The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “But what are we going to do next?” Gillem asked. “Lie low some more, or start something else up?”

  “I’m not starting anything,” Braning said. “I’ve had my fill of this mess.”

  “After everything we’ve already been through?” Gillem asked.

  “Especially,” Braning said. “I’ve lost friends. I’ve lost a brother. I’m lucky to be alive and not in Quarrygate. That’s enough.”

  “But—”

  “What were we fighting for, Gillem? Freedom? So respect mine. I’m out.”

  “What about you, Kemmer?”

  Kemmer wasn’t sure what to say, but he was leaning toward Braning’s idea. For the past three days he thought he was looking down a stint at Quarrygate as well. Freedom, that might just be the thing. “I’d hate to think Lannic died for nothing. That all of what we did was for nothing.”

  Braning shrugged. “I’m wondering if we accomplished anything at all, besides putting the city on edge and starting a riot.”

  “That was something!” Gillem argued.

  “Something that nearly got us all killed. Blazes, it got poor Yand killed.”

  Braning shook his head. “You know what Yand was? He was a fool spoiling for a brawl, and nothing else. Blast, Tharek wasn’t much more, except he knew how to give a good brawl.”

  “What that man did wasn’t a brawl.” Just as Kemmer had expected the authorities to break their door down, he had expected Tharek to suddenly burst in and drop them in seconds. He imagined that no matter how long he lived, he would always be looking over his shoulder for Tharek to show up.

  “We need a plan,” Gillem said.

  “My plan is go back to my life before I got into all this,” Braning said. “I don’t need much more. You go back to your nonexistent pub, I’ll go back to working the tunnels, and Kemmer, you’ll . . . do whatever you did.”

  What he had done, what he had been doing, was spend the months after getting his Letters of Mastery arguing philosophy with Lannic and spending family money on coffee and books. He hadn’t been cut off only because he wasn’t being a drunken lout. His father had no idea how radical his politics had become.

  He picked up the pile of newssheets that they had collected over the past few days. “I think we had the right idea before the museum and the rest of the business Tharek got us into. Wissen—if he was Wissen and not a spy or what have you—he asked why we didn’t get our manifesto published. I think we let ourselves get mad at the people for not doing what we thought they should. But they didn’t understand what our message was. We failed to deliver it, and maybe that’s the thing I’ve got to do.”

  “So you’re still in?”

  “I’m not sure what ‘in’ means to you, Gillem,” Kemmer said. “If you mean attacks, murder, disruption . . . no, I’m not in. But spreading a message, talking to people, changing minds . . . I think that’s what I need to be doing.”

  “What about the Chief?”

  “We don’t even know who the Chief is. Or was. Or what his goals even were. If there are more Patriots out there, waiting to hear from him, I want no part of that. The violence came from him, or maybe Tharek, and that poisoned Lannic’s ideas. That’s not what I want. I don’t want to hide. I want to stand in the public square and convince people of what they need. What Druthal needs.”

  “Bah,” Gillem said. “Sounds like you’re going to run for Parliament.”

  “There are worse ideas,” Braning said. “I’d vote for you.”

  There were worse ideas. But for the time being, he didn’t want to be a Parliamentarian. Or a Warrior or a Soldier. He wanted to be a Man of the People.

  “One thing at a time,” Kemmer said, getting up off the bed. “And first thing is to get to a barber and a bathhouse, and clean myself up. And from there, I’ll figure the rest out.”

  Gillem shrugged, and offered his hand. “All right. But if you need a place to hide, or just something to drink, you know where I am.”

  “I appreciate that,” Kemmer said.

  Gillem nodded to Braning and left the room. Kemmer gathered up his few things—mostly papers—and put them in a satchel, as Braning put his boots and vest on. Kemmer waited for Braning to be ready, and they left together.

  “Listen, Kemmer,” Braning said as they headed down to the inn’s taproom. “I know I’m just a tunnel steve, not much learning, but . . .”

  “But nothing,” Kemmer said. “You’re one of the brightest folks I know.”

  “I appreciate that. What I’m saying, if this is the path you’re taking, talking and changing minds, well . . . that’s something I can believe in. If you need help once you figure out what you’re doing . . . look for me.”

  “Always,” Kemmer said, and embraced his one real friend left in the world. They walked out of the inn, and with a final nod, they walked their separate ways.

  “Get it good, get it good!” a newsboy shouted at the corner Kemmer approached. “No newssheet, no pamphlet, but a full accounting! The full true story! Three ticks for it all!”

  “What’s the truth you’ve got, boy?” Kemmer asked, pulling some coins from his pocket. The boy held up what he was hawking. Indeed, it wasn’t a newssheet, but a small book, simply bound. Not unlike a chiller or a pennyheart. When he saw the cover, Kemmer wordlessly handed the coins over and took the book from the boy.

  The cover was a sketch, simple but well-rendered, of a man. Plain, but noble at the same time. It was a face Kemmer recognized very well, even if he had only seen it for a moment before the owner had smacked Kemmer’s head against Braning’s.

  The book was titled Dayne, of the Tarian Order.

  * * *

  Trials were spread over three days, but Jerinne had spent them in the infirmary. She had tried to get up, to force herself to the practice room where the Trials were occurring, but she was thwarted. First the infirmary staff kept her in bed, under the threat of being sent over to Hashrow Ward if she didn’t comply. When that didn’t work, a few of the Candidates—Price and Aldric, mainly—would come in and impress upon her the importance of rest, and made it quite clear that she should not arrive for Trials until called upon.

  “You don’t just stroll in there and declare you’re doing your Trials,” Aldric said on the second day. “When they want you, they’ll call for you.” Other than one quick, strongly worded warning from a Master who Jerinne had never seen before, those two were about the only ones she saw once Trials began. None of the other Initiates. What really surprised her was that Dayne hadn’t come. Probably because he was ashamed of Jerinne.

  “They’re going to call for me, though, right?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, kid,” Price said. Jerinne had to admit, it was a bit odd the way these two were talking to her. Last week, they barely had said a word to her that wasn’t an order or an insult. That had changed—really it had changed the night at the Talon. Something had changed in them both that night, definitely, but also in how they looked at her. Now they talked to her, if not as a peer, at least with some respect. “This year is the strangest set of Trials and Advancement I’ve ever seen. A whole lot of whispering and secrecy. And lockdown.”

  “Lockdown?” Jerinne asked. “What’s that?”

  “The Grandmaster is forbidding anyone under the rank of Master—in other words, just about everyone—from leaving the compound.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the Grandmaster, and that’s what he wants,” Aldric offered. “I think it’s because of everything crazy that’s happened, he wants to remind us all that he gives the orders and we follow. Blazes, there’s the whole thing with Heldrin and Tyrell.”

  “What happened to Dayne?” Jerinne asked.

  “The two of them have both been in confinement this whole time.”

  “Still?” That was surprising. Perhaps they were in worse troub
le than Jerinne suspected. She couldn’t imagine that Dayne was receiving anything but praise for what he did.

  “Meals brought to their quarters. Not that it’s much different for the rest of us.”

  On the third day, when they came to see her, something had changed. It took a moment for Jerinne to realize it, but the pips on Aldric’s uniform had changed. He was now an Adept.

  “I see congratulations are in order,” Jerinne said. By this time the pain in her leg was mostly an annoying ache, and the infirmary staff had let her crutch her way to the water closet on her own. She had been refusing the pain-dulling medicines for the past two days, as she didn’t want her thoughts any cloudier.

  “This guy,” Price said, pointing to Aldric. “He was convinced he wouldn’t get it.”

  “I thought it would be you,” Aldric said. Jerinne noticed that Price’s pips were gone, no rank at all. He hadn’t advanced, and his three years of Candidacy were at an end. His face didn’t betray any bitterness toward Aldric; he just smiled and shrugged. Despite all the hardship Price had put her through for the past two years, Jerinne empathized with Price. The two of them might both be leaving the chapterhouse by the end of the day.

  “Who else?” Jerinne asked. Aldric shrugged and deferred to Price, who rattled off names, none of which were familiar. When pressed, Price admitted most of the rest were from chapterhouses elsewhere in Druthal.

  “But not Dayne?” Jerinne asked once the list was given.

  “No,” Price said.

  “Between us and the walls, I was convinced he’d have gotten it this year,” Aldric said, rubbing at the Adept pip on his collar. “Having this before him just feels strange, given how he dominated during Initiacy.”

  “Some folks peak early,” Price said darkly. “But we didn’t come here for this, kid.”

  “Come with us,” Aldric said. “You’ve been called to Trials.”

  Aldric and Price let her dress, even if she could get only one boot on. They didn’t try to help her, which Jerinne took as a sign of respect. It was the last thing she wanted. Jerinne had hoped to walk with just a cane, but she couldn’t manage it. The two of them waited while she got her crutch—only one, though. She refused to use two crutches. She was going to go into the Trials with some degree of dignity.

  Jerinne made it to the practice room, where Price and Aldric left her at the door. Jerinne worked her way across the floor, ignoring the growing pain in her hindered leg. On the far side of the room was a table where five Tarians sat: the Grandmaster, two Masters, and two Adepts. All of them Jerinne vaguely recognized, as they had all handled some aspect of training over the past year, but none of them had been fixtures at the chapterhouse.

  “Miss Fendall,” the Grandmaster said. “I trust your recuperation has been proceeding at an acceptable pace.”

  “I’m eager to continue and serve, sir,” Jerinne said.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Typically over the course of Trials, we do engage you in testing your martial skills. However, given your unique circumstances, we shall not be doing as such.”

  “Sir, I am willing to—”

  “I am certain you are, Miss Fendall. But there is a difference between testing an Initiate and torturing them. We shall forgo.” His voice was gentle, but filled with finality.

  “Of course, sir,” Jerinne said.

  “Now, your circumstances are unique, as you have been placed in a position most unusual for a second-year Initiate. This was not fair to you, but it has served a useful purpose. We have some sense of the sort of Tarian you would make.”

  Jerinne tensed up. The sort of Tarian she would make, based on her performance, is the sort that got her charges killed.

  Grandmaster Orren was digging through some papers. “We have, of course, some eyewitness reports of your activities in the events of the past week. Some from newssheets, some from Madam Tyrell and others. But the most interesting one is this, delivered to me from Grandmaster Kothrian of the Spathian Order.”

  Jerinne didn’t know what to say to this.

  “He has several things to say. Did you actually visit the Spathian Chapterhouse the other day?”

  “I did, sir. Mister Heldrin and I were looking into a hunch that he had regarding . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” the Grandmaster said. “Apparently one of the Masters used you for sparring practice for her Initiates. Is this accurate?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jerinne had a distinct sense she shouldn’t offer more than yes or no answers unless asked to elaborate.

  “It says here that, and I quote, ‘While Miss Fendall was clearly unprepared to defend herself from an onslaught of Spathian Initiates, she handled this impromptu lesson with grace and good humor, ably showing skill and aptitude worthy of your order.’”

  That was surprising. “I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

  “There is more. Apparently there was also some form of interrogation of Tharek Pell, which my Spathian counterpart was present for. He is loath to share salient details of this testimony, but he did pass this small morsel along.” The Grandmaster held up the sheet of paper and cleared his throat. “‘The girl fought on, refusing to accept her failure.’”

  Jerinne wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. Filtered through the Spathian Grandmaster, though, it sounded like one.

  “In light of service and sacrifice given, Miss Fendall, and your extraordinary—”

  Suddenly Masters and Adepts hurled Incentives at Jerinne at full force. Before she even fully realized what was happening, Jerinne reacted. Leaping to one side with her good leg, she brought up her crutch and spun it in front of her body. It was no quarterstaff, but it served to knock two of the Incentives away, while the other two flew past her, barely dodged by her jump.

  “Well done, Miss Fendall,” the Grandmaster said. “As I said, in light of service, sacrifice, and dedication, I think it’s quite clear that you should continue your Initiacy into the third year.”

  “Sir?” Jerinne asked, still not believing what she was hearing.

  The Grandmaster got to his feet, as did the other four at the table. They all gave her a crisp salute. “Initiate Jerinne Fendall, third-year!”

  “Third-year!” the rest shouted. One Adept came over to Jerinne and added a new pip to her collar.

  “Dismissed, Miss Fendall,” the Grandmaster said.

  Jerinne crutched her way back out, to find Price and Aldric, as well as several Initiates and Candidates, all huddled around.

  “Hoorah!” Aldric grunted out. “Initiate Jerinne Fendall, third-year!”

  Several people grabbed Jerinne in embraces, including Enther and Raila. Both of them also had their third-year pips.

  “Trials have concluded!” Grandmaster Orren called from the table. “Be so kind as to take your gallivanting elsewhere.”

  “Does that mean lockdown is over, sir?” Aldric asked.

  “Yes, indeed. Please, vacate the premises.”

  The crowd dispersed, and Jerinne hobbled her way along until she found himself with just Enther and Raila.

  “We should celebrate properly,” Enther said. “Something befitting people of our success and stature.”

  “You know,” Jerinne said as they headed toward the lobby, “I think I know just the place.”

  * * *

  Three days in confinement were maddening. Dayne bore it as best he could, attempting to meditate or work through as much of his calisthenics as he could within the confines of his quarters.

  No one came, save the servants who brought meals on a regular basis. Trials for Initiates were going on. Candidates were being promoted to Adept. Eighteen of them, all around Druthal.

  Dayne was at peace with the fact that he was not among those eighteen. He was troubled, though, by the number itself. Twenty-four new Adepts had been the tradition for as far back as Dayne had studied. Twenty-four
, blessed by the king to go forth and protect Druthal.

  Blessed by the king seemed more appropriate than cleared by a parliamentary committee. Though Dayne wondered if throughout history there had been Candidates like himself, who had gained the king’s displeasure, and thus had not advanced. That sort of thing probably wasn’t included in the records.

  Six bells rang out from Saint Harcourt’s Church, meaning supper should be arriving shortly. Dayne wondered how much longer it would continue, or even why. If the Grandmaster was going to cashier him from the Order, he might as well do it.

  The knock came on his door, just as he expected, but it wasn’t a servant with supper. Instead, it was Vien Reston. Dayne noticed right away the change on her collar: no longer an Initiate, she was now a first-year Candidate.

  “Congratulations,” Dayne said. “From what I’ve seen, it’s well earned.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been sent to bring you to the Grandmaster.”

  “Of course,” Dayne said. He let her lead the way to the Grandmaster’s sanctum. As he approached the steps, Amaya was descending, her face stone and unreadable. There was no change on her collar, so her punishment did not involve being demoted from Adept. Such a thing was unthinkable, almost unprecedented. It would have been too harsh given whatever wrongs she had done. And what had she done? Encouraged Dayne to break orders? Was that enough to earn the Grandmaster’s ire?

  She gave no sign, no regard to Dayne as they passed. Not even a second glance.

  “Amaya—”

  She kept walking, and Vien took Dayne’s arm and urged him up the steps.

  “Not now, Dayne,” Vien said.

  Amaya went down the hall, and turned out of view.

  With another prod from Vien, Dayne entered the sanctum.

  The Grandmaster was much as Dayne had found him when he first returned to Maradaine: looking at a book, dressed in simple tunic and trousers, with no shoes. As Dayne entered, the Grandmaster gave a slight nod and invited him to sit by his desk. Grandmaster Orren took his own seat.