Rhian
After three days on the water, Strauss was looking a bit green by the time we arrived at the Drop in Delphia. In case you’ve forgotten since chapter three, he gets seasick. He also might have told you, in a rather round-about way, that each territory has a Drop, and that’s where Partisans go to check-in when they arrive from other places.
Anyhow, working a job in Delphia took some adjusting. For one, two, and three: the isles were hot, loud, and small. They were also so goddess-be-damned bright most Partisans walked around half-blind for about an hour.
Stepping off the embark, I thought about Adeline.
I wondered how she’d been getting on with her mother.
I wondered how she’d been getting on with her brother.
I wondered how I could get my hands on a pair of those sun-goggles.
Our first stop was the outpost. Seeing as Gus forged our orders and the reason for being there, getting past the Administrator might have been tricky. I say it might have been, on account of the man at the desk was too busy offering me free cake and a foot massage to look too closely.
I’m not boasting, but I was something of a celebrity on the Isle of Inspiration. I didn’t like it, didn’t want it, didn’t need it, but that’s just the way of things when a person saves a place from certain doom and whatnot.
It came in handy sometimes.
Anyhow. We weren’t looking for Vincent Delestade on the Isle of Inspiration, so after leaving Gus at the Drop, we boarded another embark heading for the Isle of Pantomime. There, they might have heard my name, but it wasn’t as though I’d had the time to pose for any portraits.
The trip from the Isle of Inspiration to the Isle of Pantomime took about half an hour.
We saw a seagull. I fed the seagull. We saw forty seagulls. The end.
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The Isle of Pantomime was buzzing that day. If you’re expecting fancier details than that, you’ll have to wait for Strauss’s chapter. As far as I'm concerned, it was a day like any other day on the isles. Hurray, Partisans. Gawk, gawk, cheer, cheer. Strauss was polite, so he pretended to like being stopped about a thousand times for autographs. I wasn't polite, so I didn’t pretend to like it, and I squiggled an “S” on people’s bits and bobs to make them go away.
Unlike the people in Amalia, the people in Delphia were big on celebrating the so-called Blessed Ones.
Once we got the hang of dodging the Delphi, we found a quiet corner tucked around back of a costume shop. There were about a thousand shops like that one on the isle, so that was just plain odds. We lowered our voices and stood six feet apart. Anything closer and we'd probably kiss again.
“All right,” I said. “We need new names.”
“I anticipated we might, which is why I’ve already chosen some.”
“You have? What are they?”
“You’ll be Penelope.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“The hell?”
Strauss shrugged. “I like it.”
“I’ve never even heard of it, but seeing as you took the time to think about it, and seeing as you look so bloody sad, Penelope it is.”
“Penelope Singer,” he said. “And I’ll be James Strider.”
“Why do you get an appropriate name like Strider, and I’m stuck with Singer? You’ve got those spidery legs and I can’t even sing.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know you can’t sing?”
“Have you heard me talk?”
Strauss had a bit of a chuckle, and then he peeked around the corner to make sure we weren’t about to be interrupted. The man could sneeze and accidentally set someone's hair on fire, so it wasn’t often Strauss expressed anything much, let alone laughter. It was nice.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not leaving this place without a bag of Moons.”
“I will overflow the forsaken embark with Moons if it means I don't have to hear about Moons on this trip again.”
What? It was a three day ride from Amalia, and there hadn’t been much to talk about.
“What’s next in our plan to locate Mister Delestade?” Strauss asked.
The truth is, I was hoping he would come up with the plan. We were smack in the middle of the land of subtlety, and according to Gus, Vincent Delestade was hiding out with the thespians. The man defected from Palisade about five years afore, and keep in mind, it was my job to kill or capture Palisade defects. He knew this, and he also owed me a favour. Bottom line: leaving a friendly note at the theatre wasn’t going to get us what we needed. There were only two ways to get Delestade’s attention, and that was either to trick him, or impress him out of hiding.
Nothing turned the man on more than an over-the-top plot.
After catching Strauss up on the particulars, it didn’t take him long to come up with something. All those years locked up with his dusty old storybooks and all.
“First, I suggest we get out of these clothes.”
"Is that a proposition, Strauss?"
“Of course not."
Strauss might have been a bit of a liar, but he was on to something. Looking like we did—a mopey priest and a crabby assassin—the pair of us were a walking headline. Also, I was hungrier than I was stubborn, and the sooner we got done with our business, the sooner I’d get my hands on that bag of Moons.
The costume shop was packed that day, but that didn’t stop the tailor dropping absolutely everything and coming at us in a flash of big, white teeth.
“How may I, a mere slave to fashion, be in service to the Blessed Ones?” he more or less asked.
Strauss chose his best smile from all the ones he’d stored up. The man had a knack—a way of seeming polite and unassuming when he wasn’t any of those things. He just didn’t know it yet. It was a bit precious.
“Privacy," he said.
The tailor scurried around the room, flapping and shooing and whatnot. A madman in goddess-be-damned tights.
“But I’ve not yet decided between the definitely red, the sort of pink, and the slightly brown,” one lass protested.
“I’d go bold with the definitely red,” I said.
In the end, the lass chose the red scarf, thanked me about a thousand times, and suggested I stop by her shop about my hair.
At the time, I wasn't sure how Strauss could afford all the nice clothes we were about to buy. I supposed Palisade paid him well to be a liar. It wasn't until a lot later that I'd find out about the brawl at the Peak, the portrait of the man in the purple suit, and the trip to Leberecht.
By the time we were done shopping, I had a new appreciation for all the years I hadn’t had to do any shopping. Too big, too small. Most things were too big on account of I was too small. (Still am, haven’t grown.) Too fluffy, too pink, too blue. Also, by the time the entire affair was over, I had a new appreciation for Strauss. He’d even taken down his hair and put on some pants. But never mind the way he looked, it seemed all his saddest internal bits were stripped away with those blue robes.
James Strider was everything Andrei Strauss was but couldn’t be.
It was bloody brilliant.