Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Of course I did!”

  “So you can testify honest and true to what you saw?”

  “Absolutely I will!”

  “Excellent,” Miss Mirrendum said. She extended her hand. “We will call you for initial statements on the afternoon of the twenty-ninth.”

  “I’m not going to say anything to clear him!”

  “I only need you to tell the truth,” Miss Mirrendum said, with an infuriating calm. She still had her hand out to Jerinne.

  “How can you defend him? How can you want to get his charges dismissed?”

  “Because it is his right, Miss Fendall,” Miss Mirrendum said. “Even if he were the most depraved, maniacal murderer in the history of Druth, he would deserve that. Someone must plead the case of every single accused, so that justice remains fair and honest.” She finally withdrew the offered hand. “Good day, Miss Fendall. The twenty-ninth. Four bells in the afternoon. Officers of the court will be sent for you if you do not appear.”

  With a final nod, she went out the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  Jerinne turned to see an Adept—one of the new ones. “It’s nothing just—”

  “Sounds like a mess,” he said. “It isn’t right for her to get officers of the court to drag you in to testify in his defense. That’s some sewage.” He was a rustic sort of man: a few days behind on shaving, a nose that had taken its share of hits, and a smile that other girls would find disarming.

  “I appreciate the opinion,” Jerinne said. “I don’t think we’ve met. Jerinne.”

  “Osharin,” he said. “Just transferred from Porvence. I’m about to head over to Fort Merrit for some sort of briefing with the army folk, whatever that means.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jerinne said. Something about him raised the hair on the back of her neck.

  He gave her a quick salute and went to the door, then turned back. “I do mean, it isn’t right for her to do that. It’s illegal to use the officers of the court to compel someone to testify, either against themselves or in defense of another. It’s an enumerated right.”

  “Thanks,” Jerinne said. She did know that, and didn’t need Osharin to explain it to her. He left, apparently satisfied he had performed some duty.

  “It does sound like a mess.”

  Raila was in the hallway, looking a bit sheepish.

  “It is,” Jerinne said. “Why are you out here?”

  “We finished that exercise, and Madam Tyrell dismissed us for baths and medicinal therapy before dinner.”

  “Saints, I need all that,” Jerinne said. “Let’s go to the baths and you can tell me how bad my back is.”

  “All right,” Raila said, a slight smile on her lips. “You promise to do the same for me?”

  That was something Jerinne would gladly promise.

  * * *

  “Please!” Dayne called out as he approached the steps. “This isn’t helping!”

  “Helping what?” Bishop Issendel said as he turned his attention to Dayne. “What do you need?”

  A brick came flying from the crowd, and Dayne blocked it with his shield before it hit the bishop. “They’ll just get angrier.”

  “They will, and it’s a tragedy,” said Issendel.

  People in the crowd were engaging with the protestors, grabbing and shouting. No outright violence yet, but they were trying to pull the protesters apart.

  “This isn’t the way,” Dayne said.

  “What other way is there? I will stand for my cause, but I will not fight. I will not take up arms and draw blood. That is not the way.”

  Dayne was stunned for a moment, as he realized he agreed with the bishop.

  “This Tarian engaged with us yesterday,” the cloistress said. “But he was fair, and put his shield between us and the crowd’s wrath.”

  “I respect your path, Tarian,” the bishop said. “Please respect mine.”

  “Get out of here!” someone in the crowd yelled.

  “I would love to, friend,” the bishop called back. He took a few steps down the stairs. “I would love to take all my people and go home to Scaloi. That is our country, where we belong. But we don’t have our own country, we are a part of yours. And so we are here, exercising our rights.”

  “I’ll exercise a right!” one man in the crowd shouted, and bolted toward the bishop with a long knife drawn. He covered the distance before Dayne saw him coming. Dayne attempted to sprint, get to the man before he stabbed the bishop.

  “Peaceful,” Bishop Issendel said, holding up his hand. The word was spoken quietly but felt like a thunderclap. And the man dropped his knife on the ground. “Our ways are peaceful, son.”

  “We will have peace!” the cloistress shouted. “We will have freedom! We will be our own kingdom, our own country, and we will all be stronger for it. We will have the strength of an open hand!”

  “We reject the closed fist,” Bishop Issendel said. He touched the cheek of the man who had been going to stab him. “That is never our way.”

  That man burst into tears.

  Despite that, the rest of the crowd was agitated, tearing at the protestors and pulling them apart.

  “Bishop,” Dayne said, coming closer. “I respect what you are trying to do, but these people here have no power to aid your cause. Why hassle them?”

  Constabulary whistles pierced the air before the bishop could answer, and several officers came down the steps and into the square, separating the protestors and the crowd, separating the protestors from each other.

  Two officers came over to the bishop, handsticks and shackles in hand. “We just cut you all loose, and this is what you do!”

  “Officer!” Dayne said, putting himself between the bishop and them. “This man is a bishop in the church, a candidate for Parliament, and he was trying to calm the crowd. Leave him be.”

  “He started this!” one constable said.

  “And we’ll—” the other started, looking like he was about to make threats at Dayne, but reconsidered right away. “Look, who the blazes are you?”

  “I’m Dayne, Dayne Heldrin. I’m—I’m a Tarian with the Parliament offices.”

  “So you think you have authority here?”

  “No, I—” Dayne said, thinking. “I’m just saying, as a citizen who was here for the whole event, no crime was committed. No one should be taken into custody right now.”

  “What about that knife there?” the officer said, pointing to the knife on the ground. “Someone was looking to stab someone.”

  “But no one did,” Bishop Issendel said. “I assure you, officer, should someone have been injured, I would want the malefactor arrested. No such thing has occurred.”

  “What is that accent?” the other officer asked.

  The first said, “He’s Scallic. They’re all Scallic. Can’t you smell the pig on them?”

  “That’s not necessary, officer,” Dayne said. “In fact, I think you should apologize.”

  “I—” the officer said, and once again looked up at Dayne’s face a good foot above his own. Then he turned to the bishop. “I’m sorry, your eminence. My words were thoughtless.”

  “Of course, son,” the bishop said. He then gave a brief signal to the cloistress, and she broke her human chain, as did the others. In moments the Open Hand protestors melted into the regular pedestrians. “We have said what we need to for today.”

  The two Constabulary officers both nodded, and even though they looked unsatisfied with how things went, they walked away.

  Dayne found Hemmit and Lin at his side. “Everything all right?” Hemmit asked.

  “It seems,” Dayne said, though he wasn’t entirely sure.

  Issendel approached the man who had tried to stab him, still standing there in almost frozen reverie. He bent down and picked up the knife. “Have more car
e with this in the future, son,” he said, placing it in the man’s hand. “A simple mistake can lead to much regret.”

  The man mutely wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the blade and put it back in his belt, and then nodded and walked away.

  Issendel then turned to Dayne and the others. “Well, good sir. You are an interesting case.”

  “As are you, your eminence.”

  “None of that,” Issendel said. “Just ‘Ret’ is fine, please.”

  “Are you the leader of the Open Hand?” Hemmit asked.

  “That’s very direct,” Issendel said with a smile. “I appreciate that. You’re with a newsprint?”

  “The Veracity Press.”

  Issendel turned to Lin. “As are you, mesame?”

  Lin nearly snarled. “Çe da cseseh, rezette.”

  “I do,” he said with a chuckle. “And that’s actually true about my father.”

  Lin stormed off.

  “I fear I offended,” the bishop said. “Have care with Linjari women, we’re always told.”

  “So are you?” Hemmit asked.

  “I speak for the interests of my people, some are here, some are home in Scaloi. I speak for what I think Scaloi should be, and hope my words can move others. Those who believe in my cause listen to me. Does that make me a leader?”

  “You’re running for Parliament,” Dayne said.

  “Accurate in premise if not agency,” Issendel said. “I have been placed on the ballot; many are in favor of my candidacy. But saying I am running, implies that I am engaged in active campaigning. If elected, I will serve, but I do not seek it.”

  “So you aren’t here to that end?” Dayne asked.

  “I am here for my cause, that being an independent queendom of Scaloi, blessed and sanctioned by the church.”

  “Queendom?” Hemmit asked.

  “As we were centuries ago,” Issendel said. He reached into his robe and pulled out a pamphlet. “I have some basic literature, but that’s not what you are here for, is it?”

  “No,” Dayne said. “Perhaps we should leave the square and talk somewhere more private.”

  “A capital idea, friend,” Issendel said. “But I see Sister Frienne is looking at me with some urgency, as is your Linjari mage.”

  Hemmit started, “How did—”

  “Immaterial,” Issendel said. “This is not our moment, friends. Another time.” He offered his hand to Dayne.

  Dayne took it, but wasn’t sure how to respond. “Another time, then.”

  “Excellent,” Issendel said, shaking Hemmit’s hand. “Now I must attend to other matters.” He scurried over to the cloistress, and the two of them left the square.

  Lin stalked back over to Dayne and Hemmit as soon as he was gone. “Scallics,” she said icily.

  “You all right?” Dayne asked.

  “Just annoyed,” she said. “And . . . you saw that? With the knife?”

  “I did,” Dayne said. “Magic? Is that possible?”

  “I’m not sure what that was,” she said. “But I can tell you it wasn’t magic.”

  “Come on,” Hemmit said. “I think we’re going to be delaying our issue until tomorrow morning. But we need to get to work on it now.”

  Chapter 8

  DAYNE NURSED A GLASS of wine at The Nimble Rabbit, still not sure what he saw or what he thought about it. Hemmit and Maresh were hard at work at the other end of the table, writing for the issue they planned to put out in the morning. Lin had eaten several sandwiches and stalked into the kitchens, her mood foul and dark and silent.

  Two things kept drumming through Dayne’s mind. One, he was opposed to the Open Hand and what they stood for, which was nothing less than the dissolution of the nation. Two, despite that, he saw Ret Issendel as a man of profound peace, one who preached to his people against violence, and believed in it. That was a powerful thing, and Dayne deeply respected that.

  And he could not reconcile those two things.

  He didn’t even want to think about the strange power Issendel exerted over the man with the knife.

  Lin came back out of the restaurant and rejoined them at their courtyard table, carrying a bundle of letters and a new bottle of wine. “Post is here,” she said, dropping it on the table. She sat at the table next to Dayne, refilling his glass in addition to her own.

  “You receive your post here?” Dayne asked.

  “Of course we do,” Maresh said. “Where do you think our press is? Where do you think we live?”

  “Here at The Nimble Rabbit?”

  “Yes,” Hemmit said, shaking his head. He pointed to the path that led behind the restaurant and kitchens. Dayne had never actually gone into the back gardens. He had barely ever eaten inside, usually sitting in the front garden tables with Maresh and Hemmit. “There’s a barnhouse back there, from when this was an old Loyalty House back in the day. We rent that from the owners, and the press is in there, and we sleep in the loft.”

  “You as well?” he asked Lin.

  “Saints above and sinners below, never,” she said. “I have my own flop away from these boys, thank you very much.” She snapped the server over. “Another bottle, charcuterie, bread, two orders of crisp, and the lamb shank.”

  “You all right, Lin?” Hemmit asked.

  “It’s been a day,” she said. She looked at Dayne, and he was about to ask her about what they saw the bishop do. “No.”

  “I didn’t even say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. I—I took a bit of higher theory and I . . .” She hesitated for a moment, and if Dayne didn’t know better, he would have thought she was frightened. “Ask me in a day or two.”

  Dayne wasn’t sure what to make of that, and he certainly wasn’t sure if Bishop Issendel was a danger. “Whatever you need,” seemed like the most polite, respectful response to her.

  She nodded and turned back to Maresh. “What was in the post?”

  “The usual,” Maresh said. “Bills due, angry rants . . . oh, the mystery artist returns.”

  “Mystery artist?” Dayne asked.

  Maresh handed over the envelope. “Someone has been sending us these sketches of various saints. It’s been a whole series. Saint Julian, Saint Benton, Saint Jontlen—”

  “That one was gruesome,” Lin said, waving her hands over the table and crafting images of light and shadow of those same saints. Dayne recognized Benton with his bow, the cloaked woman representing Saint Jesslyn, blood-covered Saint Jontlen. “Who do we have today?”

  Dayne opened the envelope to find an image of Saint Terrence, soaking wet and taking a gift out of his sack, presumably to hand to a child. “Why Saint Terrence? Terrentin is a couple months away.”

  Lin chuckled. “There’s little reason to any of it. Though we did get the Jontlen one a couple days before Saint Jontlen Day.”

  “I wonder who the artist is,” Maresh said. “They have talent. But there’s never anything but the picture. No name, nothing to contact them.”

  “What do you do with the pictures?” Dayne asked.

  “We’ve thought about running them,” Maresh said. “I mean, they posted them to us, but there’s no permission. No explanation. It doesn’t seem right.”

  The work was good, there was no denying that. Simple, but something about it was inspired, and Dayne felt it came from a place of passion.

  Lin finished her magical light image. “Saint Deshar of the wise eyes, and now Saint Terrence the builder. That makes six.” The six figures faced outward in a circle, and she made the image rotate so Dayne saw each one in turn. “Who will we get next?”

  “Do you think they’ll keep going until they do them all?” Hemmit asked. “Is that twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-five,” Maresh said.

  “It’s twenty-six,” Dayne said. “Sometimes people don’t cou
nt Saint Bridget because she doesn’t have a holiday. Because she’s about humility.”

  The server brought Lin several plates of food, which she wasted no time getting started on. Hemmit poured himself a glass of wine. “So what’s next, Dayne?”

  “I don’t even know,” Dayne said. “I’m supposed to be coordinating between the marshals and the Parliament and the Orders, but what does that even mean? It can’t just mean talking to the press.”

  “Which members of the press are let into that?” Hemmit asked.

  “I’m not sure how it’s decided. That one fellow who gave you guff last month was there.”

  “Harns. He’s from Throne and Chairs. They specifically cover, well, the government and the royal family.”

  Dayne nodded, and had an idea that he immediately put voice to. “If I have to be the one talking to the press, being the mule to the marshals, at the very least I will decide who is in that room. And that means you and yours.”

  “Don’t push your chin for our sake.”

  “No, I mean it,” Dayne said, though it was, perhaps, that third glass of wine speaking. “I want them to take you all seriously as members of the press.”

  “No argument from me,” Lin said.

  “Maresh?” Hemmit asked. “You’ve been quiet.”

  Maresh was reading a letter, and he took off his spectacles and wiped the sweat off his brow. “We . . . we might have something troubling here.”

  “Troubling how?”

  “It’s from the Sons of the Six Sisters,” Maresh said.

  That piqued Dayne’s interest, even if he didn’t know what it meant. The Six Sisters were the daughters of Lady Irielle Hessen—The Lady of the Grand Ten—who hid and protected young Prince Maradaine in 1009 during the Incursion of the Black Mage. Thanks to them he was still alive when the Black Mage was defeated, able to reclaim his throne as Maradaine XI and start the Reunification. One of those sisters even grew up to be his queen.

  But Dayne had no idea who the Sons of the Six Sisters were.

  “What are they threatening now?” Hemmit asked. Maresh was still engrossed in reading it.