The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  Baralis made sure that he spoke to the lords that counted: the ones with great holdings of land, the ones who wielded power at court, and the ones who had influence with the queen. They were all a little uneasy in his presence, but this served only to amuse him. He encouraged his companions to drink heavily, while careful to take only a few sips of wine himself.

  He approached Lord Carvell; the man had financial interests in Bren and would prove a useful ally in the months to come. Carvell was in deep conversation with a nobleman from Annis. Fergil of Grallis was both cunning and wealthy.

  He had a daughter of Kylock's age, by all accounts a sickly girl with eyes as large as mushrooms. Baralis spoke to Fergil, but his words were intended for Carvell: "Annis does well in keeping its distance from Bren," he said. "Though I doubt if it would fare so well, if it decided to- ally with the kingdoms. Bren well likes its position as the mightiest power in the north and may balk at the joining of two of its rivals." Baralis shrugged. "Of course, it might not lead to war. But if it did, the first thing Bren would do would be to seize all foreign assets in the city."

  There. That should be enough to put Carvell off listening to any proposals Fergil might make regarding his daughter and Kylock. Carvell might like to politic, but his financial interests would always come first. Sure that his words had hit the mark, Baralis bowed graciously and moved on. Fending off potential brides for Kylock was almost second nature to him. For nearly twenty years now, countless dukes and lords had tried to marry their daughters to the heir to the Four Kingdoms. Baralis counted it among his greatest achievements that none had found their match. As king's chancellor he was perfectly placed for diverting suitors away from the eyes and ears of the court, and if politics didn't work, poison or sorcery always did.

  He greeted Lady Helliarna with a kiss to her hand. The old dowager simpered like a virgin. Besides the queen, she was the most powerful woman at court. As her beauty faded, her determination grew, and she had more influence with Arinalda than any other. She also had a son, an interesting boy, whose ambitions equalled her own-they would both be careful to choose the winning side if matters should come to a head.

  Not that he had any intention of letting that happen. No, things would go smoothly, but it never hurt to tilt the land in case of rain.

  Lord and Lady Hibray acknowledged him with all the aloofness of co-conspirators. It was partly due to them, many years before, that he was made a lord. The good lady had a problem holding her babies till term. Six had been born too soon-four of them sons. He'd helped her out, as only he could, in return for introductions in high places and a bequeathal of one of their many unused titles. It was a fair deal: they had three grown children now-two daughters and a son. Baralis was sure he could rely on their support for his choice of royal bride. If it wasn't given willingly, there was always blackmail to tip the scales.

  Lord Vernal had come from the front to attend the celebrations-the battle would go worse for his absence. He was a sound military leader. Baralis made a point of raising his cup in the great man's direction. He might be a good friend of Maybor's, but he had sons and, much like Helliarna, would do what was necessary to secure their positions.

  The two knights of Valdis were here. For five years they had traveled between the courts at Harvell and Helch, playing at peacemaking. Their efforts had waned over the past years, and Baralis suspected it was the desire for information not peace that kept them here. The knights were led by a dangerous fool. Tyren was close with the duke of Bren, and he was doubtless using his knights' presence in the kingdoms as a means to feed intelligence to the good duke. Let the knights act as spies; the duke of Bren would hear nothing save reports of stalemate about the war.

  Baralis made a mental note to let Lord Vernal in on his suspicions about the knights. It was to his advantage to have the court wary of Bren's interest in the kingdoms. Fear of invasion had helped seal many an alliance.

  Baralis managed to catch the eye of the queen and she gave him the most imperceptible of nods. He in return smiled graciously. He could well afford to be gracious; with Maybor and his daughter out of the way, the queen would soon submit to his proposal. He would then be able to influence who Prince Kylock would marry.

  He scanned the room for Lord Maybor, but couldn't spot him at first, for the hall was crowded with people. He eventually spied the portly lord. Maybor had managed to surround himself with the pretty daughters of minor noblemen and was currently flirting outrageously and generally making a fool of himself. He was wearing the doctored robe. Baralis smiled, almost sadly. It would not be long before Maybor would begin to feel the sting of the poison at his throat. Maybor would collapse before the night was over, and people would nod and say it was due to immoderate drinking and a weak heart.

  After a while, Baralis felt he'd had his fill of court pleasantries and he decided he would retire to a less crowded part of the banquet hall. He made his way to the back of the room where it was darker and there were few people around-save a few couples who were too overcome with passion or drink to notice his presence. It suited him well; he could watch the foibles of the court and not become involved with them.

  The assassin was listening hard in the concealed passageway. The evening seemed to have reached the drunken fever pitch that was required for him to perform his task successfully. For the last time he checked his blade, more from habit than anxiety. And then, his face taut with concentration, he stepped out.

  The assassin crept from the passageway. The only occupants of the small antechamber were an old man and a young girl, who were both so embarrassed to be caught in such a compromising position that they did not notice from whence the intruder came. The old man was about to speak-probably some excuse. Scarl drew a finger to his lips, halting any speech. He smiled understandingly and encouraged the man to continue with a small gesture of his arm. The old man, much relieved, returned to running his age-marked hands over the breasts of his adolescent companion.

  The assassin slipped into the banquet hall. He was momentarily dazzled by the bright light and the noise. He checked carefully to make sure no one was looking his way, then slunk up against the wall. Feeling the brush of tapestries against his back, he made for the deepest shadows. The lords and ladies appeared not to notice the passage of his slight, unassuming figure against the dark recesses of the wall.

  As he drew near the back of the hall, the assassin spotted his mark. Lord Baralis was there, dressed in fine, black robes, sipping from a golden cup and watching the revelry of the court with detachment.

  Scarl reached the end of the room. Hanging from the ceiling was a huge satin curtain which would provide cover until he was ready to make his move. With practiced stealth, the assassin crept to the back wall, lifted the rich curtain, and drew himself behind it. His body flat against the stone, he moved level with his mark. He was now a mere few feet directly behind Baralis.

  Scarl checked through an opening in the curtain and was pleased to find that apart from two men in the cornerwho were so inebriated they could barely stand-Lord Baralis was alone. The assassin's heart thrilled with anticipation.' All was as he hoped.

  The assassin drew his knife. He lifted the satin curtain. Blade poised in hand, he moved forward.

  Lord Maybor realized that he was drunk. He was not just drunk, he was rip-roaring, out of his skull drunk. He was enjoying himself immensely.

  Not only had everyone admired the magnificence of his robes, but he had also managed to attract all the young beauties of the court to his side. There is no one like a young girl for being impressed by great wealth and good looks, he thought. Who knew, he might even remarry! He fancied an attractive wife for a change. Of course, the catch was that the pretty ones never had any land-it was always the ugly girls who had the best dowries. Maybor decided that his next wife would be ugly, after all.

  Who needed a comely wife when there were so many young poppets willing to jump into his bed and ask no more than a golden trinket or a new dress for the
privilege?

  Maybor tried to focus his bleary eyes. He was sure the queen had given him a most hostile glare earlier. Never mind, he would doubtless find out what the problem with Her Highness was in the morning, when he had his audience with her. The evening was far too stimulating to be worrying about the dour face of the queen.

  He called loudly for more ale. As he did so, he detected a soreness to his throat. He hoped he wasn't coming down with a fever or the pox. He had noticed earlier that he had a certain shortness of breath, but dismissed this as an effect of the ale. The special brew was particularly potent and could easily be responsible for such symptoms.

  Maybor had not spotted Baralis all evening. He hoped most fervently that his assassin would not wait much longer before murdering the demon! The thought of the man's imminent death cheered him and he downed more ale, feeling its liquid coolness most welcome on his burning throat. It was time to have some fun.

  He picked the most becoming of his companions, a young woman with generous hips and gray eyes. He patted her rounded bottom. "You are indeed a pretty one, my poppet," he said, trying hard not to slur his words. The girl looked at him coldly, but Maybor was not to be discouraged and gently squeezed the curve of her breast.

  "Lord Maybor! Please take control of yourself!" admonished the girl, scowling at him. Maybor was oblivious to this warning; he was more interested in feeling the wealth of flesh on her curvaceous posterior. He grinned at the girl and pressed his hand deep into the folds of her dress, grabbing one of her buttocks. The girl spun around angrily and dumped the contents of her cup all over Maybor's face.

  "You bitch!" he shouted, looking wildly around for some sympathy. People were either staring at him coldly or openly laughing at him. He looked down at his precious robes, soaked in sickly fruit punch.

  He had been humiliated in front of the entire court. He was a laughingstock. He would have to leave the celebration and get out of his sticky, sodden robes. The gray-eyed vixen had ruined them! He would never be able to wear them again. Maybor beat a hasty retreat from the hall, the crowds parting to make a path for the raging, drunken lord.

  Baralis was aware there was an incident happening at the front of the hall, but could not make out what it was. Probably some drunken lord making a fool of himself, he thought with contempt.

  He was about to bring his golden cup to his lips, when he heard the faint rustle of satin behind him. In that flutter of an instant, he knew what was happening.

  Without another thought he wheeled around, unleashing the great forces of his power. He saw a man with a knife about to strike. The man's face filled with terror as the first waves of Baralis' discharge tore through him. He screamed in agony as his eyeballs were scorched by the fury. He dropped his blade and raised his hands to protect his head. It was too late: his face contorted grotesquely as his skin was burnt black by the heat. His clothes blazed into flame and his body became a torch.

  The satin curtain caught light and the man staggered back, grasping at a face that was no more. Baralis had no control over the furious forces that he released. He watched grimly as the man's blackened body was consumed by flames.

  He felt the backlash of power hit him, searing his skin and singeing his hair. He stepped backward to avoid further damage, and as he did so he was overcome by tremendous weakness. Never before had he released so much power. He tried to draw it back into himself, but it was too late. Trembling and exhausted, impelled only by the sheer force of his will, he staggered away from the blaze.

  Bevlin was enjoying a late supper of greased duck when his bowels turned to water. He felt the wave that accompanied the drawing of great power. He dropped his knife, and a trail of grease streaked unnoticed down his chin. The hair on his arms and neck stood up and he shuddered, suddenly cold. He could not remember the last time he had felt the unleashing of such force.

  Whoever had drawn power this night was mighty indeed. However, Bevlin perceived the power had failed to be drawn back; it had been allowed to continue and dissipate.

  The wiseman slowly shook his head: a man who drew such power and failed to repossess it would be so physically depleted, he would be in danger of collapse ... or worse.

  The wiseman suddenly felt very tired. He got up and closed the book he had been reading, then retired to his bed, the duck grease left to slowly congeal. He had lost his appetite.

  Maybor was in his chamber. He had relieved himself of his wet and stained robes and was now lying on his bed. He was not feeling very well. Apart from being as drunk as a newt, his throat was burning and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He called feebly for his servant.

  Crandle duly arrived. "Yes, Lord Maybor." The servant looked shocked at his master's appearance.

  "Why are you looking at me that way, fool? Have I grown two heads?"

  "No, sir. You just look a little flushed and there is a slight rash around your face and throat."

  "What do you mean, slight rash?" Maybor was finding it harder to speak. "Get me some water, and bring me a sliver of the mirror so I might look on myself."

  "Yes, sir." The obedient Crandle rushed off. Maybor brought his hand to his throat-it felt hot and fevered. When the servant returned with the shard of glass, Maybor snatched at it eagerly. He was horrified by what he saw. The skin around his nose and mouth and on his neck was red and inflamed.

  "What is this?" he cried, bewildered and distressed by the sight. His servant brought over water, but seemed reluctant to get too close to his master.

  "Maybe it's just the drink, sir," he said with little conviction. Maybor drank the cold water and it was like a balm on his painful throat.

  "If this is the pox, Crandle, I will have your balls whipped off if you mention it to another living soul." The pox was one thing that everybody at court feared catching; the mere rumor of it was enough to have the unfortunate person ostracized. So whenever anyone did catch it, they kept the fact well concealed.

  "I will not breathe a word, sir."

  Maybor was beginning to struggle for breath. He motioned his servant to prop up the pillows, thinking that he would feel better if he were sat up. The reluctant Crandle was forced to drag Maybor's heavy body up toward the pitlows. Once placed there, his breath came a little easier.

  "I will have missed all of the goings-on in the banquet hall," he complained. "I only had chance to down a jug or two of ale."

  "Maybe it was just as well you retired early, sir. You wouldn't have wanted anyone to see you looking as you do." Crandle had not seen the stained robe and was unaware of the true reason for his master's hasty departure.

  "Don't be so damned impertinent!" Maybor spoke with little fury as he was finding it difficult to breathe once more. He started coughing, his whole body shaking as he did so.

  With horror he saw that his undershirt was speckled with blood.

  The sight of the tiny, scarlet drops filled Maybor with fear. What illness was this that stole upon one so fast? This very day he had been on his horse, riding over fields, feeling as healthy as ever. Now, only hours later, he was coughing up blood and short of breath. Frightened, Maybor settled down amongst his pillows and fell into a restless, wheezing sleep.

  Crope heard a faint noise outside the door. He was in his master's chambers, as was his duty whenever Baralis was absent. He wondered whether to see what the noise was--no one could enter the chambers without Baralis' permission, so Crope was not worried about intruders. It could even be some castle children, the ones who liked to taunt him and follow him around. They might be outside the door, waiting for him to open it so they could throw sour milk at him, as they had done once before. Deciding that the faint noise had indeed been children, he ignored it and went back to looking at his books.

  Crope could not read, but his favorite pastime was looking at pictures of flowers and animals. His master, noting the delight Crope took in this particular activity, had given him certain books to keep for his very own. These books, filled with beautifully rendered drawin
gs of plants, insects, animals, and fish were Crope's most treasured possessions. He looked through them countless times, always careful to clean his hands before he touched the precious pages.

  Tonight he was looking at his favorite, the one with all the beautiful flowers in it. He immersed himself in his book, and it was some time before he heard another faint noise. This time it occurred to him that it was too late for children to be up, and so he opened the heavy wooden door. On the floor by his feet lay Baralis.

  Crope wasted no time in scooping Baralis up in his arms. He hurried to the bedchamber and, with a gentleness surprising in such a huge man, laid his master down on the bed.

  Crope wondered what to do next. He noticed that Baralis was trembling, and so he rushed off for extra blankets. He returned moments later and carefully laid them over his master's body. Next, he fetched water and a length of cloth and proceeded to dab his master's fevered brow with cool water. Crope saw that his master looked as if he was burnt: the skin on his face and hands looked red and sore.

  He tried to remember what to do for bums. Baralis, he recalled, had special ointments for such things. Crope went off to look in the library where some such medicines were kept. He returned minutes later with what he hoped was the right ointment. He poured a little on his hand to check. It was some kind of oil and felt smooth and cool. With great care he applied the ointment to Baralis' burnt face and hands. It did appear to lessen the heat a little.

  Finally, Crope poured a glass of rich, dark wine into a cup and, holding Baralis' head up a little, poured a small quantity of the liquid between his master's lips. Some of the wine dribbled down Baralis' chin, and Crope patiently dabbed the excess away with a soft cloth.

  During all of this his master had not stirred. Crope was beginning to feel worried; he was convinced that there was more wrong with Baralis than burnt hands and face. There seemed little more that he could do. He went over and stoked the fire, and then sat by his master's bedside, once again wetting his brow. He would watch over Baralis through the night and hope his master became no worse.