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

lips. He would be the one lying on the cold stone, dead. He knew who
had done this.
    "Baralis,"
he whispered under his breath. He had almost been expecting it. For many months
now he had seen the look of hatred on Baralis' face. They both had scores to
settle, and it seemed that the king's chancellor had made the first move to
resolve them.
    Poison was just
the sort of cowardly method that Baralis favored. Maybor was a fighting man, a
veteran of many campaigns, and had only contempt for such underhanded tactics.
If he were to plan an assassination-and, after the events of tonight, it would
seem likely he would have to, a man could hardly be expected to ignore an attempt
on his life-he would resort to more conventional techniques. There was more
beauty and certainty to be found in a knife to the throat than in a jug of
poisoned wine.
    "Your plans
have gone wrong on this dark night," he murmured softly. "Sleep
soundly in your bed, Baralis, lord and chancellor, for there may not be many
nights left for you to dream in."
    Jack was, as
usual, up at four. He no longer had to keep the ovens fueled all night-that job
had passed on to a younger boy. He was now in charge of supervising the first
baking and, after the oven-boy left, he usually had the kitchen to himself for
an hour before Master Frallit and the other bakers appeared.
    He dressed
quickly, the temperature in his room giving speed to his actions. His breeches
were four months old and he was pleased to notice they fitted him now exactly
as they did when newly made, which meant he'd finally stopped growing. About
time, too. It wasn't much fun being the tallest person in the kitchens. He was
always the one called upon to chase spiders from their webs and to shake the
moths from slow-drying herbs.
    Pulling on a light
tunic, he noticed it smelled a little too strongly of sweat. He'd hoped to
cross the path of the tablemaid Findra later on in the day, and had recently
found out that girls didn't appreciate too generous a smell. Of course the
confusing thing was that Grift had informed him that no smell at all was worse
than the most terrible stench: "Women choose a lover with their noses
first, so a man's odor must declare his intentions," was a favorite saying
of his. Deciding that he'd flour his tunic down later to create the delicate
balance needed for wooing, Jack made his way to the kitchens.
    The first thing he
did was add fragrant woods to the furnace. Frallit maintained there were only
two types of wood in the world: one for heating and one for cooking. Overnight
the oven was fueled with plentiful woods such as oak and ash, but a day's
baking called for more delicate fuel. Hawthorne, hazel, and chestnut were added
before the bread was put to bake. The master baker swore by them: "They
give a fragrance to the dough that becomes a flavor when the flame is
high," he would say.
    Once that was seen
to, Jack brought the dough down from the shelf above the oven. The shelf
benefited from the heat of the furnace and the dough rose well overnight. He
removed the damp linen cloth from the tray and absently punched each individual
portion of dough down and then kneaded them, his hands deft with experience.
Quickly, he formed neat rows on the baking slabs and then opened the huge iron
door of the oven, its blazing heat hitting Jack in a familiar wave. He had
singed his hair on more than one occasion in the past. He loaded the slabs onto
shelves and closed the door. Next, he threw a measure of water into the
furnace; the steam produced would add extra vigor to the crust.
    Jack then turned
his attention to mixing the "noon loaves." These would be the third
and fourth batches of the day. The population of Castle Harvell was so great
that the oven had to be in use nearly every waking hour. The first batches of
the morning were maslin loaves. Formed from rye and wheat, maslin loaves were
the staple of lords and servants alike. What was cooked next often depended
upon who was visiting the