The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  “Would a dog slice open a man’s torso?” Camron’s voice was sharp, almost hysterical. “Would he pull back the skin to show the heart?”

  Ravis bit on his scar. The practice of pulling back the skin to reveal the heart of the corpse had been carried out in Garizon for centuries, and he knew from experience that Izgard had a special fondness for that old and bloody tradition. During his two years in Veizach, Ravis had seen several corpses prepared in such a manner, serving their purpose as warning, marker, or threat. He had even seen a man who was still alive laid out that way. Heart still pumping. More than anyone else on the continent, Izgard understood the importance of fear.

  Running his hand over his tunic, fingers tracing the leather above his heart, Ravis tried to make sense of all Camron had said. Animals? Less than a dozen men defeating a full watch? And then there was the business at the brothel. An empty bed sliced to ribbons? No man he trained would waste time destroying furnishings during daylight hours in a hostile city, where any moment they might be caught.

  What sort of evil was Izgard dealing with now?

  “Before your father was murdered, were you planning to leave Bay’Zell?” It was Tessa, asking Camron a question that wasn’t important. Ravis cursed her under his breath. He had forgotten why he had even brought her.

  Camron took a deep breath and, for the first time in Ravis’ hearing, spoke in a gentle voice. “Yes, I had planned to leave the city. Today.”

  Tessa nodded. She didn’t say anything more.

  Silence cut the room. Camron’s hands, which had been balled into fists during most of the meeting, fell slack at his side. Muscles worked in his throat. Ravis almost reached out and touched his shoulder. But he didn’t.

  Marcel leapt into the pause. “Well, I think we all know why Berick was murdered.”

  “We do?” Ravis said softly.

  “Why, yes.” Marcel looked quickly at Camron, perhaps expecting to be interrupted. Camron was silent, head tilted to the floor, eyes down, so Marcel carried on. “Izgard was exacting revenge for the defeat at Mount Creed. If it wasn’t for Berick of Thorn, Rhaize might be part of Garizon today.”

  Ravis watched Camron closely as Marcel spoke, looking for any reaction. There was none, so he decided to let the matter rest with Marcel’s explanation. If there was more to the murder, it was not his place to say.

  “So, Ravis,” Marcel said. “Will you take the commission? I can arrange to advance you fifty crowns today.”

  Camron swung around to face Ravis full on. His eyes were very bright and his lips were pressed to a line. Ravis was glad he didn’t say anything.

  There was little choice here. Camron’s crossbowsmen would shoot him the instant he left Marcel’s house, and even if by some miracle they missed, the whole city would be after him by dark. All Camron had to do was go to the authorities and tell them what he had learned from Marcel—minus Marcel’s involvement, of course. Some deal must have been struck between them last night. Camron had probably begun the bargaining by threatening to take his newly inherited assets elsewhere for management. The banker would agree to anything under financial duress. Marcel of Vailing had sold his own country for gold.

  Ravis ran his hand over his lip. He had no country: Drokho had been lost to him for fourteen years. He couldn’t set foot upon its rich, red clay soil without fear of being killed.

  He had nothing. No family, no country, no gold.

  Izgard had tried to assassinate him once and would certainly try again. The Garizon king couldn’t risk Ravis’ expertise and insider knowledge being used against him in the coming war. Ravis’ fingers found his scar. At the end of the day, though, as good as that sounded, it wasn’t the real reason why Izgard wanted him dead. Not the real one at all.

  Ravis looked at Marcel. The banker was timing his blinks, anxious to appear unanxious, deliberately looking calm. Watching him, Ravis felt nothing but loathing. The man had no sense or understanding of loyalty—he didn’t even have the decency to keep up a pretense. Whatever was best for him, he did. No questions, no moral uncertainty, no doubt.

  And Izgard was the same, only worse.

  Ravis traced the line of his scar with his fingertip. The flesh was cold and rough. A ghost’s worth of pain shimmered along its length, reminding him of the time and the place his lip was sliced in two.

  Ravis shivered.

  So few people in his life. So much pain and disloyalty.

  He made his decision.

  “I will take the commission,” he said, looking straight at Camron of Thorn. “I will help you bring the Garizon king to his knees.”

  S E V E N

  T essa popped a slice of herring in her mouth and then quickly washed it down with a large swig of arlo. Funny, but the little fish wasn’t nearly as bad as she had expected. In fact, it tasted quite delicious. What on earth was it stuffed with? Briefly she considered asking Ravis, then decided against it. There were some things it was better not to know.

  They were sitting in a small, low-ceilinged tavern close to the fire. Rushlights on the walls sent charcoal shadows slanting downward, and bursts of light and steam from the kitchen occasionally lit up, then dampened, the room. The tavern-keeper, a mournful, long-jowled man named Stade, was busy filling every spare inch of the table in front of them with food: terrines of steaming soup and fragrant mussels, platters of pale white fish in even paler cream sauce, grill-scorched sausages, wafer-thin sliced duck, hard-boiled eggs, and fresh fruit tarts. And cheese. Everywhere there was cheese: soft, hard, crumbly, running, colored red and yellow and white. Tessa didn’t know where to start.

  Ravis sat beside her in silence. They had left Marcel’s house shortly after he agreed to work for Camron of Thorn. A few private words had been exchanged between the two, a second meeting had been arranged, and then Marcel had seen them to the door. Although Tessa hadn’t seen the banker slip Ravis any money, Ravis’ tunic now boasted an extra bulge above his heart.

  “My lord Ravis,” said Stade, hovering around the table like a guest at a funeral, “you are not eating. Is there something wrong with the food?”

  “No, Stade. The food looks and smells delicious.”

  Stade ran a shiny hand down his brilliantly white apron. “Then there is another problem?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Aah.” Stade nodded his head dolefully. “A woman, then?”

  Ravis sent Tessa a gentle smile and then nodded. “You know me so well, Stade.”

  Stade smiled with a sort of tragic satisfaction. “Women and food.” He shook his head with feeling. “What else is there?” After sending Tessa a reproachful look and fussing with various sprigs of mint around the platters, he walked solemnly away.

  Tessa continued eating. This was her first meal in two days, and nothing was going to spoil it. After finishing off the herring, she moved on to the duck, trailing slices in the apple-glaze sauce, then slapping them over bread rolls. While she ate, she watched Ravis out of the corner of her eye. Stade was right: Ravis wasn’t eating. He did drink, though. Cup after brimful cup.

  The meeting in Marcel’s cellar had left him looking haggard, older. Even with the firelight glancing off his face, his eyes still looked dim.

  After eating for a while longer but drinking no more, Tessa decided to speak. Something had been on her mind for some time now: a slender thread seized upon while Ravis and Camron were speaking in the cellar. “When we first arrived at Marcel’s house you mentioned something about your ship. You said you missed it. And then later, Camron said that if it wasn’t for his father’s death, he would have left the city last night.”

  “Yes.” Ravis’ gazed into the fire. “What is your point?”

  “All three of us, you, me, and Camron, were waylaid yesterday. None of us had planned to be in Bay’Zell today—especially not me. Yet here we are.” Seeing little interest in Ravis’ face, Tessa struggled to make her point clearer. “It’s almost as if we’ve been drawn together, like lines in a pattern.”
r />   “A pattern,” echoed Ravis.

  Tessa thought she had lost him, but a moment later he leaned forward. “Last night I saw some illuminations in Marcel’s study. They were the most exquisite and complex things I had ever seen in my life. The man who painted them died yesterday morning.”

  Excited, Tessa pulled on the ribbon round her neck, exposing the golden ring. “I found this yesterday morning. You missed your ship.”

  Ravis reached toward the ring but didn’t touch it. “And Izgard sent his men out to kill me,” he said softly, his gaze not leaving the gold.

  Stade picked that moment to reclaim the empty platters. He shook his head morosely at all the fish and cheese that was left. “Women. Food.” He sighed as he walked away.

  Ravis waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “What made you sketch the ring last night?”

  “I don’t know. There was something about the way the gold weaved around itself . . . and then when I saw where my blood had caught in the thread, I just wanted to try to copy it.”

  Ravis looked at the ring a long moment and then stood. “Come on. Wrap some of that cheese and bread in a cloth. We’re going to visit a dead man’s assistant in Fale.”

  Widow Furbish shined the gold coin against her sleeve, then bit on it. Nothing tasted quite as good as gold. This was pure, too. No copper or silver to tarnish the palate. No lead or brass at the heart.

  Yes, thought Widow Furbish as she flung open the shutter to search for signs of her good-for-nothing brother Swigg, Lord Ravis and his strange little miss were turning into quite a find. The late Mister Furbish, had there ever been one, would be smiling in his grave.

  Imsipia Rodrina Mullet, more lately known as Widow Furbish, had learned very early on in life that it didn’t do to be a single woman in this day and age. Most especially a clever, ambitious one. Her father, a man who moved, looked, and reeked like the very fish he spent all his days catching, had moved early to marry her off.

  A fisherman himself, he’d naturally assumed that a fellow fisherman would be the perfect catch. Having grown up scaling, gutting, boning, and hating fish, Imsipia Rodrina did not agree. A terrible row followed, where terrible fishermen’s curses were sworn and dire fishermen’s threats spoken: “Either marry him, or leave this house now with nothing but the dress on your back and the remains of yesterday’s catch in your basket.”

  Imsipia Rodrina had taken the fish and run.

  She’d soon realized that being an unattached woman alone in a large city marked you as either a prostitute or a sister of God. Not having any great fondness for God, the color black, or wimples, Imsipia Rodrina had reluctantly taken to the streets. Being a naturally sharp-tempered and sarcastic person, she hadn’t done particularly well as a prostitute and had no regular customers to speak of. Indeed, it had taken her six years to save just one gold crown.

  Once she had the gold crown, though, there was no stopping her. She’d promptly paid a year’s lease on a building, purchased a crystal ball, scrying bowl, and eyepatch, virtually kidnapped her younger brother from her father’s fishy clutches, and bribed the local parson into scribing details of a fictitious marriage ceremony into the parish nuptials register. One week later Widow Furbish, fortune-teller to the masses, set up shop. The seamstress line came later.

  She hadn’t looked back since. As a widow she was respected, admired, and sometimes pitied. She could go where she wanted, when she wanted, and as long as she had the appearance of male guidance in her life—Swigg, as a supportive brother figure served nicely—no one could find anything to criticize.

  Everything was proceeding to plan. There may not have been as much money to be made in fortune-telling or seamstressing as she had hoped, but a clever woman never relied on trade alone.

  Widow Furbish hung her fleshy frame out of the window. Where was Swigg? He’d been gone for nearly four hours. He must have found those foreigners by now.

  Just after Lord Ravis and his oddly spoken strumpet had left this morning, Bernice, Widow Furbish’s housemaid, cook, and embroideress, had turned up full of tales about two mysterious foreigners looking for a man who had killed two people down a dark alley yesterday morning. There were rewards, she said. The men spoke like Garizons and were as easy with their gold as dockside wenches were with their favors.

  Widow Furbish had promptly sent Swigg out to look for them. Lord Ravis might have a pouch full of silver coins in his tunic, but Widow Furbish seriously doubted that she’d be seeing any more of them. And she did so much want to move away from the river. She was tired of the mud, stench, and flies.

  Just then Widow Furbish spied her brother walking across the bridge. Two tall, dark-cloaked men were steps behind him. Spying his sister, Swigg waved enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together and waggling his thumbs in the direction of the men behind his back.

  Widow Furbish smiled. At times like these she was almost fond of her younger brother.

  Springing into action, the widow tidied the room, closing all shutters except those that angled light onto her walnut cupboards and the silk tapestry that hung above the hearth. There. No one would find Widow Furbish’s house wanting in luxury.

  Pulling the eyepatch over her left eye, Widow Furbish waited by the door until she heard three pairs of feet pounding up her steps.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome.” Widow Furbish flung open the door.

  Swigg smiled up at her.

  A crunchy, sucking noise came from close behind his back. His smile froze. His eyes widened in confusion and then a soft hiss escaped his lips. Staggering forward, he collapsed over the threshold.

  Widow Furbish caught him, firm hands slapping on his back to hold him steady. At the exact same instant she felt something wet trickle between her fingers, she saw one of the black-cloaked men held a knife.

  The blade was red with blood.

  She screamed.

  The knife-man lunged forward. The skin was pulled tight across the bridge of his nose and his lips were pulled back, revealing wet, pink gums. A strong, feral scent of earth and blood and animal fur caught in Widow Furbish’s nostrils. She let Swigg drop to the floor. Still screaming, she backed into the room, arms up to shield her face.

  The door slammed shut.

  The second man kicked Swigg in the soft flesh between rib cage and hips. Swigg didn’t respond.

  As Widow Furbish’s gaze shifted from her brother back to the knife-man, she felt a soft swish of air skim her face. Pain exploded in her jaw. Her teeth slammed together, severing the tip of her tongue. Her mouth filled with blood. A white-hot razor of pain tore along her tongue. Tears flooded her exposed right eye. She couldn’t see.

  A series of dull, thumping noises came from close to the door. Widow Furbish blinked furiously, clearing her vision enough to see a shadowy form bending over Swigg. She couldn’t tell what was happening, but something blunt like a club or chunk of wood was moving so fast it was only a blur.

  Widow Furbish tried to call her brother’s name. Blood gushed from her mouth, but words wouldn’t come. A knife jabbed at her throat. She sucked in air. Her tongue rang with pain. Kicking out with her left leg, she tried to distance herself from whatever was at her throat. She was no longer sure it was a man. A hand clawed at her arm. The fleshy, animal smell was suddenly overpowering.

  Panicking, Widow Furbish lashed out with her free hand. A fist punched at her stomach and she collapsed onto the floor. A dark form moved into her line of vision, slowly leaning over her body. Something wet dripped onto her hand. Thinking it was blood, she went to wipe it away. The liquid was clear—like saliva.

  Widow Furbish let out a small, desperate breath as the shadow moved in for the kill.

  A glint of teeth. An animal’s grunt. Her fingers grasping, desperately raking over hard muscle and rough leather. Fingernails catching on a purse string. Something unraveling. Terrible, searing pain in her stomach and chest. Warm wetness soaking her dress. And then gold. Gold coins like raindrops falling on her fac
e and shoulders, flashing with cold brilliance until everything went black.

  The ride to Fale took three hours. They followed the Chase River inland as it snaked between hills and wooded gorges. Forests of beech and oak spread far on either side of the river, occasionally giving way to stretches of yellow grass, or dense bushes, or slopes of crumbling white rock. Black-and-white houses crowded between the breaks in the forest, trailing lines of gray smoke between the chimney tops and the clouds. White stone shrines with tall spires and deep roofs sat close to the river’s edge, their base stones darkened by damp.

  A breeze gusted low from the east, cutting the river’s surface into bobbing, flashing jewels and exposing the yellow underside of leaves.

  Ravis explained that there were really only two rivers that counted in Rhaize: the Chase and the Thread. The Thread ran the length of the kingdom, running through the rich farmland of the south and then the quarries, salt flats, and copper mines east of Bay’Lis. The Chase was a different sort of river: deeper, slower, greener. It flowed through the moorlands of the north, linking Bay’Zell with over a hundred towns and villages on its long, rocky run from the Vorce Mountains to the sea.

  “If Izgard captures Bay’Zell,” Ravis said, pulling on his reins to guide his horse around a tight cluster of bushes, “not only will he be positioned to control sea trade to the north and east, and set himself up as sentry to the Bay of Plenty, but he’ll have the run of the north as well. The Chase will be his. He’ll be able to ship goods and arms north from Garizon, lay siege to Runzy, plunder the country north of Gornt . . .” Ravis shook his head. “The whole of Rhaize will be his within a year.”

  Tessa just nodded. She was having difficulty riding her horse. Although she had learned to ride several years ago while she lived in New Mexico, she was not an accomplished horsewoman. The reins, stirrups, and saddle were all different from what she was used to, and to add to her troubles, the skirts of her dress kept getting caught in the straps and stirrups. She should never have sold her clothes to Widow Furbish.