Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “My plan is to get out to the street and see what I can do to help,” she said. “I guess we’ll see what your plan is.” She dashed around the tables and out to the balcony.

  Jerinne followed close behind, even though her ankle flared with every step. She could ignore it, push through it. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “Lieutenant Fredelle Pence,” she said, tapping the braid on the cuff of her uniform jacket. “Third-year Initiate, hmm? What’s with your leg?”

  “It’s pretty much healed,” Jerinne said reflexively.

  From up on the balcony, the chaos in the streets was far more clear. A large group of people had placed themselves in front of the store entrance, arms linked together. A woman was in front of the group—a cloistress in a red habit. She was shouting something to the angry people around them, but Jerinne couldn’t make it out.

  And the people were quite angry. They were going to get violent very shortly. It was amazing they hadn’t started bashing skulls in already.

  Lieutenant Pence shook her head. “Starting third year with an injury. Oh, that’s rough.”

  “It’s fine!” Jerinne argued.

  Lieutenant Pence paid more attention to the crowd below. “Kelvanne!” she shouted out. “I need a box catch!”

  A group of women—in uniforms that matched Pence’s, which Jerinne found fetching but impractical—took note of her call and ran over.

  “Why am I here?” Jerinne asked.

  “Hold that,” Pence said, handing her the staff. “How are your skills with the staff? Ranks come out yet?”

  “Ranks, I—that’s tomorrow.”

  Pence shook her head. “That was a rough day, let me tell you. Steel yourself, girl.” With that, she jumped over the railing of the balcony. Jerinne looked over and saw that four of the army women had crossed their arms together and caught her safely. Pence hopped back on her feet and shouted up to Jerinne.

  “Throw me the staff!”

  Jerinne wasn’t sure what else to do, so she tossed it down. “Now what?”

  “Keep order inside, Initiate!”

  She winked and bolted off, with the other army women behind her.

  “Keep order,” Jerinne muttered, wondering what Lieutenant Pence had even brought her along for. And why she had so eagerly followed. But this lieutenant was right about one thing: She had started out her third year on a bad foot, literally. Now that formal training of Initiacy was starting up, she would change the blazes out of that.

  Chapter 2

  THE CROWD WAS ANGRY.

  When Dayne made it to the street, that was all he could see at first. Screaming, angry people, ready to riot, clustered around the main doors of the store. Were they just trying to get inside? What was stopping them? He pressed in closer, calling out for people to stand aside. His height, uniform, and commanding voice all helped him make his way to the doors and see what was happening.

  A group blocked the entrance, arms locked and standing strong together. Dayne was shocked by the type of people they were, based on their dress. Somber and conservative—high-necked, light-colored suits and prim, demure dresses. The woman leading the group, front and center, was wearing the robes and coif of a Cloistress of the Red.

  She paced in front of the group like a mountain lion, and her pure force of will seemed to be the only thing that kept the crowd from rushing in and beating them all senseless. No one wanted to be the one who attacked a Sister of the Church.

  “How dare you?” she cried out to the crowd. The drawn vowels of her accent confirmed what Dayne had suspected from their clothing: They were from Scaloi, the southernmost archduchy of Druthal, bordering the theocratic Acseria.

  Dayne pressed closer, seeing that the crowd had not fully restrained themselves. Several in the Scallic group had bleeding gashes; at least one was standing only because his compatriots were holding him up. How this cloistress had even managed to break them off was a mystery to Dayne.

  “These are people of peace!” the cloistress shouted. “And you—you!” She pointed at one man in particular. “Do you have no sense of sanctity? Do you have no decency? Blood is on your hands!”

  “Get them out of the rutting way!” someone shouted.

  “Out of the way?” the cloistress sneered. “So you all can go inside? See all the pretty things? Spend your money?”

  “We need to vote!” someone else shouted.

  “Oh, vote?” she snapped back. “And who gives you that right? Who tells you that you can have a say over who commands me and mine, in our home?”

  “That right is enshrined in the Rights of Man,” Dayne said. Possibly louder than he intended. Many eyes turned to him, including the cloistress.

  “Hey, it’s Dayne!” someone shouted. “The hero of the Parliament!”

  “Dayne!” another voice shouted.

  “Dayne! Get them out! Clear those blighters!”

  The crowd parted enough to clear a path between Dayne and the cloistress.

  “So this is what it comes to?” she asked. “A giant man with a sword come to slaughter us? Pile our bodies like cordwood, so none will be inconvenienced? Greedy pockets will be filled, but all your souls will stay empty!”

  “I will not draw my sword on you,” Dayne said, holding his hands up away from his belt. “Nor will I use my hands on you. But you must end this disruption.”

  “I will tell you what is a disruption, giant,” she said. “This parade, in the name of unity, in the name of Druthal, a reunified nation! But today is not Reunification Day! Today is Saint Alexis Day! And yet where is the sanctity to her? Where is the reverence?”

  “No one should—” Dayne started.

  “I will tell you, the only reverence is to the crowns passing between hands in there!” She pointed to the store. “And these fine folk are so excited to spend their money they are willing to beat and murder for the opportunity!”

  “You can’t—” Dayne tried again. The crowd was starting to rile again. Dayne turned to them all. “Everyone back up a little. Step back!”

  “Just thump them!” someone shouted.

  “Crack some skulls!”

  “Always violence,” the cloistress said.

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Dayne said. He held his hands out wide. “But I can’t hold them all off.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  That took Dayne aback. “No ma’am. I’m just saying I can only do so much. But I will do all that I can.”

  “Good.”

  “But you cannot be doing this,” he stressed. “You have to let people in. You have to let people out. It isn’t your place—”

  “I will tell you what’s my place,” she said, pressing forward so she was right up on him. “Sharing the words of Saint Alexis. Do you know what she did? She stood and fought for Scaloi. When Linjari heathens came for her village, she took up her father’s mace and held them back. Then she took the weapons they left behind when they fled and melted them down into her armor, which she called upon God to bless.”

  “I know the story, ma’am—”

  “Then you know how she was betrayed, don’t you?” She pointed to the crowd. “She was sent by the Scallic queen as an emissary, to answer the call of unity. She came here, to this fetid sewage pile of a city”—that drew some shocked gasps— “and it was here that the Linjari envoy, filled with treachery, assassinated her. And then rather than return her to the homeland, the so-called King of Maradaine hid her body and her blessed relics.”

  “What do you mean so-called?” someone from the crowd shouted.

  “What do you mean Linjari heathens?” Another voice from the crowd, this one with a sultry Linjari accent.

  “I mean, why should we, the good and godly people of Scaloi, be forced to kneel as one of ten archduchies, when those very Linjari heathens are treated exactly the same. T
hese ten archduchies should not be wrapped up together like a closed fist”–she mimed this, and then spread her hands wide, splaying her fingers out— “when they should be an open hand.”

  The Open Hand. That’s who these people were. Radicals bent on Scallic Independence from Druthal. So this was a protest specifically against the election. Against a united Druthal.

  But as much as Dayne disagreed with them, they had a right to their opinion. A right to argue it.

  “And you, girl,” the cloistress shouted. She was pointing across the crowd, where Fredelle now stood with the rest of Royal First Irregulars at her back. But the cloistress didn’t point to Fredelle. Rather, she was pointing at the woman wielding the Scallic mace. “You carry the sacred weapon of Saint Alexis, but yet you’re painted and dressed like a common street doxy. How dare you—”

  “I’ll show you what I dare!” This didn’t come from the girl with the mace, but the one next to her, wielding a chain-flail. The same one with the Linjari accent who had called out earlier.

  “Oh, you have a Linjari whore standing by your side?”

  The girl responded by spinning her flail so fast it became a blur, and the crowd around her cleared back. Dayne jumped up in front of the cloistress, shield up.

  “Stand down, Evicka.” This came from Fredelle, in the front of the Royal First with her quarterstaff. “We’re not going after civilians.”

  “You heard what she said,” Evicka said.

  “Stand. Down,” Fredelle said.

  “We’re both lieutenants,” Evicka said. “You can’t order me.” Despite that, she stopped spinning her flail, and stepped back to the others.

  “Quite a good show, Tarian,” the cloistress said.

  “You all need to disperse,” Dayne said, turning to them. “This does not aid your cause.”

  “And what do you know of our cause? Why would you help?”

  “I wouldn’t help,” Dayne said. “I completely disagree with it. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t fight for it as best you can. Properly. Legally.”

  “We’re peacefully protesting,” she said. “But we’ll be treated like criminals, nonetheless. It won’t be long before—”

  Constabulary whistles trilled through the air.

  “Here it comes,” the cloistress called to her people. “Remember the rules. Remember what we were told. Do not comply, but do not resist. No one do anything violent.”

  The crowd opened up and a cadre of constables swept in, handsticks out. Dayne was afraid they would just start cracking skulls instead of assessing the situation. Especially since the cloistress ordered her people to stay peaceful. It should be possible to diffuse the protest peacefully.

  “Officers, if we can—” Dayne started, but they came right at the cloistress and Open Hand protestors without stopping. In moments they were bringing down their handsticks on people’s heads, knocking them to the ground. Two constables came at the cloistress, but Dayne stepped in, blocking their blows with his shield.

  “Oy, stand down!” one of them shouted at him.

  “Who do you think you are?” another yelled.

  “You will not accost her,” Dayne said. He stared them down, and the two of them, sizing up their ability to get past him, backed away a bit. Dayne continued, “Arrest her if you must, but there is no need for this savagery.”

  One of the two—the one with sergeant’s stripes—glanced at his fellows, and blew his whistle. The constables all looked up, stopping their assault on the protestors.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “Iron them up. Call Yellowshields if they need them. Take them all down to the stationhouse.”

  “Name our charges,” the cloistress said.

  The sergeant came up to her and put her wrists in irons. “You are bound by law. You will be detained and charged. The charges will include and not be limited to disrupting the public peace and blocking a public square.”

  In moments the doors of Henson’s Majestic were clear, and people came streaming out. It didn’t take long before the whole situation calmed, and traffic in the square returned to normal.

  But there were still two dozen people, including the cloistress, pressed facedown on the cobblestones, ironed and waiting for the lockwagon. Dayne couldn’t help but think it could have been resolved in a more peaceful manner.

  * * *

  Hemmit Eyairin had found the morning parades deeply uninteresting—a toothless celebration of Druth unity showing the most banal aspects of each archduchy, highlighted with the weapons display by the Royal First. That was at least well-choreographed, but fundamentally flawed. It had nothing to do with the real problems people faced, and the problems they hoped their votes would help solve. Certainly, nothing worth writing about in The Veracity Press.

  While it was boring, it was a commotion. And a commotion meant people, people to whom The Veracity Press could be sold. That was the real reason he was out here today. Usually they had their cadre of newsboys selling papers, but election season had scooped up most of those boys, hired to deliver candidate flyers and pamphlets. So Hemmit had to hawk them himself.

  He had gotten separated from Maresh Niol and Lin Shartien, his fellow publishers. He had already decided he should sell by himself—one publisher trying to sell their paper showed dedication. All three would look desperate. They were a ways from that. The paper still managed to cover its own costs, even with sales taking a hit right now.

  But now in the crowd, he couldn’t see Lin or Maresh anymore. He suspected that Lin had gone into the Majestic, and dragged Maresh along with her.

  That was before the crowd turned ugly in front of the entrance to the store. Hemmit tried to approach, find out what was going on, but the crowd was far too thick and agitated to get close. More so once Dayne arrived on the scene. Hemmit should have been surprised at Dayne’s sudden appearance, but he wasn’t. He knew Dayne was going to be at the Majestic opening—his relationship with Lady Mirianne made that a given—and whenever there was trouble, Dayne would always step in to diffuse the situation. It was who the man was.

  Dayne Heldrin was a towering example of a man. Not only was he built like a tree, but he had the heart of a champion. Dayne had stood on the Parliament floor and kept that madman Tharek Pell from killing any more members of Parliament. Even though Hemmit felt that the nation needed some kind of revolution, some change, the violent methods of Tharek and the other Haltom’s Patriots were not the way. No, it needed to be done with words, with ideas. With votes.

  And a few well-chosen actions. Hemmit respected a protest, and from what he could see, these people were trying to make their point without violence. Hemmit didn’t know what that point was, and he certainly didn’t know if he would agree with it. But he did respect that they were trying to be heard, and not forcing their idea with the point of a sword. That was the right way to do it.

  Hemmit wasn’t able to get closer, not without creating trouble, so he couldn’t hear the argument Dayne was having with the woman leading the commotion. He made out some salient points: The protestors were from the Open Hand, whatever that was. And they were Scallic, clearly proud of that point.

  It hardly mattered, though, as the constables rushed in and started cracking protestors to the ground, ironing them up in a matter of moments. As much trouble as the protests caused—or at least inconvenience—Hemmit definitely thought the constables were going too far. Nothing they had done warranted handsticks across their heads, or pressing their faces into the cobblestone.

  “Dayne!” he shouted. “Dayne, stop this!”

  Dayne couldn’t possibly hear him, but the big man was doing his best to keep the constables from being too violent. Hemmit pushed his way through the crowd, moving up on the constables as they finished ironing up the protesters. “You, sir! This is improper! I will have your name, as well as your supervisor’s!”

  “Who the bl
azes are you, hecker?” the constable snarled. “Maybe you should be pulled down to the stationhouse as well.”

  “You’re already going to be written up in the press, so, certainly, make me part of the story,” Hemmit said.

  “Easy, Hemmit,” Dayne said.

  “This your friend, Tarian?” the constable asked. “Do him a favor and get him out of here.”

  Hemmit peered at the man’s badge. “I’ve got you, Officer Gren Robbins. You’re being written about now.”

  “And we see you!” the cloistress on the ground cried out. “This is how Druthal treats its people, which is why we want no part of it!”

  Officer Robbins blew his whistle. “Everyone clear off!” he shouted. “Show’s over, the lockwagon needs to come through.”

  Most people shuffled away. The women from the Royal First Irregulars came over, the one with the quarterstaff taking the lead.

  “Was this supposed to be a day off?” she asked Dayne.

  “We don’t really have those,” Dayne told her. He glanced over at Hemmit, and must have noticed the look of confusion on his face. “Hemmit, this is Fredelle Pence.”

  “Lieutenant Pence,” she said, almost more to Dayne than to Hemmit. She took Hemmit’s hand. “You’re the one who wrote that pamphlet about him.”

  “Guilty,” Hemmit said. “The truth is the truth.”

  She held his grip while locking with his gaze. “I was part of his Tarian Initiate cohort before being a part of this.”

  “Part of this,” one of the other Irregulars scoffed. “Stop acting like you’re above us, Frell.”

  “Kelvanne, if you do not shut your jaw—”

  “Ladies, please,” Hemmit said. “It’s supposed to be a joyous day, no?”

  “It certainly is.” Lady Mirianne swept out the main doors of the store—her store, her grand, majestic store—with a small retinue that managed to include Lin, Maresh, and Dayne’s young charge Jerinne. “And I suggest we all strive to maintain that.” She came over, hooking her arm into Dayne’s, and approached the First Irregulars.