The Baker's Boy (10 page)

He forced his mind
to deal with the present and he began to take in some of his surroundings: he
was in an alleyway between two large buildings, there was a chill in the air,
and he was alone.

Tentatively, he
raised an arm and pain coursed through his body. His arm was bare and he
noticed the two-circled mark. It was familiar to him, it meant something, but
he didn't know what. Tawl looked up as the sound of voices approached him.

"Hey, Megan,
don't go near that man there. He looks as good as dead."

"Hush, Wenna.
I'll go where I please."

"You're not
liable to get a penny out of him. He doesn't look up to it."

Tawl watched as a
young girl approached him-he was unable to do anything else. A moment later,
her friend also drew close and he began to feel uncomfortable under their
scrutiny.

"He smells
really bad, like he ain't seen water for a year or more."

"Wenna, be
quiet, he might hear you. Look, his eyes are open!" The one called Megan
smiled gently. "He's not like the usual type down here."

"He's half
dead, ain't he? To me that's the usual type."

"No, he's
young and golden haired." The girl shrugged, as if to excuse her own
folly. "There's something about him ... look, Wenna, he's trying to say
something." Tawl had not spoken for many months and could only manage a
bare murmur.

"I think he's
saying his name. It sounds like Tork or Tawl."

"Megan, come
away before you land us in a pickle. You're right he ain't the usual type and
that spells trouble." The one named Wenna pulled at her friend's arm, but
she would not be budged.

"You go if
you choose, Wenna, but I can't leave him here all alone. He'll surely die
before the night is through."

"That, my
girl, is not my problem. I'm off. I'm wasting precious time here when I need to
be earning. If you've any sense in that pretty head of yours you'd do the same,
too." With that, the older of the girls marched off, leaving him alone
with the other.

Tawl tried to
raise his arm again, and this time the girl took it. "Here, let me help
you up." She noticed the mark. "Oh, that's strange. I've never seen a
knight's circle with a scar running through it." Tawl let the girl help
him to his feet and then promptly fell over again. He could not stand; his legs
were not used to carrying any weight. "Oh, you poor thing. Here, try
again. My little place ain't far from here. If you could just manage to
walk." They tried again, this time Tawl leaning on the girl for support.
He was surprised that she could bear his weight for she was slightly built.

"Come on,"
she encouraged him. "There's not far to walk. We'll be there soon."
Tawl struggled along by her side, learning to master his pain.

Baralis carefully
allowed four drops of the pink-tinged poison to fall into the jug of wine. The
poison rippled and then thinned, its deadly transparency soon lost to the eye.
He was rather proud of his latest brew, as it was nearly without odor. He
washed his hands thoroughly in a bowl of cold water. It wouldn't do to have any
residue of the materials left on them; this was a particularly lethal mixture
and he could already feel a burn upon his flesh.

His hands bore the
marks of years spent working with deadly substances. Corrosive acids had gnawed
the fat from his flesh, leaving his skin upon the bone. The skin itself was
taut and red, and as it tightened he could feel it pull upon his fingers,
drawing them inward toward his palms. Every day he rubbed warm oils into the
straining flesh, hoping to retain what little mobility was left. His fingers,
once long and elegant in youth, were now old beyond their years.

It was a price he
paid for his expertise. It was high for one who valued manipulation and
swiftness of hand as much as he did, but he would have it no other way. There
was a cost to all things, and glory only came to those who were willing to pay
the price.

It was time to
place the jug of wine in Maybor's chambers. The lord was usually away from the
castle in the afternoons, hunting or riding. This was a job he would have to do
himself. He could not trust Crope with a task that required such stealth.

He needed to be
very cautious. He would have preferred to enter Maybor's chamber at night, with
darkness as his ally, but that did not suit his plans. Twilight was the best he
could manage. He slipped into the labyrinth by way of the beer cellar-no one
marked his passing. He had a talent for going unnoticed; it was his natural
disposition to search out shadow and shade.

He made good time
and was soon approaching Maybor's chamber. Baralis was surprised to hear the
sound of voices and he moved close against the wall, putting his ear to a small
crack in the stone. He was astounded to hear the voice of the queen. Arinalda
in Maybor's chambers-what intrigue was this? The queen never visited private
chambers, she always called people to her. Baralis concentrated on listening to
the rise and fall of their voices.

"I am well
pleased to hear that your daughter, Melliandra, is willing for the match, as I
had harbored a thought that she may have been reluctant." The queen spoke
with little warmth, her regal tones filtering through the breech in the stone.

"Your
Highness, I can assure you my daughter wishes to marry your son more than
anything else." Maybor spoke with exaggerated deference. Baralis' eyes
narrowed with contempt.

"Very
good," the queen was saying. "We will hold the betrothal ceremony ten
days from now. I am sure you will agree that we should move quickly on this
matter."

"I do, my
queen. I also think, if you will pardon me for saying, Your Highness, that the
betrothal should be kept a secret until it has taken place." There was a
slight pause and then the queen spoke, her cold tones carrying straight to
Baralis' ear.

"I agree.
There are some at court who I would prefer kept in the dark about this matter.
I will take my leave now, Lord Maybor. I wish you joy of the day." Baralis
moved his eye to the crack and saw Maybor bow low to the queen. After the door
closed, Maybor's expression of humility changed to one of triumph.

Baralis smiled
coldly as the lord poured himself a glass of wine. "Enjoy your wine,
Maybor," he murmured. "You might not relish your next cup as
much." Baralis settled down to wait for Maybor to take his leave, the vial
of poison warming in his hand.

Melli was in a
turmoil. Her brother Kedrac had just left.

He had informed
her the betrothal was agreed upon-the queen had set a date for the official
announcement.

On hearing the
news of her fate, decided upon without her consent, rebellion stirred within
her breast. She would never in a million years marry the cold and arrogant
Prince Kylock. She had no wish to be queen of the Four Kingdoms if Kylock would
be her king. She couldn't exactly say why she disliked him so much-he was always
polite to her when they met. But there was something about him that touched a
nerve deep within her. Whenever she caught sight of him around the castle, she
shuddered inwardly. And now her father had finalized the match.

Oh, she knew well
what her father's plan was. With the king weak, every lord was grabbing for
power, and her father was no different: when he was not at war, he was plotting
and scheming. Now he had decided upon the ultimate move, to place his daughter
in the role of future queen. Maybor cared not a jot for her; his only interests
were his precious sons. One of the reasons the war with the Halcus had taken
place was because he had wanted to secure land for her brothers.

The war had
backfired on him, however, for his lands along the River Nestor were now a
battlefield and the yields of the famous Nestor apple orchards were at an
all-time low. Her father would be feeling the cruel pinch of war upon his
pocket.

She hated him! But
she was not sure if she meant her father or Kylock. Last night, when she had
refused pointblank to ever marry the prince, her father had actually slapped
her. In the gardens! Where anyone could have seen. She had noticed of late her
father often held his meetings in the gardens. It appeared nowadays that he
didn't even trust stone walls.

To Melli the past
five years had been a great disappointment. She had longed to become a woman,
but when her breasts swelled and her blood flowed, she found that she was still
a young girl. Her presentation to the queen had not been the glorious triumph
she had imagined. The country was at war and no one had much time for frivolous
ceremonies, so there had been few to admire the beauty of her gown. That had
not been her biggest disappointment, though.

She was most
disillusioned with her life as a lady of the court. She'd come to realize that
the very dresses and jewels she had once dreamed of now bored her. The young
men at court were naive and pompous fools, and she wanted none of them. But
what she most hated were the restrictions placed upon a woman of her rank. As a
child she could race down the corridors, steal to the kitchens for an illicit
treat, and laugh loudly at the top of her voice. Now, as a young lady she might
as well not leave her rooms for all the freedom she was afforded elsewhere. It
was always:

"Walk with
your head up, Melliandra."

"Keep your
voice low and pleasing, Melliandra."

"Never, ever
contradict a man, Melliandra."

The rules for
women were endless. She was expected to change clothes three times a day, she
was not allowed in the gardens without a servant accompanying her, she could
only ride sidesaddle, she must drink her wine watered and eat her food like a
bird. To top it all off, she was forced to spend all of her days cooped up with
old matrons, sewing and gossiping.

Her friends might
love to dress up and flirt, but playing the role of dumb female was beneath her
dignity, and she would never, ever pretend a man was right when he was wrong.
She hated it so much, she even hated the sound of the very name she had so
desired and now longed to be just plain Melli again.

She sat on the
corner of her bed and wondered what she would do. She had no choice about the
betrothal. Her father was insisting upon it and she dared not defy him. She'd
heard chilling stories of daughters who defied their fathers, tales of
floggings and starvations and worse-stories told with relish by her aging
nurse.

She'd harbored the
distant hope that the queen might object to the betrothal at the last minute,
deciding she was not good enough, or pretty enough, or well bred enough for her
son, but it appeared that the queen was as anxious for this match as her
father.

Queen Arinalda was
in a weak position and the country was ripe for invasion. The duke of Bren's
greed for land was making her nervous. The city of Bren was becoming too big to
support itself and was starting to look elsewhere for food for its tables. The
Four Kingdoms were a feast for the taking. The queen needed the country to
appear strong in order to curb any thoughts of conquest the duke might be
harboring. To this end she needed to ally herself with the most powerful lord
in the kingdoms: Melli's father. Maybor would then be forced to defend the weak
king from those who sought to challenge or invade. Whatever the reasons for the
match, Melli was sure of one thing: she was just a pawn.

She had tried to
reason with her father last night: she'd pleaded with him to give up the idea
of the betrothal. He would not listen to her. He'd pointed out that he owned
every scrap of fabric on her back, every ring on her finger and, although he
didn't say it ... every breath in her body. She was no more than a possession,
and the time had come to bring her to market.

No, Melli thought,
I will not be traded like a sack of grain.

She would run
away. Kedrac's visit had been the final straw. Her brother had told her, in his
condescending manner, that the betrothal was a great honor for their family, a
great advancement, a chance to acquire more land and more prestige. Not one
word about her. He'd just droned on about his future, his increased prospects,
his expectations. She was nothing to him, merely a means to bring greater power
and glory to himself. The same was true of her father. The very fact that he
had sent Kedrac to break the news instead of coming himself showed how little
he thought of her.

Melli took a deep
breath. She was going to leave the castle. No longer would she be beholden to
her father and brothers, no longer would she be a chattel, a pawn in their
games of power. They had misjudged her if they thought she would quietly submit
to their plans.

Pacing the room,
she tried to hold onto her anger. It strengthened her, made her want to take
charge of her own life. She moved to the window, wanting to look upon the
outside world, a world that she would make herself part of. It was dark and
quiet, a light rain was falling and the chill of night caressed her cheek.
Instead of feeling exhilarated, she found herself afraid: the world outside
beckoned ... ambivalent and unfamiliar. Melli shuddered and pulled the heavy
brocade curtains together.

She would go ahead
with her plan. She would leave the castle tonight.

Her thoughts were
interrupted by the entrance of her maid. The sly-eyed Lynni busied herself
laying out a dress for the evening. "You'd better hurry, my lady, or
you'll be late for dinner."

"I am not
feeling well, Lynni. I will take a cold supper in my room."

"You look
well enough to me. You must go down. There are visitors from Lanholt and your
presence will be expected."

"Do as I
say," said Melli sharply. The girl left the room, swinging her hips with
studied insolence.

Melli began
sorting through her things, deciding what she would take with her. She had no
money of her own, but was allowed to keep a modest amount of jewelry in her
room, and these she placed in a small cloth bag. She scanned her chamber. She
now possessed a mirror of her own, and her reflection caught her eye; she
looked small and frightened.