“For the election,” Dayne said. “I know it was a few months ago, but today it matters.”
“New Parliament, same as the old one,” Jerinne said.
“It is important. And who knows what these new voices will bring.”
“Hopefully some new ideas.” Bishop Ret Issendel—or rather, Good Mister Issendel, 10th Chair of Scaloi—approached with another one of the new members. “It’s good to see you, Dayne.”
Dayne took his hand warmly. Despite not agreeing with Ret’s politics, Dayne liked the man quite a bit. They both had one strong piece of common ground: they believed in peaceful solutions.
“How was your trip home?” Dayne asked.
“My affairs are in order,” Ret said. “Though I will miss the hot rains of Korifina.”
“It’s pretty damn warm here,” his colleague said. “Ain’t right.” He had an unusual accent for a member of Parliament—no sense of educational refinement. He talked like a stevedore from the Kyst docks.
“But right now, Korifina is hot, and it’s a luscious, moist heat that fills your bones. Maradaine is dry.”
“Also ain’t right.”
“Dayne, have you met Golman Haberneck? The new 10th Chair of Sauriya?”
“I have not met any of the new members, save you,” Dayne said. He offered his hand to Haberneck. “Hi, I’m Dayne. Dayne Heldrin of the Tarian Order.”
“I know who you are,” Haberneck said, taking Dayne’s hand with a grip that matched his dockworker accent. He then pointed a meaty finger at Jerinne. “And you. You two get things done, and that’s what this city needs. What this whole blasted country needs. With your pardon, Rev.”
“I’m not a member of the clergy anymore, Golman,” Ret said. “Feel free to speak as profanely as you please.”
“Tenth chair of Sauriya,” Jerinne said quietly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. If you’ll excuse me.” She went off toward the banquet table.
“I say something wrong?” Haberneck asked.
Dayne realized exactly what had upset her. “You’re replacing Mister Seabrook. She was . . . he was killed under her protection.”
“Oh, I’m a rutting fool,” Haberneck said. He looked over to where Jerinne went. “Apologizing would just make it worse. I’ll let her be.”
Ret cleared his throat. “Golman wanted a word with you about a security concern.”
“I don’t know much about that yet,” Dayne said.
“It’s not about the Parliament itself,” Haberneck said. “But rather—”
“Dayne!” Donavan Samsell came back over, taking Dayne by the shoulder. “My apologies, gentlemen, but duty calls us.”
“Of course,” Ret said.
“I’ll find you later,” Haberneck said.
Donavan guided Dayne over to the podium where members of the press were gathered about. “I know you hate this, but about the assassin—”
Dayne sighed. He understood exactly what was expected of him. “I’ll say we are pleased a greater tragedy was averted but we will need time to investigate before we have any further answers.”
“Perfect,” Donavan said. “See, you are very good at this.”
Dayne refrained from sighing. Donavan was right, and that was probably a good thing. Dayne was well aware he would never be a true member of the Tarian Order. His mistakes had already made him enemies, and in a few months, his third year of Candidacy would end, and he would leave the Order forever.
In that time he needed to reconcile what meaning his life would have without it.
Hemmit Eyairin never would have imagined that when he launched The Veracity Press with his two closest friends, it would reach the point where he was covering the Royal Authentication of the Parliament. He had written about it before, of course. Last year he had published a scathing piece on how decadent and depraved the event was, how it showed the royal and ruling classes as more concerned with their own comforts than the needs of the people.
Now he was an invited guest. Now The Veracity Press was backed and funded. It was still the same newssheet, no change in tone or viewpoint. They continued to call out the Parliament, the nobility, the corruption against the people of Maradaine and Druthal. But now they could print more, pay the paperboys better, reach far more readers. Thanks to Lady Mirianne Henson.
Thanks to her, and thanks to Dayne, they had funding and they had access. Which gave them the opportunity to ask hard questions of the powerful.
“These pastries are incredible,” Lin said as she took three more off the tray. Lin Shartien, reporter, dancer, and mage. Always brilliant, beautiful, and hungry. She was enjoying the decadence of the event far more than she probably should, but Hemmit could hardly blame her for that.
The Royal Gardens of King Maradaine XVIII were quite spectacular, and while the expense that went into cultivating and maintaining them had to be enormous, Hemmit had to admire the craft behind it. That money, he told himself, was providing jobs for common people who worked the grounds. They were skilled craftspeople and artists, and patronage of such people was for the common good.
Just like their own patronage was.
“You’ve got a guilty face,” Lin said, her typically rich Linjari accent subdued.
“Don’t you think we’ve gone too far, being at something like this?”
“You’re sounding like Maresh,” she said. “There’s no purity in not getting our stories out there.”
Maresh Niol, who handled the art for the Veracity, had opted to stay at the press office. They had a proper office now. Maresh had been increasingly vocal about his discomfort with being funded by a member of the peerage. Hemmit understood where he was coming from, but it wasn’t as if Lady Mirianne had ever asked them to change a story or curb their rhetoric. If anything, she encouraged them to write exactly what they wished.
“Is there a risk of getting corrupted, though?”
“For you? Never.” Amaya Tyrell, the young Adept of the Tarian Order, had approached quietly. She looked stunning and powerful in her dress uniform, her dark hair artfully styled to cascade down one side of her face.
“Good to see a friendly face,” he said.
“I am surprised to see you here,” she said. “But it’s good to see you as well. Both of you.”
“We hear the Tarians will be
