Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  She had done her best when she came to Maradaine to ingratiate herself with Queen Fesia, so she could influence the young woman with her wisdom, and with that, influence the throne. But the queen had never engaged Erisia with anything more than the passing politeness that she would have given to any noblewoman. In essence, an insult.

  Erisia was hardly saddened when that smug woman had bled out on the birthing table.

  With no queen, the noblewoman of rank was Princess Carianna, sister to dear Prince Escaraine and second cousin to the king. Carianna kept her own counsel, and rarely involved herself in affairs of state at all. Cultivating a relationship with her was useless.

  So Erisia had to use her station in other ways to gain prominence and note in this city. She had two things in abundance that most others lacked: money and taste. That led her to rescue the failing opera house and begin restoration to its former glory. When she finally opened it, it would be a triumph for her name and her status, as well as the culture at large in this fetid metropolis.

  But then she became entangled with Archduke Holm Windall and the Grand Ten. Holm had plans, yes, grand plans, but while he had ambition and authority, he lacked capital. Almost all her co-conspirators lacked capital. It fell on her to finance their plans to restore Druthal and the Throne to the glory and decency they were due.

  Which meant the opera house needed to stay shuttered because the restoration was now just a front to hide the funding of their quiet revolution.

  No more.

  She waited patiently in the private showing room of Henson’s Majestic, sipping wine while a handful of shopgirls and dress models stood around her in terrified silence. It hadn’t been their fault; they all behaved impeccably, but she needed to put on a good show to get their mistress’s attention.

  And in moments, in she came. Lady Mirianne Henson, floating into the room with all the grace and poise that breeding and education could give. The young noblewoman was a very vision of loveliness, perfect blond curls cascading down and framing her face like she had just been painted by one of the eleventh-century masters.

  “Thank you, girls, you’ve all done very well,” she said to her staff. “You are all dismissed. I will handle the duchess personally.”

  The shopgirls and dress models scurried away like rats.

  “Your grace,” Lady Mirianne said, her voice now steely. “We are not supposed to speak outside of our prescribed roles.”

  “Stuff your prescribed roles,” Erisia said, finishing her wine. “Besides, no one would question this. Here I am, a woman of stature, attending the gala opening of this wondrous marvel in the center of the city. And as is due my station, I ask that the lady proprietress attend to me herself. No one would think anything unusual or amiss about this.”

  “So are you here to shop for a new dress, your grace?” Mirianne asked. “The saints all know your wardrobe could stand a bit of modernization.”

  “Yes, well, my funds have been tied up, haven’t they?” Erisia asked. “I would appreciate you personally selecting a few pieces for me and having them delivered to my household.”

  “Absolutely, I’ll call the seamstress in for measurements—”

  “I am not finished, Miri.”

  Erisia did not raise her voice, nor did she move from her chair. Still, she froze Lady Mirianne in her tracks. The daughter of an earl listens when a duchess speaks.

  And in their conspiracy, Erisia was The Duchess.

  “What else can I do for you, your grace?”

  “It’s very simple, dear,” Erisia said. “You’ve clearly got a sizable operation here. I can’t imagine that the bookkeeping will ever be completely straight.”

  “Oh, I have a very talented group of—”

  “Miri, you aren’t listening to me. Funds need to move around, payments need to be made. For the cause.”

  “We are not talking about—”

  “Let me make something very clear. Renovations of the opera house are almost finished.”

  “No, your grace, they cannot—”

  “They are almost finished,” Erisia said. “And I will be launching a proper opening with something spectacular in a few months. Because there is no reason why I should be made a laughingstock while you are so flush with success.”

  Mirianne swallowed hard. “Yes, of course.”

  Erisia got to her feet. “Excellent. And I can count on your patronage at the opera, of course?”

  “Always,” Mirianne said. “I presume you’re going to focus on some classics?”

  “I was thinking of opening with Demea,” Erisia said. “I would think a doomed love story would appeal to you.”

  That brought some shock to her face. “Your grace—”

  “Do your job,” Erisia said. It was bad enough that Mirianne embraced, even courted, scandal by so publicly taking a lover of common birth. But that she would do so with that Tarian who had been such a nuisance to the Ten’s plans was intolerable. “Keep that pet of yours on a tight leash. The elections are upon us, and we don’t need any further surprises.”

  “I will serve our interests, your grace,” Mirianne said. “And the interests of the kingdom, as I always have. I pray you are doing the same.”

  Erisia patted her on the cheek. “I look forward to seeing these new fashions you’re sending me. But no need to worry your seamstress. I’ll have my girl deliver measurements to you before the day is out. And may your day be filled with blessings.”

  She didn’t stay to hear further response from Mirianne. There was no need. There was nothing that crass girl with aspirations of revolution could say that interested Erisia Leighton. She was The Duchess, and Mirianne was merely The Lady. She understood the order of things.

  And if things went wrong, Erisia was already prepared for the brunt of the trouble to land at Lady Mirianne’s door.

  Chapter 4

  JERINNE WANTED TO GET back to the chapterhouse relatively quickly, but right when they left, Dayne’s attention was drawn to a bit of bad theater at the south end of Victory Square. If it had been a funny bit, she would have understood, but it was just ten people in historical clothes lined up while a narrator droned on.

  “And it is due to the Grand Ten, who fought and stood strong to bring us together, whose words and deeds define our new nation, that we now celebrate a reunited Druthal. We thank Geophry Haltom, The Parliamentarian, who raised up a rebellion within the city to throw off the Black Mage’s occupation. Who encouraged the newly enthroned king to form the Parliament, and wrote of the Rights of Man. We thank Jethiah Tull, The Man of the People, the farmer who diverted food and supplies from the mage’s armies to the citizens of the occupied city. We thank Baron Kelton Kege, The Lord, who was imprisoned for his refusal to bow to the Black Mage, who became a rallying point to end the terror of the Incursion.”

  Each person onstage stepped forward at their introduction. After a few more, Dayne shook his head and stalked off. Jerinne chased after him.

  “What was that?”

  “Bad history,” he grumbled. “The Grand Ten is a simplified view of the people and events that formed the core of our nation today. Haltom was a writer of the Rights of Man, but he was one of eight people who worked on it. A dozen members of the peerage were imprisoned with Baron Kege. Have you read Professor Teal’s The Foundation of Modern Druthal?”

  “No. . . .”

  “It’s in the library at the chapterhouse. Read it.”

  He walked in silence for several more blocks, even as Jerinne tried on multiple occasions to engage him in conversation. Whatever was gnawing at him, it wasn’t just about the play. It had started before lunch had even begun.

  “So, my new gloves are lovely,” she said.

  “It’s far too hot to wear them,” Dayne said quietly. “And will be for several months.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Jerinn
e said. She tried for a subject that was sure to engage Dayne: asking about the Tarians and other Elite Orders in a broad, historic context. “So, gloves are not part of our uniform, but surely there must be some sort of uniform alternatives for different seasons. The Cascians up in the mountains must have had gloves, I’m sure. But also Tarians elsewhere. They couldn’t expect a Tarian Adept to be in one of the brutal winters of Acora or the northern shores, and still hold sword and shield without gloves on.”

  “Shield and sword,” he said absently.

  Jerinne had said it wrong on purpose hoping it would snap him back.

  “What is wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Then what was I talking about?”

  “The gloves Lady Mirianne gave you at the store. I do hope your Waishen-haired shopgirl still earned her commission from those.”

  Jerinne didn’t know how it worked if Lady Mirianne just gave her the gloves. “Well, that’s an excuse to go back and give her a tip.”

  “I thought you were sweet on—what’s her name? Raila?”

  Jerinne’s heart almost stopped. She had never told Dayne. “How the blazes do you know that?”

  “It’s pretty plain on your face whenever you see her. Even if one doesn’t know your preference, it’s impossible to miss.”

  She had never actually told Dayne anything about how she felt about Raila, or how she felt about other girls in general. She hadn’t told anyone at all, except possibly Miss Jessel, Lady Mirianne’s handmaid, and only after several glasses of wine and whiskey. And those memories were fuzzy at best.

  She chose her next words very carefully. “And how do you feel about it?”

  This actually got him to stop walking in a semi-daze. “I won’t lie, I was raised to see that sort of thing as sin, and I probably held that view through most of my Initiacy.”

  That wasn’t exactly an answer. “Most of it?”

  “Then Fredelle cracked a quarterstaff on my leg and told me I was being an ‘idiot of the highest order.’”

  “Did she?” Jerinne asked. Her estimation of the woman went up. “Is she—”

  “Maybe,” Dayne said. “At the time I made a comment about two young men in the second year who were caught together. Fredelle reminded me—painfully—that it was no different from what Amaya and I were doing at the time.”

  “I’ve heard those stories.”

  “You have?” Dayne seemed scandalized.

  Jerinne regretted saying it. “Vien mentioned it.”

  “Oh.” He pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “Lacanja opened my eyes. It’s the sort of thing that is far more . . . liberated there. If that’s the right word.”

  “I think it’s a good word,” Jerinne said. Maybe she should go to Lacanja. “Maradaine is kind of a stuffy city, no?”

  “It’s different,” Dayne said. “I hope—” He paused for a moment. “Were I to become a Tarian Adept . . .”

  Were he? That sounded foolish. “Of course you are,” she told him.

  “Nothing is certain,” he said darkly. “But were I, I would like to be assigned to a wandering post, going from city to city as needed. Really see the whole country.”

  “Really?”

  “Those protestors came up from Scaloi. And, that’s part of this nation, yet so different. And I don’t know anything about it other than the stereotypes.”

  “Stern, religious-minded folk?” Jerinne asked. The one from the Irregulars—Argenitte? She didn’t do much to counter that image.

  “I’m just reminded how much of what I know of Druthal is academic.” He sighed again. “I didn’t enjoy living in Lacanja, but it helped me realize so many things I didn’t know about the world. Not just about . . . people’s romantic flexibility.”

  She looked at him, and he was blushing bright red. “We don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “But I’m glad you don’t disapprove.”

  “Of you?” Dayne smiled. “I don’t think I ever could.”

  They entered the chapterhouse—an old city manor house from the tenth century, repurposed for their Order’s needs—to find it buzzing with activity. That made sense—tomorrow was the first official day of Initiacy, and many of the first-years were settling into their barracks, still getting the feel of the place. Jerinne remembered that from two years ago, and how glad she was to have met Raila and Enther and Iondo in those first days.

  Iondo washed out in that first year, but he was a good sort.

  Several of those first-years were outright running through the entrance hall, which startled Kevo, the old blind dog that rarely got up from its pile of blankets in the corner.

  “Ease down,” Dayne shouted to them. “You all need to respect this place.”

  The two first-year boys stopped in their tracks and just stared at Dayne in stunned silence.

  “You two!” Madam Tyrell called from the top of the stairs. “Where have you been?”

  One of the first-years found his voice. “Us two, or them two?”

  “Those two,” she said with annoyance. “You scatter. Calmly.”

  The boys did just that.

  “Is something wrong, Amaya?” Dayne asked.

  “I thought the day was ours,” Jerinne said.

  Madam Tyrell reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, but it would have been helpful to know where you were. Because—oh.” She was staring at Jerinne’s hands. He voice went cold. “You were at the opening of that store, of course.”

  Jerinne held up the gloved hand. “You like?”

  For just a moment, she looked at the gloves appreciatively. “They actually are—but that doesn’t matter. What matters is you’ve had pages waiting for you, and they’ve been here some time.”

  “I apologize,” Dayne said. “They didn’t just leave their messages?”

  “No,” she said. “They had to make sure they were delivered into your hands.” Jerinne had no idea why such a thing would be necessary, but the furrowing of Dayne’s brow made her think he knew exactly why.

  “That shouldn’t have been your problem,” he said.

  “Yes, well,” Madam Tyrell said through her teeth. “Somehow having the lowest seniority of the Adepts means a lot of things are my problem. Anyhow, they’re waiting in the dining hall.”

  “Wait,” Jerinne said. “Pages for him, or for me?”

  “Both,” Madam Tyrell said. “Come on.”

  She led them into the dining hall, where three young boys, dressed in sharp suits, were waiting at one of the tables. An empty plate with the evidence of stray crumbs sat in the middle of them.

  “Here they are,” Madam Tyrell said. “Do your business and shove off.”

  One of the three boys hopped to his feet. “You are Dayne Heldrin?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dayne said.

  The boy presented a letter to Dayne. “From the office of Marshal Chief Donavan Samsell. You are requested to come to Parliament Hall and present yourself to him immediately upon receipt.”

  “I—what?”

  “Immediately, sir,” the boy said. “So let’s away.”

  “Hold on,” one of the other boys said. “I got my thing.”

  “Is your thing immediate, or of government import?” the parliamentary page asked. “No, so piss in your mouth.”

  “Saints, son,” Dayne said. “There’s no need for that.”

  “He should know his place in the order of things,” the parliamentary page said.

  “Ease it down,” Dayne said. Looking at the other one, he asked, “What do you have?”

  The boy presented his letter. “From the offices of the High City Protector, sir.”

  Dayne opened the letter and scanned it, his face darkening.

  “What is it?” Jerinne asked.

  “It’s about Tharek’s tri
al,” Dayne said. “The protector wants to establish my testimony.”

  “I got a letter about that a week ago,” Madam Tyrell said.

  “They want me to go in next week for initial statements,” Dayne said. He looked at the third boy. “And you’re here for her?”

  “Is she Jerinne Fendall?” he asked, running his finger on the empty plate, and then licking it. “And are there more pastries?”

  “No,” Madam Tyrell said sharply.

  “Hmph.”

  “I’m Jerinne Fendall, yes,” Jerinne said.

  “Yeah,” the kid said, getting to his feet. “You’re requested to come to the offices of the archduke’s justice advocate tomorrow afternoon.” He handed her the letter.

  “Justice advocate?” Dayne asked. “Why are you getting that?”

  Jerinne opened the letter, just as confused. “I don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense unless—”

  Then she saw it, written plain. The justice advocate was calling upon her to give testimony in Tharek’s trial. Tharek Pell, the man who had killed four members of Parliament, countless marshals, and had snapped Jerinne’s leg like a twig. And they were calling her to give testimony.

  For his defense.

  * * *

  Parliament Square was relatively quiet this afternoon, probably because the Parliament wasn’t in session. Even still, a handful of protestors with “The True Line Lives” signs, and a few more with “Open the Chairs,” congregated in front of the steps. Even these protestors didn’t seem to have their hearts into it today, mostly standing listlessly, not engaging any passersby.

  Dayne went up the steps to the main entrance of the Parliament without being molested by any of them. He had a strange twinge of melancholy over that. Not that he wanted to be engaged by the True Line people, but he did have some sympathy for the Open Chairs movement. It wasn’t right that Druth citizens in Monitel or Corvia had no representation in Parliament, let alone the people in the island colonies.

  A King’s Marshal—barely any older than Jerinne—stood guard at the door. “Sir,” he said, trying to hold a hand up to stop Dayne. The boy looked petrified, probably because he was imagining what he would have to do if Dayne just barreled through him.