Shield of the People

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Constables already breaking this up?” Terrenhill asked.

  But it was Lady Mirianne with the whistle—though hers looked like it was bejeweled and made of ivory, instead of Constabulary tin—as she stepped up on a small dais in the center of the ballroom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and all grand personages, welcome to the Revels of Liberation! Two hundred and six years ago this very night, intrepid heroes risked their lives for this country defeating the Black Mage and restoring a free and just Druthal. On this night I have the honor present to you the current saviors of Maradaine, the heroes of the hour, the very spirits of honor, without whom our very vote and voice would have been squashed. The ladies of the Royal First Irregulars, and the fine men and women of the Tarian Order! You have heard all about their exploits, I’m sure; it has been the stuff of news and of legend. Well deserved. Please, my friends, go among them, shake their hands, and thank them. Without them, we would have lost that which makes us Druth.”

  “Miri, darling,” one woman said loud enough to command the room. “You say ‘we’ and ‘us,’ but half of us never get a vote.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Mirianne said, with enough of a coy wink that it was clear the woman was following a script she had laid out. “This isn’t just a Linjari-style party, this is a suffragette party. Look for the young ladies in the violet coats and pins on their lapels, my friends. They have petitions for you to sign.”

  “Ha!” Terrenhill said. “I knew Miri had some sort of scheme. That’s what she does, you know.”

  Hemmit excused himself and pushed his way over to Dayne, though several other folk had the same idea. Dayne looked like he was trying to get away from all of them, but decorum and civility kept him from just pushing away. Most of the other Tarians were in the same position, as were the ladies from the Royal First.

  It was going to be some time before any of them would get a free moment. Poor fools.

  Chapter 16

  SEVERAL SWELLS AND MINOR nobles had shaken Jerinne’s hand. She had been led from room to room, with little sense of where she was or who she was being introduced to. She had hoped to talk more with Dayne, tell him the whole story of the past two days, but she had lost track of him.

  After each person came up to her to say a kind word of gratitude, a young woman in a violet blazer would swoop in, and speak of how Jerinne and the other Tarians had helped protect other people’s votes, so wasn’t it time to secure Jerinne’s right to vote as well? After all, there was already a suffragette initiative on the ballot in Oblune, and wasn’t Maradaine a far more progressive and cosmopolitan place? Then they shoved a petition in the person’s hands and glared at him with a beaming smile until he signed.

  “All right, enough of this,” she heard someone say. She got pulled away from a glad-handing baron and the petitioner who had swooped in, to find herself face to face with Vien and someone in a Spathian uniform. “Don’t drink too much of this in, Initiate,” Vien said, though she was sipping a cocktail of some sort.

  “I haven’t drunk anything yet.”

  “I mean the accolade,” Vien said. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Makes you soft,” the Spathian said.

  “This is Mizarnis,” Vien said.

  “Candidate for the Spathian Order,” Mizarnis said, offering their hand.

  “Oh,” Jerinne said, looking at the two of them. The rumors apparently were true. Jerinne took their hand, a grip like iron. “How did you two meet?”

  “Vien spent the last few months running across the city and back each morning,” Mizarnis said. “I started to run with her, and then showed her how the Spathians train their bodies.”

  “And hasn’t it been revelatory?” Vien asked Jerinne.

  “It’s definitely powerful,” Jerinne said. She wasn’t sure how else to respond, what wrong phrase might unleash some sort of retribution during the next training with Vien.

  It didn’t matter, because another whistle blow took the room’s attention.

  “Of course, friends, this won’t all be politics,” Lady Mirianne said from the center of the ballroom. “That would hardly be fun, would it?”

  “No!” several people in the crowd shouted.

  “And we want some fun, don’t we? Some truly decadent and sinful fun that would make our parents weep over what the country has come to. Don’t we?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, fortunately for you all, I’ve arranged just the thing. The very tonic we need to shock our systems. Are you ready?”

  Jerinne didn’t know what to make of this. She leaned over to Vien. “Last time I was here she arranged a very strange bit of theater for us. I wonder what it is now.”

  Lady Mirianne continued, “And so, ladies and gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure, I present a performance the likes of which you have never seen before in polite company. And possibly never will again. So turn your attention to the center of the room and Miss Lin Shartien, performing her own singular take on the Yoleanne Ribbon Dance!”

  The band started to play—a deliberate beat, strong and invasive—while the strings and horns curled invitingly around the room. On the beat of the music, the doors from the far side of the ballroom flew open, and Lin stood in the doorway, the flickering candlelight playing on her face. She was wearing a simple robe, belted at the waist, hanging loosely at the top to show her bare shoulders and the Circle tattoo over her heart.

  She walked into the room, each step deliberate, each step on the beat. With each step, she turned her head, her eyes finding a member of the audience. Each step, a flash of bare leg could be glimpsed from under her robe.

  Lin reached the center of the room, the tempo of the music building, and her eyes found Jerinne’s. For just a moment, she was staring right at Jerinne like they were the only two people in the room, and Jerinne could feel her heart racing in her chest. Jerinne had always found Lin beautiful, sensual, but in this moment she was so much more than that. She was desire personified, and Jerinne found it hard to even draw breath.

  Then Lin turned away, but Jerinne still found herself deeply affected.

  Lin spun quickly, the robe flaring up as she turned, and she extended her hand. Light and flame leaped from the candles and whirled down to her, spinning around her body as Lin continued to twirl on the floor, faster and faster. The music flared with a burst of horns, and bands of light encompassed her as she leapt out of the twirl, landing several feet away. Two whirling circles of blue and violet light spun around her body.

  And nothing else.

  The robe had been discarded on the floor. Gasps filled the room, but Jerinne couldn’t even manage that. Almost every inch of Lin’s breathtaking figure was on display, save the few portions hidden by the whirling ribbons of light, and Lin stood still for a moment: powerful, utterly in control.

  The crowd was hers.

  The music crackled with horns and strings, a symphony that screamed with a sensual rhythm that Jerinne couldn’t put words to, but still felt in the center of her being.

  Lin moved to that rhythm, her body a testimony of grace and perfection, the spinning light staying around her to preserve the appearance of decency. But not modesty. Lin’s face shone with pride. Power. Knowledge that she owned the room. That every man in the room was focused on her to the exclusion of all else.

  Jerinne found her hands trembling at the thought of it, the thought of Lin, the beauty of her body and motion.

  The spinning lights intensified as the music swelled to a roaring crescendo. It reached its peak, Lin flared out her hands, and her whole body exploded with a blinding burst of light in every color.

  When Jerinne could see again, Lin stood proudly in the center of the room, robe back on, bowing to thunderous applause.

  Lin took her bows, as Lady Mirianne joined her in the center of the room. “Wonderful! Truly spectacular!”

  “It
was an honor, my lady,” Lin said.

  “Now, musicians!” Mirianne cried out. “Play something we all can dance to!”

  Jerinne still found herself flushed, struggling to even breathe. She mumbled an excuse to whoever was near her, not sure who it was, and found her way out to a balcony into the cool night air. Gripping the railing, she tried to focus on the gardens below her, but her thoughts kept swirling back to Lin and her perfect body, to visions of Raila in the baths, the Waishen-haired shopgirl, even flitting ideas of Arthady Mirrendum, which disturbed her and excited her at the same time.

  “Breathe, girl.”

  Jerinne looked up to see Fredelle Pence, lovely in her uniform-cut dress, holding out a glass of wine.

  “You look like you need this.”

  Jerinne took the glass of wine and drank half in one gulp.

  “Sorry,” Jerinne said. “I just needed some air.”

  “You need to cool down, all right,” Fredelle said. “I mean, what we just saw would heat up the dead, let alone your young blood.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jerinne said.

  “Probably,” Fredelle said. “You know, your fellow Initiates are talking you up something fierce. I hear you were in a scuffle yesterday, acquitted yourself pretty well.”

  “Well enough,” Jerinne said. “I’m still standing.”

  “And what’s your ranking?”

  “I don’t see how that’s—”

  “I already know,” Fredelle said. “You’re at the bottom. Dead last. And your fellow Initiates—even the ones who don’t like you—think that’s bunk.”

  Jerinne shrugged. She wasn’t sure if that was praise or some attempt to belittle her. “It doesn’t matter, really.”

  “Like blazes it doesn’t,” Fredelle said. “Can I tell you a secret? The rankings don’t really matter, not in terms of who you are and what you can do. If they’ve decided you’re on the bottom, no power there is will convince the Grandmaster or whatever old stooge is doing the ranks to change that.”

  “But Madam Tyrell—”

  “Amaya? She might be allowed some input, but those old men make the decisions. And they’ve decided about you.”

  “What did they decide?”

  “Same thing they did about me, dear,” Fredelle said, stepping closer to her, her face just inches away. “I worked and fought, did everything I could, but still kept ranking at the bottom. And do you want to know why?”

  Jerinne found her mouth dry, barely able to put out the words as her lips trembled. “Why?”

  Fredelle moved closer, her lips first brushing Jerinne’s, then coming in stronger. The kiss was delirious, delicious, everything Jerinne had thought it could be when she imagined someone’s lips touching hers. Jerinne found herself instinctively kissing back, clutching Fredelle’s hand, wanting more out of her.

  Fredelle pulled away, eyes piercing at Jerinne, her hand wrapped around Jerinne’s. With a slight grin, wicked and sad, she said, “That’s why.”

  Jerinne could barely think straight.

  “What do you—I—I’ve never—” She tried to focus herself back to what they were talking about. “Are you certain that’s why?”

  Fredelle shrugged. “Certain, no. But when it was me, that was my instinct. Who knows you like girls?”

  “No one!” Jerinne said so loud, it was almost a shout. No one glanced at them. Anyone close to the balcony doors was paying all their mind to the dance floor.

  “Really?”

  “Well, Dayne figured it out . . .”

  “Oh, sweet saints, child. If Dayne could tell, I’m sure many, many, many people know. You aren’t exactly subtle.”

  “I—what?”

  “It’s fine,” Fredelle said. “I mean, maybe not as far as the Tarians are concerned. But you’ll be fine.”

  Fear iced into Jerinne’s heart. “Are you?”

  “I won’t lie, it broke my heart to wash out. But I found my path, found my place.” She didn’t sound that convinced. “But you shouldn’t worry.”

  “It sounds like I should.” She was thinking about every glance, every touch, every offhand comment she had made. Who had noticed? Who knew? Who hated her because of it.

  “No. I’ve had my ears open tonight, and you know what those other Initiates and Candidates are all whispering about?” She pointed a finger at Jerinne’s chest. “The girl who fought the mage. The girl who didn’t flinch or blink.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Don’t do that, girl. They are going to try to grind you down at every moment. But do something for me, hmm?”

  “Anything,” Jerinne found herself saying all too quickly.

  “When they rank you at the bottom, when they push you down, you lift your head high, and tell yourself this true, beautiful thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you are rutting amazing.” She leaned in and kissed Jerinne on the cheek. “Get over that crush you’re nursing, and then look me up, hmm?”

  “The what I’m what?”

  Fredelle was already walking back into the party, though, giving a wink as she went in.

  Jerinne finished the rest of the wine. “I am rutting amazing,” she said to no one. “And the ranks can go to blazes.”

  She went into the party in search of more wine and someone to dance with.

  * * *

  Dayne had, after some time of handshakes and polite gratitude, retreated from the center of the party to a quiet study. There were a couple of young noblemen who looked like they were about to settle into some kissing when he came in, but they made themselves scarce when he didn’t immediately step out. Normally he’d be a bit embarrassed, but this time his desire for quiet and solitude won out.

  He sat down in a leather armchair—this room was probably the earl’s study for when he was in Maradaine, which he almost never was—and wondered what to make of what had just occurred.

  He tried to push down the feelings he was having about Mirianne. Ugly and unjust, and he didn’t want to think of her that way. This party was nothing he wanted, and coming had made him feel even worse.

  Used.

  “You are sulking.”

  He looked to the doorway, where Mirianne was standing, looking lovely in her dress—blue with hints of gray. It actually was perfect, an elegant match for his dress uniform.

  “I’m not good company right now,” he said.

  She came into the study, closing the door behind her. “And I haven’t been good company,” she said. “I’ve been very involved in all my things, and haven’t been very thoughtful about you.”

  “That isn’t it,” Dayne said.

  “Is this about Lin’s dance?” she asked. “I know it was a bit more provocative than this crowd was ready for.”

  “I’m not upset about that.” He changed the subject. “Can I ask why you are hosting a Linjari-themed party? We’re from the Archduchy of Maradaine, as are most of the people here.”

  “Because the Linjari are far more interesting,” she said. “They don’t get hung up over propriety or tradition, which I find enlightening.” She went to the desk and took a bottle out the drawer. “Jessel has been nipping at this whiskey, and she thinks I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “No, she believes she’s being—”

  “Not about Jessel and the whiskey,” Dayne said. He had almost snapped it at her, but clipped that back and kept his voice even. She poured two glasses and came around to him.

  “Then what, my thoughts on Linjar?”

  “It seems like . . . reveling in the exotic.”

  “Exotic?” She shrugged, handing him the glass. “I mean, in a way. But we’re all Druth, and I thought that was the point of these holidays. I had considered trying to host a true Reunification party. Ten differen
t rooms with ten different themes. Ten different outfits for me to wear . . .”

  “Miri,” he said.

  “It was too much, of course. The menu alone would have cost a fortune. And the Scallic room would have been deadly dull.”

  “That . . . that’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

  “How dull Scaloi is?”

  “How different,” he said. “I mean, a week ago, I wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought, or considered the Open Hand anything but a nuisance.”

  “Are they anything but a nuisance?”

  “I ate lunch with their leader yesterday,” Dayne said. “In a Scallic pub. Their food, their thoughts. And I asked myself, is this Druthal? Should it be?”

  She frowned, taking a sip of her whiskey. “All right, I tease, but yes, it is, and it should. And we are stronger for those differences.”

  “I would like to think so,” Dayne said. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m not good company.” He took a sip of the whiskey, which was exceptional. Smooth and velvety. She leaned in and kissed him.

  When she pulled away, he continued. “But I do think Bishop Issendel has some good points.”

  “That’s what you thought about when I kissed you?”

  He took another sip. “Am I doing good things in this new position?”

  “It’s early in the job, dear. You still need to figure it out.”

  “It just seems odd, wearing my Tarian uniform and being a mouthpiece of the marshals and the Parliament.”

  “You look quite fetching in that uniform.”

  The real thing gnawing at him bubbled up. “I’m not happy about you using us as a draw toward the Suffragist petitions.”

  “You don’t believe it’s a just cause?”

  “No, I do,” Dayne said. “But that’s me, Dayne Heldrin, citizen of Druthal. Not Dayne of the Tarian Order. Nor anyone else in the uniform. The Order must be neutral in the political process.”

  She frowned again. “Neutrality is a coward’s way to stay complicit in injustice.”