“If you see anyone from my Order, Hemmit, tell them . . . tell them I said she has the heart of a Tarian.”
“Get after him,” Maresh said. “And may the saints walk with you.”
“And with you,” Dayne called, charging down the hallway.
Around two more corners there was another scene of carnage, but not a fresh one. These bodies had been there for almost an hour. No one had gotten a chance to take care of them yet. Things were even worse than Dayne thought. One of the dead was a Parliamentarian, that was clear from the clothes. Seabrook, Jerinne’s charge. Were there more dead Parliamentarians upstairs now? Was Tharek cutting through them like a whirlwind of death?
Jerinne’s shield and sword were on the ground by the bodies. Dayne took them up and strapped on the shield. It was his Trials shield, he knew it by the weight, by the balance. This shield was an old friend.
Another pair of bodies were marshals, and they both wore belts with sets of irons and keys. He would need those irons. Tharek would not come easily or quietly. Dayne undid the belts from the bodies, giving a brief prayer to Saint Julian as he did so. Individually, the belts were too small to get around his waist, but he connected them to each other and wore it like a bandolier.
Dayne made his way up the spiral stairs to the Parliament level, terrified of what he’d find.
* * *
“You have no right to step down here!”
The voice echoed through Amaya’s ears, her head hot and wet. Blood. The memory of a hand on the back of her head, being smashed onto the desk, all came flooding back.
She reached for her head, to see how bad the injury was. Her hand didn’t come, caught on the chair she was sitting in. Not caught. She craned her neck, and saw the truth. She was ironed to the seat at the wrists and ankles.
She looked up to the Parliament floor. The Parliamentarians were all in their chairs, save the old man at the podium. But there was one more man, in a bloody marshal’s uniform.
“No right?” the man said. “What is a free Druth man, but for his rights? They are enshrined, the Rights of Man. Can you recite them, Mister Cotton?” He pointed to one of the men.
“I . . . I’m not Cotton,” the Parliamentarian stammered. He pointed to one of his neighbors. “That’s Cotton.”
The bloody marshal drew a knife and threw it into Cotton’s chest faster than anyone could blink.
Amaya attempted to jump to her feet, but the chair didn’t budge, and she only pulled at her chains with the few inches of movement she was given.
On the floor no one moved, save nervous shifting. Amaya couldn’t believe it. There were more than fifty of them, and some had served in the military. They could stop him, if they only tried.
The man walked in a circle, another knife drawn. Now Amaya saw his face. The same one she squared against briefly when she caught Lannic.
“I know you,” she called.
“And I you,” he replied. “But now is not your time. I considered rare punishments for you. But I should not blame the hammer for the will of the carpenter.”
He walked to the podium, and with a glare made the old man vacate his position.
“This session is still in order, is it not? The convocation has not yet disbanded?”
“No,” one member offered.
“Can someone answer me this, whoever is the expert on the rules: there must be a call to end the session, by whoever holds the podium. Am I correct?”
“You are,” the same Parliamentarian said.
“And if I hold it, no one can end the session. These are the rules. The floor is frozen.”
“Not for you, you aren’t a Parliamentarian—”
“Unless I claim the Right of Voice! Do you hear that, you ardent onlookers up there? A common man is claiming Right of Voice, and taking the podium! Is that how it works? Can anyone tell me?”
The member who had been answering his questions stood from his chair, but made no threatening moves toward the bloody marshal, the mad Patriot. “It’s unorthodox, especially after murdering one of the august body.”
“But allowed, yes?” The Patriot tapped the knife on the podium. “It’s all so very civilized. Rules and order and the civility of tradition.”
He had at least four more knives on his belt, as well as a sword. No one else on the floor was armed. Even if they tried to take him, he could kill several before he was subdued. Clearly none of them were willing to take that chance.
Brute force would not get her out of these irons, not without more noise than she could afford. So she had to use determination instead. She pulled her left thumb in as tight as she could. If she could force her hand small enough, she might squeeze out.
“Now, I will not apologize for Mister Cotton, the Good Man of Scaloi. Nor will I for Misters Parlin, Yessinwood, or Seabrook.”
“That was you?” another asked.
“I have the podium, and you have not been recognized, sir. Name!”
The man gasped, and shut his mouth.
“I asked you for your name, good sir. It would be rude not to give it.”
“Tellerson. Renwick Tellerson, 6th Chair of Patyma.”
“Sixth Chair. Very impressive. You must have been elected, what, twice?”
“Three times,” Tellerson said, his face turning paler and paler. “I stand for election again this year.”
“And you will probably win, won’t you, Mister Tellerson? It’s a safe bet?”
“I’m not . . .” Tellerson started quickly, but then his throat caught. “I’m not worried about it,” he finally managed.
Amaya twisted her wrist back and forth. Her hand had slipped partly through the iron. Not enough to be free, but a start. Her skin was rubbing raw; she could feel the blood oozing. Pain didn’t matter, in her wrists or her head. Only freedom, stopping this man.
The mad Patriot chuckled. “Someone with more patience than I will have to look into how often a Chair is truly unseated in election. Our very fair and considerable system, where the voice of the people is truly heard.”
“Do you have a point, young man?” one said, rising from his chair. Amaya knew him by reputation: Montrose. He limped forward toward the mad Patriot. “If you’re just here for the murder, I’d appreciate you getting to it.”
The mad Patriot chuckled. “This one may be worth more than the other ninety-nine. Sorry, ninety-five. I don’t need a point, good sir. I have the podium, and I’m using my voice. This is my right. I am going to voice my opinion. This is my right. I will not be incarcerated without trial or counsel. This is my right.” He flipped the knife in his hand. “And I am armed, to ensure that my rights are not easily neglected. This is my right as well.”
Amaya had a few choice words in reply, but the last thing she needed right now was to draw his attention to her. Another minute or two, she could be out, and then she could take action. She had held him off before, with Lannic in the crook of her arm. She could take him now.
“Does any member of this august body challenge these rights of mine?” the Patriot asked. After no response, he shouted, “Do you?”
The Parliament gave him silence. Even Montrose only nodded in assent.
“Your silence fascinates me, good sirs. This tells me you think you believe in those words, these rights. But you do not, and this lesson must be imprinted on your very flesh.”
The irons dug into Amaya’s hand. She kept twisting, flesh be damned.
* * *
Each step was a shot, and pain became a familiar companion, knocking Jerinne into her senses. She had been vaguely aware of being in the cell, of Dayne being there, of shouting and blood.
Tharek. Shouting. Blood.
“Where?” she asked, glancing around. She was in a hallway not unlike the one she had fought Tharek in, her arms draped over the shoulders of two men. Dayne’s newsmen friends
from that Nimble Rabbit place.
“It’s all right, Jerinne,” one of them said. Hemmit, the vivacious one. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“Out of where? I don’t . . . Where is Dayne?”
“Dayne . . . Dayne went after Tharek.”
“Alone?”
The quiet one, Maresh, answered. “He said it was best.”
“No, no,” Jerinne said. “We have to go with him.”
“He didn’t want that. He wanted you out of here.”
“Blazes to that!” Jerinne wrenched herself away from the two of them, forcing herself to turn around and walk back. She couldn’t put her foot on the ground.
“Jerinne, you can’t even walk!”
“Then get me a crutch and a shield!”
She dropped to her good knee, and started to crawl. She was a Tarian, and she’d be damned if she let herself be carried out while there was still trouble.
“Dayne’s going to kill us,” Hemmit said, picking Jerinne up. They helped her onto her foot and limped her back toward the Parliament.
“Never,” Jerinne said. “That’s the one thing he’d never do.”
That’s why she had to go back, because no matter what, Dayne wouldn’t kill Tharek.
So Jerinne was going to have to.
Chapter 25
THE TRAIL OF DEAD led through the outer ring of the Parliament halls. Tharek was thorough, not a marshal or other functionary was left alive. There was no one for Dayne to save.
Had Tharek left the building, or gone to the Parliament floor? That was the next question. Outside there might still be a riot, but there might be order and help. Help that Dayne could trust? Or just more people he’d put in danger?
Enough marshals were dead. Enough people had died, and Dayne wouldn’t allow another person to die because he failed.
“Do you?” The voice reverberated from the Parliament floor. Unmistakable. Tharek.
Dayne resisted the urge to charge in. Care had to be taken. Assess the situation, then act.
He pushed open one door, quiet as possible. Thank the saints the facilities had been designed to allow functionaries to slip in and out without disturbing procedure.
The Parliamentarians, those who were present, were mostly seated in their chairs. One was dead, under the Scallic flag. Another—Montrose, the trenchant Populist—was on his feet, staring down Tharek, who desecrated the parliamentary podium with his presence.
The gallery was nearly empty, save a few terrified onlookers. Pressmen, given how they were scribbling notes.
One other presence was noteworthy: Amaya was among the functionary desks, her head wet with blood, arms bound behind her. She struggled with her binds, but her eyes were locked onto Tharek. She hadn’t spotted Dayne.
She strained again. Dayne could see that she was ironed, with the same marshal’s irons Dayne was carrying. Irons that were likely unlocked with the same key.
Amaya was help Dayne could trust, if he could get her free.
Tharek spoke again. “Your silence fascinates me, good sirs. This tells me you think you believe in those words, these rights. But you do not, and this lesson must be imprinted on your very flesh.” He glanced toward the Lacanja flag, which was fortunately on the opposite side of the circle from Dayne. “I have had quite enough of you imposing yourselves upon me. Which one of you is Benedict?”
The Lacanjans—there were only three present—looked perplexed, but one of them raised his hand. A young man. Dayne didn’t know which Benedict he was.
Suddenly everything Tharek wanted, and why he wanted it, became clear to Dayne. The illumination of it was almost blinding.
Tharek’s hand went to a knife at his belt. Dayne had no time to waste. He leaped down the stairs, while throwing his shield out in front of the Benedict. With his other hand, he grabbed one of the sets of keys from the bandolier and threw it at Amaya. He prayed he threw true, with both hands.
Tharek’s knife flew true, right toward Benedict’s heart, and would have killed him. The blade collided into the shield and both skittered to the ground.
Tharek spun on his heel to Dayne, sword drawn. “I thought it would be the girl.”
Dayne’s own sword was out. “That’s not the Benedict you want, Tharek.”
Tharek’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Four Benedicts sit in the Parliament. I believe that one is Jude.”
“Samuel!” the Parliamentarian offered, his voice cracking as he said it.
From the corner of his eye, Dayne could see the keys had landed on Amaya’s desk. She picked them up with her mouth. Dayne had to keep Tharek’s eyes on him.
“How do you know which Benedict I want dead?” Tharek asked. “Maybe I want them all dead.”
“You want Wesley Benedict because he heads the committee that approves advancement to Adept. For both Tarians and Spathians.” Tharek’s face twitched just enough to tell Dayne he was right. “Parlin, Yessinwood, Seabrook, and him right there, I would imagine.” Dayne pointed to the dead man on the floor.
“Cotton,” Tharek said, almost haunted.
“They were the committee? The five of them decided that you were not to be a Spathian.”
“And now I decide that they are not Parliamentarians!” Tharek drew another knife with his left hand, still holding out the sword with his right. “Is my choice any less just?”
“They didn’t kill you.”
“Please, Tarian,” Tharek said. “You’re a Candidate. If one of these . . . fools decided for whatever useless reason that you were not fit to be an Adept, wouldn’t it kill you? It would rip your heart right out of your chest.”
The truth surely played over Dayne’s face. “It has.”
Samuel Benedict perked up. “You’re the one who—”
He was cut off by a glare from Tharek.
“Did you fail, Tarian?” The sword stayed pointed at Dayne, casually, while his eyes glanced around the room. “Did you fail to save someone important, and they’re punishing you for it?”
“I failed,” Dayne said. He took a step closer. “But the importance of the person doesn’t matter. I failed just the same.”
“At least you have a reason!”
“You might have one as well,” Dayne said. “Did you ask any of the dead men?”
“There is no reason for me, Tarian. I was the top man each year of my Initiacy. My skills are without parallel.”
Dayne stepped closer. “So you’re sure that’s it? The committee blocked you for . . . nothing?”
One of the younger members of Parliament—possibly one of the former army officers—chose this moment to make a move, jumping for the podium to tackle Tharek. It was utterly fruitless. Tharek’s left arm struck like a snake, locking around the man’s head in a second. The rest of his body barely moved, sword still pointed at Dayne. With a slight twist of the hand, the knife was now pressing right below the man’s eye.
“Without. Parallel.”
“I don’t question that,” Dayne said.
“No closer, Dayne,” Tharek said. “Do you want to fail again? In front of this assembled august body?”
Dayne shook his head. A thin red line formed on the Parliamentarian’s cheek, blood oozing down the blade.
“Then drop your sword, or this good sir loses an eye. To start.”
Dayne put the sword on the ground.
“You fool!” Benedict shouted. “Is that what you did when Lenick’s life was on the line?”
“Quiet!” Dayne snapped. He didn’t need anyone here second-guessing him. He needed to keep Tharek focused on him.
“And the irons,” Tharek said. “Drop the belt.”
Dayne removed that and put it on the floor as well.
“You there. Good sir from Monim. Pick up those irons, and be so kind as t
o use them on our Tarian friend.”
“Me?” the Parliamentarian asked. Tharek winked at him. Cautiously he got out of his chair and picked up the irons. Dayne held out his hands.
“It’s fine,” Dayne told him.
The Parliamentarian mouthed something. “Should I fake it?” was what Dayne understood.
“No tricks, my good man,” Tharek said. “Latch them on.”
The Parliamentarian did so, well-latched and tight.
“Back to your comfortable chair, my good man. Back to it.”
The man skittered off.
“Now, the podium recognizes Dayne, of the Tarian Order. Please, step forward.”
Dayne paused for a moment. The floor was only for members of Parliament. Tharek was desecrating that, of course, but Dayne still believed that propriety ought to be held. The floor was sacrosanct for a reason. Elected men made decisions from here. They represented the people.
“Step forward now, Dayne. None of your reverence for the office or the floor.”
Dayne stepped down to the floor, but only because there was a life at stake. That allowed it. Certainly none of the Parliamentarians were objecting to his presence.
“Come closer and kneel before the podium.”
Dayne followed the orders. He didn’t dare glance over at Amaya, to see if she had managed to free herself. Even a turn of his eye might make Tharek look in her direction. He was counting on her to stop Tharek when the moment came. He just had to give her time and opportunity.
“Is this what it means to be a Tarian?” Tharek asked. “You give up everything: arms, principles, pride, just to save the eye of an ‘important’ man?”
“You’re wrong, Tharek,” Dayne said. “I would do it for any man. Even you.”
“Ludicrous.” Tharek flicked his wrist, and blood gushed from the man’s face as he dropped to the ground, screaming.
“The first person who moves to help him gets this knife in his chest!” Tharek shouted. “Do not doubt me!”
The Way of the Shield Page 29