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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.
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"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 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 were to plan an he 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
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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 castle. When foreign noblemen and envoys
were in attendance, the master baker usually honored them by baking their
native loaves and delicacies. Later in the afternoon, when the sweet breads
and fancies were still cooling, Frallit would indulge in what he called his
"baker's privilege."
Harvell, like most towns, had several communal ovens where women brought their
dough to be baked.
A copper penny a loaf was the charge. Frallit had taken to renting out space
in the castle oven for a similar rate. Being a canny businessman, the master
baker offered the women one free loaf with a dozen, and now had rather a
profitable sideline going. The head cellarer and the chief cook were given a
silencing cut of the proceeds. Jack's inducement for keeping quiet was nothing
more than the threat of a sound thrashing.
Once the noon loaves were mixed and the yeast set to proof, Jack was free to
find himself something to eat. He usually spent the proofing time visiting the
servants' hall for a measure of ale and a bowl of whatever was served the
night before. This morning, however, Baralis had kept him up so late scribing,
that all he wanted to do was sit down for a while and have a short rest.
He settled himself on the baker's bench and rested his head against the ledge.
His eyes were heavy with lost sleep. He'd only managed to snatch about three
hours rest last night and he was tired beyond measure. Before he knew it, he [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]