers said it was sailing to Larn."

  "My, my, how interesting. Our knight has been most enterprising. How do you think he could afford to pay for such a charter?" Tavalisk saw with satisfaction that his last blow had finished the pathetic creature off. He could now settle down and enjoy its flesh.

  "A captain would demand a high price to sail to Larn, Your Eminence."

  "I'm sure you're right, Gamil." The archbishop now expertly gutted the lobster.

  "I have a suspicion, Your Eminence, that the Old Man might have something to do with it."

  "I think that would be a fair assumption, Gamil. But why would the Old Man want to help our knight?" Tavalisk cut into the succulent tail, mouth watering in anticipation. "It's probably that damned nuisance Bevlin again. He has no taste when it comes to friends. Probably asked the Old Man to keep an eye on his young knight."

  Tavalisk felt something sharp bite into his tongue, followed by the distinct-but not unpleasant-taste of blood. It was a piece of shell. The cunning crustacean had got revenge from the grave! "Gamil, do we have any spies on Larn?" Tavalisk was now stuffing his mouth with lobster tail. His blood acted as a fair seasoning.

  "No one has spies on Larn, Your Eminence."

  "Oh, how disappointing," commented Tavalisk between mouthfuls of tail meat.

  The archbishop drained a cup of light wine. "Tell me, Gamil, did you feel anything unusual last night?"

  "What do you mean, Your Eminence?"

  "I felt something. It woke me." Tavalisk now pulled the remaining leg off the lobster and sucked the flesh from it. "What did you feel, Your Eminence?"

  "I think it was the aftermath of a drawing. Must have been a damned powerful one. Only a few weeks back I felt something similar-may have come from the same man." Tavalisk was now using his teeth to pry out the remaining meat from the leg. "I'd like to find out who was responsible for it. The man capable of such forces would be a useful person to know. See to it, would you, Gamil?" Tavalisk surveyed the lobster for the presence of any meat he might have missed. Finding nothing left, he turned his attention to a bowl of cherries at his side.

  "If you'll excuse me, Your Eminence, I will be off. I have much to attend to."

  Tavalisk's eyes narrowed sharply. "Ah, before you go, Gamil, I wonder if I might trouble you to clear up this little mess I've made with the lobster. I know how you like to keep things clean and tidy."

  ****

  Melli was shaken violently awake. Hands picked her off the ground and stood her up. The sound of Mistress Greal's voice rang through the air:

  "Yes, Master Hulbit, that's the little thief." Mistress Greal then stepped forward and slapped Melli sharply on her cheek. Melli was prevented from retaliating by the firm hold of Master Hulbit, the tavern keeper. She realized that she was freezing: she had fallen asleep in the middle of a field wearing nothing but a flimsy dress. Master Hulbit twisted Melli's arm cruelly and guided her in the direction of the road. She was brought level with Mistress Greal, who gave her a venomous look. Melli ignored her and asked Master Hulbit where her horse was.

  Before Master Hulbit could answer, Mistress Greal jumped in. "You haven't got no horse now, young lady. That horse has been confiscated by Master Hulbit to pay for the debts you incurred by staying in his tavern."

  "I incurred no debts!" said Melli angrily. "I stayed at the tavern as your guest, Mistress Greal." Mistress Greal slapped her again.

  "You little trollop!" she cried, and then, appealing to Master Hulbit. "Have you ever met such a bare-faced liar? My guest, indeed! You're in real trouble now, my girl, I can tell you that. Running away without paying your bill, blatantly taking one of my dresses and stealing a leather saddle. And to top it all off, you assaulted one of Master Hulbit's good customers."

  Melli couldn't believe what she was hearing, all the lies that Mistress Greal was making up. Melli appealed to Master Hulbit: "It is Mistress Greal who is lying. She took my dress away and tore it up. She forced me to wear this. And as for that man last night, he assaulted me! I was only trying to stop him putting his hands all over me. Please, Master Hulbit, you must believe me." The tavern keeper seemed impervious to Melli's plea.

  "I've known Mistress Greal for many years, girl. She's a friend of mine, helps considerable with my business, she does. If she tells me you're a liar and a thief, I believe her."

  Melli watched as Mistress Greal threw the tavern keeper an approving look.

  Melli was led to the roadside, where to her relief she spotted her horse. Mistress Greal's sharp eyes did not miss Melli's expression.

  "I've told you, young lady, that horse is now the property of Master Hulbit. And what's more, not only do you owe me for that dress you've ruined, but you're going to have to answer to Edrad; it was his saddle you stole." Mistress Greal walked off, heading toward the village and leaving Melli to Master Hulbit.

  Melli was shivering violently, chilled through. She wondered what could have possessed her to fall asleep in a field in winter. She was also feeling rather sick, and this time she recognized the symptoms of too much to drink the night before. Seeing her shivering in a thin dress, Master Hulbit gave her his horse blanket with which to cover herself. The kind gesture had the effect of making Melli want to cry-it seemed she had met with nothing but cruelty since leaving Castle Harvell.

  Master Hulbit noticed the tears well up in her eyes and patted her shoulder lightly. "There, there, young'un. It's not that bad. I've taken your horse in payment, and if I do say so myself, I've got a bad deal. That's one sorry looking animal." Melli didn't know whether to be indignant or to laugh. It was true: her horse was old and worn out. "See, there's always something to smile about. I'll make sure Mistress Greal doesn't eat you up for dinner. You only took her for one dress. I'll let you work in the tavern to help pay it off. Of course, the saddle's another matter. It's a serious crime to steal a man's saddle, but I'm sure Edrad will deal kindly with you."

  Melli thought it was most unlikely that Edrad would deal kindly with her. She had hurt him badly last night, she remembered. So badly that he couldn't even stand up. Not to mention the obvious blow to his pride at his advances being rejected. Melli dreaded having to face him again. She did not appear to have any choice in the matter; kind though Master Hulbit was, he obviously had no intention of letting her go. Master Hulbit still had a tight hold of Melli's arm. He took the reins of her horse and they walked the short distance back to the town of Duvitt. Melli was surprised at how near they were; she was sure she had ridden longer last night. She supposed the drink had clouded her senses. She counted the days since she'd left the castle, then wished she hadn't: thirteen wasn't a good sign.

  Once they arrived at the town, Mistress Greal appeared and took over once more, guiding Melli into the tavern, where, to Melli's horror, she came face-to-face with Edrad.

  "So you managed to find the little tart, Mistress Greal," he said, giving Melli the full benefit of his menacing stare. "Farmer Trill spotted her horse this morning, Edrad," replied Mistress Greal. Melli noted there was someone else present, someone whom she had never seen before. The man spoke:

  "Please if you would, Edrad, recount to me the events of the previous evening." Melli concluded from his rather pompous air that he must be Duvitt's magistrate.

  "Certainly, sir. This young woman asked me to
go with her for a walk. It was a fine evening so I foolishly agreed. She then lured me into the stables by promising me a kiss; the next thing I know she'd drawn out a knife. She threatened to stab me if I moved. I wasn't about to let a mere wisp of a girl get the better of me. But before I could make my escape, the little viper kicked me hard in the privates. Then she stole my saddle." Melli had to admit, Edrad sounded convincing.

  "Are there any witnesses?" asked the magistrate, sweeping the room with his eyes.

  "I was there when the little hussy asked Edrad for a walk. I also heard her promise him a kiss." Mistress Greal gave Edrad a conspiratorial glance.

  "Well, as the young girl was found in possession of the saddle and did indeed leave without paying her bill, I can only presume her guilt." The magistrate was obviously pleased with the outcome. Melli could bear it no more.

  "They are lying!" she cried. "It was Edrad who lured me to the stables. He kissed me against my will, that's why I kicked him."

  "See!" shouted Mistress Greal. "The little hussy admits it; she has no shame. If you don't mind me saying, sir, I think you should deal most harshly with the girl. Although young, she is obviously a practiced liar and a hardened thief."

  Melli couldn't believe this was happening to her. How could the magistrate take their word against hers? She wondered with dread what her punishment would be.

  The magistrate coughed loudly and spoke again, "I can see you speak the truth, Mistress Greal. The girl is obviously a bad seed. Master Hulbit has agreed to take her horse in payment for the tavern bill; however, I feel the girl must be punished. We must beat the evil from her. Not only must she pay a fine of five golds, she will also be flogged twenty times, in full public view in the town square." The magistrate looked to Mistress Greal and Edrad, both of whom looked satisfied with his pronouncement.

  "It is a fair sentence, magistrate, very fair," said Edrad. "Will she be flogged with a leather or a rope?" asked Mistress Greal.