Rhian

Years ago, I had a dream I was on holiday in Delphia with Councilwoman Oranen. The thing is, Partisans don’t get holidays. Also, the man selling Sugared Moons on the street wasn’t the lady who normally sold Sugared Moons. I bought a Moon anyway, and then I woke up feeling like I’d been shopping for hats. Well, I didn’t care for hats, and I didn’t care for Councilwoman Oranen, but I basically lived for eating Moons in Delphia.

The point is: I remembered only bits and pieces of that dream, and less than half of them made sense.

My first night in Oskari, I dreamed I was in a house. Simple this, simple that. No useless shite laying about, but the furniture was fancy. Most of it was reddish-brownish. I couldn’t tell you what it was on account of I’m not a woodologist.

Upstairs, there was a lad asleep in his bed. He was afraid of the dark and something else I didn’t understand, but for some reason I still knew. The lad kept a bedside lantern, even if it did piss all to help. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, either, but I did. The boy’s parents slept in the room next door, back to back and touching trotters. I didn’t spy long seeing as that would have been weird. Besides, there was still another room.

Brunette and built to stomp the shite out of hearts and souls, the pretty lass stood at the window with the butter yellow drapes, her arms crossed and a face like thunder. I stared at her while she stared out the window, and I was ready to leave until she turned. She faced me head-on with those big amber eyes, and then she smiled bright like she knew me.

The point is: when I woke up from that dream, I remembered all the bits and pieces, but not a single one of them made sense.

My room at the Widow’s Peak was big, about three times the size of my dorm at Palisade. Apart from the bed, there was a round table with four chairs, a chamber pot, a wooden washtub, and a bench for two beneath the window. It was a nice spot for a shindig, I reckoned. But it was a busy day planned, so I crawled out of bed and started with a stretch. Then I did a cartwheel on account of I could, and then I did another on account of the first was fun. I went for a wee, got myself dressed, strapped on my boots, and opened a letter that hadn’t been there the night before. It’d been slipped under the door. Smooth.

Joke’s on them—couldn’t read it apart from a couple words like, “we,” and “soon.” It was probably a threat, but at least they'd been formal about it. The letter was written on crisp parchment with fancy lettering, sealed with red wax and the letter “R”. I went looking for Michael in the room across the hall, but he wasn’t there. He was probably at the church with Strauss, and seeing as I didn’t want to be at the church with Strauss, I'd sort it out later.

I headed downstairs and sat at the bar.

“Morning,” said the lady on the other side. “Breakfast?”

“Is it free?”

The woman shrugged. “If you don’t mind last night’s scraps.”

“As a matter of fact, I do not.”

Last night’s scraps were delicious. I liked the tiny potatoes best.

“So,” the woman said. “Think you’ll catch him?”

“What makes you think there's a him?”

“Rumours, I guess.”

“Right, and what makes you think all those people didn’t just go missing on their own? I wouldn’t be here either if I didn’t have to be.”

The woman laughed. “All right, you’ve made your point. Sorry—what’s your name?”

“Rhian,” I said.

“Ivana,” she said.

As far as people in Oskari went, I liked her a lot better than the arseface Captain.

“Your friend, the one with the armour. Is he…”

Surprise, another lass looking to get into Michael Reider’s trousers.

“…always that arrogant?”

What? It wasn’t the first time I’d been wrong.

“Sometimes,” I said.

“Huh. Is it justified?”

“Reckon you’ll have to wait and see.”

It was quiet while I ate, and after washing down the last of my cornbread with the last of my cider, I stood up, dusted myself off, and paid the lady a triple-note for not being an arseface.

Onward and whatnot.

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The road to Jaska was about as interesting as church with Strauss.

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I haven’t got much to say about Jaska, except to say there was stone everywhere. The people seemed miserable which was basically normal. But, if I had one nice thing to say about the city, it was full up on the most impressive glass-work I’d ever seen. It reminded me of the window at the Widow’s Peak—all mixed up with colours and shapes and whatnot.

Generally speaking, the people ignored me walking around among them. Meaning, I probably wasn’t the first piss-head they’d seen in recent times. All in all, the city had streets, and the streets had places. I made a mental note of the taverns, the inns, and the brothel I reckoned was supposed to be a secret. Then, I spotted something foreign like me.

I stopped in front of the merchant stall set up outside a knickknack shop.

“That’s a helluva piece.” I pointed at a knife with a short handle and a black blade.

“Yeah,” the merchant agreed. “Isn’t it though?”

“When did it come in?”

“Couple days ago. Some shaggy little twerp. Kind of looked like you—you related?”

I could have been offended by that, but I wasn’t. Strauss once said all Strachan had to be related somehow, even if it was a long time ago. But never mind. Only one person fitting that description could have hocked a black ceramic knife.

I slipped the merchant a single-note for his troubles. “I’m looking for a seamstress.”

“Follow your nose two blocks that way.” He pointed that way. “The one you’re looking for is tucked around the flower shop.”

Moral of the story: some people made life easier.

Seamstress, shopkeep, deception expert. Same difference. Vivienne Delaterre was one hell of a nice lady when she wasn’t putting you through hell. I should know. Once upon a time, she was my teacher.

Remember that time I said I’d had excellent counter-training against telepathy?

“Rhian Sinclair! What a strange surprise.”

Talking about strange surprises, walking into the Steel Needle was a lot like wandering into a flower patch and getting punched in the face by a rainbow. It didn’t do a whole lot for the headache I’d been fighting.

“This place stinks,” I said. “How do you stand it?”

“My nose has gone blind. Besides, the location limits my clientèle to those with tacky taste and the means to indulge. Retail, my dear. It’s a dirty job.”

Looking around, it was obvious the fancy fabric folded on the shelves had been imported from Delphia. That was the point of these Partisan-run operations, seeing as trade between the territories was illegal without Palisade support. Exporting Legacy Partisans with their exotic goods and services was the Assembly’s shitty answer to people’s curiosity about the world outside their bubble.

Vivienne Delaterre stepped out from behind the counter wearing a showy blue number I’d never be caught alive in. And I know I haven’t got much say in what I’m wearing when I’m dead, but I hope it isn’t that. She headed for the door and locked it.

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“I know you well enough to know this isn’t a pleasure visit. What can I do for you?”

“Seen any suspicious old men with mustaches lately?”

“Only twelve this morning. What’s this about?”

I caught her up on everything happening in Oskari.

“You might want to speak with the Captain of the guard here in the city.”

“That’s actually why I’m here,” I said. “Tell me about him.”

“Captain Kavelin? He’s harmless. Barren, but his parents were not.”

“How’s that happen?”

“Rare and unfortunate odds.”

I’d have corrected her about the unfortunate bit, but I wasn’t about to argue with the woman who could make me think I was a tree.

“He is sympathetic toward us because of his lineage. He won’t give you a hard time.”

“Right,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Two things, actually. First, the fool downs three drinks at dusk. Second, the present state of your attire is unspeakable. Allow me?”

I allowed her. It was free. I like free things.

Also, I needed new trousers.

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I did a lot of waiting in Jaska.

I waited at the guardhouse while a hook-nosed man went and fetched the Captain. Then I waited on a burly lass who went to fetch the hook-nose man who’d gone to fetch the Captain. Seemed just about everybody wanted to help. More like, everybody wanted to know who in the blazes I was and what in the blazes I wanted.

After some more waiting, I shouted over at a random walking by. Nice enough looking chap, all suited up for duty. He had an arrogance about his walk, but his brown eyes were big and sweet like a goddess-be-damned puppy.

“Seeing as I’ve been waiting about a month, reckon you could take me to your Captain?”

The guard smiled. Up until that point, I hadn’t realized Jaskan faces could do that.

“Must be my lucky day. Two Strachan in the same afternoon.”

“Er—right.” No big shock, seeing we’re all aware Gus was kicking around somewhere. “I’m looking for Captain Kavelin.”

Turned out, I was already speaking with Captain Kavelin. I was a bit surprised, seeing as the man looked so young. He’d done well for himself.

The garrison was about half the size of one of Palisade’s spires, and it had a couple of watchtowers on the outside that could’ve done with some upkeep. The Captain had his office in a private building on the main grounds, so that’s where we went. Good thing I wasn’t there to kill him. It would’ve been too easy.

Once we were settled in at his desk, I cut to the chase.

“We’ve got a host of folk gone missing from a village over yonder, and now we’re looking for a mustached man in a haystack. The sands be bloody shifting, Captain.”

The Captain leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk.

“Missing? How many?”

“Forty-seven.”

“Good Goddess!”

“Relax. It’s more like eight. We’ve also got two dead.” I slid a crumpled list across the desk. “These are their names. Some have got family in the city. Reckon you could post a notice? Make an announcement or something?”

He didn’t look up from the list, but he nodded.

“Five years ago,” he said.

“Five years ago you were… twelve?”

Turns out, he was sixteen and a new recruit. Around that time, something similar happened in Jaska. At least a dozen people up and vanished from the city, and the suspect at the time fit our description—old and mustached.

“There were extensive searches and excavations. We turned over all the farms and abandoned properties within ten leagues of the city. The rumour at the time was that the perpetrator was consuming his victims’ flesh, and that’s why we couldn’t find them.”

“What’d he do with the bones?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“I mean, was that a serious theory?”

The Captain shrugged.

“All right, anything else I should know?”

Captain Kavelin whistled, and an old scribe hobbled in from the next room. Poor bastard looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in about a thousand years. The two chatted in a language I didn’t understand, so I watched a fly buzzing around out of the corner of my eye. Old Pale eventually hobbled off, and the Captain lifted a finger.

So there was waiting, and more waiting, and more waiting on account it was my lot in life apparently. Old Pale hobbled back in after about a week, and it so happened all the waiting was for nothing. The case files he was looking for had already been shipped to the archives in Leberecht.

Trouble was, a person needed permission from Councilwoman Faust to visit the city made of Amalia’s golden excrement or some such thing. If there were any stealthy ways in, not even the best Strachan intelligence had found it as far as I knew.

It didn’t look like we’d be getting our hands on those files.

“Is there someone else I can talk to?” I asked. “Someone who worked the case?”

“Most of those men are dead, Partisan,” Old Pale said. “Perished in the fire that put an end to the madness.”

“So the kidnapper-slash-killer-slash-cannibal died in a fire?”

Old Pale shrugged his old shoulders, and I could’ve sworn I heard them creak. “There were only ashes to prove anything, but the disappearances stopped. Tell me, are the Partisan names Gregory Keller and Vincent Delestade familiar to you?”

I didn’t have a clue about Keller, but Delestade? That name meant six hells of a lot.

“They’d know more than anyone. We never knew much about the Delphi, but Keller was clergy here in the city before he, too, disappeared. They may know something at the church.”

I got all the information I needed, and it seemed just about everybody was trying to get me to go to church. Guess I’d be going.

On a hot day in Endica.

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The Three Drinks tavern wasn’t a lie. Shitty ale, shittier ale, shittiest ale. I chose the latter seeing as I reckoned it was some sort of rite of passage.

Also, I didn’t have a lot of notes.

Around me, the crowd was going mental. Cheering, laughing, clinking, and whatnot. It was only a few moments after taking my first sip that I was clobbered from behind. Spilled some of my shittiest ale, to boot.

The fool downs three drinks at dusk—good old Vivienne Delaterre.

After Feargus Finlay finished clobbering me, we squealed like pigs and hugged like mad. For a minute, we were Gus and Rhian again. It was nice, even if everybody and their half-in-the-bag brothers were watching.

“This is some coincidence!” said one man. He probably wasn’t called Bob.

“Don’t be so daft, Not-Bob,” said another. “It was obviously planned.”

I wasn’t sure what to be more bothered about—the fact I was interesting, or the fact that Gus was wearing Petitioner’s robes.

“I was just telling my new friends about that time when we were kids, and how we needed some notes to run away, so we spent the week filling up empties with piddle and sold them back to the tavern.”

Not our finest moment, but what do you want? We were eight and there weren’t any streams nearby. I was still confused about the robes.

“Anyhow, I’ve been here holding sermons every night—you know, for practice. I’ve been teaching everybody Stracha’s tenants.”

Stracha’s tenants my arse.

“I’d be going to church every day if they were all as entertaining as Petitioner Finnegan!” said some stranger.

“Here, here!” said Not-Bob.

There I was, still confused. “Aye, he’s a real winner. But seeing as I’ve come all this way to talk to Petitioner Finnegan, would you all mind turning around and entertaining yourselves for a while?”

I shooed.

Everybody turned, but most Barrens forgot we Partisans have got ears like goddess-be-damned bats.

“I thought she’d have more knives,” said some man.

“I didn’t think she’d be so blonde,” said some woman.

That’s about when I stopped listening and Gus and I found a table toward the back of the tavern. My chair had a wobbly leg, and I remember on account of it was annoying. Gus couldn’t say a lot about his own work, so he asked questions about mine. I told him all about Adeline and the asylum, Michael and our trial, Strauss and Oskari. All the way to the part about meeting with Captain Kavelin.

“Say, what have you got on Delestade these days?”

Gus squinted. “Vincent Delestade? As in Delestade, Delestade? Wait—what’s Delestade got to do with Captain Kavelin?”

“Nothing, but if you say Delestade one more time, I’m gonna punch you in Delenose.”

“Delestade.”

I probably rolled my eyes but I definitely didn’t punch Gus. “I need to ask him some questions. If I can weasel him out of his hole, the man still owes me a thing or twelve.”

“Is it really worth the trouble?”

“It might be. Reckon Strauss is up for the task?”

“Um—” Gus shook his head, but then he changed his mind. “Actually, it could work.”

“Good, we’ll need a ride.”

“And I’ll need a day or three. Two tops.”

Most of the time, Feargus Finlay’s words were about as true as the grass is purple. But we were twenty years partners in everything. Everything except that one thing you might be thinking. We were practically siblings.

Bottom line: I wasn’t worried about Gus not coming through for me.

Seeing as it had been getting on my nerves, I poked around in my satchel for the fancy letter that was slipped under the door back in Oskari. Somehow it’d gone from top to bottom on its own. It took about an hour to find. I slipped it across the table.

“What does it say?”

Gus cleared his throat. “It says, ‘Cursed we roam, but our regret weakens our resolve.’”

“…and we’re off to a creepy start.”

“Aye, and the next line’s even better, ‘Soon, we’ll have our introduction.’”

“Brilliant.” I gulped down the last of my shittiest ale. “I love meeting new people. Now read the next bit in a mysterious voice.”

“’FeAr nOt tHe sHaDoW aT yOuR bAcK.’”

Gus had an excellent mysterious voice. “What next?”

“’Pleasant dreams,’ and it isn’t signed.”

So, maybe the letter wasn’t a threat. Or maybe it was.

Whatever it was, it was annoying.