The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Populist, aren’t you, Good Mister Parlin? Man of the people? In touch with the common man?”

  “I try.” Parlin held his chin high.

  “Try, indeed,” Lannic said, running his hand on Parlin’s coat. “Turjin silk, is it? And the rings? Gold and sapphires, I see? And where do you live, Good Mister Parlin?”

  “I’m the Fifth Chair of Acora. I live in Porvence.”

  “Oh, yes, of course you live in your archduchy. I’m sure it’s a rustic, simple place. But here, in Maradaine, Mister Chair, where do you reside?”

  Parlin said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Chair? I didn’t hear an answer.”

  The other one on the stage shoved his crossbow at Parlin. “Answer!”

  “That’s quite all right,” Lannic said, waving his man off. “I already know, Good Mister Parlin. Your home is in Callon Hills. Quite the Populist, living up there, hmm? Quite the man of the people.”

  He turned out to the crowd. “And that’s the great joke, isn’t it? The entire Parliament should be composed of common men, and we cannot manage that. Instead one party—the smallest party in the Parliament—are the common men. And here, Erick Parlin of Callon Hills, is the shining example!”

  “And so?” Jerinne snapped back. Again, all eyes and crossbows turned to her. “You don’t like him, vote him out.”

  Lannic stepped forward, shaking a long finger at Jerinne. Giving her his full attention. “If only, young Tarian. If only the voting process wasn’t so intrinsically corrupt. What are the alternatives to Good Mister Parlin? A man like Barton, who may as well live in a rich baron’s purse?”

  That was the opening Jerinne wanted. She took two steps forward, keeping her arms open. Show no threat. Every crossbow stayed trained on her. Including the one that had been on the Parliamentarian’s head. No one was in immediate danger, except for her. “So what’s next?”

  “Girl, cut it out,” one of the marshals said. Now they looked engaged. And frightened. Good. Maybe they might do something.

  “What’s the glorious plan, Lannic?” Jerinne hissed.

  Lannic didn’t answer, either in word or action, as the other man on the stage shouted and aimed his crossbow at a figure that suddenly appeared on the balcony. Without any hesitation, the man on the stage fired. Three other men shot at the figure up there.

  Lannic’s gaze trained on the figure as well, and Jerinne rushed in. She grabbed Lannic by the waist and pulled him off the stage. Jerinne sent a knee into the man’s groin, and as Lannic dropped, Jerinne wrenched his arm behind his back, pinning him down.

  Another figure appeared on the balcony, this one in full Spathian regalia. Four more men shot at him—no, it. A faceless mannequin. That point was clear since one bolt buried right in the thing’s head. Jerinne spun around and saw exactly who had fired: Tharek.

  Another mannequin—in classic Tarian trappings—came at the top of one of the stairs, drawing two more shots.

  Then another at the other stairs. This wasn’t a mannequin, though. Dayne, charging down, dodging the last shots sent his way.

  By Jerinne’s count, that was every crossbow.

  Chapter 8

  THE SITUATION WAS ESCALATING in the lobby. More to the point, Jerinne was escalating it. Dayne left the Hanalian mannequin on its platform behind the corner and snuck over to look down.

  Jerinne was taunting the leader. She was standing, and she had every eye, every crossbow, trained on her. Good. That’s what a Tarian should do. He had to admire the girl’s instincts. Plus, that would make them easy to distract.

  He needed to move quickly, or else there would be no crossbow fire to draw. Jerinne would be a pincushion.

  He hurried back to the Hanalian and shoved it out onto the balcony. He raced around through two exhibition rooms to where he had the Tarian and Spathian staged. He had to hurry. Shots fired. Hopefully they were all at the mannequin.

  Rounding the corner, Dayne slammed into the Spathian mannequin, and it spiraled out onto the balcony. More shots fired as he reached the Tarian mannequin. He pushed it onto one stairway as he hurried to the other one. How many were distracted? How many fired? Could Jerinne and marshals help him subdue the Patriots before it was too late?

  Thoughts hammered through his head as he leaped down the stairs. How many lives were at stake this time?

  Two bolts whizzed past him. Terrible shots. He hit the landing unscathed.

  Twelve men, most scrambling to reload their crossbows. Couldn’t give them the chance.

  Jerinne had the leader down. Good. The girl had the raw skill.

  Dayne charged at the closest two, arms wide, giving a mighty roar. It was, on some level, ridiculous, but he wanted the Patriots to panic. They weren’t soldiers or mercenaries. Some judicious fear should be enough to instigate a mass surrender.

  It was an effective strategy against those two Patriots, as they both yelped and scrambled to get away, crashing into each other. Dayne slammed into them, knocking them both to the floor. Minimum injury, maximum effect.

  Dayne turned back to the crowd. The marshals were scrambling to their feet. The Patriot on the stage with the Parliamentarians was reloading. Dayne needed to take him out of the equation. Three quick bounds to the stage. The man almost had a new bolt in his weapon. Dayne grabbed one wrist and twisted the Patriot’s arm behind his back.

  “Drop your weapons!” Jerinne shouted. She had the leader in a headlock, hauled up off his feet. One hand was pressed against the man’s head, as if she meant to break his neck. “Crossbows on the ground!” Dayne’s heart raced, leaping into his throat.

  The Patriots dropped their weapons, except one.

  Easily the tallest of the group, he threw his crossbow directly at Jerinne. As it flew across the room, he drew out two more crossbows.

  These were not like anyone else’s. These were fine craftsmanship; Dayne could see that clearly.

  Two shots sang out across the lobby, as the crossbow clocked Jerinne square in the face. Those shots were coming at the stage. At the Parliament members.

  No time. Dayne shoved his prisoner at one member of Parliament, while unceremoniously grabbing the other and pulling him down.

  Barely in time. The bolt sliced right past Dayne’s face, the fletching shaving the barest of marks across his cheek.

  “You all right?” he asked the Parliamentarian.

  The man nodded, his face coated in cold sweat. Dayne looked to the other one. Throwing the Patriot at him had been effective: he was knocked out of the way. Unfortunately, the Patriot had taken the bolt instead; a clean shot in the head.

  “No!” Dayne shouted, the word clawing its way out of his heart. He had as good as killed that man.

  The tall Patriot was on Jerinne, delivering a series of punches with blinding speed and breathtaking skill. Jerinne, dazed from being hit, had no chance to defend herself. In two breaths, the girl was on the floor. The tall Patriot scooped his leader up over his shoulder and ran to the back exit. Several other Patriots followed, though the marshals were now grabbing them and pinning them to the ground.

  The crowd panicked and screamed and ran for the doors.

  The doors burst open, sunlight streaming into the hallway.

  The dead man’s blood pooled on the stage.

  Two of the Patriots were escaping.

  Dayne wanted to run after them. Capture the tall one and the leader. Get them before they could do anything else. They were heading to the alley. Lady Mirianne might still be out there. For her, he had to stop them.

  Yet even those thoughts weren’t able to spur his legs. He wasn’t able to look away from the pool of blood.

  He had made a choice, he had taken action, and because of that, this man was dead. He had taken an oath, to the Order and to Master Denbar, and most importantly to himself, to protect all life. He had failed
that oath.

  Again.

  * * *

  “Enough, Tharek! I’m not hurt!” Lannic struggled to get out of his comrade’s grip. He didn’t need the man carrying him any farther. They needed to get away from the whole area of the museum, and quickly, but having one man carry another Brigade style, while dragging two more hogtied men was hardly a way to be inconspicuous.

  “Fine.” Tharek put him down just at the edge of the alley. “Constabulary will start a street crawl soon, if not a full blockade.” He dropped Kemmer and Braning, who were struggling in their bonds. “Stop squirming.” Tharek pulled out a knife from his coat and sliced their ropes.

  “Blazes, Pell,” Kemmer said, rubbing at his wrists. Kemmer hadn’t been too accepting of Tharek into the brotherhood of the Patriots, so used only his familial name. “Didn’t have to drag us like that.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you there,” Tharek said. He tore off the neckerchief and coat, effectively removing any obvious sign of where they had just been. Lannic started doing the same.

  “Are you two all right?” Lannic asked.

  “Some loon in a uniform jumped us,” Braning said. “He knocked our skulls before we had a chance to move.”

  “That loon was a Tarian,” Tharek said. “Could have cracked your skulls like eggs if he wanted to.”

  “That girl was a Tarian as well,” Lannic said. That girl with her smart mouth. Not as smart as she liked to think she was. The fool had no idea how corrupt the system was. She had clearly subscribed to being a part of it, entrenched in it. “They’re all just part of the problem.”

  Braning and Kemmer had taken off their disguises as well. “Now what?” Kemmer asked.

  “What about Shaw and the others?” Braning asked.

  “Shaw is dead,” Tharek said.

  “What?” Braning asked, almost wailing. Shaw was Braning’s brother.

  “It was that Tarian,” Tharek said. He scowled and glanced out the alley into the street. “I tried to shoot the Parli, but the Tarian used Shaw as a shield.” Tharek’s voice dripped with contempt. Lannic understood why, if Tharek had seen the Tarian do that. That man—that Tarian—had shown such clear contempt for life, for his fellow man. Anything to maintain the current, rotting order.

  “And everyone else?” Kemmer asked.

  “Not sure,” Tharek said. “They weren’t behind me when I got to the door. Killed or arrested.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Lannic said. He had finally taken his own disguise off. He had shown them his face, of course, but now he was dressed like an average student. No one would give him a second glance.

  “I have been saying,” Tharek said. “Constabulary will be on top of us. Having to kill a few of them would be inconvenient.”

  “We’re going to get killed,” Kemmer said. “We’re already blazing dead.”

  “We should split up.” Lannic needed to get them all back on track. “Each of you, just walk out of here, calm and easy. Everyone back at the Alassan by three bells. I need to talk to the chief, figure out our next step there.”

  “What about everyone else?” Braning urged.

  Lannic took him by the hand. Good-hearted Braning. Always thinking of others. “We’ll figure that out. I promise you, my friend, we will not forget anyone.”

  Braning nodded, tears forming at his eyes. “And our statement? That was Shaw’s job.”

  “I think I could take care of that,” Kemmer said.

  “You know someone?” Lannic asked.

  “Maybe,” Kemmer said. “I have some friends who haven’t stepped up to action yet.”

  “We need them to answer the call, Kemmer,” Lannic said. He put an arm around Braning. “We’ve lost enough for now.”

  Braning nodded again, wiping his eyes and putting on a brave face. He turned, head down, and walked off. Kemmer did the same. Both were gone into the crowd.

  “Should have left them, too,” Tharek muttered.

  “Don’t say that,” Lannic said. “We need every true heart right now.”

  “True hearts sometimes have blind eyes,” Tharek said. “Three bells.”

  “I count on you. Now, more than ever.”

  “And I will do whatever is necessary,” Tharek said. His great hand clapped Lannic on the shoulder, and with that, he was gone.

  Lannic glanced back down the alley. No one watching. Good. He didn’t have time to worry about being followed, being arrested right now. Enough friends were martyrs today. Kemmer was right, there were more friends in the city. It was time for them to answer the call.

  * * *

  “Dayne?” The voice rose above the din of the crowd, but Dayne couldn’t make out a face through the haze of anger and tears. But he knew the voice well enough. Lady Mirianne. The reality of the moment crashed in on him. How long had he been sitting on the stage, shocked by the dead Patriot? Where was Jerinne? Where were the Parliamentarians? He jumped to his feet. Did anyone need his help? Lady Mirianne seemed calm, no sign of danger.

  “Why are you back here?” he asked.

  She smiled coyly. “I brought the Constabulary.” She pointed to the green-and-red jacketed men helping the hostages out the front door. A pair of Yellowshields were tending to Jerinne, who for her part was mostly fending off their ministrations. A Constabulary lieutenant and one of the King’s Marshals were arguing in front of the nine Patriots they had bound in irons on the floor. “Of course, by the time I got back, you had more or less saved the day.”

  “Very much less,” he said, turning back to the dead Patriot. The Constabulary bodyman had thrown a tarp over the corpse, but that didn’t make any difference to Dayne. “I didn’t save a blasted thing.”

  “This boy is too modest,” one of the Parliamentarians said, coming down off the stage. “Though, that’s a rare trait which should probably be encouraged more.” He extended his hand. “I’d say Good Mister Barton and I might have found ourselves at the wrong end of those crossbow bolts were it not for your quick thinking.”

  “But someone did find the wrong end of one, good sir,” Dayne said.

  “And that someone was almost me,” the other Parliamentarian said. This one must be Barton, meaning the first was Parlin. “I’m not sure having a ruffian shoved at me was a better option.”

  “It most certainly was, Julian,” Mister Parlin said. “Frankly, my good Tarian, I’m quite grateful you were here. Aren’t we?” Mister Barton grunted something in agreement.

  “His name is Heldrin,” Lady Mirianne said. “Dayne Heldrin. Second-year Candidate.”

  “Candidate, hmm?” Mister Parlin said. He gave a good-natured laugh, and leaned in to whisper. “I’m afraid I’ve stepped off the approval committee, son. Perhaps you picked the wrong Parliamentarians to save!”

  “Enough, Erick,” Mister Barton said, taking his colleague by the arm. “You have our thanks, Mister Heldrin.” He dragged Parlin away, heading over to the King’s Marshals. Another marshal—Marshal Chief Toscan, specifically—brought Jerinne over. Despite the bruises on her face, Jerinne was smiling.

  “You’re the ranking Tarian, so she’s your problem,” the chief said. “Though the two of you better show reason why you shouldn’t be ironed up.”

  With one Patriot dead and at least two at large, Dayne wasn’t sure he had one, other than he had no formal responsibility for the security of this place beyond his duty as a Tarian. He considered saying that he only acted where the marshals had failed, but Lady Mirianne spoke before he could say so.

  “Because I refuse to let you do such a thing!”

  The marshal’s face dripped with condescension. “With all due respect, my lady, you have no authority—”

  Lady Mirianne put her tiny body between Dayne and Toscan. “With all due respect, Marshal, I suggest you review your Books of Decree. Namely, Royal Decree 172, dated Nalith
an the 9th, 1017, which reads—”

  “I know what it reads, my lady.”

  “Then you know that all members of recognized orders—like the Tarians—including members in training, are to be given all courtesies as officers of justice.”

  “Within limits,” the marshal said.

  Jerinne snorted. “You’re just mad because Dayne and I saved the day while your men sat on their hands.”

  “You’re going to get the courtesy of my fist, child!”

  Dayne raised up a hand. “There’s no need for that, Chief. Tell me, honestly, do you believe you have a just cause for laying a charge upon us? If so, we will face it.”

  “Dayne!” Jerinne said.

  “We will face it,” Dayne reiterated. “Though as the senior member present, I do take full responsibility for Miss Fendall.”

  The marshal scowled. “Probably nothing. You’re both lucky no one got hurt.”

  “There’s a dead man here,” Dayne said.

  “Not to mention my face,” Jerinne added.

  The marshal’s condescending expression returned. “I meant no one of—consequence.” He glanced at Lady Mirianne, as if expecting her to agree with him, but the look on her face was anything but that. He coughed awkwardly. “My lady.” He gave a correctly formal bow toward Lady Mirianne and walked off.

  “Swine,” Lady Mirianne muttered. “Truly, Miss Fendall, are you well? I have an excellent doctor I can call upon. Or perhaps I can instruct Jessel to engage in some healing arts?”

  “The doctor and other healers we have in our infirmary are quite skilled,” Dayne said. “We’ll return home and let them tend to her.”

  “I’ll be fine, my lady,” Jerinne said. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  “It really does look quite horrible,” Dayne said.

  Jerinne shrugged. “Two of us against twelve. At least it was that Tharek character who dropped me.”

  “Tharek?” Dayne asked. Was that the tall one’s name? “He wasn’t like the rest. He had better crossbows. More like a mercenary.”