The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  By the time Emith had finished, the tabletop was filled with dozens of shells, bright pigments nestling in their midst like fantastic sea creatures pulled up from the deep. From a base of perhaps ten pigments, Emith had created a complete palette of colors ranging from the subtlest flesh pink to the bloodiest crimson, from the palest worm gray to the deepest midnight blue.

  Tessa was dazzled by the colors. Each one was a jewel set in an iridescent casing of shell. Just looking at them filled her head with possibilities. She saw bands of color crossing a page, dots of shining silver, steps of gold and red, and knots of darkest purple throwing shadows of purest black. She wanted to pick up a brush and paint.

  When she held out a hand to grasp a paintbrush, Emith clamped a palm upon her wrist. “You’re not ready to use the full palette yet,” he said, gently returning her hand to the tabletop. “Before you start illuminating properly, you must understand the colors completely, know what they represent and how and why they are chosen.”

  Tessa looked at Emith. How much did he know about his master’s work? Judging from his reluctance to meet her eye just then, enough to know it could be dangerous.

  Pulling a small rectangle of vellum from his robe, Emith said, “Sometimes, especially when working from copies, it’s important to match the colors exactly.” He laid the sheet on the table, at the point where the two circles of light from the candles met. The design painted on it was simple, just trumpet spirals surrounding a central medallion, but the colors used stopped the design from appearing crude. Shades of green, gold, yellow, and mustard darted across the page.

  “Some dyes are impossible to get hold of,” Emith continued, wiping his hands with almond oil to remove the last traces of pigment. “Take this yellow color here. It’s made from a rare type of mullein plant that only grows in high meadows in a remote mountain region of Drokho. It’s not an especially good pigment—saffron would have done a better job—but scribes who live in remote areas tend to use whatever is readily available. The makeup of pigments changes from region to region, depending on local tradition and resources. Even here in Bay’Zell, you’ll find more scribes using turnsole purple rather than murex purple, because it’s cheaper and easier to get hold of in the north.”

  Nodding, Tessa picked up the sheet of vellum.

  “As a scribe’s assistant, one of my jobs is to match pigments as closely as I can. Copying existing patterns is at the heart of all illuminating done by the old-style scribes like Deveric. They never create purely on impulse, but always work off existing models—either copying them exactly or adding a few touches of their own. Unlike the new scribes today who all want to create something new, something original, the old scribes just wanted to rework the past.”

  While Emith was speaking, Tessa had noticed something odd about the vellum. When she held it up to the light, thousands of tiny pinpricks appeared on the page. More than just marking points, they were actual holes punched through the page. Candlelight streamed through them in crisp, golden lines.

  “Those are pinpricks made with the tip of a knife,” Emith said, seeing what had caught Tessa’s eye. “Whenever a scribe wants to make an exact copy of a pattern and doesn’t have the time or patience to construct a grid by measuring lines and angles, he’ll place the original on top of a blank sheet of parchment and puncture the major points of the pattern with the tip of his knife. That way the parchment below will be marked with an outline of the original and a scribe can then go on and reconstruct the design from the pinpricks. Copies have been made that way for centuries.”

  Tessa traced her finger over the vellum. It felt stiff, which meant it was very old. As she looked at it, one particular color caught her eye: a silver black pigment that didn’t fit in with the rest of the design. Its cool tone was at odds with the warm yellows, greens, and golds. “Was this used for a special purpose?” she asked, pointing to a spiral outlined in the color.

  “That pigment was originally red lead,” Emith said, obviously pleased that she had noticed the discrepancy. “Over years, metal-based pigments can weather in the air and either fade, as that did, or bleed into other colors. Some copper greens can even eat through the parchment completely as they age. That’s one of the more difficult things about my job—sorting out what pigments the original scribe used. It helps if they finish their paintings with a vegetable wash or an extra coating of egg white; that way the pigments retain their original color longer.”

  Tessa ate up all the details Emith gave her. She fed on them like a hungry child, grabbing all she could to fill up the hollow space within. For years she had been starving herself of details, knowledge, and involvements. Coming here, to this world, to this house, was like sitting down at a banquet table and being allowed to eat until she dropped. She didn’t have to pass things by anymore.

  There was nothing about her old life she missed. Nothing. She had grown accustomed to chamber pots and the accompanying bail of straw, water that came from a pitcher and not a tap, lighting that had to be carried, dresses that had to be laced, fires that had to be tended as if they were a rich but sickly relative whose generosity everyone in the household depended on, floors that had to be swept clean one minute and then sprinkled with hay and herbs the next, wool stockings that scratched and bagged at the knees, no underwear, toothbrushes, or toothpaste to speak of—Tessa had learned to clean her teeth with a slice of marshmallow root—and pig lard, lanolin, and animal soap as the only available beauty treatments. There was no mirror in the house, so she hadn’t seen what she looked like in over a month, and although there was still a part of her that wanted to look her best, right now it didn’t seem so important.

  There was little from her past that did seem important. When she looked back on it—how she lived, what she chose to do, the distance she always kept between herself and the people she knew—it was as if she had been waiting, bags packed, all along.

  A sharp rap on the door startled Tessa from her thoughts. Immediately worried, she glanced at Emith. He was already rising from his chair.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s only Marcel. I sent a message to him earlier, asking him to bring Deveric’s illuminations to the house.”

  Marcel. Tessa remembered Ravis’ words: Don’t show yourself to anyone who comes to the door, especially Marcel. . . . “Does he know I’m here?” she asked.

  Emith thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, miss. I didn’t mention you in my note. But surely there’s no harm in Marcel knowing? After all, he’s a very good friend of Ravis’.”

  Tessa had seen Marcel of Vailing in action. She had seen him double-cross his very good friend, betray him without blinking an eye. There was no point in explaining all this to Emith, though. He’d believe the best of someone stabbing him in the back. Instead she said, “Emith, I’m going to hide in the larder. Promise me you won’t tell Marcel I’m here. Promise.”

  A second rap came at the door.

  “What? What?” cried Mother Emith. “Who’s there?”

  Emith turned toward the door, clearly anxious to open it. Now that he was no longer at the table creating pigments, he had reverted back to his normal soft-spoken, eager-to-please self. “I won’t say anything, but hurry now.”

  Tessa was already at the larder door. She pulled it open and stepped down into the darkness. As the latch clicked shut behind her she heard the main door swing open. A pocket of cool air swept under the larder door, and then a voice called out: “Emith, my dear, dear friend. How are you and your excellent mother this evening?” It was Marcel of Vailing.

  Tessa took a deep breath. Meaty ham smells raced up her nose, followed quickly by the ripe, fatty smell of triple cream cheese. Despite everything, she felt her mouth watering.

  Emith said something that Tessa couldn’t hear.

  “Yes, I have them,” Marcel replied. “Just last week a gentleman passing through Bay’Zell on his way to Calmo made me quite an offer for them. Enough to keep you and your excellent mother in silks
and fine lobsters for life.”

  “Can’t eat lobster more than once a month,” said Mother Emith. “Gives me terrible wind.”

  Tessa smiled. She wished she could have seen Marcel’s face just then.

  Footsteps echoed on the floor. The noise of something being placed, not gently, on the table followed. “Well, here they are,” Marcel said, his voice as smooth and level as ever. “If you ever need hard cash, I could forward you a fair amount on the strength of the last one alone. You know, the one marked with blood.”

  “They are not for sale.”

  Tessa was surprised by the heat in Emith’s voice. She had never heard him speak so harshly before. Taking a step toward the door, she risked placing her ear against the wood. She didn’t want to miss anything that was said.

  “Working late, aren’t you?” Marcel again. Tessa detected a suspicious catch in his voice.

  Emith started to say something, probably a poor excuse, but was cut short in midmumble by his mother saying loudly, “And what if he is, Marcel of Vailing? Do you know of any law he is breaking?”

  It was Marcel’s turn to mumble this time. Tessa was beginning to realize that being a very old lady had its advantages: no one dared contradict anything you said.

  Letting herself relax a little, Tessa leaned back against the wall. To reduce vermin, the floor in the larder wasn’t covered with rushes like the kitchen, and she could feel her feet growing numb with cold. The entire larder was built two feet lower than the rest of the house, to keep the food as cool as possible in summer. Up until this point Tessa had doubted the worth of those extra two feet. The goose pimples on her arms told her the true story, though.

  Turning her attention back to what was going on in the kitchen, she listened to the rise and fall of voices. Marcel was talking about the war.

  “Oh, there’s nothing for us here in Bay’Zell to worry about,” he said. “Izgard will never make it this far. Now that it’s obvious he’s set on invading Rhaize and not just flexing his newly crowned muscles, the Sire will bring his armies up from Mir’Lor and stop him before he crosses the Chase.”

  Tessa’s lip curled. Marcel of Vailing was simply repeating a well-practiced phrase. He probably had a second one ready just in case Izgard did happen to make it to Bay’Zell. Tessa could imagine how it would begin: These may be hard times, but we must endeavor to make the best of them. . . .

  She stopped in midcomposition as the name Ravis filtered through the cedarwood door.

  “He and Camron will put up quite a battle, of course,” Marcel said. Unlike the last time when Tessa had met him, he seemed to be doing all the talking. “Their force should reach Izgard before the Sire’s army does. Where were they based again? The name of the place escapes me.”

  Tessa clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The name didn’t escape Marcel at all. Ravis hadn’t told him where they were going, she was sure of it. The man was rooting for information.

  “I don’t know where Lord Ravis is,” Emith said.

  Marcel let out a long, wistful sigh. “And what about his pretty lady friend? The one with the reddish hair and strange voice. I believe you met her once. Do you happen to know where she might be?”

  Sucking in her breath, Tessa listened for Emith’s reply. All of a sudden the larder seemed unbearably small and confining. She knew Emith would do what he promised, but he wasn’t the sort of man who could lie easily, and his nervousness might give him away.

  A long moment passed. Even though she was in the dark, Tessa closed her eyes.

  Mother Emith’s voice broke the silence. “How would we know where Lord Ravis keeps his women? Does this kitchen look like a brothel to you?”

  “No, madam,” Marcel replied quickly. “I just thought—”

  “Well, don’t. Don’t waste any of your time thinking about Emith and me and what we get up to, and we won’t waste any time thinking about you.”

  Tessa fought back a cheer. Old Mother Emith was turning out to be more than a match for Marcel of Vailing. All that resting in her chair must have given her plenty of time to hone her tongue.

  Footsteps pattered, rather quickly, across the kitchen floor. Marcel said something, probably a farewell, but for the first time since entering the house he whispered and Tessa didn’t catch what it was. Mother Emith wished the banker a fond farewell and the door was duly opened, then seconds later closed. Tessa began counting to five just to be safe, got impatient before reaching halfway, and pushed open the larder door. She was greeted by the sight of Emith and his mother both grinning from ear to ear.

  “Come over here by the fire, my dear,” said Mother Emith. “A person could catch their death in that larder.”

  Tessa walked over to Mother Emith’s chair and caught Mother Emith herself in a long, deep hug. The old woman protested, just as Tessa knew she would, but she hugged her even harder when she did. She owed these people so much. They had taken her into their home, fed, clothed, and lied for her, but most of all they had protected her. And that feeling of being protected, of knowing someone cared enough to put themselves out and, in the case of Emith and his mother, put themselves at risk to keep her safe, was something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  Emith circled the two women, drawing nearer and nearer with each pass, until he eventually plucked up courage to step forward and pat Tessa’s arm. “Mother and I would never tell anyone where you are,” he said softly. “Never.”

  Ravis stood, hand pressed against the great stone mantel, booted foot resting upon the hearth, eye to the sand drizzling down within the hourglass, and waited for Camron of Thorn to return. Briefly he had toyed with the idea of having a measure of berriac waiting for him when he did. Ultimately deciding against it, he had drunk Camron’s portion himself.

  Noticing that the mud caked on the tip of his boot had finally dried, Ravis knocked it against the hearthstone. Pale gray powder sifted to the floor. Camron of Thorn was not the only man who had ventured outside tonight.

  A few minutes after he and Camron had argued and Camron had stormed off across the grounds, Ravis had pulled on his cloak, lit one of the sturdy glass lanterns that the seneschal kept gleaming in the entry hall, and walked across the courtyard to the stables.

  He talked to the grooms first. Walked with them along the stalls, discussed the condition of the horses, listened to their opinions and advice, and then asked them to have four dozen horses groomed, saddled, and ready within two hours. The grooms hadn’t liked the order, for it was past dark and one skittish horse could affect the mood of them all. Yet Ravis had taken time to get to know the grooms at Runzy, both the ones who had arrived with Camron’s knights and the ones who had lived here all their lives, and once he had explained his reasons, they were willing to do what he asked. One or two of the older men had even been expecting it.

  Next Ravis went to the kitchens. The cook and the servant girls were sitting around the table playing cards, tippling on strong local-brewed beer, and eating slices of the sweetened carrot tarts that were so popular in Runzy. The cook threw her shawl over a large baked ham when he walked through the door, and one of her girls slipped a flask up her sleeve. Ravis pretended to see neither. Camron’s food and wine were nothing to him. The goodwill of the kitchen staff, however, was a valuable asset to a man planning a journey.

  Having complimented the cook on the fine dinner she had cooked that evening, and flirted with the shyest and plainest of the kitchen girls, Ravis asked them, very kindly, if they would be so good as to prepare and pack enough travel food to feed four dozen . . . no, he corrected himself, six dozen men for six days and have it ready within the hour.

  The cook’s plump arm rested on the shawl that rested on the ham. Ravis could tell what she was thinking: with the master and his men away she could sell off the extra food that had been purchased at market that week. Fresh venison would fetch a premium price at this time of year.

  By the time Ravis left the kitchen to head to the great hall, pots,
pans, knives, chopping boards, parsley, hardboiled eggs, and fruit were flying through the air like dust from a saw.

  Most of Camron’s knights—two dozen seasoned campaigners, a dozen or so young bucks, a handful of arrogant nobles, a few men past their prime, and one or two truly outstanding fighters—waited in the great hall. They fell silent when Ravis crossed the threshold. All were tense: ale had gone flat in tankards and pitchers, the fire had burned low from lack of tending, and the normal bevy of tavern wenches and servant girls was missing. The massacre at Thorn was on everyone’s mind. Three of the men had been born there. All were shocked by the news. They were Camron’s men and, in some cases, his personal friends, and an attack on his land and holdings was as good as an attack on their own.

  Watching their hostile stares as he cut to the center of the room, Ravis judged it wise to speak plainly. “Get your packs, weapons, and armor ready. We ride tonight for Thorn.”

  The knights, who had spent a good portion of the past month questioning every instruction, drill, and order he had given, immediately did as they were told. All wanted to go. Their eagerness crackled through the room like ice on a thawing lake. One of the men even patted Ravis on the back. Up until then Ravis had been the villain who forced them to watch senseless weapon drills, talked nonsense about swapping their plate armor for chainmail or boiled leather, who was opposed to taking quick, decisive action against Izgard of Garizon, and whose harsh words were responsible for sending Camron of Thorn running out into the night.

  The last thing wasn’t true, of course—Camron’s torments were of his own making—yet as no one else had been party to the conversation, the knights had naturally assumed that their leader’s sudden departure was all Ravis’ fault. It was easy to hate a man who wanted you to change your ways. Most especially when that man was a foreigner who brought in mercenaries to show you how you should fight.