But two people would have been dead. Killed by her.
She had been ready to kill Tharek Pell, when Dayne had already subdued him. She had wanted to. But Dayne had stopped her, talked her down.
She had never thanked him for that.
Tander, Chrinten, who knew who else—they had killed in today’s fight. With those two, she could see it was the first time for them. The first real fight, the first time they had taken another life. The toll was clear on their faces. Several of the others carried some form of toll as well. Trandt walked like he was asleep. Iolana slipped off somewhere to cry.
“Hey,” Enther said, coming over as she was clearing out rocks and branches to lay down bedrolls. “How’d you do out there?”
“Did what I had to,” she said. “But I’m . . . I’m all right. You?”
He shook his head. “You learn . . . maneuvers and formations and . . . in the thick of that, none of it matters. All that training, everything I learned, gone. Io and I were just a mess, and she . . .”
“What happened to her?”
“I didn’t see it,” he said. “But she screamed, and when I looked, her sword was through some fellow’s gut. And she let go, ran off into the valley. I went after her, and by the time I found her, got her back, it was all over.”
“That was good,” Jerinne said. “You did the right thing.”
“Nothing I did was the right thing, Jer.”
“No, you saw someone who needed help, who needed protection, and you went to them.” She picked up another stone and threw it off in the distance. “I’ve been thinking—you ever talk to Dayne?”
“Once or twice.”
“He’s got a lot of thoughts on what being a Tarian is supposed to mean. And the big thing is, it’s about life. Saving lives, helping people. The fighting, the combat skills—that’s in service of that, but it’s not what being a Tarian is supposed to be about. Io needed someone, and you were there.”
“You seem to have it figured out,” Enther said.
“Far from,” she told him. “Out there today, I had a mage on one side, an axe-woman on the other—”
“A mage and an axe-woman?” Enther laughed.
“That’s true,” Liana called out. “Lady had moves, laid me and Trandt down in two clicks.”
“Sounds like I had the wrong side of the valley,” Vien said, coming over to them. “Come on, you all. Chow’s on, then everyone needs to sleep. We’re marching back with the caravan at first light.”
“With the caravan?” Jerinne asked.
“They’re supposed to be guarded, and almost all the marshals are dead. And they’re supposed to reach the city by noon, so they can’t wait for a Gallop Post to get back into the city, send marshals out here, and we’re here. So we get the job.”
“Is it safe?” Candion came over and asked. “I mean, we just did a heck of a thing, but . . . will there be another attack?”
Vien shrugged. “That’s the job, Candion. Do it or walk away.”
She went over to another group. As Jerinne walked over to the cooking fires, she had some small idea of what she needed to do now.
* * *
Dayne didn’t know what time it was when someone came into his apartment, waking him. Whoever it was, stealth was clearly not their intention. They came straight in, not making any effort to be quiet. Dayne was still disoriented from having just woken, but he got to his feet quickly. He had no weapons or shield in his room, but if he needed to fend off an attacker, he was ready.
The bedroom door opened, revealing Marshal Chief Samsell, lamp in hand. “Evening, Dayne. Have you been sleeping well?”
“Samsell?” Dayne asked. “I was . . . is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Samsell shook his head and went to Dayne’s sitting room. “No, not at all, actually.”
Dayne followed him cautiously. “So why are you here in the middle of the night?”
“Well, I’ve been working, Dayne. I’m not getting much sleep this week, and I’ve gotten used to that. Did you know I’ve worked on the elections in some capacity for seventeen years? And five of those as the chief of record supervising it. I do, in fact, know this job quite well.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“And, right around now, the certified ballots and their officiants are arriving in the city. As they do every year around this time. Seven sets arrived today. From Sauriya, Yinara, Linjar, Patyma . . . all right on schedule. Three are outstanding, as is always the way. Acora, Scaloi, and Monim.”
Dayne poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher the service staff had left for him. “All right. What time is it?”
“Somewhere between three and four bells,” Samsell said, sitting down at Dayne’s table. “As per usual, I expect those ballots to arrive tomorrow, based on the information I have. Their routes, the reports I have from the Gallop Post, and the typical expectations of how this process works. I’m actually quite good at this job.”
“I’m sure you are, Chief.”
“Donavan,” he said. “Please, Dayne, we should be familiar with each other.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a note. “You see, I received this via Gallop Post just a little while ago. Confirming that the Acoran ballots are safe, bedded down at a post depot some ten miles outside the city.”
“That’s good news,” Dayne said.
“Very good news,” Samsell said. “But it almost wasn’t. The wagon caravan was attacked, in the Miniara Pass, by . . . mercenaries, I presume. They were well armed, even had a mage with them. Most of the marshals assigned to escort the wagons? Dead. Only two survivors.”
“I’m so sorry,” Dayne said.
“In fact, it would have been a complete disaster, except for the fact that a group of Tarian Initiates happened to be on a training exercise out by the Miniara Pass, and were able to intervene. Saving the ballots, the officiants, and the last two of my men.”
“That’s good fortune,” Dayne said.
“Oh, come off it, man,” Samsell snapped at him. “You came to me and said ambush. I told you not to worry about it and then suddenly there are Tarians in Miniara Pass!”
“I don’t have any authority over the Initiates,” Dayne said. “I’m just a Candidate myself.”
Samsell got up and went into Dayne’s kitchen, grabbing one of the bottles of wine that Mirianne had left behind—the one that was only half drunk and recorked. He pulled out the cork and poured himself a glass. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, I feel like I should be angry. I told you not to worry about it, and yet you . . . meddled. Presumably had the Grandmaster or someone below him order this ‘training exercise’ to check on the caravan.” He drank down the wine. “You meddled, and meddling is something that I will not have, Dayne. It’s not your place to put your nose in my business. In marshal business. When it comes to our work—the election, protecting the throne and the nation, protecting the Parliament—that duty is sacrosanct. We are sworn to it. Especially after the . . . debacle of Chief Toscan.”
He poured himself another glass.
“But then I think, ‘were it not for him.’ You meddled, and for that the ballots are safe. Two of my men who would be dead are not. I . . . I should be grateful, Dayne. You’ll have to forgive me that I’m not, but I don’t know how to explain that.”
“You don’t have to,” Dayne said. “Honestly, I’m wrong as often as I’m right.”
“Well, keep at me,” Samsell said. “And when Quoyell takes over the Parliament security, keep on him. I’ll tell you I’m not going to like it. But it’s probably what we need.” He drank the second glass. “I should sleep. So should you.”
“Yes,” Dayne said.
Samsell wandered to the door, his gait making it clear those two glasses of wine had not been his first of the evening. “It’s a big day tomorrow, you know. Ballots to
count, results to tally. Quite a day, indeed.”
He left, and Dayne latched the door behind him. He went back to his bed, but he had a suspicion that sleep was going to elude him.
* * *
The printing of the latest issue of Veracity Press had gone long into the night, and Hemmit had fallen asleep on the cot they kept in the printroom while Maresh finished the final run. Morning light and hard knocking brought Hemmit back into the wakeful world, after a disturbing dream where Hemmit was made of pastries, which Gailte ate while talking to Lin, both of them speaking in gibberish. The images of the dream stayed with him as he stumbled to the door.
“Hey, hey, you got a job for us?” the kid at the door asked. Minkie—or was it Miltie?—one of the paperboss kids who handled the various clades of boys who sold newssheets on the north side. Hemmit was vaguely amused how there was, apparently, an entire system of petty kingdoms and territory wars between the paperbosses and who sold what newssheets where.
News in this city was, ultimately, controlled by the whims and squabbles of a handful of eleven-year-olds. There was something fitting about that.
“Yeah,” Hemmit said. “We’ve got five hundred for you.”
“I told you, I told you,” Minkie said. “Five hundred ain’t gonna move. Not for you, brother. You sell maybe two hundred. Maybe.”
“I got five hundred.”
“And I’m left with three that I got to sell to the fry boys to wrap crackles and crisps in. And those don’t sell at rate, get?”
“You sell better, you’re left with less.”
“You ain’t chiming, brother,” the kid said. “People ain’t looking to read your swill.”
“You made good money on the pamphlet.”
“That was a month ago, beardie,” the kid said. “My boys got to fill their bellies. You’re lucky I take your rag out at all. Throne and Chairs is looking for more boys and they actually move paper.”
“It’ll move if you move it.” Hemmit picked up the bundle of newssheets. “Get them out there.”
The kid took the bundle. “We have fifteen crowns in our pockets by the end of the day, one way or another, hear?”
“Don’t make excuses not to sell.”
“You’re lucky I like you, beardie.” Minkie tossed the bundle of newssheets into the basket of his pedalcart and went off.
Hemmit went into the back kitchen of The Nimble Rabbit, where Onnick and Hebert, the pair who ran the kitchen and everything else at the Nimble, were hard at work.
“Morning, Hemmit,” Onnick said as he beat eggs. “Did the issue go out?”
“Printed and put in the paperboss’s hands,” Hemmit said. “The little extortionist.”
“Just trying to make the rent,” Hebert said. “Speaking of?”
“I will have it on the first, as always,” Hemmit said, sitting at their preparation table, where a few dozen potatoes were waiting for one of them to chop them up.
“As always is a bit of a stretch,” Onnick said.
“It’s always around the first,” Hebert said. “If you judge that on the scale of the month as a whole.” He brought a cup of tea over. “You look like you need this.”
“Always,” Hemmit said. “Have you seen Maresh about today?”
“Not yet,” Onnick said. He put a plate with hot bread and fresh butter in front of Hemmit. “And when is Lin going to let you marry her, so we don’t have to take care of you?”
Hemmit burst out laughing. “Even if that’s how things were with Lin and me, I don’t think either of us is looking in that direction.”
“Right,” Hebert said, coming over next to Onnick. “I forgot you two are just such rebels against tradition or the system or whatever you’re fighting against.”
“You two should talk,” Hemmit said.
“Hush it,” Hebert said. “You should be so lucky.”
“I should,” Hemmit said. He took a few bites of bread. “So I have a situation. Haven’t talked with Maresh or Lin about it yet.”
“Oh my,” Onnick said, sitting at the table with his paring knife. “What sort of situation?” He got to work peeling the potatoes.
“Treshtic had a note for me yesterday, from one of the Patriots who was part of the whole thing in the Parliament.”
“Wait,” Onnick said. “I thought that fellow was locked up, awaiting trial.”
“That’s Tharek. But there were a couple others involved, and they didn’t end up getting arrested. Probably no one else even really knows them or could point them out, except Lin and me.”
“And he came here? Why?”
“He claims he has information for me,” Hemmit said. “About what, I have no idea, but apparently he thinks I’d be interested. I’m not sure what to do about that.”
“And why haven’t you told Lin or Maresh?”
“Maresh . . . he’s not saying it, but I know he’s still upset about how Lin and I got involved with the Patriots and got stuck being part of their plan.”
“I read that part,” Hebert said, laying out lamb bones on a tray. “You were rutting stupid, boy.”
“Let him be, we all do stupid things.”
“But that was very stupid.”
“I know,” Hemmit said.
“We say this because we care,” Hebert said. “Anyhow, this note came to you. Saying what?”
“That he had information for me, gravely important for the safety of the country. That he needed me to get it out in the world.”
“And what do you think, hmm?” Onnick asked.
“It makes me nervous that he tracked me down!” Hemmit said.
“Well, it should,” Onnick said. “It makes me nervous, because this is our place, and you’ve exposed us. But that’s not what I’m asking. You know this man. He’s asking for your trust. Given what you know, are you in danger? Or does he deserve a chance?”
INTERLUDE: The Man of the People
CHESTWICK MILLERSON, 3rd Chair of Sauriya, knew how to play his part. He was a Member of Parliament, close confidant to the Duke of Maskill, and had lived most of his life sitting at the right hand of privilege. But his ability to win elections rested on appearing like someone the common man could relate to. He needed to craft the image that he was just like them, with the same concerns and troubles and petty problems. The men who came to the Parliament through military service had it easy. Simple to gain trust and support under a hero’s banner. Millerson had to use different weapons. He had to use charm and charisma, of course, and a bit of the folksy accent of his cousin’s family. He had to be seen out and about, having a beer in the pubs, eating a striker in the streets. He had to stop and listen, and put on the show that every person he spoke to was the center of his world.
Be The Man of the People.
Today that took the form of sitting alone in a pub in Keller Cove on the docks, having sausages and beers while reading the papers. He sat alone, but he had his men—two good, solid mercenaries who had retired from the Army and Intelligence, respectively—in position in the corners of the room. They were subtle, but ready to move if anyone got too familiar.
This was a usual site for him to make his show, and most of the regulars ignored him. Today was no exception, and that gave him a chance to really read the newssheets. The election seemed to be going well; most of the ballots had arrived to be certified and verified in Maradaine. The official announcements of who won their elections would be coming in the next few days. But he knew some unofficial results already, at least for the Archduchy of Sauriya.
Winfell and Turncock, the 5th and 6th Chairs, were up for reelection this year. Minties both, and they were safe bets for easy wins. A shame, it would have been nice to flip those chairs to Traditionalist, but that wasn’t going to happen.
But Seabrook had gotten himself killed, which put another Sauriyan chair up for election. Tha
t hadn’t been part of the plan. That bastard Pell had had his own plans that involved revenge against Seabrook for some imagined slight. The loss of a Traditionalist seat stung, even if Seabrook was something of an empty suit. He was at least a useful empty suit whose vote could be counted on.
Odds were strong that his seat would be won by Golman Haberneck, who called himself a Traditionalist. From what Millerson had seen—he met the man in Kyst to endorse him at a rally two weeks ago—he was a solid sort. If Millerson had to guess, Haberneck was playing the same folksy charm game he was. He did it well. Millerson was taken in with it. Perhaps it wasn’t artifice, but Millerson didn’t let himself believe that.
And as long as Haberneck voted with the party, it didn’t matter.
“Good Mister Millerson, I do presume,” a man said, coming up to his table. “Might I have a word?” Young man, but with a degree of education and breeding. A bit out of place in the Juicy Bite Tavern.
“For a moment,” Millerson said, gesturing to the empty chair. From the corner of his eye, his intelligence man took notice and straightened his back.
The young man sat down. “Kemmer. Harlston Kemmer, but you probably don’t know me. You’re familiar with some of the work I’ve done, but not my name.”
“Am I?” Millerson asked.
“My previous work was . . . volatile. Not entirely by my design, of course, and I was only a minor player. But you know the names of the real movers. Chief Toscan, and Tharek Pell?”
Millerson stiffened, but the man raised a finger. “Do not engage your men, Good Mister Millerson. I’m not here to injure you, and I did not come alone. Neither of your boys would get to me.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“I thought you knew, Mister Millerson. Because, let’s not mince words . . . what the Patriots did last month, they did at your behest. Finding the lines of communication, the money trails between you and Toscan were not easy, but fortunately the gentlemen at the goldsmith house of Underborne and Listwell are meticulous records keepers. It took some doing, but I found my way to you.”
Shield of the People Page 17
