J. V. Jones The Book Of Words 1 The Baker's Boy

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any peacock.
He quickly decided that Maybor would wear one of two redcolored robes that
evening. The queen was to be in attendance at the Winter's Eve dance and
Maybor would surely use this chance to display himself in his richest. The two
robes that Baralis picked out were by far the most ostentatious: gold
embroidery, ruffles, and pearls. Baralis shuddered. He himself would wear a
discreet black. He never liked to draw unnecessary attention upon himself.
With haste, he sprinkled the poison on the shoulders and neck of the robes. He
then beat a quick retreat. He knew just how deadly the poison was and he had
no intention of being in a small room with the lethal fumes for an instant
longer than necessary.
Pleased that the task was done to his satisfaction, he slipped out of the
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chamber and returned to his own rooms by the same indirect route he had used
coming.
The assassin was not unduly worried that he'd lost Lord Baralis when he
slipped into the passageways.
Baralis was ' probably spying on someone, or up to some other ill deed. That
no longer concerned him.
What did concern Scarl were his plans for this night.
Tonight he would make his move, carry out his commission. The assassin had
thought long and hard over how best to do his job and had finally decided on
carrying it out on the night of the Winter's Eve dance. The great banquet hall
would be crowded with people, all drinking and eating. Baralis would not dare
to bring his servant Crope to such a grand event.
The assassin had found, on his many explorations of the labyrinth, a passage
that led to a small antechamber just off the banquet hall. It would be easy
for him to slip into the hall, unnoticed amid all the drunken revelry and
watch his mark.
The assassin knew Baralis' ways well: he was not a man who liked to keep in
the forefront; eventually he would retire to a remote comer to better observe
the foibles of his fellows. Then, as Baralis watched with studied boredom, the
assassin would make his move. The great lord would barely feel the touch of
the knife before he fell dead to the floor. Scarl would return to the passage
before anyone noticed what had happened.
The assassin was beginning to feel the familiar knot of excitement in his
stomach which always accompanied the time leading up to his task. He was eager
that it be done, and anxious that it be done right. He did not doubt his own
skills-he was the best with a knife in the Known Landsbut he did worry in case
anything should go wrong. Still, he had never failed before and he had a fine
plan.
It really was a most beautiful plan. To carry out a murder in a room full of
people would actually be a lot easier than it seemed. He would wait until such
a time when the crowd's reactions were dulled by drink;
no one would notice a shadowy figure move about the room. In addition to the
plan's other merits, Lord
Maybor would be in full sight of the room, and so no guilt would fall upon
him.
Scarl considered Lord Maybor-he did not trust him. It was true that Maybor had
paid willingly in the past for his services, but the assassin had seen
something in the lord's face when they had met last that boded no good. The
assassin would be wary. He had taken a risk by not requesting his payment in
gold-for if he had been paid in the traditional manner he would by now have
half his fee in his keeping. As it was, he had nothing more than a promise
from Lord Maybor to deed him some land after the job was done. He sincerely
hoped that Maybor would not try and renege on his word ... that would be most
unfortunate-most unfortunate, indeed.
These matters the assassin put to the back of his mind; he would deal with
such difficulties when and if they arose. For today and tonight he would need
his complete concentration for the task in hand. Almost as a reflex, Scarl
took his knife from his belt. He ran his finger lightly over the blade; the
subtle motion drew blood. The assassin was well pleased at the sight: his
blade had never been keener.
Jack was heading east through the forest. He was making a good pace; sometimes
he even broke into a short run, his sack banging against his side. He had
never felt more free in his life. It was a joy to him to be in the woods
running at his own speed. All his life he had been at the beck and call of
others: Master
Frallit, the head cellarer, Lord Baralis. Now, for the first time he was
experiencing what it was like to do things when he wanted, to eat when he was
hungry and to sleep when he was tired.
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He was light-headed with freedom. He owed so much to Falk. Thanks to him, he
didn't feel that what he'd done to the loaves was evil. Now, with time and the
goodness of nature to give perspective, Jack realized Falk was right: he
hadn't intended to do anything bad. All he'd felt the morning of the loaves
was worried. A worried man was not necessarily an evil one.
Still, he had done it. He couldn't hide from it. In fact, part of him didn't
want to. It made him different, and he no longer felt the overpowering need to
be the same as everyone else. A thought drifted through his mind, and when he
realized its importance, he spoke out loud: "I might have inherited it."
Whatever it was that he had-power, sorcery, magic-he could have got from his
parents.
Falk had led him to believe that his mother had not been afraid for herself
but for him. What if she'd been afraid for both of them? If 'she'd had any
similar power, she would have needed to keep it hidden in order to continue
living in Harvell. If only she'd taken him into her confidence. But had he
really given her the chance? He had been too young, too keen to be out at play
when all she wanted to do was sit by the fire and talk.
Jack wished Falk was with him; he would know if magic, like hazel eyes and
large feet, could be passed down in the blood.
It was really quite unbelievable: he, a baker's boyand, according to Frallit,
not a particularly good one at that-had somehow managed to change the natural
order of things. He felt no differently-perhaps a little wiser since his visit
with Falk, but for the most part he was unchanged. He was still unsure what to
do with his life; various ideas warred in his mind, and depending on his mood
he either wanted to search for his mother's family, settle down to be a baker
in an eastern town, or wander through the world finding adventures as they
took him, ideas of revenge against his father, which Falk had so shrewdly
guessed at, were not something he would let govern his life.
For today, though, he was content to be out in the forest. Decisions were for
the future. The food was good, the ground was firm, and time, at last, was his
own.
He began to feel a chill once more, and broke into another run to keep himself
warm. He leapt over ditches and fallen logs, dodging trees and trampling the
undergrowth.
When he finally stopped, his feet were a little sore. The boots that Falk had
given him were not a very good fit; he was grateful as they kept his feet warm [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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