The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Dayne took some issue with that claim. There were eight of them, that was easy enough to measure. But there was some truth, the group did have a unique mix of heritages. Two of them were probably Racquin, or pure Kellirac. Another was Kieran, a fourth Fuergan. One woman appeared to be Imach, or possible Xonacan. For one man, Dayne couldn’t even place his heritage.

  Mirianne was clearly enjoying herself, smile as wide as her face. “Tell us, good players, what makes you so groundbreaking?” She sounded like she was reading her own lines from a script.

  “We integrate theatrical traditions from all over the world. The Masqueries of the Kieran Empire! The Morality Spectacles of Acseria!” He indicated the more mysterious woman. “Tlachen-tza dance from Xonoca! The Tsouljan Koh-Jan-Rev!”

  “Yes, but will we understand it?” the purple man asked.

  “That depends, good sir. Are you actually an intelligent creature?”

  The purple man laughed. “That depends, good sir. How much wine have I drunk?”

  Now just about everyone laughed, and Dayne decided to move things along. “Since we now have an idea how you will perform, could you let us know what?”

  “Is this the man?” the theater leader asked, jumping off the platform to approach Dayne. “Is this the great Dayne Heldrin, twice the hero?”

  “That is my name,” Dayne said. “But I wouldn’t be so presumptuous . . .”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” he said. “But we have been informed that you are the guest of honor. Our performance tonight is a gift from the most estimable Lady Mirianne of Jaconvale.” He spun on his heel to Jerinne. “Do not think you are forgotten, young lady. We are aware that you are as much to be lauded as Mister Heldrin.”

  “Tarians do not seek laudation,” Jerinne replied.

  “They are as you said, my lady,” the theater leader said with a bow to Lady Mirianne. “Honor to the core.”

  “The very souls of the Tarian Order,” Mirianne said.

  “You asked me a question, good Dayne Heldrin,” the man continued. “To which the answer is complex. We have been told that you are a student of history, are you not?”

  “I am,” Dayne said.

  “Indeed you are. So we have taken three of Darren Whit’s history plays: Shalcer the Idiot King, Cedidore the Mad, and Maradaine VII, as well as a translation of a curious Tsouljan play called Reng-kav-pyan, ‘Ten Broken Shards.’ We have melded these texts together into a new work, which we call The Shattering of a Kingdom.”

  This sounded fascinating, even though Dayne had never seen either Shalcer or Cedidore, and had never even heard of this Tsouljan work. There was also the matter that Maradaine VII’s reign was nearly two hundred years after Shalcer and Cedidore, but that intrigued Dayne even more. How could these works be integrated into a cohesive performance?

  “We will prepare ourselves,” the theater leader said. “And you all do the same.” He went back to his troupe.

  “How do we prepare ourselves?” Jerinne asked.

  “With our dinner for the evening,” Mirianne said, indicating the banquet table. “If you were expecting a staid, traditional event at a table where we are brought our courses in the proper order, as I’m sure they are doing in every other house in Callon Hills, then I will have to disappoint you.”

  “I don’t think I’m disappointed,” Jerinne said.

  “So this is how it’s done, my friends,” Mirianne said with a flourish matching the actors. “Plates and silver are here. A variety of dishes all along here. Bostler is on hand over there with the wine.”

  “We serve ourselves?” One of the ladies gasped in a mock display of horror. “My mother would die of the indignity.”

  “Serve yourselves, indeed,” Mirianne said. “It gets even more wicked. Once you’ve loaded your plates as decadently as you choose, take it to one of the blankets. Lie down, gorge yourselves, and enjoy the show!”

  The purple man rubbed his hands together. “Miri, you are a sinner. The very best sinner in all of Maradaine.”

  Everyone went to the banquet table, which had several glorious delicacies, though every dish had its roots in simple Sharain country cooking. Roast lamb seasoned with rosemary and mustard. Crisped potatoes, cooked in duck fat. Duck and lamb sausages in a white bean cassoulet. Rich creamed onions. Dayne could have eaten it all until he burst.

  “Hurry up and fill your plate,” Lady Mirianne whispered in his ear. “I’ve already chosen which blanket we’ll share.”

  * * *

  Kemmer’s pounding head was getting worse. In the last day and a half he had had his head cracked, trudged through a sewer, and drunk a cup of Gillem’s rough mash. But none of those made his head spin like the sight of Tharek Pell’s “safehouse.”

  It was not a house, but an abandoned chemist shop far out on the west side of Trelan. It had been boarded up, but the back door was open, disguised to look nailed over. The actual “safe” part, according to Tharek, was not the shop itself, but the basement. The way into the basement was obscured by one of the shelves of chemicals. Kemmer had to admit, it certainly seemed safe, as there was no way that anyone could possibly find their way down to the basement without Tharek to guide them.

  “And Lannic really doesn’t know about this?” Kemmer asked as they went down the steps: he and Tharek, Braning and Gillem, and three others. Yand, who had also escaped arrest the night before, and his friend Wissen, an angry young man, and Wissen’s sister Jala. Those last two were, as far as Kemmer knew, completely new to the Patriots, but they spoke with passion, and Yand vouched for them. Tharek had pressed them with many questions before leading them to this place, and if they were not honest and loyal, then they held up to his scrutiny very well.

  Kemmer wasn’t even sure he would hold up if Tharek doubted him.

  “No, Kemmer,” Tharek said. “No one does, except us.”

  They continued into the basement, completely enshrouded in darkness until Tharek lit a lamp. The light immediately flickered over the gleam of metal. An absurd amount of metal.

  It wasn’t a basement, it was a bunker.

  Every inch of the walls was covered in weapons. Swords of every size and description. Druth swords, Waish and Kieran swords. Swords from every country in the world, as far as Kemmer knew. Pikes and spears. Bows and crossbows. Maces and axes and hammers. Devices of pain that Kemmer couldn’t even put name to.

  Kemmer wasn’t sure if it was glorious or insane.

  “What is this?” he asked, pointing to one particularly strange blade.

  “Aeedjhak,” Tharek said. “Turjin sword. Don’t touch it.”

  Kemmer pulled his hand away.

  “Do we have a plan?” Yand asked. His fingers twitched. “We’re gonna stick them good, right?”

  Kemmer didn’t really know Yand very well, other than occasionally seeing him at the Alassan. He wasn’t someone who Kemmer ever had a good feeling about. He wasn’t a believer in the cause. If Kemmer had to guess, Yand was just angry, raging without focus, so doing damage of any kind was good to him. He might as well be in one of those south side street gangs.

  Blazes, between him and his two friends, they looked like a south side street gang. Wissen and Jala weren’t Druth, not by heritage. Coloring was a bit too dark. Racquin or Acserian, perhaps. Jala had long black hair, tied in a single braid down her back, and Wissen had a full beard. Both wore shirtsleeves and canvas vests, like dockworker steves, and they had arms to match.

  Of course Braning and Shaw were like that at one time. Just two angry sewer workers who needed a cause. Lannic found them and gave them focus, gave them the cause.

  Kemmer missed the early days, sometimes, when it was just him and Lannic in the Alassan, talking about the flaws of the government. Talking about revolution.

  “We have goals,” Tharek said, sitting at a small desk with some elaborate sketches on it. Kemm
er took a glance: maps of the city, detailed layouts of buildings. “Prioritizing our goals will make how we proceed clear.”

  “Righteous,” Jala said.

  “What are our goals right now?” Braning asked. “I would think the main one would be staying out of Quarrygate.”

  “Quarrygate ain’t that bad,” Wissen said, talking like he knew from experience.

  “I’d prefer not to know,” Braning said.

  “Are you saying you’re out?” Tharek asked.

  “No, just . . . what are we in for? And . . . are you in charge now, Tharek?”

  “I’m not, not really,” Tharek said. “When it comes down to it, the Chief tells us what to do.”

  “If he’s actually real,” Braning said.

  “He is,” Kemmer asserted, even though he felt doubt gnawing at his gut. “I can’t think Lannic would go that far to pretend he answered to someone else.”

  “No, he is,” Gillem said. “I ain’t met him, but I know that’s part of the plan. He talks to Lannic, Lannic talks to us. That way we can’t turn him in, he can’t turn us in, and we don’t know about any other groups he’s got.”

  “There’s other groups?” Yand asked. “First I heard.”

  “No, there are. Or, at least, the Chief has influence,” Tharek said. “That’s how we got into the museum. The Chief’s other people arranged it.”

  “So we get in touch with him, somehow, right?” Braning asked. “Ask him what to do next. Someone has to know how Lannic stayed in touch.”

  “I do, and I’ve tried,” Tharek said. “But he hasn’t responded. Maybe he’ll talk only to Lannic. That’s why our top goal is to free Lannic.”

  “So you said.” Kemmer needed things to move ahead, but also keep a hand on the reins. Braning was the only one here he trusted not to be a runaway carriage. “What else?”

  “Rekindle the fear they had yesterday.”

  “Yes!” Yand said, far too enthusiastically for Kemmer’s taste.

  “Right,” Kemmer said. “So: Free Lannic, reclaim fear, don’t get arrested.”

  “That’s not my preferred order,” Braning said.

  “And we need to do it decisively,” Tharek said. “We don’t have any other choice. I want every swell in the Parliament to wake up tomorrow morning and see the safety they’ve imagined withered like a dead flower.”

  “If I may suggest,” Kemmer said, “the last two times we put on a big show. And that didn’t go too well.”

  “You weren’t really there for the show,” Yand sneered.

  “And you weren’t there for the first,” Braning snapped back. “He and I nearly got our heads caved in.”

  “Point is,” Kemmer said, aiming his argument at Tharek. If he took control, and got Tharek on his side, the rest would fall in line. “We did a big, public thing that drew attention immediately. So we had to tangle with marshals and Constabulary and Tarians.”

  “It made them afraid,” Tharek said.

  “Yeah, but it put us in danger as well,” Kemmer said. “That’s why most of our friends are in irons right now.”

  “So what do you think we should do?” Tharek asked. There was an edge to his voice—Kemmer wasn’t sure if Tharek was mocking him or just pushing to get a strong idea out of him.

  “A display. Something that the people—including the Parliament and the newssheets—can see, make them be afraid, hear our message, but we don’t need to be standing around to get our heads bashed when they do.”

  “Lannic would want to give a speech,” Gillem said.

  “And Lannic is in irons,” Braning said.

  “It’s good,” Tharek said quietly. “We hit one or more of those swells somewhere private. Somewhere personal. And let them be found there.”

  “Right, right,” Yand said, almost panting like a puppy. “Then the rest will know, they’ll know, there ain’t no place safe. We can get you wherever!”

  “Most of them got houses up in Callon Hills,” Wissen said. “How we gonna get in there? Especially Jala and me?”

  “Every road in there has gates and private guards,” Gillem added. “Ain’t that the way to spend the people’s money?”

  “The roads have gates, but what about underground?” Tharek asked, looking at Braning.

  “There’s gates in the sewers, too,” Braning said. “But a lot of them are old and rusted. Chap like you can crack them down.”

  “Sewers will be patrolled after last night, though,” Kemmer said. “They know we sabotaged it.”

  “But everyone thinks the crisis is over,” Tharek said. “They might patrol a bit, but they won’t send too many Constabulary down into the stink when everything is fine.”

  “So do we have an idea what we’re going to do?” Kemmer asked. “Do we know who?”

  “Yeah,” Wissen asked. “Who’s it going to be?”

  “Oh, my friends,” Tharek said, picking up a scrawled note from his desk. “Don’t you worry about who. I’ve got a list of the most deserving souls of all of them.”

  For the first time since he had met the man, Kemmer saw glee in Tharek’s eyes. And glorious insanity.

  Chapter 18

  DAYNE’S PLATE WAS LOADED with roast lamb, sausages, crisped potatoes, creamed onions, white beans, and grilled asparagus. He would almost feel guilty, but he could see that everyone else was being similarly voracious. The scents all mingled together, intoxicating him.

  True to her word, Lady Mirianne had selected a blanket on the side of the stage closest to the banquet table. She reclined on the blanket, resting her blonde head on one hand, while nibbling on a bit of hard cheese. The rest of the guests were finding their own places around the stage—Jerinne was sharing a blanket with Miss Jessel—as Dayne joined Lady Mirianne.

  “You know you can always get more food,” she teased.

  “And get up during the performance?” Dayne asked. “Terribly rude.”

  “And yet it will happen,” she said, signaling to Bostler. “You did get the mustard?”

  “Of course,” Dayne said, showing her the small dish of spicy, creamy mustard, her family’s signature commodity. To many across the Sharain, across the entire archduchy of Maradaine, Jaconvale was synonymous with mustard. She reached over and dipped her cheese into it. She bit it, allowing a dollop of the mustard to stay on her lip until she licked it away.

  “You had your own,” Dayne said.

  “I wanted yours.”

  Bostler came over with a decanter of red wine and two glasses.

  “As you requested, my lady,” he said, pouring their glasses and leaving the decanter.

  “We shouldn’t be getting up and disrupting the performance to refill our glasses,” she said. “That would be far too tragic.” She held out a glass to him while raising up her own.

  “To long absent friends coming home,” she said.

  “To home being a peaceful place,” Dayne toasted back, a sincere wish that yesterday’s troubles were an isolated incident.

  “Peace and tranquility,” she returned, and they both drank together.

  In short order everyone had settled on their respective blankets with their plates, and the troupe took that as their cue to begin.

  They stomped their feet, simulating a marching army as their pounding echoed under the platform. This continued for just long enough to feel awkward, until one of the women stepped forward.

  “Indifference breeding incompetence, a failed line of false kings. Fools named Bintral, through plague and famine, lose their grip on a people, a land, a kingdom. Bring forth the final son, the grandest failure, the imbecile with a crown, the simpleton on the throne, the dullard who brings doom. Step forth, Shalcer, Idiot King of Druthal!”

  One of the men came out of the marching line, putting on a mask he removed from a niche on the edge of the stage. The mask
was simple, but effectively portrayed an iconic image of Shalcer: confused face with a tilted crown.

  “What word from Rinaser? What of Duke Malcor? I did expect news of my dear friend.”

  Another man came forward, augmenting his costume with a helmet. He knelt before Shalcer. “My king, great tragedy in Rinaser. The duke, deeply in debt from the mishandling of his affairs, has enacted harsh and unsupportable taxes that would have broken the backs of the people under his care.”

  “This sounds most sensible.”

  “Nay, my lord. For it did spur the wrath of the common man. They have rebelled against the duke, under the banner of Ian Acorin!”

  The Xonacan woman stepped forward, putting on a blue tabard. “No more! My friends, dear friends, these men are no leaders, and their birth gives them no rights over you! Take up arms! Take up fire! Be held down no more!” The stomping intensified, as the actors still on the back lines screamed and shouted.

  “Most disagreeable!” Shalcer said, and then the actor removed his mask and rejoined the line.

  The play continued along these lines, with the eight actors briefly taking on roles and abandoning them again, using only a mask or a prop to indicate the shift. The technique was effective, and the actors gave it every bit of commitment it needed to work. Dayne had to give them that credit, even if he found the whole affair strangely stilted.

  It wasn’t a traditional production, for certain, but that was what they were promised.

  The food was exquisite, a testament to the skill of Lady Mirianne’s chefs. Dayne had not had its like in years, since he had last visited this household. Even The Nimble Rabbit, which was a fine example of Sharain country cooking, had nothing on this glorious feast. He had his plate cleared by the time the troupe had reached the point in history where Druthal had shattered into many kingdoms, and Shalcer was forced to attend a peace conference and acknowledge these newly crowned kings. Shalcer had counted on the Orders of the day—Tarians, Spathians, Braighians, Vanidians, and others—to maintain their fealty to him and Druthal Proper. Dayne was about to get up to refill his plate when one actor came forth, having put on a coat of the Tarian Order.