The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Andrei

After coming to terms with Finlay's letter, I made my way downstairs where I was informed there was a carriage waiting for me outside, ready to take me the rest of the way to Leberecht. It was kind of Finlay to make arrangements, although I wondered how long ago he'd made them and if he'd always known exactly when I'd be needing the ride. Despite having only had a brief interaction, the proprietress at the Bountiful Blessing seemed sorry to see me go. She insisted I stay for breakfast and provided me with a warm cloak and a change of clothing in the event of another unfortunate accident.

Along with leaving me the letter, the permissions, and the currency from the portrait fund, Finlay had traded out my shoddy satchel for his more practical one. His was fashioned with an adjustable, diagonal strap designed to be worn close to the body—either at the front or the back. Much safer for carrying around thousands of notes. As I made sure, for the third time, that everything was secured inside, the frustration for my companion waned. Where had he gone, with little more than 200 notes and a set of Petitioner robes?

While traveling, I revisited everything I'd learned about the ancient city I was about to visit. I recalled reading about the hierarchy of Partisans and Barrens working the inner politics in tandem. The Iron Hand was a feature of the city that hadn't changed in thousands of years. Soldiers—knights if you will—renowned for their faith and camaraderie.

It was no secret the rest of Amalia recovered poorly from the Divide. To most of its citizens, Leberecht was a cruel reminder of the unattainable. The mountains enclosing the city ensured no one saw behind them. Some believed this was a natural phenomenon. Those of faith preached about divine intervention. They'd tell you the city was spared by Amalia when she called upon the stone to protect it from the cataclysmic floods, that the mountains were raised through the night, and in the morning, She appeared before the people and spoke, "My gift—my apology—sees children borne from you as if by me. They shall embody strength above all but unwavering resolve. Fierce protectors—blessed to serve, never to be served." The faithful would also tell you that the next evening, at the onset of dusk, the first of the Amali Partisans was born.

Leberecht was truly Amalia's greatest historical wonder, and I would be one of the few outsiders permitted to see it.

We arrived on the outskirts of Leberecht in short time. The caravanner couldn't get any nearer without a license, but he promised to await my return.

After debarking, it seemed the more quickly I walked, the more slowly the gates and their guardian approached. The man was armed with a spear, and I was certain I was about to encounter a member of the fabled Iron Hand. The man donned a blue tabard over the finest plate I'd ever seen. I was no expert, but I'd seen some of Palisade's best in times of ceremony. Theirs had been excellent, and his was exemplary. He watched and waited, motionless until I moved within range.

The Iron Hand lifted his visor.

"Step no closer. Display your license at arm's length."

Not exactly a welcoming bunch, but I reasoned his demeanour would have been the same regardless of the colour of my eyes. This brought me comfort. Faust's permissions and my Partisan identification code were enough to satisfy the guard.

Once I would have said the territory of Seneca was the most interesting place in the whole of Auditoria, and I'd have said that until the day I stepped into the most interesting place in the whole of Auditoria. The rumours had so many things wrong. There were no diamond-paved roads, but there were regular roads circling the inside of a giant crater. Along the roads, there were layers of ramps and lifts, and the lifts seemed to be operated by pulleys, ascending and descending. The lifts carried people who then wandered the perimeter of the crater above, and below, down, and around. There were no gold-plated buildings. In fact, there were no visible buildings at all. The people who wandered the roads and ramps disappeared straight into the mountain itself. If I returned to anyone outside the city with this information, I was certain no one would believe me.

Leberecht's tiered, circular design reminded me of Palisade, leading me to wonder if it was organized similarly. It was a lot to digest, and I'd have done anything for a guide. As I walked the main rampart, the people of Leberecht carried on. No one met my eyes only to look away like they did in Oskari or Jaska. There seemed to be no separation at all between Partisan and Barren.

I stopped a colourful, frizzy-haired lady in passing. "Pardon me, madam."

"Yes, dear?"

"Sorry to disturb, but I wonder if you could direct me to any of the local attractions, educational resources, and finally, the church?"

"A new arrival? It's been so long. Well, let me be the first to welcome you."

I tried on a smile and hoped it was suitable. "Thank you."

"As per your inquiries, there are two libraries. But I think you're looking for the one on tier three. And that's tier three from the top, my dear. We always count from the top. Be sure to take the lift going up lest you end up going down. Up on the east, and down on the west, darling. Your church is found at the top, top, top—tier one, my dear."

I nodded along.

"Now how do you feel about museums? We have plenty. There's the museum of archeology and history, the national archives, and of course the Vonsinfonie exhibit at the art museum is quite popular. After a small but unfortunate mishap, the museum of science and technology re-opens tomorrow if you'll still be with us. Each can be found on tier two, darling. Will you be staying a while?"

I hardly knew why I was there at all, let alone for how long.

"A few days," I said, thanking her for her assistance before going our separate ways. A peculiar woman, but at least she was friendly.

As for my next destination? Perhaps you can infer already.

The art museum was located on the second tier from the top between an herbal remedy shop and the barber. I wasn't brave enough to ride the lift, so I walked the ramparts instead. It was a questionable decision because not a single lift crashed while I would never regain the hour I'd lost.

Due to Sebastian's Law, music was outlawed across the vast majority of Auditoria, and Leberecht was no exception. While it was unsurprising, it was also ironic there was no music in the museum with a dedication to the most celebrated patrons of the art. There was nothing but an eerie shuffling as people walked the atrium in silence.

The atrium itself was a virtual shrine to the brothers—dozens of portraits in all manners of sizes and shapes lined the walls. I recognized Zacharias, honey-eyed and dressed in all shades of flashy colours. Sebastian shared his brother's penchant for flair, but unlike his brother, Sebastian's face was never visible. His features, even his eyes, were concealed behind a series of elaborate masks. The colour of his hair reminded me of Sinclair's, blond bordering on white, almost as if lacking pigment.

There were two corridors I hoped to explore after checking in at the front desk.

"Welcome," said the man behind the glass. "A new face, I see?"

"I'd like to tour your exhibits." I reached into my satchel preemptively. "Although I don't see a sign for the fees. What do I owe?"

"Hold your notes, my friend. There is no charge for worshiping here. We only ask that you sign the ledger."

I mused over the unusual word choice as I flipped through the overstuffed ledger, found the first available space, and signed my name.

After being admitted, I followed the corridor to the left. The first adjoining chamber displayed dozens of orchestral instruments behind glass; from brass, to wind, to percussion, to strings. In the furthest corner there was a purple piano. I had to read the placards to learn the names of each of the instruments. Each placard, too, listed the dates and places of each instrument's first and final performance. Fascinating, but irrelevant. I found no reference to Amsteg or the year 3215.

I entered the second chamber. This room held all the costumes and props. The northern wall was reserved for Sebastian Vonsinfonie's masks, and the southern wall for Zacharias Vonsinfonie's canes. In the corner, there stood a mannequin in a purple suit. I took a moment to inspect it, but it bore no obvious clues. Finlay would have liked to have seen it.

Only one other person toured the third chamber. This room was filled with life-sized figures carved in wax. They'd been painted, dressed, and positioned in a life-like scene. The Vonsinfonie Brothers, their wagon, and their cargo set in stasis, surrounded by their adoring fans. As for the other attendee, I hadn't given her a second glance until she came up beside me. She was shorter than I, but still tall. Her face was plain but pleasant.

"Creepy, aren't they?" she said.

I nodded, but it was non-committal.

"Do you miss it?" she asked.

"Pardon?"

"Celestia," she said. "Your homeland, right? You look like them."

The wax figures surrounding the brothers were tall, willowy, and had fair complexions and black hair. The strange lady had an excellent eye. Terrible manners, though.

"I've only been once, so no. And what about you? Your eyes are green—vibrant, not muddied with brown. Your hair verges on blonde. Both anomalies in Amalia. Am I to assume you've traveled from elsewhere? And illegally?"

I may have neglected to mention that it was against the law for Barrens to travel outside their home territory. In any case, there was something familiar about the look of disapproval on the stranger's face—a look I'd seen on so many faces I hardly knew where to begin. Fortunately, the remark had been enough to repel her from the room altogether, allowing me the opportunity to investigate.
I crossed the red velvet rope designed to discourage exactly that.

It was unnerving—to say the least—standing among legends. The wax figures were no more alive than the portrait, but they felt plenty more real. That said, I slipped the key into the hefty costume chest at their feet. It was a perfect fit.

A perfect fit until it was not. There was no easy turn and no satisfying click. There was only dread. I tugged, twisted, and wiggled to no avail. My heart thumped as I recalled Councilwoman Faust's threat. What was I thinking behaving so recklessly?

Whatever this key belonged to was probably something much simpler. For all I knew, there was a box waiting for me at the church where I should have gone before anywhere else. One final tug and the key slipped out, but the moment of relief was quickly replaced with panic. Footsteps approached, and there would be no time to escape the display in any graceful way. I froze at Sebastian's feet, bowing as if in worship.

"Darling," said one woman to another. "Is that a new sculpture?"

"I believe it is," said the other. "And would you look at that nose?"

"You're one to talk," said the first.

I held my breath, wishing neither would talk about my nose.

"I think it moved."

"Nonsense."

"I swear it did."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Long ago I'd developed a twitch—a tic affecting the muscles in my left cheek. It presented itself in times of stress, but I'd learned to repress it by baring down on my tongue. Fortunately, the women lost interest after only a few more agonizing seconds. As they wandered the exhibit, they spoke of the weather, their dinner plans, and of their neighbour who couldn't be bothered to lift a chisel. I estimated nearly one quarter of an hour before they grew bored and left. I knew if I didn't act quickly, I risked another interruption.

I hurdled over the rope, and straight into a trap.

"You've got three seconds to tell me what you're up to."

With her arms outstretched and her hands secured on either side of the entryway, the nosy almost-blond woman blocked my only exit. I'd seen that look before on Rhian's face. The stranger's nonchalance was built around a foundation of sheer confidence. My palms began to sweat as I considered ducking and running.

"Sorry," I said. "Could you elaborate?"

"With the key in the case. There's no sense playing dumb."

"It's ah—official Palisade business."

"Oh yeah? You have something in writing to prove you're supposed to be sneaking around sticking keys in our locks?"

"With all due respect, madam, I hardly think Palisade business is yours."

"That's Commander Madam to you, kid."

"Commander?"

"Of the Iron Hand."

I arched an eyebrow, appraising the woman in her casual attire.

"It's my day off."

"I see," I said. "Do you have any proof?"

The woman craned her neck around back, watching the corridor until she stopped an unsuspecting local in passing.

"Hey."

"Commander," replied the man. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing you haven't already done," she said. "Have a nice day."

The man beamed and continued on, while the Commander of the Iron Hand turned to me and smiled.

"Good enough?"

I supposed it would have to be, but it was too late.

My three seconds had expired.

"Come on," she said. "There's nothing to it."

I shook my head "I'd prefer to walk."

The Commander jumped in place three times for good measure. The cage rattled and bobbled, but did not fall. The cage, I might add, was suspended by precious little but cords and pulleys.

"See? Completely safe."

For a woman taking me into her custody, the Commander had been rather accommodating. She hadn't resorted to violence or threats, and she'd agreed to a conversation in confidence. Moreover, she promised to hear my questions, although she guaranteed no answers.

I stepped one foot onto the platform, testing my weight against it.

Surely they would have discontinued the contraptions if they were dangerous.

I took the final, tentative step…

…and the Commander pulled the lever. Gears ground and the gate slammed shut. Another grind, another clank, and down we went.

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One.

Two.

Three and it was over. The sensation was thrilling! A rush like I'd never experienced before without dangerous consequences.

"Not bad," the Commander said. "No vomit."

The gate clanked open. "That was—" I hopped off the platform, following in the Commander's hurried steps. "Actually, how do they—"

"No idea. Next question."

"Where are you taking me?"

I took one long stride for every two of the Commander's short, impatient ones. In place of business signs, family names marked the doors of each cavern we passed along the way. Rainer, Randal, Reed, Reich, and finally, we stopped. The sign above the door read Reider, and the more closely I examined her, the more I berated myself for not having noticed sooner. This Reider may have been feistier, but it was undeniable. The perfect nose, the perfect width between the eyes, lips not too big nor too small. Their colouring was different but—

"You are Marta."

"Yeah," the Commander said at last. "What's it to you?"

"You have a brother."

"I have two."

"Michael?"

Years fell from the woman's face, leaving her vulnerable—childlike, if only for a moment.

Like any Barren, all Partisans are born to one of several familial archetypes. For instance, Finlay's parents were Partisans themselves, Palisade loyalists who'd lived to achieve their Legacy status. Then there's Sinclair—one parent a Barren, the other a Partisan. In such cases, the Barren parent may choose to relinquish the child to the local orphanage or assume primary care until their conscription at the age of eight. Finally, there are Immaculate Partisans such as Commander Reider, born to Barren parents. The miracle babies—far less frequently discarded into orphanages. I'd sometimes wondered what it would have been like for the parents of Partisans to have to say goodbye. I'd never considered their siblings.

"Yeah," Marta repeated, unlocking the door. "What's it to you?"

"He and I are relatively well acquainted. The Commander is celebrated among us, actually, he—"

"Commander?"

After I nodded, Marta shrugged and stepped inside.

"I guess that makes sense. He was always copying me."

"Do you have questions?" I asked, still standing on the opposite side of the door.

"Nah, good enough knowing he's alive."

At the time, I couldn't be sure he was.

"So, you coming in? Or is this how you have private conversations back at Palisade?"

"You're inviting me into your home?" I was dubious. "You're not locking me in a cell?"

"You? Give me a break. You don't need a cell. You need my help."

Meeting a fellow Partisan's Barren family was rare. Lounging in their sitting room drinking cider was practically unheard of. While I waited for Marta to get changed, I studied the portrait above the mantle where, oddly enough, there was no fireplace. The full Reider family: matron, patron, two girls and two boys. Each of their eyes were of varying shades of brown and green, all but Michael's whose steel-coloured eyes resembled mine. There were irregularities in the painting, however. Faded colours in places where others were vibrant. There were even discrepancies in the style. It looked as though the original portrait was painted prior to Michael's conscription, and the two youngest Reider siblings had been added in afterward.

My stay in the Reider homestead was short-lived. I didn't have the opportunity to meet Michael's parents or his siblings—two of which I wondered whether he even knew existed. The home was organized chaos and smelled distinctly of apples. I wondered if this explained Michael's love for the fruit.

Marta soon returned, equipped with a satchel and a lantern.

I stood from the couch. "How old were you?"

"Yesterday I was twenty-three. Today I still am. What are you asking?"

"How old were you when Michael was conscripted?"

"Eleven," she replied, one foot already out the door. I had little choice but to follow.

"Where are you taking me now?" I asked.

"To the keyhole in the mountain," she said.

Our second ride on the lift was much less thrilling than the first. The ascent was slow, and the squeaks and creaks caused me anxiety. While we walked the ramp around the mountain, I struggled to keep pace.

"Why are we in such a hurry?"

"Because I'm a DR," she said.

"A wha—" I caught my foot in one of the wooden slats, carrying on as if I hadn't.

"A diurnal resident. This is a twenty-four hour city, but not everyone can be out at the same time. There's some kind of structural reason behind it, something to do with all the weight and the ramps. Besides, there aren't enough lifts to accommodate. So, some of us are nocturnal and others are diurnal. DRs can't be out at night and vice versa." She shrugged. "It works for us, and anyway, some people just aren't morning people."

The Commander waved to a group of finely dressed locals, one of whom I nearly bowled over as I tried keeping up with my new guide. I apologized profusely.

"Visitors are always DR," Marta said.

"Nobody told me that."

She shrugged again. "We don't get a lot of visitors."

Eventually, we turned down an alley and stopped at a dead end.

"This is it?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"It's not what I expected."

"So when I said, 'The keyhole in the mountain,' you expected to see something other than a keyhole in the mountain?"

"No, but…"

There were no grand arches or golden gilding. It was just a stone door.

"…what makes you think this will work?"

"Well, there's the prophecy," Marta said.

"The prophecy?" I asked.

"Yeah, we all believe a tall, skinny Partisan will come bearing the key to our salvation."

"You must be kidding."

"Obviously. But seriously, who else knows you're here?"

"My friend Feargus Finlay, and—"

Marta sighed. "I meant the locals."

"Oh, ah—the guard who admitted me into the city, the man at the art museum whose ledger I signed, those random individuals who saw me in the museum, oh, and a rather peculiar lady I asked for directions."

"Did you show anyone the key?"

"No, why would I do that?"

"Well, it looked like you were about to start sticking it in every hole in the city, so I'm not about to start making assumptions about what you would or wouldn't do."

When Marta didn't remind me of Michael, she reminded me of Sinclair. It was an important discovery, as I came to better understand the friendship between them.

"Given enough time, I like to think I'd have learned of the keyhole in the mountain."

"That's probably true, but if you were as careless as you were in the museum, you'd have half the city on your ass. It doesn't matter if you're here on Palisade business, some people will kill to see what happens when the lock's turned. Some people have."

"Is that why you're helping me?"

"Sure," Marta said. "I'm as interested as the next person. Maybe more. But I won't lie, trick you, or stab you in the back because of it. Besides, I feel like we're bonding."

"If the keyhole is so important, why isn't it guarded?"

"Well, it's really more of a feature than an attraction. It's like hope. You can't live your life staring after it, but it's nice knowing it's there. It's just best nobody knows about this. I don't want to deal with the aftermath of a population whose expectations of what's behind the door have been collectively shattered."

"What about your expectations?"

"That's easy. I have no expectations."

The Commander ignited the lantern with a contraption she called a lighter. I'd seen variations of such things in Delphia, but none had been so intricately crafted. This one, despite the metal casing, was lightweight, sleek, and easy to conceal.

I decided Sinclair would like it, and then I slid the key into the lock.

Once we passed through the door in the mountain, closing it was our first priority. We then discovered, albeit too late, that the door had an automatic lock and that there was no keyhole on the other side. But unless we'd wandered into a trap, we decided not to panic—yet. We agreed there must be another way out, or even another way to open the door. I considered the mystery novels I'd read while in solitary confinement and how there'd often be a hidden mechanism like a candelabra or a pressure plate. I'd even seen something similar in Delphia with a trick bookcase.

The Commander offered me the lantern, but I shook my head. Where I was concerned, direct contact with fire was never a good idea.

"Suit yourself," Marta replied, and together we treaded deeper into the cavern.

Eventually, we came to a set of stairs, and we descended into a wider chamber. It was musty, cobwebbed, and long since lived in. But it had most certainly been lived in.

"This is amazing," Marta said. "I always imagined the keyhole had something to do with the brothers, but this—I never imagined this."

The rich brown leather chairs in the centre of the room were old—ancient even—but I suspected they were comfortable. Each had its own side-table, and on each of the tables there was a single wineglass and a single bottle. Only one of the bottles was uncorked. The wall to our left held several dozen more bottles of wine. It's possible they'd been there collecting dust for centuries.

"When Sebastian died, they say Zacharias became a bit of a recluse. We've never been sure where he went before we lost him, too. Maybe this is where he spent his time."

"You truly believe this cavern was theirs?"

"Sure, don't you?"

The museum rendered the Vonsinfonie Brothers more real, but the museum was conceived by a third party. The room we stood in that day may well have been theirs, but it could also have belonged to a mad hermit, or a musician forbidden from practicing his art in the open. Perhaps someone who idolized the brothers and had stolen all the portraits on the walls and the sapphire-topped cane in the rack by the chairs, although I wondered how they smuggled a piano through an entrance too small to accommodate.

I stepped over to the instrument in the far right corner of the room and brushed my fingers against the sticky brown keys. I longed to experience the feedback of the black notes and to hear the sound of the white ones. I wanted to know what the three pedals were for.

"Under the threat of dying in here, may I?"

I glanced over to the Commander who'd been traveling the room, handling each object she encountered. After hanging a painting of Sebastian back on the wall, she shrugged.

"Go for it."

I pressed a single, centre note.

"Good grief," Marta said. "No wonder that's illegal."

I hadn't known it then, but the instrument was centuries out of tune. Of the eighty-eight keys I counted, three of them stood out because of distinct fingermarks impressed in the grime. I hovered over each of the notes: finger, skip, finger, skip, finger.

The sound was atrocious, but the result was genius. A beam of light flooded the room as the wall behind the fireplace rumbled open. Treated to the sound of crashing waves in the distance, the air whipping past our noses smelled of salt and stone.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Marta asked.

We looked to each other, and then to the chairs, and back to each other.

For a time, the Commander and I enjoyed the scenery on the other side of the fireplace. Having swiftly discovered what the levers on the side of the chairs were for, we relaxed with our backs reclined and our legs elevated. The chairs were comfortable and inspired.

"It's pretty," Marta said. "A lot nicer than the view on gate duty."

"Is that all you've seen of Amalia outside the city? On gate duty?"

"Yeah, but it's more than most."

At that time of year, the northern coast of Amalia was vibrant with the turn of the season. A blend of reds and oranges mixed in with the colourful greens from the untouched coniferous trees. For a time, we sat in silence. It had been a long day.

"I've avoided asking this because you seemed legitimate and you know my brother well enough to have known my name, but do you think you could indulge me?"

There was no doubt in my mind as to what the question would be.

"Where did you get the key?"

With that, I told her everything—including that I'd been bamboozled by a Strachan and that I still had no idea why I'd been sent to discover the keyhole in the mountain, or why I seemed to be trailing the Vonsinfonie Brothers.

"So, what will you do now?"

I shrugged against the chair. "Return to Oskari with a story I shouldn't tell and with nothing to show for it anyway."

"You can't do that," Marta said.

"Why not? I've found the lock, unlocked the lock, seen the cave. Furthermore, I'm neglecting an entire village while I chase my tail."

"I found something you might like. I was going to take it for myself, but I'll settle for a candlestick or something." The Commander reached into her satchel and pulled out a faded, leather-bound book. "It's the only book in the joint, oddly enough, and I don't know if it would be helpful at all. It's written in Symphonic."

Symphonic was an exotic pre-Divide language. It was impractical and difficult to grasp as it was never designed to be spoken. Numbers and symbols across horizontal lines expressed sentiments and phrases without words. Few still knew it, even fewer still used it, yet Councilwoman Faust insisted I learn it. I'd always assumed it was pointless busywork.

I flipped through the pages of the book, but actually comprehending the text would require deeper concentration. Ultimately, we didn't find our exit the way we came, so we took our chances going through the hole in the fireplace. After taking a few steps forward, Marta triggered a plate hidden beneath the grass, and the trap door closed behind us. We tested it, but found this method didn't function in reverse.

"Won't the guard at the gate question your arrival from outside the city?"

"It might be my day off, but I'm still the Commander. It'll be fine."

I nodded. "I've been thinking about writing my companions back at Palisade. Do you have a message for Michael?"

"No," Marta said. "It'll be hard on him, and I'd prefer if you didn't mention meeting me at all. But before you go, there's one more thing I'd like you to have. I saw you eying it." Marta slipped the lighter into the large pocket on the side of my robes. "Never know when you might need some light."

After giving my word on the subject of Michael and expressing my gratitude for the gift, we traveled around the mountain in opposite directions.

The carriage from Istok was waiting exactly where I'd left it.