“I’m aware,” Hemmit said. “I managed to get some names out of the desk clerk. The ringleader—at least the one at the protest—is Sister Frienne Okall. She used her page run to contact someone at Saint Rendalyn’s.”
“Not to a lawyer?” Lin asked.
“Priests can also be lawyers,” Maresh said. “But Rendalyn’s? Isn’t that the Guest House?”
Hemmit kicked himself that he didn’t recognize that. Saint Rendalyn’s was not a proper church, ministering to the souls of the people. Instead, it was the private retreat of the Bishop of Maradaine, a well-appointed home where he and his preferred guests in the clergy could engage in “sabbaticals.”
The clergy were no different from the nobility, when it came down to it. Just as fattened, just as decadent.
“So who does she have at the Guest House who would help her?” Hemmit asked. “There’s a story.”
“What’s a story?” Dayne had come up on them, all still standing in the square outside the stationhouse. He looked rather out of sorts, but yet still had a broad smile on his face. Even the worst of news in his life wouldn’t keep him from trying to brighten someone else’s day. “Have they been released?”
“Not yet,” Hemmit said. “You came to check on them?”
“On the Open Hand as a whole,” Dayne said. “There are . . . concerns.”
“I’m sure there are,” Hemmit said. “So what’s your angle?”
“Talk to the cloistress, I would hope, and then maybe get a chance to talk to their leader.”
“Who’s the leader?”
“Bishop Ret Issendel.”
“Bishop,” Lin said meaningfully. She had thought the same thing that Hemmit had.
“That would explain sending word to the Guest House,” Hemmit said. He started jotting down some notes, and handed them to Maresh. “Clean that up, get it in the story, and take it to press.”
“Without the full story?” Maresh asked.
“That’s the story we have for now. We’ll have more tomorrow.”
“What is going on?” Dayne asked.
“You want to talk to this Bishop Issendel?” Hemmit asked. “Then stick with me, because I have a feeling he’ll be coming here.”
* * *
Unity Stationhouse was the largest Constabulary building in Maradaine, and second in importance to only the primary administrative center of the Commissioner’s Plaza in Welling. It was an old building, a fortress dating back to at least the fifth century—though surely every stone had been repaired or replaced in all that time— when this side of the river wasn’t part of Maradaine, but Anicari. The northern city wasn’t absorbed into Maradaine until Haldrin IV built the new royal palace on this side of the river at the end of the sixth century.
In the years since then the building had been a garrison for royal bannermen, a meeting hall for the Duchy Council, and an executionary prison during the dark years of the Cedidore kings, and for the Inquest in the years before the Incursion of the Black Mage.
As such, it had a fair amount of holding cells, going several levels underground. It was not an actual prison, not in the same sense that Quarrygate or Fort Olesson was. Supposedly, if they had to, Unity Stationhouse could hold several hundred prisoners. Like every other stationhouse in the city, they could only use their holding cells for temporary purposes—recent arrests, people awaiting trial or transfer, or just cooling off until morning after a raucous night. But without charges filed, they were not supposed to hold anyone more than a day.
“How much longer do you think it’s going to be?” Dayne asked.
“I could go ask again,” Hemmit said. “But I’ve thoroughly annoyed the desk sergeant in there.”
“Maybe I should thoroughly annoy him as well,” Dayne said.
Lin came back over to them, carrying two paper sacks. “Maresh is set to print.” She handed one of the sacks to Hemmit. “Crispers and tack for the both of you.”
“And the other?” Dayne asked.
“Crispers and tack for me,” she said. She reached into her sack and pulled out a newssheet-wrapped sandwich. “And maybe also a fish crackle.”
Dayne took the sack from Hemmit. He had been at it all day and was more than a little peckish. “I had more than my share of fish crackle in Lacanja.”
“That’s your problem,” Lin said. “So is there anything, or do I tell Maresh to go?”
“I already said he should—” Hemmit stopped speaking and looked around. “Does something seem odd to you?”
Dayne glanced around the public square in front of Unity Stationhouse. It was a typical sort of plaza—roadways for pedalcarts and carriages along the outside, and a wide walkway that was cluttered with pedestrians and cart shops, including more than a few food vendors. As Dayne bit into a crisper, he saw it.
Most people in the square were going about their business—buying food, haggling with merchants, arguing with each other—but in motion. But there were several people, at least a dozen, who were standing still, watching the stationhouse. None of them were together, and in isolation, they didn’t look odd. Saints, they wouldn’t look very different from Dayne and Hemmit. But now he had noticed them, and they were standing out more and more.
“This could be trouble,” Dayne said.
“They’re coming out,” Lin said, her mouth half-stuffed with her fish crackle.
Twenty people came down the steps from the stationhouse, with the cloistress front and center. As soon as they reached the bottom of the steps, they paused and linked arms.
Then those other people around the square moved in unison, forming more human chains around the square.
“We were locked up, treated like refuse!” the cloistress shouted. “For exercising our rights! For standing up for truth! For having the audacity to say that this country—this country which would do this to us—is not for us!”
“Shut it!” someone yelled from the crowd that was starting to form around them.
“We will not be silenced!” she shouted. “We are the Open Hand! We stand together strong! We will not be bullied into submission! We will not be kept from our mission! We will be heard, and we will be our own nation, free from this tyranny!”
“Lin,” Hemmit said. “Run to Maresh. Let’s hold that printing.”
“I’m not moving,” Lin said.
Dayne wasn’t sure what to do or where to look. There were quite a lot more Open Hand members this time, enough to block the street. Pedalcarts and carriages stopped, and pedestrians were having a hard time getting around them.
“Get out of the way!” someone shouted.
“We will not!”
“That tears it!” Dayne wasn’t sure who said that, but he saw the rock as it went flying toward the cloistress.
He wasn’t in position to get between her and the rock. Even if he threw his shield, he could never throw it fast enough, accurate enough, to protect her.
But he didn’t need to. A man—a skinny man with shaggy hair and scraggly beard—calmly stepped up next to the cloistress, catching the rock with little concern.
“Please,” he said calmly. Dayne noticed the priestly collar he wore. “Let us all move forward, in the name of peace, and let our words be heard. We deserve our right of voice.”
Several men in the crowd surged toward the priest and the cloistress’s human chain group. Dayne tried to move closer, but the crowd was already getting thick and agitated, making it hard to force his way through without hurting someone.
“Where do you get your bones?” someone yelled.
“Who do you think you are?”
“Clear the rutting street!”
“No need to talk like that,” the priest said. “We can all be people of peace.”
“Who the blazes are you?”
Dayne already knew the answer.
Bisho
p Ret Issendel, the leader of the Open Hand.
INTERLUDE: The Priest
BISHOP TAURIAN ONELL of Abernar was growing quite tired of Saint Rendalyn’s. It was supposed to be a luxurious retreat in the city, but felt more like a prison every day. He had expected to be a “guest” of the Bishop of Maradaine in a very informal sense, and be allowed to pray, study, and go about his business.
Instead, Bishop Haskernell of Maradaine was constantly craving his company, demanding that they have breakfast and supper together daily, each meal with an extended “table talk” that lasted hours.
Blessed saints above, the Bishop of Maradaine spent most of his day at his meal table.
Bishop Onell of Abernar needed to escape from the man from time to time. In part, to slip off to his meetings with the members of the Grand Ten. But mostly because Bishop Haskernell was driving him quite mad.
He had hoped having a new guest at Saint Rendalyn’s would give him some relief, that Haskernell would be focused on the new toy and leave him alone. There was no such fortune.
“Taurian,” Bishop Haskernell called out as Onell tried to make his way out the door. “I’m about to take some tea. Come join me in the study.”
Politeness forced Onell to comply, even though Haskernell did not outrank him. Only three people did: the Archbishop of Sauriya, the Cardinal of Druthal, and of course, the king. The first two weren’t even in Maradaine, and the third was probably scarcely aware of his existence.
And while King Maradaine XVIII was, formally, the head of the Church of Druthal, it was not a power he actively exercised, nor would Bishop Onell respect any such exercise of power to be godly and true.
This king, this half-breed on the throne, he was not the chosen of God to rule the Druth people. Of that, Bishop Onell was certain. The nation had endured this false line as a test. God was testing the faithful, testing the pure. God had already visited tragedy upon this Untrue King, striking down his queen and child, so this sullied line of impurity would not continue.
The True Line lived, and it would be restored to the throne. Bishop Onell had joined with the Grand Ten to ensure that, to ensure a righteous, godly Druthal that was what it had been, what it ought to be. Even if he had to endure the magical abomination that was Major Altarn.
He had endured so much, including the relentless prattle of Bishop Haskernell.
“Good day,” he said, entering Haskernell’s study. “Didn’t we just have breakfast?”
“Did we? It seems like hours ago,” Haskernell said. “I’ve been hoping to sit with you and Bishop Issendel at the same time, but that man is quite busy.”
“Aren’t we all?” Onell asked.
“Well, you’re here on sabbatical,” Haskernell said. “He’s here with his flock, on a mission.”
The official excuse to be in Maradaine had proven far more trouble than it should have been. Perhaps he should have taken a page from Issendel’s book. The man was here on a mission that was just as subversive and revolutionary as Onell’s, but Issendel had the stones to be open about it.
Of course, that was because while Issendel’s plans were subversive and revolutionary, they weren’t actually treasonous. Onell could not say the same.
“Where is Issendel now?” Onell asked. “I would think he would be available now that the election is over. Wasn’t that what he and his people were protesting?”
“Something about that, I didn’t pay much attention,” Haskernell said. “I think he is about.”
“He wasn’t at breakfast,” Onell said. Perhaps mentioning the meals Issendel missed would keep Haskernell’s attention on him.
“Yes, he received some troubling notes from a page today. He was very upset by it all. Said his appetite was quite turned by it.”
“Hmm,” Onell said. “Then perhaps he could use some tea. Perhaps I should go find him for you.”
“Oh, no,” Haskernell said, pouring a cup for Onell. “Don’t be a bother to him. And nor should you trouble yourself with his problems. You are here for sabbatical, you should enjoy it.”
“I really should, shouldn’t I?” Onell said pointedly. Surely his tone was lost upon Haskernell.
“You should,” he said. “Any day now we will hear news from Kyst, and Sauriya will be in need of a new archbishop. I think you will have many busy days in front of you then.”
Many indeed. Things were proceeding according to plan, and Onell just needed to endure it with patience. And once he was secure in his position, he would have Major Altarn arrange for Bishop Haskernell to drink down that same poison that was bringing the Archbishop of Sauriya to his slow, painful death.
Saints knew there was no shortage of opportunities to poison the man, given his constant mealtime.
So he sat down and endured. No meeting with those two from the Parliament today. They would get by. Right now, things were going as they needed to. And with some luck, Bishop Issendel and his foolery would only help their ploys even further.
Chapter 7
JERINNE WAS NOT ABOUT to let anyone know how much she was hurting, even though she was certain everyone else in the room was hurting just as much. Except Vien. Vien seemed to be in a place of joy.
Vien was at the far end of the training room with a bow and a quiver full of blunt-tip arrows. Jerinne and the other third-years were clustered together, each with a shield on their arm. There had been a brief respite for lunch and quiet contemplation exercises, but they were back into full training by two bells.
“All right,” Madam Tyrell said, taking a place against the wall. “Line up. One at a time each of you will take your place in front of me. Miss Reston will then proceed to fire several arrows at me. She will change up how many she’s going to fire each time, how fast she fires, but one thing will be consistent: She will be trying to hit me.”
She leveled her eyes at the Initiates. “Let us be clear on two points. One, Vien is an excellent shot. And two, I do not wish to be hit. If I am, it’s because you failed. Do not disappoint me.”
Vien cracked her neck and drew an arrow. “Fendall! You’ll be first!” She then fired the arrow before Jerinne had any reasonable chance to get into position. She dove forward, throwing her shield to put it in front of the arrow before it hit Madam Tyrell. It clanged off the flying shield, and both things went careening off to the far corner of the room. Vien nocked and fired two more arrows, then another. Jerinne had no chance to reclaim her shield, and nothing else to block the arrows with.
Except her body.
She jumped in front of Madam Tyrell, putting her back to Vien. Those three blunt tips smashed into her back in quick succession. It hurt far more than she was expecting or prepared for, and she cried out despite herself. She then turned around to face Vien, who had drawn another arrow. But her fingers fumbled in the moment their eyes met, and the arrow dropped to the ground.
“Effective choice,” Madam Tyrell said. “Though you’d be dead under normal circumstances.”
“The assignment wasn’t to survive,” Jerinne said, forcing the words out, despite every breath bringing pain. “It was to keep you from getting hit.”
“Interesting,” Madam Tyrell said, and Jerinne couldn’t hear anything more in her tone.
“Begging pardon for the intrusion,” someone said from the doorway. Ellist, the head of the staff. “But Miss Fendall has a visitor in the main lobby.”
“A visitor?” Vien asked as she came to collect the arrows. “Isn’t that special?”
“Do we know who it is, Ellist?” Madam Tyrell asked.
“Someone from the High Justice Advocate’s Office.”
“She should go,” Madam Tyrell said, giving a small gesture to Vien to not make further comment. “Get yourself cleaned up, Jerinne. Ellist, tell our visitor she’ll be with them shortly.”
Jerinne left, doing her best not to show how much pain she was in until s
he was well out of the training room. There was no time to go to the bathhouse, though she would need that before the day was done, so she made her way to the water closet. She stripped off her pullover and splashed water on her body, hoping she washed off any blood that was on her face. She tried to inspect her side and back, assuming she was covered in bruises. What she could see was horrible, and what she felt seemed even worse. No part of her didn’t hurt.
She grabbed a fresh pullover from the linens and put it on. Decent enough for guests, she went to the lobby to find a smartly dressed woman pacing back and forth.
“Miss Jerinne Fendall?” she asked as Jerinne came in.
“That’s right,” Jerinne said, extending her hand. “And you are?”
“Arthady Mirrendum, of the Justice Advocate. We were supposed to meet in my offices, but I was informed that you were otherwise occupied.”
Jerinne had no idea who had informed her of that. “We’ve begun formal training for third year,” Jerinne said. “It’s a bit intense.”
“Yes, so I can . . . perceive.” She cautiously pointed to Jerinne’s chin. Jerinne touched it gingerly. It was definitely bruised, though she didn’t remember when that had happened.
“How can I help you, Miss Mirrendum?” Jerinne asked.
“As you are no doubt aware, the preparation for the trial of Tharek Pell is underway. You are to be called as a material witness toward the dismissal of his charges.”
“The dismissal?” Jerinne asked. “I can’t see how that can possibly work.”
“Mister Pell believes—”
“Mister Pell killed four members of Parliament and at least fifteen King’s Marshals.”
“He claims those acts were necessary. And that you would testify to their necessity.”
“Me?” Jerinne said a bit too loud, and her voice echoed through the hallway. “I saw him do it. He killed six in front of me.”
“I understand,” Miss Mirrendum said. “For today, I’m only here to establish a few particulars in the case. So you acknowledge you did witness the events in question.”
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