by J. V. Jones
By the time they were in his chamber, Izgard’s anger was mixed with desire—Angeline still had that over him. Her hands cupped and caressed, assuming countless subtle forms. Her neck arched backward and her chest came up, and all the while, as her body twined around his like a vine around a tree, she whispered words of encouragement in her soft, little girl’s voice.
When finally she drew him to the bed, her skirts up around her waist, her tongue darting across his throat, he was torn between the desire to crush the life right out of her and begging her never to stop.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Ravis,” Marcel said. “But I had some business to attend to in Fale.”
Ravis raised an eyebrow. “Fale? Last time you left Bay’Zell was when the Great Fire razed the entire banking quarter to the ground. And even then you stayed within sight of the walls.” Although Ravis had been waiting in Marcel’s town house for over two hours, he kept his tone light. “Tell me, what business could possibly be pressing enough to drag you away from the city?”
The Bay’Zell banker filled two small glasses with berriac. Judging from the way the pale coppery fluid clung to the side of the glass, it was at least an eighteen-year-vintage. Well fed, well dressed, and well heeled, Marcel liked his creature comforts.
Just how much he liked those comforts could be seen in the furnishings of his study. Glossy bookcases and richly colored tapestries lined the walls, silver oil lamps shone from satinwood chests, and hide-bound benches strained under the weight of enameled boxes, gold-bound primers, and ivory figurines. It was well after midnight now, but even so Marcel traveled around the oak-paneled room, systematically checking that all the shutters were closed and bolted. He was a man who valued safety and privacy in equal measure.
“An old friend of mine died this morning.”
“You have no old friends, Marcel. Only clients.”
Marcel’s mouth tightened only for the briefest instant. “Then we have a lot in common, you and I.”
Ravis laughed: he wanted something from this man. “So, my friend, who died?”
Once, in a bout of maudlin brought on by the aftermath of heavy drinking, Marcel had confessed that he had yearned to be an actor in his youth, and watching him now, Ravis could well believe him. The banker put on a fine show of bankerly reticence, shaking his head slowly as he sucked in his breath.
“It might be a little indelicate for me to say.”
So it was someone important. Ravis knew better than to betray his interest—Marcel would work himself round to a revelation soon enough. As long as his own plump neck wasn’t in danger, of course. In matters of personal safety or enrichment, no one could be as discreet as Marcel of Vailing.
“Well,” Marcel said, stretching the word into a dramatic introduction, “you know that old scribe who used to be the late sire’s chief counselor before he fell out of grace?”
“Deveric?”
Marcel nodded. “He had a seizure at dawn. Terrible tragedy. He died right at his scribing desk. No one was expecting it—his wife said he had been in excellent health prior to the attack.” The banker took a sip of berriac. “Of course the first thing his eldest son did was send a messenger into the city to fetch me.”
“You hold his will?” The question was merely cursory. If you were a man of substance in Bay’Zell or its surrounding towns, you banked and litigated via Marcel of Vailing.
“Yes. He left his estate in a terrible mess,” Marcel said. “Sentimental men always write the most preposterous wills. They make the mistake of trying to be fair, of leaving everyone something of value. Of course all that happens is that everybody begins to resent everybody else. One son gets a south-facing meadow, while another is stuck with a field that won’t drain. The Holy League is bequeathed the family home, while the widow retains the contents. Squabbles start over land and property, and then, before one knows it, grown men are busy fighting over belt buckles and spoons.” Marcel shuddered in mock distaste. “And it’s all so unnecessary. A man should leave his property to one person and one person alone. Family fortunes can flourish only as long as they remain undivided.”
Ravis clipped the base of his glass against the table. The words were too true for his liking. “So,” he said, working to change the subject as smoothly as he could. “What did you bring back from your trip?” He indicated the square-shaped wooden frame that Marcel had been carrying as he’d entered the room.
The banker reached over his desk and patted the object. “Illuminations. The press prevents the parchment from being damaged.”
Something half-forgotten turned over in Ravis’ brain. He leaned forward, suddenly interested. “Illuminations, you say?”
“Yes. Deveric’s assistant—Emith is his name—slipped them to me as I left. Apparently Deveric left them to him in his will and he wanted to be sure they were kept safe.”
“Can I take a look at them?”
As a rule Marcel was hard to surprise, yet Ravis could tell from the subtle narrowing of his eyes that the banker had been caught off guard. “I don’t believe you came here to admire works of art, Ravis. In fact, now I come to think of it you shouldn’t be here at all. Wasn’t your ship due to sail this morning?”
Some people might make the mistake of falling for Marcel’s faltering memory act. Ravis knew the Bay’Zell banker never forgot a thing. He had over three hundred clients, and at any given time he could tell you the exact financial standing of all of them.
Ravis strolled over to the desk. Taking the wooden press in his hands, he said, “May I?”
Marcel shrugged. “Go ahead. See what you think. I intend to commission an appraisal of them as soon as possible. I have a feeling they may be worth something.”
Ravis began twisting the copper pins from the press. A labyrinth of spiraling snakes and birds was carved upon the heavily waxed frame.
“Did you decide to sail at a later date?” Marcel asked, pouring them both a second glass of berriac. “Or has something come up to keep you here?”
One by one the pins came out. “Something came up.”
“Business?” Marcel breathed a perfect mix of greed and fear into the word.
“No. I missed my ship.”
A short laugh escaped Marcel’s lips before he realized that Ravis wasn’t joking.
Ignoring him, Ravis removed the last pin from the press and pried apart the two wooden layers. The acrid smell of fresh pigment rose up from the parchment. Straight away, Ravis could see it was the finest calfskin, stripped from the newborn before the flesh was marred by age. Lightly colored to begin with, the vellum had been further whitened with chalk. It was smooth to the touch, so perfectly scraped that Ravis couldn’t tell whether he was looking at the flesh side or the hair side.
He flipped over the first leaf and looked upon the face of the illumination.
“In this day and age, Ravis, no one misses their ship. Why, the damn shrine bells alone are enough to wake the dead. Not to mention the cockerels.”
To Ravis, Marcel’s words were like so many buzzing flies. He was looking at something so complex, so exquisitely detailed, that his eyes couldn’t take it all in. Ribbons of color spread across the parchment, forming a skin of shape and light. Animals with grotesquely long tongues and tails twined around each other in an endless variety of ways. Threads of gold and blue and green wove through the pattern likes arteries and veins.
Ravis ran his tongue over the scar on his lip. He had seen patterns like this once before. Over two years ago now, in a certain well-built castle in the east.
“Very pretty,” Marcel said, taking the leaf from him. “Done in the old Anointed style if I’m not mistaken. Of course there’s little market for this sort of thing today. Nowadays collectors want to see people, not patterns.”
Just as Marcel took the vellum from him, Ravis spotted several dark drops on the bottom left-hand corner of the pattern. It looked like blood. Something cold, like a freezing splinter, worked its way down Ravis’ spine. Unsettled
, he pushed away the rest of the illuminations, unseen.
Ravis decided it was time to state why he’d come here—he no longer had the stomach for small talk and games. He took a deep draft of berriac and then said, “Marcel, I need your help.”
A smile so quick Ravis would have missed it if he’d blinked flitted across Marcel’s face. The banker let the illumination fall onto the desk. “What can I do for you?”
Hearing those words, Ravis suddenly wished he were anywhere but here. “I need cash,” he said. “A lot of it. Clover’s Fourth set sail with all my gold on board.”
Marcel nodded like a doctor listening to symptoms. “I see.”
“Until I catch up with Crivit and force him to repay me, I have nothing to my name.”
“Most unfortunate.” Marcel’s smooth finger rimmed the berriac glass. “However, it was a little naive of you to take the gold straight to the ship.”
“No more so than if I’d taken it to the place where I chose to spend the night.” Ravis abandoned all attempts at good humor. “I need no lessons in asset management from you, Marcel. I just need a loan.”
“Yes. A loan.” Marcel sat back in his chair. “What collateral can you give me?”
“I have just told you I have nothing.” Ravis’ voice was very low now. His hands sought out the manuscript press.
“What about Mizerico? Surely you must have another contract awaiting you there?”
Ravis shook his head.
“Friends? Lady friends? Savings?”
In one fluid movement, Ravis slammed the wooden press onto the desk. It landed just short of the banker’s plump fingers. “Look, Marcel, I need cash, and either you’re going to loan it to me or not. Now which is it going to be?”
Marcel’s eyes hardened, but his voice remained calm. “How much are you looking for?”
“A hundred crowns.”
Shaking his head, Marcel pushed away the wooden press. “Can’t be done.”
“I think it can.” Ravis ran his tongue over his scar. The thick knot of skin burned cold in the warmth of the chamber. “You owe me, Marcel.”
“Owe? I owe you nothing, my friend. I received and banked your payments while you worked in the city this past year, and that’s as far as our relationship goes.”
“I don’t think the city fathers of Bay’Zell would excuse our relationship so lightly. They’d see your part as treason.”
Marcel stood up. He walked over to the door and opened it. “I don’t think either of us would benefit from the truth coming to light.”
Ravis showed his teeth. “How many locks do you need to turn before you rest easy at night, Marcel?”
His words had the desired effect. The banker looked him straight in the eye, and although he tried to hide it, Ravis could tell he was afraid. It was obvious what Marcel was thinking: he was weighing up his risks, deciding whether or not he could trust Ravis to keep his silence. Moments passed, and then finally he said, “You have no future contracts, you say?”
“No.”
“So I can presume you are looking for employment?” Marcel looked to Ravis for an answer. When one didn’t come he said, “Of course, I could always initiate inquiries on your behalf, contact certain associates, make appropriate overtures—”
“You are not my pimp, Marcel.”
“You can hardly expect me to loan you money without surety. I must have some sort of undertaking from you that the amount will be repaid.”
Ravis decided it was time to move toward the door. “You will get your hundred crowns back before the year is out.”
Marcel made a hard sound in his throat. “If you live that long.”
Reaching forward, Ravis flicked a stray hair from Marcel’s tunic. As he moved, he had the satisfaction of seeing the banker flinch. “If you need to worry about anyone’s neck, Marcel, I’d suggest you worry about your own.”
Marcel’s throat quivered as he swallowed. The door was already open, but he forced it even wider. “I think you should leave now. I’ll see what I can do. Contact me in the morning.”
Ravis nodded. It was never a good idea to push a man too far. “Until the morning, then,” he said, stepping past Marcel and over the threshold. “I know your conscience won’t stop you from getting a good night’s rest.”
Marcel opened his mouth to issue a reply, but a servant appeared in the hallway, so he kept his peace instead.
Ravis bowed and walked away.
There was not a corridor or wall in Marcel’s house that wasn’t lined with silk, and as Ravis made his way down to street level, his feet barely made a noise. Approaching the main hallway, Ravis heard voices: a servant girl asking a visitor if he’d like a drop of brandy to warm his blood and then the visitor’s low-spoken reply.
Uneasy for many different reasons, Ravis checked for his knife.
He need not have bothered. As he took the last steps and the two people came into view, the stranger turned his face to the wall. Ravis had slipped in and out of Marcel’s town house enough times to recognize the behavior of a genuine client when he saw one. Marcel was well-known for receiving attention-shy midnight guests.
Ravis waved away the maid and let himself out of the door. He was eager to be gone. Deep in thought, he made his way back to the river. His every instinct warned him not to trust Marcel, but he didn’t really have a choice.
F I V E
T essa first became aware of an itch on her right leg. She ignored it successfully until it began to move. Her eyes snapped open and her head sprang up. Throwing off the blanket, she slapped at her thigh. Something black and shiny was crawling up her leg. Horrified, she sent it flying toward the wall.
A soft laugh caused her to whip her head around. Ravis stood in the corner of the room, his face half-covered by shadow. He gestured to her thigh. “You’d make a fine pikesman with reflexes like that.”
Tessa drew the blanket over her leg. Her mind was still heavy from sleep, and the right half of her face was numb from being pressed against a floorboard all night. Blinking hard wake-up blinks, she tried to think of something scathing to say. Nothing clever came to mind, so she settled on an indignant snort instead. A bell began to toll at exactly the same instant as she made the noise, robbing it of any impact she’d intended.
Church bells. Her thoughts skipped from Ravis and how he came to be standing over her, to the stark reality of where she was: in a oak-timbered house built on a bridge that spanned a muddy river, in a city named Bay’Zell.
Tessa rubbed the sleep from her eyes, half expecting when she opened them again to find herself back in her bedroom at home. Instead she found herself looking at Ravis once more. Her stomach fluttered. It felt as light and hollow as a paper bag. All that had happened yesterday came back to her: the tinnitus attack, the safety deposit boxes, the alleyway, the fight . . . the ring. Tessa brought her left hand up to her face. The ring wasn’t there. Panicking, she looked around the room. What had she done with it? Where had she worn it last?
“Is this what you’re looking for?” asked Ravis, uncurling his fist to reveal the jagged golden band. One of the barbs had cut into the meat of his palm, and a fat bead of blood rolled between his fingers.
Tessa’s jaw snapped shut. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she flew off the bench and snatched the ring from Ravis’ hand. It was hers. No one else had a right to handle it. No one’s blood should be upon it, only her own.
As soon as the ring was in her possession, its weight reassuringly familiar in her hand, Tessa began to feel foolish. Her breathing was accelerated and her cheeks were flushed. What had she been thinking? Embarrassed, she stole a quick glance at Ravis.
He caught her gaze and smiled, the scar on his lip growing taut and pale. “That’s a very interesting trinket you have there. You caught its likeness well.”
Likeness? Tessa was confused until she saw what Ravis held in his other hand. It was the sketch she had worked on last night. The patterns within the ring. For a moment she was overcom
e with the desire to snatch the sketch away from him too. Scared by an impulse she didn’t understand, she forced herself to hold back. The act of holding back, of restraining herself, was so ingrained within Tessa that it was almost a reflex action. Don’t scream. . . . Don’t get excited. . . . Always think before you act.
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Tessa dropped both hands to her side. What had she been thinking? What difference did it make if Ravis saw the sketch or held the ring? She was acting irrationally.
“There’s something about this drawing that reminds me . . .” Ravis’ words trailed away as he raised the sketch into the band of sunlight cutting into the room.
“Of what?” Tessa asked, taking the opportunity to smooth her dress and hair while Ravis’ attention was elsewhere.
“Of something I saw last night.” Ravis looked at her sharply. After a moment of silent scrutiny, he turned, rolled up the sketch in his fist, and handed it to Tessa with a bow. “Make yourself ready. You’re coming with me this morning. I’ll wait for you outside on the bridge.”
Tessa opened her mouth to object, but Ravis was already at the door.
“Don’t be long,” he said. “I have neither the time nor patience to wait upon a woman preening.” With that he stepped smartly out of the room, letting the door bang shut behind him.
Annoyed at being ordered around in such a manner, Tessa glared at the door. No one had spoken to her that way in years, and she didn’t like it one bit. What could she do about it, though? Besides Widow Furbish and Swigg, Ravis was the only person she knew in this place. He was certainly the only one who would help her. And at the end of the day, she did need help. She had to find out more about the city, discover where she was, how she had got here, and if there was any reason behind it. She needed Ravis for that.
As she thought, Tessa toyed with the ring, turning it in her hand and tracing her fingertips over the barbs. Although taking it off last night hadn’t changed anything, it was still her sole contact with home. She couldn’t let anyone else handle or even see it. She had to keep it safe. That decided, Tessa looked around the room for a suitable piece of ribbon or string. The best thing she could do would be to keep it tied around her neck, out of sight.
