The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “In these dark years ahead, we shall be the ties that bind these kingdoms together. The Orders must place themselves in the light of the greater good, and we must place ourselves above any nation, any king, any lord, and even any God who strives against the light. Each member of the Orders shall decide for themselves which fight they lend their arm to, as their honor decrees, but our pledges are to the Orders first.”

  This was Grandmaster Alamarkin, one of the giants in Tarian lore. In history, Shalcer had decried him a traitor, and he was forced into hiding in Oblune, but his words proved prophetic: the Orders had been a source of light in those dark centuries. The honor and trust placed in them allowed them to travel relatively freely between the kingdoms, and they were instrumental in keeping the idea of Druth unity alive.

  “Traitor! Traitor!” shouted Shalcer, the actor playing him sounding much like a spoiled child.

  “No such thing, false king, for I am loyal to what matters most: the ideals of Druthal, and that it may one day have a king worthy of its throne.”

  That was new. Every historical account showed that Alamarkin had always been very respectful of Shalcer. Dayne wasn’t sure if this line was part of Whit’s text, or something this troupe had added.

  Lady Mirianne refilled his wineglass, and casually caressed his leg, giving him meaningful looks. Dayne decided this was a good time to refill his plate.

  As Dayne refilled his plate, the play moved on at a rapid pace, transitioning to the Cedidore the Mad portion. He found Jerinne by his side as he got more sausages.

  “Wild stuff, isn’t it?” Jerinne whispered.

  “It’s . . . different,” Dayne said. That was a politic answer.

  On the stage they had finished a scene where Cedidore called for walling off what remained of Druthal, calling for the Quarantine.

  “Is that what happened?” Jerinne whispered.

  “Roughly,” Dayne said. “The script is taking a few liberties with the history.”

  “I suppose they’d have to,” Jerinne offered. She had refilled her own plate. “Time to rejoin Miss Jessel. Good luck.”

  Dayne mused to himself as he returned to the blanket and Lady Mirianne’s doe eyes. Luck wasn’t something he was particularly worried about.

  * * *

  Jobs had been assigned separately. Tharek had done that intentionally, made sure no one knew more than their part of the plan. Tharek had also made sure to pair Wissen with Braning, and Jala with Kemmer, so that his two most trusted lieutenants could keep an eye on the new people he didn’t know.

  As frustrating as it was, Hemmit had to admit he saw the wisdom of it, especially since “Wissen” and “Jala” were complete fictions, ready to betray Tharek and his Patriots once the opportunity availed itself.

  When Hemmit first conceived of “Wissen” over a year ago, it had been a lark, a game to play while bored with school. He’d go to the seedier taverns by the docks, pretend to be a streetwise tough. Over time it became more than that: it had become a source of truth. “Wissen” could meet people, get close and find out the real story in ways he never could as Hemmit. When Lin found out, she was eager to take her own role as Jala, Wissen’s sister. She was truly amazing when she did it. While turning into Wissen involved little more than a change of clothes and putting up an attitude, becoming Jala was a complete transformation. Lin used magic for part of it, an illusion to darken her hair, skin, and eyes, as well as give herself elaborate tattoos, but her whole performance was something to behold. Her Linjari accent was gone, turned into a flawless west dock accent, as she became Jala completely.

  Even though Hemmit knew it was her, he could almost be fooled.

  Now he didn’t know where she was, other than she was with Kemmer on whatever mission Tharek had assigned them.

  It had been something of a stroke of focused luck that the two of them had found the Patriots so quickly. Yand was a fellow Hemmit had met months ago, and from how he had spoken, Hemmit suspected he was connected to the Patriots. At best, Hemmit had hoped Yand would know someone involved, give him something he could use to write a story, get word to Dayne.

  Instead he found Yand on the run. He had been part of the chaos the night before, and was looking for help. It wasn’t hard to play the role that Yand so desperately wanted Hemmit to fill.

  And that brought him to Tharek Pell.

  Saints, that was a man, all right. Easily the most intimidating man he had ever met. He had grilled both Hemmit and Lin, and had Hemmit been alone, he might not have held up to the scrutiny. Lin had been amazing, and that had won Tharek’s approval, at least provisionally. Like Yand, Tharek had needed allies. That made all the difference.

  Now he was in a carriage with Braning, bringing some contraption to a location that Braning hadn’t told him. All he could figure out was that they were heading east, in the direction of the Parliament and RCM. On the off chance he could slip away from Braning and not ruin his cover, what could he do? Go to the Constabulary? Tell them something was happening, but he had no idea what? He suspected that Tharek was going to go into Callon Hills to find whatever victim he had intentions on, but Hemmit had no idea who that might be. Or what Tharek intended to do. Or even if Callon Hills was his destination.

  Hemmit was deeper in the river than he had expected when he left The Nimble Rabbit.

  “So where are we taking this thing?” he asked Braning.

  “This way,” Braning said, pointing in the direction he was driving the carriage. “Look, you helped me put the thing in the carriage, and when we get there, you’ll stick with me. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Look—Wissen, was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, I know you’re all heavy hammer about what we’re doing tonight, and that’s good. I like that. But believe me, friend, sometimes it’s better just not knowing what’s going on.”

  “How can you say that?” Hemmit asked, maintaining the fevered passion he’d been playing as Wissen. “I mean, you were in it yesterday, weren’t you? You helped show them good!”

  “Yesterday morning, I kept watch on the back door,” Braning said. “That got my head cracked by that Tarian bastard.”

  “Right, but that was the thing in the morning. In the night, you guys really hit them!”

  “And Kemmer and I were well out of the action, down in the sewers. And that suited me just fine.”

  “But now, we’re all in it, right?”

  Braning turned away from the reins. “Please, for the love of every saint, calm down. We . . . we have a job, and the ideal is we all do our job well, and no one else ends up arrested.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Hemmit said. “I know I don’t need to get ironed.”

  “Good.” Braning focused on the road again.

  “So, if things turn left, I should run?”

  “Blazes, I’m gonna . . . I’m going to tell you something. Right now I’ve got a lot of mates who are locked up because of what went wrong yesterday. I can’t do them a damn bit of good if I’m in there with them.”

  “So that’s what you want, eh? Get them out?”

  Braning mused. “Tharek says we need to send a message. ‘Free Lannic.’ I’m not sure how that will really help.”

  “You don’t agree with him?” Even in the danger here, there was a story. Who was Braning? Why was he a Patriot? What had brought him to Lannic and the rest?

  “It’s not that, just . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but a week ago, Tharek was you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “None of us knew him. Lannic was the one who brought him in, so—and again, don’t take this wrong—trust wasn’t an issue at all. Lannic vouched, and Lannic was the Patriots, save the Chief.”

  “Right, the Chief. You’ve never met this guy?”

  “Sounds crazy, yeah? But th
e museum only worked at all was because of the Chief. Least, that’s how Lannic said it.”

  “Bit crazy.” He needed to bring it back to Tharek, without breaking character. “Yeah, but Tharek’s the boss right now, right? With Lannic gone?”

  “He’s acting like it. I don’t like it, and I’m pretty sure Kemmer doesn’t either. But you have to admit, the man is capable.”

  “That’s the truth.” They were definitely approaching the Parliament. And whatever was in the back of the wagon was a large contraption of wood and rope.

  “So what’s your stake? You’re not following Tharek just to follow him, and you don’t think we’re breaking out Lannic here. So what do you want?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I want to know what I’m in for.”

  “And what do you want, Wissen?”

  “I know, you probably think I’m just some dock-working steve, who just wants to crack skulls . . .”

  “Hey, hey, don’t pull that on me. My brother and I were just sewer steves, we didn’t go to university or nothing.”

  “So you get it. You don’t need education to know things stink in this town for guys working with their hands and arms. And that’s on the Parliament, don’t you think? Cause that story has to be the same in every city. I mean, we could hit on the Council of Aldermen, but that doesn’t help the country.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” He was nodding vigorously. “That was the thing that mattered to us. I mean, guys like you and me, here in Maradaine, we get trampled on. What do you think it’s like, say, down in Scaloi? You think it’s any better for them?”

  “Oh, it ain’t. On the docks, you meet folks from every part of Druthal. Ain’t one of them thinks this Parliament works for them.” Hemmit was a little surprised at how easily the words came. How close to the truth it was. This Parliament did not represent the people. They were a bunch of cosseted children, bought with the money of the nobility, or buying influence with their own money.

  But that didn’t make the Patriots right.

  “That’s certainly right,” Braning said. “Here we are.”

  They were pulling the cart up by Parliament Plaza.

  “So now?”

  “Now we wait,” Braning said. “But us sitting in the cart would look suspicious, and we don’t want that.” He pulled up to a group of other parked carts—several shop-carts were locked down and kept in the plaza overnight.

  “Suspicious is right,” Hemmit said. “Constabulary stroll through here all night on patrol. And there’s five whistleboxes I can see from here.”

  “That there are,” Braning said. “But we’re gonna get out and leave the cart with the others here for now. See that teashop? We’re gonna sit at one of the street tables, drink some tea, and wait for Kemmer and your sister.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Braning said. “And like I told you, I’m happier that way.”

  * * *

  The play finished to a smattering of applause. Several of the dinner guests had dozed off, having stuffed themselves into lethargy. Dayne felt the same way, but the play, flawed as it might have been, kept his attention. It played loose with history and time, jumping forward a hundred and fifty years to when Maradaine VII took the throne. The performance made it seem like the Druth throne had gone straight from the Cedidores to him, skipping over the Mishrals, Halitars, Ferricks, and Kelliths, let alone Queen Mara. This was fine for a piece of theater, but Dayne hoped none of the other guests were considering this a serious history lesson.

  Of course, given they were half asleep, Dayne doubted they were taking anything too seriously.

  The actors stepped down off the stage and accepted accolades and wine, shaking hands and chatting with the guests.

  Lady Mirianne was bright and alert, of course. She went to each member of the troupe individually and greeted them by name. She made a point of recollecting a key role they played in the show and praising each of them personally.

  The crowd in the ballroom was thinning out, and Dayne got a definite sense of the event being over. Perhaps it would be best to find Jerinne and make a polite exit. Quiet Days or no, the girl should get her rest, and Dayne was responsible for her. The last thing Dayne needed was for the Grandmaster to be angrier with him.

  Jerinne was nowhere to be seen. She must have wandered off somewhere with Miss Jessel. Dayne couldn’t begrudge her that, but even still, a certain degree of propriety should be observed.

  Mirianne thanked the leader of the troupe profusely and told all of them to make themselves welcome to the house. Then she took Dayne by the arm and looked at him with an odd regard as they walked.

  “Something troubles you?” she asked.

  “I think the night grows late, my—Miri. I should collect Jerinne and return to the chapterhouse.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “It’s hardly late at all. And you’d have to take my carriage.”

  “We could very well walk, my lady.”

  She stopped walking. “I don’t want you to leave yet.” Her eyes, deep blue like the ocean, were pleading.

  “As my lady commands,” Dayne replied.

  She playfully swatted his arm. “Don’t you start with that sort of thing. It won’t win you any favor.”

  “I wasn’t aware that favor was something I had to win.”

  “Come with me to the garden,” she said. Dayne allowed himself to be led down the hallway and outside.

  The garden was walled in, separate from the rest of the grounds. The stone walls were painted bright oranges and yellows, and every surface was rounded out with soft curves, giving it a warm, cozy feeling even before going inside it. Mirianne led him through the flowerbeds, vivid blooms of purple and blue, other plants vining along the inside walls, to the small fountain at the center of the structure.

  Mirianne sat down on the edge of the fountain and invited Dayne to do the same. She sat quietly for a time, only the gentle gurgling of the fountain breaking the silence of the night. She was lit only by the few flickering candles ensconced near the entrances. The open sky above them was splendid with starlight—both moons out of sight.

  “Did you enjoy the play?” she finally asked.

  “Enjoy . . . might not be the right word. I found it engaging.”

  “Engaging? How so?” she asked.

  “Well, I was frustrated by the inaccuracies. Those are probably from their source texts, of course, and I can forgive that.”

  “But what about their style? You have to admit it was unique.”

  “Yes, unique is right.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “That may have sounded more critical than I intended. No, I liked how they did things, in terms of performance. They did a good job making it clear when they switched characters. I’m impressed they did as much as they did with only eight people on the stage.”

  “But?” she prompted.

  “I started to be troubled by the underlying message, which first hit me during the Alamarkin speech. But the more I think about it, the more I see it throughout the piece.” The choice of three core plays made more sense once that message became clear in his head.

  “And what was that?” she asked. “Tell me.”

  “All three plays—Shalcer, Cedidore, and Maradaine VII, have the same structure, to a degree. I haven’t read them, but from what I saw here, in each play there is a king on the throne who is doing a horrible job: incompetence in the case of Shalcer, insanity in the case of Cedidore.”

  “And Kellith II’s warmongering in Maradaine VII,” she offered.

  “Right,” Dayne said. “But there was no Kellith in this production.”

  “They merged him into Cedidore.”

  “Anyway, in all three plays the sitting king is the villain of the piece. The heroes, in as much as there are any, are the conspirators who e
ventually install Maradaine on the throne. The same set of conspirators is used throughout this production, even though they were completely different people.”

  “So what was that message?”

  “Well, I felt it was trying for one of loyalty to an ideal over the person on a throne.”

  “And you find that troubling?”

  “I find it, at least as presented here, mercurial. Because the conspirators were the same, they came off as fickle instead of principled. They hated Shalcer, so they worked to get rid of his line and replace it with Cedidore. But then Cedidore was horrible, and so they worked to get rid of him.”

  “That is how it was, of course,” she offered.

  “Well, the ones who sought to remove Cedidore failed. He ruled successfully—if brutally—for decades. Most of his enemies faced the gibbet.”

  “Let’s face it, royal politics—all politics—back then were much more . . . volatile.” She shuddered slightly. “We now live in a civilized age, with fair trials and no executions, even for the most vile of criminals.”

  “You’re right,” Dayne said, though there was something else to it, an idea that had been brewing for the past few days. “It’s good that now we just have protestors with placards. The True Line Lives, and all. Foolishness.”

  “You don’t care for them.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I could possibly see the point if, say, Prince Escaraine was in exile, yearning to claim a throne he felt was rightfully his. But he’s in the palace, at the right hand of the king. He’s given no sign that he wants to dethrone his cousin.”

  “That’s an interesting point,” Mirianne said.

  “It also made me think of the Patriots.”

  “Oh, please, let’s not have that ugliness here.”

  “Hear me out. The Patriots, they aren’t that different from the conspirators. They see themselves as the heroes of their play. They’re seeking to oust a Parliament that isn’t suiting their ideals.”