The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Ressin had her in uniform and armor in no time. “You’ve had practice with that.”

  “It’s not too different from the Navy uniform. I did the same for Mister Seabrook when he was a captain.”

  “We need to go to the armory,” Jerinne said. “Apparently my Initiate sword isn’t good enough for today.”

  “I’ll take you at your word for that, but we really must make haste if we’re to get Mister Seabrook in place by the calling of the quorum.”

  Jerinne led the way, noting for the first time that Ressin was also armed. He carried a gentleman’s sword, a thin and light rapier, more suited for swordplay as sport rather than proper fighting.

  The armory was outside the main house, a low structure through the back garden near the bathhouses. Jerinne was quite familiar with it, as was every Initiate. Initiates were responsible for the maintenance and care of the weapons and shields housed there, including keeping inventory and security. A full inspection of the armory was one of the most traditional forms of discipline put upon an Initiate. Jerinne had only had it dropped on her head once, and that was after being part of a prank she pulled with a few other first-years in the beginning of her Initiacy. The rest of that group had all washed out by First-Year Trials.

  That made it all the stranger seeing Dayne working in the armory like a punishment detail. She had never seen such a Candidate doing such a thing before. Nonetheless, Dayne was in the armory, diligent and attentive as he inspected the weapons.

  “Dayne,” Jerinne announced herself. “I’m going to need sword and shield.”

  “Shield and sword,” Dayne responded, almost as if by instinct. He took a long moment, looking at all the shields on the rack, before finding one and giving it to Jerinne. “This was the one I used for my Third-Year Trials. It’s one of the True Tarian shields.”

  “How can you know?” Jerinne asked. “True” Tarian shields were a thing Initiates whispered about, but no one knew exactly what that meant, and no one above them ever gave a straight answer. Each shield had some minor variation in design, but on the whole they were painted with a series of concentric circles, with the Tarian emblem in the center. Jerinne didn’t notice anything different about it as she put her arm through the straps.

  “I just know,” Dayne said. “How’s the weight?”

  “Good,” Jerinne answered. It did feel right on her arm, solid and comfortable. “And sword? Do you have a special one picked out there?”

  “No. A sword’s a sword.” Dayne said, taking one off the wall. He passed it over to Jerinne. “So you’re ready?”

  “I guess so,” Jerinne said.

  Dayne gave her an odd regard, pausing uncomfortably before he spoke. “Did I tell you the Question of the Bridge?”

  “No,” Jerinne said. “What’s that?”

  “Miss Fendall,” Ressin pressed.

  “Ask me later,” Dayne said. “Just . . . don’t forget what you are out there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jerinne asked. “I know I’m just an Initiate.”

  “Your rank is Initiate, but when you go out there, with that shield and that tunic . . . you’re a Tarian. Full stop.”

  “Miss Fendall,” Ressin pressed.

  “I need to go,” Jerinne said.

  Dayne smiled. “You need to say it.”

  “I don’t have time, Dayne.”

  “Jerinne,” Dayne said, dropping the smile and turning very serious. “You really do need to say it.”

  Jerinne sighed, and gave an apologetic glance to Ressin, who at least seemed to understand. She cleared her throat and gave the oath.

  “With Shield on arm and sword in hand

  I will not yield, but hold and stand,

  As I draw breath, I’ll allow no harm,

  And fight back death, with shield on arm.”

  Dayne nodded in approval. “Now get out there, Tarian.”

  Ressin led Jerinne off, past the main corridor, where Madam Tyrell and her assistant Initiates gave her a slight nod of approval. Good Mister Seabrook’s carriage was waiting across the street, and Ressin wasted no time loading Jerinne in and having it set off.

  “Fortunately the traffic here is light,” Ressin said, scanning down the road as the driver pressed the horses far faster than was typical. The carriage jolted and creaked. Jerinne wasn’t sure if the wheels could take it. The carriage proved to be solid enough to make it to Mister Seabrook’s home in quick order, though this time it pulled up the drive to the door. Ressin hopped out.

  “I will fetch Good Mister Seabrook. For the next leg, please take a place on the right-hand running board. I’ll be on the left.”

  Ressin was in and out of the house in moments, as Seabrook must have been waiting in the foyer. Seabrook was in full naval dress uniform with armor and belted sword. For his part, he had a bright grin, but Jerinne thought it was quite clear from the man’s eyes that it was a feigned buoyancy. “Quite the excitement, eh? I didn’t think I’d see another day like this since I stepped off the Heart of Glory!”

  “Indeed, sir,” Ressin said, loading his master into the carriage. Jerinne took her place on the runner, and Ressin took the other side and pounded the side to tell the driver to be off.

  The driver took the route to the Parliament with the same racing glee he had used to reach Seabrook’s home. It had been bad inside the carriage; standing on the runner, it was awful. Jerinne almost lost her grip several times. She saw no point to riding this way. The streets were mostly empty, and she wasn’t going to be any good protecting Seabrook if she fell off the carriage.

  The corner was turned to approach the Parliament. Suddenly it was clear why the streets were relatively empty.

  Parliament Plaza was mobbed.

  * * *

  In the armory Dayne was removed from most of the madness that was filling the chapterhouse. Occasionally someone would come in need of shield or sword—usually an Initiate. According to strict tradition, he wasn’t supposed to allow anyone to leave with their shield and sword without first giving the Oath of the Order, but he had only made Jerinne actually indulge him with that.

  She was too young, too inexperienced to be put in this position, and Dayne was worried. He realized now that too much had been put on his own head as a Candidate—which may be what led to the disaster in Lacanja. For the Order to put high expectations on a second-year Initiate . . . it was troubling. Especially letting a member of Parliament dictate such a thing, demanding Jerinne when she should be on Quiet Days. In all his studies of the history of the Order—of all twelve Orders—he had never heard of such a thing.

  “So is this your final service?” Amaya’s voice came from the doorway, piercing him through the heart.

  “I have another year of Candidacy,” Dayne said. “Did you think I would ignore that?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Dayne. All I know is three days ago the Grandmaster was almost weeping to have you back here. Today he can barely look at you.”

  “Clearly I haven’t pleased him,” Dayne said. “If he asks for my tunic and medallion, I’ll accept that.”

  “I don’t accept that!” She charged into the armory and grabbed him by the tunic. “There is no one else in the world I would say is more deserving of Adepthood than me. But you are. And you know why.”

  “There’s nothing I can do! It’s not about what’s in my heart or what’s on my arm! It’s about who’s on a committee!”

  “Dayne—”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand. Thoughts raced through his head, smashing together at odd angles. “Who is on that committee?”

  “You aren’t making any sense.”

  “Is the Grandmaster still here?”

  “No, he left,” she said. “Probably to attend directly on . . .”

  “Excuse me, gentles,” one of the servants said
, not stepping through the threshold, “but there is someone in the foyer who wishes audience with Mister Heldrin.”

  “Mister Heldrin is assigned to the armory,” Amaya said. There was a hint of a dare in her voice. “You can tell her that he cannot attend her.”

  The servant coughed. “The gentleman in the foyer did give a card.” He held it out, and Amaya snatched it.

  “Maresh Niol of The Veracity Press? Are you giving interviews?”

  “No, he’s a friend,” Dayne said. He started for the door, but Amaya blocked him. “If you have even a drop of affection for me, Amaya, let me go.”

  Her pose faltered. “That’s why it’s so hard.”

  “Then come with me. Let’s see what he wants.”

  Maresh paced the floor of the foyer, his fingers twitching like they needed to be wrapped around a glass.

  “Dayne!” he shouted when they entered. “And . . . my lady.” He gave a slight bow to Amaya.

  “He has style,” Amaya said.

  “What’s going on?” Dayne asked. “Did you all discover something?”

  “No,” Maresh said. “I have no idea, and that’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After you left us last night—”

  “Left them?” Amaya asked. “I thought you were at Lady Mirianne’s household.”

  “I—I stopped to ask my friends here some questions.”

  “Oh, questions,” Amaya said. “Are you the ones who huddle in The Nimble Rabbit?”

  “We frequent there, yes, but, good miss, you are distracting me from my point, which is this: once you left, Hemmit decided to try discovering for himself where the Patriots were hidden. He has, over the past year, built up quite a few sources in unsavory places, which he often uses for the stories we write, and Lin usually assists him. Now, he goes in disguise, in an established character. As does Lin. And so—”

  “Your point, Maresh.”

  “My point is, he went to do just that, in hope of finding something about the Patriots. I expected them back around midnight.”

  “And?”

  “And, midnight came and went, with no sign. Dawn as well. And . . . you can see what happened last night. Something is building this morning as well, and I fear that Hemmit and Lin are deep in the middle of it.”

  “Why?” Amaya asked. “I mean, forgive me, I don’t know your friends, but couldn’t they have just, I don’t know, slipped off into some inn chamber for the night and lost track of time?”

  “You do not know them, good miss,” Maresh said. “Hemmit has many vices, including ones of debauchery, but he is not one to abandon a story or the truth. If he didn’t return to print an issue, it’s because he couldn’t.”

  “And if he couldn’t, you think it’s because he’s in trouble. Likely with the Patriots.”

  “Or worse,” Maresh said. “Hemmit will go too far for a story.”

  Amaya gave him a piercing look. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

  Maresh looked to the floor. “Hemmit would let himself get drawn in. Work with them. Not out of passion or belief, but to get the full truth of their story. And Lin . . . when Lin is in there with him, she goes completely into her persona.”

  Dayne wasn’t sure what to think. The truth was, he didn’t know any of them that well. Hemmit and Maresh, and Lin for that matter, were hot-blooded and filled with revolutionary ideals, placing their “truth” over cooler logic. They could easily sympathize with the Patriots, if not get turned completely. “So . . . you think they might have helped kill Yessinwood?”

  “No, I . . . I don’t think they would. But I don’t know where they are or what could happen, and I didn’t know who else to go to.”

  “And I don’t know what to do,” Dayne said. “Even if we had any sense of where they might be, what they were going to do, what can I . . . I’m already . . .” He stumbled on his words. As much bravado as he had had saying he’d turn in his tunic and medallion if asked, he couldn’t bear it. What could he do without further incurring the Grandmaster’s wrath? “Amaya, can you . . .”

  “I have my own assignment, and I’m already late.”

  “But . . .”

  “Dayne,” Amaya said. “The cart is on the track. Do you pull the switch, or let it crash?”

  Dayne smiled. He knew exactly how to answer that question.

  “Let’s go find our friends, Maresh.”

  Third Interlude

  ALL THE GRAND TEN were assembled. This time no one gave any excuses or trouble, or made any fuss about wearing their masks. Everyone followed protocol to the letter.

  No one wanted things to go wrong.

  And as far as Barton was concerned, he was more at risk than anyone else in the room, save for Millerson.

  “You’ve lost control of everything here, Barton!” The Duchess barked at him.

  “I’ve lost control?” She had just swept protocol out the door. “How much control could I have? Millerson was the one who was supposed to guide these ‘Patriots’ through his supposed ‘layers of separations.’”

  “Names!” Millerson insisted. “Those layers are working, I’ve made sure of that.”

  The Duchess was having none of it. “Are they? Or are they going to lead back to you, and then from you to here? Because if this place is discovered to be the heart of our council . . .”

  “Yes, we are well aware. You own the property.”

  “I don’t think you understand, dear Barton. I’ve tolerated being a public laughingstock. Oh, yes, Duchess Leighton is throwing her money away restoring the opera house. When will it open? Is she going broke?”

  “We appreciate your sacrifices, Duchess,” Millerson said.

  The Soldier coughed. “The question is, do we take steps, or do we let these things play out?”

  “I am tempted to let it play out,” Millerson said far too casually for Barton’s taste. “It may be out of control, but it isn’t hurting our better interests. I’ve made contact, and we’re taking control over these Patriots.”

  “Yessinwood is dead,” Barton said, hoping to shame his colleague a little. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “Yessinwood,” Millerson scoffed. “Had you ever spoken to him, beyond pleasantries? I never did. And it is a shame, but on the other hand, he was a Loyalist. That’s another Chair that could be filled with a Traditionalist.”

  “That’s a bit much,” The Mage said.

  “Perhaps, but if our coalition can retake the floor, I certainly wouldn’t object. Nor should you.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” she said. “I know that with your friends in the Leadership Chairs, my programs in Druth Intelligence will get the funding and approval they need.”

  “That we need you to have,” The Soldier added.

  These two were pragmatic, of course. Their primary concern was for the greater security of Druthal. And since Colonel Neills was vice-commandant of Fort Merritt, and would be made general and placed in command of the facility shortly—that promotion had already been greased through the parliamentary subcommittees and didn’t need full votes for approval. He was about to be in a position to shape the Druth Army in a very real way. He had plans to work closely with Major Silla Altarn, a mage in Druth Intelligence, whose goals involved greater militarized application of magic. They could have an amazing impact on Druthal’s security. Especially if the major was able to implement her Altarn Initiatives.

  When Barton was being honest with himself, he’d admit that he did not care for Major Altarn one bit. She used magic with an almost casual disregard, like she was brushing dust off her coat. He knew, intellectually, that mages were just like anyone else and he shouldn’t judge her for that. But though being encased in her cocoon of magic shielded them from sight and sound, it made the hairs on his arm stand up. He imagined she could kill them a
ll without her breath even quickening, if that was what she wanted.

  Despite that, he didn’t doubt her loyalty to the council or its cause, or to Druthal itself. The Loyalists and the Minties had been draining Altarn’s coffers dry, giving her no resources to fund her projects, which she believed were critical to improving Druthal’s overall strength. Barton had heard that some of her people had gone underground to continue their research. Literally. She had her own battles in Intelligence, and she was in the process of quietly maneuvering her people into key positions while undercutting the operatives who had been her adversaries all these years.

  Barton wanted a more secure nation—and giving more latitude to people like Neills and Altarn was the way to do it. A strong Druthal, with a strong king on the throne. He knew Prince Escaraine’s own views supported projects like the Altarn Initiatives. With him on the throne as Maradaine XIX, the True Line would be restored, and many of their goals would be realized.

  “Steps should be taken,” The Warrior said quietly. “Before the cost of lives is too high.”

  There were some halfhearted nods of assent.

  “I don’t disagree,” Barton said. “Though we must not put ourselves too much at risk. These few rogue Patriots are focused on the Parliament. After today the convocation is ended, and their fire will quietly extinguish itself.”

  “And don’t you two need to be there?” The Lord asked.

  “Not especially,” Barton said. “Nothing of consequence will be voted on. It’s just a procedural matter to end the convocation. A few absences are fine.”

  The Lady shook her head. “From what I’ve seen, hardly anyone is showing up. You may have a problem, Parliamentarian.”

  The Justice added, “If hardly anyone shows up, there’s no quorum.”

  “You think there’s a risk—” Barton started. What they were saying was suddenly clear. “If there’s no quorum, there’s no session, and if there’s no session, then the convocation cannot be disbanded.”