The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s a Maribane brig anchored off the Balgedis coast. Garizons have been spotted rowing back and forth to it.”

  Camron tugged his dark golden hair out of the way of his eyes. “And there’s no possibility that Balgedis doesn’t know about this?”

  “No.” Ravis put down his drink. He stood and began pacing around the room. “Balgedis knows it’s there. What’s more alarming, though, is the fact the ship’s showing a Maribane flag. That means Izgard is doing deals with them too. And somehow I doubt very much that Maribane will be content to remain neutral. They want Rhaize blood. Maribane has always resented paying Rhaize tariffs to ship their goods into the continent. Just last week, Bay’Zell doubled its tolls, and no Maribane ship can sail into the Bay of Plenty without paying them. So right about now Maribane is looking for ways to strike back. All Izgard has to do is tell Maribane that once he’s conquered Bay’Zell, he’ll reduce the tolls to a copper on the pound, and they’ll be lining up from Hayle to Kilgrim to help him. It couldn’t be easier.”

  As he spoke, Ravis unlatched one of the shutters and looked out into the street below. Two of Camron’s men wearing the green and silver of Thorn stood on the opposite street corner, keeping watch on Marcel’s house. Ravis continued scanning: buildings, doorways, alleyways, the snakepit of shadows that was forming with the dusk. Although he could see nothing suspicious, he decided he would take no chances when making his way back to Mother Emith’s house. He didn’t want to risk bringing any harras to the old lady’s door. Besides, Tessa was there, and as the hours ticked by, keeping her safe was beginning to matter more and more. He was beginning to regret mentioning to Marcel that they had both met with Emith yesterday.

  Ravis closed the shutter. “Did Marcel show you the illuminations he’s holding for Deveric’s assistant?”

  “Yes,” Camron replied. “I took a look at them just before you arrived.” The second glass of berriac had put some color in Camron’s face but no brightness in his eyes. He looked tired, and the hand that held his glass shook. He probably hadn’t slept in days.

  “What did you think of them?” Though he hadn’t intended it, Ravis was aware that his voice was almost gentle.

  Camron looked at him sharply, and Ravis immediately regretted his lapse into sympathy.

  “I thought they were beautiful,” Camron said, his words cool. “I’ve seen Anointed Isle illuminations before, but none as detailed as those.”

  “Where have you seen them?”

  “My father has one”—Camron caught himself—“had one on his study wall. Some old scribe stayed at Castle Bess centuries ago and showed his gratitude by painting an illumination. It’s a much simpler work than the patterns I saw last night, and the pigment is so thick in places that it catches as much dust as a statue, but my father loved it.”

  Ravis took a quick breath and said, “I think Deveric’s illuminations have something to do with what we’ve been seeing these past couple of days. It looks like Izgard’s found himself a new trick, and if we’re lucky, we’ve seen the worst of it.”

  “And if we’re not?”

  “Then God help us all.”

  Ravis moved across to the door. He suddenly wanted very badly to get back to Tessa. “Look,” he said to Camron, resting his palm upon the smooth beechwood beams bonded by teeth of gilded iron, “I need to be somewhere now—”

  “Back to the woman with red-gold hair?” Camron interrupted. “And the strange, lilting voice?”

  Ravis hid his surprise. “I may pay her a visit. What’s it to you?”

  “She has something to do with this, doesn’t she?” Camron’s drawn features took on a new, shrewd light. Despite his attempts to look nonchalant, Ravis realized his face must be giving something away, for Camron added, “Come now, Ravis, it’s obvious she’s not from Bay’Zell.”

  Annoyed, but not sure why, Ravis said, “There are too many things I don’t know or understand yet. If we are to work together to overthrow Izgard, then we must gather as much information as possible, leave nothing to chance. Marcel might throw choking fits over the possibility of magery and witchcraft, but you and I have both seen things that he hasn’t. And when he’s safely at his desk, toting up his receipts and writing entries in his ledger, it will be you and I setting ourselves against Izgard of Garizon. Not Marcel and his forty percent.”

  As Ravis was speaking, Camron’s fingers tapped a beat against the armrest of Marcel’s prized orangewood chair. He stopped tapping at the exact instant Ravis finished speaking. “I want Izgard dead, not overthrown. That was what we agreed yesterday in Marcel’s cellar.”

  “You won’t be able to assassinate Izgard as long as he wears the crown. I trained his personal guard myself, I—”

  “Then you will know their weaknesses.”

  “They have no weaknesses.” Ravis was losing patience. He was eager to be on his way. While he stood here, arguing tactics with Camron, a world of shadows was quietly forming outside. If he were in Izgard’s place, Marcel’s house would be the first site he would order the harras to watch. “Right now, Izgard is either at Sern Fortress or on his way there. Of all the Garizon-built castles I’ve stayed at, I’ve yet seen one to match the defenses at Sern. It’s impenetrable. There is only one possible approach, and the minute Izgard takes up residence, it will be so heavily guarded that even the ghost of his own mother couldn’t get through.”

  “If his army’s there, surely we could smuggle some attendants, some women, into the camp?”

  Ravis ran a tooth along his scar, then smiled. “No servants, no camp attendants. No whores. I put together this force. It’s not some band of elegant knights and their entourages. No one is paid to shine armor and cook meals—the men do all that themselves. Infiltration is out of the question: I trained them how to spot intruders a league away. The camp perimeter will be guarded by enough troops to man a fort.”

  Camron did not look pleased. Ravis could see him thinking. “What about the castle servants?” he said finally, standing. “Surely you could find someone willing to slip poison into Izgard’s wine?”

  “Poison Izgard?” Ravis threw back his head and laughed. His amusement wasn’t genuine, but he was getting increasingly more annoyed with Camron, and he knew from experience that the best way to cut a man dead was to laugh at him. Getting back to Tessa was becoming more important by the minute. “No one on the continent could get near Izgard with poison. The man was born with no sense of taste. The one thing he fears above all others is the possibility that he might be poisoned and never know it. He could eat pure extract of belladonna and never taste a thing. He’s so obsessed with being poisoned that he won’t eat or drink anything, anything, that hasn’t been tasted by a score of men first.”

  Ravis shook his head. “No, my friend, if you want to murder Izgard of Garizon, you will have to come up with something much, much cleverer than that.”

  Camron’s cheeks were flushed. His golden hair fell across his face in dark tangles. When he spoke his whole body shook. “Seeing as you know so much about Izgard, you tell me what’s the best way to kill him. Or has he got you so frightened that you’d rather take your chances with a Rhaize hangman than risk moving against him?”

  Although Ravis knew he had driven Camron into making the accusation, it did little to lessen his anger. “You,” he said coldly, “know nothing about the situation we’re dealing with. When I tell you there’s no way to get close to Izgard while he holds the throne, I don’t do so to hear the sound of my own voice. I know the man, I know his army, and I know how Garizons view their kings. He is more than just a leader now. He is his country personified, and until he loses a battle or makes a mistake, they will lay down their lives to keep him safe. The only way to reach Izgard is to meet him on terms he and his country understand. We need to be ready when he invades. We need to smash his forces and counter his advances and match whatever witchery he uses. Then and only then will we be able to get clos
e enough for the kill.”

  Camron looked at Ravis as if he were a madman. “Smash his forces? The Rhaize army is more than a match for Garizon. We have the bravest and best-trained knights on the continent. Izgard won’t stand a chance.”

  “Knights!” Ravis put a world of scorn into the word. “You think Izgard gives a damn about Rhaize knights, when he has five companies of Maribane longbowsmen who can take out a knight or his horse at five hundred paces, using arrowheads that can rip through steel? Rhaize knights will ride to their deaths not ever having seen the men who killed them. And God help the ones who don’t, for they won’t find themselves staring into the eyes of fellow noblemen, matching them in sword length, armor refinements, and knowledge of battlefield etiquette. Once the longbowsmen have done their work, Izgard will send in his pikesmen, and believe me, those men don’t go in for dainty exchanges, elegant swordfights, and honorable deaths. Their blades are designed to tear out a man’s guts. And Rhaize knights, charging into battle expecting Izgard to comply with their outdated rules of exchange, will find themselves little more than highly visible moving targets.”

  Cheeks bright with blood, Camron cried, “No common foot soldier with a pike or a longbow can ever hope to match a Rhaize knight.”

  Ravis’ palm hovered above the door handle. “That is exactly the sort of thinking that will lose the coming war.” Voice still ringing, he hit the latch.

  The door sprang open and Marcel fell into the room.

  “Marcel,” Ravis said, inclining his head as he worked to regain his composure. “Oiling the lock, I take it?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Marcel said, trying his best to look dignified as he picked himself up off the floor. “I was just coming to offer you gentlemen a spot of supper.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I must decline.” Turning back to Camron, Ravis sketched an elegant bow. He pretended not to notice the look of pure hatred on the young nobleman’s face. Practice made such things easy. “I shall see you tomorrow by the fish market at dawn.” Then to Marcel: “No offense, my friend, but I won’t be coming here again for a while. For some strange reason that I simply can’t understand, I feel as if every move I make is being watched.” One charming smile, one final bow, and Ravis was off: heading down the stairs and out of the door into the waiting darkness of the night; hand on his knife, gaze darting sideways, trusting his feet to choose the least obvious path.

  Angeline, once lady of Halmac, now queen of Garizon, sat on the end of her bed and rubbed her little dog’s belly. Snowy loved to have his belly rubbed. He just lay on his back, legs splayed outward, head rolling from side to side, tail wagging furiously.

  More. More.

  “Silly Snowy,” cried Angeline, delighted. “Who’s a silly, silly Snowy?”

  Snowy wagged his tail in agreement.

  Silly Snowy. Silly Snowy.

  Snowy was a no-good dog. That’s what her father had said when he first clapped eyes on him. Last to come out of his mother’s belly, last to be licked clean and to suckle, Snowy had been marked for drowning before his ears had chance to dry. “That dog is no good,” her father had said to the houndsmaster. “Wrap him in a blanket and throw him in the Veize.”

  Angeline was at her father’s side, as always in those days, and although she disliked the thought of drowning puppies, her father had explained to her many times that it was a kindness to them in the end.

  Then the puppy picked up his too large head and looked at her with his new blue eyes, and all good sense drained from Angeline’s head and turned into something warm and itchy inside her heart. He was a no-good dog and he knew it, and Angeline fell in love with him on the spot.

  Father could always tell the difference between things that Angeline thought she wanted, because they caught her eye and were pretty or bright, and things she really, really wanted. Like Snowy. Even though he had given an order to his houndsmaster, and he never liked to take back his word, Father made a rare exception and let the no-good dog live.

  Angeline felt her eyes begin to ache. “Oh dear, Snowy,” she said, stroking the soft fur under the little dog’s chin. “Father was good to us, wasn’t he? He loved us very much.”

  Snowy’s tail drooped.

  Loved him back.

  And the funny thing was, Snowy and Father did end up loving each other. Not in the same way that she and Snowy did, of course, but in a mutual no-good dog and aloof-master sort of way. Angeline had learned enough since her marriage to know there were many different types of love.

  “Izgard loves us now, though,” she whispered, tickling the silky bit behind Snowy’s ears. “He loves us just as much as Father.”

  Snowy growled.

  Not as much.

  Angeline laughed. She tried not to think about how much Izgard had changed since their marriage. “Snowy, you’re a no-good dog. You can’t possibly know everything.”

  Growl over, Snowy scrambled to his feet, tail wagging once more.

  No-good dog. No-good dog.

  Straightening herself up, Angeline glanced out of the slit between the stones that was the nearest thing to a window one could find in the lower levels of Sern Fortress. The sky was fully dark now, and a few stars twinkled from very far away. Izgard would be returning soon, and Angeline knew she should make herself nice for him. Put on the gown with the boned bodice and call Gerta in to tie the laces tight. In fact, Gerta was probably on her way right now; hairpins bristling between her teeth, brushes, buffers, and tweezers hung like weaponry around her waist. Angeline actually preferred it when the pins were in Gerta’s mouth, for the moment they were out it would be “Your first duty is to Garizon, my lady. You must provide an heir.” With that as her opening statement, Gerta would launch into comments and advice about lovemaking that Angeline, depending on how heavily her wine had been watered at supper, found either unpleasant or vaguely amusing.

  Well, she certainly didn’t feel like listening to any lovemaking chatter tonight. Besides, she wasn’t entirely sure that Gerta knew what she was talking about. Some of the things that she advised doing to inspire “child-begetting passion” in her husband were nothing short of strange. Oh, Izgard seemed to like them well enough at the time, but more and more often these days he was bad tempered afterward, stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him. Angeline preferred the times when Izgard was so tired from working hard all day that he simply fell asleep in his chair. She had a sneaking suspicion that Izgard preferred those evenings too. But, just like Gerta, he knew the importance of providing an heir.

  Angeline sighed. She slapped her thigh and Snowy came scampering over. “Things were a lot simpler when there was just you, me, Father, and Bors, weren’t they, Snowy?”

  Snowy wagged his tail in agreement.

  Things better then.

  “I know what, Snowy,” Angeline said, an idea unfolding in her head. “I’ll go and visit Ederius.” Gerta had told her that Izgard was riding all the way to the pass today, so he might not be back until late. And although Izgard had warned her not to go and visit Ederius again, if she was clever, he’d never, ever know she’d been. “What do you think, Snowy?”

  Snowy tilted his head to the side and wagged his tail only halfway.

  Not sure.

  Angeline laughed. “You’re not happy because you know you can’t come. No-good dogs have to stay in their rooms, don’t they?”

  Catching a glimpse of his tail, Snowy froze, eyed it with suspicion, then pounced. Not put off by his quarry mysteriously disappearing out of reach, he chased in mad, happy circles after it.

  No-good dog. No-good dog.

  Smiling, Angeline opened the door. Snowy would be asleep by the fire when she returned. Chasing his tail always wore him out.

  Guards snapped to attention as Angeline walked through the narrow, rough-hewn corridors of Sern Fortress. Somehow, even though it was spring and it hadn’t rained in a week, the air inside managed to be cold and damp. When she had first arrived at the fortress, An
geline had thought the bare stone walls were pretty—if you looked close, there were all sorts of patterns and colors twinkling within the gray. Now she hated them. They felt clammy when you touched them, and no matter what went on behind them, they never gave away a sound.

  After turning into a staircase cut out of mountain rock, Angeline made her way up to the top of the fortress. Just as she passed the halfway point, she stopped in her tracks. She should have brought Ederius some food! He worked so hard at his desk all day, never stopping to eat or drink. He could be hungry, cold, and tired and never know it. Just like Father before he got sick. But . . . Angeline’s foot wavered on the lower step as she weighed up the risks. She dared not go down to the kitchens; the whole thing would take too much time. I know, she thought, once I’ve finished seeing Ederius, I’ll ask Gerta to make sure he gets some food. That decided, she hurried up the remaining steps.

  There was no answer when she knocked on the scriptorium door. As mistress of the house, she knew she could walk into any room in the fortress unannounced, but somehow it never felt right. Not like when Izgard did it. Balling her fingers into a fist, Angeline banged loudly on the door.

  “Ederius. It’s me—Angeline. Are you there?” Angeline didn’t like the sound of her own voice much. Before she had married Izgard, other women used to make fun of it, saying it was too high and childish sounding. Now she was Izgard’s wife, no one dared say a thing. Funny, but the women’s silence didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as she had expected. If anything, it made her feel sad.

  A soft, scraping noise came from behind the door. Sounds of coughing followed, and then a thin voice said, “My lady, please go away.”

  Distressed by what she heard, Angeline pushed open the door and came face-to-face with Ederius. Her mouth dropped open. Ederius looked sick, very sick. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was bathed in sweat.