Several of them bristled at that. Hadrian looked offended. Cyprian’s expression did not change.
“In what way, my lord?” said Cyprian.
“For months now, there have been rumors of disturbances in Cintarra,” said Accolon. “Bands of landless men have wandered through the neighboring duxarchates, speaking of how they have been driven from their homes, their lands enclosed to provide pastures for sheep. Much of western Taliand is infested with bandits, and there have been countless men traveling to the Northerland or Owyllain to seek new homes.”
“Such upheavals are regrettable, but the times are changing, my lord Prince,” said Cyprian. His voice remained respectful, but a lecturing note entered it, like a teacher instructing slow pupils. “Once a man could support himself by farming. Now it is more profitable for the nobles to raise sheep and sell the wool.” He shrugged. “If men cannot change with the times, they will be brushed aside.”
“And what of men who have lost their homes and their livelihoods?” said Calliande.
Cyprian’s smile was condescending. Ridmark felt an urge to wipe it off his face with a fist. “You are the Keeper of Andomhaim, my lady, but for all your power, do you not have the gentle and kindly heart of a woman? I fear such sentimentality cannot affect the decisions of men of money and power.”
“I’m sure the rich man in the scriptures felt the same way,” said Calliande, her calm mien not wavering, “when he begged Abraham to send Lazarus with a drop of water to cool his burning tongue.”
Two of the lords of the Council laughed and then stopped themselves. Cyprian’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes flickered for just a moment.
“Additionally,” said Accolon, “I recently spent some months in a monastery for fasting and prayer. While I was there, I was attacked by two members of a cult that calls itself the Drakocenti.” None of the lords of the Council showed any recognition at the name. “This cult has abandoned the church and the Dominus Christus and seeks to transform its members into dragon gods. The abbot of the monastery of St. Bartholomew was a member of this cult. Before he died during the attempt on my life, the abbot transferred most of his monastery’s wealth to the Scepter Bank.” Accolon’s gaze shifted to Cyprian. “I assume that falls under your authority?”
“I cannot recall if we have had any dealings with this Monastery of St. Bartholomew,” said Cyprian, “but the Bank has dealings with many lords and merchants. I will be more than happy to review our account books, though of course, no member of the bank will have anything to do with a filthy cult.”
“I look forward to our discussions,” said Accolon. Ridmark knew the prince well enough to hear the threat in his voice.
“As do I, my lord Prince,” said Cyprian.
“But will you not provide us with protection?” said Lythan, his face darkening behind his beard. “We are under threat.”
Hadrian scowled at Lythan. “That is a minor problem and not worthy of wasting the Prince’s time.”
“The Wraith is not a minor threat!” said Lythan.
“Wraith?” said Accolon, frowning. “There are undead creatures loose in Cintarra?”
“Fortunately not, lord Prince,” said Cyprian. “The honorable Lord Lythan is referring to a thief.”
“A thief?” said Accolon. “Please explain.”
“For the past several months,” said Cyprian, “several dozen of the richest nobles and merchant houses in Cintarra have been robbed by a thief wearing a white cloak and a bronze mask.”
“Peculiar garb for a thief,” said Ridmark. “One would think a burglar would prefer to remain unseen. White is rather noticeable at night.”
“Indeed, Shield Knight,” said Cyprian, “but this thief has a flair for…theatricality, let us say. I’m afraid this is a deplorable tradition among the commoners of Cintarra. There have been numerous bold thieves throughout Cintarran history. The commoners, jealous of their betters, romanticize these master thieves and make popular heroes of them. But I stray from the main point. This white-cloaked thief has managed over a score of daring thefts and has frequently been seen committing them. Efforts to find the man have so far been unsuccessful, though I have no doubt the reward the Scepter Bank has posted for his capture will bear fruit in the end. Some of the witnesses claimed the thief could walk through walls, and so naturally commoners have dubbed him the Wraith.”
“They are singing treasonous songs about him in the taverns,” grumbled Lord Hadrian, his face reddening with anger to match his beard. “Like he’s some sort of bold hero instead of a villainous rogue. When we capture him, I look forward to watching him hang.”
“Given the obvious impoverishment of many in the city,” said Accolon, “it is frankly surprising that you have only one bold thief and not a legion of them.”
“The commoners had best know their place,” said Hadrian.
“Indeed?” said Accolon, raising his eyebrows. “Given that you took their villages and their lands, it seems they have no place to go. Perhaps you should have thought the matter through, my lord Hadrian.”
Hadrian did not respond, though his face got redder behind his beard.
“But discussion of this and many other matters can wait until tomorrow,” said Cyprian into the awkward silence. “The prince has no doubt had a long and wearying journey to Cintarra, and we must welcome him with a grand banquet.”
“Thankfully, the journey was quite simple,” said Accolon. “The Shield Knight summoned a magical gate that allowed me and my men to travel from Taliand to Cintarra in the blink of an eye.” A few of the lords gave Ridmark a fearful look.
“With such a strong force of men?” said Hadrian.
“The town of Castarium came under attack ere I departed,” said Accolon. “The Drakocenti cultists who tried to kill me were allied with a sorceress called Aeliana who opened gates to another world and summoned its creatures to attack.”
“Preposterous!” said one of the lords of the Council, a fat merchant in a fur-trimmed robe.
Sir Peter glared at the man. “Do you doubt the word of the Crown Prince of Andomhaim?”
“Peace, my friends,” said Cyprian, raising a hand. “Do we not remember the war against the Frostborn thirteen years past? They came from another world. If it happened once, why would it not happen again? Clearly, we must bend all our efforts towards assisting Prince Accolon in his inquiries, lest the Drakocenti cult harm Cintarra. I suggest…”
There was a commotion in the courtyard, and Ridmark looked towards the doors just in time to see a dozen orcs stride into the hall.
The orcs were hulking warriors, each standing between six and seven feet tall. Like most orcs, they had green skins. Unlike most other orcs, spikes of black bone jutted from their forearms, and masks of black bone covered the top half of their faces, their tusks the same shade of black. Ridmark knew that those black bones were stronger than denser than the bones of normal orcs, which were already tougher than the skeletons of humans. He also knew that the bones grew from the skin of the orcs, covering their bodies in an extra layer of armor beneath their chain mail.
It was one of the reasons that the Anathgrimm of Nightmane Forest were the best soldiers that Ridmark had ever encountered.
Two women and one man walked with the Anathgrimm soldiers, and Ridmark felt himself smile in recognition.
The first woman was short, barely five feet tall, with pale blond hair and enormous green eyes. She wore blue dark elven armor much like Ridmark’s over dark clothing, along with a diadem of the same steel over her hair. Mara had ruled the Anathgrimm as their Queen ever since she had killed her father in the depths of Khald Azalar.
The second woman was taller, almost as tall as Ridmark, with a hard, pale face, black hair bound back in a stark braid, and eyes the color of onyx. She wore close-fitting dark clothing and armor, along with a gray cloak much like Ridmark’s own. The hilts of twin longswords rose over her shoulders. Ridmark had first met Third when she had been an urdhracos and had tried
to kill him on the borders of Nightmane Forest. He had overcome her, Brother Caius had baptized her, and the resultant transformation had turned her from an urdhracos to a hybrid of human and dark elf, free of the domination of a dark elven lord.
Third had been Ridmark’s friend for a long time, and they had gone together into some very dangerous places and come out alive again. She had been at his side when he had fought Tarrabus Carhaine and Justin Cyros and Lord Taerdyn and the Sovereign and numerous other foes, and save for Calliande, there was no one that Ridmark trusted as much.
The man walking next to Queen Mara was a halfling, and just slightly shorter than his wife. He had curly brown hair, bright amber-colored eyes, and wore dark boots, trousers, and a black leather vest over a crisp white shirt. The halfling had an amused, almost insouciant expression, and a few of the lords of the Council glared at him. Yes, Ridmark suspected the Regency Council of Cintarra would not like Prince Consort Jager at all.
Ridmark was glad to see his friends. He hadn’t known they were in Cintarra, but he would welcome their help.
“What the devil is this?” said Lord Lythan, his voice growing querulous. “The Regency Council is meeting to discuss the government of Cintarra, and…”
“My dear Lord Lythan!” said Jager with a smile. He had a surprisingly deep and resonant voice for such a small man. “The government of Cintarra is noble business, and indeed, I would never dream of interfering with such important matters.” Cyprian’s lips thinned in distaste, just for a moment. Jager smiled at him and spread his hands. “But my wife the Queen is old friends with the Crown Prince and the Shield Knight and the Keeper. Why, in the old days we all went on many a mad adventure together.”
“Which you have told us about,” said Hadrian, scowling, “at considerable length.”
“Surely you would not deny my wife the chance to greet her old friends,” said Jager as Accolon rose from the curule chair. “I am told it is unwise to deny a king, and presumably that counsel applies to queens as well. But I am only a simple merchant and know little of such things.”
Accolon descended from the dais and hugged Mara. It was the greeting of two old friends, true, but it also had a point. One monarch was greeting another, and Mara and Accolon were equals, which the Regency Council was not. The lords of the Council would not fail to see the message.
“How have you been, Accolon?” said Mara, her voice soft.
“Better,” said Accolon. “And better still, to see you and Prince Jager and Lady Third again.”
Mara moved to Ridmark and hugged him, and then Calliande. Third followed after her half-sister like a dark shadow, and Ridmark nodded to her. She didn’t like to be touched. Third nodded back and smiled for just a second.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” said Jager, “that you brought a small army to Cintarra.”
“I would be pleased to offer them lodging at my castra outside the city,” said Mara. “And you would be welcome to stay behind my walls as well.” Her green eyes met Ridmark’s, grave and serious. “I think perhaps that would be wise.”
“I think the Queen is right, Prince Accolon,” said Ridmark. The Anathgrimm were utterly loyal to Mara. If Accolon slept behind the walls of Mara’s castra outside of Cintarra, the odds of an assassin trying to stab him while he slept were much reduced.
“How could I refuse such a generous offer of hospitality?” said Accolon. “For that matter, I need not strain the resources of the Regency Council, especially since no doubt they have exerted their full efforts to feed and house the poor and displaced of Cintarra.” Cyprian smirked for just an instant. “I gladly accept.”
“But you will, my prince,” said Cyprian, “join us for a banquet tomorrow night? We must have one in your honor. Let us show you that the lords of Cintarra are equal with the Queen of the Anathgrimm for hospitality.”
“Of course,” said Accolon. “I imagine we shall have many things to discuss before I begin carrying out the High King’s work the day after tomorrow.”
“Of course, Prince Accolon,” said Cyprian with smooth grace. “We will look forward to it.”
“Come then, Sir Peter,” said Accolon. “Gather my knights, and we shall accompany Queen Mara to her castra.”
“And it is good you are here,” murmured Mara to Ridmark. “There is much wrong in Cintarra.”
“Aye,” said Jager in a low voice. “It’s as if the city is stuffed full of tinder and sawdust and drenched in oil…and the Regency Council is running about with lit torches."
***
Chapter 3: Drakocenti
Cyprian, Master of the Scepter Bank, stood on the northern curtain wall of the Prince’s Palace and watched as Accolon Pendragon’s party rode for the Great Northern Gate and Queen Mara’s castra.
At least, that was Cyprian’s public face, the Master of the Scepter Bank, one of the richest and most powerful men in Cintarra. All men of Cintarra knew him and feared to cross him.
Rather fewer knew of his true identity as the High One of the Drakocenti.
Cyprian watched the knights ride to the north, his lips pressed into a thin line. The late Prince Cadwall had been friends with the hybrid queen and her halfling lover, and he had welcomed trade with the Anathgrimm. Since the Anathgrimm could not sleep outside of a fortified camp and were touchy and quarrelsome, Cadwall Gwyrdragon had allowed Mara to construct a castra outside of the city on the eastern side of the River Cintarra. Set to the northeast of Cintarra, it kept the Anathgrimm from coming into conflict with the men of the city, and it also provided a stronghold against any possible incursions from the mysterious ghost orcs of the Shaluuskan Forest to the east.
Cyprian had thought it a foolish decision then, and he thought it a foolish decision now. And, at the moment, it was damned inconvenient.
It would make it all the harder to kill Accolon Pendragon.
For a moment, Cyprian allowed himself the luxury of rage. How had that damned fool Caldorman made a botch of his task? The Theophract and the Herald of Ruin had been very clear. The realm of Andomhaim needed to be thrown into chaos, and that meant Accolon Pendragon had to die. But it had to be done quietly, carefully. No one could see the invisible hand behind events. The death of the minor noblewoman Caitrin Rhosmor would throw the prince into mourning. Caldorman had befriended the prince, and so provided a refuge for Accolon in his time of sorrow. And while Accolon prayed for forgiveness, the Herald would open the rifts to the Theophract’s world, and creatures would come forth and kill the prince. Consumed by the dangers of the new enemy, no one would suspect anything.
Instead, Accolon Pendragon knew about the Drakocenti. The cold rage in the Crown Prince’s voice had been unmistakable. He knew, somehow, that the Drakocenti had killed his lover. That damned fool Caldorman must have talked instead of just getting on with things. The idiot! And, worse, the Keeper and the Shield Knight knew. Both Ridmark and Calliande Arban were nobles, and Cyprian assumed that meant they were complacent fools. But he could not let his loathing of the nobility affect his judgment, not now, not when he was so close to opening the Great Eye. If even half the stories about the Shield Knight and the Keeper were true, then Cyprian had to be careful.
Very, very careful.
He served a demanding master…and he played a game for ultimate power.
Cyprian had indulged his fury enough. He took a deep breath, and let it out, trying to clear his mind of the anger at Caldorman’s bungling. Rage was the enemy of clear, logical thought, and Cyprian needed all his wits now.
But that was all right. Cyprian had been born the son of a penniless whore, but now he was one of the richest, most powerful men in Cintarra. And he had achieved that power and wealth through clear, logical thought.
Along with ruthlessness and occasional bloodshed, of course.
One more deep breath and he turned to the soldier who stood next to him. Jacob was a hulking man, almost as tall as an Anathgrimm, with a thick brow and deep-set eyes. He had been a man-at-arms in Prince Cad
wall’s service, but his penchant for picking fights with his superiors had gotten him flogged once too often, and he had been dismissed from the Prince’s service. Cyprian had put Jacob’s proclivity for violence to better use. Now Jacob wore chain mail beneath a black tabard adorned with the silver sigil of the Scepter Bank.
“Have any of the other lords of the Regency Council left yet?” said Cyprian.
“No, master,” said Jacob, his voice soft for such a big man.
“Summon the seven who are allied with me,” said Cyprian, “and have them meet me in the southern courtyard.”
Jacob nodded. “Including Sir Owain?”
“No,” said Cyprian at once. “Sir Owain is not one of us. Once we have gathered, make sure we are not disturbed.”
“I will see to it,” said Jacob, and he jogged down the stairs to the courtyard. Cyprian walked along the curtain wall to the west, two more of his guards following. He knew never to go anywhere without trusted bodyguards. Cyprian had ruined too many men to ever feel secure. He never knew when some foe from his younger days might return and attempt to take revenge.
Cyprian strode through the courtyards and gardens of the Palace, lost in thought, though his wariness never relaxed. He had made and broken a lot of enemies in the fifty years of his life. In the old days, before he had joined the bank, his foes had been other thieves and brigands, men who attempted to steal from his targets first. After he had amassed a small fortune and bribed his way into the Scepter Bank, his enemies had been the other masters of the Bank, who had done their best to get rid of him, including hiring the Red Family to kill him on three separate occasions.
Cyprian had outlasted them all…and now the Scepter Bank was his.
He felt absolutely no guilt about the trail of corpses and ruined lives he had left in his wake. As a child, he had learned that all power flowed from the strength of a man’s arm. Nevertheless, strength was not enough. Cyprian had no use for the church or its teachings, but the Dominus Christus had said that those who lived by the sword would die by the sword, and he saw the wisdom in that. Especially since there was another, more reliable source of power.
Dragontiarna: Thieves Page 4
