by J. V. Jones
Then there was the timing of the assassination. Ever since yesterday, Ravis had assumed he had overslept and missed his ship. Now, if Camron’s words were to be believed, it sounded as if he had underslept instead. Ravis knew Izgard. He knew that Izgard would not send his assassins out to kill a man without first being sure that everything was in place.
The harras had probably traveled overland from Veizach and may not have reached Bay’Zell until after first light. Izgard wouldn’t have wanted to run the risk of his intended victim sailing to Mizerico before his assassins had a chance to do their job, so he would have taken action to ensure Ravis missed his ship.
Ravis made slow fists with his hands. Izgard had arranged for something—sorcery, alchemy, drugs—to make him sleep. His assassins had burst into the brothel expecting him to be there. Only he wasn’t. For some reason he had awoken earlier than he was supposed to.
The memory of serpents and ribbons coiling across a page flashed in Ravis’ mind. Intricate patterns burned into the vellum like tattoos on naked flesh.
Illuminations.
Three times now he had seen designs like that: once in Veizach when he had interrupted Izgard in a meeting with his scribe, late last night in Marcel’s study, and then again this morning when by chance he overturned a sketch drawn by the woman whose life he had saved yesterday by the docks.
Ravis didn’t believe in coincidences. He didn’t believe in anything except himself.
Quickly he glanced at Camron. Looking at his gold-streaked hair and the deep shadows under his eyes, Ravis suddenly realized Camron was the man he had passed in Marcel’s hallway late last night. The man who had gone up to see Marcel after he left. The revelation didn’t make anything clearer, it was merely one more morsel to digest.
What did this man want with him? The Thorn family was one of the oldest and wealthiest in Rhaize. Known as Thoren on the far side of the Vorce Mountains, they had a well-documented claim upon the Garizon throne. Indeed, the very castle they now occupied on the outskirts of Bay’Zell had once belonged to the first Garizon king.
Ravis smiled. He’d finally caught a whiff of the main course. “Tell me, my friend,” he said to Camron, “why are you so willing to act as underwriter to my loan?”
Marcel sucked in air for speaking, but it was Camron who spoke first. “I have need of your services.”
“Not only will he guarantee the loan, he’ll pay you extra as well.”
Ravis quieted Marcel with a single piercing look. Marcel’s neat banker’s hands twisted into knots. It was obvious why he had arranged this meeting: Marcel didn’t want to loan any of his precious gold without surety. Camron’s father was one of the five richest men in the country: Berick of Thorn could provide surety enough for a lifetime’s worth of loans. The only question that mattered now was how much Marcel had told Camron.
“My services?” Ravis raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I have no services to offer; I roll dice tolerably well, dance the tarella with only limited grace, and although I have been known to write love sonnets, no maiden has yet succumbed to their charms.”
Camron shot forward. His arm swung up and his fist barreled toward Ravis. Pivoting sideways to throw Camron off balance, Ravis swung back at the last instant and caught his wrist. Camron was younger and stronger than him, but Ravis knew a few tricks of his own. Twisting Camron’s wrist back toward his body, Ravis forced the young nobleman to his knees.
“Gentlemen! Please!” Marcel came rushing forward. “There is a lady present.”
Lady? Ravis almost laughed. Marcel had no interest in protecting Tessa. He had stepped forward only when it looked as though Camron might lose the fight. Wealth and wealthy people were the only things that mattered to Marcel of Vailing.
Ravis released his grip. Camron straightened up. Gray eyes nail hard with hatred never left Ravis for an instant. Again Ravis got the sense that there was something raw and hurting inside the man.
Rubbing his wrist against his cheek, Camron said, “I know who you worked for and what you did. Don’t insult me with petty tales and foolish jibes.”
Ravis shot a glance at Marcel. The banker wouldn’t meet his eye.
Camron continued speaking. “One year you’ve been in Bay’Zell: watching the ports, hand-picking men. Recruiting an army for Izgard of Garizon. Maribane archers, Istanian cavalry, Balgedis engineers—any man who came through this port looking for a fortune or a fight, you picked, you paid, and you sent overland to Veizach.” Camron managed a bitter laugh. “What better place than this? The very city that Izgard covets most. More men come through Bay’Zell than any other port in the west: mercenaries, fortune hunters, knights, heretics, and fools. You had your eye on them all. You chose them as carefully as Marcel chooses his vintage wines, and you bought them at the same premium rate.”
Camron’s voice was low and filled with loathing. “It would have been forgivable if you were a Garizon yourself—that I could understand and respect. But no, you’re nothing more than a Drokho bastard. A mercenary recruiting mercenaries for a fiend.”
Ravis tasted copper in his mouth. He had bit right through his scar. Swilling the blood over his tongue, he willed himself to stay calm. “I am nobody’s bastard, Thorn.”
Camron’s lips twisted to a smile. “No. You were just treated like one by your brother.”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Marcel filled the space between them, moving as fast as a man could move when his assets were in danger. “Please! Let us have some civility! We are here to talk of business, not of lineage.”
Ravis barely heard what Marcel said. Blood pumped in his ears, his temples, his cheeks. He imagined killing the man before him in a hundred torturous ways. He wanted to kill both of them: Camron and Marcel. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised that the banker had betrayed him—betrayal had been a dog at his heels all his life—but even now, after fourteen years of relying only on himself, in believing solely in himself, the treachery of a friend still made him sick.
Friend. Ravis smiled at his only folly. Marcel had never been his friend. Marcel had but one friend, name of gold. That was why he had arranged this meeting today. It was what had brought them together in the first place.
When Izgard had needed a banker to carry out certain transactions on his behalf in Bay’Zell, most particularly the transfer of funds to cover the costs of mercenaries and supplies, he had naturally turned to the most discreet and flexible source of money in the west: Marcel of Vailing. Marcel hadn’t dared turn down Izgard’s offer to do business. What if Izgard’s invasion was successful? What would happen if Bay’Zell was overrun with Garizon militia, Garizon merchants close behind, ready to take over and exploit? Marcel would be the first to lose his holdings. He thought that by acting as Izgard’s banker in Bay’Zell, he was protecting himself against just such a catastrophe. And as long as he kept it quiet, no one in Rhaize would ever know.
Marcel was hedging his bets. After all, he would argue, a banker’s first duty was to ensure the security of his assets at any cost.
Ravis shrugged. What could one expect from a banker besides bankerly greed?
Marcel coughed his professional cough, forcing attention to himself, drawing the room to order. “Gentlemen . . . If we may get down to business?” He looked first to Camron and then to Ravis. Undiscouraged by the dark looks and balled fists, he continued speaking. “Let us start with the facts, shall we? Ravis, you need cash. You have no immediate prospects and no future commitments and are free to sign any contract you choose—”
“I choose to sign no contracts in Bay’Zell.” Ravis didn’t spare a glance for the deal maker. His eyes were fixed firmly on Thorn.
“Traitors always have limited choices,” Camron said, sauntering forward like the nobleman he was. “They either take what is offered or knot themselves a noose.”
Ravis’ scar burned into his lip, his bone, his jaw. “And what exactly is being offered?”
“I want you to give me all the information and assist
ance I need to assassinate Izgard of Garizon.”
Ravis’ first reaction was to laugh. Camron of Thorn was either a raving witless madman or an idealistic fool. Assassinate Izgard! No one would ever get near enough, or be cunning enough, to take a shot at the king. Something stopped him from laughing, though, something to do with the way the light shifted in Camron’s eyes, revealing so many subtle shades of gray.
“What makes you think I can help you? After all, I am just a mercenary.” Ravis tried hard to say the word lightly, but somehow the syllables stuck in his throat, and he ended up sounding bitter instead.
“I wouldn’t call the man who spent two years in Garizon training Izgard’s army and instructing his warlords on warfare just a mercenary.”
To distract himself from all the terrible, damning emotions Camron’s words evoked, Ravis looked straight at Marcel. And kept on looking until the banker was forced to give way and meet his eye. If he had been looking for small satisfaction, he would have found it shining in Marcel’s eyes—there was fear and even a degree of shame—but Ravis wanted nothing except a reason to stay angry.
The Bay’Zell banker had told Camron not only about their business together in the city, but also about what Ravis had done before. Secrets that were not his to tell. Agreements struck in private between a soulless Drokho nobleman and a man who would be king. Marcel had not been privy to the deal. He had not even been in the same country when it was sealed with hot wax, darting glances, and dry palms. It was purely between Izgard and himself.
Two years Ravis had spent working for Izgard in Garizon, then another year here in Bay’Zell. Three years in all, where every day he sold himself anew. Everything he had learned in the east—all the knowledge he had garnered while his body moved around a continent and his heart stayed dead in one place—he had itemized, tallied, and sold to the Garizon king.
Oh, it wasn’t the first time he had sold his skills. He had been back from the east for seven years now, and there had been many men willing to pay for his insight and his instinct. In the small hallowed circles where such things mattered, his name was whispered with awe. Ravis of Burano, they said, he turned round Alvech’s forces in less than half a year. He took the Chaniz Palace guards and made a killing force out of a laughingstock, and after fourteen months consulting with Mallangaro of Endez, that much beleaguered duke won a war.
Ravis sucked at the dried blood on his scar. He had not been idle since returning from the east.
Every commission he took, he learned more. The eastern barbarians fought differently from those of the west. They had no knowledge or interest in plate armor, no desire to be caged up like birds. They laughed at the west’s knights, thinking them top-heavy and slow, puzzling at their reliance on defense. The east respected tactical planning, brutality, and speed. Not for them the delicious code of honor of the knights. They attacked whenever they could regardless of the civilities of war. Foot soldiers were used effectively and respected, infantry were deliberately kept light to allow free and quick movement on the field. The east wasn’t mired down in five hundred years of tradition; they saw what was effective and used it wherever they could.
Not that they knew all the answers. In the past seven years Ravis had come to realize that many countries had valuable practices, techniques, or weapons, and the secret was to take the best of all of them—Maribane archers, northern Drokho pikesmen, Istanian cavalry, and eastern attack strategies—and form a single, cohesive, fighting force.
Ravis crossed the room and stood next to Tessa. At some point during the proceedings, she had tapped herself a cup of Marcel’s vintage berriac, and when she saw Ravis coming toward her, she held out what little was left. Ravis was grateful for it. He suddenly felt very tired. This meeting was going on far too long.
As he raised the cup to his face, he was aware that Tessa was watching him. What was she thinking, this woman who did not belong here? Where had she come from? And why was she here?
The berriac was an angel on Ravis’ tongue. Warmed by Tessa’s palms, it released fifteen years of stillness in one volatilized sip. It sung to his nose and the back of his tongue and reminded him of all that was good in Rhaize. As he swallowed the golden liqueur it tantalized him with images of high vineyards, lime-rich soil, and sheer limestone cliffs.
Ravis’ gaze settled on Camron. He wouldn’t be surprised if Berick of Thorn owned the very vineyard that this wine had come from. It was well known that the Thorn family owned huge tracks of land flanking the Vorce and Boral Mountains.
Perhaps thinking the same thing, Camron said, “I can and will pay you well for your services.”
Ravis smiled—oak-aged berriac had that effect on him. “I am no assassin’s mate, Thorn. I may have assembled Izgard’s army, but I am not party to his plans. What he does and where he goes are his concern, not mine. I cannot help you. I have neither the information nor skills you need.”
“You are lying. You spent two years with him. You know his security arrangements, you helped train his personal guard. Don’t stand there and expect me to believe you know nothing about Izgard of Garizon when”—in his anger, Camron struggled for words—“you spent the last thirty-six months in his pay.”
Ravis let out a thin breath. There had been the brief moment when he’d thought Camron was about to say something else entirely. Something even Marcel, with his watchful banker’s eye and his clutching banker’s hands, didn’t know.
Relaxed from both the effects of the liqueur and the relief of knowing he still had one secret left, Ravis said, “Assassinating Izgard is out of the question. No outsider will ever be able to get close enough. He has men who will willingly throw themselves in the line of an arrow or a blade aimed his way. He has more food testers than most kings have kitchen staff, his fortresses and defenses are impossible to penetrate, and the harras are loyal to him alone.”
Ravis’ mind flashed back to the one time he had interrupted Izgard with his scribe:
“I am worried about the troops. The harras are loyal, but the men we bring in from Istania and the north will need to be monitored closely.”
Izgard’s gaze flicking over his scribe’s shoulder. Patterns. Patterns on the scribe’s desk, snaking red and blue and gold. Matching glints of color reflecting off Izgard’s pupils as he spoke his reply. “Your job is merely to train the men, Ravis. My job is to inspire loyalty.”
“I don’t accept there is no way to defeat Izgard.” Camron spoke over Ravis’ thoughts, breaking his link with the past.
“Defeat?” Ravis replied softly. “I don’t believe I said there was no way to defeat Izgard. I said it would be impossible to assassinate him.”
“Defeat! Assassinate! Don’t mince words with me, Ravis of Burano. I want Izgard off the Garizon throne. I want to see him dead.”
“The two things are not one and the same. I tell you now, Thorn, it would be easier to defeat Izgard’s army here, on Rhaize soil, than try to assassinate the man himself in Garizon.”
Camron punched the wall with the heel of his hand. Pottery clinked and chimed. A solitary bottle rolled off the shelf and went smashing to the floor. “I don’t give a damn what you think. Izgard will rot in hell before this year is through.”
“Why?” Ravis cried, stirred by something he heard in Camron’s voice. “Why does Izgard’s death mean so much to you?”
Marcel stepped forward. “Ravis—”
“Hold your peace, banker. This story is not yours to tell.” Camron looked straight into Ravis’ eyes. Liquid metal shifted through his irises. A muscle at the corner of his mouth began to quiver. “After the harras left the brothel yesterday morning they headed out to Castle Bess. They laid low amidst the rocks until nightfall, and then entered the castle via the garderobe shaft. We believe there were less than a dozen men in total, yet they still managed to butcher the entire nightwatch. When I finally caught up with them they had just slaughtered my father.”
Tessa gasped.
Ravis closed his eyes. He
felt Camron’s pain as if it were his own. He knew what it took to speak calmly, rationally, about the death of a loved one. He knew the cost inside. “Camron, I—”
Camron had turned his back on them. His fist beat a warning against his thigh as he shook his head at the wall. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Don’t say it. Don’t think it. Don’t even feel it. Your pity means nothing to me.”
The words stung Ravis. They shouldn’t have—after all, he had heard worse in his time, a lot worse—but they did. Flicking away at the strings on his tunic, he feigned a nonchalance he did not feel.
“Here.” Tessa’s strange lilting voice broke the silence. She handed Camron a cup of berriac. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
Ravis noticed the way Camron looked at Tessa, as if he were seeing her for the first time. His eyes were very bright, and despite the dark shadows and deep lines on his face, he suddenly looked very young. They both did.
Abruptly, Ravis spoke. “You say the men were Izgard’s harras. How can you be sure?”
Camron drained the cup of berriac. Without looking at Tessa, he held out the empty cup for her to take. For some reason this annoyed Ravis.
“They weren’t wearing Izgard’s colors, if that’s what you mean,” Camron said. “They had knowledge of the garderobe shaft and the layout of the castle—Izgard could have access to that. His ancestors built the fortress. It once belonged to King Hierac himself. The plans are probably still in Veizach.”
Ravis nodded. It would be just like Izgard to use any advantage he could. “What did these men look like?”
“Look like?” Camron spat out the words. “They looked like animals. Animals. Teeth bared, shoulders hunched.” He shuddered. “It was as if they weren’t human.”
Tessa flashed a cautionary glance Ravis’ way, warning him not to push Camron any further. Ravis was inclined to ignore her. “I never trained the harras to be animals. I trained them how to best use their minds and their weapons, how to overcome greater forces and constantly think on their feet.” He moved forward as he spoke. Slivers of broken glass crunched under his boots. “The harras are Izgard’s elite troop, hand-picked for their weapon skills and their loyalty. It doesn’t sound to me as if you were attacked by them at all, more like a pack of rabid dogs.”