Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “True,” Jerinne said. “I’m not going to.”

  “Then you should dress with haste—”

  “No.”

  Miss Mirrendum raised an eyebrow. “Miss Fendall, I made it clear you’ve been summoned.”

  “Then I’ll be clear as well. No. I’m not coming.”

  “I have brought the officers of the court—”

  “I don’t care,” Jerinne said. “I may not be an expert in the law, but I know you’re out of bounds, Miss Mirrendum. I am not charged with any crime so you have no standing in attempting to force me to testify.”

  “In cases of the High Court, special dispensation is granted—”

  “I don’t care,” Jerinne reiterated. She looked at the two officers of the court—almost her height, with handsticks at their sides, dull expressions on their faces. They looked like a couple of blokes who washed out of the Constabulary cadet program. “I mean, by Saint Julian, just try it.”

  “What?”

  “Try to force me. With those two. Because I fought a mage and an axe maniac yesterday, so your two goons don’t even make my teeth itch.”

  “You will be compelled by law!”

  “To testify in defense of a murderer?” Jerinne snapped. “I still don’t know why you would want me, and nothing I say will help his case.”

  “We have a different opinion, and you are honor bound to speak truthfully.”

  “Truthfully? How I saw him kill three King’s Marshals, and then Mister Ressin, and then Mister Seabrook. Right in front of me. No doubt, no need for clarification, and certainly no mistaken identity. I will say that under oath, Miss Mirrendum, if that’s what you wish.”

  Miss Mirrendum was quiet for a moment, then she almost whispered. “That isn’t going to be the nature of your testimony.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Mister Pell wants other questions put to you.”

  “Like what?”

  “That will be discussed under oath, in the presence of court officials.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “I will compel you—”

  “Again,” Jerinne said, stepping up to this woman so she could look down at her. “Try it.”

  Miss Mirrendum looked up at her, steely-eyed. “I am prepared to make an offer in exchange.”

  “What sort of offer?”

  “Ten minutes with Mister Pell.”

  “What?”

  “If you go and talk to him—safely, through bars, he will explain why he wants you to testify. If then you don’t agree, the matter will be dropped. And while I am certain that you can roundly beat these two men, I do not think you will risk fines and legal charges to do so. So I offer ten minutes.”

  Jerinne couldn’t deny that piqued her curiosity. “When?”

  Miss Mirrendum gave a slight smile. “The day after tomorrow. I will come for you alone. Be . . . better prepared to join me.”

  With a nod, she left, her two thugs right behind her.

  Jerinne let out a heavy breath, and let herself feel every inch of the disquiet the conversation had given her. She almost let herself drop to the floor, but she was already in the foyer in a drycloth, there was no need to be more unseemly.

  She made her way back to the baths, hoping the water hadn’t gone cold and brackish, and that maybe Raila was still there. She wasn’t sure what tonight would bring, but if it was anything like the last event she went to at Lady Mirianne’s, it would be quite welcome after the past two days.

  Chapter 15

  DAYNE WAS AGAIN in dress uniform, buttons polished, sashes tightened. No shield or sword this time, as that was against protocol when wearing the uniform at a social event with peerage. He must have looked impressive, as many people smiled, waved, and even took his hand as he walked the streets from the Parliament to the chapterhouse.

  As he approached the chapterhouse, he crossed one person who was less impressed.

  “Have to say, Heldrin,” Osharin said as he came out the chapterhouse gates, “I didn’t think you’d be part of this frippery.”

  “I’m somewhat obliged,” Dayne said. He noticed that Osharin was wearing his sword and shield, with his amulet displayed over the tunic and chainmail. “What are you going to?”

  “I need to be useful,” Osharin said. “I’ve spent two days talking with army folks about ‘equivalence of rank’ and other nonsense. You know, in my days stationed in Porvence, I barely spent a night in the chapterhouse. Most of it was walking, through the city, and then through the forests from village to town. Just . . . looking for whoever needed my help.”

  Dayne sighed wistfully. “Like in so many of the chronicles.”

  “Yes,” Osharin said. “See, I knew you understood. There’s always someone else who needs our help. Always one more call to answer.”

  “So that’s where you’re off to tonight?” Dayne asked. “To answer the call?”

  “At least to have my ear out for it. The rest of these folks, they seem to be ready for playing the politics game.” He shook his head again. “But from the look of you, that’s what’s got to be done.” He went off into the night.

  Osharin’s words stung, but Dayne pushed that aside and went into the chapterhouse lobby to find a couple dozen or so Tarians in dress uniform—mostly third-year Initiates, but a handful of Candidates and Adepts, including Amaya.

  “Well, there you are,” Amaya said with a friendly smile when he came in. She had applied face paint, shading her eyes and cheeks to match her uniform colors, and braided her sable locks into an intricate and elaborate tail that draped over her left shoulder. The effect was striking. “You’re staring.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “You—it’s very impressive.”

  “Well, I don’t get invited to this sort of thing very often.”

  “I’m still not sure what this sort of thing will be,” Dayne said. “I’ve heard some stories of your adventure.”

  “Has it reached the point of stories?” she asked.

  “Did you fight off a trio of mages?”

  “There was one mage, and it was Jerinne who stood her ground against him.” Jerinne was on the other side of the foyer, wide smile on her face as she talked to a Candidate. “Don’t tell her I said so, but she was incredible.”

  “Why not tell her?”

  “She . . .” Amaya shook her head. “The Grandmaster thinks she needs to be given a target to strive for. You and I pushed each other because we both needed to be the best. She’s different.”

  “You think she doesn’t need to be the best?”

  “Not like we did,” Amaya said. “He thinks—and I suppose he’s right—that too much praise will make her take it easier. She needs to feel she’s low to push herself.”

  Dayne was skeptical. “If that’s what he thinks.”

  She shrugged. He could tell she wasn’t convinced of the idea either. “Are we all assembled here? Ready to move?”

  There were general sounds of assent from those assembled, and Jerinne noticed Dayne. She waved and moved her way closer as the group made its way out the door to the street.

  “Hey,” she said, giving him a quick embrace. “Where the blazes have you been?”

  “Parliament, new assignment.” They started walking along toward Callon Hills.

  “What, you sleep there?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She shook her head. “That’s messed up. Did you hear what happened?”

  “I heard you fought a mage.”

  “A mage and this crazy lady with hatchets. Hatchets, Dayne.”

  “How did it end?”

  Her face changed, turning a bit guilty. “The whole thing was messy. A bunch—a bunch of the Initiates, I think they aren’t sure what to make of it. Some of them didn’t like being in an actual fight. Some . . . some realized they lik
ed it too much. Maybe.”

  “And you?”

  “I did what I needed to. Protected my people, tried to stay alive. I . . . I didn’t hold back, and I nearly killed two people. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “It’s not easy,” Dayne said. “I made the decision that I needed to be careful. I couldn’t bear to take a life, after I made my own mistakes. But that doesn’t change the fact that in an actual fight, you can’t control everything. And you do what you have to.”

  “Like at the museum?”

  He still saw that man in his nightmares, the young Patriot he pushed at the member of Parliament to save a life. The man who died because of him.

  “They both lived,” Jerinne said. “They got away, but . . . not from a lack of effort on my part.”

  “Right,” Dayne said. “Of course, I’ve never gone in with a mage, so . . . I’m not sure what I would do. But you’re all right?”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “And I did all right.”

  “Amaya said you were incredible,” he said. “But she told me not to tell you.”

  “Incredible, really?” Jerinne said. “Half the time I’m convinced she hates me.”

  He shrugged. “I believed that most of the time, too, even when we—” He stopped himself. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Saints above, you’re blushing,” Jerinne said.

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Like how I’m incredible, but still dead last in ranking.”

  “Last?”

  “Dead last. Trandt mostly froze up in the fight, and he’s ranked thirteen. Iolana ran away and she’s eleven. But me, incredible me—last.”

  “I don’t understand how that works,” Dayne said. “Not up to me.”

  “I’m worried about Mentorship.”

  “Oh,” he said. Getting assigned a mentor was a big part of third year, and even though in his year everyone was assigned a mentor, it was true there seemed to be fewer Masters and Adepts around to be mentors. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “A shame you’re not an Adept.”

  The streets were filled with revelers, most of them drinking and hollering. Some of the taverns set out great fires burning in metal barrels, as the drunken people danced around it. Dayne was certain that would end in disaster. Typically during of the Revels of Liberation, the constables, fire brigade, and Yellowshields had their hands full with the incidents and injuries brought about by drunken celebration. Dayne hoped that wouldn’t extend to Miri’s party.

  They reached the gates of Callon Hills, where Fredelle and the other Royal Firsts were waiting. Their outfits were fascinating—as if army dress uniforms had been remade as ball gowns, each with slightly different color schemes, different cuts. Evicka, the Linjari woman, wore a dress that was slit high, showing flesh all the way to her hip, while Argenitte wore a Scallic-style dress with layers of petticoats and long white gloves past her elbows, almost no skin showing below her neck.

  Dayne was reminded of his conversation with Ret, and the vast differences between Scaloi, Linjar, and the rest of Druthal.

  “Amaya, love,” Fredelle said as they approached. “You’ve got your Adept pips, I see. Well done.”

  “And you have lieutenant’s stripes,” Amaya said coolly. “You and all your . . . compatriots.”

  “It’s sort of honorary,” the Kestan one said.

  “Rutting blazes it is,” the Oblunic one said. “I’ve earned these stripes. Six generations of pikemen in the Druth Army. My great-grandfather was one of the twenty at New Fencal.”

  “Everyone claims—” one of the Initiates said, but stopped at a dagger-filled glare from the Oblunic woman.

  “Are we going in?” Fredelle said. “Or are we just going to look fabulous and gab in the street?”

  “Right,” Dayne said. “Miri—er, Lady Mirianne wants us to parade march from here, up the street and right into the household. The ten of you in the lead, and then the Tarians behind.”

  “I hope she doesn’t want a weapons show like at the parade the other day,” Fredelle said. “We didn’t bring ours.”

  “None of us are armed,” Amaya said. “Who needs weapons for a party? Come on, all. We need to parade march, let’s line up and get in there. The party awaits.”

  * * *

  Hemmit had never felt quite so out of place as he did at this party.

  Party was underselling the event. It seemed to be a grand ball, as several of the large rooms of the Hanson mansion were filled with people, dressed in fanciful and fantastic outfits. Some of them were even masked, which was apparently a tradition at Linjari soirees, especially when they celebrated the Revels of Liberation. Music was in each room, blaring horns and racing rhythms. Players moved from room to room, with brass and drums and even a fellow at a vertical piano that was rolled about by two muscular steves. No sign of traditional string quints or even tavern troubadours to be seen.

  Once more Hemmit was aware of how little he had traveled outside the city, how little of the world he knew.

  And he was here, among all these swells and nobles and saints even knew who else, in his best suit, which was especially shabby, sipping some bizarre, overly sweet cocktail.

  Maresh, at least, was by his side, though he looked absolutely miserable.

  “We have no place in a thing like this,” Maresh said. “Literally, this is the sort of thing we mock in the paper.”

  “I’m aware,” Hemmit said. “But at least now we can mock with authority.”

  “Thrilling. Where did Lin go?”

  “Her ladyship spirited her away.” Hemmit still couldn’t believe that Lady Mirianne actually wanted Lin to perform. Not for this crowd. This party might be daring, even risqué—the servers and some of the noble guests were in Linjari style skirts and stockings, with an inch of bare skin between the bottom of one and the tops of the other. Hemmit could see that some of the older members of the noble class were already quite scandalized.

  If Lin actually performed, they might go into a fit.

  “She stole this from Henterman,” a young man in a purple silk suit said to Hemmit. Definitely a noble of some sort. “I mean blatantly.”

  “Stole what?” Hemmit asked.

  The purple man pointed to the sweet drink in Hemmit’s hand. “That. Henterman introduced it last week at his Saint Jontlen party—real fiasco that one—and Miri is just copying it.”

  “First time I’ve tried it,” Hemmit said. “I far prefer a simple Kieran red.”

  “A good man,” the purple man said. He took the cocktail away from Hemmit. “Come this way.”

  Hemmit was curious enough to follow the man into the next room, which was a quieter study. A few people were gathered and chatting in low voices, but no musicians here.

  “Miri is keeping the wine here,” the purple man said. “Let’s see if we find something to your taste, Mister—sorry I don’t think I got the name.”

  “Hemmit. Hemmit Eyairin. And this is Maresh Niol.” Maresh had stuck to him, clearly not wanting to be alone.

  “Eyairin and Niol. Well met. Stephen Terrenhill. Newly minted Baron of Deering, apparently.” He found a decanter of wine and poured three glasses. Handing one each to Hemmit and Maresh, he said, “Which seems to do just fine with me here and letting decent people be left alone to run it. My father, may the saints bless him in his rest, knew well enough to keep the taxes low and the appointed administrators smart, and I plan to follow his example.” He picked up a glass for himself and clinked it against theirs.

  “Keep taxes low?” Maresh asked. “Most nobles aren’t for that.”

  “Because most nobles are idiots about money, Mister Niol. They expect to be supported by the populace for nothing more than the luck of crawling out of the right woman’s belly. Bosh, I say to that.”


  “We didn’t know any nobles felt that way.”

  “I’m an unpopular sort, though that’s why Miri likes me at these things, boys. I upset the tight-cravat gaspers. And they’re all a bit too happy.”

  “Too happy? Why?” Hemmit asked.

  “Well, the election.” He sipped at his wine. “I mean yes, we don’t know who won what and all that, but the word is around.”

  “It is?” Hemmit asked. “What have you heard?”

  “You want to talk about the city Council of Aldermen and the Commissioners of the Loyalty? Or you want to talk Parliament? They’re all disappointments.”

  Local and national. Both tempting. “Let’s start with Parliament.”

  Terrenhill poured himself more wine. “There’re no surprises, and that’s the shame. Most of the same old boys are back. The handful of seats that were really up for grabs, though—like the dead ones. You know about that, boys?”

  “A thing or two,” Maresh said flatly.

  “From what I hear, every single one has gone to a Traditionalist. It might flip the coalitions. Can you imagine, if the Dishers and the Books held the Parliament? We’d be in a state, my friends.”

  “Hush it, Stephen,” someone said from across the room.

  “I will not hush anything,” Terrenhill said to that person. “You all would be so happy with that, wouldn’t you? Tax the sewage out of your people, give nothing back. Not my fault your grandfathers were idiots.”

  “Your grandfather wasn’t any smarter, he just found silver mines!”

  “And invested that silver smartly, fools,” Terrenhill said.

  “You think he’s right?” Maresh whispered. “The Parliament will turn over to the Dishers?”

  Before Hemmit could respond, whistles pierced the air, and then a stomping of feet demanded attention be paid elsewhere. Everyone in the study wandered out to see what the commotion was.

  The commotion was ten women, in military-style ball gowns, marching into the main ballroom, followed by a horde of Tarians in dress uniform. Including Dayne, who looked a bit uncomfortable with the whole affair. As they paraded through the party, a whistle cut through the air.