Andrei

By the time I returned to Oskari, labourers no longer laboured, farmers no longer farmed, and the children were nowhere in sight. The village of Oskari had all but shut down in a state of paranoia. In my time away, another six villagers had vanished, making for a total of eight. Women, men, young, old—whoever lured them away did not discriminate. To make matters worse, a woman and her young daughter were found dead in their home. It was a story a lot like His Story, only centuries later. Father Belaia suspected the Waste in both cases, but I had my doubts.

In the days following my return, there was little to do but calm those who panicked. The people had lost faith in their newly appointed Captain. Joseph Lobodin was a man of good intentions, but he was a man too cowardly to recognize his faults. He held his arrogance like a shield until all goodwill and every resource had been exhausted. Then, and only then, did the Captain send word to Palisade for Partisan intervention.

On the eve of their arrival, those Partisans stormed the church and barged into my chambers uninvited. I could not have been more relieved.

It had been a long time since I’d seen Commander Reider in full uniform. Half-plate and chain beneath a pale blue tabard, marked by the symbol of the Six. His hand-and-a-half sword, Intrepidity, was holstered at his back. At his side, there was Enforcer Rhian Sinclair. Per usual, the Strachan’s platinum hair was kept away from her face—weaved in two braids along the sides of her head. Her freckled complexion was still spattered with faint scars, and her battered black leathers and tattered fabrics bound her petite frame like a second skin. A beautiful disaster.

“Sinclair,” I said. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

Sinclair shuffled her feet and shrugged. “Hello.”

I resisted the urge to smile under such grim circumstances. I resisted plenty of other urges, too. “I’m pleased to see you both looking well.”

“And you’re looking extra pale and kind of sickly, Strauss," Sinclair said. "Are they feeding you enough around here?”

“Yes, and thank you for asking. I was beginning to long for your special breed of concern.”

Sinclair flashed a chipped-tooth smile.

“Strauss,” said the Commander. “Tell us why we’re here?”

I briefed them on the missing people and the suspicious deaths, pacing the room here and there as I spoke.

“Right, then.” Sinclair nodded to herself and looked around the room. “Where’s Gus?”

“I was under the impression he’d returned to Palisade. Hasn’t he?”

“Seeing as I’m asking…”

“Rhian, I’m sure Finlay’s fine,” Michael said. “Strauss, what else can you tell us?”

“Well, the locals reported a man they didn’t recognize offering maintenance services for the winter. Of those questioned, none could afford the wages and none would accept his charity. The man made several appearances over the course of two weeks.”

“Did they provide a description?” The Commander asked, standing motionless with his back to the door.

“Grey hair, brown eyes, and a mustache. Some claim he was wearing a tan jacket, while others say it was black.”

Sinclair plopped on the bed, lacing the air with the scent of leather, steel, and cloves. “An old man with at least two jackets and mustache. Brilliant. I’ll get right on it.”

“So we have eight people missing and two potentially suspicious deaths. What are the chances the cases are related?”

“There’s no evidence to suggest violence in the missing persons’ case. However, the deceased and her husband had a history of domestics. The man is a brute—I’ve seen it for myself. He once started an argument with me for looking in his general direction. We should consider the possibility of murder, suicide, or both.”

“Where is this man now?” Michael asked.

“Unknown. He and the family’s eldest child, a boy called Ivan, are among the eight gone missing. It’s difficult to say whether it’s all related or merely a coincidence. Given they’d just buried half their family, they may have simply left for somewhere less painful.”

“I’d wager it’s related,” Sinclair said. “We’ve got dead folk, missing folk, and something stinks like week-old fish. Hint: it’s not coincidence.”

“There’s something else you should know.” I stopped in the centre of the room, dividing my attention equally between Reider and Sinclair. “Following their deaths, the woman and her child were laid to rest on the family property. Then, and not three days later, the neighbours found the woman’s unburied, decapitated corpse in her potato garden.”

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The home of the deceased woman and child was backed by a generous plot of land. The house itself was cared for, the wood panels had been freshly stained, and the metal components were free of rust. The lawn had been recently trimmed and the gardens were tended. Considering this, the idea of suicide seemed less likely.

At the back of the home, there were nine graves—names and dates scratched on the surfaces of their wooden markers.

“Maybe our killer is one of those trophy-types,” Sinclair said. “Maybe they didn’t think anyone would find the body straightaway after killing her, but they did. So, they waited until she was buried, dug her up, dragged her back home on account of they’re twisted like that. Maybe they felt like slicing her up or shrinking a head. Maybe they were just getting started but then they got interrupted in the potato garden.”

“Well, that’s disturbing,” the Commander said.

“I haven’t even arrived at the disturbing bit yet.”

“Truly?” I asked. “What more could you possibly say?”

“We’re gonna need a shovel.”

What a lady wants, a lady gets. We pilfered a shovel and coil of rope from the shed, and we took turns digging. When it was my turn, the two napped beneath a mangled maple tree. They sat back to back, relying on one another for protection. It was petty and misguided, but there it was—I was jealous.

I digged and digged until the casket was unearthed. Several notches louder than I had to, I announced, “It’s done.”

The Commander bolted to his feet along with a chorus of clanks, and Sinclair fell flat on her back along with a chorus of curses. Then, after clearing the sleep from her eyes, she hopped up, trotted forward, and leaped into the open grave.

Watching from my place beside the Commander, Sinclair searched along the edges of the casket until she found the handle.

“Michael,” she said.

“Rhian,” he said.

“Rope.”

The Commander lowered the rope.

“Rhian,” he said.

“Michael,” she said.

“That’s a good look for you.”

Sinclair rolled her eyes, and after securing the rope around the handle, she sprung out of the grave. There was a certain something in a Strachan’s effortless agility. Their short-stature figures were powerful and toned, but rarely bulky. If not for Palisade’s suppression of the arts, I suspected many would have made stunning dancers.

Above ground, the Commander tugged on the rope and revealed the contents of the casket. The women’s remains were absent, but this was expected. The body had been cremated to avoid any further disturbances. Incidentally, the ashes were then scattered in the dirt we’d just desecrated. That said, all that remained of the deceased were her fingernails. Some had broken off and fallen to the bottom of the casket, while the rest were embedded in the bloodstained wood.

“Well that was unexpected,” Michael said.

The Strachan shrugged. “Option two: the lass clawed herself out, dragged herself home, and whoever wanted her dead wanted her to stay that way. End of story.”

We’d all heard it coming, because we all had excellent hearing and blessed are the pitfalls of autumn. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The intruder rounded the corner with a sputtering torch. His brow was deeply furrowed, and his nostrils flared as if the mere sight of us produced an offensive stench.

“It might be your job to fiddle with the dead, Brother Strauss. But you two—” he turned to Michael and Sinclair, waving his torch in their direction. “You aren’t going to find our missing people by digging up graves.”

Michael stepped forward, introduced himself, and extended his hand. The gesture was ignored, and the Commander retracted his arm. “I understand these are difficult times, and you must be under a lot of pressure. But we’re here to help, and if we’re going to do it effectively, we’re going to need your cooperation.”

The man who not too long ago worked as the village smith, coughed and spat a wad of phlegm to the side.

“Captain Joseph Lobodin,” he said. “You should have reported to me.”

“That’s my fault,” I said. “My comrades arrived at the church seeking rest from the road, and I was overzealous and have overstepped.”

When the Captain coughed again, I began to suspect lung disease. I’d counsel him on the matter later. For now, the fire crackled and spit when Lobodin flicked the torch in Sinclair’s direction.

“You,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

I’d been watching Sinclair in my periphery—her arms crossed, ever-so-slight shifts from foot to foot, and a droopy-eyed expression. I’d seen this all before.

The Commander stepped up to the job and introduced her. One might assume this was a matter of rank or protocol, but they’d be incorrect. A Strachan Enforcer and an Amali Commander were different in practice, but they were parallel on paper. One might then think Sinclair’s silence was some manner of defiance or intimation. Also incorrect.

Rhian Sinclair was bored and didn't feel like answering.

“This isn’t going to work.” Captain Lobodin said.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

“The piss-head. She’s going to make people uncomfortable.”

I hadn’t heard that exact terminology before, but I surmised that piss-head was the Captain’s creative way of describing Sinclair's hair.

“Okay—so, I think now’s a good time to talk about discrimination,” Michael said. “It’s a short speech and it goes something like, ‘I won’t tolerate it.’ But, I do understand where you’re coming from, and if you need time to educate people and spread the word around town, that’s fine. I’m sure we can find the Enforcer something to do in the meantime.”

After wrapping things up with the Captain and shoveling the dirt back over the grave, it didn’t take us long to come up with something for Sinclair to do for the next little while.

One village’s solution would become another city’s problem.