The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  The next day she loaded up her car with a mattress, bedding, clothes, a few books, a potted plant she had given a name to, and a Rand McNally road atlas and drove west along I-8. At the time she had every intention of returning. Just a few weeks, she told herself. But she never did come back.

  Her original destination was Los Angeles, but somehow she found herself in San Diego, selling office products over the phone. The job suited her perfectly. No responsibility, no dress code, flexible hours, and little paperwork: once she got her phone pitch down pat she barely had to think. Telesales was a numbers game. Phone enough people and a percentage would always say yes. Tessa was good at it. She made the calls, met the quotas, and always followed up. After two months at First Stop Telesales she was promoted from reworking existing lists that every operator in the shop had called before to pursuing fresh leads. In telesales terms that meant she’d arrived.

  The tinnitus disappeared almost completely. In those increasingly infrequent times when she did suffer an attack, it was always a mild one, nothing to match what had happened in the lecture hall. The memory of that day was never far from Tessa’s mind, though. All she had to do was walk in a bookstore, pass an art exhibit, spy a pattern in tilework on a restaurant floor, or spend too long sketching on her yellow legal pad to feel the ringing start. She never pushed it. At the slightest hint of an attack, she stopped what she was doing and relaxed. Took a walk, sat and listened to music, went for a drive . . .

  Tessa felt a sharp pain in her thumb. She looked down to see she was holding the ring between her fingers. She had no memory of pulling it out from under her dress. Quickly she glanced at Emith. He was busy tending the supper by the fire. Mother Emith was still snoring away in her chair.

  Tessa looked down at the ring, recalling the events that led her to finding it: the phone call, the drive, the pickup driver, the tinnitus. Why was it that whenever she had a bad attack of tinnitus she always seemed to end up somewhere else?

  “The soup is ready now, miss,” Emith said, cutting into her thoughts. “Would you like a bowl?”

  “Have you remembered to add the pepper and the cream?” piped up Mother Emith, proving that she had, in fact, despite all evidence to the contrary, been resting, not sleeping, in her chair.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Tessa slipped the ring beneath her dress. “I’d love a bowl,” she said, not entirely sure what sort of soup it would be but led by her nose into thinking that beef might have something to do with it.

  Standing, Tessa began clearing the table in front of her. Emith’s pigment pots tinkled as she pushed them into neat little lines, but his brushes, quills, styli, and lead sticks defied all attempts to be rolled into piles. Tessa was surprised by what she had learned about the various instruments in just one day. The styli were made from either copper or bone, so the point would be strong enough to trace lines in wax. Emith had explained that parchment was too costly to use for casual sketching, so most scribes used wax tablets whenever they wanted to experiment with something new. A wax tablet could be used over and over again, as the wax could be heated and then smoothed back to its original form with the flat end of the stylus.

  Lead sticks were used for outlining an illumination or providing guiding points on a page. The lead could be handled as a plain stick or placed in a protective metal casing called a plummet. Emith said the best scribes always used them raw.

  What surprised Tessa most about the things Emith told her was the sheer effort involved in each separate process. Hardly anything was purchased ready-made: ink, pigments, quills, parchment, wax tablets, glues, and thickeners were all formed by Emith’s own hand. It seemed like a lot of work to Tessa, and she was beginning to understand why someone like Deveric needed an assistant. He wouldn’t have time to paint a thing if he had to spend his days burying goose feathers in sand.

  Just the parchment making alone could be a full-time job. Emith purchased raw animal hides at market—he said goat and sheep hides were the least expensive, but stillborn calves were the best—brought them home, and soaked them in a bath of lime to deflesh them. Then, while they were still damp, he stretched them on a frame and scraped them clean with something he called a “lunular knife.”

  Earlier, when Tessa had gone into the yard to use the privy, she had seen various wooden frames and metal-banded tubs and wondered what they were for. Now she knew. Emith had explained that the liming stage could be quite malodorous, and Deveric preferred that he took care of such matters in town. Which, Tessa supposed, went quite a long way toward explaining why Deveric so kindly let Emith spend two days out of every seven in Bay’Zell. She didn’t say anything, though. She’d already learned enough about Emith by now to realize he wouldn’t hear a word said against anyone he knew. Most especially his recently deceased master.

  “Here, miss,” Emith said, handing her a steaming bowl of something that looked far too thick to be called soup. “Sit down and I’ll fetch you some bread to soak it up with.”

  “And a glass of arlo,” added Mother Emith, reviving once more. “I think we can offer our guest a glass, seeing as it’s after dark and the clerics have all gone home.” She looked at Tessa and winked. “And I may just take half a cup myself.”

  Tessa smiled. She got the distinct feeling that Mother Emith took a cup or two every night.

  “Oh, be careful, miss,” said Emith as Tessa went to place the bowl of soup on the table. Dashing in front of her, he whisked away the sketch she had drawn earlier. “We wouldn’t want anything to spill on this.”

  “No.” Tessa sat at the table and began plumbing the depths of the stew for anything she could identify as meat. Behind her, she could hear Emith’s footsteps pattering away, then pattering back. “Is the sketch really as good as you say it is?” she asked when he returned from dropping off a cup of arlo with his mother.

  For the first time all day Emith took a seat. “I think it is,” he said, moving his chair only as close to Tessa as his strong sense of politeness would allow. “I’m no expert on such things like my master, but I’ve seen the work of many scribes, and the one thing that separates the good scribes from the middling ones is a sense of detail. Master always said, ‘Anyone can draw an illumination, but it takes a keen eye for detail to make it shine.’ ”

  Detail. Tessa put down her spoon, not hungry anymore. Until three days ago she had been incapable of coping with details. For years her life had been without long-term relationships, financial commitments, career plans, savings plans, vacations, paperwork, or goals.

  There was no detail in her life. It had been the one thing she’d avoided above everything else. When offered promotions, she turned them down because more responsibility meant more paperwork. When boyfriends became serious, she became distant; when friends got too close, she pushed them away. When bank tellers pestered her about putting savings in CDs, she’d threaten to take her business elsewhere just to stop them droning on about their “extra half a percent over prime.” She didn’t own a computer, daily planner, or even an address book and never bought anything mail order, as that meant filling out forms.

  And now this small, unassuming man, sitting a polite three feet away from her, calmly told her that he thought she had an eye for detail.

  Tessa laughed. She didn’t think it was especially funny, but some sort of reaction was called for.

  Emith looked hurt. “I’m only telling the truth, miss. To paint the sorts of patterns that Master Deveric did, you need to be able to see things others don’t. I only got a glimpse of the ring you copied, but it was enough to see that you caught its likeness well. You managed to translate a complex weave onto the page. Not only did you capture the intricacy of the ring, but you found the pattern at its heart.”

  “The ring has a pattern,” Tessa said, pulling out the ribbon around her neck. “I didn’t find anything.”

  “May I?” Emith moved forward and took the ring from Tessa’s fingers. He smelled of mint and pigments. “I look at this and I don
’t see a pattern,” he said softly, turning the ring in his hand. “I see random threads of gold. Layers upon layers of metal laid down with no design. You look at it and you see a pattern, and not only do you see a pattern, you have the ability to transfer what you see onto a page. When I look at your finished drawing I get a glimpse of the ring through your eyes—I see the same pattern you do—yet when I look at the ring directly, I see nothing but random lines.” He let go of the ring and it fell back against Tessa’s chest.

  Tessa suddenly felt very tired. She didn’t know how to react to what she had just heard. Emith believed what he was saying, that much she was sure of, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be mistaken. “What if I invented a pattern of my own? Just made one up that wasn’t there. How would you know the difference?”

  Emith’s smile was a gentle reprimand. “The pattern felt right, miss. It wasn’t forced or contrived, and for just a second when I held the ring, I almost understood what you were getting at.”

  “Be sure to listen carefully to Emith, my dear. There’s nothing my son doesn’t know about scribing.” Mother Emith tapped her now empty cup against the chair and beamed at both of them. “I’ll take an extra sip of arlo, Emith. It would be rude of me to let a guest drink alone.”

  Blushing at his mother’s words, Emith seemed glad of an excuse to get away and dashed out to the yard, where a keg of arlo had been set to cool.

  Tessa raised her cup in toast to Mother Emith, and the old woman returned the gesture with a decidedly regal wave before resting with her eyes closed once more.

  Drumming her fingers along the wooden tabletop, Tessa thought about what Emith had said. She had seen a pattern in the ring, he was right about that. It was the reason she had wanted to draw it in the first place—to make sense of what she saw. All through her life she had seen patterns in things: flowers arranged in a bowl, chairs stacked in the back of a concert hall, cars on the street, clothes in a closet, roof tiles, book covers, cushion covers, and maps. As a child she was always trying to draw the things she saw, but somehow she’d fallen out of it. Normal growing up, she supposed. Or was fear of tinnitus holding her back even then?

  Emith opened the door, sending a gust of night air whipping through the kitchen.

  Tessa shivered.

  Just as Emith stepped into the room, a gloved hand appeared out of the darkness and grabbed at the edge of the door. Something wet dripped from one of the fingers onto the floor. A fraction of a second later, Ravis appeared in the doorway.

  “Good evening,” he said, nodding first at Mother Emith and then to Tessa and Emith. “I trust I’m not too late for supper?” Noticing Tessa’s gaze on his glove, he stripped it off and tucked it beneath his tunic. Meanwhile his foot was busy working the wet spot into the floor.

  “Step over here by the fire, Lord Ravis,” Mother Emith said. “Emith will fetch you a bowl of ox marrow soup and a cup of arlo.”

  Ravis crossed to the old lady and kissed her on each cheek. “Ox marrow soup! Why, I swear you read my mind, madam. I’ve been thinking of nothing else all night. Point me to the right pot and I shall get it myself.” Turning to Emith, he said, “Hand me that jug, my friend, so I can top up your mother’s cup.”

  Mother Emith beamed up at Ravis from her chair as he proceeded to take over the kitchen, pouring drinks, putting logs on the fire, tasting sauces, and talking spices.

  Neither Emith nor his mother appeared to notice how fast Ravis’ chest rose and fell when he spoke, the fine film of sweat on his brow, or the wine-dark stain on the collar of his shirt. Tessa noticed them all. Details, she thought with a quick, humorless smile.

  Ravis proposed a toast to Mother Emith and another to her cooking and one more for the night. Tessa didn’t realize what he was doing until he held the empty jug to the light and said, “Why, I do believe we’ve finished it off. I’ll just go out to the courtyard and fill it from the keg. Tessa, could you follow me out with a candle? Having eaten Mother Emith’s delicious marrow soup, I now have the strength of ten men and the mental capacity of a college full of scholars, but I still can’t see in the dark.” He smiled charmingly to Mother Emith, who smiled charmingly back.

  “I’ll fill the jug, Lord Ravis,” Emith said, stepping forward.

  “Wouldn’t hear of it, my friend. You’ve done quite enough already.” Ravis pulled out a chair. “Why don’t you sit right here and let someone wait on you for a change.” Emith succumbed to the considerable power of Ravis’ charm and sat down. “Come along, Tessa, you can show me where the keg is.”

  The second they were out of the door, Ravis turned to Tessa and said, “I won’t be coming back here again after tonight. It’s too dangerous. Three of Izgard’s harras followed me from Marcel’s house. I managed to lose two of them, but the third”—he patted the bulge in his tunic formed by the dripping glove—“gave me a little trouble before he finally lost my trail. I can’t risk leading them back here again. They don’t know about this place, so as long as you’re here you should be safe. Never leave the house, and make sure that both Emith and his mother keep your presence here a secret. Don’t show yourself to anyone who comes to the door, especially Marcel, and take this.” He drew his knife from his belt and held it out toward Tessa.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, Tessa reached out to accept the knife. Her head was spinning. Ravis leaving?

  Ravis’ fingers caught in hers over the silver wire of the knife’s haft. His dark eyes were exactly the same color as the night. The light from the doorjamb caught on his scar, sending a shadow over the right half of his lip. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I have to form and train a force for Camron of Thorn, and right now Bay’Zell is no place to do it. But I will return. And when I do, I will come for you and together we’ll discover the reason why you’re here.”

  Tessa nodded like a dumb child. She felt foolish, but what could she say? She couldn’t object. This man didn’t owe her anything. He had no obligation to take care of her.

  Ravis leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. She felt the rough break of his scar, then the soft tissue of lip flesh. He smelled of blood and sweat and the sharp apple tang of arlo. His hand came up to press against the small of her back, and three seconds later he pulled away.

  Before she could stop herself, Tessa stepped toward him, mouth open, wanting more. Embarrassed, she worked to control the impulse, glad that Ravis was already turning away and hadn’t seen what she had done.

  “Come,” he said, leathers cracking as he bent over to tap the keg. “Let’s get back inside. Mother Emith will be expecting us back, and she’ll doubtless want me to propose another toast—this one to fond farewells.”

  Not trusting herself to reply, Tessa followed him into the house.

  E L E V E N

  T he fish market at dawn formed the center of Bay’Zell. Without help, directions, or signposts, a man could find his way there in the dark. The smell was a pointing finger, and the sounds of fishmongers crating, squabbling, laughing, and bartering provided a more reliable beacon than a lighthouse on a rocky coast.

  As a rule, Ravis didn’t care for early mornings, but as far as they went this one wasn’t too bad. The sky was clear of clouds, and the day promised to be fine and warm. Seagulls wheeled and dipped in the lightening sky, and a lively, salty, seaweedy breeze blew in from the east with the sun.

  From where he stood, at the top of the white marble steps leading up to the entrance of the Old Shrine, Ravis could get a clear view of the fish market below. Ever since the new shrine, with its vaulting spires, brass-capped warding towers, and stone facing shot with seams of quartz, had been completed fifty years earlier, the forecourt of the old one had been taken over by fish. It was only fitting, really, thought Ravis. After all, both shrines had been paid for with income hauled in from the sea.

  Looking down at the market, Ravis shifted his gaze from stall to stall, from face to face, from hand to hand: searching. He had already spotted Camron’s dark gold hair in
the crowd. The man was standing close to a mussel seller and his many baskets, two of his guards milling with the crowd nearby. Ravis wasn’t ready to contact him just yet. He wanted to make sure the market was safe. After last night’s run-in with the harras, he was in no mood to take chances.

  One man had followed him from the moment he’d left Marcel’s door. A second and a third joined their friend as the roads narrowed and the district took a turn for the worse. Remembering the previous evening’s encounter, Ravis decided it was better to evade than fight and had managed to lose two of the men, only to find himself in the shadow of the third. Surprisingly, the fight was a quick one. The harrar was just that: a well-trained fighter, nothing more. There was no terrible blood lust, no whip-sharp reflexes, and no sense that the fight was destined to end in death. Ravis doubted that sorcery had been used to alter him. Once stabbed in the arm, the man wisely fled. Which, while being fortunate in many ways, only gave Ravis more cause for alarm.

  He knew Izgard. If the Garizon king wasn’t using his newfound trick to hunt him down, then he was using it for something worse. How long since his crowning: three, perhaps four days? Time enough for Garizon warlords to grow impatient for Izgard to make his move.

  Ravis chewed on his scar. Even as he stood here, scanning the fish market, searching for anyone who looked as though he could be searching for him, an invasion could be taking place to the east. Funny, but just four days ago he had thought he had seen and heard the last of Izgard of Garizon. A commission had ended and gold had been paid and a ship’s passage had been booked in his name. His short-term plans had involved little more than sitting out the war in Mizerico with a certain dark-haired beauty at his side. Now everything had changed. Izgard had moved against him, Marcel had betrayed him, and Camron of Thorn had him by the throat.

  Or at least he thought he did.

  There were a hundred different ways to leave Bay’Zell, and Ravis doubted very much that Camron knew half of them. If he wanted to, he could skip the city right now without leaving a trace. Pegruff was not the only fisherman in the north harbor who owed him a favor, and it would be easy enough to secure passage to Maribane or Balgedis. But for many different reasons, Ravis now chose to stay in Rhaize.