The obvious answer was that they had wanted to kill Accolon on the day the Dwyrstone opened the gates and the Signifier attacked. That implied that the Drakocenti had known in advance that the rifts to Tyrcamber Rigamond’s world would open.
And that meant the Drakocenti had powerful allies, and likely resources they had not yet revealed. Ridmark disliked mysteries, and he especially disliked facing an enemy about which he knew so little.
It also disturbed him because if the Drakocenti had tried to kill Accolon once, they would probably try again before much longer.
So Ridmark remained vigilant.
He did not like what he saw.
It had been a long time since Ridmark had last visited Cintarra. Eighteen years? Twenty? He could not precisely recall. It had been when Aelia had still been alive, when Ridmark had been a young Swordbearer in the court of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland. Dux Gareth had paid a visit to Prince Cadwall Gwyrdragon, Tywall’s father, and the Dux’s entire family and household had come with him.
He remembered that Cintarra had seemed a pleasant enough city. The streets were wider than those of Tarlion, with medians down the middle where trees grew. The brick houses had been whitewashed, with roofs of red tiles, and the domi of the merchants and the lords looked splendid, with their high central towers. The people had seemed well-fed and content, and the city had even smelled pleasant, partly because of the flowering trees, and partly because the vast maze of the catacombs and sewers beneath Cintarra carried waste to the Western’s City harbor.
Now, though, Cintarra was far more crowded. People lived in the alleyways and narrow lanes, and Ridmark saw tents set up in the streets, along with parked wagons and carts. The crowds filling the alleys looked like the ragged encampment Ridmark had seen outside of Castarium.
Except these men looked hungrier and angrier.
Niall had been right. The tension was thick in the air. Men wearing the colors of the Prince of Cintarra patrolled the street, and Ridmark noted they never went alone, and always moved in groups of four or more. Cold, hostile eyes watched Prince Tywall’s men-at-arms, but the expressions that turned towards Accolon’s knights were puzzled. A few of them looked hopeful – perhaps they hoped Accolon had come to set things right.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” murmured Calliande.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Niall’s right. The city is on the edge of a revolt, I think.”
He urged his horse forward, joining Accolon, and Calliande followed him.
“I didn’t know it was this bad,” said Accolon, glancing at another alley filled with tents. “There had been rumors for the last few years…but there are always rumors of unrest.” He rubbed his jaw, his grimace sharpening. “And then I was distracted with other matters…no, let me be blunt. I was distracted with Caitrin, and the blaming myself needlessly for her suicide. Which was no suicide at all. And my grief caused my father distraction. If not for that, perhaps he would have turned his attention to Cintarra sooner.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself…” started Calliande.
“I’m not,” said Accolon. “I’m past that. I wasted months in Castarium, and I don’t intend to repeat that mistake.” He drew a long breath. “But I must acknowledge reality, Keeper. The troubles in Cintarra might not be my fault…but they are my responsibility, are they not? My responsibility and my father’s. And therefore, it is my duty to set things right.”
Ridmark looked at the younger man and felt a strange mixture of pride and regret. He remembered when he had met Accolon in the opening days of the Frostborn war. Accolon hadn’t been the Crown Prince then, only the son of a bastard knight, and he had been an earnest, dutiful young man. It seemed a long road from that nervous young squire to the grim prince Ridmark saw now. But Ridmark regretted that Accolon had learned so much the hard way.
Would Ridmark feel the same way, he wondered, when his sons came to manhood, and his daughter became a woman? That seemed like a long way off…but he knew the years would go by faster than he expected.
“It seems,” said Ridmark, “that if someone wanted to weaken Cintarra, then urging the lords to seize the lands of the commoners and enclose them for sheep was a superb way to go about it.”
“Aye, I would agree,” said Accolon. “Perhaps these Drakocenti are seeking to weaken the realm for reasons of their own, just as the Enlightened once did. Causing a revolt in Cintarra and assassinating the Crown Prince of the realm would be an excellent way to weaken Andomhaim. Or maybe the Drakocenti serve another master.”
“Like the red orcs,” said Ridmark. He had no doubt that the sightings of mysterious red orcs had been real and not just the rumors of frightened villagers. Niall and Rhiain had described their encounter with a raiding party of red orcs, and Ridmark thought that neither the young soldier nor his aunt had a dishonest bone in their body. And Antenora had studied the dagger that Niall had produced, and had said that she did not recognize the style of weapon.
In all Ridmark’s travels, he had never seen orcs with red skin. Most of the orcish tribes and nations had green skin. The deep orcs, mutated to survive in the lightless tunnels of the Deeps, had yellowish-green skin, and the Anathgrimm orcs of Queen Mara had black bones that grew from their skin to create an extra layer of armor. Yet Ridmark had never seen or heard of orcs with skin the color of human blood.
Until recently.
“One way or another,” said Accolon, “we are going to find some answers here.” His voice softened. “Let us hope for the Regency Council’s sake that they prefer to do it the easy way instead of the hard way.”
They followed the broad avenue that led into the heart of the Western City of Cintarra. The houses changed from three or four-story buildings to the grand mansions of the nobles and wealthy merchants. Ridmark noted that the merchants and nobles of Cintarra preferred to build domi in the same style as Tarlion, tall houses of white stone and tiled roofs around a central courtyard. Unlike Tarlion, the Cintarran style also had a central tower, slender and narrow, that rose like a sword thrust against the sky. As far as Ridmark could tell, the towers had no practical function and served as a reflection of the prestige and wealth of the house’s owner. Then again, in times of strife (such as now), he supposed they would make excellent strongholds against attack, and the highest chambers of the towers would make good strong rooms for storing treasure. His friend Jager, now the Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest, had once been the Master Thief of Cintarra, and he had raided the wealthy houses of Cintarra with impunity until he had been forced to flee with Mara to escape the wrath of the Red Family.
At last, they came to the Forum of the Princes, the broad market before the gates of the Prince’s Palace. The finest inn and the richest shops lined the square, and in the center of the forum stood a massive fountain, its waters splashing and bubbling. A plinth rose in the center of the basin, and atop the plinth stood a massive equestrian statue of an armored knight, a sword in his right hand, a shield adorned with the sigil of the Gwyrdragons on his right arm. The statue was so detailed that it almost looked as if foam should have flown from the flaring nostrils of the rearing warhorse.
On the south side of the forum spread the Prince’s Palace. Its towers did not rise as high as those of the Citadel in Tarlion, but the Palace nonetheless took up three times the space of the High King’s Citadel, spreading through courtyards and lush gardens. Despite its greater size, the Palace had been built of gleaming red granite, and it was a strong fortress. The outer gate was open, and a troop of men-at-arms in Gwyrdragon green stood before the gate. In their midst was a knight on horseback in chain mail and a surcoat. He sat as straight as a sword in the saddle, and his face had no expression as Accolon’s party approached. Ridmark gave the knight a hard look. He was young, somewhere in his thirties, and he had the mustache and pointed beard favored by the Cintarran nobility, his hair a gleaming golden mane. Nevertheless, he looked strong and fit, and he had the wary eyes of a veteran soldier.
“My lords!” cal
led the knight as they approached. “Might I presume I have the honor of addressing the knights of Crown Prince Accolon Pendragon?”
“You do,” said Sir Peter. “Might we know your name, sir?”
The knight vaulted from his saddle with fluid grace and offered a grandiose Cintarran bow. “I am Owain Redshield, knight of Cintarra, and I have the honor of serving as the Constable of Cintarra in these troubled times.” Ridmark remembered where he had heard that name before. During the Frostborn war, a common soldier named Owain had saved the life of Prince Tywall’s father, fighting until he held only his bloody shield. Prince Cadwall had knighted the man and taken him into his household.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” said Accolon, inclining his head to Sir Owain. “I am Accolon Pendragon, Crown Prince of Andomhaim. This is Lord Ridmark Arban, my magister militum, and his wife Calliande, the Keeper of Andomhaim. Sir Peter Vanius, the commander of my footmen. Has the Regency Council been summoned?”
“Aye, lord Prince, they have,” said Owain. “And they were none too happy about it if you’ll forgive the observation.” He almost smiled “Given the age and girth of these bankers and cheese merchants, they aren’t happy about moving fast. The Regency Council will receive you in the western courtyard once they arrive…”
“Receive me, Sir Owain?” said Accolon, his voice soft but hard. “I am the heir to the throne of Andomhaim. The Regency Council is the vassals and servants of Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon, and my father is Prince Tywall’s overlord. No. When the lords of the Regency Council arrive, you will inform them that they shall attend to me in the great hall.”
Owain blinked several times and then smiled. “My lord Prince, I shall carry out your orders with the greatest pleasure.” Ridmark suspected they may have found an ally in the Constable of Cintarra, who did not seem that fond of his masters in the Regency Council.
“Excellent,” said Accolon. “Let us proceed to the great hall.”
They rode into the Palace, through the gleaming courtyards and the fine gardens. The difference from the city’s crowded, reeking streets was stark. A mob of squires and liveried halfling servants arrived to attend to their horses, and Sir Owain himself led them to the Palace’s great hall. It was a grand space with a lofty, vaulted ceiling. Tall, narrow windows of lead-framed glass admitted the sunlight. Captured banners of orcish chieftains hung from the walls, and behind the dais hung a massive banner worked with the green dragon of the Gwyrdragons. On the dais sat a single U-shaped wooden curule chair, where the lords of Andomhaim traditionally sat to deliver their judgments. Ever since the founding of Cintarra, the Princes of the city would have sat in that chair to issue their decrees.
Accolon did not hesitate. He strode down the length of the hall, climbed the dais, and seated himself on the curule chair. Ridmark shared a look with Calliande. Accolon was well within his rights to do that. An overlord had the right to use his vassals’ castras in time of need, and the High King was the overlord of all Andomhaim. Accolon was here as his father’s deputy and emissary. He had the right to sit in the Prince’s chair, but the proud lords of Cintarra would no doubt take that as an insult.
Perhaps Accolon intended an insult.
“I will receive the lords of the Regency Council here, Sir Owain,” said Accolon.
“The lords will be…surprised to hear of it, lord Prince,” said Owain.
“I intend to surprise the lords a great deal more,” said Accolon. “Where is Prince Tywall?”
“Prince Tywall has been sick for some weeks, my lord,” said Owain. “Cyprian, the Master of the Scepter Bank, has taken him into his own house and paid for his physicians and care. As for the Regency lords, I have sent messages, and they will arrive when they can…”
“They are not to come when convenient, Lord Constable,” said Accolon. “They are to come immediately. Will you send men to bring them here now? Or shall my own knights and men-at-arms roust them?”
Owain blinked, and then smiled and offered a bow. “My lord Prince, few things would give me greater pleasure. I shall have the lords of the Council brought here within the hour.”
“Thank you,” said Accolon.
Owain hurried off at a jog.
“You’re going to make some enemies,” murmured Calliande to Accolon.
“I know,” said Accolon. “But I already have enemies in Cintarra, do I not? The Drakocenti killed Caitrin and tried to kill me, and they would have succeeded if not for Niall.” The Crown Prince nodded to the young man-at-arms, who looked a little embarrassed. “And even if the lords of the Regency Council are not already my foes, their misrule of Cintarra has brought the city and its lands to the edge of revolt and ruin. It is well past time that the Council felt fear for its mistakes.”
“Be wary,” said Ridmark. “The lords will not respond well.”
“Aye,” said Accolon. “But that is why my father sent you with me.”
Again, Ridmark shared a look with Calliande. From what he had heard, the Regency Council of Cintarra was made up of minor lords and merchants, not the sort of men accustomed to leading soldiers in battle or resolving disputes with violence. Yet the merchant families of Cintarra had a traditional means of settling disputes, and that was by hiring the cult of assassins known as the Red Family of Cintarra. Ridmark had fought the Red Family several times before the Frostborn war, and he wasn’t looking forward to repeating the experience.
It was possible that one of the lords of the Council might hire the assassins to kill Accolon before the day was out.
They did not have to wait long. Ridmark saw men hurrying through the courtyard outside, and after about half an hour, the lords of the Regency Council arrived, clearly flustered and angry at Accolon’s preemptory summons and attended by a small army of halfling servants in livery. Ridmark looked them over with a critical eye. There were sixteen members of the Regency Council, and as he expected, they were either fat merchants in bright colors or minor knights grown plump from idleness. Yet one of the men was lean and withered-looking, with iron-gray hair and a severe face. He wore a red coat, polished black boots, and black trousers. A cap with a golden badge rested on his head, and his dark eyes seemed cold and measuring while the other fifteen men looked either frightened or angry.
“I say, what is the meaning of this?” said one of the lords, a fat man with a flame-red beard and a ruddy face. “We are the rulers of Cintarra, and not to be summoned like scullion maids to…”
“Silence!” roared Sir Peter, and the bearded lord flinched. “You stand in the presence of Accolon Pendragon, Crown Prince of Andomhaim and heir to the throne of the High King! Arandar Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim, has appointed Accolon as his emissary to investigate numerous reports of abuses and dark cults in Cintarra.”
“Dark cults?” said one of the lords, taken aback. “I…”
“Then we welcome you, Prince Accolon, to Cintarra,” said the thin man in the red coat, smoothly going to one knee before the dais, “and welcome you in the name of our lord Prince Tywall. Alas, our young lord is too sick to travel, or else we would have brought him here to greet you joyfully.”
The other lords seemed to take the hint and went to one knee as well, some of them struggling due to their girth.
Accolon gazed at them for a moment, his hawk-like features impassive, and then he gestured with his left hand. “You may rise.” He looked at the thin man in the red coat. “Your name, sir?”
The red-coated man offered a deep bow. “Cyprian of Cintarra, my lord, a humble banker. I have the honor of serving as the Master of the Scepter Bank, helping to fund the enterprises and industrious workshops of our city.”
Ridmark considered him. So this was the Master of the Scepter Bank…and the man to whom Abbot Caldorman had sent all the wealth of his monastery before he had tried to kill Accolon.
“Lord Hadrian Vindon, my lord,” said the fat red-bearded lord, “the Comes of Greenbridge.”
One by one, the other fourteen lords introd
uced themselves. Ridmark suspected that Master Cyprian and Lord Hadrian were the dominant personalities on the Council. He was surprised at the absence of his older brother. Caelmark Arban was the Archbishop of Cintarra, the most powerful churchman in the city and one of the most influential men in the realm of Andomhaim. Ridmark would have assumed that Caelmark would have been on the Council, though he could not see his dour, humorless brother countenancing any kind of corruption.
Which might explain why Caelmark was not on the Council.
But it had been Caelmark who had sent Sir Valmark Arban with a message for Arandar about matters in Cintarra…and Valmark had fallen in the fighting at Castarium.
“We are honored to receive you, Prince Accolon,” said Cyprian.
“So I see,” said Accolon. “You said Prince Tywall was receiving care in your house? I should like to visit him at once.”
“I would like that as well, my lord, and I am sure that would cheer the young prince greatly,” said Cyprian. “Nonetheless, I would counsel against it. The prince is severely ill with a highly virulent fever. If you caught it and fell sick, the consequences for the realm could be catastrophic.”
“That is dark news,” said Accolon. “Fortunately, I have the Keeper of Andomhaim with me, and she is renowned as the best healer within the Order of the Magistri.”
“I should be more than glad to examine Prince Tywall,” said Calliande. She had the mien of the Keeper now, calm and cool.
“I will speak with the Magistri and physicians attending him,” said Cyprian with smooth grace. “Alas, I fear the prince’s illness is a natural ailment and not a wound that can be healed through magic. The physicians say it must work its course.”
“We shall see,” said Calliande.
“My lord, I am overjoyed that you are here,” said another of the lords, a stout man named Lythan Radyr. He wore the Cintarran mustache and beard, and his face seemed to have swollen behind it. “But why have you come?”
“It seems the Regency Council prefers blunt speaking,” said Accolon. “That is well, for I intend to speak bluntly. My lords, the state of Cintarra is disgraceful.”
Dragontiarna: Thieves Page 3