A Parliament of Bodies Read online

  Raves for the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:

  “Superb characters living in a phenomenal fantasy world, with a detective story that just sucks you right into the storyline. Marshall Ryan Maresca impressed me with The Thorn of Dentonhill, but A Murder of Mages has secured me as a fan.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Veranix is Batman, if Batman were a teenager and magically talented. . . . Action, adventure, and magic in a school setting will appeal to those who love Harry Potter and Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind.”

  —Library Journal (starred)

  “Books like this are just fun to read.”

  —The Tenacious Reader

  “The perfect combination of urban fantasy, magic, and mystery.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Marshall Ryan Maresca is some kind of mad genius. . . . Not since Terry Pratchett’s Ankh Morpork have we enjoyed exploring every angle of an invented locale quite this much.”

  —B&N Sci-fi & Fantasy Blog

  “Maresca’s debut is smart, fast, and engaging fantasy crime in the mold of Brent Weeks and Harry Harrison. Just perfect.”

  —Kat Richardson, national bestselling author of Revenant

  “Maresca offers something beyond the usual high fantasy fare, with a wealth of unique and well-rounded characters, a vivid setting, and complicatedly intertwined social issues that feel especially timely.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  DAW Books presents the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:

  Maradaine:

  THE THORN OF DENTONHILL

  THE ALCHEMY OF CHAOS

  THE IMPOSTERS OF AVENTIL

  *

  Maradaine Constabulary:

  A MURDER OF MAGES

  AN IMPORT OF INTRIGUE

  A PARLIAMENT OF BODIES

  *

  Streets of Maradaine:

  THE HOLVER ALLEY CREW

  LADY HENTERMAN’S WARDROBE

  THE FENMERE JOB*

  *

  Maradaine Elite:

  THE WAY OF THE SHIELD

  SHIELD OF THE PEOPLE*

  PEOPLE OF THE CITY*

  *Coming soon from DAW

  Copyright © 2019 by Marshall Ryan Maresca.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Paul Young.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1818.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780756412678

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise for Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Also by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  A Parliament of Bodies was a challenging book to write, and I’m grateful to all the little ways people made it easier.

  It’s a cliché, but where would I be without my wife, Deidre Kateri Aragon? Probably not writing the acknowledgments to my ninth novel, that’s for certain. She’s a friend and partner and a source of unending support. As is the rest of my family—my son Nicholas, my parents Nancy and Lou, and my mother-in-law Kateri.

  I have been blessed to have Sheila Gilbert as my editor. She’s been an absolute joy to work with as we’ve shaped the Maradaine stories into what they are. The entire team at DAW (Betsy, Josh, Katie, Leah, and Lindsay) have made this book and this series (and series of serieses) everything they can be.

  Daniel J. Fawcett deserves a world of credit for everything that is in these books, the foundation for the world behind them. He’s been the proverbial “guy in the chair” for me all these years, and I am ever so grateful.

  Finally let me talk about the beta-readers: Miriam Robinson Gould and Kevin Jewell. They’re the ones who’ve been there for the run of Maradaine and offered priceless advice on how things work in the story. Miriam, especially, has proven to be an effective emotional barometer for the things that happen in the story. I do some mean things to my characters, and Miriam always lets me know when I break her heart.

  Reader, this book broke her heart a lot. Fair warning.

  Prologue

  DAYNE HELDRIN DID not care for his apartments in the lower floors of the Parliament building. They were well appointed and comfortable, certainly, but it didn’t change the fact he was living there in exile.

  “Exile” was an extreme term. But his “residency” at the Parliament, acting as a liaison between the government, the King’s Marshals, and his own Tarian Order, was clearly an intentional isolation from the rest of the Order at the chapterhouse. He spent half his time running around the city. Even yesterday, a Saint Day, he was occupied by minutia and kept out and about on pointless errands, hand-delivering messages that any page could carry. He was being used as a footman in a political game and he didn’t know who the players were, what the game was, or even what the board looked like.

  But he would perform the duties assigned to him. As long as he was a Tarian—even as just a third-year Candidate—he would strive to be an exemplar of the ideals of the Order. He would serve the needs of the Parliament, serve king and nation, be the shield between all and harm.

  The apartment had a shield hanging on the wall. His shield, in theory, but not a true Tarian shield. It was something the Parliamentary staff only put
here as a display, some form of placation. To make him feel like a proper Tarian, when he was almost certain to be cashiered once the third year of his Candidacy ended in nine months.

  And all for one mistake, not saving the right person from the wrong man.

  Now that wrong man might be here, in Maradaine.

  After his morning exercises, Dayne made a simple breakfast of tea and oats, and sat down with the newssheets. A seventh murder, by the person the newssheets were calling the “Gearbox Killer,” was splashed over several of the papers. Sensationalist pabulum, using human life as the currency to sell paper and ink. Each story focused on the most lurid and gory of details. Dayne read through them all as he ate, even though it made his stomach curdle. He had to push through, learn more. He wasn’t certain, because the name hadn’t appeared yet, and with that name the gloating need to claim responsibility for these deaths. Not yet.

  But everything else looked just like the stories in Lacanja from last year. He was certain that these murders were the work of the same man. He made a note of the inspectors on the case. They needed to know what he knew.

  His reverie was disturbed by a knock on his door. Dayne answered it, one of the newssheets still in his hand.

  “Morning, Dayne.” Jerinne Fendall, the capable young woman who was now a third-year Initiate in the Tarian Order, strode into his apartment with confidence. She had earned that confidence as far as he was concerned. Over the past few months, he had developed a certain kinship with her. He had never had any siblings, but Jerinne was much like a little sister. And to him, she was little, even though she was taller than almost any other seventeen-year-old girl. But most people only came up to Dayne’s chest.

  She had been there at his right arm through several challenges—eager to learn, eager to help. She was, in many ways, his hope for the future of the Order. Presuming that she wasn’t kicked out before finishing her Initiacy.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the chapterhouse?” he asked her as she came in.

  “Morning drills are done, and the rest of the third-years are working with their mentors for the rest of the day.”

  “So you came to me,” Dayne said. Her Initiacy was in trouble, despite her martial skill and placement in the rankings. For some reason, Grandmaster Orren had prevented her from establishing a formal mentorship with one of the Masters or Adepts in the Order, instead insisting that she be informally assigned to Dayne. There was a nominal excuse that involved her recovering from injuries, but from everything Dayne had seen, Jerinne was fully healed and back on her feet.

  Maybe she was being punished for her fellowship with him. Maybe they were both too politically inconvenient, and they were being cordoned off from the rest of the Order. Like a quarantine.

  “Still following that?” she asked, looking at the newssheet.

  “Unfortunately,” he said. “I was hoping to talk with Hemmit and Maresh today about it.”

  “But before you do that . . .” she said, an energetic gleam in her eye.

  “We can’t continue this much longer. Once the Parliament session begins—”

  “I know, I know,” Jerinne said. “But I need further sparring practice if I’m going to keep my ranking. Can we run through the Shield and Staff Drills?”

  He nodded. “Let me just—”

  He was interrupted by the clanging of alarm bells, the likes of which he had never heard before. He didn’t even know there were bells like that in the Parliament building. Something must be catastrophically wrong.

  He grabbed a sword off the wall and tossed it to Jerinne, and then grabbed the shield for himself. The weight of it was all wrong, but it was the best he had right now.

  He charged up the stairs to the entrance floor of the Parliament. He could already hear the commotion there. The alarm bells continued, but people were also shouting and crying. At the top of the stairs, one of the King’s Marshals was doubled over, retching.

  “Is it an attack?” Dayne asked him.

  “It’s horrible—” the marshal, a very young one, said. “I’ve never . . .”

  Another marshal was in a panic. “Get the chief! Call the Yellowshields! Call the Fire Brigade! Call everyone!”

  Dayne followed the focus of their attention—through the main doors leading to the Parliament floor, the very seat of the Government of Druthal. He went to see, but didn’t get past the doorway.

  It was a horror beyond his worst nightmare.

  And yet so familiar. This was certain, now. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this atrocity of engineering and gearwork and bodies and pain, on such an unimaginable scope, had been delivered literally to Dayne’s doorstep.

  Sholiar was here.

  “Jerinne,” he said quietly, forcing his voice to be as calm as possible. “Can you run?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Run across the river, to Inemar. As fast as you can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need Inspectors Minox Welling and Satrine Rainey. Immediately.”

  Chapter 1

  SATRINE RAINEY WOULD never have guessed that she would make a habit of waking up before sunrise to go to Absolution at Saint Limarre’s Church. In her nearly forty years, she hadn’t ever bothered with the ritual. Her soul was probably beyond salvation; she had accepted that. But she needed to talk, and she was filled with secrets too terrible to hold in, but too dangerous to entrust to anyone.

  Anyone but Sister Alana, under the silence guaranteed by the rite of Absolution. Sister Alana would never tell her secrets. The ritual was taken very seriously by both the government and the church, so nothing said under Absolution could ever be used in persecution or prosecution.

  Even the secrets of a not-so-former spy turned Constabulary Inspector.

  Of course, Sister Alana was more than just a Cloistress of the Blue in the Church of Druthal. She was an old friend—the only person left from Satrine’s childhood on the streets of Inemar who could be called that. Most others from those days were dead, jailed, or wasted. Hardly any of them were someone she would have considered a friend even back then. Her own mother—that waste of flesh named Berana Carthas—had abandoned her when she was twelve. Just left to live with some man who didn’t want to deal with a daughter.

  Sister Alana was the only person who knew everything about who she was, who she had to become, and who she was now.

  She knew Satrine well enough to be sitting on the back steps of Saint Limarre’s, looking out at the small burial field behind the church, waiting with pastries and two cups of tea.

  “I didn’t tell you I was coming today,” Satrine said as she walked up.

  “Didn’t need to,” Sister Alana said, standing up and embracing Satrine. “I saw last night’s newssheets. Tea?”

  “It seems too hot for tea.” It was now autumn, but the sweltering summer heat still hadn’t broken. Even now, before the sun had properly showed itself over the towers of East Maradaine, the heat was oppressive. For the past few months Satrine had forsaken the traditional coat of a Constabulary officer, usually wearing just her shirtsleeves and inspector’s vest.

  “You’ll drink it anyway,” Sister Alana said, sitting back down on the steps. She was right. Satrine may have made a habit of seeing Sister Alana early in the morning, but she wasn’t accustomed to it. Most nights she barely managed to sleep at all. She took the tea and sat next to the cloistress. “How was your Saint Helsen’s Day?”

  The fact that yesterday had technically been a holiday—both the equinox and a Saint Day—had barely registered on Satrine. She worked the whole day, and there was no particular observance she would make to Saint Helsen. She didn’t even know Saint Helsen’s story.

  And in thinking that, it came to her, courtesy of her telepathically induced education. Saint Helsen, Savior of Harvests. The Sickle-Bearing Pilgrim.

  “It was work. And you know that.�
�

  “Bless those whose work keeps us safe.”

  At least last night she went home at a reasonable hour. She was able to eat dinner with Rian and Caribet, spend time taking care of Loren. She hadn’t realized how much Rian had sprouted over the summer. Her eldest daughter was now almost as tall as she was, and looked far older than her nearly fifteen years. Her summer working the glove counter at Henson’s Majestic store had done wonders for the girl’s maturity. And the money helped. For the first time since Loren’s accident, it didn’t feel like they were just scraping by each day.

  “The girls go back to school today,” Satrine said idly.

  “You aren’t here to chat about the girls.”

  “No,” Satrine said.

  Sister Alana closed her eyes for a moment. “May our voices only be heard by God and the saints, for our words are for no one else.”

  “Thank you,” Satrine said. “So what did you read in the newssheets?”

  “Many things, most of which probably had nothing to do with you and yours.”

  “Aventil had another street war last night. Nine dead, including two constables.”

  “Aventil isn’t supposed to be your problem.”

  “I’m in the Grand Inspection Unit now,” Satrine said. “The whole city is technically my problem.” In truth, in the months since they had launched the GIU, it had been a steep learning curve of what the new unit meant. They were supposed to handle the big cases, the ones that had a wider scope than any one precinct. What it really meant was fighting with stationhouse captains, officers, and patrolmen over jurisdiction and resources.

  “You’ve been sweating over Aventil for the past few weeks.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Welling and I work one case, and right after that, gang wars explode. Two of the gangs are determined to destroy each other, another splinters into two factions, and I just wonder . . .”

  “If you could have stopped it then?” Sister Alana sighed. “Please, Satrine. Aventil has been a nightmare since we were girls. You couldn’t have saved it. You definitely didn’t start it.”