The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “I always am,” Hemmit said, giving her an appreciative grin.

  “So are you students?” Dayne asked. “RCM?”

  “Not anymore,” Hemmit said. “I don’t need their approval.”

  “I received my Letters, not that I had a choice.” Lin brazenly undid one button of her blouse, revealing a tattoo of stylized letters surrounded in flame.

  Dayne recognized its significance. “You’re a mage?”

  “Not much of one,” Lin said.

  Maresh snorted in laughter. “Not much of one.” He drank down his wine and refilled the glass, emptying the bottle. “She’s being ludicrously modest.”

  “Modesty is hardly one of my virtues.” She held her hand out over the table, splashes of light dropping from her fingertips. The light landed on the table as crystals of color and luminescence, until a small spiraling tower formed. “I only use magic for my art.”

  “Impressive,” Dayne said, even though the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He understood, intellectually, that mages weren’t much different from any other folk, but a childhood full of prejudices and midnight stories was a powerful thing to overcome.

  “Impressing a Tarian, that’s something.” She spun her fingers again, and the tower morphed into a new image—a shield over crossed swords. The same symbol as on Dayne’s medallion.

  “You should see her dance,” Hemmit said.

  “Hush.” She brushed her hand, and the Tarian emblem vanished.

  “So, if you aren’t students,” Dayne said, pointedly changing the conversation, “what do you do?”

  “Have you read the Veracity Press?” Hemmit asked. He finished his wine, and poured himself another glass from a bottle the server had gracefully slipped onto the table.

  “He hasn’t,” Maresh said, glaring at Dayne.

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Dayne said. “I literally stepped off the boat today. I haven’t had much chance to check any of the city’s prints.”

  Hemmit pulled out a newssheet from the satchel next to him and passed it to Dayne. “We write it, Maresh does the art, I run the pressing.”

  “Very nice,” Dayne said. The Veracity Press was little more than a pamphlet, with very small type. There were several sketches in it as well, most of them apparently depicting members of Parliament as large-headed buffoons. That was what Dayne had expected. He had pegged these three as mild political activists, even dissidents, so the fact that they printed a subversive newssheet wasn’t a surprise.

  A glance at the writing confirmed what he suspected: it was full of Populist rhetoric, calling for members of Parliament to sever their ties to noble families, church and military connections, and moneyed interests. It ignored the fact that almost to the man, every member of Parliament had been elected because of those very things. Five of the six parties—the Loyalists, the Functionalists, the Traditionalists, the Ecclesials, and the Free Commercialists—based their power and platform on those connections. Only the Populists were “of the people”—according to them—and they were the smallest and weakest party in Parliament. Dayne agreed with some of the Populist stances, but the party was one that extremists gravitated to. The type who would never compromise any of their demands—acting as if it was better to get nothing and claim moral superiority.

  Dayne didn’t see these three as quite that type. No, they were definitely idealists, believing that a salve of truth could heal whatever festering wounds the government might have. In fact, he spotted the phrase “festering wounds” in the text of the main article.

  Dayne’s plate arrived, just in time to save him from having to actually read the newssheet in front of the three of them. Sizzling lamb chop, dressed in a beer and onion sauce, with a generous mound of crisp—thin sliced potatoes, fried in rendered duck fat. This was a plate of bliss. Dayne stabbed his fork into the crisp and took a glorious bite of the hot, crunchy, salty rapture.

  “That is the face of a satisfied man,” Hemmit said, topping off Dayne’s wineglass.

  “It’s been too long,” Dayne agreed. He focused his attention on his meal, while his companions talked about some outrage the Parliament planned to vote on. Dayne did not engage, though he noted their approval of a handful of the members, namely a pair of Populists named Montrose and Parlin. Dayne wasn’t familiar with Parlin, but he knew the name Montrose quite well. Alphonse Montrose was easily the most famous man in Parliament; something of a folk hero, even as a “people’s man.” Dayne didn’t know enough about the man’s specific politics to have a very strong opinion, but what he had read about showed Montrose as a man of solid common sense, understanding the reality of getting things done in Parliament. If these new friends approved of him, then their politics couldn’t be too radical for Dayne’s taste.

  “We know they’ll be at the opening tomorrow,” Hemmit said. “We couldn’t ask for a better opportunity.”

  “Opening?” Dayne asked between bites.

  Nervous looks passed among the trio for a moment, until Lin said, “A museum is having an opening ceremony. We mention it here.” She pointed to the copy of the Veracity Press in front of Dayne. He scanned the tiny print for the appropriate text. When he found it, he felt a flush of excitement.

  “An official Royal Museum of Druth History?” he asked, his voice cracking a bit higher than a twenty-year-old man’s should. “And it’s opening to the public?”

  “You like that?” Maresh asked.

  “History is my passion,” Dayne said. “I learned to read from a cracked and faded copy of The Lineage of Royalty.”

  “Ha!” Hemmit shouted. “That was one of my firsts as well.”

  Lin leaned in to Dayne conspiratorially. “Hemmit was pursuing his History Letters before his discharge.”

  “I withdrew myself in protest before they could discharge me!” Hemmit pounded his fist on the table.

  Dayne looked to Maresh. “Is that your story as well?”

  “Oh no,” Maresh said. “I botched, plain and simple, and was honestly drummed out.”

  “To have had that luxury.” Lin sighed with rich melancholy.

  “Tomorrow at eleven bells,” Dayne noted from the article. An official Royal Museum of History was exciting news, in and of itself. But with members of Parliament in attendance, that made the event attractive. Maybe having Tarians showing up in full dress uniform would provide a gentle reminder of the role the Tarian Order had played in the centuries of Druth history. It might not make a difference in terms of his own advancement, but it would be for the good of the Order. “I may have to make a point of that.”

  “And we’d be thrilled to see you,” Lin said.

  Dayne took another bite of lamb and crisp. His situation may be dire, but at this moment there was good food, wine, and company, and the potential for an intriguing outing. Despite what hung over him, it was good to be back in Maradaine.

  First Interlude

  JULIAN BARTON HATED the ritual of these meetings, forced to wear the ridiculous mask and cloak and answer to the code name “The Parliamentarian” for the farce of concealing his identity from the rest of this council. These meetings were an absurd bit of theater, where his fellow conspirators all pretended not to know perfectly well that he was Julian Barton, 4th Chair of Maradaine to the Druth Parliament. And he pretended not to know who they were.

  Millerson claimed it gave them all deniability. If, somehow, one of them were exposed and questioned, they could answer honestly. Who are you? Who are your collaborators? We are the Grand Ten. We are The Parliamentarian, The Man of the People, The Lord, The Duchess, The Lady, The Priest, The Soldier, The Justice, The Mage, and The Warrior. We will save Druthal from itself, from the corruption that engulfs it.

  Barton believed Millerson simply liked the masks and code names.

  Barton didn’t need the self-aggrandizement. He believed in what they were doing, but they wer
e nothing like the original Grand Ten, the people who saved the Druth throne and rebuilt the shattered nation two centuries ago. Those people fought, they suffered, they lived through the Inquest and the Incursion. That crucible had given them the wisdom to bring about the Reunification, to share in rebuilding a nation.

  This conspiracy paled in comparison. There was no denying that they were ten people in comfortable positions of power who were all cooperating to consolidate and expand their influence. To enact the change they needed without a war. Barton considered himself a patriot, just like Geophry Haltom, the great man whose moniker of “The Parliamentarian” he claimed, but he had no delusions about his own name being so lauded.

  Better to win from the shadows than lose in the light.

  In this dark meeting room hidden under, fittingly enough for the drama of it, a shuttered opera house, he wore his mask with the rest of them so he could be The Parliamentarian, just as Millerson was The Man of the People. Barton thought that was especially silly. Millerson was the 3rd Chair of Sauriya, as much a Parliamentarian as he was. For that matter, couldn’t Barton just as well be a Man of the People?

  Millerson chose everyone’s titles. Millerson brought this conspiracy of ten together, and despite his flair for the dramatic, Barton had to admit that his fundamental ideals were sound. They wanted the same things—a Traditionalist government, a strong hand at the throne, and a prosperous Druthal.

  Millerson also wanted the better mask.

  The others all took their places, masks donned, identities secreted away. As they all were supposed to, absurd though it was.

  “Tomorrow,” Millerson intoned, with ominous timbre, as if he were reciting holy words straight from the saints themselves. “Tomorrow we move from intentions to actions, subtle though they may be.”

  “Hardly subtle,” The Justice said. “You intend to have one of your fellow Chairs of the Parliament murdered.”

  “We,” The Soldier said. “That is what we intend. Or are you revoking your assent?”

  “No, of course not,” The Justice said. “I agreed to this, I won’t deny it. But it is his plan. And while it is many things, it is not subtle.”

  “His slow plan,” The Duchess growled.

  The Mage chuckled, her voice deep and throaty. “I do not understand your urge to rush, Duchess. Our friend here is quite right to craft the opening maneuvers to set the board for a long, arduous game.”

  “Do we need a long, arduous game?” The Lord asked. “I mean, for two years now we ten have played at being conspirators. How much longer do we just talk and take ‘subtle’ actions?”

  “We agreed, a direct ploy invites counter play. Invites rebellion. The point of our engagement is not to spark a revolution, but to have the changes we desire offered to us.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I can’t maintain this charade forever.” The Duchess clucked her tongue, the sound muted by her mask. “Just this place alone is starting to make me look the fool.”

  Barton was sympathetic there. The Duchess owned the opera house, and at public gatherings she was often asked when her renovations would be finished and she would reopen its doors. She constantly had to answer, “Soon, very soon,” even though she had no intention of continuing such a project until their private need had concluded. The place was shut down explicitly to give them a location to hold these overtly theatrical meetings. But at the same time, a small amount of public ridicule was the only real risk she was taking at this point.

  The Mage nodded, and Barton imagined a condescending smile under her mask. “Believe me, Duchess, every one of our meetings is quite trying on me.” Barton didn’t pretend to understand it, but he knew she was using her magic to keep the light and sound of their meetings from reaching the rest of the world. If someone stood fifty feet away, they wouldn’t see or hear a thing. Barton was deeply disquieted about including her in their confidences—he was never one for trusting mages. Millerson insisted she was a crucial member; they were all “crucial members.” Barton half-believed Millerson said so in order to have a complete Grand Ten.

  Barton didn’t believe in the symbolism anywhere near as much as Millerson did. Millerson sometimes believed symbols were more important than details.

  “What more do you need from us?” The Soldier asked. “I can arrange for a small honor guard at the event. To keep it from getting too chaotic.”

  “A bit of chaos is necessary,” Barton said. “Isn’t that at least part of the point?”

  The Lord nodded. “We want people to believe that things aren’t under control. That a change is needed on the highest level.”

  “Within reason,” The Lady said, putting a hand on The Lord’s arm.

  “Yes, of course, within reason,” The Lord said. “After all, some of you will be in the thick of things tomorrow. Your safety is assured, yes?”

  Barton glanced over to The Warrior, expecting him to contribute something. As usual, he said nothing. Barton answered on his own. “The people involved in the plan haven’t been instructed along those lines. You understand, of course, we cannot tell them who not to hurt without giving them names we don’t want them to know. They certainly don’t know, and we can’t have them know, that their actions come from our design.”

  “Because they’re dupes,” The Warrior said. “They’d probably be horrified at the idea that we were pulling their strings.”

  “We must be insulated,” Millerson said. “Right now it’s The Parliamentarian and me who are at the most risk.”

  “It is appreciated,” The Priest said.

  Barton hoped they damn well appreciated it. Millerson’s depiction that they were the two at the most risk was self-serving. Not that Millerson wasn’t at risk—he was the one who had made many of the arrangements for the pawns they were putting into play tomorrow. If things went poorly, a clever investigator could draw the connections back to him. But Barton’s risk was going to be far more visceral. After all, he was the one who was going to be up on the speech platform tomorrow. He was the one presenting at the museum opening.

  If something went wrong, it would be his chest that got an arrow in it.

  Chapter 5

  DAYNE WOKE AROUND DAWN, later than his usual custom. He was still a bit foggy, which was also unusual for him, but drinking half a bottle of wine was definitely not usual. His drinking was nowhere near as prolific as Hemmit or Maresh—for a small man Maresh could drink them all under the table. Dayne hadn’t even tried to keep up, but even still, he had reached a rather hazy point. He couldn’t quite recall when Lin had left their company, though she definitely must have left before Hemmit suggested moving their gathering to a basement stage performance he was overly fond of. Dayne remembered declining that invitation, though he ended up having to decline multiple times, ultimately right outside the building. Hemmit had extracted several promises from Dayne to meet them again at The Nimble Rabbit, to join them in the basement at a later date, and to tell many stories about life in the Tarian Order.

  Dayne wasn’t sure why he made the last promise. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Hemmit about Lacanja, Lenick Benedict, or letting Sholiar get the best of him. He certainly didn’t want to talk about Master Denbar.

  Dayne put that all out of his mind and went to his trunk. He hadn’t yet bothered to unpack it. Despite what the Grandmaster said, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make himself too comfortable here. He knew that they would find some duty for him. Grandmaster Orren would treat him with honor and respect. But that didn’t matter much if all he was doing was waiting out the calendar. Other arrangements should be made, sooner rather than later. If nothing else, he needed to have a plan once his Candidacy ended.

  He took out a simple cotton pullover and slacks and closed the trunk back up. Dressed enough for the sake of decency, he went down to the practice floor. After two weeks on ships and barges, he hadn’t had an opportunity to
properly perform his morning exercises.

  The practice floor was a wide room, slat floor sanded to a smooth shine. The plain white walls were decorated with wooden training weapons: swords, shields, and staves.

  It was not unoccupied.

  This normally would not be a problem. The room was large enough for thirty people to run through staff sequences without disturbing each other.

  But there weren’t thirty people. There was only one.

  Amaya.

  She was working through quarterstaff sequences, her muscular arms and her weapon all moving in fluid unity. She was immersed, perfection of form. Amaya had been the best at the staff amongst their Initiate cohort. He could edge her out sparring with shield-and-blade, but with the staff she was unstoppable. The past two years hadn’t slowed her down.

  She hadn’t noticed him. Or, at the very least, she hadn’t reacted to him. He was certain she was aware someone had come onto the practice floor.

  Dayne slipped over to the shelf of Incentives: wooden balls, wrapped in thin leather padding. Master Denbar would throw them at students, full strength, with no warning. After a few dozen hits, Dayne had learned to dodge, parry, and block them by instinct.

  Dayne picked one up and hurled it right at the center of her body.

  Amaya didn’t break form. She didn’t even look. She swung the staff around the right side of her body, executing a perfect ending to Sequence Fourteen while knocking the Incentive back at Dayne with a resounding crack. It shot back at his face. Instead of dodging it, Dayne caught it just before it smashed into his nose.

  That hurt.

  Dayne was reasonably sure he didn’t break any bones in his hand, but it stung like blazes. He wore the pain plainly on his face as Amaya finally turned to him.

  “It was stupid of you to leave Lacanja.”

  Dayne shook out his hand. “After what happened—”