Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Hunting for kobolds, they claimed. That was common enough. The Prince of Cintarra and the various banks paid for a bounty on any kobolds, deep orcs, or dvargir killed in the Shadow Ways, lest they attack the city. But Moriah was certain that was just a cover. The Drakocenti were looking for something in the darkness below the city, she knew, something deep within the Shadow Ways.

  But what?

  She intended to find out.

  Moriah hurried further into the darkness, heading for the surface.

  ###

  Calliande stood before the dais and watched the ferocious argument between Cyprian, Lord Lythan, and Sir Owain.

  Lord Hadrian’s humiliation had thrown the banquet into an uproar. During the shouting, only Calliande, Ridmark, and Accolon had actually thought to help Hadrian. Ridmark had cut the ropes and pried the apple out Hadrian’s mouth. Hadrian had flopped onto the floor like a fish, in too much pain to stand as the blood rushed back into his strained limbs. Calliande had healed his injuries, which had not been all that severe, but she suspected Hadrian was not accustomed to pain. The lord had mumbled thanks, servants had hurried forward with a cloak to cover his nakedness, and he had rushed from the hall.

  Now most of the guests had left, while the rest watched the shouting among the Regency Council with ill-concealed amusement.

  “This is your fault!” thundered Cyprian to the Constable of Cintarra.

  Sir Owain Redshield remained unmoved. “Lord Hadrian refused to have an escort of my men-at-arms. All the Regency Council rely on their own hired men. Little wonder you have no protection from the Wraith.”

  “Are you blaming me for this?” snapped the Master of the Scepter Bank, jabbing a finger at Owain. The Constable looked as if he wanted to break it off. “Catching the Wraith is the responsibility of your men!”

  Blue fire flared next to Ridmark, and Third appeared out of nothingness.

  Everyone paused to look at her, and then the argument resumed.

  “Any luck?” said Ridmark in a low voice.

  “No,” said Third. “The Wraith carries a wraithcloak. He was clever enough to use it to sink into the ground. I expected he traveled into the Shadow Ways below the city, and I was not able to follow him.”

  “I doubt the Wraith would have planned this,” said Ridmark, “without having a method of escape. You’re sure it was a wraithcloak?”

  “Aye,” said Third. “The effect was the same as Sir Calem’s.”

  “His armor, though,” murmured Calliande. Cyprian was shouting threats at Sir Owain, who remained unmoved. “I recognize it.”

  “You do?” said Ridmark.

  “Dwarven ranger armor,” said Calliande. “It’s like a smaller, less powerful version of a taalkrazdor. Dwarven rangers carry it for long excursions into the Deeps.” She frowned, remembering what the Sight had shown her of the Wraith. “It’s damaged, though. I suspect the Wraith found it in the Shadow Ways, along with the wraithcloak. I think the cloak is damaged as well, to judge from its aura. It can keep the Wraith immaterial for only a few moments a day.”

  “Aye,” said Accolon, his arms folded over his chest as he watched the argument, “but a few moments at the right time is more than enough. Look at the power of the Shield Knight.”

  Calliande had to agree with that.

  “The important question,” she said, “is what we are going to do next.”

  “I think we should continue as planned,” said Ridmark. “Accolon will investigate the land enclosures. Third and I will explore the Shadow Ways and see if we can find what the Drakocenti are hunting.”

  “And I think it is time to start those investigations right now,” said Accolon.

  To Calliande’s surprise, he stepped forward and shouted in the voice of a battlefield commander.

  “My lords, that is enough!” thundered Accolon.

  Silence fell over the great hall.

  “It is clear,” said Accolon, “that there is much amiss in Cintarra, and I am troubled by the Wraith’s accusations.”

  “My lord Prince,” said Cyprian, trying and failing to hide his anger. “Surely you do not trust in the words of this thief and liar who…”

  “I trust nothing I see in Cintarra,” said Accolon, “but I will find the truth. Lord Constable, I am returning to Queen Mara’s castra.” Mara, Jager, and Selene had gotten to their feet. “Tomorrow, I will begin examining the decisions and decrees of the Regency Council. Master Cyprian, I expect that you and the other members of the Council will be there. Your advice shall be welcome.”

  “Of course, lord Prince,” said Cyprian through gritted teeth.

  “Lord Prince, my men-at-arms shall escort you,” said Sir Owain.

  “I welcome it, Sir Owain,” said Accolon. “Please, let us proceed.”

  Calliande nodded as the Prince’s escort gathered around him. She suspected that tomorrow was going to be interesting.

  She could all but feel the hatred in Cyprian’s gaze as he stared at Accolon.

  ***

  Chapter 8: Murder For Hire

  Cyprian left the Prince’s Palace in a towering rage.

  A dozen of his hired men surrounded him as he mounted his horse. Eleven accompanied Cyprian back to the Scepter Bank. Jacob, he sent with a specific errand, instructions to deliver a message as quickly as possible.

  Cyprian suspected that he would have to act sooner than he hoped.

  The Scepter Bank was not that far from the Prince’s Palace. The building had once been the domus of a noble house, but the nobles had fallen on hard times, and the last scion of the family had perished in the siege of Tarlion thirteen years past. Cyprian had bought the domus for less than it was worth and had made it the headquarters of the bank. It was one of the finest domi in Cintarra, with a grand courtyard, a beautiful interior garden, and a slender tower rising from the house.

  It annoyed him that the tower was lower than several others in the city.

  But soon that would not matter. Not when he had found the Great Eye, cast the spell to open it, and received the power of a dragon god.

  He rode through the gate and into the bank’s courtyard. Servants came forward to take his horse, and Cyprian dismounted. His soldiers opened the front doors for him, and Cyprian stalked through the corridors, climbed the stairs, and came to his private study on the top floor. His desk of polished dark wood dominated the room, and the windows had a fine view of the courtyard and the surrounding mansions. Cyprian dismissed his guards and servants and walked to the window, staring at the city for a moment.

  Damn Caldorman. Damn the fool! If he hadn’t made such a botch of things in Castarium, then Cyprian would not have so many problems now. He had tried to recruit only competent, ruthless men into the Drakocenti. Unfortunately, the sort of men willing to join a dark cult like the Drakocenti were ambitious, ruthless men. Cyprian could appreciate those qualities, but ambitious, ruthless men were often greedy.

  And greed could make men into idiots.

  Damn Caldorman for failing! And damn Hadrian Vindon for falling prey to the Wraith! It would have been better if the Wraith had killed Hadrian, butchered him like the fat pig that he was. Then Cyprian could have presented the events differently. Hadrian had been murdered by a renegade, and the Shield Knight and the Keeper could have turned their attention to hunting the Wraith. Unfortunately, the Wraith had failed to kill or even seriously hurt anyone, which Cyprian grudgingly conceded gave the thief a sort of moral authority among the rabble of Cintarra. The people did love a daring master thief who stole from the rich, and there weren’t many men richer than Hadrian Vindon.

  The apple in Hadrian’s mouth. Angry as he was, Cyprian had to concede that it was a clever flourish.

  He sighed, crossed to a sideboard, and poured himself a glass of strong whiskey. Cyprian took another deep breath, clearing his mind of anger, and sat at his desk, sipping the drink. It burned like liquid fire down his throat, and he felt some of his tension dissolve.

  Yes, the si
tuation was bad, but it was far from irretrievable. Accolon Pendragon was still alive, and tomorrow he would start tearing up the Regency Council’s decrees. All the land enclosures, Cyprian knew, were of questionable legality, and the Council had been only able to get away with it for as long as they had because Prince Tywall was a child and languishing as a prisoner. If Accolon was not stopped, Cyprian fully expected that the Regency Council would be dismissed, the enclosures reversed, and Accolon himself or one of High King Arandar’s deputies would assume direct rule over Cintarra.

  But, in the end, Cintarra didn’t matter.

  Cyprian’s instructions from the Theophract had been clear. Push Cintarra towards a revolt and kill Accolon Pendragon. With the crown prince dead and Cintarra in revolt, Andomhaim would fly apart at the seams, and Cyprian would have a free hand to open the Great Eye and take the power of a dragon god. Then all humanity would be reformed under his guidance.

  Unless the damned Crown Prince and the Shield Knight ruined everything.

  Cyprian swirled his whiskey and took another sip.

  They were close, he knew. So close. The mercenaries and thugs he sent into the Shadow Ways suffered appalling casualties, unequipped to deal with the dangers below the city, but they had almost mapped out the way. They had found the ancient elven ruins, and soon they would find the door to the Great Eye itself. A few more weeks. Maybe even a few days.

  Cyprian just needed to create enough chaos to keep Accolon from finding the truth for a little while longer.

  He finished his whiskey and thought in the gloom of the study, rising only once to add wood to the hearth.

  An hour later, Jacob returned, accompanied by a man in a dark cloak.

  “Master Cyprian,” said Jacob, his face calm, his eyes tense. “The emissary has arrived.”

  “So I see,” said Cyprian. “Thank you, Jacob. Please wait outside.”

  Jacob nodded and stepped back into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

  The emissary drew back his cowl. He was a man of middle years, with hard eyes and gray-streaked brown hair, a close-cropped beard shading his face. He looked like a knight or prosperous merchant, save that he was quite a bit fitter than the average Cintarran knight or merchant of middle years.

  “Master Cyprian,” said the middle-aged man.

  Cyprian inclined his head. “Gregor.”

  Gregor smiled. “I understand you wish to make a covenant with the Red Family of Mhor.”

  Cyprian let out a long breath. “I do.”

  He had amicable enough relations with the Red Family, though Cyprian was not foolish enough to think them his friends. The Family was a cult of madmen, devoted to their religion of murder in the name of Mhor, and he knew they were ruled by a dark elven noblewoman who called herself the Matriarch. They had turned their religion into a profit-making enterprise, and the Matriarch used the Red Family to kill anyone who threatened her.

  “Certainly,” said Gregor. “Might I ask who you wish killed?”

  Cyprian drummed his fingers against the edge of his desk. “Prince Accolon Pendragon.”

  Gregor raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”

  “I just said so, did I not?” said Cyprian, though he kept his tone level. There was nothing to be gained by threatening the Red Family. The conventional levers of greed did not work on them. “Think of it as a mighty offering to Mhor. His death will touch off a civil war that will drown Andomhaim in blood.”

  Gregor laughed. “I appreciate your concession to our faith. However, Accolon Pendragon’s death will not be easily accomplished. The Crown Prince is well-guarded, and he now bears a soulblade.”

  “How much?” said Cyprian.

  “A large donative to the coffers of Mhor’s faithful will be required,” said Gregor.

  Cyprian smiled. “As I said. How much?”

  Gregor named an enormous figure. It came to about a tenth of the Bank’s available gold and jewels. Cyprian suggested a counteroffer.

  “I fear not, Master Cyprian,” said Gregor. “There will be no negotiation on this point. Only rarely has the Red Family of Mhor accepted a contract to kill a royal of Andomhaim. The repercussions could be immense. Our leader, as you know, prefers to remain in the shadows. Such a killing could draw…unwelcome attention.”

  “It’s not as if you have to wear the skull masks when you kill him,” said Cyprian, trying to hide his irritation. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

  Gregor smiled. “We don’t always wear them when we offer up a life to the glory of Mhor. But we do prefer to do so. When a priest of the church of Andomhaim speaks the mass, is he not more impressive in formal robes and regalia rather than a dirty smock and old sandals?”

  “There is a time and place for pomp and ceremony,” said Cyprian. “I respectfully suggest that assassinating the Crown Prince of Andomhaim is not such a time.”

  “True,” said Gregor. “I will not lie, Master Cyprian. Such a killing will be difficult to accomplish and may take some time. But on this point, the leadership of the family cannot be swayed. Either you pay us the sum I have named, or we will not attempt the assassination.”

  “Attempt?” said Cyprian. “For the amount of money you suggest that I pay you, I hope you will do more than attempt to kill Accolon Pendragon.”

  “If you pay us, we will offer his life as a sacrifice to Mhor,” said Gregor. “His life will be forfeit to the glory of Mhor’s crimson altar. But it will take time to arrange, and there may be unsuccessful attempts before Mhor chooses to bless our efforts with success.”

  “I am not paying for additional attempts,” said Cyprian. “If I pay this sum, I wish the Red Family to try as many times as necessary to kill Accolon Pendragon.”

  “Of course,” said Gregor. “Unsuccessful attempts will be our problem, not yours. Should you provide payment, Master Gregor, we shall labor until Accolon Pendragon is slain for the glory of Mhor.”

  “Very well,” said Cyprian. “I agree to your terms. You shall have the payment you require.” That would put a serious strain on the Bank’s resources. If all his depositors demanded their money at once, the Bank might collapse. But hopefully, by then Cyprian would have found the Great Eye, and money would no longer matter to him. “Do you require a signed and sealed contract?”

  Gregor laughed. “Master Cyprian, please. I know you are a shrewd man of business. And I know you have heard the tales of what happens to men who attempt to cheat the faithful of Mhor of their payment. Fortunately, I know you are no such fool.”

  That was, Cyprian reflected, perhaps the politest death threat he had ever received.

  “Yes, fortunate for us all I am not a fool,” said Cyprian in a dry voice. “What form would you like your payment? Other than in advance, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly, sir,” said Gregor. “Gold coins and jewels. I will arrive tomorrow with some of my brothers in Mhor to collect it.”

  “Can you be here by noon?” said Cyprian, and Gregor nodded. “Excellent. Come to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the bank. My captain Jacob will await you. Bring a wagon and a team. This quantity of funds will be heavy.”

  “We shall be prepared,” said Gregor. “I shall see you tomorrow, Master Cyprian. Good fortune to your enterprises.” The graying beard made his smile look wolfish. “As ever, it is a pleasure doing business with a man who provides prompt payment.”

  Again, Cyprian heard the veiled threat in the words, the unspoken promise of the dire fate that awaited if he reneged on his debt to the Red Family. Well, he had no intention of doing so. He would take the payment out of the Bank’s deposits rather than his own personal funds, and Cyprian had no qualms about spending someone else’s money.

  Besides, if he claimed the power of the Great Eye, he could take his vengeance upon the Red Family at leisure. Or perhaps he would retain them as his personal enforcers. Even when he became a dragon god, Cyprian couldn’t be everywhere at once, and he would need loyal men to deal with his foes.

 
; Gregor bowed and opened the door, and Jacob escorted him out.

  Cyprian sighed, got to his feet, poured himself another cup of whiskey, and sat back behind his desk. One more, he decided, and then he would go to bed. The next few days promised to be both busy and unpleasant, and he needed to keep his wits about him. If the Red Family killed Accolon Pendragon, Cyprian would need to act swiftly to assign blame. Perhaps he could accuse the Shield Knight of killing the Crown Prince. No, not believable enough. Maybe Queen Mara? That might work. Mara was respected in Cintarra, but also feared, and people were ever ready to believe the worst of those they feared…

  “Are you sure that was wise?” said a woman’s voice.

  Cyprian almost jolted out of his chair, whiskey sloshing over his fingers. His head jerked to the left, and he saw a dark-cloaked woman standing in the corner between two windows, hand resting on a sword hanging at her left hip. For a strange moment, he had the oddest feeling that the sword was wreathed in crimson flame, but then something compelled Cyprian to look past that to the face of Aeliana Carhaine within the cloak’s cowl.

  “For God’s sake,” he said, exasperated. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough,” said Aeliana, walking into his study. She gave the books on his shelves a faint look of distaste. “Why are you spending that much money to kill Accolon Pendragon?”

  “The Theophract commanded me to throw Cintarra into chaos,” said Cyprian, watching her. “If Accolon is killed, that will do it. And even if the Red Family makes an attempt on Accolon’s life and fails publicly, that will further inflame his suspicions.”

  “Which might lead him right to you and the Drakocenti,” said Aeliana. “That little spectacle at the banquet will only deepen his distrust of you.”