“Lannic doesn’t blame us,” Braning said. “Tharek might.”
“That guy has something missing in his head, I’m telling you,” Kemmer said. “How did he end up giving us orders?”
“He had the plan.” Braning shrugged. “It’s a damn sight better plan than the museum one, if you ask me.”
“Except we’ve got the filth job.” Something skittered by along the wall, just outside their vision. “What was that?”
“Roach or rat, I figure.”
“How far do we have to go?”
“First one’s just up here.” Braning pointed into the darkness. “Look, it makes sense to give us this.”
“Makes sense for you. You and Shaw worked the sewers.”
“Well, Shaw is dead,” Braning snapped. “So I need you to carry the lamp.”
Kemmer kept his mouth shut. Braning was still an open wound about his brother, and Kemmer couldn’t blame him. He trudged behind Braning, doing his best not to breathe through his nose.
“All right,” Braning said eventually, as they approached a metal wheel. “Hold the lamp up.”
Kemmer raised it while Braning took hold of the wheel and turned it. From the distance, a metallic groan echoed through the sewer, until a clanging knock ended it.
“This one’s closed now.” Braning said. Even though Kemmer had lost track of the details of the plan once he heard he was going into the sewers with Braning, he understood they were sealing flood control doors to back up the sewage where Tharek needed it.
“Is that it?” Kemmer asked. It seemed easy enough.
“Blazes, no,” Braning said. “We have to close fifteen more, and fast. Come on, we’ve got a lot of walking to do.”
“You know there’s going to be a whole mess of bedlam in the streets.”
Braning gave the slightest smile. “Won’t there just be?”
“And we’re going to miss it.”
“So that chuffs you?”
“That’s just it,” Kemmer said. “After getting skulled at the museum, I am just fine with missing it.”
Braning nodded. “Let’s hurry up. We’ve got to get this done by eight bells.”
* * *
Talon Circle was the central part of the Welling neighborhood, a wide plaza where the two main roads of Fenn and Hege met at the sprawling Fountain of Victory, the largest fountain on the north side of Maradaine. The Talon Club loomed over its namesake circle, a grand stone edifice a story above any other building in the plaza. The only thing matching its height was the center of the fountain, a great pedestal culminating in an empty plinth.
“Why isn’t there a statue up there?” Jerinne wondered idly as the carriage pulled in front of the club.
“Well, it’s symbolic, of course,” the Good Mister Seabrook said. He glanced up at the fountain. “Wouldn’t you say, Ressin?”
“Most definitely symbolic, good sir,” Ressin offered.
“There you have it,” Seabrook concluded. Jerinne let the matter drop as the doorman approached the carriage.
“Good evening, good sir,” the doorman said to Seabrook. “It is always a pleasure to have you here.”
“It is a pleasure to be had,” Seabrook responded. “If you would take note of Miss Jerinne Fendall, Initiate of the Tarian Order and honored guest of the evening.”
“You do us the honor, Initiate,” the doorman said. He opened the door for them.
Jerinne entered the entry hall, to find herself immediately encountering stairs.
“Up we go,” Seabrook said, “Three flights.”
“Three, sir?” Ressin asked. “Very well, indeed.”
“Stop at one for you, Ressin.” Seabrook went on up.
“What’s this, now?” Jerinne asked Ressin.
“Right, you’ve never stepped foot in here,” Ressin said, a bitter note clearly heard in his tone. “Ground floor here is where the kitchens are. One flight up is the main dining room, where I’ll be dining tonight.”
“All right.” Jerinne was rather shocked that Ressin wasn’t dining with them. Was that how things were usually done?
“The next floor up are various smaller dining rooms. Special reservations and the like.”
“And the third floor up?”
“That is the elite hall.” Ressin, having reached the top of the first flight, looked wistfully up the spiral staircase. “Invitation by the Talon’s Inner Circle only.”
Jerinne’s heart pounded in sudden panic. “And I’m supposed to—”
“You stay at his side, Miss Fendall,” Ressin said, nodding after Seabrook, who continued up. “It’s your charge, and your honor.”
“I couldn’t possibly, Mister Ressin.”
“This might be the only chance in your lifetime. Best seize it.”
Jerinne steeled her jaw, and took the next flight of stairs, catching up to Seabrook.
“The truth is, Miss Fendall,” Seabrook said, speaking as if Jerinne had been by his side this whole time, “I’m a man of simple tastes. Stand on the bow of a ship, salt spray in the air, what else does a man need?”
“Little more, sir,” Jerinne offered.
“This is what I’m always saying. Sadly, even men of my stature—blazes, due to my stature—but men of my stature must engage at a level of luxury that is expected of us. Oh, I could putter about like Montrose in his little house in Fenton, of course, but you see the influence he holds, for all his—”
Seabrook kept going on about Montrose as they passed they second floor, but once they reached the landing of the top floor, Jerinne was unable to focus on a word the man was saying. The door in front of her had two suited stewards, in full suits, brocaded vests with silver hasps, and white gloves. The anteroom alone was richly appointed—candles in silver sconces, paintings and rugs from far East Tyzania, gilded frames on the door.
Even the country household of Baron Fortinare didn’t have this kind of ostentatious display of wealth. That wasn’t the baron’s style.
“Welcome, Good Mister Seabrook,” one of the stewards said. “This would be your escort this evening?”
“She is,” Seabrook said. “We are expected, yes?”
“Your arrival is anticipated,” the steward said. “Though I must insist . . .” He let the phrase hang, raising an expectant eyebrow at Seabrook.
“Of course,” Seabrook said, leaning in to whisper.
“Very good,” the steward said after Seabrook pulled away. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”
The other steward opened the door, allowing them both entry.
One long table dominated the room, with many people already seated, dressed as finely as Seabrook. Jerinne didn’t recognize most of them on sight, but by their dress and adornments she could easily tell that many were Parliamentarians, seated with ladies of station. It was unlikely that the ladies were the wives of the Parliamentarians. By age, daughters were more likely, but Jerinne doubted that. There were also two noblemen—an earl and a baron, if Jerinne were to guess—and an army colonel.
And Madam Tyrell, in her dress uniform, next to one of the Parliamentarians.
She noticed Jerinne right away, giving her an odd regard, raising her glass.
“Good sir, miss,” one of the stewards said, pulling out chairs for them both. Jerinne sat down next to Seabrook as the stewards poured wine for both of them.
“Arrived right on time to make an entrance,” Seabrook whispered to Jerinne. “Seems almost everyone is here.”
“Everyone?” Jerinne asked.
“My dear, you are surrounded by the true power brokers of Druthal.” He pointed casually to the various Parliamentarians. “Millerson. Orton. Corvi. Barton, of course, you recognize him.” Jerinne did note one of the men from the museum.
“Yes, of course,” Jerinne said, giving a respectful nod to the Good Mister B
arton as he gave them both note.
“Parlin’s not here, though I’m not surprised. He was invited, from what I understand. Courtesy for the events of the day. But he’s a Populist, and I suppose he must maintain an image to his voters. Colonel.”
He shook hands with the army officer, who had approached them both. “Good to see you, Seabrook. Who is your young friend here?”
“This is the veritable hero of the hour, Colonel. Jerinne Fendall, Initiate of the Tarian Order. The very one who saved Barton and Parlin this morning.”
“Fendall, good girl.” The colonel offered his hand. “Colonel Estin Neills, vice-commandant at Fort Merritt.”
“A pleasure, Colonel,” Jerinne said.
“What are the odds you could be put in a proper uniform, hmm?”
“Her uniform is quite proper,” Madam Tyrell offered from across the table.
“Of course it is,” the colonel huffed out. He leaned in and whispered, “But the Green and Gray would suit you, perhaps in the Irregulars.” He patted Jerinne on the shoulder and walked away. That confused Jerinne a bit. There were no women in the army, unless that’s what these “irregulars” were. Why would he want her for that, whatever it was?
“Mark me, dear,” Seabrook offered, “he’ll be the full commandant by next month.”
“Is that a fact?” Jerinne asked.
“Not a verifiable one,” Seabrook said a slight grin crossing his face. “But I know how things are going to go in committee.”
The steward came up behind them and presented a bottle of wine to them both. “Nitaria Province, 1198.”
“Perfect,” Seabrook said, indicating for the steward to pour. “Fendall, my dear, you will enjoy this. I think you’re in for quite a night, indeed.”
* * *
Washed and dressed in his cottons, Dayne found his way back to the kitchens, where the staff was finishing up their dinner preparations. All of them stopped and came to attention as he entered.
“It’s all right,” Dayne said, waving them down. The head of staff—Ellist—came over as the rest returned to their work.
“Can I be of aid, sir?” Ellist asked.
“I understand it’s only myself and the Initiates tonight?”
Ellist nodded. “Unless I’m mistaken, you are the highest-ranking member on premises, sir. Have you special instructions?”
“Do me a favor and put the tables together. I want to be able to talk to all the Initiates while we eat.”
Ellist gave Dayne a look that made him think his request was akin to dancing naked in the light of the moons, but he nodded. “As you wish, sir. You are the ranking member on premises.”
“I’ll help you move them,” Dayne said. As soon as he said this, he knew that Ellist was even more offended by the notion.
“We can manage, sir. Ten minutes, and the bell will be rung.”
Dayne took that as a cue to leave Ellist’s domain, and he made his way back out to the main foyer. Kevo, the old household dog, was dozing in a corner. Dayne hadn’t seen Kevo since his arrival; he had almost forgotten the little beast.
“Hey, Kevo.” Dayne scratched the dog behind the ears. It lifted its head and sniffed half-heartedly at Dayne’s hand before lying back down.
“He’s nearly blind, poor thing” someone said from behind. Dayne turned to see a third-year Initiate coming down the stairs. She was familiar—of course, she’d have been first-year when he was a third, but he couldn’t quite place her.
“Vien Reston,” she said, as if she noticed his confusion. “Do you have something planned for us, sir? Or do we have our Quiet Days in peace?”
“Dinner and conversation,” Dayne said. Her eyebrow went up, so Dayne continued. “Nothing more. No pranks, not from me. I never saw the point. Or the humor.”
“Then we’re lucky it’s you staying with us when everyone else is gone.”
Dayne nodded. Maybe that was the purpose behind this assignment. The Grandmaster knew that Dayne would treat the Initiates with dignity, something the likes of Aldric and Price would not understand.
Aldric and Price had a better chance of becoming full Tarians than he did.
“Sorry, sir?” Vien asked. “You mumbled something about a better chance.”
“Nothing, Initiate,” Dayne said. “Just thinking out loud. But . . . I’m going to flout convention a bit tonight, by having us all eat at one large table.”
“That’s a bold choice, sir.”
“I could hear Ellist’s teeth grinding when I suggested it,” Dayne said. “But the truth is, I really don’t know any of you, and . . . well, I’m just doing what I can to help. In Lacanja, we all ate at one table together.”
“How many Tarians were in the Lacanja chapterhouse?”
“Eight at the most,” Dayne admitted. “Let’s just humor me on this.”
The dinner bells rang out. “It seems I’m left with no choice,” she said. “Let’s go see what you’ve done.”
Ellist and his people had done a fine job pulling the tables together, creating a space for them all to eat as one unit, as he thought it should be. Dayne sat down at the center of the table, so he’d easily be able to talk to everyone. Vien took a seat near him as the rest of the Initiates came in. Most of them looked perplexed, but took their seats.
The servers brought plates of stewed lamb and beets with cups of cider. Simple fare, as traditional and basic as it got.
“Why are we all like this?” one Initiate—a second-year—asked.
“What’s your name?” Dayne responded.
“Enther.”
“Usually, Enther, we’re broken into our various ranks. Initiates in one part of the room, Candidates in another, and so on. Tonight we’re all Initiates.”
“Except you,” a second-year woman said.
“He knows that, Raila,” Enther offered.
“Yes, except me,” Dayne said. “But I remember being you. I remember Quiet Days, tricks from the Candidates—”
“Which this seems like the makings of, sir,” Raila said.
Dayne had to accede that. “That isn’t my style. Jerinne can vouch for that. Right, Jerinne?” He looked at the various faces surrounding him, not seeing Jerinne anywhere.
“She’s on assignment, sir,” Enther said. “One of the Parliamentarians asked for her, so . . . she’s off at the Talon Club.”
“Ah,” Dayne said. Seems many were at the Talon tonight. “Good for her.”
“Why aren’t you assigned anywhere?” someone else asked.
“Because I’ve had a full day,” Dayne lied. “And I wanted the luxury of a simple dinner with you fine people. The future of the Order.”
“Only a handful of us are the future of the Order,” someone else said. “Many of us won’t be here next week.”
“That’s true, I’m sorry,” Dayne said. “You’re all at the point where your work may be for naught. Some of you may—no. Some of you will be leaving. Believe me when I tell you that the line between those who make it and those that do not is narrow.”
“How narrow could it be, sir?” Raila asked.
“The Trials will test your martial skills, and from what I’ve seen of you all, you have them well mastered. Show your discipline, show what’s in your heart, and that’s the best you can do.”
“What do you mean what’s in our heart?” Vien asked.
Dayne knew he shouldn’t give away too much about what the Trials were about, especially for second- and third-years. The skills with shield and sword and other fighting arts were crucial, of course, and everyone who advanced to Candidate had to master them. But the Trials had far more to do with character. “As in, do you have the heart of a Tarian?”
“They’ll push us hard,” from one young man at the edge of the table. “See if we break. See if we surrender. That’s what matters, right? T
hat we keep on fighting.”
This didn’t sound promising. He had to give them something more to think about. “All right,” Dayne said, pushing his plate to one side. “Are any of you familiar with the Question of the Bridge?”
With one exception, who was sitting at the corner of the table, they all shook their heads.
“You stay quiet,” Dayne said, pointing to the one who didn’t shake her head. “The rest listen. This story comes from Monitel; any of you ever been there?”
Again, heads shook. The Question of the Bridge had passed down from the Cascian Order—mountain rangers, who were later folded into the Tarians and Spathians. But there was no need to confuse these Initiates further with these details.
“Up in the eastern mountains, mining city. Now, to deliver ore from Monitel down to the river, they’ve built a series of cart tracks down the mountains to the base towns. The carts are loaded up and roll their way down, and they get going pretty fast. So every cart has a brakeman who rides on it, keeping it from going out of control. Everyone clear on this?”
“Silver mines up north have a similar system,” one of the Initiates said. “But they get ox pulls.”
“Because they don’t have mountains,” Dayne said. “So you don’t get the carts going anywhere near as fast as in Monitel. Even with the brakemen, accidents happen. In the Question of the Bridge, as one ore cart is approaching the base town, the brakeman has become ill. He’s passed out. So the cart is out of control, smashing down the track. Is everyone clear on this?”
Nods again from all the Initiates. None of them looked confused so far, so he had explained it well enough.
“Good. Now, the track leads to a bridge. Crossing the bridge is a family on a wagon. Mother, father, and three children. They’re right on the track, middle of the bridge, and there’s nowhere they can go. And that ore cart is going to smash into them and kill them.”
“Who designed this?” Raila asked. “It’s a pretty bad plan if people have to cross a bridge where an ore cart might kill them.”
The Way of the Shield Page 13