“The men-at-arms are right,” said Ridmark. “The Regency Council has stolen land from the commoners and driven villagers from their homes.”
“Why did they do that?” said Joachim.
“Because they’re greedy,” said Ridmark. “Like a pig with its snout in the trough, keeping any of the other pigs from feeding.” An uncharitable comparison to Hadrian Vindon flashed through his mind. “But the High King sent Accolon to put a stop to it, to make the Regency Council give the lands back.” An oversimplification, but likely all that Joachim could understand at the age of six. “Your mother and I have to help him.”
“Because you’re the Shield Knight and the Keeper,” said Joachim.
Ridmark nodded. “Can you stay here and look after your sister? You know how worried your mother gets. She’ll feel much better if you look after Rhoanna. Can you do this for us?”
“I will, Father,” said Joachim, his expression now grave.
“Good lad,” said Ridmark, straightening up. His knees did not hurt at all from squatting. When Rhodruthain and Calliande had healed him of manticore venom in Owyllain, it also seemed to have installed vigor beyond what his age would allow. His knees and shoulders did not ache as they once had, and he hadn’t gotten sick from anything in the three years since the great battle at Cathair Animus.
“Pig,” said Rhoanna.
Ridmark suddenly hoped that Rhoanna would not call the lords of the Regency Council pigs if she ever met them. Children tended to remember the oddest things (and frequent the most inappropriate).
“Father,” said Rhoanna.
Suddenly the little girl seemed solemn, her blue eyes enormous in her small face.
“Pig,” she said again. “Apple in its mouth. The pig.”
“What does that mean?” said Joachim.
“She’s a sweet little girl, but she sometimes says the oddest things,” said Lucilla. “I don’t know where she hears them. I don’t let the soldiers curse in front of her.”
“She’s still only just a little baby,” said Joachim with all the lofty wisdom of his six years. “Babies say silly things.”
“Sometimes,” said Ridmark, gazing at his daughter.
She stared back at him without blinking.
He knew there was something strange about Rhoanna, something he didn’t understand. Age had slowed Lucilla somewhat, but the shrewd old nurse was no fool, yet Rhoanna had managed to outwit her a few times. Sometimes Rhoanna seemed to know things she couldn’t. Calliande didn’t think Rhoanna had any magical ability, at least none that had manifested yet at such a young age, and yet…
Before the battle at Castarium, Rhoanna had pointed at the keep and said the word “dragon.” The next morning as the battle started, a green dragon had emerged from one of the Dwyrstone’s rifts and landed atop the keep, exactly where Rhoanna had pointed.
Almost as if she had seen the future.
It seemed ridiculous. And yet Ridmark had seen so many strange things in his life that he could rule nothing out. Rhoanna’s conception had only happened due to the last lingering magic of the Sword of Life. Had that altered her in some way?
“My lord?”
The voice came from the courtyard below. Ridmark looked down and saw a lean woman in later middle age looking up at him. She wore a sober gray dress that matched her hair. Rhiain no longer quite looked as grim as she had in Castarium, but there was still a hard edge to her face. She ran Calliande’s household with grim efficiency, enforcing Calliande’s will as if it had been handed down from on high by God himself.
Calliande often had that effect on the strong-willed. Master Nicion of Owyllain had tried to bully her. That hadn’t gone well, and so Nicion had become her enforcer, berating anyone who challenged Calliande. Fortunately, Rhiain of Ebor was much more pleasant that Nicion Amphilus.
“Rain!” announced Rhoanna with a pleased smile. Rhoanna liked her, that was a good sign.
“It’s pronounced Rhiain,” said Joachim.
“Thank you, Master Joachim,” said Rhiain with grave solemnity, though she smiled. “My lord, Lady Calliande is ready, and said she would meet you and the others by the gate.”
“Thank you, Rhiain,” said Ridmark, descending the ladder to the courtyard. “Are you getting on with the Anathgrimm? They can be intimidating at first.” Now there was a colossal understatement.
“I quite like them, my lord,” said Rhiain. “They are very serious-minded people. A trait more humans should have, I think.” She hesitated. “Though they do seem to enjoy violence.”
“That they do,” said Ridmark.
He walked to the south and came to the castra’s gate, Joachim, Lucilla, and Rhiain following him. A large group of horsemen had gathered there, the knights that would escort Accolon to the Prince’s Palace. Ridmark spotted Accolon wearing a fine cloak and mantle, his tunic adorned with the red dragon of the Pendragons, Hopesinger in its scabbard at his belt. He wanted to tell the Prince to wear armor, but there was no way Accolon could wear armor to a banquet without causing offense. (Given Ridmark’s reputation, no one would be surprised if he showed up to a banquet wearing armor.)
Ridmark spotted Calliande talking to Mara, Jager, Selene, and Third. Calliande wore a fine green gown with gold trim, the bronze diadem of the Keeper on her blond hair, though no other jewelry. She hardly ever wore jewelry, she said, since if she healed someone, she would just have to clean the blood off it. Jager wore his usual fine clothes, and Mara a combination of black and her dark elven armor. Third dressed as she always did, the hilts of her swords rising over her shoulders.
“Mama!” demanded Rhoanna, holding out her arms.
Calliande grinned, and Ridmark passed the squirming little girl over to her. Rhoanna settled into Calliande’s arms, closed her eyes, and rested her head against Calliande’s shoulder.
“I think the walk tired her out,” said Calliande, rocking the girl.
“I don’t see why,” said Joachim with a scowl. “I had to walk. All Rhoanna did was talk.”
Lucilla laughed. “It tired me out.”
“Well, talking can be tiresome work, young master,” said Jager, winking at Joachim. “That’s why I ride whenever possible.”
“Could you take her?” said Calliande, and she passed Rhoanna to Lucilla. The girl had fallen asleep. Ridmark wondered if it was normal for a child to fall asleep so quickly. Then again, there had been times in Ridmark’s life when he had been so tired that he had fallen asleep before he had gotten all the way lying down. Maybe Jager was right and talking really was tiring work.
“Yes, my lady, I’ll put her to bed,” said Lucilla.
Calliande looked at Joachim. “You’ll be good?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Joachim. “Father talked to me.”
“Sternly, no doubt,” said Jager.
“Good,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath. “Well, shall we see what kind of banquet the Regency Council can serve?”
“There is one benefit to dining with villains,” said Jager. “They invariably set an excellent table. Stolen money can buy quite a lot of food.”
Selene shook her head. “How you can eat so much and remain fit is a mystery.”
Jager grinned. “It is as I told our most noble Keeper. Talking really is tiring work.”
They mounted their horses and rode for the Great Northern Gate of Cintarra.
###
A short time later, they arrived in the courtyard of the Prince’s Palace. Or one of them, anyway, given how the Palace sprawled.
Ridmark dismounted from his horse, and a small army of squires wearing the Prince of Cintarra’s colors came forth, taking the animals. Sir Peter and a half-dozen knights fell in around Accolon, and a half-dozen Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard escorted Mara. Ridmark supposed Accolon was as protected as he could be, though if one of the Regency Council was bold enough to hire an assassin, they likely would not make an attempt on Accolon in the middle of a crowd.
Because as Ridmark wa
lked with Calliande, Third, and Selene into the great hall of the Palace, he conceded that a large crowd had arrived.
The Prince of Cintarra might have been a child, but the Prince’s seneschal and household staff had not let their standards lapse. Three long tables ran the length of the great hall, and nobles and wealthy merchants sat at the tables, talking as they waited for the meal to be served. A high table stood on the dais where the Prince’s curule chair had sat, and Ridmark spotted Cyprian and Lythan Radyr and the other chief lords of the Regency Council waiting there. Caelmark Arban was at the high table as well, dressed in sober black, a scowl on his face as he looked at the lords of the Council.
A footman at the door announced Accolon, Crown Prince of Andomhaim, and Mara, Queen of the Anathgrimm, and everyone in the hall rose and bowed. Accolon strode down the central aisle between the tables, and Ridmark and the others followed. Cyprian of the Scepter Bank walked around the high table, stopped at the edge of the dais, and offered a deep bow.
“Lord Prince,” he said, a smile on his face that did not match his cold eyes. “Welcome. Please let us present to you the hospitality of the city of Cintarra.”
“Thank you, master banker,” said Accolon, putting the faintest stress on the title. “I am surprised that the Council bade you to greet me, rather than sending a noble to do it. It is impolite of them to treat you as a servant.”
Cyprian’s expression did not change, but something like a snarl of anger seemed to go through his eyes. “I am merely grateful that the honor fell to me. Lord Hadrian was to greet you, but it seems that he hasn’t arrived yet.” For an instant, he frowned. “Tardiness is unlike him. But, then, he was robbed last night.”
“Really?” said Accolon.
“The damned Wraith!” said Lord Lythan, his face red behind his pointed beard and mustache. “Made off with half the jewels of Hadrian’s treasure room and his own necklace in front of half a hundred guests! Lord Prince, when will you put an end to these vagabonds and rogues and…”
“Peace,” said Cyprian, raising a hand, and Lythan subsided. “We are here to celebrate, not to gripe. When the Prince begins his investigations tomorrow, I am sure he will put to right all that troubles our city. Shall we begin?”
“Of course,” said Accolon. “After Archbishop Caelmark leads us in prayer.”
Again, that snarling anger passed through Cyprian’s eyes, though his expression did not waver.
“As you will, lord Prince,” said Cyprian, turning to the table. “My lord archbishop?”
As Ridmark expected, his brother did not disappoint. Caelmark stood on the dais, and in a loud voice, recited from memory a passage from the book of the prophet Amos condemning the wealthy of ancient Israel for oppressing the poor. Caelmark thanked God for the food before them and asked for justice to fall upon Cintarra like rain that the poor might be clothed and housed and turn to God’s grace, and the wicked who oppressed them brought to punishment.
To judge from the sour expressions on the faces of the lords, the message was not lost on them.
The prayer ended, and Accolon climbed the dais and took his seat. Once the Prince had sat, everyone else could as well, and Ridmark heard the creaking of the benches as hundreds of people sat at once. He was seated next to Calliande on the right side of the high table. Calliande reached her seat first, and as Ridmark walked behind Accolon’s chair, the Crown Prince suddenly flinched and stood.
“What’s wrong?” said Ridmark, his hand falling towards Oathshield’s hilt on habit.
Accolon remained motionless for a moment, a stunned look on his face.
“Nothing,” said Accolon at last, sitting back down. “For just a moment, I thought I saw…”
“What?” said Ridmark, wondering if an assassin lurked among the guests or the servants.
“Caitrin,” admitted Accolon, his voice soft. “Or a woman who greatly resembles her.”
“She had a sister, didn’t she?” said Ridmark.
“Half-sister,” said Accolon. “But another noble. The woman I saw was a serving maid.” He shook his head. “I am jumping at shadows.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “Given what we face here, best to be cautious.”
“Aye,” said Accolon at last, though he still looked troubled.
###
Wearing the sober but well-made gray dress of a serving maid, Moriah Rhosmor moved through the crowded corridor leading to the Palace kitchens.
Infiltrating the palace had been easy enough. Despite Prince Tywall’s minority, the Palace seneschal ran the Prince’s household with a firm but fair hand, and he was respected if not loved by his workers. When the Palace had to host a large banquet or a tournament or something else that would strain the staff, the seneschal hired a large number of temporary workers to help with the extra tasks. It had been simplicity itself for Moriah to get herself hired as one of the temporary workers, and then just as easy to steal a serving maid’s dress. That let her move unseen around the Palace. Nobles and merchants, in their great arrogance, overlooked servants or saw them as furniture or perhaps beasts of burden. The other servants might have recognized her and wondered what she was doing, but so many people were employed to clean and cook and maintain the Palace that they couldn’t all know each other. So long as Moriah walked briskly with a determined expression on her face, carrying a tray or a bucket of water or perhaps a stack of plates, she could pretty much go wherever she wanted.
It was a ruse that had served her quite well over the years.
Preparing Lord Hadrian Vindon for her little show had taken a bit more work. But while Lord Hadrian might have been a shrewd and ruthless man, he was nonetheless too fond of food and drink. Particularly drink, since he preferred to start his day with a glass or two of brandy. With the power of her wraithcloak, it had been easy to slip some powder into his drink.
Now Hadrian was ready. Just a little more work and she could deal the Drakocenti a massive embarrassment.
The other serving maids carried trays of food and drink from the kitchens and to the great hall, and Moriah joined them, a tray balanced on one arm. As she laid trenchers of hard bread before the guests, she shot a quick look at the high table on the dais.
She was curious to see Accolon Pendragon, the man the Drakocenti had killed her half-sister to reach.
Moriah found the sight oddly disappointing. Accolon was handsome in a stark sort of way, with hawk-like features, black eyes, and thick black hair. Yet he looked like any other arrogant noble. Still, Caitrin had wanted to become the mistress or wife of a rich man, and there were few richer than Accolon Pendragon.
Her eyes wandered down the rest of the high table as she served. She had seen Queen Mara and Prince Consort Jager from a distance before. Mara was so short, and Jager was a halfling, so Moriah had no idea how they commanded the allegiance of warriors as fierce as the Anathgrimm. Mara’s half-sister Third was far more dangerous looking, a gaunt-faced woman with a grim expression and eyes as black as midnight. That was a woman whose attention Moriah never hoped to draw.
She straightened up, tucking the serving tray under one arm, and looked at the right side of the table, at the Shield Knight and the Keeper.
Nothing about the Keeper struck her as remarkable. Calliande Arban was a pretty-ish woman at the start of middle age, though she looked lean and fit and wore a peculiar bronze diadem over her blond hair. Her husband looked far more formidable. He wore armor of blue dark elven steel, a remarkable rarity, and he had a hard, grim face, the faded mark of an old brand on his cheek. Moriah had seen Swordbearers from a distance a few times. She knew killers when she saw them, and the Swordbearers were killers. Ridmark Arban looked as dangerous as any of them, like some gaunt old wolf prowling the forest. Wild stories surrounded the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, but looking at Ridmark Arban, Moriah could believe them.
She felt someone’s eyes on her and realized that Accolon had risen to his feet, that he was looking in her direction. Had he recognized her? No, that wa
s absurd. But was it? She and Caitrin had looked a great deal alike, enough that Moriah had from time to time considered disguising herself as her half-sister and enlisting Caitrin’s help in various thefts. Nothing had ever come of the idea since Caitrin had preferred to find her wealth and security by ensnaring a wealthy lover.
But if Accolon recognized her as Caitrin’s sister, and if Caitrin had told the Crown Prince about her…
Moriah kept her face calm as she walked back to the kitchens. Accolon sat back down and then shook his head and said something to the Shield Knight. The Crown Prince looked shaken, and Moriah felt a completely unexpected burst of sympathy. Maybe he really had loved Caitrin, enough that the sight of a woman who resembled her had stunned him.
Not that it mattered. Moriah would make up her own mind about Accolon Pendragon when he acted against the Drakocenti.
If he acted.
Moriah returned to the kitchens, which were hot, crowded, and smelled of roasting meat, boiling vegetables, and sweat. Two of the cooks pushed a cart holding an enormous silver platter with a round cover. The platter was large enough to hold an adult boar, and that had been the plan for the dinner, to serve the Crown Prince and the other lords and ladies at the table boar meat.
Except there wasn’t actually a boar under the cover.
It had taken a judicious use of bribes to leave the platter unguarded for five minutes, more bribes to a pair of thugs from the docks to help her move the boar, and several disguises so she would remain unnoticed. But it would be worth the effort. The thugs would enjoy their stolen boar…and the nobles of Cintarra would enjoy a different sort of spectacle this evening.
Moriah found herself looking forward to it.
She slipped away from the kitchens and made her way to one of the Palace’s gardens, which had provided a convenient hiding place for a change of clothes, her armor, and her wraithcloak.
###
Niall was bored, hot, and annoyed.
Dragontiarna: Thieves Page 14
