Andrei

An entire day came and went in the wake of Feargus Finlay’s arrival in Oskari—an entire day in which neither of us had come up with a modicum of a plan to locate the key’s long-lost lock. The first obstacle was the reason Finlay had been packed in a box to begin with. We had to remain discreet. The people would question the arrival a Partisan even more exotic in appearance than I was. The conspiratorial would gossip, the ignorant would panic, and our snooping about searching for clues would do little to reassure them.

The second obstacle was our own ignorance. Councilwoman Faust said the box contained instructions and a practical gift, and I was discouraged to hear that the instructions were little more than a riddle: at the highest point of the peak, the brother holds the key.

On this particular afternoon, we banded together in my chambers for brainstorming.

“You know, Strauss, I’ve been thinking.”

“Fantastic, Finlay. Well done.”

The Strachan seemed entirely sincere when he thanked me for the compliment. After so many years in Sinclair’s company, he’d become immune to sarcasm.

“I’ve been thinking about the riddle, and what if I said it like this instead?” The Strachan hopped to his feet for maximum effect. “At the highest point of the Peak, the Brother holds the key.”

“You would be saying the exact same thing. Maniacally.”

“Come on, Strauss—where’s your sense of imagination?”

“Vanished along with your point.”

Finlay flashed a quick grin. “See, I got to thinking about mine and Rhian’s favourite tavern—the Drunken Moon. Their cider is out of this world, so when one of us is in the mood for a quick drink or a natter, one of us looks to the other and says, ‘We should go to the Moon!’ Thing is, we don’t go to the actual moon, follow?”

“You're saying I should stand at the top of the Widow’s Peak with the key, expecting the sky to open?”

“That'd be silly. I’m suggesting that whatever we’re looking for is probably upstairs, but I’m glad you’ve got your imagination back.”

“Something upstairs at the Widow’s Peak—that could be one of a thousand things. The inn is enormous.”

“I know. That’s why I’m gonna go with you to search the place.”

“You can’t be seen in public. I thought we discussed this already?”

“We have. That’s why I’m gonna dress like a hobo.”

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The village, demoralizing as it was by day, surpassed all expectations by night. Few vermin skittered through the alleys, no babies cried from within the homes, and the only firelight within radius came from the inn at the top of the hill.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I'd always enjoyed an elaborate plot, but the truth is, we’d only plotted this one as far as the door. It wasn't long ago I’d learned the hard way that wherever Sinclair and/or Finlay was involved, the concept of sticking to a plan did not exist.

Pausing at the door to the Widow’s Peak, I cradled the cowled figure. “Remember to avoid eye-contact."

It was naïve to think the Strachan would need my advice.

“Here’s a real tip, mate: if you’re trying not to look suspicious, it’s best you don’t do anything suspicious. Oh, and don’t sweat it. Literally, on account of otherwise you’ll blow it. Also, has anybody ever said you smell like cinnamon? Wait, no—has anybody ever asked why you smell like cinnamon?”

I rolled my eyes as we entered the inn.

That night, all but three tables were occupied, and it wasn’t long before the Strachan jabbed me with a pointy elbow, directing me to the one nearest the bar. He then coughed a few times into the crook of my arm, and as we approached, the stares from the locals were a blend of pity and annoyance. When we arrived at our table, Finlay sat—or better yet, hunched—with his back to the bar.

“Is he catching?” Ivana asked.

“He suffers primarily from hunger and dehydration,” I said, loudly enough to satisfy the concerned patrons.

“That’s something I can work with,” Ivana replied. “What’ll it be? On the house.”

Given I’d inherited the inability to digest meat from my Celestian mother, I chose the vegetable stock. Finlay opted for the smoked meat and roast potatoes.

“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” the Strachan whispered. “Free dinner, nice job. Say, is it always so busy in here?”

On my previous visit to the inn, it hadn’t been busy at all. I shrugged and appraised our surroundings, and I understood quickly why Finlay chose this particular table. From where he sat, he had a clear view of the door, the stairs, and everything in between. Unfortunately, as I was surveying the everything in between, I caught the attention of a man with a problem.

“What are you looking at, Partisan?”

“Nothing remarkable,” I replied, and immediately regretted.

“Maybe I could change that by putting my fist in your face,” the man said. “Our woman are always saying how handsome you are. I see nothing but a wimpy boy.”

“I’m also a priest caring for an ailing child at the moment, so perhaps you and your fist, sir, could make an appointment.”

Finlay sunk his face into his arms.

It was then that the gentleman with too much hair and too few teeth challenged me to an arm-wrestle. It was a non-starter. Despite the underwhelming size of my biceps, I still had the remarkable strength of every other Amali Partisan. Therefore, I refused, at which point the vast majority of the Peak’s patrons gathered around to apply peer pressure.

In spite of my reluctance, I joined my challenger at his table and the match began. It would be my turn to apply pressure—too much pressure, as it happened. And I never meant for it to happen. Perhaps it was the nerves, or a side-effect of my own incompetence, but...

...a loud snap and the challenger’s hand dangled limp at the wrist. The screams followed, and then the communal fury, and then the fist to my face. While the bellows and curses echoed in my head, the mob attacked in such a blur I could hardly keep track of the blows.

I knew I could withstand the pain. The question was, could they?

For each punch to the gut I absorbed, my assailants gasped and wheezed as the air was sucked from their lungs in turn. Some doubled over and dropped to their knees. Somewhere—somehow—the Strachan, Ivana, and her dutiful guard disappeared. Another of my sharp inhales reached so far as the candles that flickered and finally extinguished. Those who moments ago had been assaulting me, stopped to make ironic pleas to a goddess they didn’t believe in.

I was faced with two options: hold my breath to the death, or exhale and…

…chairs crashed into men, mugs smashed into plates, and forks flew dangerously close to the townspeople's eyes. The ancient inn encapsulated a whirlwind of furniture, and the single patron with enough sense to try and escape, tripped on a table with nothing to break his fall except the stained-glass window as he crashed through it.