The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Of course, there are many people without whose kind and generous support we would have been unable to create this wonderful testament to the history of Druthal.” Teal coughed and looked to the well-dressed men standing by him. “I would like to take the time to thank, of course, the Earl of Jaconvale and his daughter, Lady Mirianne . . . is she here, I just saw her . . .”

  He looked around for a moment. Jerinne and Jessel shared a conspiratorial chuckle at the idea that the Lady was not going to be spotted anytime soon. The crowd kept their attention on the Professor as he glanced about, save the costumed servers. They all were moving to the edge of the crowd.

  “But beyond that, there was the tireless work of my students and researchers. To name a few . . .”

  One of the well-dressed men behind the Professor coughed strongly.

  “Which I will do in due course,” the Professor said, looking to the two well-dressed men. “But first, certainly, I must also acknowledge the tireless efforts and cooperation of the Parliament, especially two key members, whom I have the privilege of sharing this stage with today. If I may, the Good Misters Erick Parlin and Julian Barton.”

  The crowd gave a smattering of polite applause. One of the Parliamentarians stepped forward.

  “Thank you, Professor,” he said. “The Good Mister Barton and I—”

  As soon as he began speaking, two of the servers leaped to the stage, wielding crossbows.

  “No one move!” one of the armed servers shouted. The other aimed at Parlin.

  More servers pulled out crossbows, all of them in position at doorways.

  Jerinne quickly put herself between Jessel and the closest crossbow.

  “You!” the server on the stage shouted, pointing at the marshals who had disarmed Jerinne when they came in. “You and your men throw your weapons on the ground.” The marshals scowled, but none of them argued. Blades and crossbows clattered on the floor in a matter of seconds.

  “Tharek,” the one who was obviously the leader said, “gather those up.”

  One of the servers on the floor level—closest to the exit—came over with a sack and started tossing the weapons in. This man stood out over the rest of the armed servers. A bit taller, broader of shoulder, certainly. But there was an ease to the man, a fluidity of movement as he picked up weapons and bagged them. This man knew what he was doing, even if he wasn’t in charge. The man in charge was on stage, holstering his crossbow. He pulled down his neckerchief, revealing his face. He had a manicured beard and narrow chin. He looked far more like a student than a thief or thug.

  “I apologize, good people here. Even though you are among the swells and jeets, I presume some of you are good and true sons of Druthal. Please understand that I mean no ill will to you. However, right now, I cannot immediately distinguish you from the enemies of our country.”

  He walked along the front of the stage, voice like silk and smoke. One of his men shared the stage with him, finger on the trigger of his crossbow. That one seemed almost terrified that he held a deadly weapon in his hand. Jerinne slid herself around Jessel again. If an errant shot killed anyone, it was likely to come from this man. With no shield, no weapon, there was only one way to put herself between that crossbow and an innocent bystander.

  Stupid marshals.

  “My name is Lannic,” the leader said. “Though today I am of the same spirit as Geophry Haltom. And we are Haltom’s Patriots.”

  Blazes. Haltom’s Patriots. Ill-considered rebels. Mostly privileged boys who lashed out blindly against the system that gave them that privilege.

  “All of you, please, sit on the floor. I’m terribly sorry if it damages your fine clothes.” The people on the stage started to sit, as did all the crowd. “Not you two, good sirs,” Lannic said, pulling Parlin and Barton to their feet. “You two are the message. Tharek, corral the marshals into the center. We want to keep an eye on them.”

  Tharek and the others guided the marshals over, and they sat on the floor with everyone else.

  “Good,” Lannic said. “Now, as you are surely aware, a poison cuts through the heart of this beautiful country, just as surely as the great Maradaine River cuts through the city! This poison, this toxic rancor, taints everything that was fought for in 1009. And as we are here, in this ostentatious and extravagant tribute to the history of all things Druth, we all know what great sacrifices were made in that glorious year to make this nation what it is. But yet, some men—” Lannic bowed with an exaggerated flourish in the direction of Barton and Parlin. “Some men who should be honoring the spirit of these sacrifices—they are the ones most apt to forget it. These men, the very representatives of the common man, the makers of law and policy—these are the great traitors.”

  “Now just a moment—” Barton earned the butt of a crossbow across his head from Lannic’s associate, drawing a shocked gasp from the crowd. Barton dropped to his knees.

  Lannic crouched down. “You do not have the floor, Good Mister Barton. You have not been elected to speak for anyone here. This—” Lannic leaped to his feet and swung his arms out wide. “This is the true Parliament of the common man! We are Haltom’s Patriots, and we have formed our own Parliament, and we will people the Court.” He knelt back down, his face mere inches away from Barton. “And we shall dispense justice.”

  Jerinne swore under her breath. Someone was going to get hurt, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Not yet.

  Her gaze darted up to the balcony surrounding the entrance hall. No Patriots standing guard up there. With any luck, Dayne was up there, free to act. Maybe Dayne could do something to give them half a chance.

  * * *

  “We are Haltom’s Patriots, and we have formed our own Parliament, and we will people the Court.” The man’s voice echoed up to the balcony. “And we shall dispense justice.”

  Dayne stayed crouched out of sight. Surprise was his best advantage. Once they knew he was up here, he would have no chance of rescuing anyone.

  Lady Mirianne hid around the corner, completely out of sight to anyone on the floor below. That was as close as he wanted her to be. If nothing else, he would make sure that she remained safe. He owed that to her and her family. He owed that to his pledge to the Order.

  “How many?” she whispered.

  He crawled back over to her. “At least twelve, all with crossbows.”

  “Blazes,” she said flatly. He must have shown his shock, as she said, “Really, Dayne, if any moment called for vulgarity, this would be it.”

  “Of course, Lady Mirianne.”

  “I told you—”

  “As of now, you are nobility under my charge.” Dayne went around the corner and rose to his feet. He took her hand and helped her up as well. “And therefore, my lady, out of propriety, I will treat you as such.”

  Lady Mirianne stifled a laugh, looking back over to the balcony as Dayne pulled her back down the hallway toward the Grand Ten exhibit. “I’m so fortunate to be under the charge of such a capable Tarian.”

  Dayne knew that, even with her flippant tone, she wasn’t mocking his capability. He still felt the sting, his thoughts went to Lenick Benedict; alive but broken.

  Lady Mirianne must have sensed his despair, as her small hand squeezed his warmly. “I am,” she said.

  He smiled back at her. Her eyes were so bright and giving. “I’m glad you think so. I will get you out of here safely. Is there another exit?”

  “There are a few,” she said. “But I don’t think we can get to them.”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced around the exhibit room. “I don’t know all the stairwells. But those lead back down to the lobby. And that one leads to the service offices and loading doors.”

  “Good,” Dayne said, leading her toward the stairwell she pointed at, taking them back through the Orders exhibit.

  “That won’t be saf
e,” she protested. “Think about it, Dayne. The Patriots are disguised as the event servers.”

  “So they are certainly guarding that exit,” Dayne said. “But probably only a couple of them.”

  “That’s only a guess.”

  “It’s a reasonable one,” Dayne said, taking a glance down the stairwell. Unoccupied. “The lobby is where everyone is, including the marshals. Most of their force will be needed to control that situation. At most they’ll spare only two or three people to cover anywhere else.” He went over to the mannequins of the Orders. A touch of the Tarian’s shield told him all he needed to know. Plaster and paint. Nothing he could use. The Spathian weapons were the same. “You couldn’t have tried for authenticity?” he asked Lady Mirianne.

  “I had no idea it would be worth the expense,” she shot back. “What do you think you can do, even if there are ‘only’ two or three men down there?”

  “Stay here,” Dayne said, going to the stairs. “I’ll call when it’s safe.”

  “Dayne!” she hissed, clearly keeping herself from shouting and drawing attention. “They are going to shoot you!”

  “With all due respect, my lady,” Dayne said, “they are only going to shoot at me.”

  Dayne slipped down the stairs as quietly as he could. Once he reached the landing, he could hear two men chatting quietly just through the threshold. Not chatting, grousing.

  “You’re just annoyed because he’s Lannic’s favorite,” one said.

  “That ain’t it,” the other said. “I could roll a badger over what Lannic thinks of him or me. I’m saying he ain’t right. I can’t figure out why he’s with us.”

  “All that matters is he is,” the first said. “He believes in our cause.”

  “He said he does.”

  Dayne chanced a glance. Two men, in the historical outfits, both armed with crossbows, paced lazily around the loading floor. Three other bodies were on the ground. Dayne couldn’t tell in the brief moment he looked if they were alive or dead. Given that they were tied up, it was more likely they were still alive.

  Tied up. The two Patriots didn’t want to have the burden of actively guarding those three. So they were lazy.

  Dayne constructed the other details from the scene in his head. The loading floor was filled with wooden crates, hand trucks, and rolling platforms. The loading doors were shut, but the doors leading out toward the lobby were open. Loud noises would carry.

  The men were likely true believers, based on their speech. He could probably dodge their crossbows all day, since it was highly unlikely they were mercenaries or former soldiers. The people who fell prey to groups like the Patriots tended to come from academia and honest trades. They might be small game hunters, but they’d find Dayne a lot harder to hit than a rabbit or squirrel.

  He couldn’t just dodge them, though. He needed to subdue them, and it had to be quick, and it had to be quiet.

  Dayne swore under his breath. He could see no resolution that didn’t involve at least a minimum of violence. His stomach turned at the idea.

  His feelings didn’t matter. The safety of Lady Mirianne was paramount. That was enough to resolve any qualms he might have regarding harming these two men.

  Fast. Quiet. Dayne spun around through the threshold and charged the two men at full speed.

  He had covered half the distance before they noticed he was coming, and he was almost on top of them when they got their crossbows up. The one on the left didn’t even aim, he just raised up and fired wild. The other at least had the decency to shoot in Dayne’s general direction. A slight shift of his body was enough to avoid it.

  Both of them were about to shout out when Dayne wrapped his hands around their sweaty heads, and with the minimum strength necessary to accomplish it, cracked their skulls together.

  They dropped like sacks of potatoes.

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” Dayne whispered. They both were breathing, and not bleeding, so hopefully he had only caused minor injuries. The brief, bemused thought crossed Dayne’s mind that perhaps he had knocked some sense into their heads, or at least knocked out the flawed interpretation of the Rights of Man and the Accords of 1009 that plagued the Patriots’ philosophy.

  He quickly rebuked himself for even thinking that. He could have easily killed them. They might still die, or be permanently injured. He did what needed to be done, but he shouldn’t let himself make light of it in any way.

  He checked on their victims. The three men—all marshals—were hurt, alive but unconscious. They had been beaten, with ugly bruises across their heads. Not shot with crossbows, though. Blunt trauma. Fists or handsticks, likely. The two Patriots didn’t have any weapons besides their crossbows. They would all need Yellowshields, if not proper doctors. Hopefully it wasn’t too late.

  Dayne checked their crossbows—cheap, two-crown devices that weren’t worth blazes if one hoped to shoot with any accuracy.

  Dayne untied the men, not that it really mattered, and with the rope tied and gagged the two Patriots.

  “My lady,” he quietly called up the stairwell. “It’s safe to descend.”

  Lady Mirianne came down, and Dayne immediately noticed that she had removed the extraneous and frilly portions of her gown, leaving her in a practical, stripped-down dress that still fulfilled all the duties of propriety.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m not injured,” Dayne said, which answered her question as honestly as he was willing to at this point. He went to the loading doors and quietly pushed them open. “You’ll have to hurry. We’ll need Constabulary and Yellowshields as quickly as possible.”

  “What do you mean I’ll have to hurry? You’re staying here?”

  “Miri—” Dayne felt his voice faltering, despite himself. “There are two members of Parliament, several other nobility, and dozens of innocents in there. I cannot abandon them. Putting your safety above theirs is the most concession to my heart I can allow.”

  “Your heart?” she asked, touching his face.

  “Please, go get help. I’ll do what I can.”

  She leaped up and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him strongly. He allowed the indulgence, if only for a moment. She ended the kiss, but held on, her eyes locked onto his.

  “Stay alive, Dayne. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She dropped down to her feet and went to the door. With one wistful look back at him, she dashed out into the alley.

  Dayne looked back at the doorway leading to the lobby. Last he saw, they had gathered the hostages into a tight circle in the center of the room. There were about twelve men in all, each of them with crossbows. Crossbows like the ones these two had.

  Bad shots, hard to reload.

  If he could draw their fire, give them something to shoot at, get enough of them to shoot, then they’d be sufficiently disarmed that he could handle them.

  Not that he could handle all twelve, certainly not with civilians in the mix.

  Of course, they weren’t all civilians. There was Jerinne, and at least four King’s Marshals. They might prove of use once the crossbows were taken out of the equation.

  The crossbows were still sticky. Even he couldn’t dodge twelve shots, presuming that he alone could even draw every Patriot’s fire.

  He needed to give them more to shoot at.

  A wild idea occurred to him. He grabbed two of the rolling platforms and hauled them back up the stairs.

  * * *

  After ten minutes of Lannic’s rhetoric against the Parliament, taxes, and legal accountability, Jerinne was almost hoping to take a crossbow bolt to the head. It would be less painful.

  “And it is this mandate for the people to defend the very Rights of Man that they take for granted! I will enumerate . . .”

  Jerinne turned her head to se
e if the marshals were doing anything. They were in charge of security, after all. They sat on the floor with everyone else, but without the frightened expression. They were bored. They were waiting.

  What were they waiting for?

  What was Jerinne waiting for? Dayne? For all she knew, Dayne was waiting for her to give him an opening. Or Dayne had left out the back with the Lady Mirianne.

  The point was, who else was going to do something?

  “ . . . the thwarted will of the common man—”

  “Do you have any demands?” Jerinne said, getting to her feet.

  Every crossbow was now trained on Jerinne.

  Lannic was clearly stunned, unsure how to react. He quickly recovered. “Of course we have demands. The system must change. We must expunge Druthal of these hypocrites we call leaders. The sooner people like you, Tarian, who live to prop up the fetid rot—”

  “Yeah, I heard all that,” Jerinne said. “But right now, what are your demands?”

  “Shut it, Tarian!” one of the other ones snapped.

  “No, let the Initiate speak,” another said. Jerinne glanced back to see it was the one called Tharek—he was masked with his neckerchief like all the others, but in physicality, the grace of his stance, he stood out.

  “You’re not going to get the whole Parliament to resign from inside this museum,” Jerinne said. “You’ve got sixty or so hostages of varying value. What do you want out of that? And who are you going to ask?”

  “You are not hostages, young lady,” Lannic said, shaking his head as if he was talking to a child. “You are the people. You are my congress of the people! You are all here to bear witness!”

  “So we’re free to go?” Jerinne said.

  “No one is free, young Tarian, though that is the lie they sweeten the poison with. We call the common man a freeman, don’t we? Isn’t that the polite term?” He turned to Mister Parlin, still standing on the stage in a cold sweat. “Isn’t that what you were called, Good Mister Parlin? Freeman Erick Parlin?”

  “Some called me that,” Parlin said.