by J. V. Jones
Again came that sound that might have been pleasure or disapproval. The chins wobbled. “I keep Thrice very busy these days.”
Thrice was Segwin’s assistant. All the various side deals that Segwin made to supplement his income—selling confiscated goods, extortion, turning a blind eye, dealing in weapons, mercenaries, and occasionally slaves—were carried out by his man in the field. Ravis had never actually spoken to Thrice—merely nodded to him from a distance over crates of Istanian helmets or the heads of Maribane archers—but judging by the quality of men and weapons he selected, the man obviously took pride in his work. Some of Ravis’ best mercenaries had been hand-picked by Thrice of Culling.
“As busy as both you and Thrice are, I’m sure you’ll find time to help us out.” Ravis jabbed Camron in the ribs. The moment called for a little verbal support.
“We’d be most grateful,” said Camron.
“Not to mention generous,” added Ravis for good measure.
Segwin the Ney held perfectly still for a moment, then let out a deep sigh. “Very well. Men, you want? Arms and supplies? I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need archers—longbowsmen if you can get them, though crossbowsmen would do. I’ll want at least five dozen fine yewwood longbows, and double that number of Drokho pikes—not the lowland ones, mind, the ones made in the mountains with the broad blades and hooks. I’ll need boiled leather armor, no plate—”
“No plate?” interrupted Camron. “Do you like sending men to their deaths?”
Ravis’ first instinct was to lash out at Camron: now was not the time to discuss tactics. A deal was being struck. Controlling his anger, however, he spoke very softly, all the while keeping his facial features relaxed, aware that no detail would escape Segwin the Ney’s all-seeing eye. “Any force I assemble has to be light on its feet. I’ve seen too many men die because they were wearing full armor and couldn’t right themselves after a fall from a horse—an eyeblink is all it takes for an enemy to move in with a blade.”
“At least they’ll be well protected when they’re in such a vulnerable state.”
Ravis was losing patience. “A man wearing leather can be up and back on his horse before anyone realizes he’s down. Speed and agility are all the protection he needs.” To end the subject once and for all, he turned toward Segwin’s chins and asked, “How much gold will you need to get started?” It was an indelicate way to broach the subject, and normally Ravis would use an entirely different approach, but he needed something to stop Camron’s tongue.
The question had the desired effect. The tension drained out of Camron’s body as he leaned forward to hear Segwin’s reply.
Segwin the Ney acted as if nothing were amiss. Several noncommittal noises emanated from the area directly above his chins. After a bout of nodding, some finger drumming, and a slight retraction of his chins, he said, “Well, I can’t guarantee numbers on the mercenaries, but I’ll see what I can do. As for the other items, they shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Though Thrice is very busy, and I myself am fully burdened as it is.” Segwin paused, waiting for appropriate words of understanding and sympathy.
Which Ravis happily gave. “You push yourself too hard, Segwin. No man in Bay’Zell works such long hours as you.”
The chins wobbled in what Ravis hoped was gratification. A moment passed, and then Segwin rustled into action. “The cost will be five hundred crowns. I’ll take two hundred and fifty on deposit, plus the extra silver promised for my inconvenience. Payment must be in coin and should be received no later than sunset tonight.” He stood up. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must sleep. Two hours you have kept me awake. One hundred and twenty silvers, and not a minute less.” The chins headed for the door.
Sensing that Camron was about to speak—either to object to the price or the terms—Ravis spoke up loudly instead. “We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your sleep a moment longer, Segwin. So, seems we’re all agreed on the price, I say we discuss the details later. After dark.” Negotiation may have brought down the cost somewhat, but it would have taken so long to convince Segwin to drop his price that any money saved in gold would be more than matched in compensation at the rate of one silver coin per minute. Besides, Ravis felt disinclined to save Camron’s money. As one of the wealthiest men in Rhaize, he could well afford to pay the price.
Camron didn’t say anything, but judging from the way the silhouette of his hand tugged away at his hair, it was obvious he wasn’t pleased.
“After dark, gentlemen, and not a moment before.” Segwin the Ney opened the door. Light flooded into the hut, blinding Ravis completely. By the time his vision had cleared enough to see details, Segwin had ushered him over the threshold. Before he had chance to shape a farewell, the door was closed in his face.
“Five hundred crowns!” Camron said, sweeping into Ravis’ line of vision. “Five hundred crowns for leather armor, pikes, and mercenaries! Are you quite out of your mind?”
Ravis was more than a little annoyed at the fact that Camron had recovered from the shock of being thrust into the light faster than he himself. He began walking back up the quay. “You forgot the longbows.”
“Longbows! Archers! What use will a man with an arrow be against a troop of fully trained knights?” Although Ravis was moving quickly, Camron had no problem keeping step.
“You obviously haven’t seen the Maribane longbow in use. It can cut down a cavalry line faster than any other weapon I’ve seen.”
“I’ve seen archers before now. The only thing they’re good for is taking out their opposite numbers: archers to kill archers.”
“The new longbows can shoot three times farther than a shortbow. They fire arrowheads that can cut through steel, and for every arrow loosed by a crossbowsman, a longbowsman can loose two. Archers don’t just kill archers anymore: they stop charges, break defenses, win wars.”
Having reached the main harbor thoroughfare, Ravis cut a path back toward the market. He cared little if Camron followed. The man was typical of all Rhaize lords—living on memories of a glorious past, where knights in gleaming armor fought other knights in gleaming armor, and any common foot soldier in the field, or archer stringing his bow in a trench, wasn’t worth wielding a sword at. War was a nobleman’s affair.
Izgard didn’t play by those old rules, though. No one who wanted to prevail on the battlefield these days could afford to.
Camron caught up with Ravis on the steps leading up to the market. Some fishmongers were already closing shop for the day, and they marched down the steps, crates above their heads, buckets sloshing in their hands, tunics straining with the round-edged bulk of coinage. Children, dogs, and seagulls competed for scraps. Snapping at the salt-strewn steps, they fought over sprats, whiting, cockles, and clams. Whatever scales, shells, and fins the scavengers left behind were cleared away overnight by the rats.
Ravis heard Camron order him to stop so they could talk face-to-face, but he was damned if he was going to explain any more of his tactics to a man who would neither listen nor understand. He carried on up the steps, pushing against the market crowd, fixing them with his dark Drokho eyes, causing all but the poor sighted and reckless to move swiftly out of his way.
“I said stop,” cried Camron, grabbing a fistful of Ravis’ tunic.
Ravis slammed the heel of his hand into Camron’s knuckles, forcing him to release his grip. “I didn’t choose to heed you.”
“Well, you’d better heed me from now on.” Even though Ravis knew he had delivered quite a blow to Camron’s hand, the man didn’t stop to nurse it. He continued speaking, his low, aristocratic voice taut with fury. “You work for me. I’m financing this force. I’m the one who decides who’s party to it, and what they wear and how they fight. I intend to pull men from Thorn and Runzy—trained knights, fine horsemen. Good, solid Rhaize troops, not some mismatched concoction of foreign mercenaries and common foot soldiers. I’ll pay the five hundred crowns to the fat man with the chins, bu
t I warn you now, I don’t want to see, hear, or cross paths with any man you bring down to Runzy. And I certainly don’t want them fighting by my side. In battle I need men I can rely on, ones who won’t leave injured soldiers to die on the field, or turn tail at the first sign of a rout.”
Camron drew level with Ravis on the steps. Bringing his face close, he said, “You’re here to help me get to Izgard, not to tell me how to fight. Is that clear?”
Ravis chewed on his scar. Many things came into his mind to say—objections, sarcastic put-downs, verbal lessons in tactics—but he let none of them out. He’d been a hired hand for too long to let anger get in the way of business. Camron wasn’t the first man to remind him who was master, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. A man who inherited neither land nor wealth from his family could expect to have many different overlords through the course of his life. He learned early on to do and say what was expected, and he always knew when to bite his tongue or, in Ravis’ case, his scar.
Camron was angry. His pride had been hurt, and a few of his dearly held beliefs had been challenged. One day would not make him a convert.
With one quick movement Ravis reached inside his tunic. Camron tensed for a moment before realizing that Ravis was merely taking out his gloves. With slow movements just short of insolence, Ravis pulled on the gloves, pausing to ensure that each finger slid down to the bottom seam and that the leather sat well over his hand. Only when he was satisfied with the fit did he look Camron in the eye and say, “I will do exactly as you wish.”
To his credit, Camron neither frowned nor gloated. He nodded once, then started up the steps. Ravis followed after him, and together they headed back to the market, where Camron’s two guards—lips still greasy with butter, breath smelling of beer and smoked fish—came running up to tell them that a rumor was sweeping the city that Izgard had invaded Rhaize to the east.
“What happened yesterday at dawn? What did you do?” Izgard of Garizon was tired of getting no answers. He was sick of seeing his scribe’s head shake and his good shoulder descend from a shrug. The warlords were pressing to drive farther into Rhaize. They wanted to see plans. Move forces. Fight.
“I have told you already, sire. I drew my normal pattern, nothing more.” Ederius twisted his purple-stained fingers into knots. The tendons on the back of his hands looked like bird claws. Izgard swore he could hear the man’s heart pounding beneath the rough-woven fabric of his cloak.
The room smelled vaguely of urine, of a chamber pot tucked in the back of a cupboard or a bed wet in the middle of the night. Izgard didn’t normally notice such things—in a fortress this large and cold, men pissed wherever they could rather than get up to use the latrines after dark—but Ederius was different. Once a monk on the Anointed Isle, he was a man of strict personal habits and always took care to keep himself and his rooms well tended. At this moment, though, both the scribe and his scriptorium looked a little unkempt, and even though it was an hour past noon only one of the great windows had been opened to let in the light.
The sky above the mountains was filled with plump white clouds, and as the wind was high they continually blew in front of the sun, plunging the room into cool gray shade for minutes at a time. As the sun emerged once more from behind a bank of feathery down and shone through the tall window onto Ederius, his desk, pigment pots, brushes, quills, and works in progress, Izgard took a closer look at his hands. The purple stain wasn’t as it first seemed. It was made up of two distinctly separate colors: red and blue. The blue sat over the red, masking, altering, filtering out the hue. The skin on Ederius’ hands was sore and flaking, and it looked as if the scribe had first tried to scrub off the red stain, and when that failed, he had worked in blue pigment to veil it.
Excited, but not sure why, Izgard licked his lips. Stepping into the sun’s rays so his shadow fell upon the scribe and his desk, he whispered, “Let me see the pattern you drew yesterday.”
Ederius’ gaze flicked from his red-blue hands to the eyes of his king. “I threw it on the fire.”
“Why?” As Izgard spoke the word, his breath plumed white across the space separating him from the scribe. It was not cold, merely cool, but sometimes his breath did that: changed, became something else entirely in his lungs.
Eyes blinking away the moisture, Ederius said, “After I finished the pattern, I knocked over a cup of tannic acid . . . it spilt upon the page. The pattern was unsavable. The parchment was ruined.”
Izgard nodded. “I see.”
Ederius waited for his king to say something more, but Izgard merely curled his hands around the edge of the desk and leaned forward. After a moment of silence the scribe felt compelled to speak. “Forgive me, sire. I did not stop to think. The acid was everywhere. I was worried it would burn through to the parchment beneath—destroy new designs I was working on, things that could prove valuable in the months to—”
Raising up his index finger to silence the man, Izgard said, “What fire?”
“I . . . I don’t understand, sire.” Ederius was looking worried now.
As well he might. One of the bones in Izgard’s wrists cracked softly as he pivoted farther forward, drawing face-to-face with his scribe. When he spoke, his voice was softer than the cracking bone. “What fire did you throw the design on? The one in here hasn’t been lit in a week.”
Ederius glanced toward the great fireplace. It was cold, black, swept clean.
“The one in your bedchamber, perhaps?” Izgard’s lips stretched to something close to, but not quite, a smile. “Should I go there and check for myself?”
“No! No, sire,” Ederius said quickly, his hands fluttering up toward his king. A bead of old man’s sweat trickled down from the white hair at his temple. “I gave it to one of the maids. Told her to take it away and burn it for me.”
Izgard smashed his fist into Ederius’ jaw. Knuckle blasted against bone. The scribe’s head shot back. The base of his skull slammed against the headrest of the chair, sending the chair teetering onto its back two legs. Izgard stopped it from falling over by slapping a hand down onto the armrest. The chair thudded back onto all four feet, jolting Ederius forward, so he was once more within striking distance of his king.
“Where is the pattern?” Izgard demanded. The urge to lash out again was strong, and Izgard had to grind his fist into the armrest to fight it. The imprint of his hand was clearly visible on the scribe’s face, and for a brief moment Izgard found himself wondering when it had become normal to strike him.
Muscles contracted in Ederius’ throat as he worked to contain a cough or bout of choking. A tear, just one, spilled out of his right eye.
Izgard moved his hand from the armrest. A splinter driven deep into his fingertip had drawn blood. Izgard felt no pain. Reaching over, he went to touch Ederius. The scribe had such an old and beautiful face, hair so perfectly white. When they had first met five years ago it had just been turning gray.
As Izgard’s fingers brushed against his cheek, Ederius jerked back, eyes wide, inhaling sharply. Izgard caught himself. Surely Ederius wasn’t afraid of him? “Don’t be scared,” he said. “I won’t hurt you again.”
Ederius hesitated, glanced into Izgard’s eyes, and then moved forward. The mark on his jaw was now a bright, flaming red.
Izgard’s touch was gentle as he stroked Ederius’ cheek. “Remember before I was king, Ederius? When there was just you and me and old Gamberon? Remember how close we were, how we swore we would do anything to help each other? How we were all united in the desire I should be king? They were good days, weren’t they? You, me, Gamberon: friends and scholars first, master and servants second. I miss those days, my old friend. I miss Gamberon’s wisdom and our special closeness. I miss the dreams we spun in Veizach after dark.”
All the while Izgard spoke, Ederius sat perfectly still, accepting, but in no way responding to, the touch of his king. It looked not so much as if he were afraid to move, but rather that he physically couldn’t. That somehow he ha
d been lulled into a trance by a sly Gypsy or a master magician and his body was no longer his own.
Izgard smiled warmly at the scribe; his heart felt very full. “Oh, to go back to those days when there was just we three. The discussions we had! The books we pored over! The bonds of love, friendship, and obligations we shared!” The scribe’s face was smooth—hot where he had taken the punch. Izgard enjoyed feeling the fine old flesh slide beneath his fingers. Touch was important to him. “Do you miss those days too, Ederius? Do you miss Gamberon?”
The questions were an enchanted kiss. They broke the spell that bound the scribe. Ederius moved, not away from his king’s touch, but toward it; tilting his cheek so it was parallel with Izgard’s finger. Touching all he could of his king. “I do miss the old days, sire. I miss Gamberon more than I can ever say.”
A second tear glistened in the scribe’s eye. Izgard felt its pull in his own. The muscles in his chest tightened. “Gamberon didn’t have to die, did he, my old friend? He didn’t have to move against me?”
The tear ran down Ederius’ cheek and then slid along Izgard’s finger, glazing his skin with its thin, salty wetness. The sensation of cool tear and hot flesh moved Izgard deeply. Perhaps because he had been born with one sense less than other men, he appreciated the ones he did have all the more. There was a world of beauty to be found in one’s fingertips: the sweet beating warmth of another’s pulse, the exquisite texture of aging skin stretched over smooth bone, and the sharp pain of snuffing a candle by hand. Sometimes Izgard thought he had been born with a sense of taste after all, only his tastebuds lay beneath his fingertips, not his tongue.
Ederius nuzzled his wet cheek against Izgard’s finger as he shook his head. “Gamberon should not have done what he did, sire. He acted rashly, without thinking. . . . He should have stopped to discuss his fears with you.”