People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  They floated off, leaving Rian to read through the impossible, incredible tale three or four times before she left.

  She left the shop out of the employee entrance, and was surprised to find Jerinne Fendall waiting there, in dress uniform with a violet mourning sash draped over it. She looked incredibly dashing, especially since she also wore the gloves Rian had sold her.

  “Are you going to a grieving?” Rian asked.

  “I am, actually,” Jerinne said. “But your mother said you were getting off work so I thought I’d see you.”

  Rian held up the pamphlet. “Is this real? Did this really happen?”

  “It really happened,” Jerinne said. “Though it glosses over how I spent half the fight knocked out in the bell tower.”

  “How?”

  “It’s . . . one of the monsters got a piece of me.”

  “Oh my saints!” Rian exclaimed, her hand almost involuntarily reaching out to touch Jerinne’s face. She pulled back just before she actually did. “You’re all right?”

  “Miraculously, yes,” Jerinne said.

  “I . . . you must have been scared, right?”

  “Terrified,” Jerinne said. “But not half as terrified as I am right now.” She took a step closer to Rian, and Rian suddenly felt her heart race again.

  “Why—” Rian cleared her throat, which had become quite dry. “Why are you terrified?”

  Jerinne smiled—warm, bright, vibrant—and looked down to the ground for a moment, before looking back up and meeting Rian’s eyes.

  “Because I want to kiss you. Is that all right?”

  Rian couldn’t breathe for a moment. When she found her voice, she was astounded by what she said.

  “I think you should.”

  Then the most extraordinary thing happened.

  It wasn’t the first time Rian had been kissed—there had been Poul Tullen, who had been rough and quick and altogether rushed. Rian had found that rather disappointing, even though her schoolfriends had told her that was just what kissing was like. She had resigned herself to accepting that.

  Jerinne was something else altogether. Fierce and intense, confident and strong, soft and giving, kind and tender.

  Everything Rian had thought a kiss should be.

  Jerinne pulled back. “Was that all right?”

  “More than,” Rian said. She glanced over to the employee door. Thankfully no one had come out. “Though we shouldn’t stand around here like this.”

  “Right,” Jerinne said, flashing another smile. “I’m about to go to this service for a friend. Would you . . . would you like to come with me?” She offered her arm to Rian.

  It had been a long day, and Rian knew she needed to go home, read three chapters and study math, but none of that mattered right now. She took Jerinne’s arm.

  “I’d love to,” she said. “Though you’re in your dress uniform, I’m in shopgirl clothes. Won’t you be embarrassed by me?”

  “Never,” Jerinne said. “You always look like a princess.”

  “And so, dear friends, we are here in celebration of Maresh Niol. A man who lived in pursuit of truth, and art, and beauty, and whose loss diminishes us all.”

  It was a beautiful sentiment, though Dayne did wonder how much Maresh—a man who spoken so strongly against the current government as well as the hierarchies of the church—would feel about Ret Issendel—former bishop, now member of Parliament—speaking at his service.

  “He was a man who would probably argue vehemently about me speaking here,” Issendel went on. “The few times I met him, he argued with me, and . . . I will miss the opportunity for further arguments. His work challenged us all to look deeper into our preconceptions. I’m pleased to see us here in celebration of him, and the work he did.”

  The courtyard of The Nimble Rabbit was decorated with Maresh’s art—largely charcoal sketches, but a few painted pieces—and filled with an eclectic mix of people. There were writers and artists from other newssheets. There were other artists—eclectic, broke Fenton types as well as tony ones with rich patrons. There were a few Tarians beyond just Dayne and Jerinne, mostly other third-year Initiates. There was a smattering of young nobility—friends of Miri. Two of them—Baron Vollingale and Baron Deeringhill—were making a point of buying Maresh’s art for a ridiculously high amount. Vollingale, especially, was unrestrained in his generosity and expressions of gratitude. “The least I can do for the man who died helping get my boy back to me.” Hemmit had pledged to send that money to Maresh’s mother.

  And there were two members of Parliament: Ret Issendel and Golman Haberneck. Haberneck had come with his extended family and friends, all with their children. Children that had been rescued from the Brotherhood.

  “So, hold up your wine, or whatever you prefer,” Issendel said. “I know that Maresh preferred wine. And ask for a blessing for his spirit, to his memory, that he resides with the saints.”

  Glasses went up, and most everyone drank. Dayne noticed Lin refraining. Most people were wearing a violet sash or shawl, but Lin was in a long violet dress, shawl, and scarf, looking more like a cloistress than her usual revealing fashion. As Issendel stepped down, and the gathered people started talking amongst themselves, Dayne worked his way over to her.

  “How are you managing?” he asked.

  “Badly,” she said. “He . . . it’s funny, a week ago, if you had asked me a defining characteristic of Maresh, ‘brave’ wouldn’t have been a word that came to mind. But when we were captive down there, he stood up to them on my behalf. He . . . died because he made them take him instead of me.”

  “I have to ask you something,” Dayne said. “It might be uncomfortable.”

  “I’m fine with uncomfortable,” she said. “I’ll be living with this for a while.”

  “The Thorn was with Maresh when he died, and apparently the last thing he said was a message to me.”

  “To you? Whatever was that?”

  “Tell Dayne don’t trust.”

  “Don’t trust what?”

  “I have no idea,” Dayne said. “But you were with him until the end. Was there something you heard or saw?”

  She frowned. “Nothing I can think of. I’m so sorry. I wish—I wish I had been stronger, better. If I had taken my magical studies seriously, maybe I—”

  “Hey, no,” Dayne said. “I have been down the path of ‘maybe I’ so many times. I live with that. I live with it now. Maybe I could have gotten across the bridge faster. Maybe I could have insisted you all went back once we reached the highway. Maybe I could have found a different way. I know how maddening it can be. But the truth is, this is only the fault of the evil people who did this.”

  “Evil is too easy,” Lin said. “I’m not saying they’re not, but . . . the world is too complicated to make it that simple.” She glanced around the party. “We’re surrounded by a thousand little compromises that made this possible. Just look at . . .” She chuckled ruefully. “Look at this event. Even we’re compromised.”

  “But we keep doing our best,” Dayne said.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking his hand. “Thank you for remaining so . . . pure.” She took out a violet handkerchief and dabbed at the fresh tears. “I’m going to retreat inside for a while. Discourage people from following me.”

  She went into The Nimble Rabbit, and Dayne noticed Hemmit watch her go, and then gave a glance to Dayne. They exchanged a silent agreement and continued to move about the event. Hemmit was talking with a group of people Dayne assumed were mutual friends of Maresh from RCM.

  Dayne went over to Mirianne—resplendent in a violet suit that managed to be both highly fashionable and somber at the same time—who was talking with Golman Haberneck.

  “Dayne,” Haberneck said as he approached. “I . . . I feel like I cannot say thank you enough. You did something beyond extraordinary.�
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  “Not alone,” Dayne said. “I was fortunate to have help.”

  “And thanks to you,” Mirianne said to Haberneck. “I have to say, most members of Parliament would not have noticed or cared about something happening to the working people of Dentonhill. But you’re a real man of the people.”

  “I’m just a dock steve from Kyst who people listened to,” Haberneck said.

  “Exactly,” Mirianne said. “And that’s what this country needs.”

  “I will do what I can.” He looked to Dayne. “Issendel and I are already working on making sure Saint Bridget’s Square will be quickly repaired and restored.”

  “I would love to help with that,” Mirianne said. “Baron Vollingale and I can spearhead a movement among the city’s nobility to raise funds to that end. Literally the least we can do.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Haberneck said. “Of course, Dayne is the real hero here.”

  “I am not comfortable being called that.”

  “Then ‘champion’?” Haberneck produced the thick pamphlet Hemmit had published that morning. Already it was circulating around the city like a fire. Of course, with its flashy title and the seven saintly silhouettes on the cover, it was very hard not to take notice of.

  “It’s ‘Champions of Maradaine,’” Jerinne said, coming over to them. “You’ll notice this one is not just about him.” She was beaming, in the company of a young Waishen-haired woman who looked surprisingly like Satrine Rainey.

  Then he noticed, across the courtyard: Satrine Rainey was there, wineglass in hand. Sitting a short distance away from her: Minox Welling. Neither of them were in uniform, and in this crowd looked rather inconspicuous. They both subtly raised their glasses to him, which he returned. Then Satrine gave him a small nod in the other direction.

  Leaning against one of the trees in the courtyard: Asti and Verci Rynax. They were both in suits, slightly ill-fitting and years out of fashion, but not looking out of place among the people around them. They also raised their glasses to Dayne.

  Then, finally by the entrance to the courtyard, Veranix Calbert was in his University of Maradaine uniform. He had no wineglass, but instead had one of The Nimble Rabbit’s famous crispers in hand. He winked and took a bite.

  Dayne laughed briefly, in spite of himself.

  “No, it’s not,” he said finally. “And quite fittingly as well. Maradaine is full of people ready to stand up and defend it. Ready to fight and die for it, for the ideals we hold dearest. I’m honored just to be considered worthy to be counted among them.”

  For once, he was not embarrassed or ashamed of the coverage in the press. He was glad the story was out there, that the public was aware of the truth of what happened at Saint Bridget’s Square. But more, he was glad that everyone knew what he always had: that Maradaine was full of champions. If something went wrong, someone would be there. He could count on the people of this city.

  “Does anyone need more wine?” he asked. For tonight, for at least one night, he could let his guard down.

  About the Author

  Marshall Ryan Maresca is a fantasy and science-fiction writer, author of the Maradaine Saga: four braided series set amid the bustling streets and crime-ridden districts of the exotic city called Maradaine, which includes The Thorn of Dentonhill, A Murder of Mages, The Holver Alley Crew and The Way of the Shield. He is also the author of the upcoming Velocity of Revolution, and has been a playwright, an actor, a delivery driver, and an amateur chef.

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