The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Ah, but there’s a safety switch. Turn the switch, and the ore cart goes on another track into a crash wall. The family will be safe.”

  There was a noticeable sigh of relief among the Initiates.

  “Of course, if the ore cart hits the crash wall, the brakeman will be killed.”

  Every one of them—save the one in the corner who knew this story—tensed up again.

  “So, you—” Dayne pointed to one of the Initiates at random. “You’re at the safety switch. What do you do?”

  The Initiate—a tall woman with short blonde hair—stammered for a moment before saying, “Throw the switch, of course!”

  “You just killed the brakeman!” Enther said.

  “Are you saying not to throw the switch?”

  “If you do, you’re a murderer!” Enther said.

  “Wait, wait,” another Initiate said. “That’s not murder. The brakeman will die anyway!”

  “But if you pull a switch, he’s dead because you did it! How is that not murder?”

  “We’re training to fight and defend the innocent. Like that family on the bridge. Sometimes that requires killing. Isn’t that right, Mister Heldrin?”

  Dayne hesitated. For himself, the answer was clear: absolutely not. But he knew that was not the official stance of the Order. That was his own code, and his alone. Something only Master Denbar seemed to understand about him, and even then he would tease him with, “Maybe you should have been an Ascepian.” But he knew better than to drill his own choice into these Initiates.

  “What you have to understand . . .” was all he managed to say before a loud crack came from the direction of the kitchen. It wasn’t a sound like something had been dropped or broken. It was a deep, resonant sound of something bursting, followed by cries and shouts. Dayne was about to run to the kitchen when there was another bursting sound, echoing beneath their feet. Then another in the opposite direction, right where the closest water closets were.

  The scent hit the whole room next, rancid and choking.

  “Saints, what is that?” one of the Initiates asked.

  “Sewer pipe cracked,” another said. “Only explanation.”

  “Is that even possible?” Dayne asked.

  “It came from the kitchens,” Vien offered. “We should check if everything is all right.”

  “Right,” Dayne said. He moved toward it with her, then stopped, tracing the sewer line with his finger. “It started under the kitchens, then under us, and continued that way.”

  Vien raised an eyebrow. “So it moved. And?”

  “It moved in a straight line,” Dayne said, now pointing in that direction.

  “The sewer line, right?”

  Something churned in Dayne’s gut, and he was certain it wasn’t just the repulsive odor. Something was happening, heading in the direction he was pointing. He couldn’t dismiss it as coincidence that it was in the exact direction of the Talon Club.

  Chapter 12

  THERE HAD BEEN A soup course—roasted shallots in braised lamb stock—and some sort of mushroom-stuffed pastry. Both danced across Jerinne’s palate like nothing she had ever tasted before. She savored every crumb, which seemed to delight the Good Mister Seabrook to no end. Seabrook made a point of keeping her wineglass filled as well.

  “Now,” Seabrook said, “you know your etiquette, dear girl, I’m quite impressed. Served in a noble house, yes?”

  “I had this talk with Ressin. It seems our breeding is quite obvious, yes?”

  “Quite,” Seabrook said. He leaned in, conspiratorially, for the seventh time that evening. “I’ll tell you, it took me some time to get the knack of these things.”

  “This is my first time on this side of it, sir. I’d be a champion were I waiting on the table.”

  “I’m sure you would be, dear. So, what is next?”

  “Next would be a selection of cheeses and bread, if memory serves.”

  “Indeed. And wine to match.”

  “Good sir,” Madam Tyrell called from across the table. “Do recall that Initiate Fendall is here on duty. She must be capable of holding her sword.”

  “Yes, Seabrook,” one of the lords said. “She won’t be very useful if she can’t handle a sword.”

  “Hush,” Seabrook said. “I don’t need you all ruining our fun this evening.”

  “This was supposed to be fun?” Mister Barton asked. “I may have had my fill for the day.”

  “Yes, Julian,” the lord across the table said. “You had quite the exciting day already. It’s quite brave of you to venture out.”

  “More than Parlin could manage,” another Parliamentarian chuckled.

  “Be kind.” This came from the Parliamentarian Madam Tyrell was sitting with.

  Barton scoffed. “Parlin wouldn’t come here regardless of what occurred this morning.”

  “It’s his loss,” the one next to Madam Tyrell said. “Wouldn’t you say, dear?”

  “Of course,” she said, her lips pursed tightly. From the look on her face, Jerinne knew she did not want to be on the wrong end of Madam Tyrell’s sword tonight.

  “Absolutely,” Seabrook said. “The poor man is truly depriving himself. And the cheese is here!”

  The stewards came and delivered plates of assorted cheeses to everyone. While Seabrook’s attention was focused on the plate being placed in front of him, Madam Tyrell gave Jerinne a signal. Two quick moves with her fingers made her message clear: drink no more wine. Jerinne nodded to her as the next plate was delivered. As Seabrook had predicted, it was a selection of tiny samples of cheese: hard, soft, crumbly, veiny. And strong in scent, all of them.

  “So what do we have here?” Seabrook said, leaning in to his plate. “Looks like quite the variety, hmm?”

  “Smells strange,” Jerinne said. The scent in the air was rather unpleasant.

  “Some of them are quite strong, yes. But that will build character for you, young lady. You must really—”

  The odor was suddenly much stronger. It wasn’t from the plate in front of her.

  “Something’s not right,” Jerinne said, getting to her feet. Her head spun more than she was prepared for. She had drunk more wine than she had thought.

  Madam Tyrell was on her feet as well.

  “What, there’s nothing,” her Parliamentarian was saying.

  “No, something is rancid,” one of the young women at the table said. Everyone could smell it now.

  “We’ll look into it,” the head steward said, heading to the door. “There’s nothing any of you need to worry about.”

  “Fendall,” Madam Tyrell whispered. “Look sharp.”

  Sharp. Jerinne took deep breaths. Her body wanted to drop back down into the chair, but she couldn’t let that happen.

  “Sit, please,” someone said. Jerinne wasn’t even sure who. “Don’t let this—”

  A crack boomed through the club, shaking the building. Jerinne stumbled and fell to her knees.

  Screams and cries came from everywhere, all around Jerinne, as well as the floors below. The stench hit again, like a wave crashing, stronger and more vile than before. Jerinne fought down the bile that wanted to force its way up her throat.

  “Child,” Seabrook said, clutching Jerinne’s shoulder.

  “Stay here,” Jerinne barked, swallowing back the burning wine in her mouth. She pushed herself back to her feet, getting to the main door as Madam Tyrell did. She held one hand over her face, the other on the hilt of her blade.

  “Sewers,” she said.

  “Burst pipes?” Jerinne asked.

  More screams, and people pounding on wood. Before it was fear, now it sounded like panic. They reached the top of the stairwell, only to find a swarm of people from the floor below pressing their way onto the stairs, trying to get to the ground floor. No one was able to pr
ogress down the stairs. Jerinne spotted a Candidate, nearly buried in the sea of bodies.

  “Oy!” Madam Tyrell called out. “What’s word?”

  The Candidate yelled back, but there was no hearing him.

  “They aren’t able to get out,” she said to Jerinne. “Something is very wrong. Window.”

  They both made for the windows in the dining room. Nearly everyone in there was in a state of fright, save the colonel.

  “Something is very wrong,” he said. “We need to—”

  “We’re aware of that,” Madame Tyrell said, cutting him off. Jerinne was already trying a window, but she quickly realized that it wasn’t designed to be opened.

  Down in the circle below, people were running in chaos. Carts had smashed into each other, blocking off the entry to the circle from each direction.

  “We can’t get out this way,” she told Madam Tyrell.

  “We have to get these people out of here.”

  “It may be worse out there,” Jerinne said.

  “That doesn’t matter.” Madam Tyrell looked out the window. “Before too long—what is that?”

  Jerinne saw exactly what she meant. Up on the empty plinth, there were two men. One was on his knees, tied, hood over his head. The other, the one standing proudly, Jerinne recognized him despite the darkness outside.

  Lannic.

  * * *

  Lannic was quite impressed with Tharek. This wasn’t just a worthy plan, it was masterful. The events in the museum this morning had been a debacle, that was clear, and Lannic wondered why he hadn’t given Tharek a more active role in planning things before. For that matter, he was surprised that Tharek had been content to merely follow instructions when his skills would have helped ensure their success. Perhaps that was a mark of his loyalty.

  The man clearly was a marvel. In a matter of hours, he had pulled their people together, gathered the handful of carriages and horse carts they would need, and gave everyone their orders. That hadn’t even been the most impressive part. Right at sunset, he had guided Lannic through the northern neighborhoods, stopping in a well-appointed district. Tharek hopped off the cart and vanished into the shadows. Moments later he reappeared with a prisoner, bound and unconscious. The Good Mister Parlin himself. Tharek had captured him as easily as Lannic would order a coffee at the Alassan.

  “Now what?” Lannic found himself asking over and over as the evening progressed. As they pulled the cart up Hege into Talon Circle, that was the obvious thing to ask. The other men were in their places, each with his eyes toward the cart. Waiting for Tharek to give them the signal.

  “Do you have a speech ready?” Tharek asked. “In a moment, this is going to be your show.”

  “Of course,” Lannic said. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, exactly, but he was about to get an audience, and he knew what to do with that. “How’s it going to work?”

  Tharek glanced around. There were plenty of people in the Circle, traffic going in all directions. He got off the cart, putting his hand on the cobblestone. “Shouldn’t be long. Think Braning and Kemmer are right on task.”

  They were getting a few odd looks from passersby. It wasn’t that unusual for a cart to be stopped on the side of the road, even in a busy circle. But they had eight carts, each staged at different parts of the circle with suspicious folk standing around, and one covered in a tarp. That wouldn’t stand for long. Constabulary was sure to stick their nose in shortly. “We don’t have long.”

  “No,” Tharek said. He looked over at the fountain. “Things are going to move fast when it hits. Long as everyone does what they need to. You’ve got the hard job, though.” He reached under the tarp that covered Parlin, pulling out a leather vest covered in metal clasps. “Put this on. Now.”

  Lannic did as he was instructed. Tharek went behind him and adjusted a strap, making it a bit uncomfortable. “Does it need to be so tight?”

  “Yes,” Tharek said. “Stay limber. I’ll get you up there, but it’s up to you to stick the landing.”

  “Right.” Lannic didn’t know what else to say. This was a lot more daunting than the museum. This morning had been dangerous, but it didn’t require the raw physicality of what he was about to attempt. Even with Tharek explaining it to him, he didn’t fully grasp what was going to happen, just what he needed to do.

  Tharek put a hand over Lannic’s heart. “This won’t be easy, I’m sorry. But it’s got to be you. You are our voice.”

  “I know, Tharek,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Pounds and knocks came from beneath the street. Braning and Kemmer had done their jobs, that was obvious. Very good. The moment was here.

  “Ya!” Tharek cried out. That was the cue. Men on their carts at the two alleyways next to the Club all charged out. Some quickly beat the doormen with handsticks, while others went to work slamming huge boards in front of the Club door. At the east entrance on Fenn, the boys shoved barrels of pitch off their cart into the road.

  Then there was another boom, and suddenly hot sewage blasted out of every crack in the street around the club.

  Lannic was momentarily dazzled by the whole spectacle, he hadn’t noticed Tharek had pulled out a device far too large to be a crossbow. It looked more like a harpoon launcher from a naval ship, but it was loaded with some odd pulley contraption, with ropes trailing off it. Lannic was amazed that Tharek could even lift it. He aimed at the top of the club, and fired the contraption across the circle.

  It was only at that moment that Lannic realized that the ropes from the contraption were attached to the vest he was wearing.

  “What now?” he shouted, as the pulleys hit the roof of the club. Tharek had already dropped the harpoon launcher and hauled Parlin’s limp body out of the cart. With astounding agility, he draped the man onto Lannic’s back, clipping him to the vest.

  “You go!” He pulled a lever on the carriage, and the horses were let loose, stampeding down Hege. The other end of the rope was attached to the horses. Lannic barely had a moment to register that fact before he was launched off the ground, hurling through the air.

  The following seconds were a blur, and before he even knew what was happening, he was dropping onto the plinth. He landed chest first, and almost tumbled over the edge before he caught himself. As he got back onto his feet, he glanced back over to Tharek, now alone by the cart. He held the rope in one hand, having cut it loose from the horses with the sword in his other hand. His arm held the rope strong; he wasn’t going to let Lannic fall.

  This man was a true Patriot, indeed.

  Lannic undid the clasps, and Parlin dropped down. Before he could fall off the plinth, Lannic grabbed Parlin by the collar of his coat, hauling him up on his knees. The man was moaning, but hadn’t roused yet.

  Drawing his knife, Lannic stood tall on the plinth. Parlin was his now. The crowd was his, as well. The people in the Circle were in a state of panic, and the streets were blocked by crashed carts, flooding sewage, and pitch. Everyone in the Talon Club was blockaded in. They weren’t going anywhere, and none of them could help their friend Parlin.

  “People of Maradaine!” he yelled out. “The filth of this city has been released, and the decadent swells who have been poisoning you are now swimming in it!”

  * * *

  Dayne ran full bore up Hege Street, outpacing every carriage and pedalcart. People dashed out of his way, staring incredulously. He tried to dodge every person he passed; at his size and speed, if he knocked someone down he might kill them. But he had to get to the Talon, no matter what. He couldn’t explain how he knew it, but every instinct told him that something terrible was about to happen, down to his bones.

  Panicked screams cut through the air, confirming his fears.

  Two blocks away from Talon Circle, he could hear chaos exploding there. A swarm of people scrambled, frightened and confused, running
away from the Circle.

  Dayne leaped out of the way. Pressed against a shop window, he saw a handful of Constabulary trying to force their way upstream through the crowd. There was no moving, no getting closer to the Talon.

  Then horses thundered wildly down the street, crushing people under their hooves. The pair were yoked together, a loose rope trailing behind. He had to stop them before more people got hurt.

  Dayne shoved his way through the crowd to the open lane, chasing after the stray rope. The horses kept barreling down the road, oblivious to anyone in their path. They smashed through a pedalcart, which crashed into a group of boys. Dayne pushed his sprint, heart hammering as he grasped for the jerking rope. He stumbled, losing his pace. The rope danced out of his fingers until he was able to get a solid grip. As soon as he had it, he yanked back with every ounce of strength he had, planting his heels onto the road.

  The horses, fortunately, were well trained enough to yield once force had been applied. If they hadn’t, he might have been dragged off. Even with them stopping, he still slid several feet, his boots gaining no purchase on the cobblestone.

  People kept coming from Talon Circle, panic transformed into terror. Sewage and smoke choked the air. The Constabulary on the street had their hands full just trying to maintain order on this block; there was no chance of them getting to the Circle.

  Dayne drew the horses over and turned them around. He didn’t have time to waste unhooking them from their yoke, and he’d have to make due without a saddle. It was an imperfect solution, but that was all he had right now. Mounting one of the horses, he wrapped the rope around its neck as a makeshift rein, and kicked it forward. The two horses ran in tandem, and Dayne, wearing his Tarian tunic with his shield held high while riding on one of them, found himself the new center of attention amid the chaos. The crowd, despite their agitation, now looked upon him with a bit of calm. There was even a spark of hope in their eyes. If he could give them just that in this moment, he was doing his duty.