Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “But no riot?” said Niall.

  Vegetius shook his head. “That will be in a few days if people don’t like how today goes. But we’ll see. The Crown Prince seems to have a good head on his shoulders, God save him. And it’s our job to keep that head on its shoulders. Ah. Here comes the Regency Council. Keep an eye on them.”

  The lords of the Regency Council entered the hall, flanked by their men-at-arms and guards, the commoners glaring at them. The lords deigned not to notice the loathing of their inferiors and took up places on the right side of the hall, not far from the dais. Niall saw Cyprian and Lord Lythan and Sir Tristan and the other nobles of the Council. No sign of Hadrian Vindon – no doubt he was in his mansion, recuperating from his public humiliation. Archbishop Caelmark Arban arrived, stark and austere in his black robes, accompanied by several clerics and men-at-arms. Some of the lords glared at the archbishop, but Caelmark’s icy expression did not waver.

  Court would begin soon, and Niall watched the space reserved for commoners fill up. He supposed nearly a thousand people had gathered to watch Accolon render his judgments. Niall hoped there wasn’t a riot or a panic. If anything happened, hundreds of people might get trampled to death. He tried to keep watch over everyone at once, watching for anything suspicious. If anyone rushed at the dais with a weapon, the men-at-arms would intercept the attacker. If someone tried to fire an arrow or a crossbow bolt at the Prince, the men-at-arms could use their shields to block it.

  An old woman caught his eye. She looked ancient, well into her eighties, and was small and slight, her face leathery, her hair wispy. The old woman wore a worn dress and a crumbling leather vest, and moved with limping steps, though she didn’t have a cane. Somehow, she managed to thread her way through the crowd, and no one stopped her. Perhaps no one among the commoners had the heart to threaten an old woman. At last, the woman stopped at the final pillar before the dais, and she leaned against it with a sigh, sliding down to sit on the floor. Niall noted that she carried a leather satchel, perhaps large enough to hold a small crossbow.

  Worried, he moved closer to her.

  The woman reached into her satchel, humming to herself, and drew out a glinting metal object. Niall’s hand jerked towards his sword hilt, but then he saw the woman held a pair of knitting needles, a woolen scarf hanging between them. Still humming to herself, the woman began to knit. Then she saw him staring and offered a smile.

  “Yes, young man?” she said.

  “Is…everything all right?” said Niall. “You’re sitting on the floor…”

  “Oh, I’ve been sitting on the floor in places much worse than this, and long before you were born,” said the old woman. Her voice was soft, almost dreamy. “I don’t mind at all, really.”

  “Niall!” barked Vegetius. “Stop bothering the old woman and get back here.”

  The old woman looked up long enough to wink at Niall and turned her attention back to the scarf.

  Embarrassed, Niall retreated to his place by the dais.

  “The satchel,” he said to Vegetius. “I thought she might have a crossbow.”

  “Did you?” said Vegetius. Niall expected a rebuke, but the decurion nodded. “Good eye. I thought that, too. Never underestimate a woman, lad. If you’ve ever met my sister Miriam, you’ll understand.” Niall remembered the woman who owned Castarium’s inn, a terrifying old widow who ruled her business and her workers with an iron fist. He had never spoken with her, only seen her from a distance, and was grateful for that.

  “Yes, sir,” said Niall.

  Vegetius opened his mouth, and then a trumpet rang out.

  Sir Owain Redshield emerged from the door behind the curule chair, flanked by two of his men-at-arms, who both carried trumpets.

  “Hearken!” thundered Owain, his voice filling the great hall. “Accolon Pendragon, Knight of the Soulblade, the Crown Prince of Andomhaim! The overlord of our Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon, God preserve and prosper his rule, has come to hear petitions.”

  Accolon Pendragon emerged from the door and strode to the edge of the dais. He looked every inch the Crown Prince today, wearing a fine blue surcoat adorned with the red dragon sigil of the Pendragons. Niall noted that Accolon wore chain mail beneath his surcoat and that Hopesinger was ready in its scabbard at his belt. The Prince took the threat of assassins seriously.

  The people filling the hall went to one knee. Accolon looked them over for a moment, his expression stern, and then nodded and gestured with one hand.

  “Rise,” he said. The crowd stood, and Accolon seated himself on the Prince of Cintarra’s curule chair. It had to be hideously uncomfortable in chain mail. “Hear me, men of Cintarra. Reports of numerous abuses against the villagers of the nearby lands have come to the ears of the High King. Additionally, a sinister cult called the Drakocenti, based in Cintarra, has tried to assassinate me and led an attack upon the town of Castarium. To investigate these abuses and attacks, my father has appointed me his emissary, and has given me full authority over all matters of government in Cintarra.” Dead silence answered his pronouncement. “We shall begin investigating these matters at once. Constable, call the first knight.”

  A small army of scribes with portable desks emerged, taking their places on the dais near Accolon.

  With that, the investigations began.

  Before his arrest for stealing two sheep and a pig from the Monastery of St. Bartholomew, Niall had never seen a lord’s court. He remembered standing before Lord Ridmark’s seat in Castarium, his hands bound, waiting for the Shield Knight to decide his fate. Niall supposed no one was at risk of execution today. But like Ridmark, the Crown Prince was judging cases of theft. Except Niall had only stolen two sheep and a pig.

  The nobles Accolon had summoned to the Prince’s Palace were greater thieves by far, for they had stolen entire villages.

  The first knight came forward, clad in finery, a jeweled sword at his hip. Like many of the Cintarran nobles, he was on the fleshy side, though he had not yet tipped over into obesity. Probably he was still too young because he was only five or six years older than Niall. Four of Accolon’s knights escorted the Cintarran noble, grim in their chain mail and Pendragon surcoats. The Cintarran knight looked nervous, sweat beading on his face, droplets of it falling into his mustache and his pointed beard.

  Accolon questioned the knight, who confessed to enclosing his lands for sheep and driving off the commoners who farmed his benefice. Under further questioning, he admitted to seizing the lands of freeholders by dubious legal means, using the seized lands to expand his grazing lands. When asked who had given permission, the knight responded that the Regency Council had done so and that the Scepter Bank had fronted the money.

  “Only the Prince of Cintarra can give the authority to a lord to enclose his lands for cattle and drive off his commoners,” said Accolon, looking towards the lords on the right-hand side of the hall. “I presume you have an explanation.”

  Cyprian answered. “Lord Prince, the responsibility of the Regency Council is to shepherd and steward the lands of Cintarra until Prince Tywall comes of age. We acted in his best interest, using the authority of his name.”

  “I agree, Master Cyprian,” said Accolon. “The task of the Regency Council is to shepherd the lands of Cintarra until the Prince comes of age. You are to guard his inheritance, not give it away piecemeal to sheep. I find that this enclosure was illegally done, and I decree it reversed.” The scribes began writing on their portable desks. “The commoners are free to return to their villages to begin farming, and the freeholders are restored to their lands. Should Prince Tywall disagree with this decree, he may reverse it when he comes of age and rules Cintarra in his own right.”

  The lords of the Council glared at Accolon. Cyprian remained calm, but his eyes seemed to burn.

  “My lord,” stammered the plump knight. “I…I…”

  “No punishment shall befall you, sir,” said Accolon, “so long as you comply with my edict. However, should you fai
l to reverse the enclosures, should you disobey the terms of this decree, then I shall issue a writ of attainder against you, stripping you of lands and titles and banishing you from the realm of Andomhaim for the rest of your natural life. I trust that I am understood?”

  “Perfectly, my lord,” said the knight. He managed a hasty, sweaty bow. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I suggest,” said Accolon, “that you endeavor to live within your means, and not attempt to inflate your riches by beggaring the people of your lands. Or by living off usurious loans from the banking houses of Cintarra.”

  “My lord, I must protest,” said Cyprian. “This decree undoes years of hard work by the Regency Council.”

  “Hard work, I am sure,” said Accolon. “But effective? I doubt that very much. The lands around the city are filled with empty fields and sheep where crops once grew and villages thrived. Cintarra is full to bursting with displaced men, and if not for the work of Archbishop Caelmark, we might well have endured a famine.” The archbishop offered the Crown Prince a swift bow. “No. My decree stands. Lord Constable, bring forth the next knight.”

  The day wore on. One by one, Accolon declared the sheep enclosures illegal and reversed them. Most of the knights and lords agreed without protest, wary of drawing Accolon’s wrath. Perhaps they had feared all along that their overreach would draw the angry attention of the High King. A few of the Cintarran nobles looked furious but swallowed their anger and swore to abide by Accolon’s decree. A few insulted Accolon, and he had them thrown from the hall. One called Accolon a baseborn bastard dog, drew his sword, and charged the dais. Perhaps he had the vain hope of inspiring the other Cintarran nobles to act, but no one followed him to futile self-destruction. Niall, Vegetius, and three other men-at-arms tackled the foolish noble then and there. For the crime of attempting to assault the Crown Prince, Accolon stripped the knight of his title and lands and had him executed on the spot.

  Thankfully, one of Sir Peter’s knights did that, and some of the women and children screamed at the jet of blood that burst from the beheaded man’s neck. Niall was grateful that he had not been ordered to do it. He would have done it, but he disliked the thought of killing a man in cold blood. It was different from fighting for your life on the battlefield, where the other fellow had a fair chance of killing you, and whoever was smarter or faster or stronger won the day.

  Niall wondered if Accolon should have forgiven the knight, but he couldn’t see how. Drawing a blade against the Crown Prince was a serious crime. And after seeing Lord Ridmark’s fraught relationship with the (former) Abbot Caldorman, Niall had begun to realize the political considerations. Accolon needed to make an example to show the lords of Cintarra that he was serious. The knight who had been foolish enough to draw his sword had volunteered for that honor. It would have been worse if Accolon had executed the fat young knight who had agreed to the decree at once.

  Once the corpse was removed, the blood mopped up, and order restored, Accolon continued, reversing more enclosures one by one. The mood in the hall changed as the day, with the nobles becoming more and more sullen. Yet the commoners seemed happier, some of them even joyful, and Niall saw some of the women and not a few of the men weeping in silence. For that matter, many of the nobles near the Regency Council looked pleased. Niall realized that not all the nobles of Cintarra were greedy fools, that while a large minority had enclosed their lands, it had still been a minority.

  Still, that minority had unleashed chaos.

  Niall found his spirits rising. For the first time since the enclosures had gone up near Ebor, he was hopeful that the troubles in Cintarra could be resolved without spilling an ocean of blood. Perhaps the men of Ebor could go home. Though with a shock, Niall realized that he would never go back to the village of his birth. If given a choice between returning to his uncle’s farm and remaining in Lord Ridmark’s service, he would choose to continue as a man-at-arms. For that matter, he didn’t think Rhiain would want to relinquish her post as head of Lady Calliande’s household. Too much had happened in Ebor for his aunt to wish to return.

  Despite his musings, Niall did not forget his duty, and he remained vigilant, watching the crowds of both nobles and commoners.

  That meant he saw the limping man make his way to the front of the crowd, not far from the sitting old woman, who had kept knitting with placid calm even during the execution.

  Something about the limping man drew Niall’s eye, and he couldn’t say what it was. The man resembled yet another displaced commoner. He was somewhere in his late twenties or thirties, lean and clad in ragged garments. His left leg was limp, and he grasped a cane in his left hand, leaning upon it. The man looked little different from hundreds of others in the hall, and Niall could not think what had drawn his attention.

  Then he noticed three odd details.

  First, the man was lean, but he was fit and looked healthy. He didn’t have any of the signs of chronic hunger that Niall knew all too well.

  Second, the cane was new, like it had just been freshly carved. That by itself was not strange. Perhaps the limping man had just obtained a new cane. But he was holding it in the wrong hand. If his left leg troubled him, he should have held the cane in his right hand, to counterbalance, but he was holding the cane in his left hand.

  Like he was faking a limp.

  Niall realized that he had been staring for too long and looked away. He made himself look at the latest minor Comes admitting that he had enclosed his commoners’ fields, but watched the limping man from the corner of his eye. The limping man remained motionless, but then Accolon started to speak his decree, and the limping man moved. He twisted the handle of his cane and came up holding a smaller object, something that looked like a long brown straw that he lifted to his lips.

  A blowgun. An exotic weapon, but Niall had heard that the Rhaluuskan orcs sometimes used them for hunting dangerous game.

  And a poisoned dart might kill the Crown Prince in a second.

  Without a shout, Niall threw himself forward, raising his shield. He did it just in time. The dart hissed from the blowgun and struck Niall’s shield, quivering from the impact. A cry of alarm rose from the nearby commoners, and the limping man took a step back, no longer limping. He twisted his cane again, and suddenly he held a slender sword, the steel blade shining in his hand.

  There was no fear on his face, only mad fanaticism.

  “For Mhor!” he roared, charging forward. The commoners scrambled out of the way. The old woman kept knitting, unconcerned. “Perish in the name of great Mhor!”

  More screams rang out, and the men-at-arms rushed at the assassin of the Red Family. Steel rang on steel, and the assassin fell dead, his blood pooling beneath him. But even as he died, as all eyes were on him, Niall saw another flicker of movement. Two more commoners stepped from the crowd, holding small hunting crossbows. Niall shouted and charged at them, but he knew that he would be too late.

  Then the old woman with the knitting needles moved.

  She leaped off the floor with inhuman grace, and her knitting needles vanished, replaced with a longsword of blue steel in her right hand and an axe of bronze-colored metal in her right. The old woman twisted, and suddenly she was in the path of the crossbows. The sword and axe blurred, and the crossbows fell broken to the ground, along with several of the fingers of the man on the right. The assassin snarled and swung his broken weapon like a club, but the woman lashed her sword and opened his throat. The man on the left leaped at her with a dagger, but she parried with her axe, the weapons ringing.

  Then the men-at-arms reached her, and the remaining assassin died in a flurry of blows.

  “Remain calm!” roared Accolon, rising to his feet. The general shift towards the door stopped. Perhaps, like Niall, he feared a stampede. “Remain calm! The assassins have been overcome! Remain calm!”

  “Good eye, boy,” said Vegetius, breathing hard. “Didn’t see that fellow with the blowgun.”

  Niall shook his head. �
�I didn’t see the others with the crossbows.” He looked at the old woman with the sword and the axe. “But she did. Where the devil did you hide that axe?”

  The old woman winked at him. “In plain sight, of course.”

  Silver light shimmered around her, and when it cleared, Niall found himself looking at a pale, gaunt-faced woman with silver eyes, silver hair, and pointed elven ears. She wore a fine blue tunic, a black leather vest that hung to her knees, black trousers, and polished black boots. Looking closer, Niall realized that the bronze-colored axe was covered in glowing symbols of fiery light.

  “Lady Selene?” said Niall, stunned.

  She grinned at him. “I like this one, Vegetius. He has a good eye, decurion.”

  “My lord Prince!” called Cyprian. “In light of these shocking attempts of murder, perhaps we ought to adjourn the day’s business until the Red Family can be rooted out and removed from Cintarra…”

  “The Red Family has plagued Cintarra for centuries, Master Cyprian,” said Accolon. “Matters here are too urgent for us to delay any longer. As soon as the bodies of the assassins have been cleared away, we shall continue.”

  A murmur of surprise went through the hall, and Accolon sat back in the curule chair, one hand resting on Hopesinger’s hilt.

  Niall thought that was a bold decision. The Drakocenti had tried to kill Accolon in Castarium, and no doubt they were the ones who had hired the Red Family.

  At Vegetius’s direction, Niall grasped the ankles of one of the slain assassins, and another soldier lifted the dead man beneath the armpits.

  Niall realized that he had seen four men die today, the rebellious knight and three assassins, and it was barely past noon.