Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “I didn’t—”

  “Oh, no, I can’t say anything about it,” she said in a mocking tone. “I must stay above the fray.”

  “That isn’t what I mean.”

  “But it is,” she said. She finished her whiskey in a gulp. “My love, this country is on the precipice of change. I can feel it with every breath. You are in a position to help guide where that change will fall.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, you! The Tarians have captured the love of the people again, and that is on you. You can help push this country on a path that honors its history and its legacy, while also making bold steps toward a better tomorrow for everyone.”

  He thought about what he had seen of the election results today. “I don’t know how bold that really is going to be.”

  “It can be,” she said. “Why do you think I’m championing the Royal First? I know the military and the royal cabinet only conceived them as some sort of show pony tour group, boosting morale of the soldiers by showing off girls in short skirts. But I see them as a sign for what the future can be. What women in this country are capable of. What I can do with my authority. What girls like Jerinne can do.”

  He smiled and put down his glass. “That I can get behind. I don’t know that I’m in any position to do much for you, but I can get behind it.”

  “Good,” she said, kissing him. They kissed for some time, until they were interrupted by screams and the sounds of broken glass.

  Miri sighed. “That always happens to us.”

  INTERLUDE: The Lord

  LORD HOLM WINDALL, the Archduke of Oblune, had no peers in Maradaine. No one else of archducal rank was in the city right now, all of them being at their home estates. Windall wished he was doing the same, but right now the work was important.

  There was the Royal Family, but as far as Windall was concerned, they were above him. At least, Prince Escaraine and Princess Carianna were. The mongrel Maradaine XVIII was definitely not someone Windall would consider a peer.

  So he had to stoop for company. Tonight that meant the home of Lord Kell Pollock, the Duke of Maradaine. Kell was a serviceable fellow, perfectly fine person to have dinner with. Especially since, for any dinner Windall came to, he was the guest of honor.

  “It’s been ghastly, let me tell you,” Pollock was saying as they privately adjourned to his study for pipes and whiskey. “I wish I was allowed to just appoint the Council of Aldermen and the Commissioners of the Loyalty. But no, it has to be a vote.”

  “That is the way of things, friend,” Windall said. He empathized, though archdukes were granted a bit more latitude. Not much, but a bit. There were elected seats for the Archduchy Convocation, but also seats he had the authority to appoint. He also appointed the civilian governor, though that person had to be elevated from the elected members of the Archduchy Convocation. And the governor had full authority to name whoever he wished to his Chairs of Commission, usually listening to Windall’s advice on the subject.

  The current Civilian Governor of Oblune, Elton Anderman, was a solid-headed sort who handled business with quiet competence and grace. The people liked him, and Holm Windall liked him. Oblune was running fine, even if Anderman had agreed to put the suffragette cause on the ballot. Windall overlooked little disagreements like that, because Anderman’s solid work allowed him the freedom to spend most of his time in Maradaine dealing with the affairs of the capital and the throne.

  And those affairs needed his help. Saints watching from above, he didn’t know exactly how he had ended up on this Grand Ten, but he was glad he was a part of it. Those two members of Parliament who thought they were in charge of the venture were dunderheads who were likely to get everyone else killed.

  But not Windall. Steps had been taken. He was protected.

  “The alderman race, I’m told, is fine. Some troubles on the south side of the city, but that just made the north side turnout that much stronger.”

  “Fortunate for you that the voting in your dukedom is split into two separate days, and the more desirable franchisees are voting last.”

  “Even still, I worry.” Pollock offered a taper for Windall to light his pipe with.

  “Well, of course. But we expect no problems, yes?”

  A knock came on the study door. The impetuous man who knocked didn’t even wait for a response, just inviting himself in to join his betters. Windall said nothing, though, because this man was going to prove useful.

  “Vice Commandant,” Windall said, “we thought you might have gone home already.”

  “Not quite, your lordships. Not quite.” He looked expectantly at the duke. Pollock, ever the gentleman, showed no disgust on his face as he selected a pipe and passed it to Vice Commandant Undenway. He happily took it and lit it off the taper. “Only a couple nights left with that title, though.”

  “If all goes well,” Pollock said.

  “And it should,” Windall said. “Commissioner Enbrain is not exactly popular with the people, is he?” That was true, largely because of the extensive campaign that Windall and Pollock had funded through various firms and partnerships to discredit the current Constabulary commissioner. Undenway would be a clear favorite at the polls.

  When Underway won, which he was sure to, the people would be elated by the new leadership in the Loyalty.

  “Well, we’re set,” Undenway said, sucking on his pipe.

  “My dear man,” Windall said. “We have made endeavors, and all signs are that they should be successful, and in a few days’ time, you will be the new commissioner of the Constabulary. But we can only do so much, and we will see the fruits of our labor soon.”

  “Right,” Undenway said with a nod. As if what Windall had said was just an official story, and that the election was well and truly rigged.

  Windall wished it was that easy.

  Undenway was a horse’s ass, but he was a useful one for Windall’s needs. A perfectly acceptable tool, one who had vast veins of corruption and graft under his control, in the Constabulary and in the city’s underworld. Normally, such a man being named commissioner of the Constabulary would be disastrous, but Windall was planning to craft some well-controlled disaster. That was what the Grand Ten needed for the next phase of things, once all the pieces were in place. The vice commandant was just such a piece.

  If that meant tolerating a man like Undenway, so be it. Even though the man often smelled of fish and rank perfume.

  Archduke Holm Windall would endure. It was his duty. For the throne and country. Soon he would act, the right man would be on the throne, and the great nation of Druthal would again be on the right path.

  Chapter 17

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, your diversions have come to an abrupt end!”

  Jerinne looked up to see at least thirty men and women in fur-lined capes, crimson vests, and kerchiefs on their faces, storming into the ballroom. Only one of them wasn’t covering her face—Quinara, the hatchet woman, leading the group front and center. She still had her hatchets, plus two more on her belt. The rest were armed with cudgels, handsticks, and hammers.

  Jerinne had been on the dance floor with Miss Jessel—Lady Mirianne’s handmaiden—and a young baroness whose name she had not kept in her memory. Fortunately, Linjari dancing was not formalized, so instead of dancing with a partner, it was common to dance in a group as the music moved your spirit. As such, several of the young women at the party were dancing in clusters together, while most of the young men hung along the sides of the room, drinks in hand. The effect meant that Jerinne could dance with Jessel and the comely baroness without questions or further damage to her surely sullied reputation.

  That ended when Quinara shouted her proclamation, and her fellow subversives started smashing art and anything else in sight.

  Screams of terror came out of the crowd, especially the women on the dance floor.

  �
��Run,” Jerinne told Miss Jessel, who didn’t need the prompting. Most people scattered.

  Two who didn’t scatter were members of the Royal First. Evicka, the Linjari woman, and the Oblunic one. Jerinne had not caught her name. As Quinara and the goons charged the ballroom floor, Evicka dashed to the window, yanking down the tapestry, the chain tying it back, and the curtain rod.

  “Kelly!” Evicka shouted, tossing the naked curtain rod to the Oblunic woman. She caught it, and immediately began spinning it about with blinding speed. She leaped into the fray, knocking down several of the subversives.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Quinara said, focusing on Jerinne. “I owe you a scratch or two.” She dove in with both hatchets at Jerinne.

  Jerinne scrambled out the way, grabbing a fallen drinks tray off the ground. The next flurry of axe attacks were blocked with the tray, and Jerinne did her best to knock Quinara in her stupid face when she had an opportunity. Few opportunities presented themselves.

  Evicka, meanwhile, had taken the chain and whipped it about with fascinating skill and lethal prowess. With simple flicks of her wrist and twists of her body, the chain sang out, wrapped around her enemies’ necks and arms, and pulled them down to the ground.

  Jerinne could watch Evicka and Kelly all day, if she weren’t locked in her own deadly combat.

  “Why are you even here?” Jerinne asked Quinara between dodges.

  “You ruined my fun, thought we’d return the favor.” One axe came hammering down, caving in the tray. Jerinne threw it to one side, and dashed in the other direction, sliding on the shiny, waxed ballroom floor. Quinara chased after her, but Jerinne had the chance to pick up a pair of handsticks from one of the fallen goons. Evicka and Kelly were deep in their fight, perfect dance partners as they took down the few they were dealing with. But even though they were holding a good fight here, the miscreants were running wild through the house.

  Quinara jumped at her, but now armed with handsticks, Jerinne easily parried each blow, yanking the hatchets out of her grip. Quinara went for the two others on her belt, but Jerinne was faster, flipping the handsticks around to punch the short ends into the woman’s face.

  Jab, cross, backhand, in quick succession. Quinara backed up, shaking off the blows.

  “Not bad, cub,” she said, wiping the blood off her lip. “Shame about those two.”

  Quinara pointed out the window to the moonslit garden. Outside five men had caught Miss Jessel and the baroness, and they had the look in their eyes of men about to do unspeakable things.

  Jerinne didn’t have time to find another way out to the garden. She hurled a handstick, shattering the bay window, and dove outside. These fellows needed to be dealt with. Quinara could wait.

  * * *

  Amaya was on the balls of her feet when the screams started. She didn’t know what was happening, but her instincts told her that the guests at the party needed to be protected, and fast. She was standing outside a grand dining hall, where the banquet buffet had been laid out. Five exits, but all the doors could be closed and latched. Plenty of space. A good room to keep people safe in.

  “This way!” she called out in her most commanding voice. “Quickly, in here!”

  People came rushing in, and Amaya saw why. Five armed people had charged into the room, clubbing and beating anyone they came across. Amaya spotted Iolana and Dade with the crowd. She grabbed them by the shoulders.

  “Get in there, secure the doors.”

  Both of them nodded and set off. Some of the other Initiates followed into the dining hall. Others had dug into the scrum with the invaders. Raila and Enther had teamed up to keep the attention of one invader while Tander pulled injured out of the hall. A pair of the invaders had the misfortune of getting the attention of Vien and her Spathian paramour. The two of them were lightning and thunder, disarming and disabling the attackers with ruthless efficiency.

  Amaya trusted them all to handle the fight, and focused on the injured and helpless, pushing them into the banquet hall. Her Initiates had secured all the doors but one, and had taken post on the open one, accepting each civilian with grace.

  Amaya couldn’t have been more proud of them. This was nothing they had been taught—how can you teach someone how to behave in a crisis like this—but they all took their roles with unspoken instinct, acting for the common good in unison.

  Another invader came running into the room, knives high, screaming as he charged at Raila. Amaya swept in, kicking out his knee before he could reach her people. He crumpled to the floor, dropping his knives. Amaya scooped them up before he had a chance to, and then delivered a sharp kick to his head, and stomped on his shoulder to pin him down. He stopped struggling.

  The civilians were in the dining hall, and all the miscreants in the immediate vicinity were incapacitated for the moment.

  “You two, get in there, shut the door, and keep those people safe,” she ordered Raila and Enther. To Vien and her Spathian friend, who were both heaving and flushed, she said, “Secure these idiots and then guard those doors. There’re more civilians and our people in the mix out there.” She could hear screams and crashes in the distance.

  “But we could—” Vien started.

  “Civilians,” Amaya said, pointing toward the closing door. “They’re your first priority, Candidate.”

  Vien nodded, and tossed the truncheon she had grabbed off one of the men to Amaya. Amaya caught it and belted the knives. Weapon in hand, she ran toward the chaos.

  * * *

  With no shield or sword, Dayne armed himself with serving tray and candelabra, slowly opening the door of the study. Sounds of chaos filled his ears: running, screaming, breaking, hitting, crying.

  “Behind me,” he told Lady Mirianne. “The house seems to be overrun. Your bedrooms are the safest place for you, and the easiest to reach from here.”

  “You expect me to be locked in my bedroom while hooligans tear my house apart?”

  “I expect to keep you safe, my lady,” he said. Formality to remind her their respective roles. They were not friends and lovers right now. He was a Tarian, she was nobility, and he had a duty to keep her from the harm that filled the house.

  “There are at least two dozen other members of the peerage out there, Dayne,” she said. “Not just me.”

  “One at a time, my lady,” he said. “Right now you’re with me, and that’s my duty. When you’re safe, then I’ll—”

  “That’s hardly a—” she started.

  “We’re going to make for the stairs. We’ll debate particulars later.”

  “I’m not abandoning my house, my staff, my guests to these—”

  “These what?” This came from the leader of a group of five, all with knives or truncheons, standing between Dayne and the stairway. Not common hooligans. Muscular bruisers, possibly mercenaries. They certainly held their weapons with competence and confidence. There was no way to get Mirianne to safety other than to go through them.

  “Gentlemen,” Dayne said, taking a defensive posture with his makeshift armaments. “I’ve no wish to harm anyone. If any of you choose to withdraw, I’ll respect that.”

  They responded by all charging him at once.

  The two with knives were the most immediate threat. Dayne knocked one in the face with the serving tray, and used the candelabra to trap the blade of the other. That left the other three free to pummel him with their truncheons, which hurt like blazes on his arms and chest. Fortunately, none of them had the reach to hit his face.

  He twisted the candelabra to yank the knife out of the one man’s grasp, and then swept his arm to push one of the truncheoners into the other knife-fighter, who was moving back in. He accidentally stabbed his fellow in the gut.

  Dayne took the moment to focus his attention on the other two truncheoners. They were both savage in their attacks, and were Dayne a smaller man, they would have qu
ickly torn him down. Dayne took the blows on his arms, which were surely bruised and bloody under his uniform. He only endured this long enough to get the rhythm of their attacks, so he could strike, grabbing the wrist of the one on his right. With a hard pull, the bone cracked, and the man cried out.

  The disarmed man dove to the floor for his knife. Dayne stepped on his hand, pinning him down, and with another twist of his hand, flipped the man with the broken arm on top of him.

  The second knife-fighter had freed his blade from his fellow’s body, and was moving in. Dayne sidestepped him, grabbing his arm and using his own momentum to throw him to the ground. Dayne made sure to throw him hard enough to knock out his breath, sending him to the floor with a resounding crack.

  “You’ll regret that,” the one man left standing said, stepping back to regain his footing.

  “You’re not wrong,” Dayne said. The man came back in with sharp, hard swings of his truncheon. Dayne dodged the first two, and caught the truncheon on the third swing. He wrenched it from the man’s grasp, and then brought it down on his head. Looking at the five men—bleeding, gasping, insensate—he shook his head. “As I said, I had no wish to harm anyone. But I could not allow you to hurt her ladyship, either.”

  “Are you all right?” Lady Mirianne asked.

  “Nothing that will impede me,” Dayne said, scooping the serving tray back up. “Let’s get you secure.”

  He took the lead as they hurried to the main staircase, a sweeping arc up to the hallway overlooking the main foyer, which led to the bedrooms. They ran up the stairs, and were almost at the top when a blast of fire burst in front of them.

  Dayne turned to see a man hovering in the air above the foyer, wings of flame spread out from his back. “Hey, Scanlin! We found the lady!”

  A man strode out of a darkened hallway—stripped to the waist, wearing only leather pants. He was obscenely muscular, and in each hand he carried a long whip.