Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  The man approached. “Yes, sir. Mister Valclerk? I was Good Mister Parlin’s chief of staff. I coordinated with your office on the museum funding.”

  “Right, of course.”

  The museum funding had been largely a ploy to put Parlin in the sights of a crossbow, a ploy that failed, thanks to that Tarian. The only reason Parlin still ended up dead was because Tharek Pell was a determined, unstoppable bastard. But this man—Valclerk—had coordinated between Barton and Parlin in their joint project of opening the museum. He was a lot more put together back then.

  Parlin’s death must have hit him badly.

  “Why do you need Montrose?”

  “Because he’s the head of the party, and someone has to do something!”

  The party—Montrose and Parlin were members in the inconsequential Populist Party.

  “All right, slow down,” Barton said. He almost called him, “son,” but Valclerk was likely the same age as he. “What exactly is the problem?”

  “The problem is Mister Parlin’s office! I’ve been locked out of there, and Mister Parlin’s papers and files are in boxes in the hallway!”

  Barton bit back his instinct to say something crass, but truthfully, the urge was strong. Parlin was dead, and his office needed to go to the new member from Acora, once the elections had decided matters. “I’m sure it’s all . . . shocking.”

  “It’s not shocking, sir. It’s appalling. That office belongs to Mister Parlin, and the trust the people of Acora have put in him to serve their interests.”

  “Yes, but—” Barton wasn’t sure how else to put this. “The man is dead, Valclerk.”

  “The man is dead, but his chair—that should stand, representing the will of the people. Stand in his name until that chair is up for election.”

  “It is up for election!” Barton snapped. “Blazes, the vote boxes from Acora are on their way here now.”

  “No, I disagree,” Valclerk said. “That chair belongs to Erick Parlin, and in his stead, a representative of his ideals for Acora and Druthal, until the proper replacement of the chair by fair election in 1218!”

  This man had clearly cracked. “That . . . that isn’t how it works when a member dies. It’s actually clearly detailed in the Parliament charter. A staff proxy sits in his place until the next election, and as the two chairs up for normal election are won by the top two recipients of votes, the special chair goes to number three.”

  “That is an unjust methodology!” Valclerk shouted. “How could you stand by it?”

  Barton hid his smile. He could stand for it because there were Traditionalist winds blowing in from Acora. He didn’t know what was posted in those ballot boxes working their way to the capital, but rumors were that all three chairs were going to his party. Ian Callun would be reelected in a breeze, and since that fool Batts was following the custom of the Functionalist Party: He wasn’t running, leaving his chair ripe for claiming. Callun had been promoting his men, Logan Theorick and Preston Willian, and if those two won Batts’s and Parlin’s chairs, that would be a decisive victory for Barton’s party.

  They might even claim control over the Parliament, and if so, Barton was certain to be offered a High Chair, or at least a plush committee. He had been working hard for the party, for Druthal, putting his own life on the line by standing close to Parlin when the assassins came for him. He had nearly taken a bolt, so no one would suspect he had organized the whole affair with the Grand Ten.

  And now the fruit was ready to taste. His fortunes grew, as did those of his associates, and that put them in place to shape the course of Druthal.

  Starting with a proper king on the throne.

  “How could you, sir?”

  Valclerk’s ranting snapped him back.

  “It’s how it’s done, boy,” he said. “We live by the rules, we don’t change them. I suggest you start gathering boxes.”

  He went back into his office, latching the door behind him. He heard Valclerk stomp off. Good. He didn’t want him lurking about there. Barton was going to have to go home soon. Get a decent meal and a change of clothes. The next few days he needed to be seen at the parties. Shaking hands and smiling. It was time to start being presentable again.

  Chapter 11

  AS FAR AS JERINNE was concerned the hike outside the city to the Miniara Pass was the best way to spend the day. It had been hard going, and the heat had been something to contend with, especially as they walked that last mile. Her whole body was sore, but it had been an invigorating kind of sore. She felt like she had earned it through accomplishment.

  Others seemed less enthused. Many of them looked miserable, but no one actually complained. Probably no one dared, especially since Vien looked like she had every intention of walking another ten.

  “All right,” Madam Tyrell called out. “Let’s take a breather, get some water, and assess where we are.”

  Jerinne unhooked her waterskin—fortunately there had been regular well stations along the road, as well as Royal Post depots, where they could stop to refill the skins—and drank greedily from it. Everyone else was doing the same, a few even sitting down on the ground and pulling off their boots.

  “You all right?” she asked Enther, who was looking a bit worse for wear.

  “Fine,” he said. “Could have stood to have gone without the mail shirt in this heat, but fine.”

  “Look at Madam Tyrell,” Iolana said. Iolana was someone who Jerinne had never been very close to, despite the past years in Initiacy together. She always seemed too flighty, too cloud-headed, for Jerinne’s taste, and the two of them had spoken about twenty words to each other in all this time. “She’s not even breaking a sweat.”

  “She spent a couple months in Imachan in her Candidacy,” Dade said. “Watchdogging some Parli. Maybe she can take this heat.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know what watchdogging a Parli really means,” Iolana said, giving an almost sneering look to Jerinne.

  “I’m going to look around,” Jerinne said, mostly to Enther, and walked off.

  The road—the Old Canthen Road, presumably—had been going on an incline for the last mile or so, and the terrain had been growing rockier. Now they were at a point where the road took a sharp decline into a narrow valley, while on either side of the road the incline continued, the escarpments looking over the road. In just a short walk, anyone on the road would be walled in by high cliffs on either side. The valley seemed to curve to the right as well, so you wouldn’t see anyone here at the mouth until right before they arrived.

  Indeed, a perfect ambush spot.

  Madam Tyrrell paced about, looking in all directions, like she was working out the same thing.

  “Paths off the road on either side,” Madam Tyrell said, though it didn’t seem she was saying it to anyone in particular. “So someone could easily go up over the valley from here.”

  “All right,” Vien called out. “According to records, the general’s army was coming up the road in the valley, and Lief Frannel split his people into three groups. Archers on the right side, who rained arrows down on the army. Spears and pikes up the center, with a shield wall, to pin the army in place. And then he led the third group on the left side, where there was a steep slide-down to let him drop rocks on the army, and then make a quick descent to carve them up from behind. Now, we don’t have an army coming up the road—”

  While Vien was talking, Madam Tyrell was still looking around, mostly at the trailheads on the left and right. Something had captured her attention.

  “Right,” she said abruptly, drawing her sword. “Here’s the play. Everyone, leave your packs on the ground. Vien, you go up the right path with Candion, Maskier, Paskins, and Eakin.” The ones who had come with bows. “Tander, you’re on the left path with Liana, Chrinten, Trandt, and Fendall. The rest, with me down the road. Shields up, weapons out. Be ready.”

&nb
sp; “Ma’am?” Vien asked. “This is an exercise, yes?”

  “Shh,” Madam Tyrell said, gesturing to everyone to be quiet. For a moment, Jerinne had no idea why, but then another sound could be heard over the bird calls and buzzing insects.

  The distinctive clash of metal on metal.

  “Go,” she ordered. “Time to be Tarians.”

  * * *

  Hemmit had left the luncheon with Bishop Issendel unsatisfied. Both in terms of the meal—Scallic food with no wine was definitely disagreeable—as well as with the discussion.

  He had wanted to be able to write a new article about the Open Hand, either a fair look at their side of the issue, or a scathing tear into them and their methods. But he left with no sense of what he wanted to do. He was, at least in part, infuriated by the idea that Issendel and the Open Hand were harboring a vicious murderer as one of their key people. As much as Issendel preached a path of peace, he kept by his side a woman with so much blood on her hands.

  But he didn’t hide that. He made her tell her story, as a penance, and Hemmit could respect that.

  Maybe he needed his own penance for his part in enabling Tharek Pell.

  He had a problem with the separatist group, on principle, but he couldn’t put his finger on why they bothered him so. Dayne had elucidated some of it—at his core, while he felt that Druthal and its government had many problems, he believed that its strength was in its woven tapestry of many peoples. Ten cultures, wed together, brought something unique to the world that would be diminished by one divorcing itself from the rest, or it dissolving completely.

  Hemmit surprised himself that he was that much of a patriot.

  Just the word crossing his mind made him shudder a bit. If there was one thing he hated, it was how the extremists had sullied a perfectly good word.

  Maresh had gone to buy supplies for the next printing, and Dayne had returned to the Parliament, so Hemmit found himself walking alone back to The Nimble Rabbit.

  “Hey, Hemmit,” Treshtic, the main waitron of the Rabbit called to him as he approached. “Got a couple notes for you here.”

  “In the post?” Hemmit asked, taking the papers from him.

  “Nah, one’s from Lin, left it here an hour ago. The other, some guy said he knew you. When you weren’t here, he wrote the note and left.”

  “Thanks,” Hemmit said.

  “You need a bottle?”

  “Not right now,” Hemmit said, looking at the notes. “I might need to head right back out.”

  The one from Lin said she was heading to the Royal College, to the Magic and Mysticism Department, and to meet her there as soon as possible. He was about to go straight there when he looked at the second note.

  Hello, Wissen—

  Or I should say Hemmit, as that’s your proper name. I wish you no ill will—reading your paper has convinced me you are a decent man who means the best for Druthal. I have information for you about a sickness that is infecting this country, one which must be cured with words and truth, not murder and blood. This is highly grave. Just as the Grand Ten brought Druthal together, a new Grand Ten seeks to undo it. Seek me at the Alassan Coffeehouse any day between four and five bells.

  Yours, Kemmer

  Kemmer. One of the Patriots who was with Tharek Pell.

  Hemmit shoved the note in his pocket. It was possible that Kemmer had some legitimate news for him. But it was more likely it was a trap. Kemmer probably wanted some form of revenge on him. He wasn’t about to fall for that. Not today, certainly. Too much to do. Find Lin, and then decide what to write for tomorrow’s paper.

  * * *

  Amaya charged down into the valley, shield high, sword raised above it. There was nothing obvious ahead, but once the road turned the curve, she didn’t want to be caught unprepared.

  She followed the first curve, but saw nothing ahead of her. She stopped here, letting the rest of the Initiates catch up with her. Now the sounds in front of her were clear. Around the next curve, an attack was underway. She couldn’t even guess the numbers involved, but it sounded sizable.

  And she was with a group of Initiates who, for the most part, had never seen real combat.

  “Saint Julian, watch over them,” she whispered as the Initiates rounded the corner. They looked confused, perhaps they thought this was still some sort of exercise or test. Haden had come down in his stocking feet. But they all had their shields and weapons up, perfectly executed first position.

  “Wall formation, shoulder to shoulder,” she said. “Move on my mark, move in time with me. Do not break formation unless I call out that order. Clear?”

  “Ma’am?” Enther asked. “Is this a drill, or . . .”

  “No,” she said. “Whatever is happening is real, and we risk lives by waiting. But this is what your oath is, this is what you trained for. Time to put it to use. Mark!”

  She charged forward—not a run, but a controlled press, so the Initiates could stay with her in formation. They held their place, pushing with her as they rounded the next curve in the highway.

  Five wagons, stopped by a group of brigands in dark hats and kerchiefs covering their faces. Most of them had swords and clubs, cutting down the King’s Marshals trying to guard the wagons. From the escarpment on the right, arrows were raining down from the overlook.

  “Overhead!” Raila yelled, changing her shield position to cover them from above. Miara, Haden, and Dade followed suit, so their whole group was protected from the arrows, while keeping a force of shields in front of them as well.

  There were only five marshals here, and each of them was outnumbered three to one on the ground, not even counting the archers overhead.

  “Pair off,” Amaya ordered. “One high, one forward. Save the marshals.” She tapped Raila as her partner, and charged in to the marshal who had four brigands surrounding him, as well as an arrow in the shoulder.

  She crashed shield-first into the largest bruiser in that group of brigands, knocking him to the ground. Without breaking stride, she stepped on him, ribs cracking beneath her feet. With two flicks of her sword, she engaged two more brigands, pulling their attention away from the marshal.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thump. Arrows hitting Raila’s shield. From the corner of her eye, she saw Raila in her own duel with a sword-wielding brigand. Holding. He wasn’t unskilled—probably a former soldier—but she had her technique and training. He didn’t come close to landing a blow.

  Even in the midst of the fight, Amaya couldn’t turn off the teacher in her brain. Eye on Raila, noting her form, finding the small points to correct. Kicking the bruiser in the head to keep him down, she quickly assessed the others. Haden and Jollit had lost formation completely, both of them in an all-out brawl with their opponents. Miara and Dade were far more disciplined, dispatching their brigands with almost surgical talent. In an impressive bit of teamwork, Dade tossed his shield to Miara, and she held both over him and the marshal as Dade pulled the man to safety under the wagon.

  Enther and Iolana were back to back, each fighting a brigand. They were having more trouble than they should for such a fight. As Amaya disarmed one of her opponents, she saw it on Enther’s face.

  The boy was terrified.

  “I’m fine,” she yelled to Raila. “Help them!”

  Raila spun around and joined in with Iolana, as another rain of arrows came from above.

  “Where are you, Vien?” Amaya asked herself, grabbing the marshal and pulling him to safety behind one of the wagons.

  “Who are you?” the marshal asked in a hoarse rasp. “How did you—”

  “Just some dumb luck,” she said. “Do you know—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Protect the wagons and the officiants!” He pointed to the slide-down on the left side escarpment. Several mercenaries were coming down to hit the rear of the wagons. More were at the t
op of the cliff.

  From the left side, a burst of flame rained down and hit one of wagons, igniting it. Up on the top, she saw one figure was standing in a nimbus of blue fire.

  They had a mage. At least a dozen fighters and a mage. And she had sent five Initiates to that ridge, the most experienced of whom was Jerinne.

  “Help us!” someone yelled from the burning wagon. “Save us and the ballots!”

  Every saint above, stand with them, Amaya silently prayed, as she raced over to the wagon. Tander, Jerinne, and the others would need every bit of help they could get.

  * * *

  Tander took the lead, heading up the path on the left side of the valley, with Chrinten at his right hand. Chrinten was a tall, stout boy—probably the biggest in the cohort—and had a wicked punch that was balanced with his warm nature. If anyone in the third-years was everyone’s friend, it was Chrinten. Both were moving like the wind, despite the trees and underbrush keeping them from seeing more than a dozen yards ahead.

  Jerinne took a determined pace—alert, ready, saving her energy. There was an actual battle going on, and for whatever reason, Madam Tyrell had anticipated it. And that explained everything about today—the sudden change in agenda, the rapid pace of the hike, the determination to make it here before sunset. She knew what they were walking to. Or at least suspected it.

  Liana was matching pace with Jerinne, but she looked like she was forcing herself to walk that fast, favoring one leg.

  “You all right?” Jerinne asked.

  “Rutting incentive,” Liana muttered. “I’ll be fine.”

  “This isn’t going to be a drill,” Jerinne said. “You get that?”

  Liana looked at her, her face pale and sickened. “Yeah. But I’m here. With shield and sword.”

  “Real real?” Trandt asked from behind them. He was with them, but not hurrying at all. “Like, this is an actual fight?”