The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Second Interlude

  THE GRAND TEN were not gathered. Only half of them had bothered to respond to Barton’s summons, which he found quite vexing. Things were not going to plan, and the risks to his own life were unacceptable.

  “Twice!” he shouted, his voice muffled by his mask. “Twice yesterday my life was in grave danger by our little operation.”

  “And yet you live,” Millerson said, clearly quite comfortable in his “Man of the People” mask. “And I’ll point out I was in danger last night. As were several of our . . . absent companions.” In addition to Millerson, there was only the Lord, the Priest, and the Justice in attendance.

  “Absent companions,” Barton sneered. “They couldn’t be bothered to attend when we called.”

  The Lord spoke. “This meeting was . . . unplanned.”

  “So was the attack on the Talon!” Barton shouted. “We need to get a rein on this! When I call for a meeting, everyone should respond!”

  The Lord snorted. He probably didn’t appreciate having a member of Parliament speak to him like that. “We must be forgiving of those who do not have quite the same . . . freedom of scrutiny that some of us enjoy. Even our hostess could not be here.” They stood around in the audience seats of the shuttered opera house, not even engaging in the usual ritual. Barton wondered why they were even bothering with the masks. Of course, the Mage wasn’t there to shield them. If someone came across them, this time they would be seen.

  “Well said, my lord,” the Priest said. “I myself was barely able to make adequate excuses.”

  “Who do you need to make excuses to?” Barton asked. He knew damn well that Bishop Onell wasn’t answerable to anyone in this city. As his parish was in Abernar he was formally visiting Maradaine on a study sabbatical. Unless the Archbishop of Sauriya or the king himself called on Onell, no one would mark his comings and goings.

  “You would be amazed, dear Parliamentarian,” the Priest said. “Although I may not have to answer to many souls in this city, many still question me when I step foot anywhere. The Bishop of Maradaine is very intent on imposing himself on my time. I may not answer to him, but I must be politic.”

  “Why was this meeting called?” the Justice asked. “Were you two bored after voting yourself the afternoon off?”

  “Do you understand what happened last night?” Barton asked. “We need to get a handle on this situation before it floods our ability to control it.”

  “It seems like the natural consequence of what we put into motion,” the Justice said. “I was working on the presumption that it was part of that ‘bit of chaos’ we were crafting.”

  “A ‘bit of chaos,’ not sewage in the streets!” Millerson was incensed. “The Parliamentarian and I could have—”

  “We’re cleansing the humors of this nation. That sort of thing is to be expected.”

  “We have to get control of things—” Millerson said.

  “And yet we designed this plan to minimize our direct control. Layers of insulation, you said. Deniability.”

  “Don’t forget yourself, Justice,” Millerson said. “We all played our roles in these past few days. The Parliamentarian and I are currently the most at risk for exposure.”

  “How are you at risk?” the Lord asked. “Poor Barton was the victim in all this.”

  “Names, Lord!” Millerson snapped. He was far too invested in the roles they were supposed to play. Barton didn’t really understand it, especially now. They all knew he was Barton. They all knew that The Lord was Archduke Holm Windall of Oblune, and he was at risk as well. Money had been used to forge alliances, ensure key deliveries, move people into place. A clever accountant could trace that the money had come from the archduke, if the right questions were asked. If enough was revealed.

  And furthermore, he was someone who theoretically had a personal motive in their goals. He was officially in the line of succession for the throne—twenty-third, if Barton remembered correctly. Not that anyone in this council was interested in putting Windall on the throne, or the bloodbath of royalty that would require.

  That would hardly save Druthal. And the next in line was the nation’s best chance.

  “The . . . Man of the People”—Barton almost choked on Millerson’s alias—“is the one who could, potentially, be identified should certain people amongst the arrested operatives decide to become talkative.”

  “I thought you took precautions,” the Lord said.

  “There are layers between me and any of the Patriots who were arrested,” Millerson said.

  The Justice sneered. “Really, my Lord, it’s almost as if you don’t actually listen.”

  “Don’t you—”

  Millerson got up, putting himself between the Lord and the Justice. “I was as hands off as possible, considering how specifically we were trying to steer them.”

  “This was steered?” the Lord asked. “It seemed like pure chaos, from what I read.”

  “What you read?” Barton asked.

  “I wasn’t there. Can you imagine, me in Talon Circle? That would have been the story, my friends.” The archduke had quite an opinion of his public profile. Of course, he was right.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the Priest said. “The point is, danger to one is danger to ten. How vulnerable are you?”

  “As I said, there’s no direct connection between me and any of the arrested Patriots. But some of them can draw a line to someone who can draw a line to me. I’m especially concerned with their ringleader.”

  “Lannic Falson,” the Justice said. “He’s the one you’re worried about.”

  “Rather.”

  The Justice sighed. “You think I didn’t realize that? Why do you think I stepped in and claimed jurisdiction over his trial?”

  “I had presumed your intent was to control the situation,” Barton said. A High Justice of the Royal Court like Feller Pin stepping in to preside over a criminal case was unusual. Even one involving the murder of a Parliamentarian. That Pin did so would draw the attention of the newssheets. Hopefully not so much that it would seem suspicious.

  “Indeed. And I will make sure that Mister Falson receives humane treatment. No one will get any names out of him by coercive means.”

  “And you will look fair and just in the process,” Millerson said.

  “I must give every appearance of that, but carefully. Actual fairness will not happen, since we have to make sure the boy rots away in a cell,” Pin said.

  “Is there more?” the Lord asked, sighing heavily. “Or are we just going to prattle on for awhile longer?”

  “What is wrong with you?” Barton snapped. “Things are spiraling wildly out of control, and maybe we ought to be concerned.”

  “I’m very concerned,” Archduke Windall said. “The last thing I need is you cracking up.”

  “Enough,” Justice Pin said. “The last thing we need is for us to snipe at each other. Things went badly, but we have the Patriots arrested and going to trial. Parlin is dead, as we planned, and we’ve gotten back on track. There is nothing to panic over.”

  He was glaring at Barton. It seemed he wanted Barton to concede the point and move on.

  “Fine,” Barton said. Pin was right about that. No need to belabor it and make himself look weak.

  “Very good, then,” Bishop Onell said. “Then I suggest no more ‘emergency’ meetings. The next one as planned. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Archduke Windall said, taking off his Lord mask. “Now let’s be off and on our separate ways. I really cannot be seen in this neighborhood at this time of day. What would people think?”

  Chapter 17

  THE CALLON HILLS NEIGHBORHOOD was surrounded by a fifteen-foot stone wall, with the only entrances iron gates with private guards. It could withstand a siege if it had to—the neighborhood was protected almost as well as the Royal Palace itself
. It was no trouble passing the checkpoint—the guards recognized Kaysen and Lady Mirianne’s coach, but they still gave his papers a cursory glance.

  “Sweet saints,” Jerinne whispered as they entered. Dayne had been in here before, but he wasn’t desensitized to it. The neighborhood was pure opulence.

  Callon Hills had no shops, no public squares. There were parks and statues, and wide, tree-lined walkways, but almost no souls were walking there this evening. The only people Dayne noticed were a few lamplighters, who were clearly attached to the households rather than city employees.

  The households were incredible gated mansions on sprawling acres-wide plots. They were manor houses, tucked away in the middle of the city. Gold and brass gleamed from the individual gates, each one with their own set of guards.

  Most of the houses here were owned by nobility or Parliament members. There were a few rich merchants who made their home in the neighborhood, but they were few and far between. Dayne had recalled Mirianne talking about her father’s intention to make such people feel unwelcome there, a sentiment most of the residents surely felt as well.

  Lady Mirianne’s house—the earl’s house, more correctly—was one of the more modest dwellings in the area. It didn’t have its own brick walls surrounding the property, rather trimmed hedges formed the perimeter, giving a clear view of the house from the street. It had a simple, classic elegance: white stone, smooth pillars, a vibrant plot of colorful flowers bordering the doors.

  Two pikemen—actual pikemen wearing the Jaconvale crest— stood at attention at the driveway. Dayne wondered where they came from: mercenaries, former soldiers, or just servants dressed up like the earl’s Bannermen from centuries ago. There was no telling from their behavior, as the only reaction they gave as the carriage approached was to salute Kaysen.

  The carriage approached the main doors, where Bostler stood waiting. The old man had been the butler of the Hensons’ Maradaine household for as long as Dayne had known, as long as Lady Mirianne had lived. Bostler may even have been part of the household when the earl was born.

  “Mister Heldrin,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “It is always pleasing to see you.”

  “And you, Bostler,” Dayne said, offering his hand. Bostler hesitated briefly, clearly balking at the breach in protocol, and then accepted the offered hand.

  “You are later than expected, sir,” Bostler said. “I suggest we move with some haste. The rest of the guests for this evening are anxiously awaiting us.”

  “Of course,” Dayne said.

  “And this would be Miss Fendall,” Bostler said. “You are very welcome here, young lady.”

  “Graciously accepted,” Jerinne said, bowing her head to Bostler in return.

  Bostler led them down the main hall, as Jerinne matched pace with Dayne behind the old man.

  “What exactly did you do in the earl’s household?” Jerinne whispered.

  “As a boy, mostly helped in the stables, entertained Lady Mirianne.”

  “Entertained?” Jerinne’s eyebrow was raised at him.

  “Shut it,” Dayne said. “She usually wanted someone with her when she was riding, and we’d go out to Jaconvale Creek.”

  “The creek, of course,” Jerinne said, her voice dripping with innuendo.

  “Remember I outrank you, Jerinne.”

  “Are you going to punish me, Mister Heldrin?” Jerinne asked, giving Dayne the widest grin.

  “Don’t push me.” The memory of those days came flooding, summers in Jaconvale, riding across the meadow. Dozing under the oak trees while Mirianne read to him from her history books.

  “I was teaching him to read,” Lady Mirianne said from the archway to the sitting room. She was glorious in a velvet gown, a lush verdant green that made her eyes shine, with a neckline cut scandalously low. It had his full attention. “The only thing that wasn’t innocent were some of the pennyhearts I had him read.”

  “Pennyhearts, my lady?” Jerinne said, bowing with a flourish. “I’m shocked.”

  She came over and took each of them by the arm, leading them into the sitting room. “You would think reading such things would fill a young man’s mind with unseemly thoughts. Our friend here was only interested in the histories, though.”

  “I’m not too surprised,” Jerinne said.

  “Are we only going to revisit my childhood?” Dayne asked.

  “Dear Dayne,” Lady Mirianne said, giving an infectious peal of laughter. “You’ve had quite a bit of honor and accolade. I think it is only fitting that we keep you humble.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Dayne said, though he had had quite enough humility for one day.

  “Do not, Dayne,” she said. “Or you either, Miss Fendall. There will be no ‘my lady’ from either of you tonight.”

  “Then why am I ‘Miss Fendall’?” Jerinne asked. She seemed oddly at ease with this situation.

  “Jerinne, then,” Mirianne said.

  A handful of vaguely familiar faces mingled in the sitting room. Dayne knew he had met them before: young men and women of noble birth but far removed from actual title, the kind who would often visit Jaconvale, or teem about Maradaine to gather favor or attention.

  “These are the heroes?” asked one man, who wore a bright purple vest and cravat, as well as having hints of the same color painted around his eyes. “Quite impressive.”

  “Aren’t they?” Mirianne asked.

  “Indeed, Miri,” the nobleman asked. “Can we move to the meal now before I faint?”

  Mirianne made introductions, which were all names Dayne had heard before, though they left his memory almost as quickly as they were said.

  “Now let’s come along,” Mirianne said. “I have something very special planned, which my father would declare wicked and inappropriate.”

  “It is highly unusual, my lady,” Bostler said from the archway, showing that someone was registering disapproval of whatever Lady Mirianne was going to do.

  “But he isn’t here,” she said with a note of defiance at the old butler. “So maybe our indecent behavior will start a new fashion.”

  “One can only hope,” said the purple man. “Can we get on with it?”

  “Yes, yes,” Mirianne said. “Bostler, is everything in readiness?”

  “It has been for some time, my lady. As we have noted, Mister Heldrin and Miss Fendall were not as timely as we had hoped . . .”

  “I am deeply sorry for that,” Dayne started.

  Lady Mirianne waved him off. “Nonsense. You two are our guests of honor. The least we can grant you is patience. Correct, Bostler?”

  “As my lady says. Good gentles, if you would follow me?”

  Bostler led the way as Lady Mirianne took Dayne’s arm again. Her lady-in-waiting came up from some hidden niche and took Jerinne’s arm, and the rest of the guests followed behind.

  “So what is this impropriety you have arranged?” Dayne asked.

  “It’s a surprise, Dayne. Can’t you wait a few moments?”

  “I’ve had a few too many surprises these past few days,” Dayne said. “You’ll forgive me if it makes me jumpy.”

  “Forgiven,” she said. “However, I’m not sure if I can forgive you for stopping for a crisper before coming here. Did you not trust my chef?”

  “Not at all, my lady. It was improper of me to do, though I can ensure you my appetite is in no way diminished.” Dayne couldn’t bring himself to lie, though he was amazed she had been able to call him out. There was no way Kaysen had been able to tell her. The two of them hadn’t even been in the same room. “How did you know?”

  “Your breath reeks of lamb and onion, and I know you far too well, Mister Heldrin.”

  “We’re not going to your dining room, my lady,” Dayne said, noticing that they were going to a different wing of the house.

  “In
deed we aren’t.”

  They were going to the ballroom.

  “I am concerned, my lady,” Dayne said, trying to keep his voice level, “that I am not wearing the proper shoes should dancing be required. I would have been better prepared.”

  “Why, my dear Tarian,” Mirianne said, “I do believe you are pale with fear.”

  “Let me be clear, Mirianne,” Dayne said. “I really should not be expected to dance. The results would be quite dire.”

  “I am quite aware,” she said. “I recall trying to teach you the Erien waltz.”

  Bostler opened the doors to the ballroom, which, much to Dayne’s relief, was not arranged for a ball of any sort. Instead, there was a banquet table on one side of the room, filled up with a variety of Sharain regional delicacies.

  The other side of the room was what truly captured Dayne’s attention, however. Several blankets were laid out in a circle, surrounding a low platform, upon which four men and four women stood at the ready. These eight people were all dressed identically, but not in uniform or servant attire. Rather, they all wore simple gray pullovers and slacks, not dissimilar to what Dayne would wear for a session in the practice room.

  “What is this, Miri?” the purple man asked.

  “Indeed, indeed?” Mirianne asked, with a flair of drama. “What is this, good sirs and ladies? Could you introduce yourselves?”

  One of the men stepped forward and bowed with a flourish. “Greetings, gentle friends. We are the Base Street Players, and we have the distinct privilege of giving a command performance for you fine people this evening.”

  “Command performance?” Dayne asked. “What is this?”

  “A play, my large friend,” the leader answered.

  “Base Street?” the purple man said. “That is scandalous, dear Miri. I’ve heard stories about them.”

  “The Base Street Players are a groundbreaking troupe, it is true, good sir,” the leader said. He gestured to his fellow players. “We are not content to conform to standard traditions of the Druth stage. Our company is well traveled, and diverse beyond measure.”