People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  The crowd gave a polite smattering of applause.

  “Normally, this benediction before the ceremony is given by my sister, but unfortunately she was unable to return to Maradaine at this time.”

  Jerinne noticed that a few of the noblewomen near her whispered to each other, usually with a throaty chuckle or a sigh of exasperation. Perhaps there was some gossip or poorly kept secret about Princess Carianna. Jerinne didn’t know it, nor did she feel a burning need to know it.

  “Needless to say, I’m sure she would echo my sentiments on this day, as my cousin the king does, of how blessed we are in this country, that we have stood together for over two centuries, with a continuity of the throne, and continuity of the Parliament. That we have a civilized rule of law, governed by the people, presided over by the blessed line of Maradaine. This is what makes us Druthal, the great jewel in the crown of the world.”

  More applause, now thunderous.

  “And now, can we have the new and re-elected members of Parliament come forward.”

  The men standing on the back of the platform—twenty-three of them—stepped forward. Jerinne only recognized one of them: Ret Issendel, the former bishop whom Dayne enjoyed arguing with. The rest were just a sea of pompous-looking men in suits.

  Jerinne realized she was stuck in the middle of the crowd, no easy way to escape without making a scene. Yet another slog of political theater to endure. She glanced about to see where Dayne was. He, smartly, had placed himself at the back of the crowd. Of course, at his height, standing in front of anyone would be rude. Dayne was many things, but rude was not one of them.

  “Now take a knee for his Royal Majesty, King Maradaine the Eighteenth.”

  Jerinne presumed that was for the prospective members of Parliament, but then everyone in the crowd dropped to their knees as well. Jerinne quickly did the same, as Amaya half-pulled her down to the ground.

  The king was so very normal, so average. Prince Escaraine stood on the stage like a presence, as if the light of the sun shone inside him. King Maradaine XVIII walked up in a half slouch, in somber gray clothing that matched his energy, violet mourning sash lazily draped over one shoulder. He just looked exhausted.

  “Thank you, cousin,” he said quietly. He clapped his hand on the prince’s shoulder, and the prince reached up and squeezed the hand briefly. The king stepped away and went to the first new member of Parliament. “Do you pledge to serve this nation, to honor the Rights of Man, to be deliberate and wise as you serve the people, and honor the trust put into you with their just and true votes?”

  “I do, in your name, and in the name of God and every saint,” the parliamentarian said. The king touched his thumb to the man’s forehead and moved on to the next. This ritual continued with each one, with quiet dignity and respectful efficiency. In just a few minutes, they were all pledged and blessed.

  “Thank you, all,” the king said as he came to the center of the platform. The prince had taken a few steps back to yield the stage to his cousin. “I happily bless these good and true men to serve the office they have been elected to, this great Parliament to serve my throne and my people, to join the other good and true men who continue their diligent work of governing in my name.”

  “Rise and hail,” Prince Escaraine called out. “Welcome these good and true men, and praise be the name of Maradaine the Eighteenth, may his reign be long and grand!”

  “Hail!” the crowd called as everyone got to their feet. “Hail Maradaine the Eighteenth, King of Druthal!”

  “Never!” a voice shouted from the back. “The True Line lives!”

  With a piercing thwang, a crossbow bolt flew toward the stage, toward the king. Marshals—unobtrusively on the stage all this time—acted in a snap, grabbing the king and the prince and pulling them off the platform before anyone was hit by the shot.

  Jerinne looked around, trying to spot the shooter. Not that she could do much: no shield or sword on her at the moment.

  That didn’t stop Dayne. She saw him charging across the lawn, running ahead of the swarm of marshals toward the would-be assassin.

  Dayne was well aware that the crossbow was aimed right at his heart.

  “Friend,” he said, holding his hands out and open. “There’s no need to do this.”

  Dayne had been able to get to the young man who had just taken a shot at the king before he could load another quarrel in his crossbow, but only just before.

  “The True Line . . .” the young man said, his hand shaking. He didn’t look like an assassin at all. If anything, he looked like he barely knew how to hold the weapon. He looked more terrified than anyone.

  “You’ve never taken a life,” Dayne said. “I can see that. I can see you believe in your cause, but it doesn’t have to make you a killer.”

  “But the kingdom needs—”

  “It needs you to put the crossbow down. No one needs to die today. No one needs to kill today.”

  Dayne noticed the marshals out of the corner of his eye. All of them had their crossbows trained on the boy. “No one needs to, hear?”

  “Get out of the way, Tarian!” one of the marshals said.

  “We need a strong hand, a pure throne!” the young man shouted.

  “This won’t do that,” Dayne said. “It will taint the throne with blood. It will taint you with blood.”

  “No!” the young man said, though now his hand lowered a little with the trembling. “I don’t have a choice. I have to.”

  “Why?” Dayne asked.

  “I . . .” His voice cracked, like he was fighting to get the word out. “I . . . have . . . to.”

  “You can’t,” Dayne said. “You fire, you won’t kill the king. Marshals have already pulled him away.” Dayne hadn’t seen that, but he assumed that would have been the first thing they did. “All you’ll do is hurt me. I don’t want you to do that. I don’t think you want to do that.”

  “Please,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I have to. They said that . . . the True Line . . .”

  Dayne took a step closer. “That doesn’t matter. The only thing I care about is—”

  That step panicked the young man, and the crossbow went back up at Dayne. But as soon as it did, no fewer than nine bolts fired into his body. Dayne tried to grab him, grab the crossbow away, but he dropped like a sack.

  “Get a Yellowshield!” Dayne called out, looking to the marshals behind him, all of their crossbows expended.

  The young man still held up his crossbow as he died, wheezing out one last “The True Line . . .” before he passed.

  “Dayne.” A hand touched his shoulder. “The rest of you, back away, give him space.”

  Dayne looked up to see Chief Donavan Samsell. “That didn’t need to happen.”

  “I’m sorry, Dayne,” he said. “But it did as soon as he raised his weapon.” He guided Dayne away from the scene.

  “We could have taken him alive,” Dayne said.

  “I know. I would have liked to know how he got on the grounds, with the crossbow. There’s no reason he should have gotten close enough to take a shot.”

  Dayne glanced around at the crowd, still watching the scene in shock. Over on the platform, the king and the prince were being taken inside, while the newly sworn members of Parliament came down, marshals standing watch over each of them.

  “I meant we don’t sentence people to death in this country. And we don’t do that if we can help it.”

  “I know this was unpleasant,” Donavan said. He shook his head and sighed. The other marshals were cleaning up the scene, removing the body with quiet efficiency. Dayne was more than a little disturbed by how easy it was for them. How eager the nobility and power players seemed to be to get back to their festivities. He turned back to Donavan.

  “Why are you here? I thought you were at the Parliament.”

  “I should
be,” Donavan said. “But the High Lord Marshal thought I was needed here, so here I am.”

  Dayne let a smile come to his lips. Despite the differences between them, he knew Donavan Samsell was a good man who tried to do his job well, miles away from the likes of Chiefs Toscan and Quoyell. “And I think the marshals need you.”

  “And I’ll be needing you,” Donavan said. “In just a moment, over there.”

  Over there, meaning where the members of the press were gathered.

  “This role, still?”

  Donavan shrugged. “They do like you, and you’re good at it.” Holding a hand out to keep Dayne from commenting, he added, “We all have so much to do. There is a lot of work ahead right now.”

  “Good,” Dayne said. “Frankly, with Quoyell at the Parliament, I was largely without purpose.”

  “I won’t have it that way,” Donavan said with a clap on Dayne’s shoulder. “Others want your attention. I’ll call you when I’m ready for you.”

  He walked away as Jerinne approached. “You always find the excitement.”

  “I was just in the right place,” he said. “I’m glad you were invited.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’d rather be training. Why are they honoring us this time? We didn’t capture Quoyell or the other people behind the atrocity on the Parliament floor.”

  “For the election,” Dayne said. “I know it was a few months ago, but today it matters.”

  “New Parliament, same as the old one,” Jerinne said.

  “It is important. And who knows what these new voices will bring.”

  “Hopefully some new ideas.” Bishop Ret Issendel—or rather, Good Mister Issendel, 10th Chair of Scaloi—approached with another one of the new members. “It’s good to see you, Dayne.”

  Dayne took his hand warmly. Despite not agreeing with Ret’s politics, Dayne liked the man quite a bit. They both had one strong piece of common ground: they believed in peaceful solutions.

  “How was your trip home?” Dayne asked.

  “My affairs are in order,” Ret said. “Though I will miss the hot rains of Korifina.”

  “It’s pretty damn warm here,” his colleague said. “Ain’t right.” He had an unusual accent for a member of Parliament—no sense of educational refinement. He talked like a stevedore from the Kyst docks.

  “But right now, Korifina is hot, and it’s a luscious, moist heat that fills your bones. Maradaine is dry.”

  “Also ain’t right.”

  “Dayne, have you met Golman Haberneck? The new 10th Chair of Sauriya?”

  “I have not met any of the new members, save you,” Dayne said. He offered his hand to Haberneck. “Hi, I’m Dayne. Dayne Heldrin of the Tarian Order.”

  “I know who you are,” Haberneck said, taking Dayne’s hand with a grip that matched his dockworker accent. He then pointed a meaty finger at Jerinne. “And you. You two get things done, and that’s what this city needs. What this whole blasted country needs. With your pardon, Rev.”

  “I’m not a member of the clergy anymore, Golman,” Ret said. “Feel free to speak as profanely as you please.”

  “Tenth chair of Sauriya,” Jerinne said quietly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. If you’ll excuse me.” She went off toward the banquet table.

  “I say something wrong?” Haberneck asked.

  Dayne realized exactly what had upset her. “You’re replacing Mister Seabrook. She was . . . he was killed under her protection.”

  “Oh, I’m a rutting fool,” Haberneck said. He looked over to where Jerinne went. “Apologizing would just make it worse. I’ll let her be.”

  Ret cleared his throat. “Golman wanted a word with you about a security concern.”

  “I don’t know much about that yet,” Dayne said.

  “It’s not about the Parliament itself,” Haberneck said. “But rather—”

  “Dayne!” Donavan Samsell came back over, taking Dayne by the shoulder. “My apologies, gentlemen, but duty calls us.”

  “Of course,” Ret said.

  “I’ll find you later,” Haberneck said.

  Donavan guided Dayne over to the podium where members of the press were gathered about. “I know you hate this, but about the assassin—”

  Dayne sighed. He understood exactly what was expected of him. “I’ll say we are pleased a greater tragedy was averted but we will need time to investigate before we have any further answers.”

  “Perfect,” Donavan said. “See, you are very good at this.”

  Dayne refrained from sighing. Donavan was right, and that was probably a good thing. Dayne was well aware he would never be a true member of the Tarian Order. His mistakes had already made him enemies, and in a few months, his third year of Candidacy would end, and he would leave the Order forever.

  In that time he needed to reconcile what meaning his life would have without it.

  Hemmit Eyairin never would have imagined that when he launched The Veracity Press with his two closest friends, it would reach the point where he was covering the Royal Authentication of the Parliament. He had written about it before, of course. Last year he had published a scathing piece on how decadent and depraved the event was, how it showed the royal and ruling classes as more concerned with their own comforts than the needs of the people.

  Now he was an invited guest. Now The Veracity Press was backed and funded. It was still the same newssheet, no change in tone or viewpoint. They continued to call out the Parliament, the nobility, the corruption against the people of Maradaine and Druthal. But now they could print more, pay the paperboys better, reach far more readers. Thanks to Lady Mirianne Henson.

  Thanks to her, and thanks to Dayne, they had funding and they had access. Which gave them the opportunity to ask hard questions of the powerful.

  “These pastries are incredible,” Lin said as she took three more off the tray. Lin Shartien, reporter, dancer, and mage. Always brilliant, beautiful, and hungry. She was enjoying the decadence of the event far more than she probably should, but Hemmit could hardly blame her for that.

  The Royal Gardens of King Maradaine XVIII were quite spectacular, and while the expense that went into cultivating and maintaining them had to be enormous, Hemmit had to admire the craft behind it. That money, he told himself, was providing jobs for common people who worked the grounds. They were skilled craftspeople and artists, and patronage of such people was for the common good.

  Just like their own patronage was.

  “You’ve got a guilty face,” Lin said, her typically rich Linjari accent subdued.

  “Don’t you think we’ve gone too far, being at something like this?”

  “You’re sounding like Maresh,” she said. “There’s no purity in not getting our stories out there.”

  Maresh Niol, who handled the art for the Veracity, had opted to stay at the press office. They had a proper office now. Maresh had been increasingly vocal about his discomfort with being funded by a member of the peerage. Hemmit understood where he was coming from, but it wasn’t as if Lady Mirianne had ever asked them to change a story or curb their rhetoric. If anything, she encouraged them to write exactly what they wished.

  “Is there a risk of getting corrupted, though?”

  “For you? Never.” Amaya Tyrell, the young Adept of the Tarian Order, had approached quietly. She looked stunning and powerful in her dress uniform, her dark hair artfully styled to cascade down one side of her face.

  “Good to see a friendly face,” he said.

  “I am surprised to see you here,” she said. “But it’s good to see you as well. Both of you.”

  “We hear the Tarians will be more active in the security of the Parliament,” Lin said. “Any thoughts?”

  “I hadn’t heard about that myself, but it makes sense,” Amaya said. “You have to ask yourself how many failures the marshals wou
ld oversee.”

  “Quote you?” Hemmit asked.

  “I would prefer not,” she said. She pointed across the lawn. “It looks like the other members of the press are gathering over there, near Dayne. I imagine he’s going to make an official statement in a moment.”

  “We should head over,” Lin said, eating another pastry. She started to walk over, and Hemmit made to follow her before Amaya put a hand on his arm.

  “I’d like to get a word with you alone later,” she said.

  “You found something?” he asked. About what did not need saying—the two of them had had many words alone in the past months, including several conversations about what they had been calling the Conspiracy of the Grand Ten. They still had no hard evidence that such a conspiracy truly existed, but despite that, they were both convinced it did.

  “Maybe,” she said. She pointed across the crowd to a woman in a gray uniform. “You know who that is?”

  “No,” Hemmit said.

  “Possibly the most powerful woman in the country right now. Colonel Silla Altarn of Druth Intelligence. Mage on the Colonel’s Table.”

  “All right,” he said. “What about her?”

  “Not sure yet. But I’m watching her, and who she’s watching.” She shook her head. “Maybe nothing. Your apartment, this afternoon?”

  He nodded, and she gave his arm a friendly squeeze before walking off. Hemmit ran to catch up with Lin, and the two of them reached the gathering around Dayne and a handful of marshals.

  “Going forward, we will have the manpower to better provide both security for the members of Parliament and the facility itself, while also being able to oversee each other, and prevent further incidents.”

  “What about the incident today?” Harns from Throne and Chairs asked. “Was that a failure of the marshals?”

  “The incident today was not a failure, at least in terms of security,” one of the marshals said. “Isn’t that right, Heldrin?”