Malison: Dragon Umbra Read online

“Master Ruire asked me to summon you,” said Sigurd. She smiled at him, though her eyes remained cold. “My uncle wishes to speak with you.”

  “Of course, mistress,” said Tyrcamber, rising to his feet. “Please, lead the way.”

  He glanced back at Angaric and shrugged. Angaric scowled and shook his head, and Tyrcamber followed Sigurd as she walked to the dais and the high table. Her gown fit her well, though not tight enough to allow for any impropriety. Nonetheless, for a brief moment, he found himself mesmerized by the sway of her hips beneath her skirt, and he had a sudden vivid fantasy of grasping those hips and pulling her close. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman, whether willing or hired, and…

  Irritated, he dismissed the thought. He wondered if Sigurd realized just how attractive she really was. Though given the low curtsies she had offered both him and the Chancellor, likely she knew perfectly well. She started to glance back at him, perhaps to see if he had been looking, and he schooled his face to calm.

  Or maybe she had just looked back to see if he was following her.

  Damn it! His father had told him, frequently and at great length, that a woman’s beauty could fuddle a man’s wits, and certainly, Tyrcamber’s brothers had proven that more than once. Perhaps he ought to learn from some of their more unfortunate examples.

  He reached the dais, stopped before the high table, and offered a bow to Master Ruire and Count Radobertus.

  “My lords,” said Tyrcamber. “You wished to speak with me?”

  “The Shield does,” said Ruire, gesturing with his dagger. There was no trace of food left on his plate. Ruire, like any old soldier, knew to eat when food was offered. “He wanted to discuss what you saw at Tolbiac.”

  Tyrcamber turned his gaze to Rincimar. “Shield? What would you know?”

  Rincimar considered him for a moment with hooded blue eyes. Unlike the aldermen, who were well on their way to overfed drunkenness, he did not seem to have eaten to excess. He looked relaxed in his high-backed chair, but something in his stance put Tyrcamber in mind of a panther waiting to strike.

  “You are Sir Tyrcamber Rigamond?” said Rincimar. “The youngest son of Duke Chilmar of Chalons?”

  “That is correct, sir,” said Tyrcamber. Technically, Rincimar was a commoner and Tyrcamber a noble, but the Shield held greater authority in Falconberg. Tyrcamber would be a fool to forget that.

  Rincimar offered a sardonic smile. “Duke Chilmar’s opinion of the Free Cities is well known. Do you share his opinions, Sir Tyrcamber?”

  “My father is the Duke of Chalons, sir, and I am his youngest son,” said Tyrcamber. “Should mischance befall all five of my elder brothers and I become the Duke, then I shall decide what my opinions are. Until then, I am sworn to the Order of Embers, and such matters of high policy are for the Master and the preceptors of my Order to decide.”

  Ruire seemed to approve of that answer, though something cold glittered in Rincimar’s blue eyes.

  “A good answer, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rincimar. “But you already have five years of experience in the Order, do you not? Should you continue your service, you will likely one day become one of the preceptors of your Order. Perhaps even the Master, if God and fortune favor you. What then will be your opinion of the Imperial Free Cities?”

  Tyrcamber realized he had walked into that question.

  He met the Shield’s gaze. “Should I have the honor of rising to such a lofty office, I shall fulfill my duty as best I can. And my opinion on the Imperial Free Cities is that all men of the Empire must stand against our foes. The Valedictor cares not whether we are noble, commoner, burgher, priest, or vassal. He will destroy us all, and we must stand together or perish.”

  “Another wise answer, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rincimar, and he rose. “Come with me for a moment. Master Ruire?”

  Tyrcamber froze, but Ruire rose and beckoned. He walked around the high table and joined the Master and the Shield, and they retreated a few steps to the back of the dais, where the high altar would have been had this building been a church. The faint murmur of conversation from the hall came to Tyrcamber’s ears, and the dim blue light of the nighttime sky fire leaked through the narrow windows overhead.

  “Now,” said Rincimar in a quiet voice, “we can speak privily. There are things I wish to hear from you, Sir Tyrcamber.”

  “What things are those, sir?” said Tyrcamber, watching the older man.

  “The Shield wants to know what you saw under the hill,” said Ruire.

  “There was little enough to see, sir,” said Tyrcamber, but he told Rincimar about the tomb and the opened sarcophagus. Rincimar drummed his fingers on the pommel of his sword as Tyrcamber spoke but did not interrupt.

  “You are sure of this?” said Rincimar when Tyrcamber had finished. “There was an object of powerful dark magic within the tomb?”

  “I am certain of it,” said Tyrcamber. “I sensed it myself. Sir Angaric has greater skill with the Sense spell than I do, and he felt the same thing.”

  Rincimar let out a breath and paced a few steps to the side, forward and back again.

  “Damnation,” he said at last.

  “If you know something,” said Ruire, “I suggest that you share it, Shield.”

  Rincimar offered a cold smile. “If I knew something useful, I would share it. Then I could point the Imperial Orders at my fears, and they would trouble me no more.” He jerked his head at Tyrcamber. “How much does he know about the Dragon Cult?”

  A mixed wave of weary resignation and fear went through Tyrcamber. The Dragon Cult again? Their schemes had almost caused disaster at Tongur and again at Tamisa, and Tyrcamber had been in the right place at the right time to thwart their plots.

  He really hoped there were no Dragon Cultists in Falconberg, but given the size of the city, that seemed like a futile hope.

  “More than most,” said Ruire. “Sir Tyrcamber killed a new-made Dragonmaeloch during Duke Faramund’s recent campaign against the xiatami.”

  “Did you?” said Rincimar. He looked startled for a moment, and then the sardonic mask returned. “I have had battles with the Cult as well. Most recently eight years ago, when I became Shield of Falconberg. Not all the aldermen…welcomed my ascension, shall we say. Especially since I drove the Dragon Cult from the city and several of the aldermen followed its doctrines.”

  “The Dragon Cult was strong in Falconberg?” said Tyrcamber.

  “This is not well known outside of the high officers of the Imperial Orders,” said Ruire. “The Shield more or less seized power in Falconberg,” Rincimar snorted, “and expelled the cult in the process. The Emperor was willing to overlook the new Shield’s…indiscretions so long as he kept a firm line against the cult and met Falconberg’s requirements for taxes and levies.”

  “Which I have,” said Rincimar. “But the Dragon Cult became strong in Falconberg because they were looking for something here. Some lost relic of power once wielded by the dark elves that was supposed to be hidden beneath the city.”

  Tyrcamber had a sinking feeling. “Hidden beneath the city, or nearby?”

  “Or nearby,” said Rincimar. “So, when your Master told me your tale, you can see how it caught my attention.”

  “Is this Michael Gantier part of the Dragon Cult?” said Tyrcamber.

  “I doubt it,” said Rincimar. “The rat never valued anything except his own skin. But if the Dragon Cult paid him, aye, he would do their bidding quick enough.”

  “It seems likely the Cult wishes to disrupt the Chancellor’s meeting with the First,” said Ruire. “If the umbral elves side with the Valedictor, more humans will be driven to the Malison in desperation. More dragons will arise. That is always the Cult’s goal.”

  “What can be done, my lord?” said Tyrcamber.

  “At the moment, nothing,” said Ruire. “We have no leads, no potential lines of investigation, and no place to start. We can do nothing but remain vigilant.”

  “I have my spies,”
said Rincimar. “Both here in the city and in the countryside. They will seek Gantier. If we can find him, we’ll have some answers.” His eyes flashed with anger. “And I’ll have his traitorous head mounted over Falcon Hall.”

  “We have taken you into our confidence, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Ruire, “because you have a great deal of experience with the Dragon Cult. For the moment, speak of this to no one. We shall have to exercise the greatest caution once the First of the umbral elves arrives.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Come,” said Rincimar, as if he had tired of the discussion. “We have been away from the feast for too long. Too much more and the aldermen will think we are plotting among ourselves.”

  Which, Tyrcamber supposed, they were.

  They returned to the high table at the edge of the dais. Sigurd still stood there, smiling and chatting with two of the aldermen. Tyrcamber recognized Heinrich Vordin by his brilliant white hair, but for a moment he could not place the name of the second alderman, even though the Shield had introduced all the aldermen to Master Ruire before the feast began. Master Ruire would have to remember their names. Tyrcamber, thankfully, would not.

  “My dear, you must consider the matter soon,” said the second alderman. He was younger than Vordin and considerably fatter. Rings glittered on his fingers, and his close-cropped dark hair was shaded with gray. His face was flushed from the wine, and he was perspiring freely. “The Shield’s niece is the most eligible bride in Falconberg.”

  “Why, Alderman Quentin,” said Sigurd with a laugh, lifting a hand to her throat. That was the man’s name, Philip Quentin. “How very forward of you.”

  Vordin snorted at that.

  “I was not referring to myself, of course,” said Quentin. “But I should like to invite you and your chaperones to dinner soon. My sons will be returning from their service in the Emperor’s armies at Sinderost, and…”

  “Niece,” said Rincimar, and his eyes had a cold glitter as he looked at Quentin and Vordin. Tyrcamber got the impression that Rincimar did not like the two aldermen. “Please escort Sir Tyrcamber back to his seat.”

  “Of course, uncle,” said Sigurd, and her smile seemed more genuine as she looked at the Shield. “Please, Sir Tyrcamber, this way.”

  Tyrcamber nodded and followed Sigurd off the dais.

  “I hope you had a pleasant talk with my uncle,” said Sigurd.

  “Not particularly, I fear,” said Tyrcamber. “Matters of politics and war.”

  Sigurd gave an airy laugh. “Such things are beyond my comprehension.”

  “I doubt that very much,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Why, whatever do you mean?” said Sigurd in the same light tone.

  “There are advantages in being underestimated,” said Tyrcamber.

  Sigurd stopped at the foot of a pillar, turned, looked at him. He saw the same cold glitter in her blue eyes that he had seen in the Shield’s gaze.

  “That is a matter of politics and war,” said Sigurd.

  “Often they are one and the same,” said Tyrcamber. “Alderman Quentin seems quite taken with you.”

  Sigurd snorted. “The fat old lecher. He wants to marry me to one of his sons, true, but I have no doubt he would try to sneak into my bedchamber at night if he could manage it.” That glitter returned to her eyes. “He would earn a dagger in his neck for the trouble.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Do you?” said Sigurd. Her vapid smile returned. “After all, I am gentle and afraid of violence.”

  “Didn’t we just discuss how it is good to be underestimated?”

  Sigurd blinked, and then laughed a little. “Perhaps. It is useful.” Her mouth twisted. “Half the wealthy men of Falconberg seek my hand, either for themselves or for their sons. And it is all because of my uncle and his power.”

  “They seek an alliance with the Shield?” said Tyrcamber.

  Sigurd scoffed. “They seek to use me as a weapon against him because they hate and fear him.”

  “Do they?” said Tyrcamber, glancing at the dais. So far no one seemed to mind that he was talking with the Shield’s niece. After all, they were standing in a hall with hundreds of witnesses, so it wasn’t as if any impropriety could take place. “He seems to have them well in hand.”

  “He does keep them under control, but they hate it,” said Sigurd. “The rich merchants and aldermen of this city are all afraid of him. My uncle was not from Falconberg. He and my father were from Corbrast originally, did you know that?” Tyrcamber shook his head. “They were men-at-arms in service to the Count of Nordenhold, fighting goblins and muridachs and ogres. They left and started a mercenary company and worked for nobles up and down the Empire.”

  “How did your uncle become the Shield of Falconberg?” said Tyrcamber.

  “It was eight years ago,” said Sigurd, her eyes distant. “I was still a girl at the time. My father and my uncle took a contract from the aldermen of Falconberg to patrol the road and clear out muridach raiders. But my father discovered that the Dragon Cult controlled the aldermen of Falconberg, and they murdered him and my mother for it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tyrcamber.

  Sigurd kept speaking. “My uncle rallied the loyal men of the city, and they drove the Dragon Cult from Falconberg. He executed nearly all of the aldermen in the process and installed himself as Shield. The Emperor approved, and he has ruled the city ever since.” She glanced in the direction of the high table. “But the aldermen and the guilds have never forgiven my uncle, have never forgotten that he is an outsider. If any of them want to marry me, it is to use me as a weapon against him.” She sighed. “And if, God forbid, he died tomorrow, they would throw me out of the city an hour later.”

  Tyrcamber considered that. Rincimar claimed to have purged the Cult from Falconberg before they could find the relic of power they sought. Yet Gantier had dug something up from the hill outside Tolbiac. Perhaps he had found whatever the Cult had sought, had been hired by the hidden remnants of Falconberg’s Cult chapter to locate the relic.

  Or maybe it was just a coincidence. His brothers had all said he thought too much. His sister Adalhaid sometimes teased him for it, but when she didn’t, she said that he was the cleverest of Chilmar Rigamond’s sons. That meant that Tyrcamber’s occasionally overactive imagination sometimes led him in the wrong direction.

  Or maybe it hadn’t. Tyrcamber had seen such things happen before, and they had been no fantasy.

  “I have troubled you with my worries, sir,” said Sigurd, cutting into his dark musings. She smiled that vapid smile again. “Will you ride in to rescue my gentle heart from my foes?”

  Tyrcamber snorted. “I am the youngest son of the Duke of Chalons. I suspect you have your gentle heart set upon a husband with higher prospects of inheritance than mine.”

  Sigurd blinked, and then let out a laugh. It was the first genuine laugh he had heard from her, and a few of the aldermen turned startled glances in their direction.

  “I think I like you, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Sigurd. “Come, let us return you to your seat. Too much longer and people will start to gossip.”

  “People will gossip in any event,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Ah, now you are beginning to understand the ways of Falconberg.”

  Tyrcamber returned to his table, offered Sigurd a polite bow, and she walked back to her uncle’s side. He seated himself and found himself meeting a suspicious stare from Angaric.

  “What?” said Tyrcamber.

  “Are you trying to seduce her?” said Angaric. “You know I have my eye on her.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Tyrcamber. “She’s the Shield’s daughter. Half the powerful men of Falconberg have their eye on her, and they have more money and influence than you do.”

  “Yes, but do they have my charm and wit?” said Angaric.

  “We may be grateful that they do not.”

  “What did the Shield want from you?” said Angaric, ap
parently deciding to drop the subject of Sigurd Rincimar. He took another drink of wine.

  “He wanted to hear about what happened at Tolbiac,” said Tyrcamber.

  Something in his tone caught Angaric’s attention. “You think there’s going to be trouble?” Despite his inebriation, he snapped into focus, and Tyrcamber glimpsed the deadly wizard who could use magic to cut down the Order’s foes while holding the curse of the Malison at bay.

  “Beyond all doubt.”

  Angaric grunted. “Then we’d better be wary.”

  ###

  Later the feast finished, and Tyrcamber and the other knights rode through the darkened streets of Falconberg to their Order’s chapterhouse.

  The men of Falconberg were forbidden from constructing castles, and that law applied to anyone within the boundaries of the city. The chapterhouse of the Order of Embers was not quite a castle, but it was as close to it as their engineers could come without violating the law. A stone wall ten feet high encircled the yard, topped with battlements and a rampart. No towers had been built within the wall, but instead a large barracks and a wide stable, along with various workshops to support the mission of the Order. The squires took Tyrcamber’s horse, and he walked into the barracks proper. The serjeants would bunk on the first floor, the knights on the second. As a knight, Tyrcamber rated his own room, though it was small enough that he could hold out his arms and touch both walls at once. Still, it was clean, and it had a bed, and after the long day and the large meal he was ready to lie down and sleep until duty called.

  He had just sat down to take off his boots when one of the squires knocked.

  “Sir Tyrcamber,” said the boy. “The Master has summoned you to the hall.”

  Tyrcamber started to sigh and realized this would not set a good example for the squire. So instead he nodded, stood up, and followed the squire from the barracks. The boy led him to the courtyard and then to the hall, a large wooden structure that looked a little like a barn. The knights and serjeants would dine here, and when necessary, the chapterhouse’s preceptor would hold assemblies.