After a few moments of this, the Grandmaster approached, scowling. “Dayne, what are you doing?”
“Sequence Nine,” Dayne said. “Is there error in my form?”
“Your form is fine, as you certainly know,” Orren snapped. “I meant why are you even here?”
“I always train in the morning—”
“You were given apartments at the Parliament as part of your appointment.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“There is no ‘yes but,’ Dayne,” the Grandmaster said. “That is where you should be, not here. Don’t you have duties to attend to this morning?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that. I’m supposed to address members of the press in dress uniform, according to the marshal chief. Is that appropriate?”
“Dayne,” Grandmaster Orren said sharply. “You need to be able to handle this assignment without having me hold your hand. Work with the marshals. Coordinate with us as needed. But I shouldn’t be seeing you here in the morning, because that tells me you are neglecting your post. Wasn’t there already enough trouble with you thinking you knew better than my orders?”
“Yes, sir,” Dayne said, putting the practice weapons away. “I’ll dress and get over there right away.”
“Do that,” Orren said. “I will have your trunk sent over today, and your quarters here will be reassigned. Don’t be sneaking back each night.”
“No, sir,” Dayne said. “As you wish.”
He raced up to his quarters to get his dress uniform. As he changed, one thing seemed clear. This new assignment, this position, felt less like a way to serve the Tarian Order, and more like a place to shuffle him off to so he could serve his final year of Candidacy out of the way. A minor exile before being forced to leave the Order completely.
Chapter 6
NORMALLY DAYNE LIKED the Tarian dress uniforms. They had a style and regality that he relished. He would have loved it if he and other members of the Order had put on their dress uniforms for the parade the other day, gleaming coats with shining buttons and bright shields on their arms, and marched through Victory Square with smiles and waves.
The Tarians were a proud part of Druth history, and that should be celebrated. The dress uniform was part of that.
But to wear it to stand on a podium and read a prepared statement for members of the press felt . . . crass.
“It’s what you’re here for,” Samsell said. “Look good, read the statement, answer a question or two—within the bounds of what we said—and get off the dais. Are we clear?”
“I understand,” Dayne said. “Let’s go.”
Samsell opened the door and let Dayne take the lead to a small room where a handful of press people were waiting. Dayne didn’t know who any of them were, and as he looked around the room, he noticed that Hemmit and Maresh were not there. Perhaps they weren’t considered important enough. Dayne would try to change that, if he could, for them and other smaller prints.
“Good morning,” he said as he took his place at the podium. He noticed that Samsell stayed at the back of the room. He wasn’t going to do anything but watch Dayne and make sure he followed the rules. “My name is Dayne Heldrin, and I’m with the Tarian Order.”
“You’re the one who caught Tharek Pell, right?” one of them asked.
“That’s right, sir,” Dayne said. He caught a cross glare from Samsell. “But right now I’m here to talk about the current situation with the elections. As of today, every archduchy in the nation has held its elections, and the results have been tabulated and are being securely transported to Maradaine for final verification and certification. As is custom, we will release the results on Reunification Day, at the end of the week.”
A number of hands went up from the journalists.
“Please, let me finish,” Dayne said, looking back to his sheet of prepared remarks. “We know there have been concerns regarding disruptions of the election. We are aware that on the day of Sauriyan elections, on the south side of the city, there were multiple incidents of unrest in western districts. While this surely made the process of voting challenging for some citizens living in those neighborhoods, it is the official opinion that none of these incidents were specifically targeting the election, and had minimal effect on its outcome.”
Dayne almost choked getting that part out. He had heard about some of those incidents. Hemmit and Lin had been chasing a story in Seleth when a full-on riot broke out in the street. Lin was hit in the head with a brick. The entire neighborhood had been terrorized, and surely that had kept many people from voting. Perhaps that wouldn’t matter much in terms of the Parliamentary results, but in citywide races for the Council of Aldermen or the Commissioners of Loyalty, those few votes could make a great difference.
“Furthermore, there were multiple incidents of directed, intentional disruption yesterday for the elections for the Archduchy of Maradaine. While these demonstrations were designed to prevent good citizens from reaching the polling stations, they were dealt with quickly and judiciously.”
“These were protestors, right?” one of the journalists called out. “And radicals?”
Dayne coughed and looked back at his notes. “Yes, according to reports there were at least five discrete incidents involving members of the Open Hand, the Deep Roots, the Tenfold Fire, Haltom’s Patrio—” He stopped and looked to Samsell. “There are still Haltom’s Patriots out there?”
“It was a small group of an isolated cell,” Samsell called out from the back of the room. “It’s noted there.”
Dayne looked down on his sheet. “The members of the Patriots have all been arrested and charged with sedition against the crown.”
“Why are you telling us this instead of him?” a reporter asked.
“Because this is his job,” Samsell said. “So let him do it.”
“Weren’t you there for one of these disruptions? The Open Hand members at Victory Square?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Dayne said.
“You defended the protestors,” another said. Dayne had seen him before—he didn’t remember the name, but he recalled that reporter had hassled him when they had left the Parliament after subduing Tharek. “Are you sympathetic to their cause?”
“Absolutely not,” Dayne struck back. “I am opposed to anyone preventing others from exercising their civic duty to vote in free elections.”
“But you defended them.”
“I protected them from being injured by the crowd,” Dayne said. “I did not defend their position or their actions. I don’t agree with their positions or their methods, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t human beings, and that doesn’t mean they deserve to be beaten by an angry crowd.”
Another hand went up, a young woman. “If you are, as you say, opposed to anyone preventing others from exercising their civil duty to vote, then are you a supporter of the Suffragist movement?”
“Mister Heldrin’s personal politics are not the issue here,” Samsell said quickly. “Nor should he be expressing them here under this platform, or while in his uniform.”
“Marshal Chief Samsell is correct,” Dayne said. “My opinion of political issues is not the matter at hand.”
“But you said you disagreed with the Open Hand’s position,” she said. “So you have expressed some opinions.”
“That was—he asked me a specific question about defending them,” Dayne sputtered. “I was clarifying my actions.”
“Do you feel like you have a duty to intercede in political affairs?” one reporter asked.
“What responsibility do you have?” another shot at him.
“Especially in the light of events here last month.” Again, the reporter who had harassed Dayne. “You were not here under the authority of the Parliament, or the King’s Marshals, or even of your own Order. You just showed up.”
This riled one of
the other reporters. “He showed up and saved everyone!”
“That’s what we were told, but why did he show up?”
“Everyone!” Dayne shouted. “I understand that this is a very . . . exciting topic. But its not the one we’re here to discuss.”
“No,” the harassing reporter said. “But this is the first chance we’ve had to hear directly from you since that incident. And other than giving The Veracity Press an exclusive story.”
“That was their own story because they were there—”
“Which is somewhat suspect!”
“All right, enough,” Samsell said, coming up to the podium. “We will brief you on the state of all things involving the election—which was the only topic of discussion here today—tomorrow at the same time.”
The reporters all started barking more questions, but Samsell pulled Dayne off the podium and out the door before he could respond.
“Was that terrible?” Dayne asked.
“I’ve seen worse,” Samsell said. “For a first time, it was fine.”
Dayne groaned. “And I’ll have to do that all week?”
“Yes,” Samsell said. “And I’ve got something else for you. Something a bit more . . . informal.”
Dayne had a bad feeling about what that meant. “Does it involve the Open Hand? Bishop Issendel?”
“In about an hour, his people are going to be released from the stationhouse.”
“No charges filed against them.”
“Right,” Samsell said. “Exactly why this can’t be done in any official capacity. Certainly not by a constable or a King’s Marshal or a member of Parliament. . . .”
He was hedging. Rarely did that mean something good. “So what do you need?”
Samsell smiled. “Go down there and gently suggest that it would be best if they recognized that their mission is finished, and they should go home to Scaloi. No threats—”
“Absolutely not!”
“Good. Just let them know that we would be very grateful if they ended their little crusade.” He paused, grinding his teeth. “And less so if they don’t.”
* * *
“I want your faces to touch the ground when you drop!” Vien shouted. “Then when you come back up you better touch the sky!”
All sixteen third-years were out of breath, sweating through their cottons, and wishing they were dead. Jerinne felt that way, and imagined the others did as well. Even still, she followed instructions, dropping down so her nose touched the wooden floor of the training room, and then pushing herself up with her arms while pulling her legs up into a crouch, and springing up in the air as high as she could jump.
This had been going on for thirty minutes, and that was after the five-mile run, with only a brief respite for breakfast. Not that any of the third-years had been able to eat anything. At least two had thrown up after the run, and those were just the ones Jerinne had seen. Likely there were others who just hid it better.
Jerinne certainly wanted to. After the run, and then the high-intensity calisthenics, she just wanted to fall down and die. She had never been pushed—none of the Initiates had been pushed—like this in the first two years.
Madam Tyrell had pushed them through a cycle of calisthenics: salutations, crunches, jumps, pushes, crouches. As soon as Madam Tyrell was done, Master Nedell stepped in and put them through the same paces, and then when he finished, Vien came in fresh and took them through it again at double the pace.
“This is the best you have?” Vien asked. “You’ve got more in you, people. Just push it. Through the pain. Keep it hard, keep it strong.”
Jerinne’s ankle was on fire. Every ounce of her body hurt, but her ankle was the worst. But she was not going to let anyone here know that. She’d push through it all. She’d bear whatever Vien gave her.
“Come on, Enther!” Vien shouted. “Is that all you have, Initiate?”
Jerinne could see Enther from the corner of her eye. He had lost pace, lost his breath. He stumbled as he dropped into the crouch, and almost fell over. He tried to spring up for the next salutation, but Jerinne didn’t think he could keep standing.
On the far side of the training room she saw Madam Tyrell go to the Incentive shelf. The Incentives—wooden balls wrapped in leather—were Madam Tyrell’s favorite way to train Initiates in dodging and blocking skills. The Incentives could be thrown fast and hard, and Madam Tyrell had a strong arm and wicked aim.
In a blink Madam Tyrell scooped up three Incentives and hurled them at the third-years. The first cracked Maskier in the side, knocking him over. The second smashed Liana in her hip. And the third was coming for Enther’s head.
Jerinne sprang forward, grabbing Enther and spinning him around to put herself between him and the Incentive. It hit her in the small of the back, stung like blazes. Despite herself, she cried out.
“Hold!” Vien shouted. Everyone stopped, panting, all looking like they wanted to fall over. Maskier and Liana were on the ground, and Enther was on his knees, arms clutched around Jerinne’s waist.
“Initiate Fendall!” Vien shouted. “You left formation!”
“I was—I was—” She struggled just to breathe.
“You what? You thought you didn’t need to continue?”
“Enther was about to be struck,” Jerinne said through her wheezing breath.
“Enther wasn’t keeping pace,” Vien said. “Nor were Maskier or Liana. And don’t you smirk, Candion, you were on the verge of dropping as well.”
Enther tried to speak, but he couldn’t even manage anything other than gasps, still clutching on to her.
“He needs water,” Jerinne said.
“He needs to be able to dodge Incentives on his own,” Vien said. “What made you think you should take the hit for him?”
Jerinne wanted to scream at Vien, pick up the Incentive and smash it on her nose. But that wouldn’t help.
What would Dayne have done? What would Dayne say?
“Because I’m a Tarian,” Jerinne said. “And that’s what we do.”
“Finally,” Madam Tyrell said. “Someone gets it.”
At least three of the Initiates dropped to the floor.
“All right,” Madam Tyrell said. “Get some water, stretch and cool down. In twenty minutes we’re on staff drills.”
Jerinne let herself sink to the floor, holding Enther up. “You all right?”
“I . . . I just need a moment,” he wheezed.
Raila came over with two cups of water. She handed one to Jerinne and held the other for Enther to drink. “I should have done that,” she said.
“You’re ranked fifth,” Jerinne said. “You don’t have anything to prove right now.”
“We all have something to prove,” Enther said. He took another gulp of water, then added, “You probably won’t be last after today. Maybe now I will be.”
“Nonsense,” Raila said, caressing his head. “It’s gonna be Maskier. We all know that.”
Enther laughed, and Jerinne did despite herself.
Jerinne looked up and locked eyes with Madam Tyrell, who gave her the barest of nods.
“Come on,” Jerinne said, extracting herself from Enther’s body. “Let’s stretch this out, or we’re going to feel even worse tomorrow.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Raila said.
Jerinne already knew she would feel worse tomorrow. No matter where she was on the rankings, someone else in this room was going to be last, and she wouldn’t wish that on any of them.
And this was going to be their life for the next year.
* * *
Hemmit had been waiting outside the stationhouse for hours. He had already gone in twice, asking when the protesters were due to be released, but they refused to give him a straight answer. The desk clerk told him enough to know that they were still there, a
nd that no charges had actually been filed at this time. His credentials as a member of the press got her to give him that much.
He wondered how long the Constabulary could hold someone in custody in the stationhouse without specific charges being laid upon them, without being brought before a judge, and without the counsel of Justice Advocate. He did, on occasion, regret leaving the Royal College before finishing his letters, especially in his Law classes. He knew his rights—he could recite all the Rights of Man, of course—and he knew that the Constabulary would do their best to bend around those Rights as much as they could.
That was why the city needed him, needed The Veracity Press. The Justice Advocate’s office did what it could to stem the zeal of the Constabulary and City Protector, but the power of the press was the real force for truth and justice.
Hemmit could smell injustice at work. He didn’t agree with these protestors, but by Saint Illaria, they had a right, and he would support those rights with his own voice.
By midmorning, Lin and Maresh had arrived, neither of them looking too pleased. “Are we holding today’s edition?” Maresh asked. “We need to start printing in an hour if we’re going to get any of delivery boys working for us this afternoon.”
“Where are we with the issue?” Hemmit asked.
“Well,” Lin said, sounding even more vexed than Maresh. “We’ve spent most of the morning getting the press plates laid out, except there’s a great big empty space in the center of the main page for this story that you said was critical.”
“It is critical,” Hemmit insisted. “You have my placeholder version of the story from yesterday, right?”
Maresh sighed. “It’s weak.”
“I know it’s weak,” Hemmit said. He didn’t have any proper sources, or even names. Without getting to talk to the protestors, he only had his observations from yesterday’s protest.
“I beefed it up a little. Did some legwork, found a pamphlet the Open Hand put out a while ago. Incorporated that into it. But even then, it’s missing its heart.”
Shield of the People Page 8
