“Only four of them here today,” Ressin said, noting the group. Aside to Jerinne, he added, “They’re always here, at least a few.”
“At least they’re not a nuisance,” Seabrook commented, getting out of the carriage. “I may not care for them, but at least they are content to just stand there with their signs.”
“Our friends from last night could learn a thing from them,” Jerinne said, giving a small smile. “Quiet persistence over violence.”
“Bah,” Seabrook said. “They’re all a waste of flesh, if you ask me. Traitors to the crown wearing the robes of patriotism. But let’s not tarry.”
Seabrook took the lead up the steps, with Jerinne taking one side, shield slightly raised. If she was going to be here as a Tarian guard, she might as well look the part.
The marshal she passed gave her an ugly sneer.
Inside, several functionaries in gray suits moved about, quickly and quietly. Two came directly to Seabrook, gave him a slight nod, and took his cloak. Jerinne was amazed the man was even wearing a cloak, given how hot it was.
They were then escorted through a door labeled “Sauriyan Chairs” into the main Parliament hall. The hall was a grand circle, and where they entered there were several open cubicles with desks and chairs, and a stairwell down to the Parliament floor itself, where the actual Parliamentary Chairs sat. The one hundred chairs on the floor were works of art, ornate masterpieces of mahogany and velvet and gold inlay. One hundred thrones.
Rounding the floor were ten flagpoles, one for each archduchy, surrounding the tallest flagpole in the center of the floor, above the podium, where the flag of Druthal flew proudly: royal blue with ten colored rings in an interlinked circle.
Seabrook went down to the floor and took his chair there, as many other Parliamentarians were doing as well. They had not yet come to order, so he chatted amiably with the two members closest to him.
The furniture in the cubicles was simple and unadorned, but clearly of high quality, cedar and oak. Dozens of functionaries populated the cubicles, and Ressin led Jerinne over to one, with a plaque indicating it was designated for the 10th Chair of Sauriya. “This is our place.”
“Only members of Parliament and the functionaries of the floor, right?” Jerinne confirmed.
“That’s correct. Now, of course, if there is an attempt on the Good Mister Seabrook’s life, feel free to disregard that custom. But only then.”
“Somehow I doubt that would be an issue,” Jerinne said, looking up. A level above them, the viewing gallery was filling up, with each aisle and balcony manned by a King’s Marshal. The gallery was populated by dozens of common citizens, though Jerinne knew most of them came from the various newssheets. There were a handful of obvious nobility as well—Jerinne spotted Lady Mirianne and her fetching lady-in-waiting, Miss Jessel.
She looked around the gallery and the hall, realizing that something was missing. Not one other person in the Parliament hall was in a Tarian uniform.
She didn’t have much time to think about what this might mean, as one old Parliamentarian stepped up from his chair onto the podium of the Parliament floor. He knocked three loud raps on the podium. “Be it heard. Be it heard. Be it heard. Today is the twelfth of Joram, in the year 1215. The Parliament of Druthal has been convoked. A quorum has been achieved. This august body is now in session.”
“Welton, the Prime Speaker,” Ressin whispered. “Crazy old coot.”
“Good Mister Porter,” Welton said, turning to a man in the chair closest to the podium. “You may take the floor.” He left the podium and went back to his chair, closing his eyes.
Porter, presumably, stood up. “I take the floor. So it is done.”
Ressin whispered again. “The position of Prime Speaker is entirely based on seniority. This is Welton’s thirty-ninth Convocation. Thirty-nine years here. But he doesn’t do a damned—sorry—a thing besides saying the opening words. He puts it all in the hands of the leadership, and the High Chair of the Floor runs the session. At least it does under Welton.”
Jerinne pointed to the four chairs behind the podium, where Porter had just come from. “The leadership of the Parliament?”
Ressin nodded. “High Chairs of the Floor—Porter—and the Table, the Call, and the Decree. They’re the leaders of the Reform Coalition.”
“The Functionalists, Free Commerce, and Loyalist parties,” she said.
He acted as if he didn’t hear her, pointing to four chairs placed facing the podium, behind most of the other Parliamentarians. “And the leadership of the Opposition, our Values Coalition.”
She kept silent this time. Seabrook was a Traditionalist—which she knew, but didn’t think too much about. The Traditionalist Party was, in essence, the political arm of the nobility, representing a movement to cede authority claimed by the Parliament and national government back to the minor nobles, letting them control their own taxation, and tend to the needs of their own lands. She knew the Baron and Baroness Fortinare supported those ideas, and so did many of the people Jerinne had grown up with. Her own parents, even, believed in the order of things, and the Traditionalists were the party to make that happen.
Jerinne wasn’t sure what she believed, politically, but she was assigned to protect Mister Seabrook, and that was what she would do.
The High Chair of the Floor called out, “We shall proceed with business, if the Good Mister Wrennit agrees that the floor, indeed, has achieved a quorum.”
“We are assembled,” said Wrennit, who Ressin indicated was the Opposition Chair of the Floor. “We may proceed.”
Another man stood up—a thin, spry, white-haired man in a suit that was both charmingly quaint and out of fashion. He was dressed unlike any other man on the Parliament floor. Their suits were all dark shades—deep blues, cold grays, dark browns. His was a fair, bright blue, like the sky in the early morning.
His face did not match the brightness of his suit. “I would be recognized as the Ranking Chair of my party.”
“You are so recognized, Good Mister Montrose.”
This was Alphonse Montrose, the 2nd Chair of Maradaine. He was a Populist—a Saltie, by the typical epithet—same as Parlin. He was also a hero to many people back in the Sharain. Born a common shepherd, he had gained notoriety—and his Parliamentary Chair—through a unique act of valor in the war, in one of the few moments when Poasian soldiers landed on the Druth mainland. The story had grown into a tall tale of impossible proportions in the past thirty years, but Montrose had proven himself to be a sharp leader of uncommon wisdom.
“Last night,” Montrose began, “I lost a dear friend. I would like to say you all did as well. I would very much like to. But you can all say we lost a colleague and fellow. It is only appropriate that we honor him.”
“Indeed,” said another Parliamentarian. “So I—”
“I have the floor, sir,” Montrose said. The other man nodded and kept quiet. Montrose continued, “We should honor him by continuing the work that he would want done. Were Erick Parlin with us, he would be calling for action. We have only two days before this convocation of the Parliament draws to a close. There is much work to be done. Therefore, I put forth the proposal that we proceed with business as usual.”
“A proposal is set forth,” said a sandy-haired man with a heavy Monic accent, who Ressin quietly identified as the High Chair of the Table—the member of the majority government who declared when a vote would actually be called.
“We would have it in plain terms,” said the Opposition Chair of the Table—Ressin was very quick with his identifications, at least in terms of title. “Upon what, exactly, would we be voting?”
“Plain terms, Good Mister Montrose,” Porter said.
“I propose that on this day—and the remaining days of this convocation of the Parliament—that we do not make any motion to close the session earlier than the standar
d time of six bells in the evening. We still have much we can accomplish.”
“Point of order.” One member stood, and was acknowledged by Montrose. “Is ‘we still have much we can accomplish’ part of the proposal upon which we will be voting?”
“Is it, Mister Montrose?” The High Chair of the Table asked.
“No, it is not,” Montrose said, his tone clearly showing that he had played this particular game of pedantry before, and was quite tired of it.
“The proposal is stated. Do any support bringing this to vote?”
A very old man—almost as old as Welton—raised his hand, but did not stand up from his chair. “The proposal is sound.” Between his age, Acoran drawl, and placement amongst the Chairs, Jerinne presumed he was the 1st Chair of Acora.
Another man—a young one, in this crowd—raised his hand. “This is a matter most grave.”
Amongst the Parliamentarians there were several highly audible sighs. Montrose himself seemed to growl as he sat back down. Ressin, however, chuckled. Whatever just happened, it was a small victory for the Opposition.
The High Chair of the Decree spoke. “So it shall be. Place it to a vote.”
The High Chair of the Call then called each member, identified by their ranking and archduchy. Functionaries in the cubicles scribbled furiously, including Ressin, but Jerinne couldn’t keep track of who voted what. She found her attention mostly on Mister Seabrook, who had been barely engaged with any of the proceedings, alternating between chatting with the Chair next to him and reading his newssheets.
Once all ninety-nine had been tallied, the High Chair of the Decree declared the vote was complete, and looked across to the Opposition Leaders. “Is its authenticity in question?”
On the Opposition side, one member—the Chair of the Question—stood up and smiled coyly. “We question the vote, and would call it ourselves.”
“What’s happening now?” she asked Ressin.
“The leadership of the Opposition is exercising their right for a second round of voting, to confirm if it matches. It usually does, but it’s a safeguard to prevent the governing coalition from boatrolling the opposition.”
The Opposition Chair of the Call ran his own vote. It didn’t take long before Jerinne was desperate for a cup of tea, desperate to step out of the cubicle, desperate to do anything other than sit there and listen to them go through the exact same vote again. She was shocked that no one else saw this as an exercise in absurdity. The Parliament seemed to run entirely on the process of procedure. She had expected, at least, a bit more grandstanding and speechmaking.
An insufferable period of time later, the second vote concluded. After a bit of deliberation, it was determined that both votes were in concurrence, so the Opposition recognized the validity of the vote.
“So we are agreed, and it has been decided,” the High Chair of the Decree said.
“And what is the decision?” Porter asked. More procedure.
“The proposal—which was considered grave—did not meet the requirements to be enacted. The proposal has failed.”
Jerinne was surprised. She had lost count, both times, but despite that she thought she had heard more “yes” votes than “no.”
“What was the count?” she asked Ressin, who had long since ceased pointing out anything to her.
“Fifty-five to forty-four,” Ressin whispered back.
So she had been wrong. She hadn’t been paying much attention at any rate. She didn’t even know how Seabrook had voted, though she suspected her charge had voted against Montrose’s proposal.
“The proposal is defeated,” Porter said. He turned to Welton, who appeared to be half dozing at the podium. “In that case, Good Mister Welton, I propose in honor of our fallen colleague, as is our tradition, we close the current session, so that each man may attend to his grief.”
“Agreed,” Welton said.
“Now wait a minute,” Montrose shouted, rising to his feet, but Welton was already knocking on the podium.
“Today’s session is ended. We are adjourned. This convocation will resume tomorrow morning at ten bells.”
Montrose tried to say more but other members were already on their feet, joining their staff and clearing the Parliament floor.
Mister Seabrook strolled past Jerinne and Ressin. Ressin gathered up documents and raced after his master, signaling Jerinne to follow them. Seabrook walked with brisk purpose until they were outside and at the bottom of the steps.
“What a colossal waste,” he finally said when Ressin and Jerinne had caught up with him. “And such a lovely morning.”
Jerinne noticed that the noon bells were ringing at the Royal Sainted Cathedral on the other side of the plaza. The whole process of the session had taken nearly two hours, and all they had accomplished was deciding not to do anything.
No wonder the Patriots hated the Parliament.
“It seems, Miss Fendall, that I am behind the fashion today,” Seabrook said.
“I’m sorry, sir?” Jerinne asked.
Seabrook glanced around, squinting in the harsh midday sun. “It seems that none of my peers elected to bring their Tarian guards. Dreadful miscalculation on my part. Terribly embarrassing.”
“It’s no trouble, sir,” Jerinne said. “I found the experience . . .” She struggled to think of a word that would neither be insulting nor deceitful. “Illuminating.”
“Yes, well,” Seabrook said dismissively. “I feel quite foolish now.” He walked off toward his carriage.
Ressin stood in front of Jerinne before she could walk with them. “I trust you can make your way back to your chapterhouse, Miss Fendall.”
“Well, of course,” Jerinne said. “But I thought . . .”
“Very good,” Ressin said, turning on his heel and joining Seabrook in the carriage, leaving Jerinne standing in the plaza in bewilderment as they pulled away.
“You wouldn’t think a Navy man would turn into such a feathered robin,” a cool woman’s voice said at her ear. Jerinne turned to find Miss Jessel’s lovely face only inches from her own. She wanted to say something, but her voice had deserted her. Miss Jessel continued, “Of course, he’s new to all this. He tries too hard to fit in, don’t you think?”
Jerinne managed to bring words to her mouth, even though they cracked when she spoke. “I really don’t know what is going on.”
She smiled, warm and sweet. “You fare much better against madmen with crossbows.”
“Crossbows, I understand,” Jerinne said. She must have sounded like an idiot.
Jessel sighed, looking off to Seabrook’s carriage in the distance. “He really must have been dreadfully embarrassed not to realize no one else would bring Tarian protection.”
“I did think it was strange I was the only one being picked up this morning,” Jerinne said, finally able to speak like a normal person.
“And now you’re left on the walkway.” She brushed her hand against Jerinne’s cheek, which made her heart race. “I never did get the opportunity to thank you for everything you did in the museum.”
Ideas raced through Jerinne’s mind as to what possible thanks she could offer. “That’s quite all right. I just did what any Tarian would do.”
“So humble.” She laughed. Then her manner became more sober. “I didn’t come out here idly, though. My lady wanted me to remind you that you and Mister Heldrin are invited to dinner at her home this evening. She can send her coach to you at half past five bells, if that will suffice.”
Jerinne couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Two days ago I had never had a carriage sent for me in my life. Now it’s happening all the time.”
“Dear Jerinne,” she said. “Yesterday you were launched from the catapult. You must expect that will take you to new places.”
“I will see you tonight, Miss Jessel?”
�
�You most certainly will,” she said with the slyest of smiles. “Now I can dally no further. My lady awaits.” She curtsied and went back up the steps.
Jerinne strolled at an easy pace across the square toward the chapterhouse, finding herself whistling the old country tune her father always used to sing. This had been a very strange couple of days, but she was definitely interested in where it might be taking her.
Chapter 16
KEMMER DIDN’T THINK the clubhouse was much. It had been a basement pub, the sort that any Druth man used to be able to run from his household. But that had been before the Brewers Guild had colluded with the city aldermen, imposing new laws to crush the average man just trying to earn a living through simple trade. The pub had been shut down years ago, since Gillem hadn’t greased the right pockets in the Guild. Gillem still owned the house, and thus the pub, where he freely let the Patriots assemble, especially to discuss the sorts of things that couldn’t be said in the Alassan. Gillem was a good sort, having seen how the common Druth were being shackled. He was an old man, too old to be in the thick of things, but he was with them in spirit.
Kemmer had come alone, leaving Braning to rest in the back alley boarding room they had rented last night. Braning was still recovering from the blow to his head at the museum, and reeling from the loss of his brother. Kemmer thought it best to let him do that, while he got a scent of the air on his own. It was possible that Constabulary or marshals were looking for them, separately or together, but Kemmer was at less risk than Braning. Kemmer at least had resources he could reach out to, were he arrested. He could demand a lawyer, and someone from his father’s agency would come. Braning had no such luck.
Kemmer had come in through the back alley, where no one but a few cats had seen him. He wasn’t sure if anyone was specifically watching for him. They must be. With most of the Patriots in shackles, they were surely being beaten for information. Lannic wouldn’t talk, of course, but the others might. The Alassan couldn’t possibly be safe. Gillem’s clubhouse probably wasn’t either, but only a few people knew about it. Enough did, though.
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