Free Master and Fool by J. V. Jones Page A

right,"
said Barmer, swallowing a mouthful of food. "Let's ask him a tough
one." The baker slipped a sweet roll between his lips to aid the thinking
process. "Nice texture, Scuppit," he remarked to the baker by his
side.
    Scuppit bowed his
head graciously. "I added a halfmeasure of clotted cream to the
dough."
    Barmer let the
bread roll on his tongue. "Never tasted better, my friend." He
swallowed and then turned his attention back to Jack. "Very well, lad,
what sort of buttermilk is best for unfermented bread? Fresh or sour?"
    Jack was beginning
to enjoy himself. He liked the bakers; they were a good-humored group who loved
their creature comforts and were passionate about their trade.
"Sour," said Jack. 'The soda in sour buttermilk will help a flat
bread rise." Eckles looked up from his food. 'The boy knows his stuff,
Barmer."
    "Mat he
does," agreed Scuppit.
    "I still
don't trust him," said Nivlet.
    Barmer waggled a
bread roll at Jack. "All right. One last question, lad. If you add more
yeast to make the dough rise faster, will you need to add more salt, as
well?"
    "No. Too much
salt slows down the yeast." Jack smiled at the company of bakers.
"And makes the crust too firm."
    Barmer stood up,
walked over to Jack, and clapped him hard on the back. "Welcome to the
guild," he said. Food permitting, other bakers followed his lead, and Jack
was slapped, patted, nudged, and even kissed in congratulation. All came
forward except Nivlet, who sat back in his chair, eyeing Jack with open
suspicion. After watching the backslapping for some time, Nivlet left the room.
    "Eat, boy,
eat," said Eckles. "The Baking Master's Guild never lets a guest go
hungry."
    Jack didn't need
much encouragement. He hadn't eaten since breakfast-which seemed at least two
days back now--and the food in front of him looked a lot more appetizing than
anything Stillfox had ever cooked. Glistening baked hams rested beside pies as
large as butter churns, cheeses were split open and stuffed with fruit, and fat
strings of crisp-skinned sausages shared bowls with roasted onions. Everywhere
there was bread: barmcakes, soda rolls, sweet breads, bloomers, griddlecakes,
and loaves. Jack had never seen such a variety. They were glorious to behold;
some with hearty crusts, others softly glazed or sprinkled with seeds, many had
been slashed before baking to give interest to the tooth, and a few had been
formed into shapes as elaborate as could be. All of them were fresh, fragrant,
and cooked to perfection.
    As Jack ate, he
began to feel guilty about his treatment of Stillfox. The herbalist had been
kind to him-teaching, feeding, healing, asking no awkward questions-and he had
repaid it all by storming out in a fit of indignant anger. Jack shook his head
slowly. Tomorrow he would go back to the cottage; he wouldn't apologize for his
words-for he said only what he truly felt-but he would apologize for his anger
and the way in which he left. He owed Stillfox that much.
    With that decision
made, Jack poured himself a cup of ale. For ten weeks the herbalist had treated
him well, and it didn't seem right to let one bad incident come between them.
Jack downed the thick country beer, relishing its bitter taste. Hadn't Falk
told him all those months ago to accept people for what they are, with all
their faults and frailties? Stillfox had accepted him, not blinking an
eye about him being a wanted war criminal and a dangerously unstable sorcery
user. So, thought Jack, if he had faults, surely he should make
allowances for them in others? Yes, Stillfox had kept something from him, but
perhaps his motives had been nothing but good.
    Jack's eyes
focused on a far distant point. He no longer saw the baker's lodge; he saw
Rovas' cottage and Tarissa by the fire. A world of good motives couldn't
justify what she had done to him. And then there was his mother with her
half-truths and her desire for death. And back a decade more was his father: a
man who had left him before he was born. Both