Raves for the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:
“Superb characters living in a phenomenal fantasy world, with a detective story that just sucks you right into the storyline. Marshall Ryan Maresca impressed me with The Thorn of Dentonhill, but A Murder of Mages has secured me as a fan.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Veranix is Batman, if Batman were a teenager and magically talented. . . . Action, adventure, and magic in a school setting will appeal to those who love Harry Potter and Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind.”
—Library Journal (starred)
“Books like this are just fun to read.”
—The Tenacious Reader
“The perfect combination of urban fantasy, magic, and mystery.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Marshall Ryan Maresca is some kind of mad genius. . . . Not since Terry Pratchett’s Ankh Morpork have we enjoyed exploring every angle of an invented locale quite this much.”
—B&N Sci-fi & Fantasy Blog
“Maresca’s debut is smart, fast, and engaging fantasy crime in the mold of Brent Weeks and Harry Harrison. Just perfect.”
—Kat Richardson, national bestselling author of Revenant
“Fantasy adventure readers, especially fans of spell-wielding students, will enjoy these lively characters and their high-energy story.”
—Publishers Weekly
DAW Books presents the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:
Maradaine:
THE THORN OF DENTONHILL
THE ALCHEMY OF CHAOS
THE IMPOSTERS OF AVENTIL
*
Maradaine Constabulary:
A MURDER OF MAGES
AN IMPORT OF INTRIGUE
A PARLIAMENT OF BODIES*
*
Streets of Maradaine:
THE HOLVER ALLEY CREW
LADY HENTERMAN’S WARDROBE
*
Maradaine Elite:
THE WAY OF THE SHIELD
THE SHIELD OF THE PEOPLE*
*Coming soon from DAW
Copyright © 2018 by Marshall Ryan Maresca.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Paul Young.
Cover design by G-Force Design.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1804.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
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Contents
Also by Marshall Ryan Maresca
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
First Interlude
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Second Interlude
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Third Interlude
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Final Interlude
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Several years ago, I had a vision for an interconnected series of books, following four sets of characters, who each have discrete, individual stories, but a larger story brews beneath the surface, each series bringing its own pieces of the puzzle.
Back then, when it was still just ideas and outlines, I laid it all out to my dear old friend, Daniel J. Fawcett. And he said, “That’s fantastic, but for it to work, for you to be able to do what you want to do, you’re going to need the right editor and the right publisher.”
Fortunately for me, Sheila Gilbert and DAW Books were very much the right editor and the right publisher. Were it not for Sheila and her astounding faith in this work and my big plan, we wouldn’t be here with The Way of the Shield, launching the fourth Maradaine-set series, and laying down the foundation for the last pieces of the grander puzzle.
Much thanks also to another old friend, Brendan Gibbs, who helped lay the initial seeds behind Dayne, a hero who fights with his heart, who risks everything to keep people alive.
Of course, there were also my two amazing beta readers, who saw this particular manuscript through a few revisions: Kevin Jewell and Miriam Robinson Gould. They have been there to help me make each book as strong as I can make it. My agent, Mike Kabongo, has been instrumental in making this big, mad plan happen.
And finally, I would not have possibly done this without my family. My parents, Louis and Nancy Maresca, my mother-in-law Kateri Aragon, and most important my wife and son, Deidre and Nicholas. They’ve made all of this possible.
Chapter 1
FROM THE TRELAN DOCKS, on the northern bank of the great Maradaine River, the city of Maradaine smelled of tar, horses, burning oil, and sweat. The scent hit Dayne Heldrin like a wet sack, but he was amazed at how much he missed it, how immediately he recognized it. This wasn’t home, but it was very close to it. It was far more home than Lacanja had been for the past two years.
A small crowd gathered right at the foot of the gangplank, demanding the attention of the ship’s recent passengers. They shouted and waved, ready to sell trinkets or sweets. Several old men were waiting with rolling carts, anxious to help people with their trunks. Dayne had let most of his fellow passengers leave the ship first, partly from politeness, but mostly in the hope it would thin out this crowd.
“You, you!” one old man called out to him. “You need help, yes?”
Dayne was carrying his trunk over his shoulder. Heavy, but nothing he couldn’t handle. If this man tried to carry it, Dayne feared it would break his spine.
“No, thank you,” Dayne said and continued to walk by.
The man pulled his cart along as Dayne walked. “No, sir, please. Allow me.”
“I’ve got it.” Dayne knew this aggressive helpfulness
was simply this man’s way of making of living. The old man’s arms were bare, wearing short sleeves in the warm spring sun. A faded tattoo of a ship’s helm and hash marks showed he had given twenty years to the Druth Navy. Given the man’s age, that had to have been during the war years.
“Then maybe you need a carriage? Or a room to rent?”
“No to both,” Dayne said. “I know where I’m staying, and it isn’t far.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Lacanja.”
“Oh, lovely city,” the old man said. “Tell you what, I should have gone there when my tour ended. Could have gone to any city on the coast, and I chose here. Stupid mistake.”
“I didn’t care for it,” Dayne said. That was an understatement. Enough misery and failure had befallen him in his two years in Lacanja to last a lifetime.
A pair of newsboys came up to Dayne as well, holding out newssheets from rival presses.
“Where’d you come from, mister?”
“Why you got a shield, mister?”
“You want to know what’s going on, mister?”
“That a real sword, mister?”
“Off, scads,” the old man said. “The man’s a Tarian Knight. Don’t you know anything?” He then snarled, and the boys ran off.
“Tarian Knight” was not the proper term, even if he had been an Adept or Master in the Order. It was a common mistake that Dayne wasn’t going to bother to correct. Instead he handed a half-tick coin to the old sailor, and pointed to the small group of men standing on a low crate holding up a crude wooden placard. “The True Line Lives” was painted in blue letters. “I want to know what that’s about.”
“Foolishness,” the old man said, taking the coin. “How long ’ve you been gone?”
“Two years.”
“This doesn’t make it down south?”
“First I’ve seen it.”
The old man chuckled. “That’s comforting. The stupid hasn’t infected the rest of the country.”
“Is it dissent against the throne?”
“Against the king, not the throne, to hear those folk. Their whole point—I’m just telling you what they say, I think it’s bilge.” There was something in his tone that was a bit too apologetic, like he was telling Dayne what he thought Dayne would want to hear.
“I understand,” Dayne said. He noticed a few men—dockworkers, oystermen, something of that nature—moving over to the men on the crate, walking with the predatory swagger that comes with a few beers. Men who had the intention to start things. Keeping an eye on them, he nodded for the old sailor to go on.
“It’s popped up since the old king died,” the sailor said. Dayne had already left for Lacanja before King Maradaine XVII died, and his son took the throne as Maradaine XVIII. Some major news of the royal house had reached him: he knew the new king had married, and then the queen had died in childbirth. He had heard some talk about the Parliament wanting to force the king to remarry to produce an heir. “This sort of thing was even around when Seventeen first took the throne back in the day, but I think you’re a bit young for that.”
“Yes, but I read about it,” Dayne said. The dockworkers were moving in. Dayne got a count of them—eight men, all stout of arm and back. One of the drunken dockworkers had picked up a rock from the ground. Dayne put down his trunk. “One moment.”
The dockworker had wound back his arm and hurled the rock at the men on the crate. Dayne dashed across the distance, bringing up his shield. The rock clanged against it and dropped to the ground.
“Step away, gentlemen,” Dayne said. “No need for this to escalate.”
“Who are you to say what?” the main dockworker asked. He came up, puffing up his shoulders in his approach. This was a man who was clearly used to intimidating people with his height and muscles. With most people, he’d probably succeed.
With Dayne, he had to crane his neck. Dayne was at least a head taller.
“I’m the one who said ‘step away.’”
“Ayuh, what’s with this fool?” another dockworker said. “Who carries a rutting shield anymore?”
“He’s got a sword, too,” the third said. That one looked a bit nervous. “And he’s in uniform.”
“Ain’t a constable or river patrol.”
“He’s a Tarian, you dunces!” the old sailor shouted.
“Look,” the lead dockworker said, still trying to stare Dayne down. “We’re going to show these traitors we don’t like their kind on our docks.”
“They have a right,” Dayne said.
“You’re going to stand up for their disloyal sewage?” He glanced around Dayne to look at the three men on the crate. “You’ve got a thrashing coming, you do.”
“I’m going to defend their right,” Dayne said. “Even if they’re wrong.”
“Wrong to want an unsullied bloodline on the throne?” the center man on the crate snarled back. Dayne sighed a bit. He feared that was what this was about. Some people never move on.
“Shut it,” the lead dockworker said.
“Make us!”
“You aren’t helping,” Dayne muttered.
“Come on, boys,” the lead dockworker shouted to his mates. “We’ve still got numbers here.”
“No,” Dayne said firmly. “You will leave these men unmolested.”
“You’re going to stop us?” The rest of them found their courage and took a few steps forward.
“I’m a Tarian,” Dayne said. “And I will stand between them and harm.”
Dayne wasn’t being completely honest with them, but he doubted any of them were familiar enough to read the pips on his uniform collar. To truly call himself a Tarian, he’d have to have reached the rank of Adept. He was just nearing the end of the second year of his Candidacy. He might be promoted to Adept in a few days, but . . .
But that was definitely not why he had been recalled to Maradaine.
“You’ll get a thrashing, too, Tarian,” the dockworker scoffed. “We’ll knock you back a whole century, where you belong.”
Dayne knew he had to disable the leader in a way that would dissuade the rest from fighting. He knew he could hold off all eight of them, but not without hurting them. And that would hardly be fitting for a Tarian, especially a second-year Candidate hoping to make Adept.
As the dockworker took a swing at Dayne, Dayne crouched down, bringing his shield into the man’s chest. Rather than knocking him to the ground, Dayne went up, raising his shield high with the man on top of it.
The man flailed about uselessly while Dayne held him nine feet off the ground.
“Stand down and disperse,” Dayne said firmly to the rest. “Before anyone gets hurt.”
The dockworkers scattered.
Dayne smirked. Feats of strength usually let him avoid an actual fight. He looked up at the leader. “I’m going to put you down, and you’re going to walk away, yes?”
“Yeah, yeah!”
Dayne tilted his shield and let the man slide to the ground in a crumpled heap, and then he scrambled away.
“Thank you—” the leader of the True Line started.
“It’s what I’d do for anyone,” Dayne said. “No matter how distasteful I find their views.”
He went back over to the trunk, which the old sailor was diligently guarding. “So you see what that’s about,” the old man said.
“I thought it had gone away,” Dayne said.
“Yeah, well,” the old man said. “New king, he . . . he’s not who his father was, you hear? Doesn’t inspire the same adulation.”
“There is a proper line of succession!” a man on the crate yelled. “You should know, Tarian, of Romaine’s Gift.”
“Shut your blight hole!” the old man shot back. Dayne had had enough of this encounter. It was well past time to make his way to the Tarian Ch
apterhouse.
“Thanks, sir,” Dayne said, giving him another coin. “You’ll excuse me, but I think I see a friend here for me.” The man let him go, not arguing with getting two ticks for little effort. And, indeed, on the far side of the dock, standing up on a tall crate, there appeared to be a Tarian Initiate, searching the crowds.
Grandmaster Orren had sent someone to escort him. Even if it was just an Initiate, that could not be a good sign. This was not to be a joyous homecoming.
* * *
Jerinne Fendall hated running errands for Grandmaster Orren. Especially when the errands were clearly pointless. Escort an arriving Tarian Candidate from the Trelan docks. Jerinne failed to see why she was needed for that. This Candidate—Dayne Heldrin—was more than capable of getting to the chapterhouse on his own. He would hardly need the help of a second-year Initiate. And it seemed like it was always Jerinne who got this sort of assignment when she should be running drills.
Not that she voiced such complaints. There was no chance she would let the Grandmaster have any idea that she was anything less than thrilled to go to the docks and wait the entire day away for Heldrin. Miss today’s training session? More than happy, Grandmaster, don’t think a thing of it. Never mind Second-Year Trials. Never mind that Shield Sequence Eight was still tripping her up. If she could please the Grandmaster with a pointless waste of time, then that would be what she would do.
Madam Tyrell was probably showing all the other second-year Initiates some special maneuver right now. The secret to passing Second-Year Trials. All because Jerinne was missing session. She was doomed to wash out, and Madam Tyrell would make sure of that.
Where the blazes was this Heldrin fellow? Not that Jerinne had any idea what the man looked like. He could have walked right past her and Jerinne would never have known. That would be a laugh. She’d lose the whole day for nothing. All the Grandmaster told her was, “You can’t miss him.”
The Grandmaster was clearly underestimating Jerinne’s ability to miss someone. She still had the worst record at archery amongst the second-years.
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