Andrei

While I’d stayed in Delphia for eight weeks during my pilgrimage, I hadn’t traveled beyond the capital city. Five independent masses surrounded the centre Isle of Inspiration, each with its own theme. There was one dedicated to the visual arts, another to music, one to literature, one to scientific innovation, and Vincent Delestade was said to be hiding out on the isle dedicated to the performing arts—the Isle of Pantomime.

It was a city where the masquerade was commonplace, where the people were partial to stage make-up and bouffant hair, and where the every day felt like fiction, in fact. According to Sinclair, Delestade was hiding among the thespians, working as a theatre producer under an assumed name and an assumed appearance. Elaborate, but not impossible for a Partisan with the ability to manipulate perception.

For lunch, Sinclair and I dined outdoors beneath a canopy, and the weather was as lovely as one could hope for in the whole of Auditoria. The breeze smelled of salt and sand, the seabirds sang, and our entertainment came in the form of men and women juggling fruit while costumed as… fruit.

“We ought to have fruit jugglers at Palisade,” Sinclair said.

“Which would you be?”

“The pineapple.”

There were no performers juggling pineapples.

“They’re armoured and make for excellent weapons. Also, have you tried it?”

I had tried the pineapple and it was delicious. I’d never been so desperate for a meal suited toward my biology as an obligate herbivore. Sinclair was the one to suggest the bizarre café after once again commenting on my low weight and excessive pallor.

After spending the morning shopping, we came out of the experience looking rather striking—she and I dressed entirely in white. It was a colour typically reserved for Palisade Consulates, and the air of importance served as a way to keep the locals at bay.

Sinclair selected the ripest apple from the bowl in front of us, ignoring the bruises. “Remember, our man's a weaselly one and a bloody good illusionist. Nabbing him for Palisade would be nothing to sneeze on.”

“Nothing to sneeze at,” I said. “And we aren’t apprehending him, are we?”

“Not unless we have to, or I decide to.”

I was not reassured. I'd met Vincent Delestade once, but only briefly and under extreme circumstances.

“You know, Strider,” she said between bites. “You’d find good work on the Isle of Ocula, posing for those romance paintings and whatnot. Reckon all we’d need is a bit of wind and you’d make a killing.”

Was that a compliment? I wondered.

Should I return it? I panicked.

“If the wind also blows that ridiculous hat off your head, then I might consider it.”

Coward! She looked beautiful and the hat was adorable.

Sinclair flicked the brim of her floppy accessory. “Strider, this hat is a dream come true.”

I’d later learn about the dream she once had—the one where she went on holiday with Councilwoman Oranen and woke up feeling as though she’d been shopping for hats. It would all eventually come together, but at the time, I let the comment slide.

“Can I ask an unrelated question?”

Sinclair shrugged.

“If there was no Palisade—no separation between Partisan and Barren—what would you do instead?”

“That’s a strange question. But, let’s for a second suppose I had a family, and that my mum was a baker. I might have learned to bake, and I might have even been brilliant at it. ‘Course, the odds are even she might have been a prostitute, and then I might have never learned to bake. Or maybe I still would have—reckon a person could do both. The point is: I can’t answer that. I’ve never even thought about it.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t do a whole lot of good for me, would it?”

Stalling for a moment to think, I took a long sip of a thick, purple drink. “No, I guess it wouldn't.”

In turn, Sinclair took a long sip of a thick, pink drink. “What about you?”

“Well, I’ve never thought of it in the context of a job—whether I’d want to be a carpenter, or a journalist, or a teacher. I just… imagine having the choice to do anything I’d like, at any time, anywhere, with anyone. I often imagine what it’d be like to be happy.”

“I reckon that explains why you’re so miserable.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

I hadn’t intended to go so deep with Sinclair. Fortunately, at the theatre, duty called.

We paid for our lunch and walked in silence.

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The Fool Moon theatre was the quintessential hub of the Isle of Pantomime. Brilliant white columns and circular chambers reflected the colourful city, while the path we walked to the door was lined with trees, and those trees showered an endless rain of white petals. The grounds were fantastic and the walk remains a cherished memory.

We paused before entering the building.

“All set?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes, but no surprises.”

“Good, but no promises.”

On the other side of the crown-molded double doors, the interior was, for the most part, as expected—white marble walls, white marble floors, and the décor was sparse and limited to a purple runner rug and humongous vases filled with giant purple roses.

We walked the rest of the way to the counter.

It took some schmoozing, but not overmuch, to convince the man at reception that we were there for a once-in-a-lifetime special occasion. That we, Penelope Singer and James Strider, had come to prove our talents didn’t begin and end at the point of a sword. That we had come all the way from Palisade to perform a scene from one of Delphia’s most popular plays. And once the rumor of this groundbreaking theatrical performance spread, we had no doubt Vincent Delestade would attend in disguise.

Sinclair was confident she’d see through his illusion.

Ultimately, we were directed to an available preparation room, and allotted four hours to gather our wits, practice, and make use of what we needed from their plentiful resources. As for our material, I chose a play entitled Just Deserts—a story first published and performed more than two centuries before.

“You’ll play the role of Misses Delaciel—a spoiled socialite from the Isle of Audio. I will play the role of her husband—a banker carrying on a tired family tradition.”

As she had done since we’d been left alone, Sinclair paced the small room. It was a good plan, but not even she was above nerves.

“All right, and where’s he from?” she asked.

“The script doesn’t say.”

“Well, it might be important—wait, how am I supposed to read my lines if I can’t read my lines?” she asked. “And even if I could, I haven’t got an idiotic memory like you.”

“Eidetic.”

“Whatever.” Sinclair shrugged. “I still haven’t got one.”

“Even though we are only doing one scene, it will help if you understand the entire arc. The lines will absorb more easily with context, and we’ll work together.”

Sinclair shrugged again, still pacing.

“You should know, the Delaciel union is one of convenience and greed. There is no love between them.”

“That’s a bloody shame.” Sinclair stopped pacing, only to start rummaging through the costume chest. “When does this get interesting?”

“Soon,” I said. “The couple is unfaithful by their fourth year of wedlock. He sleeps with the local confectioner, and she sleeps with the caretaker of their estate.”

“Couldn’t they just come up with some sort of agreement?”

“In those circles, something so scandalous could result in rumours, public embarrassment, and could even have an impact on their business.”

“Even if the whole affair were shook on, or shaken on?”

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“Shaken,” I said. “And yes, even if it were. Besides, neither knows the other is straying.”

“Then I’d wager one of them is about to have an unfortunate accident.”

It was my turn to start pacing. “Yes, Misses Delaciel decides her husband must die.”

“Poison, I reckon.” Sinclair nodded to herself. “Hope she’s got an alibi. I don’t fancy being the lass who hasn’t got an alibi—again.”

I stacked the pages of Just Deserts on the vanity. “To prepare for said alibi, Misses Delaciel plans a trip back home to the Isle of Audio. All the while, Mister Delaciel has ideas of his own. He works secretly to ensure his wife does not survive the carriage ride.”

Sinclair flashed a smile in my direction. “Brilliant.”

“Yes, it is. But what Mister Delaciel doesn’t know is that his wife isn’t planning on traveling alone. Last minute, she invites the confectioner—her very best childhood friend. As for Mister Delaciel? The night of his wife’s departure, he pours two drinks from the poisoned cask. One for himself, and one for the caretaker whom he’d given the night off.”

Sinclair pulled a canary-yellow feathered boa from the costume chest. She wrapped it thrice around her waist.

“Are all the plays around here like that one?”

“Some are even better, but some are worse. Have you discovered a new appreciation?”

The Strachan snorted.

“By the way, you’re wearing that incorrectly.”

“What?”

Stepping nearer to the Strachan, I unraveled the boa from around her waist. I considered handing it back to her, but then in one bold move, I placed the feathered accessory around her neck. Our eyes met, and for the first time since the last time we were in Delphia, neither of us looked away.

“So, Strauss..."

"Hmm?"

"I’ve been thinking about it.”

After letting go of the boa, I would have retracted my hands if it weren’t for Sinclair’s fingers now wrapped tightly around my wrists.

There was a certain look in her eyes. Was it hope, or was it fear? The two are so closely related it was hard to tell.

“What have you been thinking about?” I asked.

“I've been thinking about what I would do if I could choose.”

The shallowness of her breath, and the heaviness in the air around us said more than words ever could in that moment. And as my shoulders stooped and Sinclair’s heels rose off the floor, the door opened wide without warning.

----------------------------------------

There were no knocks. No, “May I come in?” And if he’d made any noise at all in his approach, we were far too distracted to notice.

Vincent Delestade. One of only three faces I cannot recall with clarity. Perhaps he was bearded. Blonde? No. Brunet. Maybe. Short? Tall? Stocky? Whatever the case, his voice was smooth and rich—Delphi accented and spun like a melody. You are no doubt familiar with the sort of tune that haunts your day, your dreams, and the waking thereafter. Vincent Delestade spoke a song that could drive a person mad.

“Rhian Sinclair! Of all the Strachan luck, it’s been too long.”

The Enforcer should have killed the renowned defect where he stood. Instead, I watched as predator and prey shook hands. Delestade turned to me and clapped, entwining his garishly ringed fingers.

“And the half-breed!” He pouted. “How tragic.”

I shook my head, still coming to my senses. “Mister Delestade, we are pleased you are pleased, but we’ve traveled all the way from Amalia with—”

Delestade scoffed. “To the fieriest hells with that dreadful place.”

“As you say. We understand you were involved in a missing persons case five years ago.”

“How could a man forget? To the day it feels as though I’ve not slept. Now I’ll tell you this and only this—run! Remain and work for me. Find a seaside cavern and breed to your hearts’ content. Either you will live, or you will die, but trail this case and you will never be the same again.”

“Solid advice, mate,” Sinclair said. “But I reckon we’ll take our chances. Look, I came to you for the story before tracking down that Gregory Keller fellow, but—”

Does she not listen when I speak? I thought. Father Keller is dead.

Vincent Delestade rubbed his jaw where there may or may not have been a beard, and then he turned to me and smiled. “Gregory Keller is not dead, half-breed. To the best of my knowledge, the man has simply gone insane.”

It may not have been Sinclair’s purpose, but the incident reminded me to keep my guard up around the talented telepath.

Then again, what could I really do to counter a man like that?

“Where is Father Keller now?” I asked.

“So many questions.” Delestade sighed and claimed the only chair in the room for himself. “But, I must admit your approach was inspired. Romance, drama, and deceit. Well done.”

I was honoured, although I would have liked to have seen our plot through to the grand finale.

“Sit.” Delestade gestured to the floor at his feet. “Let me tell you a story.”

And it was a story much like our story. Vincent Delestade was convinced the Assembly was trying to kill him. He was certain they were stalling, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Or the perfect accident. He believed his time had finally come when he was deployed to Amalia. No fewer than ten people had gone missing from the city of Jaska, and the local investigators were stumped.

“Their prison was overrun with old mustached men. Using my special talents, I questioned them all, and the Guard-Captain insisted I question his men, too. Oh, the gossip was ripe, my friends. But we were no closer to a resolution.”

“Was Father Keller involved with the investigation?” I asked.

Delestade laughed. “Gregory Keller had become a friend. A lazy, idealistic one with his head up his own ass. So, no. He was not involved. He was too busy being in love. Bless him, but love does not suit all people. He became obsessed. Writing endlessly in that journal, he—”

Delestade looked straight at me then, but his eyes were emerald green when I would have sworn they were brown. “Half-breed,” he said. “Take her hand.”

“Sorry?” I said.

“You live one life. Most likely, a short one. Take her hand.”

I did as I was told. My palm perspired, but then again, so did Sinclair’s.

Satisfied, Delestade carried on.

“As time went on, I saw less and less of my friend. And more and more, the Guard-Captain excluded me from the investigation. I was a Palisadian ornament while the Barrens in power pleasured themselves. I fed the people platitudes on pretty platters. And when the promises fell flat, I was the one who faced the consequences. You see, my friends, someone else was trying to kill me. Day after day, I felt I was being followed. Night after night, I cowered at the church—too afraid to leave, too afraid to stay, all the while playing witness to a friend’s rapid descent into madness.”

“Look, Vinny—we appreciate the free entertainment and whatnot, but was the man a kidnapper, a killer, a cannibal, or all of the above? Also, what do you know about a fire?”

“What rush, Enforcer? Are you not exactly where you wish to be? Here, in these wondrous lands, sharing stories with an old friend and a handsome lover? A pity, though, I was hoping this one might prefer the company of men.”

“Ah—no.” I said. “But I’m flattered, Mister Delestade.”

There was a pause when Vincent’s attention fell to the vanity where my satchel lay open on the surface. “What books are those, half-breed? May I see them?”

“See them?” I repeated. What could I say? Anything other than, “Yes,” would be ridiculous.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Sinclair said. “Gus read them to me once. Good times. ‘Yesterday I ate oats,’ and, ‘Tomorrow I shall eat oats,’ and, ‘Sadly, we are all out of oats.’ Aye, those journals are brilliant—if your aim is to sleep for a week.”

Only one of the two books was a journal, and once upon a time, Finlay had read it. It was no secret I enjoyed oats. The second book was the one I guarded with my life. The Strachan had no knowledge of its importance, but she responded to my hesitation flawlessly. Vincent Delestade paid no further attention to the bag or the books, but he twirled the end of a mustache I wasn’t even certain he had.

“Where were we?” he asked.

Turning away from our storyteller was a challenge of wills, but when he paused for a moment of reflection, I used the opportunity to look at Sinclair. Our hands were still joined together. Hers: dexterous, freckled, and full of life. Mine: long, pale, and free of scars. I wished we could be closer, but then again, why not? Who was there to stop us?

I inched toward her, and she leaned her head against my arm.

“The fire,” she said. “I was asking about the fire.”

“Of course!” Delestade nodded. “Celebrated for claiming the life of the madman, cursed for claiming the lives of three undoubtedly valiant men. The case was closed, and I had little to do with it.” The Faceless laced his fingers in his lap and smiled as if to say, “The end.”

“Mister Delestade, if your first instinct was to advise us to run, then I hardly believe the case was closed.”

“Oh, but it was,” Delestade said. “Witness reports were signed, the files were sealed and stored. The Guard-Captain signed my release papers faster than a Strachan on amphetamines. In return, I extracted a piece of valuable information. Now would you believe the fire was a lie? That the three valiant men were nothing but illusions?”

Sinclair brushed against me when she shrugged. I’d almost forgotten she were there. It was, as if for an instant, I became aware of my own heartbeat. She remained silent while Vincent Delestade explained the motivations for the cover-up. As the weeks went on without resolution, the Jaskan authorities felt the pressure of the population. Those who were not angry, were frightened. The disappearances had stopped, but so had the town.

“Did you expose the scheme?” I asked.

“Of course not. I wanted little more to do with that goddess-forsaken city.”

“And what of Gregory Keller?”

“By then, the man had vanished. But the authorities ignored this, too. ‘He’s insane,’ they’d say. And yes, he’d gone quite mad. ‘He’s wandered off and got himself lost,’ they’d insist. And yes, in fact, he had. But the order of events was reversed, my friends, and I was unprepared to return to Palisade without my companion.”

“The Palisade records list Gregory Keller as deceased,” I said.

But the Faceless carried on. “I knew very little about the woman who’d seduced his body and stolen his mind, only that she’d come from a village to the south, so I traveled from the city in search until there it was.”

“The village?” Sinclair asked.

“No, a dilapidated building.”

The Faceless stood and crouched before us. His eyes, no longer green, were the same shade as ours—light grey, almost as if without pigment.

“See it for yourselves, if you absolutely must. It stands roughly seventeen leagues south of Jaska. Or—you may run. Remain and work for me. Find a seaside cavern and breed to your hearts’ content. As I say, either you will live or you will die. What will it take to convince you?” he looked to Sinclair. “Enforcer?”

“What’d you find in the building?” she asked.

“The truth,” he said.

Sinclair’s love affair with the truth was one of the many reasons I’d come to respect her as I did. Just as often as she told it, her instincts compelled her to search for it.

“It was good seeing you again, Vinny.”

Silence until Delestade conceded. “Likewise.”

I released Sinclair’s hand, standing at the same time Delestade did. “Wait, Gregory Keller—why do the records say he’s dead?”

“Because I did not find my friend, and because freeing him was the last thing I did before freeing myself.” Delestade adjusted the tails of his sapphire-blue jacket, and stepped toward the door. Part-way, he turned. “Half-breed, you wonder why I don’t simply tell you the truth? Because you will not believe me. Because you will only be more determined to see it for yourself. And because you will be no more prepared for what you will encounter. I commend you both for serving for the sake of service. You are stronger—better people than I will ever be. Now, my final words, Enforcer? Half-breed?”

Neither of us interrupted.

“Live, at least for tonight, as if you had accepted my offer.”