The Baker's Boy (39 page)

"This is
indeed interesting. Do you think the Old Man knows I am having the knight
followed?" Tavalisk picked the flower, smelled it, and then threw it away.

"I think he
must, Your Eminence."

"His
friendship with Bevlin aside, I wouldn't be surprised if the Old Man helped the
knight merely to irk me, Gamil." Tavalisk now stepped on the flower,
grinding its delicate petals into the ground. "He knows I have no love for
the knighthood. Not that the Old Man is their greatest advocate, but he's not
averse to doing a little business with them from time to time."

Tavalisk walked
off, beckoning his servant to follow. As he had not been excused, his aide was
forced to keep up with them. Tavalisk stopped a little later and chose another
tasty morsel from the tray. "Oh, by the way, Gamil, what news have you of
the drawing the other night?" Tavalisk threw a chicken liver into the air
and nimbly caught it between his teeth.

"It appears,
Your Eminence, that others felt the ripple of power several nights back. I have
spoken with one who knows of these things, and she was certain that the
aftermath came from the northwest."

"The
northwest, indeed. If I am not mistaken, there is little else in the northwest
beside the Four Kingdoms. They have that particularly fertile corner of the
world all to themselves." Tavalisk began to feed the sweetmeats to the
birds. "How soon can you question my spies about this matter?"

"If anything
remarkable has happened in the Four Kingdoms, I will soon know of it, Your
Eminence."

"If the
incident of a few nights back was Lord Baralis' doing, then I will have to
revise my estimation of him, Gamil. Great power was drawn that evening. Whoever
is responsible bears watching closely. Power is seldom found in those without
ambition." Tavalisk found it was more fun to throw the sweetmeats at the birds
rather than to them. "It is all the more reason to track down his
enemies."

"I will know
who they are in a matter of days, Your Eminence."

"Good. Before
you go, Gamil, may I be so bold as to offer you a piece of advice?"

"Certainly,
Your Eminence."

"Red is a
most unbecoming color for you. It shows up the pock marks on your cheeks most
unpleasantly. I would try green next time, if I were you." Tavalisk smiled
sweetly and began to walk back to the palace.

Lord Maybor was
beginning to feel much improved. His breath still came in wheezes and his
throat burned hot and sore, but he knew he was feeling better when the queen's
wisewoman rubbed warm oils into his skin. The wisewoman was not a great beauty,
and she had passed her prime some years back; however, when her skillful hands
worked on Maybor's body, he began to find her most appealing.

With a firm touch
she worked the fragrant oils into Maybor's flesh. She noticed the lord's
reaction and smiled pleasantly, showing small, white teeth. "I see you
will be up soon, Lord Maybor," she said softly. She leaned over him, her
breast brushing against his face. He could not resist and squeezed the
roundness gently. The wisewoman smiled on, moving her agile hands lower. Maybor
drew more bold and squeezed the breast vigorously.

The woman laughed:
a bright, pretty sound. "I do not think, Lord Maybor, that you are quite
ready for a tumble yet. Maybe in a few days." Maybor was disheartened; the
wisewoman was looking very attractive to him now. "It is a good sign though-when
a man's urges return, his good health will soon follow." She stood up and
smoothed her dress. "I must be off now. Be sure to drink your honey
balm." She patted him lightly on the shoulder and left the room. There is
a lot to be said for older women, thought Maybor regretfully.

When she had gone,
Maybor called his servant, Crandle, to bring him his minor. Maybor had always
been very proud of his appearance; he considered himself to be strong boned and
handsome. His greatest fear now was that the terrible sores that blighted his
face would leave scars. He regarded his reflection carefully. There seemed to
be a slight fading of the redness. His face was hideous; the sores had formed
mostly around his nose and mouth. Some of the sores had started to heal, but some
were still open and wet. The wisewoman had given him some herbal water, and it
appeared to help a little.

He was still
contemplating his reflection when Crandle rushed into the room and announced
the queen. She followed directly after the servant, her beautiful face pale and
unreadable.

"No, Lord
Maybor, do not try to rise." She turned to Crandle and bid him leave. The
servant scuttled away quietly. "It is indeed an honor, Your
Highness." Maybor was trying hard to keep his voice and breath steady. He
did not like appearing ill to the queen.

"I have come
this day because I have just spoken with my wisewoman, and she has advised me
you are much improved."

"Your
Highness was most gracious to send her to me." Maybor succumbed to a fit
of coughing. He held his handkerchief up to his lips-he did not want the queen
to see he was coughing up blood.

The queen waited
until the coughing stopped before continuing, "My wisewoman is better than
any physician. I am glad to see her remedies have helped you. You seem much
better than when I looked upon you last. I am well pleased."

The queen moved
away from Maybor and began to pace the room, her back rigid and her head high.
"Lord Maybor, I must ask an unpleasant question and I require a
straightforward answer."

Maybor began to
feel a little apprehensive. "What would you ask, Your Highness?"

"I would know
the truth about your daughter, Melliandra. I have heard say she has run away
from the castle." The queen turned and looked Lord Maybor in the eye.
"Is this true?"

Maybor instantly
realized that if he lied and told her his daughter was in the castle, she would
demand proof. He had no choice but to confess. Sick though he was, he rallied
his wits about him. The queen was already sympathetic to him. His best defense
would be to play on that sympathy. "Unfortunately, Your Highness is right.
My daughter has run away. She has been gone seventeen days now."

"Has she run
off with a lover?" The queen's voice was hard and unyielding.

"No, Your
Highness. She has had no lovers. Melliandra is a virgin."

"Why did she
run away, then? Was it because she didn't want to enter into the betrothal with
Prince Kylock?" Maybor thought quickly, glad that his affliction had not
affected his sharpness of mind. "No, Your Highness, her fleeing had nothing
to do with Prince Kylock. At the time she left, she knew nothing of the match
... I thought it better not to mention the betrothal until the matter had been
fully decided."

"So why then
did your daughter flee, Lord Maybor?" The queen looked skeptical.

"Regrettably,
Your Highness, I am to blame." Maybor hung his head low, coughed
pathetically, and tried hard to bring a tear to his eye. "I have not
treated my daughter as well as a father should." A single tear glistened
forth. "I have been a bad father. All Melliandra ever wanted was my love
and affection, for she is a sweet and lovely girl." The tear made its
noble descent down Maybor's cheek. When the salty tear encountered one of his
open sores, he winced in pain-a gesture easily mistaken for a shudder of
remorse.

"Melliandra
would come to me, begging for my attention, wanting to play me the latest tune
she had learnt on her flute, or to show me how pretty she looked in her newest
dress. I would send her away, unregarded. My sons were all my eyes could see. I
am ashamed to say I neglected her badly." Maybor was warming to his theme:
a second tear conveniently welled in his eye.

"It was I who
drove her away. All she ever wanted was a father's love. I failed my daughter,
Your Highness. I all but sent her away. She fled purely to gain my attention. I
would give up my lands for just one chance to tell her that I love her. I would
give up my life to have her back, safe within the castle." The second tear
dropped, with perfect timing, off the end of Maybor's nose.

The queen came
over to Maybor's bedside and placed her cool hand on his shoulder. She appeared
deeply moved. "Lord Maybor, I am ashamed for having doubted you. We will
find your poor daughter together. I myself will send the Royal Guard to look
for her. I will not rest until she is brought safely back into your arms. Have
no fear, the betrothal will go ahead as planned once she is found." The
queen bent and kissed Maybor's forehead lightly before leaving.

After she left
Maybor slumped back against his pillows. He smiled broadly, disregarding his
painful sores. He would be father to a queen after all.

Jack watched as
Traff laid Melli on the cold earth. He longed to be able to go and help her. He
could see she was in a terrible state: she was hot and fevered, her face
covered in a film of sweat. The worst thing was her back, where six welts were
seared into her flesh. Two of the welts were scabbed with blood and badly
swollen-a sure sign of infection.

The mercenaries
had done nothing for her, save provide her with a blanket to draw around her
tom dress. They appeared not to realize the seriousness of her condition. All
Jack wanted to do was go to her. He hated to see anyone suffer, but to watch
Melli's rapid descent into fever was almost more than he could stand. There was
one point yesterday, when the mercenaries had laid her on the ground,
heedlessly banging her shoulder against a hard stone, that he'd felt something
building up inside him. Anger at her treatment became tension in his head. It
was the same sensation that he'd felt two days earlier. He tried to hold onto
it, knowing power was at its core: so close, he could feel the bum at his
throat, so overwhelming that he nearly lost himself to it.

Traff had been the
one who unwittingly brought him to his senses. The leader came over, holding
out a cup of water. "Boy, see to the girl." And that was it. The
power was gone more quickly than it came, leaving Jack with a sickening
headache and a tangible sense of loss.

Since then, he'd
had little chance to consider the importance of what had happened. His time was
taken up with thoughts of Melli, not himself, which was probably a good thing,
for Grift had warned him many times that "thinking leads to trouble."
Armed men dragging him back to Castle Harvell was trouble enough for the
moment.

They had traveled
west three days now, and Jack expected they would reach the castle in a day or
so. He was almost anxious to return, for Melli could then be looked after. It
was obvious her wounds needed cleaning and tending.

Melli was in a
weak, dazed state. She appeared to have little strength, and Traff had ridden
with her leaning heavily at his back. This arrangement had forced the pace to
be slowed, as Traff's horse was greatly burdened. Jack had managed to catch
Melli's eye on one occasion; she seemed to recognize him, but could do no more
than return his gaze.

They had stopped
to eat and rest the horses. Traff, seemingly ignorant of Melli's worsening
condition, placed the girl against a tree and left her to join his men. Jack
was untied from his horse and was brought a cup of water and some drybread. He
watched as Melli was given the same provisions. She was barely able to register
their presence and made no move to drink. Jack was extremely worried about her;
she was sweating and feverish and needed water. With his wrists and ankles tied
he could not approach her, so he shouted to the mercenaries: "Help her!
Can't you see she's sick with fever? She can't even drink her water."

The mercenaries
looked around, astounded at his outburst. The one named Wesk came over to Jack
and kicked him hard on his legs. "Hey, boy, don't tell us how to do our
job. The girl will survive till we get to Harvell. After that we don't
care." This statement was met with grunts of approval from his fellow
mercenaries.

Traff, however,
looked toward Melli and shouted "Cut the boy's ties, Wesk. Let him tend to
her. I for one don't fancy Lord Baralis holding me responsible for her
death."

Jack saw the
treacherous look in Wesk's eye. "Go to it!" shouted Traff, and Wesk
reluctantly cut the bonds.

Jack wasted no
time relishing being cut free; he hobbled to where Melli lay. Raising the cup
to her lips, he forced her to drink. Once she had enough to satisfy him, he
tore off part of the lining from his cloak and soaked it in the remaining
water. With great tenderness he cleaned the welts on Melli's back, washing away
dried blood and dirt. With growing alarm, Jack noticed that underneath one of
the welts the skin was soft and bloated: it was badly infected and needed to be
drained.

"I need a
clean knife," he shouted toward the mercenaries.

Traff sauntered
over, pausing to spit out a wad of snatch. "What d'you need a knife for,
boy?"

Jack was annoyed
at the mercenary's casual manner and struggled to remain calm. "The wound
on her back has become inflamed. It's full of pus and needs letting. It must be
done now. " Jack gave Traff a hard look; he would not be hindered in this.

Jack saw something
close to respect in Traff s face as he handed over his knife. "I hope you
know what you're doing," said the mercenary, staying put, ready to watch
the operation.

Tension that Jack
had hardly been aware of made its presence felt by its retreat. His head was
reeling as if from drink, and the bands of muscle around his stomach were as
taut as a strung bow. The power had been upon him, and he'd hardly noticed its
swell. He'd come close to losing control.

Jack had to make a
conscious effort to focus on the present. Melli was what counted now. It was a
relief to dismiss thoughts of what might have been if Traff had denied his
request. With hands that wouldn't stop shaking, Jack cleaned the blade as best
he could.