Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Yes?” Dayne asked.

  “There’s no public business here today, sir,” the young marshal said. “I’m afraid—” He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to turn around.”

  “I’ve been asked here,” Dayne said. He quickly realized that he sounded brusque, even rude. His new job was going to involve liaising with the marshals; he might as well start here. He put on a broad smile, extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Dayne. I’m with the Tarian Order. I was asked here by Marshal Chief Samsell?”

  “Oh,” the boy said. Despite looking unsure, he took Dayne’s hand and shook it. “Kipping. I—I wasn’t briefed about anyone coming, but, well . . . I wasn’t briefed on anything at all, frankly. I think that Chief Samsell is down in the lower levels, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Are you cleared to go into the lower offices?”

  Dayne shrugged. “I’m supposed to be a liaison between you all and the Orders. A page came and told me to come meet with him. You want to turn me away, Kipping, that’s your business. But that’s on you.”

  Kipping held up one finger and slipped inside for a moment. After a bit he came out with another marshal, this one with a first class officer chevron on his collar. “Can I help you?”

  “Dayne Heldrin, of the Tarian Order. Here to see—”

  “Chief Samsell, yes,” the officer said. “My apologies, we’re still in a bit of—” He looked at Kipping with a hint of disdain. “Disarray right now.”

  “I understand,” Dayne said as the officer opened the door to lead him in.

  The corridor circumnavigating the Parliament floor was brilliant, marble shining like Dayne had never seen. “Do you usually clean this much between Parliament convocations?”

  “We don’t, no,” the officer said. “We’re King’s Marshals, not washerwomen.” He sighed and looked around. “Also, it’s not typical for there to be a massacre here.”

  Dayne winced a bit. “Yes, there—there was a lot to clean up.”

  “Right, you were here,” the officer said, leading him to a stairwell. “The hero of the day. Do you know how many marshals died that day?”

  “Quite a few,” Dayne said.

  “Twenty-seven,” the officer said. “Including the traitor, Regine Toscan.”

  “Yes, I know,” Dayne said.

  “The point is, we’ve had to rebuild the security for the Parliament building from the foundations. New blood all around. Still a lot of training to do.”

  “I completely understand,” Dayne said, though he felt this officer was driving at something he wasn’t quite catching.

  The officer brought him to a door, grabbing the knob in a way that was nearly an act of aggression. “I’m saying, the Parliament is our jurisdiction, Tarian. Be aware of that.”

  Dayne decided not to rise to this man’s level. “We’re all here to serve Druthal, friend.” He went in before the officer could answer.

  Dayne had entered a command center—the walls were lined with maps and slateboards, showing details of each of the ten archduchies, cities listed with names and dates, routes marked on the maps. A dozen marshals were working at desks, writing on the boards, sifting through reports. Most of them were so involved, they didn’t even notice him—save the pale, fair-haired man in the marshal chief’s uniform, who was talking to an older gentleman in an expensive suit.

  “Dayne Heldrin,” he said, coming over and extending his hand. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”

  Dayne took his hand. “Marshal Chief Samsell, I assume?”

  “Please, Donavan,” he said. “Welcome to our little war room, as I like to call it.”

  “War room?” Dayne asked, raising an eyebrow. “What war would that be?”

  Samsell put on a smile. “That would be the election. Or at least, the national part of the Parliamentary election. City and archduchy results are handled elsewhere.”

  “I never would have thought of it as a war.”

  “That’s because you’ve never had to administrate it.” Samsell led him over to a desk at the far end of the room. “Forgive my manners. The honorable Wesley Benedict, Second Chair of Lacanja.”

  Dayne had his hand out instinctively before he registered the name. Mister Benedict looked down at the offered hand with disgust.

  “I’m aware of Mister Heldrin. He’s the one who gets people killed and cripples children.”

  “Sir, I—” Dayne sputtered out.

  “No, don’t even,” Benedict said. “If I had my way, you’d be nowhere near this building, and never wear that uniform again. Instead I’ll settle for making sure you don’t get to wear it after your Candidacy is through. And be assured, Mister Heldrin, I will be doing that.”

  Dayne couldn’t find voice to respond to that.

  “I understand you have business with Mister Heldrin, Marshal, so I’ll take my leave. Please try not to have our paths cross again.” He walked off at a brisk pace.

  “Dayne, I am . . . I am so very sorry, I had no idea.”

  Dayne swallowed hard, pushing down the bile and shame rising in his throat. Because as cruel as it was, Mister Benedict was not wrong. Everything he said was true. Gritting his teeth, Dayne said, “You were telling me about the election?”

  Samsell nodded. “Yes, of course. Each archduchy holds its own election on its own timeline, overseen by its election officiants. The King’s Marshals coordinate oversight for the Parliamentary aspect. Our people are across the country, hoping to keep corruption to a minimum.”

  “Not eliminate it?”

  “That would be ideal,” Samsell said, sitting at the desk. “But I am a realist. Do you know what running this all entails?”

  Dayne wasn’t sure how to read this man. From any other marshal that question would have been a swipe, a thinly veiled attack. With any other marshal, he would suspect the scene with Benedict was a deliberate ploy to undermine him. But Marshal Chief Donavan Samsell seemed to be genuinely interested in explaining things to Dayne—genuinely interested in Dayne. He may have been the first marshal Dayne had met who hadn’t reacted to a Tarian with instant aggression.

  “I presume votes are counted locally, tallied, and results are sent to Maradaine.”

  “Roughly, yes, but more complicated than that,” Samsell said. “The counting and tallying has been done on local levels, those results brought by officiants and marshals to the offices of the archdukes and their appointed governors and assemblies, who organize the official vote counts for the archduchy. Not just the winners, but tally sheets from all the precincts with the details of all the results.”

  “All right, that makes sense, and then that’s sent to Maradaine?”

  “Sealed by the archduke’s office, then locked in strongboxes, and those and the officiants travel to Maradaine—under marshal protection—for formal certification.”

  “And you’re coordinating that here?”

  “Precisely,” Samsell said. “I’ve served as chief of operations for elections for six years now. It’s a great responsibility, and one I take very seriously. I’ve studied you, Dayne Heldrin, so I know you understand exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s a job that needs to be done with reverence,” Dayne said. “It’s a sac—”

  “A sacred right of the Druth people, and we must honor their wishes, and through that, honor the throne and the crown.” He chuckled. “Yes, I’ve read all of that as well.”

  “So what are you looking to me for?”

  “Well, a few things. Right now, I’m also serving as the interim chief of Parliament sanctity. The former chief was, of course, Regine Toscan.” He spit on the ground as he said that. “That’s because I’m already here and working out of this office, so the bosses at the Royal Bureau feel that physical proximity is a good enough reason to give me the job.”

 
“You need my help with that, then?”

  “No, but thank you,” Samsell said. “With Parliament between convocations, the duties for that role are light, and Chief Quoyell will be taking the formal position in a few days, as he’s coming from Hechard. You’ll meet him in due course, I’m sure.”

  Dayne already liked Chief Samsell, but he realized the man was in no particular hurry to find his way to a point. “So what do you need from me?”

  “You’re going to be working as a liaison between us, the Orders, the Parliament, and other forms of formal authority in the city. Constabulary, archduchy sheriffs, whatever is needed.”

  “I hadn’t been fully briefed on those duties, but I’m up for whatever is needed of me, to serve the Order and the nation.”

  “Good, first off is your quartering.”

  “Quartering?”

  “I’m given to understand your appointment is through the crown and Parliament, not the Tarian Order. As such, you’ve been assigned a staff apartment here in the building.”

  That gave Dayne a bit of pause. “I was not expecting that.”

  Samsell shrugged. “I mean, no one is going to force you to sleep here, but you will have quarters for your use here. You might find that useful.”

  “Of course,” Dayne said. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

  “Dayne,” Samsell said, putting a hand on Dayne’s shoulder. “This is going to be new territory for all of us. I’m not going to get offended if a few mistakes happen here and there.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Anyhow, you’ll be on a lower level suite, number twenty-seven. It’s actually one of the nicer ones here.”

  “Who else lives in those apartments?”

  “Mostly Parliamentary staff. Not the staff and secretaries for the members, but the scribes, floor functionaries, cleaning staff. Those people.”

  “And the marshals on duty?”

  “We have bunks down in these offices, two levels below you, but we don’t formally quarter here.” He shrugged. “There actually is a rule against us quartering here, if you can believe it. We’re overburdened with bureaucracy. You’ll probably get your share of it.”

  “All right,” Dayne said. “I’m sensing you wanted me here for more than just telling me where my room is.”

  “I am.” Samsell picked up a folder from his desk. “Several of the voting sites were disrupted today in the city. You were at one disruption, yes?”

  “At Henson’s Majestic,” Dayne said. “You mean the protestors?”

  “Separatists. Tried to stop people from voting.” He handed the folder over. “They’re called the Open Hand—”

  “From Scaloi, I gathered,” Dayne said. “I thought they were arrested.”

  “They were, but odds are against formal charges being laid. But I’m less concerned about what they did today, and more about what they might do over the next few days.”

  “What happens over the next few days?”

  “All the election results from all ten archduchies—save Maradaine, since voting today isn’t done—are on their way to the city. Here they will be validated and the official election results will be announced on Reunification Day.”

  This was in line with Dayne’s own understanding—of course Reunification Day would be the formal announcement, it always had been.

  “And you think the Open Hand might—” Dayne let it hang.

  “There’s credible intelligence of attempts to undermine the validity of the election process. Disrupting the voting, for one. They did it today, and several sites in South Maradaine were disrupted a few days ago on Sauriya’s election day.”

  “By the Open Hand?”

  “It’s unclear who was responsible. There are several disruptive groups in the city. Some separatists, some extremists, some . . . just troublemakers. But any and all could create trouble.”

  “Of course,” Dayne said. “Whatever you need, I’ll pass on to the Grandmaster.”

  “Good, but there is more to do, including sharing what we know with the press, when the moment is right. That’s part of what I need from you.”

  “Sharing with the press?”

  Samsell shrugged. “For better or worse, Dayne, you’re something of a golden child right now. Lauded for saving the Parliament, capturing Tharek Pell, and you have the favor of the press and the crown. We can use that right now, and that helps the government and helps your Order.”

  “How so?”

  “By you, standing up in your uniform, shield on your arm, representing the Order as you address the people of the press. Telling them what is going on, using your honesty and credibility to get the truth out there.”

  “If that’s what you need . . .” Dayne said, though he wasn’t fully convinced.

  “Excellent,” Samsell said. “Now, beyond that, I think we need to deal with the Open Hand, specifically. But quietly, informally. That’s an area where your status helps us greatly. I’d like you to investigate personally. Did you meet their leader today?”

  “There was a woman in a cloistress habit. Is she—”

  “That’s one of his ringleaders. Sister Frienne Okall. She’s in the file there. But the leader is this man—” Samsell opened the folder to the first page, which included a charcoal sketch of a man in a priest’s cassock, with wild hair and even wilder beard. In the sketch, he looked like he was shouting at a crowd, red-faced and angry, pointing at someone whom he seemed to be damning to an eternity with the sinners.

  “And this is?”

  “Bishop Ret Issendel. The leader of the Open Hand, and candidate for one of the Scallic Chairs in Parliament. He’s here in the city, Dayne, and I need your help to stop him.”

  * * *

  Jerinne had found herself in a daze after getting the letter, which lasted through dinner, her evening exercises, and meditation, which she went through like a wind-up gearbox going through its prescribed motions. There was more than one time that Raila tried to engage with her during each of those activities, and if she had responded, she didn’t remember.

  Instead of going to bed she walked the grounds of the chapterhouse, through the stone garden path that circled the bathhouse and the armory. The garden was lovely, well-maintained by the house staff, and in the purple haze of the late summer twilight it felt especially magical.

  “You should be in bed, Initiate.”

  Madam Tyrell came out of the bathhouse, wrapped in a drycloth, her hair damp.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Jerinne said, keeping her eyes to the ground. “I . . . I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

  “That’s why I tend to bathe now,” Madam Tyrell said. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “Are you talking about Initiacy training, or being called to the defense of Tharek Pell?”

  Madam Tyrell gave a rueful chuckle. “I meant the start of third year, but that definitely is something to consider. That’s what has you distracted?”

  “Among other things,” Jerinne said. “I met someone from your cohort today. Fredelle Pence?”

  “Really?” Madam Tyrell’s tone told Jerinne she had made a mistake. “And what was Freddy doing at Henson’s Majestic?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” Jerinne said cautiously. “I think she was initially there for the parade.”

  “The parade?” Madam Tyrell shook her head. “She was in the parade, wasn’t she? Part of that Royal Irregarded unit?”

  “Royal Irregulars,” Jerinne said quietly, even though she could tell from Madam Tyrell’s face that nothing good would come from saying it.

  Madam Tyrell sighed. “Third-year Initiacy, Freddy was a miracle with the quarterstaff.”

  “I heard you were better.”

  “I was better,” Madam Tyrell snapped reflexively. “But I was better at everything. Freddy fumbled with her shield work, wit
h the sword, and . . . her ranking plummeted among the third-years.” Rankings came out tomorrow, and Madam Tyrell must know where Jerinne stood. “So she washed out. And now she’s a show pony in a skirt.”

  Jerinne almost said, “She seems happy,” but bit her tongue before that came out.

  “Get to bed, Jerinne,” Madam Tyrell said. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  Chapter 5

  AMAYA WOKE UP an hour before dawn, as she usually did. It had become an ingrained habit, regardless of when she went to sleep. Of course, that had developed during Initiacy, specifically in third year, when she and Dayne were in constant competition for the top rank of the cohort. The other fourteen never stood a chance. Most of them didn’t advance to Candidacy.

  In fact, of that cohort, she was the only one who had made Adept, having achieved it after an unprecedented single year in Candidacy. She was the one who was a full Tarian.

  And Dayne . . .

  She pushed him out of her head. She let him live in there far too much as it was. He had made his choices, and she had to do what was best for her own well-being. And that meant keeping Dayne at a certain distance, even though he was again living just a few doors down the hallway.

  Right now, Dayne would be in the practice rooms, going through his own routines and stretches. She had yielded the room to him, her own decision to avoid unnecessary interaction. Every time they spoke, it would get heated, and if they were alone—she felt like Initiacy all over again. She couldn’t have that, even if her thoughts would linger back to that moment in the baths last month.

  She put that energy into discipline, exercise. Every morning, stretches and calisthenics in her quarters, and then running from the chapterhouse to the northern tip of the Trelan Docks and back. It had become a fascinating glimpse into a bit of Maradaine she hadn’t seen before: the early workers on the docks, the servers and shopgirls who would ferryboat across the river from their south side homes to their jobs on the north, the constables and Yellowshields gathering up sleeping transients. In all her years in Maradaine, so much of the city had been invisible to her. She had traveled to Imachan with a diplomatic embassage, but had barely stepped foot on the other side of the river.