The Baker's Boy by J. V. Jones Page A

gathered around the great table were puzzled by his uncharacteristic
good humor, and it pleased him greatly that they were ignorant of his impending
elevation. Maybor felt an overflowing of goodwill. He called for more venison
and ale, and even cheered the minstrels, who he normally enjoyed pelting with
vegetables and chicken bones.
    The king must be
made to step down, he thought. He is an empty vessel and has no place on the
throne of the Four Kingdoms. Fresh blood should flow into the leadership, the
blood of his future son-in-law, Kylock. True, Kylock was young, but Maybor had
plans to use that youth to his advantage, guiding Kylock's decisions, molding
the new king. He, Maybor, would be the power behind the throne.
    He paused in his
delicious reverie for a moment and considered Prince Kylock. There was something
about the lad that gave him the shivers, but no mind, he thought, he will make
a fine king with me to guide him. Melliandra, his ungrateful rebel of a
daughter, had actually said she would not marry him. Well, it was too late for
her objections now.
    He would
personally beat the defiance out of her if necessary.
    The first thing he
would urge the new king to do would be to end the war with the Halcus once and
for all. He was tired of his lands being used as campsites and battlefields.
Once the war was over, he would claim the land to the east of the River Nestor
for himself: it was fine land for growing cider apples.
    Personal profit
aside, there were other more pressing reasons why the war should be won
quickly. Bren was up to no good. The duke had already started a program of
annexation to the southeast, and it wouldn't be long before his eye turned
west. Highwall and Annis were strong and well armed. The kingdoms, however,
were so distracted by warring with Halcus that they were practically asking to
be invaded. No matter they were a distance apart, the good duke's ancestors had
once held land west of the Nestor, and a prior claim, no matter how tenuous,
always served to incite the indignant passions of would-be invaders.
    Maybor drained his
cup. It was getting late, and he took his leave of his dinner companions, his
feet a little unsteady from the large amount of ale he had drunk. As he
returned to his chamber, the only thing he wanted to do was have a glass of
lobanfern red to aid his digestion and then to bed for a deep sleep.
    "Kelse, you
idle lout," he shouted before entering his chamber. "Come and turn
down my bed and stoke up my fire. There is a bite in the air tonight."
Maybor was surprised not to hear the scurry of his servant's feet on the stone;
Kelse was usually quick to respond. He might already be in the chamber, warming
the sheets with hot bricks.
    Maybor entered his
room. It was cold; the fire had gone out. "Damn!" he muttered.
"Kelse, where in Borc's name are you?" Maybor crossed to the table where
he kept a jug of his favorite wine. He poured himself a generous cup and moved
through to the bedchamber.
    As he lifted the
cup to his lips, he caught sight of a body on the floor near his bed. It was
his servant Kelse. Puzzled, he put down the cup, moved toward the body and
slapped Kelse hard on the cheek.
    "Kelse, you
drunken malingerer. Awaken this instant, or I swear I will have your innards on
a platter." Kelse did not respond. Maybor grew alarmed; the man had not
moved. "What treachery is this?" His eyes alighted on the upturned
cup that lay beside Kelse's body. Maybor drew the cup to his nose and smelled
it: lobanfern red. He felt his servant's lifeless body: it was cold.
"Poison," he spoke.
    Maybor felt the
hairs on his neck bristle. He was in no doubt that the poison had been meant
for him. The unfortunate Kelse had stolen a glass of the tainted wine and had
paid for it with his life. Maybor smiled grimly. Kelse had unknowingly
performed the greatest service a servant could do for his master: lay down his
life. He trembled to think what might have happened if the drugged wine had
passed his