The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  Tessa didn’t doubt him for an instant. His fingers slid over the trigger.

  Ravis remained where he stood. Minutes passed. The two men faced each other; one with his features hooded by shadow, the other with his eyes hooded by flesh. Finally Ravis moved. Tessa released a pent-up breath as his shoulders relaxed and his back curved into a softly mocking bow.

  “It would seem that I am in your debt, stranger,” he said, rising to his full height. “Show yourself so I may know the face of my creditor.”

  The crossbow shifted in the hooded man’s hands. It was now pointed directly at Ravis. “You owe me nothing, my friend. I saved you purely for my own ends. Now begone before I change my mind and shoot you in cold blood instead.”

  Tessa shuddered. The stranger’s voice had an edge of madness to it.

  Suddenly one of the four men in the middle let out a cry and dropped to his knees by the corpse. Even as Tessa’s gaze sped back to the hooded man, she heard the soft thuc of the bolt.

  The kneeling man screamed.

  Tessa closed her eyes. Her stomach turned to liquid. The urge to retch was overpowering. She couldn’t understand why she felt so sick: one man had already died within her sights today.

  Ravis seized her arm. He grabbed her so hard, the ground seemed to fall from under her feet. Off balance, gorge rising, she was dragged away like a naughty child. They flew past the three remaining assailants and then past two men with crossbows. Although Ravis had his eyes on the hooded man, his feet never misstepped. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. In the whole street they were the only things that moved. No shutters rattled, no gulls swooped, no dogs fought over scraps.

  A sickening burn rose up Tessa’s throat. Her saliva tasted sharp and sweet, like milk gone slowly sour. Jabbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she swallowed as hard as she could. For some insane reason that she couldn’t begin to fathom, she began to count as fast as she could. One two three four five six seven eight nine . . . one two three four five six seven eight nine. Over and over again, under her breath.

  It seemed to work. By the time Ravis spun her round the corner, her stomach was settling down. She didn’t risk unclenching her jaw, though; despite the counting, her mind was still replaying the dying man’s scream.

  Once they turned onto a new street, Tessa expected Ravis to slow down. He didn’t. His grip didn’t let up, either. He seemed full of fury. The scar on his lip was white and knotted like a fossil. His heavy-lidded eyes carried a look just short of murderous.

  After marching to the end of the street, taking a quick turn, and then another one, they came to a halt by a well-kept three-story building. White stone steps led up to a gleaming black door. Without a word, Ravis rapped against the wood. Fewer than five seconds passed before the door swung open. Ravis went to walk in first, then stopped himself at the last minute. With a sharp bow, he indicated that Tessa should go ahead of him.

  Only as Tessa walked into the cool, dark interior of the house did she remember about her tinnitus. The attack hadn’t started after all.

  “Pear liqueur,” said the man named Marcel as his eyes flicked from the glass to Tessa’s breasts. “I find it most . . . invigorating when one has had a minor upset.”

  Tessa took the proffered drink, intending to down it in one. Something stopped her, though. Perhaps the look that passed between Marcel and Ravis as they watched the glass pivot upward to her lips. So she took a cat lick instead, letting the thick and perfumed liquid merely scald along her tongue. From the taste of it, it was a close relation of arlo. And from the look of the flask it came in, not a poor one at that.

  Tessa liked Marcel’s house. She liked the silk rugs, the fragrant woods, the cushions stuffed to bursting, and the shiny, bony, grainy, artifacts that were scattered from room to room. She didn’t like Marcel, but he had given her refuge, and she was so relieved because her tinnitus hadn’t reappeared that she was inclined to treat him benignly.

  Ravis leaned against the broad white-stoned fireplace, drink in hand, lips curved to half a smile, eyes firmly on Marcel. In the six paces it had taken him to mount the steps and walk through the man’s door, Ravis had changed entirely. The angry look, the flashing eyes, the crisscrossed brow: all gone. Even his scar had receded. Watching him shrug off his mood as casually as others shrugged their shoulders made Tessa uneasy. She made a mental note not to forget it.

  A soft knock came upon the door, and a beautiful dark-haired girl entered the room. “Sir,” she said gently, gaze cast down to the floor, “may I have a word?” Marcel nodded once and left the room. He closed the door behind him.

  “Are you feeling better now?” Ravis asked, turning his lazy smile upon Tessa. “Your color has certainly improved.”

  “My color didn’t improve as quickly as your mood.” Tessa was beginning to feel in control of her day at last. From the very instant she awoke she had been ordered around, shouted at, dragged about. She wasn’t used to such treatment, and somewhere along the line, instead of taking a stand and protesting, she had simply given in to it. This might be a new place, but she was still Tessa McCamfrey.

  Or was she?

  Tessa’s hand flitted to her temple. Two days she had been here. Two instances where she was sure the tinnitus would come on. Loud noises and extreme stress were the main precursors to an attack. In the past forty-eight hours she had been subject to both of them, yet nothing had happened. The first time didn’t mean anything—it was a fluke. But today . . . Tessa shook her head. Today she had been sick with fear and still nothing had happened.

  It didn’t make any sense, but then neither did anything that had happened since yesterday morning. No sense at all.

  Tessa stood up. She needed to make sense of everything; find the design behind seemingly arbitrary events. She knew from years of studying patterns that if you looked at them too closely, you saw nothing but so many lines and curves. You had to stand back to see the whole.

  Which meant she had to find out all she could about this place called Rhaize. “You never answered my question from earlier,” she said to Ravis. “How many gods do you worship here?”

  To her disappointment, Ravis’ face didn’t register even a flicker of surprise at being asked such an abrupt and arbitrary question. “Only one,” he said with a small shrug. “A thousand years ago we used to worship the four old gods, but counting the devil himself, that added up to five.” He smiled. “So now we just have the one.”

  Nodding, Tessa tried to understand what Ravis said: four gods and one devil? “What’s wrong with having five gods?” There was little point in pretending she knew any of this now. Establishing the background detail of the pattern was more important than keeping up lies. Besides, Ravis had already guessed that she wasn’t what she seemed.

  Ravis took a sip from his glass. “Old superstition. Many people believe that five was the first number ever named. They say there were no sorrows in the world until the one true God had his fifth son and the child’s mother died upon the birthing. Now all sorrows, deaths, and misfortunes are counted in fives. Pregnant women once cut their growing babies from their wombs rather than risk giving birth in the fifth month of the year, and fathers smothered their fifth-born children, lest they bring bad fortune upon the families who raised them. Even today, scholars still hold that more calamities occur on dates with the number five in them, and that more wars are won and lost.”

  “But none of this is true?”

  Ravis made a hard sound in his throat. “Tell that to the men who fought the Shrine Wars—they spent most of their lives in the lower south destroying all the temples and shrines built to honor the old gods. Tell that also to Izgard of Garizon. He likes to plan his military campaigns in fives: five battalions, five warlords, five of anything he can think of.” A tooth scored over his scar. “He believes there’s power in it. A lot of people do.”

  Struggling to keep up, Tessa said, “So the devil was the fifth god?”

  “That’s what the Holy
League came to believe, anyway, so they forbade all worship of the old gods and made everyone worship the one true God instead.” Ravis drained his glass. “They sought to rob the devil of his due.”

  Tessa plucked at the rough fabric of her skirt. Her own world seemed very far away. “And who is Izgard of Garizon?”

  “Izgard of Garizon is a man who takes what he wants.”

  Ravis’ voice was so cold when he spoke, Tessa felt the words on her cheek like ice smoke. “Where is Garizon?”

  Just then the door swung open. Marcel walked into the room. The elegantly dressed banker looked slightly rumpled. A lock of his hair had fallen onto his face, and there was a red mark circling his wrist.

  Ravis shot Tessa a warning glance. “When next we see a map, my love, I’ll be sure to point it out.”

  “Map?” echoed Marcel.

  Ravis yawned. “Yes. Our lovely Tessa here is developing quite an interest in the lapis mines in Azhenestan.”

  Marcel smiled at Tessa. His gaze alighted on her breasts, then quickly shifted away. “Beauty and a thirst for knowledge. Ravis is a lucky man indeed.” He bowed. “Now if you will excuse us, my dear lady, Ravis and I have business to discuss.” And then to Ravis: “I have a new case of berriac in the cellar. Would you care to step down and take a look?”

  While Marcel was speaking, Ravis rubbed a bony knuckle over the pink flesh of his scar. When the banker had finished, he turned to Tessa and smiled. It was a mischievous smile, and the first one she had seen that actually reached his eyes.

  “Marcel,” he said, “Tessa has lived in Taire for the past five years—and there’s no need to tell you just how uncivilized that sheep dip of a town is. I’d wager my last silver that she’d like to join us for a sip.”

  Hearing him speak, Tessa couldn’t help but return his smile. This was a new and charming side of Ravis, and a rather crafty one as well. How could Marcel refuse such a genial request?

  He didn’t. “Very well, Ravis, if you insist.” A long glance was exchanged between the two men. Marcel was the first to look away. “Follow me.”

  Marcel led them down a narrow flight of stairs. Tessa descended three steps behind him, eyes firmly on his bald patch, nose inhaling his soft bookish scent. The temperature dropped with the light. Wooden panels gave way to flaking plaster, which in turn gave way to naked stone. Tessa shivered. She was suddenly very aware that her stomach was empty, though she didn’t feel hungry at all. Behind her, Ravis’ steps sounded as light and weightless as leaves rustling against a window in a breeze.

  Marcel was carrying a lamp that burned with a steady, almost smokeless flame. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he handed it to Tessa as he patted his waistcoat for the key. The key went in the lock, and it rattled against the barrel, but Tessa had her eye on Marcel’s red-wealed wrist, and she saw neither bone nor tendon turn.

  “Here we are,” he said, swinging open the door. “My personal little treasure trove. The heart of my humble abode.”

  Tessa glanced at Ravis. Surely he could see that something wasn’t right? Ravis inclined his head slightly, an indication that she move forward straight away.

  Marcel disappeared quickly, taking the light with him and leaving Tessa and Ravis in the dark. A moment later a large wall lantern came to life, flooding the cellar with light. Tessa looked around. Row upon row of crossed shelves dissected the room into squares. The shelves were cut into V’s and small casks, bottles, and earthenware jars were piled at varying heights within the slats. The floor was formed from diamond-cut stone that didn’t quite match the lines of the shelves. The disparity jarred in Tessa’s sights: the cellar was a pattern with a noticeable flaw.

  True to his word, Marcel tapped a barrel and filled three wooden cups to the brim. In an unspoken agreement, neither Tessa nor Ravis drank until the tendons in Marcel’s throat pulsed, indicating liquid had been swallowed. Tessa took a sip of her berriac. Ravis emptied his cup.

  “So,” he said, handing the cup to the banker to be refilled. “Have you had any thoughts on our conversation of last night?”

  Marcel’s gaze flicked to Tessa. Raising her cup so that it rested against her chin, Tessa attempted to cover her breasts. She needn’t have bothered. Marcel was already looking away, his pale eyes focused firmly on Ravis. It was just the same as earlier in the street: she no longer mattered. Slowly Tessa backed away from the two men, putting a hand out behind her to feel for a shelf she could lean against.

  “I have given our conversation my deepest consideration, Ravis,” Marcel said. “Nothing else has been on my mind since.”

  “Nothing?” Ravis’ tone was light. Did he glance at Marcel’s wrist? Tessa couldn’t tell from where she stood. “So, will you make the loan?”

  “Yes.” Marcel’s voice was a tapering line.

  “Hand it over.”

  “It’s not as easy as that. I—”

  “You what, Marcel?” Ravis’ tongue lashed against his scar like a whip.

  “I need surety.” Marcel’s eyes flicked to his left. Tessa followed his gaze. A tall block of shelves that might, or might not, have been resting against the back wall. “I need to be sure I won’t be cheated.”

  Ravis took a step toward Marcel. “And what do you have in mind?”

  The banker looked frightened. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, a voice echoed through the cellar:

  “I will act as underwriter to your loan.”

  Tessa gasped. She had heard that voice before. This morning. On the street.

  A man stepped out from behind the far shelf. He was wearing a hood, and as he stepped into the lantern’s halo, he drew it back to reveal his face.

  S I X

  R avis, let me present Camron of Thorn.” Marcel’s words hung in the room like smoke. No one moved. Tessa glanced at the newcomer: his face was hard, gaunt. His eyes looked artificially bright.

  Ravis’ face was no more than a dark backdrop for his scar. A jagged line marring perfectly formed lips.

  The two men looked at each other. Tessa felt the hairs on her arm prickle. If she was an outsider this time, she was not alone: neither man spared an eyeblink for Marcel.

  An overhead beam creaked and a rat scuttled along the floor, its little pink feet following the cracks in the stone. Time was impossible to gauge. Every muscle in Tessa’s body ached with the strain of holding herself steady. She knew she had no business moving first.

  Ravis sucked in air, then exploded into motion, covering the distance to the door in just three steps. He turned on the threshold and faced the room. A hand shot out toward Tessa, but his eyes found and settled on Camron of Thorn. “As you pointed out this morning, I am not in your debt. And I think it better for all concerned that we leave matters that way. Good day.” He bowed and turned to Tessa. “Come, my love, it is time we broke our fast.”

  “Leave now and my men will cut you down before your boots skim the dirt on the road.”

  Tessa froze. The stranger’s voice was utterly cold. His eyes held a spark of insanity.

  Marcel raised his hand to speak, but Ravis snapped out his forearm, warning him to stay silent. “If you would be so good as to see Tessa home for me . . .” Ravis waited for Marcel to nod his assent before turning to look at the stranger. “All things considered,” he said, looking directly into Camron of Thorn’s gray eyes, “I think I’ll take my chances with your men.”

  With that he sent a regretful smile to Tessa and took his first step out the door.

  “Would you also take your chances against Izgard of Garizon?”

  The softly spoken words stopped Ravis in midstep.

  Tessa felt a feather of icicles drift along her spine. The cellar, with its jarring, mismatched angles and its lines that ran in all directions, suddenly seemed like a cage. Tessa wanted to leave. She didn’t understand anything, not what had happened earlier in the street nor what was happening now. The only thing that kept her from speaking out was the curious feeling she was watching a scene from a play
.

  “What would you know about Izgard of Garizon?” Ravis forced his voice low to mask his anger. His hand sought and found the hilt of his knife.

  The man called Camron shrugged. “I know he tried to murder you one morning ago as you slept in your bed.”

  Ravis ran his tooth along his scar until his smile pushed it out of reach. He laughed, waited until the arrogant curve slackened from Camron’s cheek, then stopped. The silence in the cellar was his now. One step upon the diamond-cut stone and the space was his as well.

  “Murder is a strong word, my friend. You should be sure of your facts before you say it.” As he spoke, Ravis took his first real look at the man. Camron was angry, yes, but there was something more. Something that showed itself in mercury flashes as he blinked. Something that Ravis knew all too well.

  “Facts, Ravis of Burano?” Camron said, running his hand through his dark, golden hair. “Here are the facts: At midmorning yesterday four of Izgard’s harras burst into the brothe”—a quick look at Tessa—“tavern you stayed at, and sliced the bed you slept in into ribbons. For some reason they obviously expected you to be there at that hour.”

  Ravis went to bite his scar, then didn’t. After he’d missed Clover’s Fourth he hadn’t returned to the brothel. Which meant that what Camron said could be true. After all, it was only a matter of time before Izgard made his move. There were a world of reasons why the Garizon king wanted him dead. And now that the contract was over between them there was much to be lost, and nothing to be gained, from letting his former hired hand walk away.

  A small part of Ravis’ scar ran on the inside of his lip, and he trailed his tongue across it as he considered all that Camron had said.

  Ravis of Burano. No one in the city besides Marcel knew his full name—all those he had been acquainted with this past year called him Ravis. So if Marcel had told Camron that secret, what else had he disclosed? And why?