Chapter 4
JERINNE WANTED TO GET back to the chapterhouse relatively quickly, but right when they left, Dayne’s attention was drawn to a bit of bad theater at the south end of Victory Square. If it had been a funny bit, she would have understood, but it was just ten people in historical clothes lined up while a narrator droned on.
“And it is due to the Grand Ten, who fought and stood strong to bring us together, whose words and deeds define our new nation, that we now celebrate a reunited Druthal. We thank Geophry Haltom, The Parliamentarian, who raised up a rebellion within the city to throw off the Black Mage’s occupation. Who encouraged the newly enthroned king to form the Parliament, and wrote of the Rights of Man. We thank Jethiah Tull, The Man of the People, the farmer who diverted food and supplies from the mage’s armies to the citizens of the occupied city. We thank Baron Kelton Kege, The Lord, who was imprisoned for his refusal to bow to the Black Mage, who became a rallying point to end the terror of the Incursion.”
Each person onstage stepped forward at their introduction. After a few more, Dayne shook his head and stalked off. Jerinne chased after him.
“What was that?”
“Bad history,” he grumbled. “The Grand Ten is a simplified view of the people and events that formed the core of our nation today. Haltom was a writer of the Rights of Man, but he was one of eight people who worked on it. A dozen members of the peerage were imprisoned with Baron Kege. Have you read Professor Teal’s The Foundation of Modern Druthal?”
“No. . . .”
“It’s in the library at the chapterhouse. Read it.”
He walked in silence for several more blocks, even as Jerinne tried on multiple occasions to engage him in conversation. Whatever was gnawing at him, it wasn’t just about the play. It had started before lunch had even begun.
“So, my new gloves are lovely,” she said.
“It’s far too hot to wear them,” Dayne said quietly. “And will be for several months.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Jerinne said. She tried for a subject that was sure to engage Dayne: asking about the Tarians and other Elite Orders in a broad, historic context. “So, gloves are not part of our uniform, but surely there must be some sort of uniform alternatives for different seasons. The Cascians up in the mountains must have had gloves, I’m sure. But also Tarians elsewhere. They couldn’t expect a Tarian Adept to be in one of the brutal winters of Acora or the northern shores, and still hold sword and shield without gloves on.”
“Shield and sword,” he said absently.
Jerinne had said it wrong on purpose hoping it would snap him back.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Then what was I talking about?”
“The gloves Lady Mirianne gave you at the store. I do hope your Waishen-haired shopgirl still earned her commission from those.”
Jerinne didn’t know how it worked if Lady Mirianne just gave her the gloves. “Well, that’s an excuse to go back and give her a tip.”
“I thought you were sweet on—what’s her name? Raila?”
Jerinne’s heart almost stopped. She had never told Dayne. “How the blazes do you know that?”
“It’s pretty plain on your face whenever you see her. Even if one doesn’t know your preference, it’s impossible to miss.”
She had never actually told Dayne anything about how she felt about Raila, or how she felt about other girls in general. She hadn’t told anyone at all, except possibly Miss Jessel, Lady Mirianne’s handmaid, and only after several glasses of wine and whiskey. And those memories were fuzzy at best.
She chose her next words very carefully. “And how do you feel about it?”
This actually got him to stop walking in a semi-daze. “I won’t lie, I was raised to see that sort of thing as sin, and I probably held that view through most of my Initiacy.”
That wasn’t exactly an answer. “Most of it?”
“Then Fredelle cracked a quarterstaff on my leg and told me I was being an ‘idiot of the highest order.’”
“Did she?” Jerinne asked. Her estimation of the woman went up. “Is she—”
“Maybe,” Dayne said. “At the time I made a comment about two young men in the second year who were caught together. Fredelle reminded me—painfully—that it was no different from what Amaya and I were doing at the time.”
“I’ve heard those stories.”
“You have?” Dayne seemed scandalized.
Jerinne regretted saying it. “Vien mentioned it.”
“Oh.” He pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “Lacanja opened my eyes. It’s the sort of thing that is far more . . . liberated there. If that’s the right word.”
“I think it’s a good word,” Jerinne said. Maybe she should go to Lacanja. “Maradaine is kind of a stuffy city, no?”
“It’s different,” Dayne said. “I hope—” He paused for a moment. “Were I to become a Tarian Adept . . .”
Were he? That sounded foolish. “Of course you are,” she told him.
“Nothing is certain,” he said darkly. “But were I, I would like to be assigned to a wandering post, going from city to city as needed. Really see the whole country.”
“Really?”
“Those protestors came up from Scaloi. And, that’s part of this nation, yet so different. And I don’t know anything about it other than the stereotypes.”
“Stern, religious-minded folk?” Jerinne asked. The one from the Irregulars—Argenitte? She didn’t do much to counter that image.
“I’m just reminded how much of what I know of Druthal is academic.” He sighed again. “I didn’t enjoy living in Lacanja, but it helped me realize so many things I didn’t know about the world. Not just about . . . people’s romantic flexibility.”
She looked at him, and he was blushing bright red. “We don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “But I’m glad you don’t disapprove.”
“Of you?” Dayne smiled. “I don’t think I ever could.”
They entered the chapterhouse—an old city manor house from the tenth century, repurposed for their Order’s needs—to find it buzzing with activity. That made sense—tomorrow was the first official day of Initiacy, and many of the first-years were settling into their barracks, still getting the feel of the place. Jerinne remembered that from two years ago, and how glad she was to have met Raila and Enther and Iondo in those first days.
Iondo washed out in that first year, but he was a good sort.
Several of those first-years were outright running through the entrance hall, which startled Kevo, the old blind dog that rarely got up from its pile of blankets in the corner.
“Ease down,” Dayne shouted to them. “You all need to respect this place.”
The two first-year boys stopped in their tracks and just stared at Dayne in stunned silence.
“You two!” Madam Tyrell called from the top of the stairs. “Where have you been?”
One of the first-years found his voice. “Us two, or them two?”
“Those two,” she said with annoyance. “You scatter. Calmly.”
The boys did just that.
“Is something wrong, Amaya?” Dayne asked.
“I thought the day was ours,” Jerinne said.
Madam Tyrell reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, but it would have been helpful to know where you were. Because—oh.” She was staring at Jerinne’s hands. He voice went cold. “You were at the opening of that store, of course.”
Jerinne held up the gloved hand. “You like?”
For just a moment, she looked at the gloves appreciatively. “They actually are—but that doesn’t matter. What matters is you’ve had pages waiting for you, and they’ve been here some time.”
“I apologize,” Dayne said. “They didn’t just leave their messages?”
“No,” she said. “They had to make sure they were delivered into your hands.” Jerinne had no idea why such a thing would be necessary, but the furrowing of Dayne’s brow made her think he knew exactly why.
“That shouldn’t have been your problem,” he said.
“Yes, well,” Madam Tyrell said through her teeth. “Somehow having the lowest seniority of the Adepts means a lot of things are my problem. Anyhow, they’re waiting in the dining hall.”
“Wait,” Jerinne said. “Pages for him, or for me?”
“Both,” Madam Tyrell said. “Come on.”
She led them into the dining hall, where three young boys, dressed in sharp suits, were waiting at one of the tables. An empty plate with the evidence of stray crumbs sat in the middle of them.
“Here they are,” Madam Tyrell said. “Do your business and shove off.”
One of the three boys hopped to his feet. “You are Dayne Heldrin?” he asked.
“Yes,” Dayne said.
The boy presented a letter to Dayne. “From the office of Marshal Chief Donavan Samsell. You are requested to come to Parliament Hall and present yourself to him immediately upon receipt.”
“I—what?”
“Immediately, sir,” the boy said. “So let’s away.”
“Hold on,” one of the other boys said. “I got my thing.”
“Is your thing immediate, or of government import?” the parliamentary page asked. “No, so piss in your mouth.”
“Saints, son,” Dayne said. “There’s no need for that.”
“He should know his place in the order of things,” the parliamentary page said.
“Ease it down,” Dayne said. Looking at the other one, he asked, “What do you have?”
The boy presented his letter. “From the offices of the High City Protector, sir.”
Dayne opened the letter and scanned it, his face darkening.
“What is it?” Jerinne asked.
“It’s about Tharek’s trial,” Dayne said. “The protector wants to establish my testimony.”
“I got a letter about that a week ago,” Madam Tyrell said.
“They want me to go in next week for initial statements,” Dayne said. He looked at the third boy. “And you’re here for her?”
“Is she Jerinne Fendall?” he asked, running his finger on the empty plate, and then licking it. “And are there more pastries?”
“No,” Madam Tyrell said sharply.
“Hmph.”
“I’m Jerinne Fendall, yes,” Jerinne said.
“Yeah,” the kid said, getting to his feet. “You’re requested to come to the offices of the archduke’s justice advocate tomorrow afternoon.” He handed her the letter.
“Justice advocate?” Dayne asked. “Why are you getting that?”
Jerinne opened the letter, just as confused. “I don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense unless—”
Then she saw it, written plain. The justice advocate was calling upon her to give testimony in Tharek’s trial. Tharek Pell, the man who had killed four members of Parliament, countless marshals, and had snapped Jerinne’s leg like a twig. And they were calling her to give testimony.
For his defense.
Parliament Square was relatively quiet this afternoon, probably because the Parliament wasn’t in session. Even still, a handful of protestors with “The True Line Lives” signs, and a few more with “Open the Chairs,” congregated in front of the steps. Even these protestors didn’t seem to have their hearts into it today, mostly standing listlessly, not engaging any passersby.
Dayne went up the steps to the main entrance of the Parliament without being molested by any of them. He had a strange twinge of melancholy over that. Not that he wanted to be engaged by the True Line people, but he did have some sympathy for the Open Chairs movement. It wasn’t right that Druth citizens in Monitel or Corvia had no representation in Parliament, let alone the people in the island colonies.
A King’s Marshal—barely any older than Jerinne—stood guard at the door. “Sir,” he said, trying to hold a hand up to stop Dayne. The boy looked petrified, probably because he was imagining what he would have to do if Dayne just barreled through him.
“Yes?” Dayne asked.
“There’s no public business here today, sir,” the young marshal said. “I’m afraid—” He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to turn around.”
“I’ve been asked here,” Dayne said. He quickly realized that he sounded brusque, even rude. His new job was going to involve liaising with the marshals; he might as well start here. He put on a broad smile, extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Dayne. I’m with the Tarian Order. I was asked here by Marshal Chief Samsell?”
“Oh,” the boy said. Despite looking unsure, he took Dayne’s hand and shook it. “Kipping. I—I wasn’t briefed about anyone coming, but, well . . . I wasn’t briefed on anything at all, frankly. I think that Chief Samsell is down in the lower levels, but . . .”
“But?”
“Are you cleared to go into the lower offices?”
Dayne shrugged. “I’m supposed to be a liaison between you all and the Orders. A page came and told me to come meet with him. You want to turn me away, Kipping, that’s your business. But that’s on you.”
Kipping held up one finger and slipped inside for a moment. After a bit he came out with another marshal, this one with a first class officer chevron on his collar. “Can I help you?”
“Dayne Heldrin, of the Tarian Order. Here to see—”
“Chief Samsell, yes,” the officer said. “My apologies, we’re still in a bit of—” He looked at Kipping with a hint of disdain. “Disarray right now.”
“I understand,” Dayne said as the officer opened the door to lead him in.
The corridor circumnavigating the Parliament floor was brilliant, marble shining like Dayne had never seen. “Do you usually clean this much between Parliament convocations?”
“We don’t, no,” the officer said. “We’re King’s Marshals, not washerwomen.” He sighed and looked around. “Also, it’s not typical for there to be a massacre here.”
Dayne winced a bit. “Yes, there—there was a lot to clean up.”
“Right, you were here,” the officer said, leading him to a stairwell. “The hero of the day. Do you know how many marshals died that day?”
“Quite a few,” Dayne said.
“Twenty-seven,” the officer said. “Including the traitor, Regine Toscan.”
“Yes, I know,” Dayne said.
“The point is, we’ve had to rebuild the security for the Parliament building from the foundations. New blood all around. Still a lot of training to do.”
“I completely understand,” Dayne said, though he felt this officer was driving at something he wasn’t quite catching.
The officer brought him to a door, grabbing the knob in a way that was nearly an act of aggression. “I’m saying, the Parliament is our jurisdiction, Tarian. Be aware of that.”
Dayne decided not to rise to this man’s level. “We’re all here to serve Druthal, friend.” He went in before the officer could answer.
Dayne had entered a command center—the walls were lined with maps and slateboards, showing details of each of the ten archduchies, cities listed with names and dates, routes marked on the maps. A dozen marshals were working at desks, writing on the boards, sifting through reports. Most of them were so involved, they didn’t even notice him—save the pale, fair-haired man in the marshal chief’s uniform, who was talking to an older gentleman in an expensive suit.
“Dayne Heldrin,” he said, coming over and extending his hand. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
Dayne took his hand. “Marshal Chief Samsell, I assume?”
“Please, Donavan,” he said. “Welcome to our little war room, as I like to call it.”
“War room?” Dayne asked, raising an eyebrow. “What war would that be?”
Samsell put on a smile. “That would be the election. Or at least, the national part of the Parliamentary election. City and archduchy results are handled elsewhere.”
“I never would have thought of it as a war.”
“That’s because you’ve never had to administrate it.” Samsell led him over to a desk at the far end of the room. “Forgive my manners. The honorable Wesley Benedict, Second Chair of Lacanja.”
Dayne had his hand out instinctively before he registered the name. Mister Benedict looked down at the offered hand with disgust.
“I’m aware of Mister Heldrin. He’s the one who gets people killed and cripples children.”
“Sir, I—” Dayne sputtered out.
“No, don’t even,” Benedict said. “If I had my way, you’d be nowhere near this building, and never wear that uniform again. Instead I’ll settle for making sure you don’t get to wear it after your Candidacy is through. And be assured, Mister Heldrin, I will be doing that.”
Dayne couldn’t find voice to respond to that.
“I understand you have business with Mister Heldrin, Marshal, so I’ll take my leave. Please try not to have our paths cross again.” He walked off at a brisk pace.
“Dayne, I am . . . I am so very sorry, I had no idea.”
Dayne swallowed hard, pushing down the bile and shame rising in his throat. Because as cruel as it was, Mister Benedict was not wrong. Everything he said was true. Gritting his teeth, Dayne said, “You were telling me about the election?”
Samsell nodded. “Yes, of course. Each archduchy holds its own election on its own timeline, overseen by its election officiants. The King’s Marshals coordinate oversight for the Parliamentary aspect. Our people are across the country, hoping to keep corruption to a minimum.”
“Not eliminate it?”
“That would be ideal,” Samsell said, sitting at the desk. “But I am a realist. Do you know what running this all entails?”
Dayne wasn’t sure how to read this man. From any other marshal that question would have been a swipe, a thinly veiled attack. With any other marshal, he would suspect the scene with Benedict was a deliberate ploy to undermine him. But Marshal Chief Donavan Samsell seemed to be genuinely interested in explaining things to Dayne—genuinely interested in Dayne. He may have been the first marshal Dayne had met who hadn’t reacted to a Tarian with instant aggression.
“I presume votes are counted locally, tallied, and results are sent to Maradaine.”
“Roughly, yes, but more complicated than that,” Samsell said. “The counting and tallying has been done on local levels, those results brought by officiants and marshals to the offices of the archdukes and their appointed governors and assemblies, who organize the official vote counts for the archduchy. Not just the winners, but tally sheets from all the precincts with the details of all the results.”
“All right, that makes sense, and then that’s sent to Maradaine?”
“Sealed by the archduke’s office, then locked in strongboxes, and those and the officiants travel to Maradaine—under marshal protection—for formal certification.”
“And you’re coordinating that here?”
“Precisely,” Samsell said. “I’ve served as chief of operations for elections for six years now. It’s a great responsibility, and one I take very seriously. I’ve studied you, Dayne Heldrin, so I know you understand exactly what I’m talking about.”
“It’s a job that needs to be done with reverence,” Dayne said. “It’s a sac—”
“A sacred right of the Druth people, and we must honor their wishes, and through that, honor the throne and the crown.” He chuckled. “Yes, I’ve read all of that as well.”
“So what are you looking to me for?”
“Well, a few things. Right now, I’m also serving as the interim chief of Parliament sanctity. The former chief was, of course, Regine Toscan.” He spit on the ground as he said that. “That’s because I’m already here and working out of this office, so the bosses at the Royal Bureau feel that physical proximity is a good enough reason to give me the job.”
“You need my help with that, then?”
“No, but thank you,” Samsell said. “With Parliament between convocations, the duties for that role are light, and Chief Quoyell will be taking the formal position in a few days, as he’s coming from Hechard. You’ll meet him in due course, I’m sure.”
Dayne already liked Chief Samsell, but he realized the man was in no particular hurry to find his way to a point. “So what do you need from me?”
“You’re going to be working as a liaison between us, the Orders, the Parliament, and other forms of formal authority in the city. Constabulary, archduchy sheriffs, whatever is needed.”
“I hadn’t been fully briefed on those duties, but I’m up for whatever is needed of me, to serve the Order and the nation.”
“Good, first off is your quartering.”
“Quartering?”
“I’m given to understand your appointment is through the crown and Parliament, not the Tarian Order. As such, you’ve been assigned a staff apartment here in the building.”
That gave Dayne a bit of pause. “I was not expecting that.”
Samsell shrugged. “I mean, no one is going to force you to sleep here, but you will have quarters for your use here. You might find that useful.”
“Of course,” Dayne said. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.”
“Dayne,” Samsell said, putting a hand on Dayne’s shoulder. “This is going to be new territory for all of us. I’m not going to get offended if a few mistakes happen here and there.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Anyhow, you’ll be on a lower level suite, number twenty-seven. It’s actually one of the nicer ones here.”
“Who else lives in those apartments?”
“Mostly Parliamentary staff. Not the staff and secretaries for the members, but the scribes, floor functionaries, cleaning staff. Those people.”
“And the marshals on duty?”
“We have bunks down in these offices, two levels below you, but we don’t formally quarter here.” He shrugged. “There actually is a rule against us quartering here, if you can believe it. We’re overburdened with bureaucracy. You’ll probably get your share of it.”
“All right,” Dayne said. “I’m sensing you wanted me here for more than just telling me where my room is.”
“I am.” Samsell picked up a folder from his desk. “Several of the voting sites were disrupted today in the city. You were at one disruption, yes?”
“At Henson’s Majestic,” Dayne said. “You mean the protestors?”
“Separatists. Tried to stop people from voting.” He handed the folder over. “They’re called the Open Hand—”
“From Scaloi, I gathered,” Dayne said. “I thought they were arrested.”
“They were, but odds are against formal charges being laid. But I’m less concerned about what they did today, and more about what they might do over the next few days.”
“What happens over the next few days?”
“All the election results from all ten archduchies—save Maradaine, since voting today isn’t done—are on their way to the city. Here they will be validated and the official election results will be announced on Reunification Day.”
This was in line with Dayne’s own understanding—of course Reunification Day would be the formal announcement, it always had been.
“And you think the Open Hand might—” Dayne let it hang.
“There’s credible intelligence of attempts to undermine the validity of the election process. Disrupting the voting, for one. They did it today, and several sites in South Maradaine were disrupted a few days ago on Sauriya’s election day.”
“By the Open Hand?”
“It’s unclear who was responsible. There are several disruptive groups in the city. Some separatists, some extremists, some . . . just troublemakers. But any and all could create trouble.”
“Of course,” Dayne said. “Whatever you need, I’ll pass on to the Grandmaster.”
“Good, but there is more to do, including sharing what we know with the press, when the moment is right. That’s part of what I need from you.”
“Sharing with the press?”
Samsell shrugged. “For better or worse, Dayne, you’re something of a golden child right now. Lauded for saving the Parliament, capturing Tharek Pell, and you have the favor of the press and the crown. We can use that right now, and that helps the government and helps your Order.”
“How so?”
“By you, standing up in your uniform, shield on your arm, representing the Order as you address the people of the press. Telling them what is going on, using your honesty and credibility to get the truth out there.”
“If that’s what you need . . .” Dayne said, though he wasn’t fully convinced.
“Excellent,” Samsell said. “Now, beyond that, I think we need to deal with the Open Hand, specifically. But quietly, informally. That’s an area where your status helps us greatly. I’d like you to investigate personally. Did you meet their leader today?”
“There was a woman in a cloistress habit. Is she—”
“That’s one of his ringleaders. Sister Frienne Okall. She’s in the file there. But the leader is this man—” Samsell opened the folder to the first page, which included a charcoal sketch of a man in a priest’s cassock, with wild hair and even wilder beard. In the sketch, he looked like he was shouting at a crowd, red-faced and angry, pointing at someone whom he seemed to be damning to an eternity with the sinners.
“And this is?”
“Bishop Ret Issendel. The leader of the Open Hand, and candidate for one of the Scallic Chairs in Parliament. He’s here in the city, Dayne, and I need your help to stop him.”
Jerinne had found herself in a daze after getting the letter, which lasted through dinner, her evening exercises, and meditation, which she went through like a wind-up gearbox going through its prescribed motions. There was more than one time that Raila tried to engage with her during each of those activities, and if she had responded, she didn’t remember.
Instead of going to bed she walked the grounds of the chapterhouse, through the stone garden path that circled the bathhouse and the armory. The garden was lovely, well-maintained by the house staff, and in the purple haze of the late summer twilight it felt especially magical.
“You should be in bed, Initiate.”
Madam Tyrell came out of the bathhouse, wrapped in a drycloth, her hair damp.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Jerinne said, keeping her eyes to the ground. “I . . . I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
“That’s why I tend to bathe now,” Madam Tyrell said. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Are you talking about Initiacy training, or being called to the defense of Tharek Pell?”
Madam Tyrell gave a rueful chuckle. “I meant the start of third year, but that definitely is something to consider. That’s what has you distracted?”
“Among other things,” Jerinne said. “I met someone from your cohort today. Fredelle Pence?”
“Really?” Madam Tyrell’s tone told Jerinne she had made a mistake. “And what was Freddy doing at Henson’s Majestic?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” Jerinne said cautiously. “I think she was initially there for the parade.”
“The parade?” Madam Tyrell shook her head. “She was in the parade, wasn’t she? Part of that Royal Irregarded unit?”
“Royal Irregulars,” Jerinne said quietly, even though she could tell from Madam Tyrell’s face that nothing good would come from saying it.
Madam Tyrell sighed. “Third-year Initiacy, Freddy was a miracle with the quarterstaff.”
“I heard you were better.”
“I was better,” Madam Tyrell snapped reflexively. “But I was better at everything. Freddy fumbled with her shield work, with the sword, and . . . her ranking plummeted among the third-years.” Rankings came out tomorrow, and Madam Tyrell must know where Jerinne stood. “So she washed out. And now she’s a show pony in a skirt.”
Jerinne almost said, “She seems happy,” but bit her tongue before that came out.
“Get to bed, Jerinne,” Madam Tyrell said. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”