by J. V. Jones
“Tell me, Crope,” said Melli, cutting a slice of cured ham, “what caused Lord Baralis to lock me in the storeroom?”
“I can’t tell you, miss.”
“Nonsense!” Melli put on her most imperious voice. “Why, Lord Baralis himself was about to tell me yesterday, only he had to rush off.” She watched as Crope took in this information.
“Well, miss, seems as he was about to tell you himself, there can’t be any harm in me telling you, now can there?” Crope smiled showing an interesting selection of gaps and yellowing teeth.
“I think that Lord Baralis would be pleased that you finished off what he had started.”
Crope nodded judiciously. “Well, miss, you know the boy, Jack.”
“The baker’s boy,” encouraged Melli.
“Yes, that’s him. Course he worked for Lord Baralis, too, just like me.” Crope smiled proudly. “Well, the boy has upped and escaped. The guards can’t find him, looked everywhere they have.”
“And what has this to do with me?” Melli already thought she knew the answer.
“Well, Lord Baralis figures that Jack might come looking to rescue you. So he put you here, where no one can find you.”
After she had eaten, Melli allowed herself to be led back into the storeroom. She was almost grateful when the door closed behind her; she needed to think.
She could not help but smile at Crope’s handiwork. He had tried hard to transform the little room; there were some fresh clothes, a chair and a small table. Discreetly placed on a low shelf there was even a chamberpot. The rug that had been laid on the floor served to soak up the damp, and Crope had provided her with several blankets with which to keep warm.
Melli took off her damp clothes. She wondered what Jack had been doing working for Baralis: he had certainly not mentioned that to her. She was a little annoyed that he had not told her the truth. She wondered if he would indeed come and rescue her—it was a nice notion, like tales of knights of old—but she put herself in Jack’s place and thought that if she were to escape from Baralis’ clutches she would run as fast as she could and not look back.
“No, you’re wrong there, Bodger.”
“But Master Gullip told me that nobles were naturally more randy than us commoners.”
“Well, he’s sorely mistaken, Bodger.”
“Master Gullip says he’s got proof, Bodger.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he had, Bodger. Master Gullip’s well known for being a Peeping Tom. He can’t get no rollickin’ of his own, so he sneaks around watching others taking a tumble.”
“So he could be right then, Grift, about the nobles.”
“That’s where Master Gullip makes his mistake, Bodger.”
“What mistake is that, Grift?”
“Well, he’s right that nobles do have more quantity of rollickin’, but us commoners have better quality.”
“So nobles ain’t as good with the wenches then, Grift?”
“Take it from me, Bodger, the commoner the man, the better he is at pleasuring the wenches. No one pleasures the wenches better than a pig handler.”
“A pig handler?”
“Aye, the lowest of the low, but always sought after by the wenches.”
“I thought the wenches sought after the pig handlers for the bacon, Grift.”
“You’ve got much to learn, Bodger.”
The two men reflected for a while, savoring their ale and stretching their legs out.
“Does the same go for the ladies, Grift? The commoner, the more pleasing?”
“Aye, Bodger. The lowest wenches in the castle are always attracting the eyes and codpieces of the nobles. Even old King Lesketh himself was known to dally with servants.”
Jack looked back—he thought he had heard a noise behind him. Probably a rat. He moved quickly on; rats were one thing he didn’t like to keep company with. He knew it was foolish to be afraid of them, he a grown man of nearly eighteen, but something about their heavy bodies and skinny legs made him shudder. Frallit had once locked him up in the grain store all night in an attempt to cure him of his fear. All it had done was make him more scared than ever. He’d spent the night alone in the dark, crouched down by the door, praying to Borc to keep the rats away.
Jack had spent over a day exploring the labyrinth of tunnels and passageways that snaked darkly beneath Castle Harvell. He was astonished that he could have lived his whole life in the castle and yet have had no idea of what lay under its stone floors.
On reaching the castle the day before, he took a torch from the wall and had proceeded to investigate the various passageways leading from the room. Jack felt the thrill of the explorer as he traveled through the tunnels, taking turnoffs at whim. He imagined the people who stepped before him: kings fleeing from assassins, thieves stealing away with crown jewels. It was relaxing for a while to let his imagination run its course. So many disturbing things had happened over the past weeks that it was nice not to think about them for a couple of hours. He let his feet go where they fancied, and his mind was soon to follow suit.
One little niggling thing—well, two if he counted rats—kept bringing him back to the present: there was something to remember about his mother. Jack was almost certain of it. The night Baralis had questioned him, he’d been on the brink of remembering. There’d been a light and two figures; one was his mother. She’d been trying to tell him something and then everything had gone blank. Each time Jack tried to grasp at its meaning, the memory seemed to become less solid. At first he’d thought it was a dream. But dreams didn’t leave you feeling as if you’d understand everything if only they’d go on for a few moments more. At least none of his used to.
Jack had always slept soundly. Master Frallit had often said the only way to wake him was a good kick to the shins. Since leaving the castle, though, his dreams had given him no rest. They taunted him with glimpses of places he’d never been and people he’d never met. Images flashed in his mind like fat on a fire: men in torment, a city with high battlements, a man with golden hair. It didn’t seem to mean anything, and when he awoke in the mornings he was more tired, more confused, more restless, than when he lay down his head the night before.
One minute he was just plain Jack the baker’s boy, the next he was running for his life, being chased by guards and questioned about powers that he had no control over.
Judging from what he’d overheard the mercenaries say, the king’s chancellor had not emerged from the questioning unscathed. What was in him that was strong enough to repel Baralis’ will? For there had been a fight, Jack was certain of that, and somehow, although he hadn’t emerged the victor, he had managed to keep the man at bay. Like a boar on the scent of truffles, Baralis had burrowed into his mind in search of the truth. He nearly found it, too. They both had.
There were answers inside him, and Baralis’ probing had brought them tantalizingly close to the surface.
Walking through leagues of empty passageways had given Jack time to think. Despite all that had happened since leaving the castle, he realized that he wouldn’t change a thing. If he hadn’t burnt the loaves and left Harvell, he would never have met Falk and Melli. Falk had given him the gentle gift of understanding. He’d taught him to question his views on the world and introduced ideas that challenged a lifetime of beliefs.
As for Melli: well, she was proud and beautiful, and somehow managed never to be out of his thoughts. He’d known girls and had kisses aplenty, but no one had made him feel the peculiar mix of attraction and bewilderment that he felt in her presence. Jack was glad the mercenaries had caught him; Melli might have died without someone to tend her wounds. Capture seemed a fair exchange for her life.
Now all he had to do was free her. He’d read many books in Baralis’ library where heroes saved beautiful damsels. If they could do it, so could he. Skill with a blade might be lacking, but lifting sacks of grain had made him strong, and dodging Frallit’s blows had made him fast on his feet.
He knew it
would be better to lie low for a few days before returning to the haven. Right now the mercenaries would be vigilant and anxious for revenge. The longer he waited, the more chance there was of catching them unawares. Jack was under no illusions; if he was going to free Melli, it would be by sneaking past the guards, not fighting his way through them. Bakers had to live by more practical rules than heroes.
For the moment, food and water were his priority. He needed to find a way up to the inhabited rooms of the castle.
One of the strange things that he found while searching for entry into the cellars was that many tunnels ended in stone walls. It didn’t make sense to Jack that someone would build an elaborate tunnel only to deadend it. He thought back to the conversation between the two mercenaries; they had mentioned Baralis opening up walls with his hands. Jack attempted to find some sort of mechanism on the wall that formed part of one dead end—perhaps Melli was being kept behind the featureless stone. He found nothing and gave up. Why waste his time with secret openings when there was so much that was not concealed to explore?
Finally, after some time, Jack came across a narrow flight of stairs. He headed up them and found a low wooden door at the top. His heart beat heavily as he turned the handle and looked out. He could not see much as his way was blocked by a large object. There was something familiar to Jack about the shape blocking his view. He brought the torch forward and was able to see clearly what it was . . . a huge copper brewing vat. He was in the beer cellar.
Jack decided to leave the torch in the tunnel—it would only serve to draw unnecessary attention to him—so he quickly ran down the stairs and placed it in the wall bracket. Seconds later he crept through the door. He slipped down the side of the copper vat, careful to stay in the shadows. There appeared to be no one around. He realized that it must be sometime in the evening, maybe even in the middle of the night.
The smell of hops and yeast pervaded the air, reminding Jack of the good times he had spent there as a child, fetching ale for the castle guards—more often than not taking an illicit tipple of his own. His youth seemed a long distance behind him now, and he knew in his heart that he would never be a baker’s boy or kitchen help again.
He made his way up the cellar stairs and into the castle kitchens. They were hooded in shadow, only an occasional candle burning. Jack knew he had to be careful. Even late at night there were people in the kitchen: scullery maids scouring the pots and damping fires, drunken guards looking for a bite to eat.
Jack heard whispering coming from the larder. He glanced around and was surprised to see that the door which was usually kept locked was open. Lying on the floor inside was a man with his britches pulled down around his knees with a girl open-legged beneath him. Jack recognized the man at once. He was about to withdraw when the man called out to him: “Who goes there?” Jack froze on the spot, hoping the shadow was deep enough to conceal him. The man pulled up his britches and the woman smoothed down her skirts. “I know there’s someone there,” said the man, moving forward.
Jack took a chance and stepped into the light. “Master Frallit, it’s me, Jack.”
“Jack, lad, what are you doing here? I thought you’d run away.” Master Frallit came out of the shadows. He was short of breath and decidedly red in the face.
“I did.” Jack hesitated. “It’s a long story.”
“Just a minute, lad.” Frallit turned back to the girl and motioned for her to go. The master baker waited for her to be out of earshot before he spoke again. “I trust, Jack, that what you saw tonight won’t go any further?”
“I would ask the same of you, Master Frallit.” The two men nodded in understanding.
“Is there anything I can do for you, boy?” Frallit looked eager to be on his way.
“No, I don’t think so, Master Frallit.” There was no mistaking Frallit’s sigh of relief. “However,” continued Jack, “if I could just take a few things to eat from the larder?”
“Go ahead, boy, and be quick about it.” Jack made his way forward into the larder. “Don’t be taking any of the roast venison, though. The sharp eyes of the cook can notice missing venison a league away.”
Jack quickly filled a cloth with cheese and pie and anything else he found appealing. “Hurry, boy,” hissed the master baker. Once satisfied that he had enough food, Jack tied the ends of the cloth and stepped from the pantry. Frallit’s eyes rested disapprovingly on the size of his bundle. “Be on your way, boy,” he said, intent on locking the larder door. Jack thanked Frallit and made his way back toward the cellar, pausing to pick up some candles and a jug of water.
Once Jack was back in the passageways he lit one of the candles from his torch and laid himself out a feast of a meal. He munched on grouse pie and blood sausage, blue cheese and apple dumpling. Nothing, however, tasted as good to Jack as his one slice of cold roast venison.
Jack lay down for the night in a partly concealed recess off one of the tunnels. The torch had burnt out, and although he knew it was tempting discovery, Jack kept the candle burning while he slept. He realized that he should have brought a flint and decided he would obtain one the following evening. He would need some warm clothes, too.
He awoke the next day stiff and cold. He ate a light breakfast and spent the morning exploring the tunnels once more. Jack had no doubt that Baralis used the passages regularly—a few of them were even lit by torches, and those Jack stayed away from. He did not want to chance a meeting with the man or his mercenaries.
Baralis had decided it was time he had a word alone with Traff. The head of the mercenaries had let him down badly by allowing the boy to get away. The man had expected to be rewarded when he performed his job well; he must also expect to be punished when he did it badly.
He watched as Traff made his men leave the room, and was pleased to note that each of them had looked afraid at his arrival. Traff poured himself a mug of ale. Baralis felt nothing but contempt for men who sought strength in liquor.
“So, Traff,” he began with misleading mildness, “have you any news on the boy, any sign of him?”
“No, nothing. If he’s still here we’ll find him, and if he’s outside he won’t have gone far in this weather.” Traff took a large gulp of ale.
“I’m very disappointed. I thought ten men would be able to guard one boy.”
“He caught my man off guard, surprised him—”
Baralis cut him short. “I hate excuses.” He could see that Traff was getting nervous.
“Since I’ve been working for you, I’ve had two men killed and another’s so messed up even his own wife wouldn’t recognize him.” Traff took another gulp of ale. “Let me tell you, I’m about ready to get the hell out of here.” The mercenary started to get up.
“You aren’t going anywhere.” Baralis drew gently from his power. He watched the panic in Traff’s face as the man realized he couldn’t move.
Baralis looked around the room for something suitable, his eyes alighting on a wooden-handled knife. He casually picked it up and caressed the blade with his fingertips, drawing heat to it. In seconds the blade glowed red, and Baralis was amused to see Traff’s expression turn from fear to horror. He brought the knife within a hair’s breadth of the man’s face and watched him wince as he felt the heat from the blade.
“Now, my friend.” Baralis spoke with a voice smooth as oil. “I think you know I could hurt you quite considerably.” He moved the knife a fraction, nearly touching Traff’s skin. “Quite considerably, indeed. But I won’t, because you and I both know you will come to your senses. You are not about to walk out on me . . . no, my good friend, nobody walks out on me.”
Baralis shook his head lightly. “I know you’ll do a better job in the future.” He gently grazed the blade over Traff’s cheek, the flesh reddening beneath. Baralis suddenly drew the knife down to Traff’s bare arm and laid the red-hot blade against his skin. The skin reddened and warped and then turned black. Satisfied, Baralis removed the blade and drew back his power. Traff fel
l forward against the table and began to whimper, tears of pain coursing down his cheeks.
“Well, Traff,” said Baralis briskly, “I trust you have a better understanding of matters now.” He let the knife drop into the jug of ale, causing the beer to sizzle and steam. “I must be off now. I will, of course, expect the boy to be found within the next few days.” Baralis paused a second by the doorway, contemplating the sight of Traff cradling his arm, and then was off, back to the castle.
Baralis made his way to his chambers through the underground tunnel and up into the castle. As he walked he noticed a torch was missing from one of the walls. He puzzled over it for a second, making a mental note to ask Crope if he had it.
Once in his rooms, Baralis rubbed his hands, soothing them—gripping the knife handle had been a strain upon them. The wet weather was having a direct effect on the joints in his fingers, causing them to swell and stiffen. He resisted the urge to take the drug; he would endure the pain rather than risk losing his sharpness of mind. He poured himself a glass of holk instead. The drink afforded him a little relief.
Crope entered the room, his clothes wet. He had obviously been out in the rain. “I expected you back before now. Is the girl safely locked up?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You must not get too attached to her, Crope,” warned Baralis. He had a feeling his servant had a soft spot for the girl. “Tell me,” he said, satisfied that he had made his point, “why are you soaked through?”
“I’ve been outside, my lord. I’ve found out from one of the stablehands that Lord Maybor has left on a journey.”
“Oh, really.” Baralis was suddenly interested. “And where is Lord Maybor journeying to?”
“First to Duvitt and then on to his eastern holdings. Stablehand says that there’s been some sort of trouble on his lands.”
Baralis smiled. He was well pleased. Maybor would be out of the way for a couple of weeks. By the time he returned the deadline the queen had agreed to would be up, and there would be nothing to be gained by finding his daughter.
