The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  Ravis had met that sort of resistance on every job he had tackled. Time was the only solution. Time and perhaps a practical lesson in technique.

  “Take only what is necessary,” he had said as the last of the men filed out of the hall. “There will be no wagon trains or packhorses to carry your dress armor. We need to be light on our feet.” None of them acknowledged the order. He had not expected them to.

  After topping the lantern up with oil, Ravis had made his final excursion of the evening: across the forecourt, through the palisades, past the dairy, and toward the barracks. The mercenaries and longbowsmen Segwin the Ney had sent from Bay’Zell were housed there with their horses. Ravis met with the men, gave them his orders, then left.

  The rain beat against his face as he returned to the manor house. It was a bad night for travel, and they wouldn’t make good time in the muddy and moonless darkness, but that really wasn’t the point. The simple fact they were on the move would be enough to satisfy Camron of Thorn.

  Ravis knew that when Camron returned from whatever place his grief had driven him, he would want to do just one thing: leave straight away for Thorn. Ravis had known this from the moment the news came in from Runzy. Still, he had to say his piece, raise objections, and give cautions, for first and foremost he was a professional fighter and it was his duty to give his considered opinion to the man who was paying his way.

  The truth was they weren’t ready. The mercenaries had been training for less than two weeks, the longbowsmen had arrived from Bay’Zell only eight days ago, and Camron’s knights were a mixed bunch brought together in haste. They had no real knowledge of what the situation was in Thorn, whether they would encounter a full occupation, a minimal safekeeping force, or just a ravaged, deserted town. They didn’t know the location, intent, or makeup of Izgard’s forces, and they still didn’t know what lay behind the terrible blood lust of the harras.

  All in all it was a bad situation. Ravis didn’t like launching blindly into a campaign with no foreknowledge of the enemies’ tactics. He didn’t like it at all. But he had been in similar situations before now, and by the grace of the gods—all four of them—he had always managed to survive.

  There were a number of reasons Ravis had held off making his preparations, some of them petty. By moving now, while Camron was away from the manor, Ravis effectively took control away from him. He prevented Camron from returning in a lordly rage and cracking orders like whips. Ostensibly this would be Camron’s campaign, but ultimately, beneath the surface and behind the scenes, Ravis would be in charge. He had to be—Thorn was too emotional a subject for Camron. He saw it through a mist of grief and rage, and although fiery emotion bred bravery in men, it seldom bred anything as useful as common sense.

  Strategy aside, though, the real reason Ravis chose to wait was not nearly so significant or high-minded.

  He liked to throw people off guard. He knew that when Camron of Thorn walked up to the manor house the last thing he would expect to find in the courtyard was a force provisioned, ready, and mounted. Ravis smiled to himself just thinking about it. It had been many years since a man had last taken his measure correctly. If someone knew you inside and out, could gauge your beliefs before you stated them and guess your decisions before you made them, then that made you theirs to manipulate. They could play on your weaknesses, goad you in your sore points, and appeal to whatever vanities you nursed.

  Twenty-one years ago Ravis had thought he knew his brother completely, yet Malray had held something back. While Ravis himself had been open and trusting, his elder brother, whom he had loved above all others, had kept a bracelet of knives up his sleeve.

  These days Ravis liked to keep things just as close. No man would ever find him gullible or predictable again.

  Footsteps sounded in the entrance hall. A long shadow cast by a lantern hung at chest height stretched a dark line across the doorway. Ravis glanced at the hourglass: the last grains of sand raced through the middle to the fat globe below. Everything would be ready as planned, yet Camron would not be aware of anything. He had entered by way of the main doors, which meant he wouldn’t have seen all the activity going on in the courtyard to the rear.

  Camron stepped into the room. His hair was a dark mat against his face. There was mud on his clothes and his left cheek. His eyes had given up all semblance of gray; sunk deep into their sockets, they were black. Even as he crossed the threshold his right hand was massing to a fist.

  “We leave for Thorn tonight,” he cried, marching toward Ravis. “And you will be with me, riding by my side, and God so help me I will hear no word against it.”

  Ravis had waited with delectable anticipation for this instant for exactly an hour. He had planned what he would say and the careless manner in which he would say it. He had even stripped off his gloves so he could make a nonchalant show of pulling them on as he said, “Come, my Lord Camron, your men grow restless waiting. Not all of us can afford the luxury of running out into the night like lovesick fools.” Yet seeing what state the man was in, watching his chest rise and fall with exhaustion, hearing the desperation in his voice, but most of all, listening to the words he said, made Ravis catch his breath.

  And you will be with me, riding by my side. . . .

  Ravis felt the muscles in his chest tighten. Surely Malray had said those words to him once? Long ago when their father first died, when the whole world seemed set against them and they were as close as two brothers could be.

  Standing there, booted foot resting on the hearth as he watched the last grains of sand trickle to the bottom of the glass, Ravis suddenly felt old and cynical.

  He didn’t like himself very much.

  Camron despised him, yet the first words from his mouth were as close to an appeal as a proud man like him could manage.

  Ravis looked into his face. There was little of Camron’s arrogance left. Grief and rage had taken something from him. His father had been murdered, his childhood home had been destroyed, and the burdens of loss and revenge fell on no one’s shoulders but his.

  Ravis took his boot from the hearth. Reaching down along the mantel, he caught hold of the hourglass, then turned it upside-down.

  “After you left,” he said to Camron in a voice carefully measured to be neither gentle nor harsh, “I gave some thought to what our next course of action should be, and I came to the conclusion you were right. We cannot allow Izgard of Garizon to get away with what he’s done. The Sire will move against him now, but it will take him at least two weeks to rally his army from the Drokho border and Mir’Lor. In the meantime you and I can take a close look at Izgard’s forces, jab a thorn in his side, and gather what intelligence we can.”

  Camron nodded. “And Thorn?”

  “I can make no promises. It depends what kind of force, if any, we find there.”

  The words were the simple truth, and although they weren’t what Camron wanted to hear, he accepted them without protest. “How long will it take to get the men ready? Can we move by first light?”

  Ravis bit his lip. All his earlier delight over the situation had gone, erased by a handful of words from the past, still yet he managed a ghost of a smile as he told Camron they would be leaving that night.

  F O U R T E E N

  S nowy was up to his no-good dog tricks. He was barreling around the courtyard chasing sparrows, shadows, dandelion puffs, and fresh air. Anything that moved—and a good few things that didn’t—found themselves the object of the little dog’s pursuit. Snowy liked being outside in the courtyard; inside he had nothing to chase but his tail. There were always rats, of course, but Snowy was afraid of them. He was a no-good dog, after all.

  Gerta watched Snowy’s performance from the thinly cushioned stone bench opposite. Angeline had brought out two beautifully plump cushions for them both to sit on, but Gerta had said it wasn’t fitting for a maid to sit as well as her mistress and had promptly produced her own thin cushion from the vast storage space under her skirt. Angeline,
not wanting to give away how disappointed she was that Gerta had turned down one of her matching cushions, now sat high atop of both of them.

  Gerta disapproved of the whole concept of being outside. She had a way of saying the word that made it sound about as unsavory as a witch-hunt. “Outside?” she would exclaim. “Out-side?” Even now, as she sat there, unraveling a silk surplice thread by thread, fingertips peeking out through gloves that had been sliced off at the knuckles, thumbs encased in leather protectors, pins, as always, forming a pinecone around her teeth, she had an air of a martyr about her. Her fingers picked at the silk surplice as if it were a horsehair shirt.

  Going outside in Sern Fortress wasn’t the same as going outside anywhere else. The courtyard was about the size of four large tablecloths laid edge to edge. Stone battlements so high they limited the view of the sky to a distant blue square fenced in the area. Sunlight shone directly onto the courtyard for only an hour every day. A few plants did manage to grow, poking through the hard soil in the boxed borders dug long ago by some hopeful cook or gardener, but Angeline didn’t recognize any of them. There were no violets, rosemary, fennel, or tansy, just stout-stemmed yellow things that looked as dour and invulnerable as the fortress itself. Even Snowy could muster up no interest in them.

  The truth was Angeline wasn’t fond of being outside either. Not here, anyway. Not in Sern Fortress, with its thin mountain air, pale mountain sky, and chilly mountain breezes. It wasn’t anything like being outside in Castle Halmac. Within the grounds at Halmac there were hedged gardens, rose gardens, walled gardens, herb gardens, fountains, a fish pond, pretty pink paving, and a holy martyry for Martyr Assitus. The sun shone all day, not just for an hour at noon, and butterflies, dragonflies, and all sorts of nice birds darted through skies that were a proper shade of Garizon blue.

  “Angeline,” Gerta said sharply. “Come and help me roll this thread onto a bob.”

  Angeline blushed. Gerta always knew when she was thinking about the old days in Castle Halmac. “I can’t help with the silk, Gerta,” she said, brow furrowing as she tried to come up with a feasible reason to get out of the hateful thread reeling. Her eyes alighted on Snowy’s muddy feet. “Petting Snowy has made my hands dirty.”

  Snowy, hearing his name spoken, stopped chasing whatever it was he imagined he was chasing and looked his mistress’s way.

  Snowy did something wrong?

  Angeline laughed. Snowy’s face looked funny. Patting her side, she beckoned the little dog over.

  “Let me see them, then,” Gerta said, nodding at Angeline’s hands. “I’ll be the judge of just how dirty they are.” Gerta was the only woman in the entire world whose voice was actually clearer when speaking through a mouthful of pins than without them.

  Angeline glanced at Snowy for support. The little dog had caught wind of the situation and had suddenly found something very interesting to sniff at in the corner of the yard. That was the sort of thing no-good dogs did all the time. Slipping down from her cushions, Angeline dragged her feet across the courtyard and came to stand next to Gerta. “My hands aren’t as dirty as I thought,” she admitted. “They look clean enough to hold the thread.”

  Gerta nodded. “Hold them out, then.”

  Still standing, Angeline spread out her hands and let Gerta weave silk thread around them. She was beginning to feel a little sick in her stomach, just like yesterday morning. Coming outside hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Neither had eating in the kitchen last night, or lighting a fire in the great hearth, or searching through the dungeons for treasure. Now that Ederius had left, nothing was fun anymore.

  According to Gerta, Izgard was doing very well in Rhaize—so well, in fact, that he had occupied all the towns and villages directly west of the Vorce Mountains. Towns and villages, Gerta was fond of saying, that were rightfully and legitimately Garizon’s. Gerta usually went on to say why and how they rightfully belonged to Garizon, but Angeline never listened past the first sentence or two.

  She hadn’t minded much when Izgard left. There were times when her husband frightened her, like after lovemaking, when he would get angry and force her to dress and leave the room. Sometimes he called her names, and if he became really agitated, he would hit her. He was always sorry afterward, of course. She had to give him that.

  The first week after he left was heaven for Angeline. She could run up and see Ederius whenever she wanted. The scribe would draw things for her, tell her stories, and let her paint with his fat-headed brushes. In turn, Angeline saw to it that his room was kept tidy and well brushed and his food was always delivered hot. Although she passed along those mundane chores to the maids, she saw to his nursing herself. Whenever Ederius’ cough got bad or his head ached, she would run to the kitchens and brew up her special honey and almond-milk tea, just as she had for Father. Ederius was always so grateful. He would pat her hand and smile gently and drain every last drop from his cup.

  Angeline frowned. She missed him so much now he had gone. Izgard had called him to the front. Two weeks back a message had arrived saying that the scribe’s skills were needed imminently and he was to leave straight away for Rhaize. Ederius had packed all his pigments and brushes into a great birch trunk and departed the fortress in the company of a dozen armed men. He’d barely had chance to say good-bye. “Take care, my sweet one,” he had said. “May the good Lord keep you from harm.”

  “Hold your hands steady, m’lady!” cried Gerta, breaking into her thoughts. “While you’ve been busy daydreaming, the silk’s been getting slack.”

  Even though her arms ached with the strain of holding them up for so long, Angeline did as she was told. It wasn’t wise to disrupt Gerta in midravel.

  Gerta tutted. The pins in her mouth stood to attention like guards. “It’s being outside that’s turned your head this morning, if you ask me. No good has ever come to a lady while she was out-side. No good at all.”

  Snowy picked that moment to come bounding up to his mistress’s heels.

  Snowy here! Snowy here!

  Angeline dearly wanted to bend down and pet him, but Gerta had her handcuffed in silk.

  “Have your menses come on yet, Angeline?” she asked. “You look a little pale.”

  Gerta felt she had a right to know all of Angeline’s most delicate affairs. Angeline would have liked to tell the old maid to mind her own business, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words. Reluctantly she shook her head.

  “Another couple of days and you will surely be late, m’lady.” The pins in Gerta’s mouth twinkled as she spoke. “If that’s the case, there’ll be no more talk of you joining Izgard across the mountains.”

  “What talk?” Angeline had heard no such thing. Izgard never sent messages directly to her. He sent them either to the seneschal, Gerta, or Lord Browlach, the man currently in charge of defending Sern Fortress.

  Gerta lifted the last of the silk thread from Angeline’s hands. “Why, m’lady, if you’re not pregnant at the end of this month, then you may have to join Izgard in Rhaize. The king needs an heir almost as much as he needs to win land for his warlords. The campaign could go on for months—years, even—and whilst you’re here in Garizon and the king’s hundreds of leagues away in Rhaize, there’s no chance of you providing the son the country needs.”

  Angeline’s mouth fell open. Joining Izgard in Rhaize? Why, she had never even dreamed such a thing was possible.

  Mistaking Angeline’s surprise for trepidation, Gerta patted her arm. “Never mind, m’lady. If you are with child, then you won’t have to go anywhere—I promise you that. You’ll be safe and sound here, with me, for the duration of the war.”

  Briefly Angeline recalled the sick feeling she’d felt in her stomach earlier. “Surely if I were pregnant, I’d be allowed to go to Veizach? Or home to Halmac?” The idea of spending nine months holed up in Sern Fortress with only Gerta to talk to and no outside to speak of, only the dismal little courtyard they stood in now, was more than a littl
e distressing to Angeline. Snowy was her only friend here.

  “Izgard won’t let you travel back to Veizach if you’re with child, m’lady,” Gerta said. “What with all those narrow mountain roads, sheer drops, and rock slides, it’s just too great a risk. All it takes is one rock tumbling onto the road to scare a high-strung horse. Look what happened on the way here: that good-for-nothing dairy maid Enna was thrown from her filly when a doe ran across the path. Of course, if the girl hadn’t been flirting with the chamberlain at the time, the whole thing might have been prevented.”

  Angeline didn’t see how Enna and the chamberlain’s flirtation had anything to do with the doe crossing the path, but she was willing to let the point drop, as she had another more important one to make. “No harm came to the girl, though,” she said. “Her leg was bruised a little, but she got on her horse straight after and never once cried out in pain.”

  Gerta shook her head for what seemed to Angeline to be a very long time. “Makes no difference, m’lady. When a woman is with child her womb is as delicate as white-fired Istanian lusterware. One little bump in the road, one skittish horse, one sudden storm, and”—Gerta spat her pins out into her hand—“your innards could shatter like glass.”

  Feeling a little queasy at the thought of her innards shattering, Angeline bent to pet Snowy. The little dog was snoozing by her feet. Not feeling confident enough to meet Gerta’s ever-vigilant eye, she kept her gaze firmly on Snowy as she said, “How will you know if I’m pregnant or not?”

  If there was anything Gerta liked more than talking about women’s matters, Angeline had yet to discover it. At the sound of the question, Gerta’s face came as close to lighting up as was humanly possible in a gloomy courtyard on an overcast day in the mountains.

  Sliding her pins into one of the many pouches that hung from her waist like meat on a hook, Gerta said, “Well, the first indication is the menses. If they don’t come in the next few days, then that will be a very good sign indeed. But”—a warning finger came up—“that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re pregnant. You could just been sickening after your missing husband, or be poorly from not eating enough meat. No, the real signs are feeling sick in the morning, soreness in the breasts, and a tendency to feel flushed for no reason.”