She dropped the belt as he lay there, winded, saying, “Bottom ranked, my foot.”
That was all she needed to prove to herself, and she went to the baths. Master Nedell would make her life torture, surely, if not have her cashiered out, but it didn’t matter.
She knew who she was, and he couldn’t define her.
She approached the bathhouses, hearing low voices inside, which was very odd for this hour. Unless a couple people were taking advantage of the hour, confident they’d have the place to themselves.
Jerinne gave the bathhouse door a knock before opening it. “All right, I’m coming in, so be a little decent.”
She opened the door, not prepared for what she saw.
Two people were in the bathhouse, a man and a woman. The man was a Tarian—that new one from up north, Osharin—and he was attending to the injuries on the woman.
Not just any woman.
Quinara.
Jerinne narrowed her eyes and leaped in.
* * *
Hemmit wanted to sleep for a week. The revels had calmed, or at least there was no one left reveling in the dawn-touched streets. Despite that, he kept close step with Amaya Tyrell, who was Dayne’s equal in intensity and bearing. He was glad to have her company as they made their way back to The Nimble Rabbit. They had stayed behind with her to find the two missing Initiates. With a bit of investigation on his part, it was determined that those two had left the party together before the invasion. That having been settled, Amaya insisted on escorting him home, though she seemed to have something else on her mind. But she didn’t address it as they walked with Lin and Maresh shuffling a few steps behind them, both of them looking exhausted.
“I hate when I’m still up at this hour,” Maresh said.
“I’m usually getting up at this hour,” Amaya said.
“I’m sleeping on your cot, Hemmit,” Lin called out to him. “I’m too tired to make it to my flop.”
“Is this typical for you all?” Amaya asked.
“It is our second street riot in as many weeks,” Hemmit said.
“There was a riot last week?” Amaya asked.
“In North Seleth,” Lin said. Amaya glanced back at her, and Lin pulled back her hair from her forehead and released her magical glamour, revealing the yellowing bruise there. “I got hit with a brick.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Amaya asked.
“You wouldn’t see anything much about it in any newssheets but ours. I think the Maradaine Standard covered it with an article about how the entire southwest part of the city is full of animals.”
“I swear, we’re . . .” Amaya shook her head as they continued walked. “We’re supposed to be there for the people, but we just lock ourselves away in our chapterhouse. We service the Parliament and the nobility and . . . to what end?”
“You’re starting to sound like Dayne,” Hemmit said.
“He’s just—” She stopped herself. “I don’t want to talk out of turn about him.”
Hemmit waved her off. “He’s got his own secrets, and that’s fine. We know he went through something in Lacanja, and he’s suffering because of that. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Amaya nodded. “Look, I . . . you said something earlier about a Grand Ten.”
“I did?” Hemmit asked. He vaguely recalled mentioning it earlier. “I mean, we get a lot of letters from people on the fringe. Sometimes it pays off—”
“Like the attack on the ballot carriages.”
“Right,” he said.
They had reached The Nimble Rabbit. Maresh and Lin stumbled off to the barn, and Hemmit recognized Amaya had the bearing of a person needing confession. She looked about hesitantly. “I know—I don’t know what I know, but . . . maybe we should talk about this seriously. I need to talk to someone.”
He nodded and led Amaya to the back kitchen. Hebert and Onnick were already at work kneading dough and preparing vegetables.
“Oh, saints almighty, what happened?” Onnick asked.
“There was an attack on the party,” Hemmit said. “This is Amaya Tyrell.”
“Another Tarian friend?” Hebert asked, pulling out a chair for her and clearing bowls of diced vegetables from the table. “I already like her better than the tall one.”
“He’s a doll,” Onnick said. “I take it you both need tea. And eggs. Perhaps bacon and bread.”
“Just the tea is fine,” Amaya said. She looked about nervously. “We . . . we can talk here?”
“We’re fine,” Hebert said. “Unless you actually have a royal secret or something, but we never see anyone besides the boys, each other, and our wait staff, who don’t care about anything.”
“Trust them as much as you trust me,” Hemmit said. “Which is . . . as much as you do.”
Onnick put down two cups of tea, followed by bread and preserves. Hemmit tucked in, and Amaya hesitated for a moment, and did the same.
“All right, but . . . for right now, it’s important not to talk to Dayne about this.”
“You don’t trust Dayne?”
“I’m not ready to get into this with Dayne. Our history is complicated and . . .”
“You have secrets,” Hemmit said. “I get it.”
She pulled a pendant out from under her tunic. “This was my mother’s, but I only recently got it from my uncle. My uncle, Master Denbar of the Tarian Order.”
“Wasn’t that who Dayne—”
“Went to Lacanja with? Yes. He was our trainer in our Initiacy, and he chose to take Dayne with him when he was reassigned. Because no one—and I mean no one, not even the Grandmaster—knew we were family. We knew I would not be treated seriously in the Order if they knew.”
Hemmit nodded, and gave a slight glance to Onnick and Hebert. Hebert put a plate of egg tartlets in front of them, saying, “Come on, let’s check on the herb garden.”
“Right,” Onnick said. They grabbed a basket and went out the back.
“All right, so then, this starts with Master Denbar?”
“He died a couple months ago in Lacanja, but he arranged to send me a message with this pendant. A coded message, with the cards of the Grand Ten.”
That was fascinating. “What was the message?”
“Lacanja is an exile. Be wary. Find them. Stop them. Save Druthal.”
Hemmit no longer needed tea to wake up. His heart was racing. “And he says it was a Grand Ten?”
“That was implied,” she said. “What do you know?”
“Not a lot,” Hemmit said. “I was contacted by . . . well, one of the Patriots.”
“The ones who were with Lannic and Tharek?”
“Exactly. But one of the less . . . excitable ones. From what I gathered of this fellow, he was far more comfortable with pamphlets and rallies than threats and assassinations.”
“Hmm.”
“I didn’t go meet with him. I wrote the whole thing off as bait. But now I’m thinking there might be something to it.”
“So how do you find him?”
“I’ll go where he said to meet,” Hemmit said. Something didn’t sit right. “Why are you wanting to keep quiet about it?”
“Because . . . if there’s a group calling themselves a Grand Ten, wouldn’t they be like the original? I keep thinking about it, that the titles of each of the Ten matter.”
“Iconic figures, like in the cards.” Hemmit understood. The icons, the symbols, they had a kind of power, imprinting themselves on people’s hearts.
“Right.” She took a sip of her tea, and then slugged it all down. “I think the Warrior is a Tarian.”
Hemmit let out a low whistle. “You . . . you don’t think it’s Dayne?”
“Oh, saints, no. Dayne . . . he gives me a headache, but he’s a straight arrow if you ever saw one. He would never be part of
a dark conspiracy, but . . . he might trust the person who is.”
Hemmit nodded. “We’ll tread carefully. I’ll keep this quiet for now, and look into my contact. I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Thank you,” she said. She picked up one of the egg tarts and bit into it. “I can see why Dayne is fond of this place.”
“Everything is delicious. These two know their stuff,” Hemmit said.
Maresh came bursting into the kitchen with a copy of Throne and Chairs. “We need to get to work.”
“I need to sleep,” Hemmit said.
“Sleep later.” Maresh threw the newssheet on the table. The big headline popped out: SCALLIC BALLOTS STOLEN! OPEN HAND SUSPECTED!
“Sweet Saint Marian,” Amaya said. “I should get back to the chapterhouse. I’ll—I’ll be in touch!” She dashed out the door.
Hemmit cursed. Getting up from the table, he said, “Get our landlords working on a fresh pot of tea. I’m going to close my eyes for twenty clicks. Come wake me then.”
“I’ll throw a bucket of water on you if I have to,” Maresh said. “We’ve got—”
“We’ve got a lot,” Hemmit said. “But I need to clear my head. Give me twenty clicks, and then let’s go to work.”
* * *
“Let me make something clear about the role I want for you, Heldrin,” Samsell said as they descended to the holding cells in the marshals’ offices beneath the Parliament. “You are going to observe, nothing more. You don’t touch the prisoners, you don’t talk to them, you don’t interfere with my people.”
“I will if I deem it fit,” Dayne said. “And I won’t accept you telling me otherwise.”
“Where do you—” Samsell’s finger was in Dayne’s chest. Dayne took him by the wrist—no force, no pain, just holding it. But strong enough that Samsell couldn’t pull his hand free.
“Let me make something clear. I finally understand what my job is. My job is to repair the damage caused by Regine Toscan. And you are going to let me do that, Mister Samsell, because you’re who I’m protecting.”
Ret had been led into the cells. The same cell block where Dayne had been locked up a month ago, where Tharek brutally murdered Regine Toscan.
“Check him for weapons,” Samsell said.
“He doesn’t have any,” Dayne countered. They all glared at him. “Fine, check.”
Two marshals stripped off Ret’s cassock, leaving him in just his skivs. His chest was covered in simple black ink tattoos, each a figure in silhouette.
“Icons of the saints?” Samsell asked. It was hard to read his tone—somewhere in a gray area between derogatory and respectful.
“Five so far,” Ret said, looking at his chest. “Starting with Saint Alexis, and the rest as they’ve revealed themselves to me over my life. I needed to mark myself, embrace the pain and truth.”
Samsell peered closer at them. “I like the Benton. My birth saint is Benton.”
“He stood on the bridge and let none cross, so the rest of his village could escape,” Ret said. “Arrows so fast—”
“‘Arrows so fast his fingers bled, and he shaped more from his blood.’” Samsell shook his head. “I can quote the books as well. What’s going to go there?” He tapped at the blank part of Ret’s chest over his heart.
“That hasn’t been revealed to me. In time, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know how much time you have,” Samsell said.
“Why, Marshal Chief?” Ret asked. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m saying, the Scallic votes were stolen—”
“Not by me!”
“Well, of course not by you, your grace,” Samsell said. “You’re right here. So where would your people go?”
“My people are also here!”
“They did something. Or saw something. We will find out what they know. No matter what it takes.”
“Chief,” Dayne said sharply.
Samsell spun on him. “In nearly two hundred years we have never had a ballot wagon robbed. Never had an officiant kidnapped. But this year? Nearly with the Acoran, and actually with the Scallic? Under my watch? No, I will not have it!”
“Who went after the Acoran?” Ret asked.
“You keep your mouth shut!”
“I thought you wanted me to talk?” Ret raised an eyebrow. “Think clearly, Chief. If two ballot trains were targeted, it was likely the same perpetrators.”
Samsell’s fist swung out, knocking Ret in the jaw, sending him to the floor. Dayne jumped on the marshal, locking his arms and pulling him out of the room.
“You take your damn hands off me, Heldrin! I will have your medallion! You will wish you were cashiered from the Tarians when I’m done!”
“Calm the blazes down!” Dayne said. “If I have to I’ll drag you to an icehouse and throw you in the coolers.”
“That blasted priest—”
“Is certainly right!”
“He’s blinded you, Dayne!”
Dayne pushed Samsell away, keeping himself between the man and the doors to the cells. “Maybe. Maybe he’s polished this whole pacifist performance, and I’ve bought into it. Maybe I’m the heel who’s been tricked by the huckster. But then it’s quite the act, because the man I’ve met, he wouldn’t do this.”
Samsell fumed around the room, and then punched the wall, cracking the plaster. Shaking it off his hand, he turned back to Dayne. “You saw his file, yes?”
“Does it say something about him being a master of deception?”
“No,” Samsell said.
“Is everything all right?”
Dayne looked to see Grandmaster Orren approaching them both.
“Sir,” Dayne said. “I’m glad you’re here. This is Chief Samsell.”
“Donavan,” Samsell said, offering his hand to the Grandmaster. “I’m honored to have you here, sir, but we’ve got a situation.”
“A serious one,” Orren said. “Precisely why you should seek all the help you can muster. I am here, and I have several of my Adepts and Candidates at work in the streets. The Spathian Grandmaster is on his way here as well.”
“That seems . . . excessive,” Samsell said.
“The circumstances call for excess,” Grandmaster Orren said.
One of the marshals came out of the cells. “Hey, he says they have a headquarters, out on the west docks.”
“Near the Buttered Pear?” Dayne asked.
The marshal shrugged. “I don’t know where that is. But he says that if you go there, search it, you’ll find everything about their plans.”
“Doesn’t prove anything,” Samsell said.
“Dayne,” Ret called out. Dayne came back into the cells. “It’s offices on the second floor of the building across the street from the Pear. You’ll find everything; we have nothing to hide. Maybe you’ll find Sister Frienne there.”
“I will?” Dayne asked. He was still disturbed by the sight of her scars, the memory of her screaming as she fled the stationhouse.
“She’ll do whatever you ask of her, if you tell her it is part of her penance. Say that from me. I have to do right by her.”
“I will,” Dayne said.
The Grandmaster touched Dayne’s shoulder. “I would say you should stay, but you seem familiar with the particulars here. Are you well enough?”
“I’m fine, sir,” Dayne said. “But I am worried the marshals might be . . . overzealous in their questioning of these prisoners. Samsell was quite upset.”
“I will stay and prevent such things,” the Grandmaster said. “Go look into this. But if it’s nothing, go to the chapterhouse, get yourself attended to. I can tell you’re in pain.”
“I’ll manage, sir,” Dayne said. “I can rest when the ballots are secure.” He left before the Grandmaster could say anything else.
INTERL
UDE: The Soldier
COLONEL ESTIN NEILLS LAY awake as the sun wormed its way into the window, the bustle and flurry of the usual morning activity at Fort Merrit filling his ears.
This was not his bed, not today. But it would be tonight, since these were the quarters for the base commander. By midday that position would be his.
“You all right?” Danverth asked. Danverth—Colonel Danverth Martindale—was watching him from the other side of the bed. His bed.
“How long have you been awake?” Estin asked.
“Only a few minutes,” Danverth said. “But you seemed lost in thought, and I liked to watch that.”
“I was thinking about the formality of ceremony,” Estin said. “We’ll have a whole event on the lawn where you stand down from command and say I’m ready to stand, and we shake hands like . . .”
“Cordial colleagues?” Danverth asked.
“It does seem like a strange bit of theater, considering,” Estin said. He got up from the bed and crossed to the water closet.
“Are you having regrets?” Danverth called out to him. “I mean, you’ve been angling for my job since you arrived here.”
“You never had a problem with that,” Estin said as he came back out. Danverth was up from the bed, standing powerful, strong, beautiful.
“I think you’re the best man for the job. I’ve been lucky, having such a dependable soldier, friend, confidante, and partner as my second here.” He wrapped his arms around Estin’s shoulders.
“I just wish getting it didn’t mean you leaving Maradaine,” Estin said.
“Your friends did a very good job arranging an attractive position,” Danverth said. “I would thank them, but they probably shouldn’t know I’m aware of them.”
“They’re not my friends. Except Silla. They’re just people I share mutual goals with.” He had told Danverth everything about the Grand Ten, of course, no secrets between them. Foolish, probably, but Estin’s capacity for deception had its limits, and the Grand Ten already pushed it. Some of them wanted to oust Danverth with scandal so they could get Estin promoted to base commander. Estin would not hear of it. But he knew they needed him in charge here, so he would be in a position to launch the training and programs Silla and the others needed. It would be on his shoulders to shape the Druth Army, and with a proper king, make Druthal stronger than ever.
Shield of the People Page 25
