The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  Nabber knew he was getting upset, but fought it, Swift would be ashamed of him-stoicism was highly valued amongst 'pockets. He clamped his lips together tightly and moved away from the body, talking himself round. "Come on now, Nabber," he murmured. "You're no baby, seen worse than this in your time."

  He had to get the blood from his hands. It was the sight of them, he decided, that was upsetting him. He needed some fresh water to wash them in. He'd just slip back into his bedroom for a minute, where there was clean water and a cloth. He looked over to Tawl, checking that the knight would be all right for a few minutes. He seemed to be asleep. Satisfied that he wouldn't be missed, Nabber went into the bedroom, shutting the door after him.

  Once there Nabber gave in to the tension. He sat on the bed and his body shook; he told himself the room was cold, that was all. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly brushed them away: Swift would laugh at him. Willing himself to remain calm, he went over to the wash bowl and splashed cold water on his face. What had been so undesirable only an hour before, he now welcomed readily. The sting of cold revived his spirits. He scrubbed mercilessly at his hands, removing the last traces of blood.

  By the time Nabber had dried himself off he was feeling much better. Composed and ready to return to the kitchen, he straightened his clothes and went into the next room.

  Tawl had gone. The chair was empty. The door was open. Nabber cursed himself; he should never have left him. He went over to the window. Tawl's horse, which had been tethered to the gate, was gone. Nabber dashed out of the house and into the garden. In the distance, heading to the west, he spied Tawl. The knight was riding fast and furious and was soon out of sight.

  Nabber stood for a while, watching the horizon over which Tawl disappeared. Clouds passed over the sun and it grew dark and chill. Reluctantly, he returned to the cottage.

  He checked in Tawl's room and was relieved to see his pack had gone; the knight would at least have food and blankets.

  Nabber made himself something to eat: a little porridge and some duck. He took it into the bedroom so he could eat without looking at Bevlin's body. He thought about what to do next. He could return to Rorn-Swift would take him back as a 'pocket, no questions asked; the prospecting in Ness had been fruitful-he could set up on his own there; he could even sit out the winter here in the wiseman's cottagethere was plenty of food.

  Nothing seemed as appealing as it should. He was in a good position, his contingency had never been bigger, he could go where he pleased and do what he wanted. Nabber knew what he wanted to do and knew it was foolish to consider it. He wanted to go after Tawl, to find his friend and travel with him once more. It's madness, he told himself. He didn't know the country, it was the middle of winter, and he didn't know where Tawl was headed and couldn't even be sure the knight would welcome him if he found him.

  Tawl was his friend, though. They had adventured together. He had saved the knight's life once; it might need saving again. He would do it. He would follow Tawl west. When Bevlin had given him the lacus, Nabber had asked what cities lay nearest to his cottage. The wiseman had said Lairston was to the north, Ness to the east, and Bren to the west. Bren, that would be where Tawl was headed.

  He would head west, then, following Tawl's trail. Nabber had heard tell that Bren was a rich city, there was bound to be good prospecting there. First though, he had to sort out things here. He would have to bury Bevlin-Swift would have thought it fitting to do so. He would also tidy and secure the cottage. He would head for Bren in the morningthere was much to do this day.

  Tavalisk was eating gruel. His stomach complaint was getting no better and the only food he could keep down was thin porridge. The physicians had come that morning. How he hated them with their proddings and whisperings and damn-fool remedies. They had told him he had malevolent humors in his stomach and suggested that they put a poultice of hot mustard seed on his belly to draw them out. When he had refused the poultice, they suggested bloodletting followed by a medicinal enema. Were they trying to kill him?

  He had thrown them out and would heal himself. His latest cook from the far south had ways with herbs and had sprinkled some atop his gruel. It would not be long before he was feeling better. The archbishop had of course suspected poison, a man in his position could expect such things, but Tavalisk made a point of making his various aides eat whatever he was having and they were all fine. Maybe it was all the spicy food he had been eating lately-he would have to change his diet.

  Tavalisk heard a loud knock. Ever since he had reprimanded his aide, Gamil had taken to knocking with ostentatious vigor. "Come."

  "Your Eminence is feeling a little better, I trust?"

  "Just a little, Gamil, no thanks to the physicians." Tavalisk finished his gruel. "I would have you spread a little rumor, Gamil."

  "What rumor, Your Eminence?"

  "The truth, really. I would have the people of Rorn know I am ill."

  "But Your Eminence is recovering?"

  "Yes, but I would have them worry over my condition for a little longer. People value things more when they think they are about to lose them." The archbishop noticed Gamil's expression. "There is nothing like a serious illness to increase one's popularity."

  "But Your Eminence is already well loved by the people."

  "Exactly, and I intend to keep it that way. Be sure to let the people know I refused the help of physicians-the common people can't afford their services and therefore resent them. Personally I think that's why the common people live longer than the wealthy; they are allowed to die in their own time and not prematurely physicianed into the grave."

  "I will do as Your Eminence wishes."

  "See that you do. Now, have you any news for me? What about our knight?"

  "It will be some time before our spies are able to report back, Your Eminence. I did hear that while he was in Ness he spent some time with a cloth merchant's daughter."

  "Really, Gamil, I thought you were above such tittle tattle. Who the knight beds is of little interest to me."

  "The girl and her father were originally from the Four Kingdoms, Your Eminence. I believe he questioned the girl about her former country."

  "It seems as if a lot of people are interested in the Four Kingdoms at the moment." Tavalisk poured himself a little sheep's milk and honey. "By the way, Gamil, did you arrange a meeting with the lord from Bren ... what is his name?"

  "Lord Cravin." Gamil seemed reluctant to continue. "Go on, man," urged the archbishop.

  "Well, Your Eminence, I myself approached the illustrious lord on your behalf. I told him who I represented and informed him that Your Eminence requested the pleasure of a meeting with him."

  "And?"

  Gamil fingered the material of his robe. "Well, Lord Cravin saw fit to decline the offer. He said he was far too busy to waste time meeting with churchfolk and told me not to bother him again."

  "Churchfolk!" exclaimed Tavalisk. "Churchfolk! Does the man know who he is dealing with?"

  "He was a most arrogant man, Your Eminence."

  "He is also a foolish one to decline a meeting with me. I have never been so insulted. Churchfolk!" The archbishop rubbed his chubby hands together in agitation. "I can see that the people of Bren are lacking in both intelligence and good manners."

  "It is a well-known fact that all the people in the north are barbarians, Your Eminence," said Gamil soothingly. "And that the people of Bren are the most barbaric of all."

  "That I can well believe." Tavalisk sipped his milk and honey and regained his composure, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "If they are so barbaric, it will be interesting to see how successfully Baralis can pull off his plans with them. By attempting to wed Kylock to Catherine of Bren he just might have bitten off more than he can chew." Tavalisk was now smiling broadly, showing his little, sharp teeth. The course of Marod's prophecy might not run that smoothly after all. And, if he were right about its meaning, it could be his responsibility to prevent it from coming to pa
ss. "All this talk of chewing has made me hungry, Gamil. Go and fetch me some real food, something with a bite to it. I am sick of gruel."

  Kylock was washing his hands. Using a boar's bristle brush, he cleaned beneath his fingernails. After a while, he held his hands up to the light. They were still not clean enough. He poured more boiling water into the basin and scrubbed them once more.

  It was the smell that he could never remove. No matter what he did he could never quite rid himself of the stench of the womb. It was on him even now, nearly eighteen years later. Many skins had he shed, every particle renewed a hundred times, but it still remained. The smell of his mother clung to him like a vine to an oak, and it would destroy him if it could.

  It worked his mother's purpose, reeking of her adultery, seeking to corrupt. He would not succumb. Catherine would help him. He would bathe in her purity and emerge forever cleansed of the taint of his mother's corruption.

  Kylock dried his hands on a soft cloth. The portrait was where his mother had left it. He took it up. Hundreds of leagues it had traveled and it was still fragrant with the smell of innocence. Opening his fist to the light from the candle, he looked upon the likeness of Catherine of Bren. She took his breath away. Perfection. An angel, pure and virginal, untouched by the hand of man or time. Catherine was his, and she alone would save him.

  Baralis poured himself a glass of deep red wine. He held it against the firelight better to admire its color and clarity. He was normally a fastidious person not given to excesses of food or drink, and in fact despised people who were, but today he had cause for celebration and would finish off a glass or two. Yesterday the queen had announced to the whole court her plans to betroth her son to the duke of Bren's daughter. There was no going back for her now. She was fully committed to the marriage and his plans were therefore secure. The world turned in his favor and his dreams were one step nearer realization.

  He liked not the thought of the long trip to Bren, but it was something that would have to be endured, a mere inconvenience. He wondered with idle curiosity which fool the queen would pick out for Crown's Envoy. Probably some lily-livered nobody who was well under Her Highness' finely manicured thumb. It was of little consequence. Bren was his affair and he would brook no interference from any vacuous nobleman.

  There were a few loose ends he would prefer tied up before he departed from Bren, but it did not appear he would be able to do so in the time left. His latest mercenaries had proved useless. They had returned today saying they had seen no sign of the girl and boy. It was true that Melliandra was no longer in the running as Kylock's bride, but it would cause an uncomfortable scandal if she returned to court telling the story of how she had been held captive by the king's chancellor. He could not afford to risk such accusations and the girl must be permanently prevented from making them.

  As for the boy, he too must be found and killed. The incident at the hunting lodge had proven just how dangerous he could be. He wanted him out of the way. Jack represented uncertainty ... he was a dark horse, a spoiler. Whenever Baralis thought of him he was filled with apprehension. The baker's boy was trouble.

  He sipped on his wine, considering what he would need to take with him to Bren. He heard heavy footsteps and then Crope loomed above him. As always the fool was carrying his painted box. "I told you I was not to be disturbed."

  "Lord Maybor is asking to see you."

  "Maybor, what does he want?" Baralis had no desire to see him. He had too vivid a recollection of what happened last time; the maniac had drawn a sword.

  "He says he wants to talk to you, says he's unarmed."

  "What is his demeanor?" What could Maybor want? Baralis wondered. Had he come to vent his rage over losing out on the betrothal?

  "He seems happy, smiling he is."

  "Let him come in." The man was probably drunk. If he tried to draw a sword this time, he would find things turned out a little differently than when they'd last met. Crope went off and a minute later Maybor stepped into the room.

  "Ah, Lord Baralis. I'm so pleased you agreed to see me at this late hour, but then, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, we have much to plan." Maybor smiled broadly.

  "We have nothing to plan that I am aware of, Maybor."

  "Oh, but we have, Baralis. We have our trip to Bren to plan." Maybor helped himself to a glass of wine. "I trust this won't be poisoned?" he said pleasantly.

  "You are not going to Bren." Baralis' voice was scathing. "You are obviously drunk."

  "Well, I do admit to having a few mugs of ale, but I can assure you, Baralis, I am far from drunk." He gulped down the wine with little finesse. "I will, of course, be taking some of my own men to Bren. I don't feel five score is enough, do you? The queen agrees with me."

  "The queen?" Baralis was beginning to feel nervous. "Yes, Her Highness said I could bring a further score of my own. While I was with her she showed me the portrait of Catherine. A lovely girl, I can't wait to meet her in person. Of course, as Crown's Envoy I suppose I will have the honor of meeting her before you do. After all, Crown takes precedence over Prince, does it not?"

  "The queen has appointed you Crown's Envoy?"

  "Yes, didn't you know?" said Maybor slyly. "Here, let me fill your cup." He refilled both glasses. "May I propose a toast?" He didn't wait for an answer. "To Bren, a city that holds great promise for the future." He drained his glass and stood up. "You look a little pale, Baralis. We'll plan our journey another day."

  END