The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Dayne,” she said, dropping her voice to a sultry whisper. “You’ve stopped them, and they’re facing trial. And you are in a gorgeous, romantic garden with a beautiful woman who wants you to kiss her.”

  “I didn’t stop them,” Dayne said. “And my attempts may have hurt me more than I realized.”

  “Hurt you how?”

  “I’ve turned the Grandmaster against me, and he had already said my chances of making Adept were almost nonexistent.”

  “Foolish,” she said. Placing her hand over his heart, she added, “You are a Tarian. You are my Tarian. There is no man alive who is more of one than you.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Dayne said.

  “And no matter what happens, Adept or no, there will always be a place for you in this house. Wherever I am, I want to have you near me.”

  She climbed into his lap and kissed him, warm and strong, as if she couldn’t breathe unless she was kissing him. She broke off, resting her forehead against his.

  “Wherever I am,” she whispered again. “I don’t want you to go anywhere tonight.”

  “I—” Dayne lamely offered as his only protest.

  “Stay,” she said, and began kissing him again.

  * * *

  Hemmit kept one eye out on the street, looking for Constabulary, looking for Lin, looking for any way he could figure out what was about to happen, and how he could stop it. The rest of his senses were on Braning.

  Sitting at the teashop had loosened Braning’s tongue more than any bottle of wine might have. He didn’t reveal any secrets of the Patriots, but he talked plenty about himself, as well his brother, Shaw. Shaw, the Patriot who had been killed yesterday.

  “See, Pop had never done a damn thing wrong,” Braning went on, having been telling the story of the injustices done to his father. “The materials were shoddy, so it didn’t matter how good his work was. All the bosses and merchants were in it with the magistrates, though. Somebody had to take the fall.”

  “Guy at the bottom gets the boot,” Hemmit said.

  “That’s it exactly. So he’s on the outs, Mom’s working in the chicken houses, but we’re still going hungry. So Shaw needed to go to work.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Nine, but he was a big kid, so he said he was thirteen, and down in the sewers, they didn’t ask many questions, you know?”

  “When did you go?”

  “Three years later, when I was ten. Shaw wanted to keep me out, keep me in school, but we couldn’t do it. By then, Pop’s hands were shot. So we were both working sewers.”

  “And they didn’t care? Nobody stopped it?”

  “Stop it? Like who?” Braning took another swig of tea. “You see, they wanted kids down there. Smaller the better, that’s the thing. So nobody was making a fuss. Even when kids got lost in the tunnels.”

  “So how did you and Shaw find—” Hemmit’s question was cut off by Kemmer and “Jala” approaching.

  “How did it go?” Braning asked as they sat down.

  “Go?” Lin asked, taking Hemmit’s tea and finishing it. “Real exciting. We bought canvas. And paint. And made a sign.”

  “A sign?” Hemmit asked, trying to give her a signal with his eyes without either of the others noticing.

  “Painted it real nice,” she said. She rolled her eyes in disgust, and then gave Hemmit the slightest shaking of her head. “This guy really knows how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Shut it,” Kemmer said. “We did our bit, now we wait it out.”

  “We’re supposed to wait here, then?” Braning asked.

  “That’s what Tharek told me. Get here, put the thing in your cart, and join you at the teashop.”

  Lin looked around. “You don’t think this Tharek is having a lark with us? We sit here in the teashop with our little banner while he does the real deal?”

  “What even is the real deal?” Hemmit asked. Maybe Kemmer would prove more talkative.

  Kemmer signaled to the server to bring two more teas. “The real deal is sit and shut it.”

  The wait wasn’t long; the waiter hadn’t even brought the tea before they spotted another cart coming into the plaza, with Tharek at the reins. Yand and Gillem were in the back. Tharek pulled his cart next to the one Hemmit had come over in, and then stalked over to the teashop.

  “Kemmer, Braning, come with me. You two, sit here, keep watch.”

  “Watch for what?” Hemmit asked. It wasn’t a ridiculous question. The plaza was hardly unoccupied. There were at least a dozen other people just in the teashop. Constabulary horsepatrol had been through at least twice since he had been sitting there.

  “Won’t take long,” Tharek said. “Just keep an eye for anyone coming to us.”

  Tharek and the other two went back to the carts. Finally, Hemmit leaned over Lin.

  “You just made a sign?” he asked.

  “Yeah. ‘Free Lannic.’” She didn’t drop character. “You?”

  “We loaded a big wooden contraption into the cart and drove it here.”

  “From where?”

  “Some storehouse, down by the docks farthest west.”

  “Tharek isn’t really the leader,” she said. “Kemmer doesn’t want to listen to him.”

  “I got the same from Braning. They’re biding their time until Lannic is free or this ‘Chief’ takes charge.”

  “Something is off about Tharek,” she said. “These guys, they’re all students and steves.”

  “Right.”

  “And he’s got resources,” she added. “All those weapons? Storehouses and safehouses and gadgets and carts and horses. Where is he getting it all?”

  “The Chief?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced about. “We need to get word to Constabulary. Or Dayne.”

  “I’m listening. How do we do that?” He leaned in close to her. “Magic?”

  She scoffed. “If there was someone we could get word to within line of sight, I could make an image that only he could see. But there’s no one. Don’t even see a constable. Where’s Maresh?”

  “At the press, prepping the issue. He’ll leave space if we have anything worth printing.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she whispered. “But I bet it’ll be worth printing.”

  Whatever the others were doing, they finished; they all were walking back to the teashop. Behind them, clearly seen in the moonlight, the horses on Braning’s cart were slowly trotting toward the Parliament, the heavy tarp still covering its contents.

  “Let’s go,” Tharek said as they approached, throwing a few coins on the table. “Come on.”

  Hemmit and Lin got up and started walking with them. “What’s going to happen?”

  “A show,” Tharek said.

  They walked until they reached an alleyway at the edge of the plaza. Tharek signaled for everyone to stop and watch.

  The cart had reached the Parliament steps. A pair of horseback Constabulary had approached it, whistling at the dray horses to halt.

  “Perfect,” Tharek whispered.

  As the constables dismounted and went to the cart itself, there was a loud crack, and then a pop from the cart.

  Suddenly the device under the tarp came to life, springing up like a watchdog. As it did this, two barrels burst into brightly colored flames.

  The constables scattered back, drawing out their crossbows.

  The device reached its full height—a gibbet, with Lin’s banner of “Free Lannic” affixed to the top.

  A man—clearly already dead—hung from the noose of the gibbet, fully dressed in the regalia of the Parliament.

  “Who?” Hemmit asked despite himself. He didn’t recognize the man on sight, certainly not at this distance.

  “Good Mister Pollock Yessinwood, 8th Chair o
f Oblune,” Tharek said with a tone of smug satisfaction.

  Hemmit ran through the names of the Parliament in his head. Yessinwood? An absolute minor player. Not part of the leadership of the Majority or the Opposition. A Crownie, for sure, but little more than a cog in the machine. Why Yessinwood?

  “Let’s move,” Tharek said, grabbing Lin by her arm. “We’re done for the night. No need to get ironed for gaping.”

  They all went off down the alleys. Hemmit stayed right with them—there was no slipping away yet, nor would he abandon Lin. And he was right in the heart of a story. Words and sentences started to pound together in his head. And questions.

  Maresh was going to need to clear a lot of space on the front page.

  Chapter 19

  HEAVY CURTAINS WERE OPENED LOUDLY, letting sunlight smash Dayne into consciousness. He had a disoriented moment before remembering where he was: Lady Mirianne’s bedchamber. Or, at the very least, a bedchamber in her household. She was nowhere to be seen; only one of the house staff was present, opening curtains.

  “I am terribly sorry, sir,” the servant said, noting Dayne sitting up. “But the lady of the house felt you needed to be roused presently. Breakfast is being served in the sunroom, and it is recommended you find your way there with all due haste.”

  Dayne thanked the servant, and scrambled about to find his clothes. Fortunately, they had been laid out on a chair neatly—which was most definitely not how Dayne had left them. Dayne dressed and made his way to the water closet in short order.

  The sunroom was over on the east side of the house, and turned out to be far more populated than Dayne had expected it would be. It seemed almost everyone who had attended the dinner was still present. A steward led Dayne to his place at the breakfast table—this was all being done in a far more traditional manner—where he was seated next to Jerinne.

  Lady Mirianne was not to be seen.

  “And good morning to you,” Jerinne said, her eyes red and sleepy. “How much trouble are we in at the chapterhouse?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I hope you had a good enough evening to make it worth the trouble.”

  “I’ll be honest . . . maybe?” Jerinne shrugged in confusion.

  “Weren’t you paying attention?” Dayne asked. A steward brought over hot tea, which Dayne accepted thankfully.

  “All right, after the play, Miss Jessel led me to Lady Mirianne’s library, where I was treated to her personal supply of Fuergan aged whiskeys. Details after that point are . . . blurry.”

  “Let’s agree that each other’s details remain blurry,” Dayne said. There was no need for either of them to delve into anything particularly personal with the other. He owed Lady Mirianne far more discretion than that.

  “I agree,” Jerinne said.

  Plates of eggs and biscuits, served with apple preserves and honeyed butter, were placed in front of them. Dayne happily dug in, while Jerinne approached her breakfast a little more gingerly. She wasn’t expressing it, but it was likely the young lady was suffering more than she cared to admit from her foray into Fuergan whiskey. Dayne’s few experiences with the substance were enough for him to know it could be quite cruel indeed.

  Lady Mirianne entered the room in a manner that conveyed both grace and gloom, if such a thing was possible, with several newssheets tucked under her arm. She took her seat at the head of the table, which put her at some distance from Dayne. She didn’t even look directly at him as she bid good morning to the rest of the room. She barely noted the tea placed in front of her as she put on her reading spectacles and combed through the newssheets.

  “Is something vexing, my lady?” Dayne asked, as no one else was marking her dark manner.

  “Something indeed,” she said absently. “It appears we were very mistaken. Gravely.” She passed one newssheet to her steward, indicating for him to deliver it to Dayne.

  The front of the Maradaine Grand Times was splashed with a gruesome etching to match its headline. “Second Parliamentarian Murdered!” The image of a man hanging on a gibbet with a sign that read “Free Lannic” above it told Dayne all he needed to know.

  “Tharek,” he said, passing the sheet to Jerinne. Taking a last sip of tea, he got to his feet. “My lady, we must take leave of your generous hospitality.”

  She nodded, getting to her feet. “Yes, I know you must. Have the carriage brought around.” She gave the order to no one in particular.

  Walking around the table, she took Dayne by the arm again and led him away. Jerinne hurried with a few final bites and walked behind.

  “You’re going to think I’m horrible,” she whispered. “When I read this, the first thing I thought of was that you would want to leave right away.”

  “I would never think you horrible, Miri,” Dayne said.

  “All I wanted was to keep you a little longer,” she said. They reached the main doors. “I was telling you the truth last night. There will always be a place for you in this household.”

  “As what, exactly?” Dayne lowered his voice a little more, giving the slightest glance back at Jerinne. The girl, bless her, was doing her best to walk a fair distance behind, and pay more attention to the wall fixtures and floor tiling.

  “I would figure something out,” she said. “I would have you as my husband if such a thing could be allowed.”

  “Your father is probably too much a traditionalist.”

  “I’m well aware. But I would make sure to find a way to have you here, in a way that would honor everything that you are.”

  “You always honor me, my lady,” Dayne said.

  She gave him a playful smile. “Which is why I’m letting you go right now. I know it would kill you to stay, knowing what’s happening out there.”

  “It kills me to leave as well, my lady.”

  She kissed him once more, lightly, as the carriage pulled up the drive, then cupped his face. “I know where your heart calls you. Go.”

  He got into the carriage, Jerinne at his right arm, as if the Initiate hadn’t been hanging back at a respectful distance.

  “So another Parliamentarian is dead, and it’s definitely the Patriots,” Jerinne said, scanning the newssheet. The carriage pulled out of Lady Mirianne’s drive into the Callon Hills streets.

  “That’s Tharek’s handiwork, wouldn’t you say?” Dayne said. “Disgusting and sadistic.” Dayne looked over the article. The murdered man was Yessinwood, which was surprising. Certainly at least confusing. Even the article, while respectful, spoke of Yessinwood as a minor player in the Parliament, and speculated madly why he was killed. Dayne was at a loss himself.

  “I suppose,” Jerinne said. “I hadn’t gotten much of a read on him, other than capable.”

  “You fought him, didn’t you?”

  “I think it’s safe to say I got beat by him.”

  “He’s . . .” Dayne tried to put it into words. “There’s something special about him.”

  “Yeah. He can wipe the floor with me and give you and Madam Tyrell a fair fight.”

  “Exactly.” That clicked. “Who could do that? Not just some mercenary.”

  “Druth Intelligence? King’s Marshals?”

  “No,” Dayne said. “Kaysen! Change of plans.”

  “Not back to the chapterhouse?” Kaysen asked.

  “Not back to our chapterhouse.”

  * * *

  Hemmit was trapped. Tharek hadn’t let anyone but Gillem and Braning leave all night. Those two were sent for supplies and news.

  “Everyone stays together, especially you two,” Tharek had said, meaning Hemmit and Lin. Hemmit grumbled, but mostly to stay in character. He had no urge to actually pick a fight with the man. There had been no way to get word to Maresh, let alone Dayne or the Constabulary. He and Lin had ended up taking turns dozing in the corner once it had been clear they weren’t going anywhere.

/>   Tharek may have slept, but Hemmit couldn’t be sure. He seemed to spend the whole night inspecting and sharpening the massive arsenal they were locked in with.

  Yand, that crazy boy, slept like a stone.

  Kemmer slept fitfully, spending part of the night curled by an oil lamp, reading a journal.

  “What is that?” Hemmit eventually asked.

  “It was our manifesto,” Kemmer said.

  “Was?” Hemmit asked.

  “We were supposed to get pamphlets made, you know? Get the word out to the people, get them on our side.”

  Hemmit reached out for the journal. “Supposed to?”

  “Doesn’t matter now,” Tharek grumbled from his workbench. “We’ve got a new message.”

  Kemmer passed it over. “Course it still matters. That’s the core, Tharek. That’s what everything is all about.”

  “If I remember, you’re the one who didn’t get it done.”

  “That wasn’t—” Kemmer snapped. A glare from Tharek backed him down. He turned back to Hemmit. “It’s not that. It was supposed to be Shaw’s job . . .”

  Kemmer went on, but Hemmit was reading. It was a screed, of course, against the Parliament, against the methodology of elections, against the nobility and for the voice of the common man, and fighting back to reclaim Druthal. It was passionate, and while Hemmit didn’t agree with all of it, he couldn’t deny that it was effectively written. There was a truth deep in there that deserved a voice, and probably had an audience that wanted to hear it.

  The real tragedy was, had this been published before the Patriots had turned to violence, it might have had a real impact. They might even have had an ally in him and Maresh.

  And maybe that was the way to cool things down: let ink run instead of blood.

  “Listen,” Hemmit said, “if you still want this out there, I may know a way.”

  “You know someone with a press?” Kemmer asked.

  “I . . . I know of a guy.” That was a safe answer. Or as safe as anything could be, as up to his neck as he was in this mess.

  “That guy can’t help,” Lin said, still astoundingly in character as Jala.