The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  He'd made a mistake a novice would have been ashamed of. All the years of training in his youth was underlined by one basic principle: never outreach yourself. He could remember even now his teacher's hand upon his shoulder: "Baralis, you have a gift and a curse," he said. "Your gift is your ability, your curse is your ambition. You draw too wildly. There is no temperance, and one day you will pay a high price for your boldness."

  They always tried to hold him back, they were envious of his talents. Who were they but a few old fools who defied convention by setting up a school to teach sorcery? They wanted to bring people around to the idea that magic wasn't all bad and that Borc had been wrong to condemn it. The only reason they were allowed to go on for so long was that Leiss was a city that prided itself on its liberalism. Of course, all that had changed now.

  So close to the Drylands, it took a farmer of genius to coax crops from its soil. Genius, and a little sorcery in his father's case. He'd come from a long line of successful farmers, their skills defying the thin soil that Leiss rested upon. Like savages, they married close: a half-sister, a distant cousin, a stepdaughter, it all served to thicken the mix. Sorcery was instilled in their blood, and the poor simpletons hadn't even known it-they thought it was skill alone that nourished the grain.

  His mother had known differently, though. Too clever by far for a farmer's wife, she had seen the truth behind the record crops. She had seen the potential in him, too, and had sent him to the one place in the Known Lands where he could be trained.

  Yes, he'd been lucky to be born in that once liberal city. If it wasn't for his training, he wouldn't be here today, King's Chancellor. His teacher was wrong: ability and ambition were his gifts.

  He'd traveled far and wide to learn all the skills that were now in his possession. In the Far South they'd taught him how to command animals and make them his own, from the herdsmen of the Great Plains he'd learnt his skills with potions, and beyond the Northern Ranges he'd discovered the art of leaving his body and joining with the heavens. Many cities had he visited, many people had he talked to, many manuscripts had he read: no one in the Known Lands could match him.

  But Winter's Eve had proved he wasn't infallible. It would have been easy to eliminate the assassin with much less power, leaving himself with nothing more than a moderate fatigue. Instead he'd been unconscious for two long days before his mind returned to him. Sorcery took its power from the essence of a man: from his blood, his liver, his heart. To perform even the simplest of drawings made one weak for several hours. To perform a drawing of the scale he'd done on Winter's Eve could drive a lesser man to madness or oblivion.

  Baralis could not help but wonder at the power he had drawn. True, it had been dangerous to himself, but the feeling of strength coursing through his body--fast and terrible--had filled him with elation. He had not known he had such potential in him. Once he was fully recovered, he would put his newfound abilities to good use. He would be careful, though, never to put himself at risk again.

  He had much to do, much he needed to find out. He could not afford to let fatigue hinder his plans. He called for Crope.

  "Yes, master." His servant entered the bedchamber. "Crope, you have looked after me well and I thank you for your care."

  Crope smiled, the many scars on his huge face pulling tight. "I did my best, master," he said, pleased that his efforts had been appreciated.

  "Now, on to more important matters. How is the court taking the news of Lord Maybor's death?"

  Crope looked puzzled at the question. "Lord Maybor isn't dead, master."

  "Isn't dead! What devilry is this! Are you certain of what you say, you dim-witted fool?"

  "Yes, master." Crope seemed pleased to be insulted. "Lord Maybor isn't dead. But he is powerful sick. People are saying that his face is covered in sores and he can't breathe very well. The priests were even called."

  Baralis could not understand it. The poison had been lethal. He had tried it out on an old horse and it had killed the pathetic creature in a matter of hours. "When did Lord Maybor leave the dance?"

  "Everybody's talking about that." Crope paused for a minute, struggling to remember the story. "He was said to have had punch poured all over him by a young girl. He was made a laughingstock and left before the fire started."

  It seemed to Baralis that Maybor had the luck of Borc himself. He knew that the poison would have been rendered less potent by having liquid poured over it, and Maybor may have taken the robe off early because it was wet. Damn him! Baralis thought for a moment. "Is Lord Maybor's condition improving?"

  "I can't say, master. The queen was said to have sent her wisewoman to look after him."

  "The queen has visited him?" Surely the queen would want nothing to do with Maybor now that his lies had been uncovered.

  "Yes, master. The queen's messenger came here the other day, said the queen wanted to see you as soon as possible."

  "How did you reply?"

  "I told the messenger that you had caught a slight fever while out riding."

  "Good, Crope. You have done well." Baralis paused and then asked: "What are people saying about the fire on Winter's Eve?"

  "They're saying it was caused by fallen candles, master."

  "Good. Were there any witnesses?"

  "One drunken squire said a man in black caused it, master."

  "What is his name?"

  "I don't know, master."

  "Well, find out, then! And once you have found out, arrange for him to have an accident." Baralis' eyes met those of his servant. "Do you understand what I mean, Crope?"

  The servant nodded. "Good. Now go. I need to be alone to think."

  Baralis watched as Crope lurched away. Once he had gone, Baralis rose from his bed. He was surprised at his own weakness; his legs were shaky and unused to his weight. He made his way slowly to his study. Once inside, he hunted among the many bottles and vials until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the stopper and drank the entire contents of the small bottle-he needed all the relief he could get from his pain.

  He looked down at his hands, burnt by the aftermath of power. They were scarred, the skin shiny and taut. The curative oils had undoubtedly helped, and most of the scarring would heal. But it was the healing itself he was afraid of. The skin might permanently tighten, making it impossible to straighten his fingers. If that happened, he would be forced to slit the skin at his joints.

  A drawing to quicken their healing was out of the question--he was too weak. There would be no sorcery for several days, which meant he would be unable to make contact with the second dove he'd sent to track Melliandra.

  Maybor had a lot to answer for. Baralis was almost certain that he had been the one to arrange for the assassination attempt. He had many enemies at court, but none would like to see him dead as much as Maybor. The lord of the Eastlands was no fool; he would have wanted no blood on his hands and would have hired someone to do his dirty work for him.

  Baralis had much to occupy his mind. He had to concentrate on bringing his plans to fruition. He must step carefully, for it seemed as if the queen was still sympathetic to Maybor despite his fabrications. He needed Maybor out of the way. He could not risk the queen becoming close with him.

  Baralis decided he would not waste any more time trying to poison Maybor. The lord appeared to be almost charmed against such methods. He would arrange instead for his attentions to be diverted from the court. He knew the one thing that Maybor loved more than himself was his eastern lands. They were rich and fertile, planted with seasoned apple orchards from which the best cider in the Known Lands was produced. A curve of a smile stole across Baralis' face: he would arrange for Maybor's attention to be diverted eastward for a while.

  Tawl squinted in the direction that Fyler indicated. "I can't see a thing," he said. Fyler had told him that Larn was on the horizon, but Tawl could spot no sign of it.

  "You from the Lowlands, boy?" asked Fyler. Tawl nodded, amazed at how the seaman could know
such a thing. The navigator winked and then explained, "People from the Lowlands are known for their bad eyesight. All those marsh gases affect the eyes. It was just as well you left home before they had a chance to do worse damage."

  The two men were on the bow of the boat. All day the waters had been growing choppier. A strong easterly wind was blowing, whipping up the waves, causing them to crash mightily against the hull of the small boat. The Fishy Few, which for the first two days had seemed so sturdy to Tawl, was now at the mercy of the restless sea.

  The crewmen, who had come to accept Tawl's presence, were now grave and silent. All hands were on deck. The sails needed to be constantly turned to accommodate the unruly wind.

  Even as Tawl and Fyler stood on deck, conditions were worsening. The sky darkened ominously and the first spits of rain were felt. The wind blew hard and picked up the waves in its path, driving them high and rough. Tawl was forced to hold on tightly to the railing.

  "How far before we reach Larn?" he asked. Fyler, who was much more used to the unstable sea than Tawl, stood with his arms folded.

  "Well, I'm sure it was on the horizon, only it's gotten so damned dark and nasty that I can't see it no more. I'd say we're half a day away. Course in these sort of conditions it could take a lot longer. The wind is against us. And I -don't fancy navigating low waters in a storm."

  "How dangerous are the waters around Larn?" Tawl was now having to shout to make himself heard.

  "Well, I've navigated worse waters, but Larn's are pretty bad. It's not just the shallows ... though if you're not careful you could find yourself run aground." Fyler looked to the horizon. "No, the real problem is the rocks. The sea bounces off 'em and becomes unsettled. There's no telling which way the current runs, but one thing's for sure-if you're not careful, it'll run you onto the rocks."

  "Captain Quain said he wouldn't take the ship too close."

  "Aye, lad. Captain's no fool. Still, it won't be easy. You can see what's happening to the boat already." As if to illustrate this point, the sea swelled suddenly, causing the boat to roll beneath their feet.

  "I thought it was just bad weather," shouted Tawl. "There's always bad weather around Larn, boy. That's the problem. I can navigate shallows and rocks in a calm sea with my eyes closed. Larn's one of those godforsaken places that allows the sea no rest."

  "Is is because of where Larn is?"

  "No, it's because of what Larn is."

  Tawl watched as Fyler walked away, marveling at the man's ability to walk so steadily with the boat heaving as it was. Tawl stayed at the bow, the wind and rain driving into his face. He looked ahead, trying to spot the island on the horizon. He could not see it. Something within Tawl knew that Larn was there: it called to his blood, beguiling and inviting. He looked ahead at the bleak gray of sky and sea, and he became afraid.

  He did not know how long he stood, blasted by the elements. A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts: "You there! What d'you think you're doing? You'll catch your death there in this storm." Tawl looked round to see Carver. "Best get belowdeck, captain's askin' after you." Tawl realized that he was cold and his cloak was soaked through. The sky was growing darker, the waves higher, and the rain was now driving in sheets against the ship.

  "See what trouble Larn brings," muttered Carver as Tawl made his way belowdeck.

  The captain's cabin was warm and cozy and smelled of old leather and rum. "By Borc! You're soaked to the skin, lad. What have you been up to?" The captain swiftly poured Tawl a full cup of rum. "Take your cloak off. Here, wrap yourself in this." Quain handed Tawl a rough blanket.

  "I was on deck. I didn't realize how long I was there."

  "Lost in thought, eh?" The captain gave Trawl a questioning look.

  "I was thinking about Larn."

  "You're not the only one, boy. Larn's the sort of place that's hard to put from your mind."

  "You've been there before?"

  The captain nodded. "I came close as a lad and it's haunted me ever since."

  "What purpose did you have with the island?"

  "No purpose at all, it was my first job as navigator and I was as green as seaweed. We were bound for Toolay, but I was so nervous the ship veered off course." The captain took a deep draught of rum and was silent for so long that Tawl was surprised when he spoke again. "Can't say that I was sorry, though. To this day, I still hold that it was fate, not I, who steered the ship that cold and windy morn." Quain slammed his glass down on the table, effectively ending the subject.

  "You'll be there tomorrow. Course if the seas don't calm you've no chance of landing. No one in their right minds would set a small rowboat on these waters. I'm beginning to think I've lost mine coming here with The Fishy Few. " Quain lifted his glass. "Come on, lad, drink up. That rum will warm you better than any fire." Tawl obliged the captain, finding his words to be true. The rum warmed him to his toes.

  "Once you're on the island, you know I won't wait longer than a day for your return. The waters are just too treacherous. I'm sticking my neck out putting down anchor. If the waters don't calm by the morrow, no anchor will be able to hold her. That's not your concern, though, lad. I just want to make sure there's no misunderstanding. If you're not back within one day, then I'm off. And God help you; you could be stuck on Larn for many months." Quain gave Tawl a hard look.

  "There is no misunderstanding, Captain. I've decided I'll go alone-you're one man short as it is. I can row myself." Quain grunted and poured them both another cup of rum.

  "Pray for calm waters, boy."

  Tavalisk was taking an afternoon stroll in the palace gardens. The gardens were famous throughout the east for their spectacular beauty. Tavalisk was more interested in what he was eating than the breathtaking surroundings. Walking a few steps behind the archbishop was a liveried servant holding a platter of delicacies.

  "Boy, be careful no flies land on the chicken livers." Tavalisk beckoned the boy forward so he could pick what he would eat next. The brisk air had given him quite an appetite.

  Tavalisk decided on a large, juicy specimen and popped it in his mouth. It was just as he expected-rare and tender.

  The archbishop sighed heavily as he noticed the approach of his aide, Gamil. "Come, boy," he said to the servant. "Let us make haste." Tavalisk hurried away in the opposite direction, his voluminous robes flapping in the breeze. "Do not drop the platter, boy," he warned as they turned into a hedged walk. Gamil's feet proved faster than Tavalisk's, and he eventually caught up with master and servant.

  "Gamil, what are you doing here? I didn't see you approach. Did you see him approach, boy?" Tavalisk looked to his attendant; the boy obediently shook his head. The archbishop reached forward and took another liver from the tray. "Though I must admit you're difficult to miss in your splendid new robe. Silk, if I'm not mistaken. I didn't realize I paid you so well."

  Gamil became a little red of face. "It's nothing, Your Eminence. I picked it up cheap in the Market District."

  "Well I'm not at all sure I like my aides dressing better than L" The archbishop could not resist the exaggeration: his robes were by far the finest that could be bought in all of Rorn. "Now tell me why you're here." Tavalisk daintily spat out a piece of gristle.

  "About the knight," said Gamil, brushing the offending piece of gristle from his robe. "My spies. . . "

  Tavalisk cut him short. "Your spies, Gamil? You have no spies. I am the one who has spies." Tavalisk's small eyes took in the look of animosity on his aide's face. He pretended not to notice, though, and busied himself picking out another delicacy.

  "Your spies have confirmed our suspicions, Your Eminence."

  "What suspicions are those?" Tavalisk had now turned to admire a late-blooming flower.

  "The Old Man paid for the boat that sails for Larn."

  "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 Emin
ence."

  "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.