by J. V. Jones
With no finesse whatsoever, he sent his elbow cracking into the first man’s face. The man was young and sallow skinned, and he was wearing a high silk collar that quickly soaked with blood. Deliberately making as much commotion as possible, Ravis paused to push over the wooden frame that supported half a dozen beer barrels on a slant designed for settling dregs. As barrels rolled onto the cobbled floor, he stepped onto the downed frame and hiked himself above the crowd, ensuring that all six of Malray’s men had a clear view of him. He wanted them coming after him, not Tessa.
Immediately, Ravis felt a blade jab against his spine. Bucking his shoulders backward, he wheeled around and slammed his forearm into the blade holder’s wrist. The blade, a shortsword inlaid with curls of silver wire, spun out of control and dropped to the floor. The man who wielded it slid his hand into the shadows of his cloak, meaning to draw a second weapon. Briefly, Ravis got a whiff of the man. He smelled like all fighters: of sweat and linseed oil and dirt. Yet there was something else. A faint undertow of plain herbs and dry grass. And even as he recognized it as the smell of Burano and home, he sent his dagger plunging into the man’s flank. The man’s blood red cloak, his wool tunic, and the loose-knit chainmail beneath were all driven deep into the wound. Sickened, Ravis pushed the man away, turned to face whoever was next.
Ravis fought savagely after that. Lashing out with brutal force, breaking bones and slitting skin, he tore his own knuckles to shreds in his frenzy. Always he moved away from the door and the place he had last seen Tessa. Dragging down smoke-yellowed tapestries, spice racks, and meat hooks and even kicking the spits clear from the fire, he worked to buy Tessa time. He wasn’t sure if Malray’s men knew whether she was with him or not, but he was taking no chances. Fourteen years ago he had run away with Malray’s betrothed, and Malray still held him responsible for her death. Ravis bit down on his scar: he still held himself responsible.
Three of Malray’s men were down: one dead, one too busy stanching a knife wound to be interested in further fighting, and one groaning on the floor amid the beer barrels, nursing his groin. The man whose face he had smashed earlier was madder than ever, and despite a continued stream of blood and mucus running from his nose into his mouth, he had managed to maneuver Ravis into a corner. Carrying a cleaver-shaped falchion with rain damage along the hilt, Bloody Nose was clever enough not to draw too close until his two remaining companions joined him.
The main room of the inn was empty now, except for the innkeeper himself, who was crouching in the shadows behind the bellows, and one old man in an alcove near the door who appeared to have passed out, either from drunkenness or shock.
Seeing the last three of Malray’s men moving to form a half circle around him, Ravis glanced from side to side, searching for anything he could use to throw them off guard. Nothing. He was backed into a corner with not so much as a soup ladle within striking distance. In vain, he tried to catch the innkeeper’s eye—all he needed was a short disturbance to distract the attacker’s attention—but the innkeeper seemed intent on wiping grease stains from his boots and wouldn’t look up.
Shifting minutely to the left, Ravis was aware of a strained tightness hugging his ribs: the battle wound inflicted by the harras. Lowering his knife arm a fraction to decrease the strain on the muscle beneath, he looked into the faces of Malray’s men. Their features were hard, focused. All three were wary of him—he could tell that from the number of times they exchanged glances—yet they knew the advantage was theirs. Slowly, Ravis felt back with his free hand, testing the distance between himself and the wall. Recent encounters with the harras had made him careless. He had forgotten that men didn’t have to be monsters to be dangerous.
Blood from knuckle wounds trickled between Ravis’ fingers as he settled his knife at his chest. Falling back against the wall, he took a quick breath as he waited a split second for Malray’s men to start forward, then kicked off with all his might, meeting the attackers head-on.
It wasn’t much of a strategy, but it gave him a moment of stunned surprise as all three men were forced to reposition their weapons for defense. Already Ravis was working out what he could afford to lose. This wasn’t a fight he was about to emerge from unharmed.
Pain sizzled across Ravis’ ear as Bloody Nose’s blade found his lobe. Hot blood rained down his neck and shoulders. Black dots streaked across his vision as a second man cracked something hard against the back of his skull. Ravis bit down on his scar, biting back pain, nausea, and blurred vision. Sticking his knife into the tangle of arms and weapons attempting to rein him in, he gathered his strength for a break toward the door. The harrar wound on his ribs tore open as he pulled his knife free of a tough, boiled-leather gauntlet. Pain gripped his chest. Flaring outward along old fever lines, it shot toward his heart. Ravis felt his strength drain away.
A knife stabbed at his shoulder, and another slid across the blood at his throat. As Ravis spun around to strike the two men who were attacking him from behind, Bloody Nose screamed. His body stiffened, and for a moment he seemed to grow taller as his chest and shoulder muscles stretched forward. A fraction of a second later, Bloody Nose fell to the floor. Ravis didn’t spare a glance for his body. Strange things happened in fights, and those who stopped to wonder wound up dead.
Ravis grabbed hold of a cloak tail and wrenched it down toward the floor. As its owner reached up to loosen the ties at his throat, Ravis stuck him with his knife. Two blows: one into the ribs, cracking them, one sliding into the muscle between, puncturing lung tissue. Taking a ragged breath, Ravis spun around to face the last man. Only he wasn’t there. He was on the floor, one of the inn’s metal spits embedded in his throat. Bits of chicken skin and slivers of onion were squashed into a lump against the entry wound.
“You,” came a cool female voice. “Yes, you. Innkeeper. Bring me some hot water in a bowl, clean towels, good brandy, and a hand of valerian root if you have one.”
Such was the crisp authority in Violante of Arazzo’s voice that the innkeeper emerged immediately from behind the bellows stock and began to do her bidding, stepping over Malray’s men with only a minor shudder of distaste, as if they were drunk rather than dead or mortally wounded.
Brushing back hair wet with sweat and blood, Ravis turned to face Violante of Arazzo full on. He thought of saying something clever about her newly discovered talents in the kitchen, but he saw that as she cleaned blood and grease from her hands, her fingers were shaking. A quick glance at Bloody Nose’s back revealed that she had used her own personal knife on him before picking up a spit and impaling the third man. Ravis spat blood and cloak wool from his mouth, then pressed his fist against the harrar wound.
“What? Do I get no thanks, Ravis of Burano?” Violante dropped the rag she had been using to clean her hands. “Would your fair-haired friend have done so much?”
Ravis took a deep breath. He hoped Tessa was far away across the city in another inn, safe. “Thank you, Violante,” he said after a moment. “You saved my life.”
A quick, sad smile flashed across her face. “Not enough, though, is it?”
Seeing two bright spots shining behind her eyes, Ravis suddenly knew why she had come all this way to see him. It made him feel ashamed.
“Come,” she said, stepping forward. “That wound on your ear needs stanching. You’re losing blood.”
Ravis let Violante care for him. With gentle hands and crisp words, she cleaned and bound his wounds, administered brandy and valerian root, massaged almond oil into the stretched flesh surrounding the harrar wound, warmed sheets before he lay upon them, and removed all his worries about the bodies, the state of the inn, and the financial loss to the innkeeper by spreading good portions of her own Istanian gold. It wasn’t the sort of thing Ravis would normally do—give someone else leave to take care of his body and his problems—but Violante wanted to do it. And after all she had done for him this night, it was little to give in return.
T W E N T Y - O N E
&nbs
p; I know! Let’s count Snowy’s toeys.” Angeline of Halmac dragged her no-good dog onto her lap and began counting its no-good toes. Well, she wasn’t actually sure if dogs had toes, but whatever they were she was counting them. “One toey, two toey, three toey . . .”
Snowy was more than a little indignant at having his toes counted, but he made no effort to struggle away. Here, in Izgard’s armed camp, there was little else for mistress and no-good dog to do.
They couldn’t leave the tent. Gerta said that just the sight of Angeline’s golden hair could create a riot among the men. She was the only woman here, you see. Not counting Gerta, a few ancient cooks, and one or two hangers-on, of course. Gerta herself said she just didn’t figure as a woman anymore. According to her, all men suffered from what she called “old maid’s blindness,” which meant they simply couldn’t see women over a certain age. Angeline had thought it rather a strange condition and wondered if there were any cure.
Anyway, they could see Angeline. And queen or not, everyone said it was best for her to stay inside.
Which, Angeline thought ruefully, probably served her right. It was the desire to be outside that had got her into this whole mess in the first place. Out-side. Out-side. Angeline could almost hear Gerta’s voice telling her that’s what ill-scrupled liars got for scheming to be out-side.
Frowning, Angeline pushed Snowy from her lap. Father had hated liars. Angeline remembered the time he’d discovered his treasurer had been fiddling the estate accounts. “That man is an ill-scrupled liar,” he had said. “Bind a rope around him and flog him till he bleeds.”
Angeline shivered. She was a liar now.
Snowy, having recovered from the upset of being pushed onto the floor, came and sat at his mistress’s feet. His tail was down and his eyes were big, and when Angeline ignored him he rolled on his back and howled.
Snowy here! Snowy here!
Angeline laughed despite herself. Snowy always knew when she needed cheering up.
As she leaned forward to pet him, a spasm tore along her side. Angeline screwed her face up tight, dug thumbnails into her palms. It wouldn’t do to cry out. Just wouldn’t do at all. Gerta was in the adjoining chamber, separated only by a stretch of cloth no thicker than Snowy’s ear, and even the softest of noises had a way of carrying like war cries. The walls of Izgard’s tent couldn’t hold a candle against Sern Fortress when it came to muffling sound. Why, sometimes at night she heard Gerta breaking wind!
Bringing a hand to her side, Angeline massaged the bruised flesh. Izgard had been rough on her last night.
Not wanting to think about that, Angeline patted the bench for Snowy. “Hungry, Snowy?” she asked, suddenly feeling hungry herself. “How about I get us some supper?”
There was no mystery about what Snowy’s answer would be. No-good dogs were always hungry. It was the main reason they did so many no-good things.
Jumping up, Snowy wagged his tail wildly.
Snowy starved! Snowy starved!
“Gerta!” Angeline called. “Gerta!”
Gerta now controlled all the food in Izgard’s tent. All cold things like cheese, fruit, smoked sausages, bread, butter, and pies she kept locked in a wide-bottomed chest, metering them out through the day as needed. Isolated from her normal surroundings and with no female servants to boss over, Gerta needed something to be in charge of. Normally Angeline wouldn’t spare a thought for such things, but these days she was hungry a lot. And asking Gerta for food every time she had a craving was beginning to annoy her just a bit.
“Yes, m’lady?” Gerta’s large head emerged from the tent slit. “Is it your hot milk you’ll be wanting?”
“Not milk, no. I’m—” Angeline glanced at Snowy. “Snowy’s hungry and needs some supper.” She had already asked for two extra lots of food today. A third might make Gerta suspicious. After all, she was an old maid and Angeline knew they were trained to look for signs.
“That dog’s getting no supper off me!” Gerta stamped her way into Angeline’s chamber. Even at this late hour she was still equipped for battle: tweezers, scissors, brushes—three separate kinds—crochet needles, and curling irons were all hooked around her waist. No pins in her mouth, though. Angeline supposed she had to spit them out sometimes.
Angeline made her eyes as big as Snowy’s and tried not to think of the fate that awaited ill-scrupled liars. “Please, Gerta. Just some cold chicken and a sausage. Snowy’s sad at not being allowed to go outside, and some supper would help cheer him up.” As she spoke, Angeline poked Snowy’s belly with her foot.
The no-good dog took the hint, howling dolefully on impact.
Two sets of large blue eyes pleading with her was too much even for Gerta. Turning on her heel, she went back the way she came, muttering something about old bones.
Angeline felt bad. She didn’t like deceiving Gerta. Gerta loved her, really, and she loved Gerta back. The trouble was that her one little lie had gotten out of control. Others popped up around it like mushrooms around a tree. She couldn’t seem to open her mouth these days without adding to her sins. Lies about how she felt, why she didn’t want her lacings tied as tightly as normal, and why she was sick so often tripped off her tongue so frequently, they were beginning to feel like truth. Now she’d demanded food for Snowy that she really wanted herself.
Tickling Snowy’s chin, Angeline sighed. If she was only clever like other women, she could think of a way out of this.
It didn’t help matters that since she’d arrived at the camp, Izgard had barely taken notice of her. He was different from before. Colder. There was a dullness in his eyes. At least it looked like dullness until you got very close, then you saw it was something else instead. His pupils looked as though they’d been etched by barbs.
He wasn’t interested in her a bit—not in a husbandly sort of way. All he thought about was war. He spent all his days riding out with his men and all his nights with his maps, his warlords, and his scribe. Gerta said the Garizon army was doing very well and had yet to meet any organized resistance. Every town they entered, they took, and the camp now moved northwest on an almost daily basis. Angeline was draped in cloaks and veils for the duration of each ride.
Sometimes Angeline thought Izgard asked for her just to keep up appearances, like last night. He wasn’t interested in kissing or anything, and when she had touched him, he’d pushed her aside. What happened next was her own fault entirely. A clever woman would have known when to stop. Angeline shook her head. Not her. She thought that if she could just get close enough to him, he’d forget about his maps and scrolls and start acting the way he used to in the days before he acquired the crown. She had been wrong, though.
Angeline’s hand stole to her side, and as she touched the bruised flesh she winced. Just as wrong as she could be.
The problem was she had to keep trying. Her only hope of getting out of this mess was to pretend she had conceived at the camp. That way she could admit she was pregnant, confess openly to the sickness, soreness, and blushing, and leave all the mushrooming lies behind. Only Izgard wasn’t interested in her anymore, and if Gerta didn’t already know it, her old maid’s nose would sniff it out soon enough.
From her side, Angeline’s hand curved across to her belly. She couldn’t feel anything, but she could tell her baby was there all the same. Gerta had once said, “A woman knows about these things,” and she was right. Angeline did know. She knew because she felt such love.
It was like the first time she’d seen Snowy, only more so. Her heart ached sometimes when she thought about it. She wanted her baby very much, and every day that went by she wanted it more. When Izgard had pushed her into the table last night, she had very nearly pushed him back. There was a minute or two when she was so angry that she forgot every caution Gerta had ever given her about dealing with her husband. All she wanted to do was hurt Izgard for hurting her. Balling her fists, she had scrambled up from the floor and actually gone to strike him.
One look from those dull
gray eyes was all it had taken to stop her. Angeline had seen something she didn’t like nestling within the dullness. Something that made her afraid. If provoked, Izgard could do much worse than push her. The truth of it was in those eyes.
Feeling her lip trembling, Angeline bit down on it before any sound escaped. She wished Father were here. Father would make everything right.
Father had loved babies. He always kissed them and stroked their heads. Sometimes he took them in his big, rough hands and held them up for Angeline to see. “Look, Angeline,” he would cry. “You’ll have a beauty like this one day. A sweet granddaughter for your old papa to fuss over.”
Still biting on her lip, Angeline shook her head slowly. Father wouldn’t have stood for Izgard pushing her. He would have taken her to Castle Halmac and spoiled her until his grandchild was born. Angeline stamped her foot on the packed, carpet-covered earth of the tent. And afterward he would have spoiled her more.
“Here you are, m’lady.” Gerta said, emerging platter first into the chamber. “I’ve found some drumsticks and a little chicken skin. More than enough for that no-good dog.”
“Oh.” Angeline’s face dropped. She had been hoping for sausages and breast meat. Remembering that the food was for Snowy, not herself, she forced herself to nod. “Thank you, Gerta. You can go now.”
Gerta’s eyes widened. Angeline never dismissed her. “Go?”
“Yes, go. I’ll take care of my own toilette tonight.”
“But, m’lady, your hair—”
“Go, Gerta!” Angeline tried her best to copy the tone of voice Gerta herself used when barking orders to servants in Sern Fortress. It seemed to work, as Gerta’s lips came together rather quickly and her forehead dipped in something close to a nod.