People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  But Asti was Asti. As much as he talked about “clean, honest lives,” Asti wasn’t handling the day-to-day of it well.

  “Are you talking to me?” Raychelle, Verci’s wife, asked as she came in from the front.

  “I hoped I was talking to Asti, but I’m guessing he stepped out. Did you just come in?”

  “I did,” she said.

  That meant there was something wrong with the bell on the door, which was the most basic bit of gadgetry in the whole place. For that to not be working was downright embarrassing. Verci grabbed a couple tools and went to the front of the store. Everything looked in order, nothing missing. The lockbox under the counter was in place.

  Verci tried the door. The bell rang just fine.

  “Did it ring when you came in?”

  “Yes,” Raych said. “Maybe you just weren’t paying attention?”

  “Possibly,” Verci said. “I had told Asti I was going upstairs for a bit. Where did he go?”

  “I saw him go past the bakery,” Raych said. “Which is why I came over. Where did he go?”

  “Asti being Asti,” Verci said, hoping that would explain it.

  “I think,” Raych said carefully, “that Asti likes the idea of going straight, having a nice, normal life as legitimate shopkeepers. But the reality of it—”

  “Drives him crazy?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that, exactly.”

  “Because he’s already crazy?”

  “I definitely wasn’t going to say that,” she said. “He’s troubled, of course, but—”

  “You’re trying too hard to be kind,” Verci said. Asti was far from stable, still occasionally having violent blackouts, muttering to empty air. Verci knew there was more to it, but Asti wasn’t telling him.

  Maybe that’s where Asti was going all these times. Maybe he had someone to talk to.

  “How’s today been?”

  “Actually pretty good,” Verci said. The Rynax Gadgeterium had only been open for a few days, but with Terrentin coming up, there were people looking for toys and other gadgets to give as gifts. “We actually got a pair of fellows who came out here from across town. So word is getting out.”

  “Legitimate business is a beautiful thing,” she said. She glanced at the satchel behind the counter. “So does that have to be there?”

  The satchel had Verci’s darts, his spring gauntlet and the various chemical-filled shots for it, as well as climbing tools, window-cutting and lockpicking tools, a bandage kit, a few other helpful gadgets, and a leather coat with iron plates.

  Everything Verci might need if things went bad.

  “Where would you want it?” Verci asked.

  “I don’t know, I just—I wish it wasn’t necessary.”

  “Someday it won’t be, I hope. But in this neighborhood, in our lives, love,” Verci said, coming closer to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, “I’m afraid that day might never come.”

  “I hate living our lives afraid.”

  “Think of it as ‘prepared.’”

  She kissed him quickly. “I can live with prepared. I would like a less bloody version of prepared, but, well . . .”

  “You know what our lives are like.”

  “But that’s only there for emergency, right?” she asked. “You’re not going out looking for anything?”

  “I definitely am not,” Verci said. “I really hope that bag stays right where it is.”

  Though he couldn’t speak for what Asti hoped.

  “I see her, you know,” Asti Rynax said quietly. “Sometimes right in front of me, sometimes in the corner of my eye. But she’s there, all the time.”

  Kimber, the sweet-faced proprietress of her namesake tavern, came a little closer to him, not saying anything. This was what she had done for him for months, since the night at Henterman’s, since the fire, since . . . really since coming back from Paktphon. She hadn’t pushed for anything from him that he wasn’t ready to give—which he appreciated—but she had been there, with quiet reserve, always ready to listen. And usually bring him to Saint Bridget’s Church afterward.

  “It wasn’t always like that,” he went on. “But it started after Henterman’s, and it’s been pretty constant for the past few days.”

  “You mean the woman who betrayed you,” she said.

  “Liora Rand,” Asti said, as if saying her name out loud would deny her power. “She didn’t just betray me. She traded me to the Poasians, who tortured and broke me. And put something in my head.”

  He hadn’t told this to Kimber before. He had barely told anyone—Verci, Mila, that was it, and neither of them knew all of it. But he needed to say it. And Kimber had already seen the worst of him, what he became when he let go, and she was still here with patient kindness.

  “What does she say?”

  “Things I already know. Things I don’t want to admit to myself.”

  “Does she tell you that you’ve saved this neighborhood?” Kimber asked. “And the people who live here?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then she tells you lies,” Kimber said. “That’s all she is. A liar.”

  Liora—the one he saw out of the corner of his eye, sitting in a chair with a glass of wine—just raised her glass quietly.

  “I should get back. Verci will wonder where I am.”

  “No church service today?” Kimber asked.

  “Maybe tonight,” Asti said.

  She gently touched his cheek. “Maybe. I’ll be bringing Jared Scall as well.” She pointed to Jared, sitting at a table in the corner. The neighborhood butcher was easily on his third beer, despite it only being early afternoon. He sat slumped. Asti couldn’t blame him. He had lost almost everything in the fire.

  “At least he’s not still carrying his mace around.”

  “He is,” Kimber said. “I take it from him when he comes in here, though.”

  “Wise,” Asti said. “I’ll try to come by later.”

  “I’ll be here for you.”

  Asti left Kimber’s and went down the alley that was the fastest route to Junk Avenue, to the Gadgeterium. He had only gotten a few steps when he heard a wheezing voice.

  “Help—you gotta—”

  A tiny person lay in the refuse—Asti wouldn’t have even noticed him if he hadn’t spoken. Asti knelt down and turned him over.

  “Tarvis,” Asti said. He hadn’t seen the angry little boy in months, and now he looked worse than ever. Pale, down to his bones. Scrapes and scratches all over his face, dirt and filth on his scraps of clothing. “What happened?”

  Tarvis’s eyes focused on him. “Rynax,” he whispered. “You gotta—stop—giant.”

  Asti didn’t know what had happened, but he cradled the little boy in his arms and ran back to Kimber’s.

  Chapter 3

  THE PARLIAMENT BUILDING WAS A chaos of functionaries and staff, marshals and Tarians and Spathians, and the actual members of Parliament themselves. They all went through the administrative work of assigning offices, coordinating security schedules, and for the custodians, trying to keep the floors clean through it all.

  Dayne went down to the marshal offices briefly, but there the chaos was at its peak. Donavan was keeping charge, giving out assignments, and talking with the two elite masters about chain of command and oversight of the joint force.

  Dayne watched that from a distance, as it seemed clear his input would not be welcome from either Tarian Master Gerald or Spathian Master Meralister. Which showed him just how empty and feckless his posting as a “liaison” really was. They were liaising just fine without him.

  If all they needed was someone with a strong jaw and clean uniform to talk to the press, Dayne would serve as he was ordered. He knew it was a waste of his time and his talent. He thought he had proven that enough, proven his value to
the Tarians, to the august body of the Parliament.

  He was reminded how little his efforts mattered as he went back up the stairs toward his apartments. He passed three members of Parliament: the 5th, 7th, and 9th Chairs from Yinara, respectively. Ruprect, Jude, and Samuel Benedict. Cousins to each other, uncles all to Lenick Benedict, the young boy who would spend his life in rolling chairs thanks to Dayne’s failure. They all looked upon Dayne with utter contempt. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.

  They still held such resentment for Dayne, even after he had saved Jude’s life on the Parliament floor. Surely the heart of the 1st Chair from Yinara, Wesley Benedict, hadn’t softened either. He was the one who led the Parliamentary Committee overseeing the Elite Orders, he was the one who would prevent Dayne’s advancement to the rank of Adept, forcing him out of the Tarian Order forever.

  Dayne slipped through the crowds as best as a man his size could, to make his way to his own apartments. If he was needed to talk to the press again, he could be easily found. That was why he was quartered here instead of at the Tarian Chapterhouse, after all.

  Though he wondered if he just moved to Lady Mirianne’s household, would anyone even care?

  “Heldrin!” someone called. Dayne turned to see that new Member of Parliament—Haberneck?—approaching him.

  “Good Mister Haberneck,” Dayne said. “Are you lost? I know the corridors can be a bit confusing, but this area is mostly quarters for the building staff.”

  “No, Heldrin, I was looking for you.”

  “For me?” Dayne asked. He had wanted to tell Dayne something before he was pulled away to talk to the press. “Is there something I can help you with, sir? I’m really not . . .”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Haberneck said. “I’ll tell you, this whole business is pretty strange, but the strangest is how everyone’s talking to me. I ain’t seen anything like it.”

  “There is a protocol of address, Mister Haberneck,” Dayne said. “It’s supposed to prevent—”

  “I know the why of it, Heldrin. It’s mostly hot wind off a stinking sea. But you . . . you seem like the sort who has his head on straight, not like the rest of these folks. They all got their cravats a little tight.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Dayne said. “But there’s something you need? Perhaps you should go to the marshals or—”

  “No, I . . .” Haberneck shook his head. “I already tried that. Let me start from the top. I know most of the folks in here, they’re living in fancy houses that are gifts from barons, or something like that. I ain’t going to do anything of the sort. I got some kin who live on the south side, so I’m staying near them, helping them out. Nice enough flop in Dentonhill, rent is a tenth of the place I was told to get.”

  “And you’re worried about the security for the house?” Dayne asked.

  “Nah,” Haberneck said. “I mean, this is not for me. Like I said, I got kin there, they got neighbors, and they’re talking to me. Things are going on, and apparently the sticks are no help. I asked around, no official on this level wants to help, because it would be Constabulary jurisdiction. I realized, I needed to be talking to someone who might be a little more . . . unofficial.”

  “Which brought you to me.”

  “Ret told me what you’ve done. You saved the ballots, you stopped Tharek, you rescued the folks down there on the Parliament floor when the marshals had their thumbs in their ears . . .”

  “That isn’t fair to—”

  “Point is, you’re a guy who does. Maybe you can come and do something down there.”

  Dayne was certainly interested, and there was nothing else of value being asked of him. “What’s going on?”

  “Kids are going missing,” Haberneck said. “Apparently, it’s always been a thing, but in the past week, it’s spiked up something fierce. And nobody gives a damn.”

  “Children?” Dayne asked. “You have my attention.”

  Jerinne found the Tarian Chapterhouse oddly subdued when she returned to it after the Palace Garden event. Normally in the afternoon there was a fair amount of activity going on, both on the grounds and in the training room. Instead the place was nearly deserted, save for the staff going about their tasks of cleaning and preparing meals.

  Even the baths and bunkrooms were empty.

  She took off her dress uniform and put on her cottons, contemplating how nice it would be to just lie down on her bunk with no one else around. She almost never got a chance to do that.

  But that also felt like wasting daylight.

  She made her way to the training room, which she had all to herself for once. She started with a series of stretches, and then cycling through the calisthenics routine the Initiates had been doing each day. Then she took a quarterstaff off the wall and went through her paces. As strong as she could, as fast as she could, not letting up or slowing down. She pushed herself, pushed through the pain, let herself feel it in her bones, revel in it.

  She swept the staff out, and to her surprise it made contact.

  “Intense,” Vien Reston, first-year Candidate, said with a wicked smile, having blocked the sweep with her own staff. “You didn’t even notice me come in.”

  “Probably not wise,” Jerinne said, “to be so in the moment to ignore my surroundings.”

  Vien brought up her staff, circling it around to then sweep at Jerinne’s feet. Jerinne dove over it, rolled onto her feet, and spun on her heel to strike Vien. Vien was already there with the block. Then they started to spar in earnest: full strength, full speed. If either of them missed a block or a dodge, they could end up in the infirmary.

  “Where is everyone?” Jerinne asked.

  “Where were you this morning?” Vien asked back, not losing her pace for even a breath. “Oh, right, you were at the Royal Gardens. How was that?”

  “Boring and intense at the same time. Assassin tried to kill the king. But yet, so many speeches.”

  “Assassin? That’s exciting.”

  “Dayne and the marshals stopped him. And Madam Tyrell was there, but she went off somewhere else afterward.” Jerinne stopped herself from saying “Amaya” in front of Vien. As far as Vien, or anyone else in the order was concerned, there was no familiar relationship between Jerinne and Amaya. Nor did she have the informal, unofficial mentorship under Dayne.

  “She didn’t tell me,” Vien said. Hard jab. Low swipe. Kick. Perfect form, no pattern. Savage poetry.

  “So where is everyone?”

  “Most of the Adepts and Candidates are getting assigned details for security of the Parliament, and members of Parliament. And that meant the other third-years went with their mentors.”

  “No assignment for you?”

  Overhead hammer. “I have an assignment. Initiate Drill.”

  “So where are the first- and second-years?”

  “Took them for a run,” Vien said. “A good ten-mile one. Most of them are collapsed on the yard now.”

  “And you came in here to spar?”

  “I came in here for a cool down,” Vien said. “But I couldn’t pass up the spar.”

  Jerinne signaled she was done and hopped back a few steps. “I appreciate that. I missed morning training, and—”

  “And you don’t have the mentor for the rest,” Vien said. “Sorry.”

  “No need,” Jerinne said. “It is what it is.”

  “I’ll be gathering the first- and second-years in here in a moment,” Vien said. “You’re welcome to stay.”

  She didn’t phrase it as an order. Vien had cooled from her initial overzealousness in her position as Initiate Drill. Maybe being a bully lost its appeal when she got beaten by the traitor Osharin.

  “I’ll pass,” Jerinne said. If the other third-years were with their mentors, she’d go seek out Dayne. “I think I’ll clean up and do some reading.”

 
“Mind and body,” Vien said. “Keep it all sharp.”

  Jerinne put her staff back on the wall and made her way to the water closet, passing the heaving and wheezing first- and second-year Initiates as she did. After washing off her face, she changed into her regular uniform, belting a sword but forgoing the shield, at least for today. Dayne would be at the Parliament. Maybe he had something interesting planned.

  Veranix was quite pleased with how lunch had gone. A storehouse of effitte and efhân wrecked, the sellers thoroughly chastised and magically tagged so Delmin could track them later. Their funds stolen, which Veranix would discreetly donate to the Lower Trenn Ward, where effitte victims were being treated.

  Victims like Veranix’s mother.

  He even had time to drop all the gear back at the safehouse—Mila’s term for the hidden bunker Kaiana had found to replace as their headquarters after she moved out of the carriage house—and get his school uniform on before going to class at two bells.

  This was his Practical Use of Magic class, first one of the new semester, but it was already shaping up to be radically different than earlier years. Practicals had normally been small, personalized lessons with Professor Alimen in his office in Bolingwood Tower. This class was meeting in the Curtin Forum, a lecture hall that had been repurposed over the summer for the Floor and Beam Competitions of the Grand Collegiate Tournament.

  He arrived at the Curtin Forum, a wide-open room with bleacher seating at the edges. Many students were gathering at the bleachers, most of whom Veranix knew in passing.

  Magic students.

  All of them, it would seem. At least the third- and fourth-year ones.

  Veranix went up to Delmin, who was talking to two others that Veranix knew but couldn’t remember the names of. Two fourth-year boys, a tall one and a blond one.

  “So this is even stranger than I expected,” he said to them.

  “That’s what we were saying,” the blond one said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Even the ladies’ school magic students are here,” the tall one said, gesturing toward the cluster of young women who kept themselves at some reserve from the boys. “That’s never happened.”