The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “You know him, too?”

  “Course I do. But he couldn’t get it done.” She gave Hemmit a hard glare. “Ain’t worth the trouble to drag him into this.”

  “She’s probably right,” Tharek said, as Gillem and Braning returned with bread and newssheets.

  “Looks like we made the papers,” Braning said. “Everyone’s talking about it.” Food was passed about.

  “But what are they doing?” Hemmit asked.

  “Soiling their fancy britches,” Yand snickered.

  “The question is, what are we doing?” Hemmit asked. “Next step?”

  “Good question,” Tharek said. He pocketed a handful of knives. “Maybe we should see. You’re with me, Wissen.”

  Hemmit got to his feet. “Where are we going?”

  “To see if we have any new orders,” Tharek said. “Rest of you, stay here.”

  “Fine,” Kemmer said. Clearly taking orders from Tharek was starting to grind on Kemmer. Braning and Gillem didn’t seem to mind as much. Yand could not care less where the orders came from.

  “We’ll be back soon.” Tharek tapped Braning on the shoulder. “Eyes on her, hear?”

  “On it,” Braning said.

  Tharek led Hemmit out of his bunker, through a back alley, and onto the street. The sun was higher than Hemmit was expecting, brighter than he was ready for. “About nine bells already?”

  “Not even eight,” Tharek said, glancing at the sun. “This way.”

  There was hardly anyone about, which was odd, given the hour. Streets should have been heavy with traffic and bustle.

  “You’d think it was a holiday,” Hemmit said.

  “Holiday of fear,” Tharek said.

  “So what are you, army?” This was his first time alone with the man, possibly the only chance Hemmit would have to figure out who Tharek Pell really was.

  “Hush,” was all Tharek replied, said with a finality that made Hemmit decide to ask nothing else.

  Silence stayed with them until they reached a tiny alley. They were still in Trelan, a few blocks away from the river, but also not far from the Parliament or The Nimble Rabbit.

  “Go to the end,” Tharek instructed. “There’s an abandoned backhouse. Check behind it for anything.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “Keep watch,” Tharek said.

  Hemmit worked his way cautiously down the alley. What was Tharek keeping watch for? Was this a trap? Was he already in Tharek’s trap? He had no doubt Tharek could kill him with barely a spare thought if that was his intention. Would he even bother taking Hemmit away from the rest of the group to do it?

  There was a backhouse, that was true, and it had clearly been all but forgotten about. Tenements and shops in this part of town had water closets now. Hemmit inched around it.

  There was a satchel—a clean leather satchel—wedged in the gap between the backhouse and the brick wall the alley dead-ended in. Undoubtedly a recent arrival. The rest of the space behind the backhouse was filled with dust, cobwebs, and mold. There was no way it could have ended up back there by accident.

  He pulled it out. It was heavy but soft. Densely packed with something, but not weapons or books. Cloth or rope, most likely.

  There was a brief flash of an idea. He could take the satchel and run. Get to Constabulary. At the very least get to a whistlebox. Warn someone.

  But there was nowhere to run to. There was no way out of the alley except through Tharek. No chance to surprise him and make a break for it. And even if he did run, even if he did manage to get away, there was Lin. Even with her magic, there was no way she could hold off Tharek and the others. She’d be dead.

  He came out of the alley and gave the satchel to Tharek. “This what you expected?”

  Tharek actually looked surprised. “Quite a bit more than I expected. The Chief came through.”

  “You had your doubts?”

  “I doubt everything except myself.”

  Whatever reservations Hemmit had about the man, he had to respect that.

  The return to the safehouse was uneventful, even though they did pass several Constabulary on foot patrol. The sticks didn’t look at them twice. Hemmit could understand why “Wissen” wasn’t being looked for, but he would have thought there would at least be an All-Eyes out for Tharek. It wasn’t like the man didn’t stand out in a crowd. Not as much in appearance—a little tall, but not excessively, and his well-groomed beard was uncommon but not unusual. What Tharek had was presence; he had a walk that made people instinctively clear a path for him.

  “Well?” Kemmer asked when they returned.

  “The Chief had something for us,” Tharek said, holding up the satchel.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Tharek said. “I didn’t think I should go through it in the middle of the street.” He opened up the satchel and took out the letter on the top.

  “What’s he say?” Braning asked, as Tharek kept the letter and the satchel to himself.

  “Interesting.” Tharek finished reading and passed the letter to Braning. “In brief, he’s pleased with our initiative. Both in the Talon Circle and last night.”

  “Damn well better be,” Yand muttered.

  “So much so, he’s putting the other cells into action. But the center of it is up to us. There’s going to be a fire in this city, and we’re the spark.”

  “More fear?” Kemmer asked.

  “We’ve supplied plenty of fear to be the kindling,” Tharek said. He reached into the satchel and pulled out what was so tightly packed in there. “For the spark, we need something else: injustice.”

  In his hand, crisp, clean, and freshly pressed, was a King’s Marshal uniform.

  * * *

  The Spathian Chapterhouse was far on the east side of North Maradaine, almost at the edge of the city limits. It was a small fortress of gray stone, lacking any decoration or adornment. Dayne knew where it was only because Master Denbar had brought him there once. The place wasn’t secret, but the Spathians did not make any attempt to entice people to their door.

  Dayne and Jerinne entered the archway into the chapterhouse, to be immediately met by a stone courtyard full of at least two dozen Spathian Initiates, swords drawn. They moved in crisp unison, each Initiate’s blade missing their neighbor by hairs as they went through their motions. Training, but with real, razor-sharp blades.

  “Hold!” a powerful voice called out. Each Initiate froze in place, swords aloft mid-swing. One woman came around to the front of the group, a Spathian Master of some years, her gray hair shorn to almost an inch. “We have some soft cousins in our midst.”

  “We don’t mean to intrude,” Dayne said. “We were wondering if there was someone we could speak to . . .”

  “Tarians have come to speak!” the Master snapped. “Initiate Greya, where were we?”

  “Three-seven-four!” a third-year Initiate at the front of the formation called back. Still not a muscle moved, not on her, not on any of them. Dayne watched them in their petrification. He could probably hold position as well as any of them, should he need to. But he couldn’t figure out why he would need to.

  “All but Greya, two steps clear!”

  They moved like a wave pulling away from the shore, only using their legs to step back, their blades held completely still. Greya stood alone.

  “This is your Initiate, Tarian?” The Master pointed to Jerinne.

  “She is, but I’m afraid you don’t—”

  “Initiate Greya!” the Master ordered. “Engage the Tarian Initiate, starting at three-seven-five. All others, Greya is the light, you are the shadow.”

  “Now wait—” Dayne started.

  “Engage!”

  Greya completed the frozen motion she had been holding, but now in a furious attack launched on Jerinne. Jeri
nne, in her rumpled dress uniform, had no shield, and her sword was still sheathed. She ably dodged the first swipe, as well as the next two, before she had her own blade out to parry the attacks.

  The formation mimicked Greya’s moves, now responsive in her attacks to Jerinne’s defense. Their own maneuvers were a flurry of steel, almost impossible to keep track of. It was a miracle they were able to follow Greya’s movements so well without slicing each other up.

  “Master Spathian, this isn’t why we came,” Dayne said.

  “And yet you were here, and it gave us an opportunity. Is she drunk?”

  Dayne looked back at Jerinne, who was barely holding her own against Greya. Greya’s attacks were savage and lightning quick, but she seemed to barely be expending effort. This was morning exercise. Jerinne’s parries were desperate and wild—successfully defending herself, but always a fraction of a second away from getting sliced.

  Greya was sparring. Jerinne was fighting for her life.

  “Hung over,” Dayne admitted.

  “That explains why she moves like a pregnant ewe. Talk, Tarian.”

  Clearly this was his moment. “I don’t know if you’ve been following the news, but . . .”

  “You waste my time. Greya, formation. Reskin is the light.”

  Greya stepped back and rejoined, but Jerinne had only a moment to compose herself before another Spathian Initiate was on her.

  “There is an outlaw killing the Parliament members,” Dayne said. “Gifted fighter. He may be a Spathian.”

  “No Spathian would be an outlaw, nor would they kill a member of Parliament,” the Master said.

  “True,” Dayne allowed. “No Spathian would. But you have a three-year limit on Candidacy as we do, yes?”

  “If a Candidate is not accepted in three years, they are no Spathian. Reskin, formation. Hathor, light.” The Spathian Initiates rotated again with their onslaught on Jerinne, who now was angry enough to give back hard.

  “Exactly. But they would—”

  “Name.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m Dayne Heldrin—”

  “The name of the outlaw.”

  “I believe it’s Tharek.”

  The Master’s face twitched. “Hold!”

  Hathor had his blade almost ready to chop Jerinne’s ear off, but he froze in position. Jerinne didn’t freeze, instead knocking him across the skull with her fist, sending him to the ground.

  “Initiates, leave us. To the course.”

  The Initiates all jogged off, maintaining their formation. Hathor seemed to give Jerinne the slightest of winks before taking his place with the others. Once they were alone, the Master spoke again.

  “Tharek Pell. Finished Initiacy in 1211. Three years of Candidacy. Cashiered out in 1214.”

  “So he wasn’t accepted as an Adept.”

  The Master paused, clearly choosing her words carefully. “He did not advance, no.”

  “Was it because of politics?”

  She shook her head. “If Tharek had politics, he kept them to himself.”

  “What about someone else?”

  “Are you talking about romantic entanglements? Spathians prefer not to engage in such things.”

  “No, I mean . . .” Dayne decided he couldn’t be coy about this. “Did the decision not to advance him come from somewhere else? Someone else?”

  The Master’s face grew harsh, which was quite a feat given how it was hardly soft to begin with. “We do not discuss our advancement decisions with others. Especially Tarian Candidates. Go hide behind your shield.”

  Dayne wasn’t deterred. “From the Parliament? Did someone from the Parliament block his advancement?”

  Her anger melted, ever so slightly. “I am not privy to the details. But his failure to achieve Adept was . . . unjust. In my opinion. And it would be in the opinion of anyone with the right to have such an opinion. Now, you have intruded enough, and I must attend to my Initiates. Be gone now.”

  Dayne went back to the carriage, where he noticed Jerinne was already back in the seat, still catching her breath.

  “Blazes of a spar,” Jerinne said. “I really think I almost had that first one.”

  “I think we managed not to embarrass ourselves,” Dayne said. “But barely.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Jerinne said. “If I had known that I was going to have to hold off multiple Spathians, I would have stayed in the carriage. Did you learn anything useful?”

  “I don’t know how long you stayed in there—”

  “Thank you for not noticing my near collapse.”

  “Tharek was a Spathian Candidate.”

  “He didn’t make Adept? Did they drop him for being a Patriot loon?”

  “No. I think the Parliament blocked his advancement. And that sent him to the Patriots.”

  “Lovely,” Jerinne said. “Can we get back to our chapterhouse now? After that drumming, I’m actually looking forward to having Madam Tyrell scream at us for being gone all night.”

  * * *

  While most of the city was eerily calm, the Tarian Chapterhouse was even more hectic than ever when Dayne and Jerinne arrived. Amaya and two Initiates—Vien and one Dayne didn’t recognize—were stationed at the main door while Adepts, Candidates, and Initiates were all being checked out by them, given orders of where to go.

  “What’s going on?” Dayne asked as soon as they came in, but the look Amaya gave him made him immediately regret even opening his mouth.

  “Oh, look who’s here,” Amaya snarled. “I’m so glad the two of you bothered to stumble home from whatever cathouse you curled up in last night.”

  “I’m terribly sorry—” Jerinne started, but Dayne cut her off.

  “Don’t you even, Amaya.”

  “Even what? Call the household of her grace, the grand Lady Mirianne of wherever a cathouse?”

  “You show some blazing respect!”

  “You show respect! I outrank you!”

  “Just because we were guests in a noble house—”

  “Initiates have a curfew, and you were responsible—”

  “Silence!” The Grandmaster’s voice echoed throughout the main hall from the stairs above. Dayne kept his tongue, as did Amaya. The Grandmaster slowly descended the stairs.

  “I understand that in trying times, tempers are bound to become . . . heated.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but it carried enough power to hold everyone’s attention. “However, we must keep our heads about us, especially today.”

  “Of course, sir,” Dayne said. “I’m very sorry I’ve not been available, but we, Jerinne and I, were investigating the man behind the attacks—”

  “That’s very good, Dayne,” the Grandmaster said, holding up one hand to quiet him. “However, let me explain our current situation. You are surely aware that a second member of Parliament was killed.”

  “Yes, and—”

  “And today is the final session of this convocation of the Parliament. Given the situation, you can imagine there is a fair degree of anxiety regarding safety, and therefore we have been called upon again.”

  “Protection details for the members?” Dayne asked.

  “Indeed. Amaya is taking charge of the coordination of these efforts.”

  “Of course, sir,” Dayne said. “I’m glad to serve in any way I can.”

  “Good.” The Grandmaster looked about, as if troubled. “However, where I will need you is the armory. Many of the Initiates do not have their own shields or swords in usable condition. Please be so kind as to take an inventory of what is on hand, inspecting each item for its quality and usability.”

  Amaya was too dignified to actually snicker at him, but her face said all that needed saying.

  “As I am commanded,” Dayne said, “I will gladly do. But you should know—”

 
“Miss Fendall,” the Grandmaster added, cutting Dayne off, “you might do well to hurry to your quarters and dress yourself properly for engagement. You can most likely guess your assignment, and your charge is already eagerly awaiting you.”

  The Grandmaster glanced about the room, where everyone was still standing expectantly. He snapped his fingers at everyone. “Be about your duties. I have my own matters to attend to.”

  Dayne nodded and headed toward the armory. He stopped one last time to glance back at Amaya, but she was completely engaged in her own tasks, and didn’t even bother to give him a parting sneer.

  Chapter 20

  JERINNE’S WHOLE BODY was sore. Whatever had happened the night before was unclear, but she had woken up on the floor of the water closet, her neck having been cricked in an unnatural position for who knows how long. Followed by the pounding she had taken from those Spathian Initiates, all she wanted was to crawl out to the bathhouse and soak for the rest of the day.

  It was clear that the Good Mister Seabrook had decided differently. Ressin was waiting in Jerinne’s chamber, laying out Jerinne’s uniform and mail shirt.

  “I’m afraid today will be more than just a show of color, Miss Fendall,” Ressin said as he smoothed out the wrinkles on the jersey. “And I do apologize for my presumption here. However, time is pressing, and I must take liberties.”

  Acting like he was a valet, Ressin promptly began undressing Jerinne. “Mister Ressin!”

  “I assure you this is purely for expedience. It is already just after nine bells. The session of the Parliament is to convene at ten. Mister Seabrook intends to be there, but he refuses to leave his domicile without a guardian. So today, full armor, sword, and shield.”

  Jerinne accepted the help, even though it felt incredibly inappropriate. It gave her some small comfort that Ressin didn’t seem to have an ounce of prurient intent. Never in her life did she imagine she would ever be someone in this position—at one point her highest ambition might have been to be on the other side, serving Lady Fortinare directly. Even as a Tarian, she’d be in service, in her own manner. Certainly she was being put to service to Good Mister Seabrook. Ressin dressing her like a child’s doll didn’t diminish that feeling.