by J. V. Jones
Gold, for one.
Izgard’s attempt on his life, for another.
And a woman with almost red hair and a stubborn streak, for another after that.
Making one final scan of the crowd, Ravis made his way down the steps. If there were harras in the market, then they must be concealing themselves in the barrels along with the mackerel and the cod, for he’d been standing here for over an hour now and had yet to see anything amiss.
At ground level the stench was vigorous, to say the least. Tables were layered with sea salt and fish, and men as crusty and weatherbeaten as the crates they toted called out to passersby, extolling the virtues of their catch. No cod was just a cod; it was “white and flaky and fit for a sick grandmother. Fresh enough to skip a path to the oven on its own.”
Camron spotted Ravis approach from across the courtyard. Neither of his guards did. Walking back and forth with the throng, the two men had let themselves become distracted by the sights and sounds of the market. Matters weren’t helped much by the fact that a pretty fishmonger’s daughter, all dark curls and dimpled flesh, was currently bending over to pick through a barrel of hake. Since hearing that most of Camron’s guards were killed the same night as his father, Ravis was inclined to judge the remaining men less harshly. Still, it didn’t make the task ahead any easier, and Camron was better off relying on himself than placing his faith in ill-trained men who lacked the experience to stay focused in a crowd.
As he walked, Ravis’ hand was on his knife—a new one, thanks to the fact that he had given his previous one to Tessa last night in Mother Emith’s yard. It had neither the pattern-welded blade nor the silver-bound hilt of the one he was used to, but Ravis found he didn’t mind the difference at all. There was still a part of him that found romantic gestures—such as handing over a knife worth fifty crowns to a woman in the dark—gratifying. Tessa could have protected herself with any number of knives from Mother Emith’s kitchen, but it pleased Ravis to let her have his. He did not want any harm befalling her while he was away.
“Ravis,” said Camron of Thorn, walking to greet him through the crowd. “I see your idea of dawn is later than everyone else’s.”
Ravis showed a smile. He was pleased to see that Camron was looking better than the night before; his hair was clean, his tunic well brushed, and the fingers that danced around his blade had been scraped clean of dried blood. Seeing how his hand worked in unison with his eye, Ravis revised his opinion of the man: Camron obviously wasn’t placing all his trust in his guards.
“Walk with me,” Ravis said, gaze flicking around the crowd.
Camron fell in at his side. “What happened last night?”
Again, Ravis’ opinion of Camron went up. The man was bright enough to guess there was a reason behind his caution. “Three of Izgard’s harras followed me after I left Marcel’s last night. Gave me a spot of trouble. Nothing much, but it means I can’t afford to stay in Bay’Zell any longer. As long as I’m here, Izgard is going to keep sending more men after me, and sooner or later I’m going to end up dead.”
“We all end up dead in the end.” Camron’s tone was sharp. With his left hand, he made gestures to the two guards in the crowd, beckoning them to follow him.
Ravis chose to ignore the remark. Pushing past barrels of thrashing lobsters and trays of snapping crabs, he said, “We have to move fast. Bay’Zell isn’t the place to assemble and train a force. I’ll need somewhere where I don’t have to worry about being knifed in the back. Somewhere discreet, with land and barracks to call its own, preferably situated along the Chase.”
Camron nodded. “How far along the Chase?”
“Anywhere between Runzy and Gornt. I want to be able to ship in men and armaments, keep an eye to what’s happening in Bay’Zell, and still be within striking distance of the Vorce Mountains.”
“My father has—” Camron corrected himself. “I have a small manor house just north of Runzy. There’s land, plenty of outbuildings that could be used as barracks, and the Chase runs through the neighboring estate to the east.”
“How long will it take to ride there?”
“Three days. Two if we change horses along the way.”
“Good.”
Reaching the far end of the market where the salted and smoked fish was sold, Ravis paused to buy a hand of smoked herrings. He waited while the fishmonger heated the halved and boned fish on his brazier, then asked that the portions be split into two. The fishmonger was happy to oblige. “Plenty of salt and pepper,” Ravis added as the fishmonger rolled the fish in sedgeweeds, “and how about adding a couple of pats of best butter on top?”
The fishmonger nodded enthusiastically, pleased to have such a discerning client. “Would sir care for chives and parsley?”
Ravis ran a finger over his scar, thought for a minute, and then said, “Just parsley. Chives would kill the aroma of woodsmoke.”
“Sir knows his smoked fish,” said the fishmonger, passing the two packets of herrings to Ravis with an impassioned bow.
Ravis thanked, then paid the man. Spinning around, he crooked a finger in the direction of Camron’s two guards. “Gentlemen,” he said as they approached, “I’ve taken the liberty of buying you both breakfast.” Smiling, he offered a packet of the hot buttery fish to each man. The guards looked nervously at Camron, but the smoky aroma was too much for them to resist and their hands came up to accept the food.
Camron did not look pleased.
Ravis ignored him and continued smiling at the two men. “Now you two stand here, enjoy your breakfast, get yourselves a jug of beer”—he pressed a silver coin into the palm of the nearest man—“and Camron and I will be back before you know it. We have a little business to discuss.”
“Sir—” began the first guard.
“It’s all right, Scrip,” interrupted Camron. “Do as he says. I’ll be back within an hour.”
Both guards nodded. The second one already had his mouth full of fish.
Ravis inclined his head to both men, waved farewell to the smoked-fish vendor, and then led Camron away from the market.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me what that was all about?” Camron said as they walked through a series of covered arcades leading down toward the west harbor.
“Your men make me nervous.” Ravis crunched salt crystals and seashells beneath his boots as he walked. “We might as well be followed by a town crier ringing his bell. Two run-ins with Izgard’s harras in as many days is trouble enough for me. My neck suits me better in one piece.”
Reaching the harbor, Ravis cut away from the crowds milling around the waterfront and headed for a collection of small huts teetering on the edge of the quay. “You should watch yourself, too. Just because Izgard decided not to kill you the same night he killed your father doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind. As soon as he learns you’re behind this force we’re putting together, he’ll send his harras out to finish the job.”
Camron turned to face him. He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not afraid of Izgard and his men. If he comes, he won’t find me hiding under my covers like a child frightened of the dark.”
This was the first chance Ravis had to take a proper look at Camron in daylight, and he was surprised to see that Camron looked perhaps five years younger than he had in the soft, flickering light of Marcel’s town house. Ravis had been about to shape a reply telling him that only a fool would not be afraid of Izgard of Garizon. Instead he said, “You know he’ll think you’re after his crown?”
“Let him think whatever he wants. My father never made a claim upon the throne. Nor will I.” Camron resumed walking in the direction of the wooden huts. “It isn’t about taking power. It’s about vengeance.”
“So,” Ravis said, matching him step for step, “before Izgard murdered your father, you were content to let him be?”
Camron’s hands curled into fists at his side. “Seeking to depose another is not necessarily the same thing as seeking power yourself. My
father had a claim on Garizon just as strong as—some would say stronger than—Izgard’s. Berick of Thorn was second cousin to the old king. His blood ran just as deep and was just as rich as Izgard’s, yet he never sought power, never wanted anything for Garizon except peace.”
Ravis ran a tooth along his scar. “Just as well, really. As I hardly think the good people of Garizon would have tolerated having the hero of Mount Creed as their king. How many Garizons died in that battle?” Ravis kept his tone light, as he feigned ignorance of a subject he knew well. “Fifteen, twenty thousand?”
Whipping around, Camron landed a blow squarely on Ravis’ jaw. Although Ravis had been expecting it—goad a man enough and he will hit you—he was surprised by the sheer force of the punch. It didn’t send him reeling, but it did send his head snapping back.
Seeing the punch, two old ladies in black bonnets and shawls scuttled away from the quayside like ants caught in candlelight. A whiskered longshoreman stopped in his tracks, folded his arms, and waited to see what would happen next. When Ravis made no move to fight back, he spat on the deck and moved on.
“Don’t you dare speak of Mount Creed to me,” Camron cried, eyes blazing at Ravis, fist held close to his chest. “You have no idea what my father went through on that mountain, how the memory wounded him until the end. He fought because he had to—because there was no one else to do it, and he had sworn his allegiance to the Rhaize king. Not because he wanted power. He had already disavowed all claims to the Garizon throne. Ruling Garizon held no interest for him.”
Ravis tasted blood in his mouth. It reminded him of the day, seven years ago, when his bottom lip had been sliced in two. The bitter tang was just the same. Wiping the corner of his mouth, he said, “You’re right. I shouldn’t have mentioned Mount Creed. I apologize.” Suddenly nothing seemed worth the fight.
Camron’s gray eyes looked into his; scorn, accusations, and anger weren’t enough to mask his grief. Ravis saw it, recognized it, knew what it felt like. After all this time, and all that had happened afterward, he still remembered the grief.
Ravis took a second look at Camron. Both of their fathers had died unexpectedly, leaving hard fights to be fought in their wake: perhaps they weren’t so different after all.
Overhead, seagulls shrieked in a cloudless blue sky. The sea sparkled all the way to the horizon, then shimmered away to an indigo line. Ships of all sizes dotted the bay: sails fat as well-fed cats, prows gleaming with wax, rigging an ever-changing framework of rope. Easterly breezes, clear skies, and a busy sea: a perfect morning in Bay’Zell.
Something shifting in the corner of his eye caused Ravis to swing his gaze away from the sea, back toward Camron. Was the man going to take a second swing at him? Even as Ravis balled his hand into a fist, he realized that Camron was offering his hand.
Ravis halted his own protective reflexes, ashamed. If Camron had seen him make a fist, he pretended not to notice, simply looked at Ravis with his mercury gray eyes and said, “I accept your apology, Ravis of Burano. And I’ll even admit I acted rashly myself.”
A tiny, bitter voice inside Ravis told him that in all his life, Camron of Thorn had probably never had his hand refused by any man. That every time he held it out—confident in the assurance that he was doing an honorable thing for honorable reasons—it was always quickly taken. Part of Ravis wanted to be the first to turn him down. Cut him dead, walk away, destroy just a grain or two of that unwavering blind pride.
Another part of him—not the one that had been turned to the light by the taste of his own blood in his mouth, but the small, older, immeasurably damaged part that had been brought to life by the sight of grief in Camron’s eyes—urged him to hold out his hand. There was nothing to be gained by causing further pain.
So Ravis raised his hand to meet Camron’s, telling himself he needed gold from this man and that was as good a reason as any not to antagonize him further. Yet when Camron’s fingers circled his forearm and his gray eyes looked straight into his, the small lie Ravis told himself began to matter less. There was a genuine pleasure to be found in gripping someone’s forearm, of knowing you were joined in cause and destined to fight side by side.
A wisp of a memory, fine as Istanian-spun silk, light as the touch of the long-nailed women who unraveled the cocoons, filtered down through Ravis’ thoughts. Two young brothers, clinging to each other with a fierce, brotherly love as they watched their father’s powder white body being carried into the crypt. “Malray and Ravis of Burano,” people whispered to each other beneath the chanting of the gray-robed clerics. “Surely there have never been two such brothers as devoted as they.”
Abruptly Ravis pulled back from Camron. Threads of memory proved hard to break. Even when his fingers no longer circled Camron’s arm, he still smelled the myrrh-scented candles burning in the crypt, still felt the warmth of his brother’s body next to his, still tasted Malray’s tears on his lips.
Camron spoke, and even though his words seemed strange and distant to Ravis, he recognized their importance and realized how much it meant to Camron to say them out loud.
“In all the years my father and I were together, he never mentioned his Garizon claims to me. Not once, by either word nor deed, did he ever encourage me to stake a claim of my own. I am not seeking a crown. I simply want to be rid of Izgard. At first it was purely because of what he is and what he stood for; now it is because of what he did. Izgard of Garizon picked the wrong person to kill and the wrong point to make. He should never have killed the father, he should have slain the real threat, his son.”
Camron’s words were bright and piercing in the clear air of that perfect Bay’Zell morning, solemn against the cloudless backdrop of the sky. Listening to them was enough to chase away the last trace of Ravis’ childhood memory. Things were not, nor would ever be, the same as they had been. And he wasn’t the only person standing on the quay at that moment who had to live with pain and regrets.
“Come,” he said to Camron, motioning toward the end of the quay. “There’s a man in that hut over there staying awake just to see us, and every minute we keep him from his bed will end up costing you more gold.” Ravis headed up the path, Camron less than two steps behind.
Segwin the Ney shook his large, fleshy head. “Ravis, you said dawn.” With surprisingly slender hands for a man who was undeniably fat, he tapped the nearby window frame, indicating the clear blue sky beyond. “What do you call this?”
Ravis shrugged. “Your gain.”
A noise that might have conveyed either satisfaction or displeasure escaped from Segwin’s colorless lips. With a practiced movement he shut and latched the shutter, closing out the light. Segwin the Ney didn’t like daylight. He swore it ruined his night vision, gnawing away at his special talent, developed and nurtured meticulously over half a lifetime, for spotting illegal activity in the dark.
Segwin the Ney was a Bay’Zell port officer, yet his name could not be found on any roll and his job did not officially exist. Segwin watched the harbor at night. Every evening at dusk he opened his shutters, made himself comfortable on his well-cushioned chair, brought his custom-made glass to his eye, and stared out to sea. Unlike bailiffs, harbor officials, tax examiners, and other functionaries whose main business was to police the bay, Segwin had no desire to catch smugglers, tariff dodgers, black-marketeers, known criminals intent on entering the city, or wanted criminals intent on leaving. His job was simply to record.
The merchant fathers of Bay’Zell knew that sometimes it was better to ignore the sins of a smuggler or a foreign merchant, and so gain a bargaining tool to be used at a later date, rather than take a man to task, make him pay all tariffs due on goods smuggled, or penalize him for illegal activities, and ultimately turn a friend and beneficiary of the city into a watchful, resentful foe.
Obviously such enlightened and liberal thinking wouldn’t sit well with Bay’Zell’s own hardworking merchants and harbor officials, nor indeed with the Sire of Rhaize himself, who as o
verlord of the city took a healthy portion of all monies levied from the port. So the whole thing, much like Segwin the Ney himself, was kept very much in the dark. To anyone who asked, Segwin was just an aging drunkard whose wife had left him in a fit of pique because he never rose before dusk. In keeping with this fiction, empty beer barrels, arlo kegs, and spirit bottles were always stacked outside his door.
Although it was dim inside the hut with the shutters closed, Segwin didn’t offer to light a candle. He enjoyed having his visitors at a disadvantage, for while they could barely see his silhouette, he saw every nuance on their faces. It made for good bargaining, and although there were several men in the city equally clever, quick-witted, and resourceful as Segwin the Ney, none struck a harder deal.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a short, impatient sigh, “first you keep me up, now you keep me waiting. Am I to take it you intend to see me recompensed for my ordeal?”
“Ordeal?” Camron began. “Why, I see no evidence—”
Ravis quieted him with a quick jab in the ribs. “Of course we intend to see you recompensed, Segwin. My friend here has assured me he values your time highly, and he will personally see to it that on top of whatever payment we agree upon here and now for your services, there will be an extra silver piece included for every minute you have been kept awake beyond the break of dawn.”
Satisfied, Segwin nodded. For some reason, the pale rolls of flesh under his chin were the only part of his visage that caught the light. The rest of his face remained dark. “Go on.”
Ravis focused on what was visible of Segwin’s many chins. “My friend and I have need of your expert help. Men, supplies, armaments: the usual requirements. Only this time I will need them sent upriver to Runzy. I will not be here to arrange pickups or to inspect the men personally, so I will need to rely on you and Thrice.”