The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Andrei

After returning to Oskari with the book found in the presumed Vonsinfonie cavern, the translations from Symphonic consumed all my precious spare time. The language proved a continuous challenge. On the best days, my translations seemed inaccurate, impossible, and even comedic when the words didn't appear to have any logical connection. On the worst days, I wanted nothing more than to accidentally light the forsaken thing on fire.

In the interim, I remained vigilant in my duties at the church. The attendance for our dusk sermons had never been higher. This was most likely a result of desperation, though I feared I'd soon run out of words to console the families of those who'd disappeared.

Fortunately, nothing out of the ordinary happened in or around the village since my companions' arrival from Palisade, and I suspected the Commander's mere presence was to thank for that. In the garden, the plants still wilted under my care.

I awaited Sinclair's return from Jaska with confused feelings, and on the day we expected her back, I was still awake to see the sun rise and the villagers gather in the courtyard outside my window. The script on the lesson plan I'd been working on warped and bobbed—a subtle reminder to sleep or, at the very least, eat.

Centuries ago, the church of Oskari was serviced by a full staff: cooks, maids, gardeners, and so on. Dozens of Partisans wandered its corridors: clergy, archivists, accountants. Now there were only two and I'd had to learn to cook for myself. Water and oats became an every day thing and as the Amali diet scaled toward carnivorous, my options for produce were severely limited. I had my mother to thank for the intolerance toward meat—a trait shared by all Celestian. That said, I didn't enjoy my oats that morning. My cinnamon stash was in short supply, and the church ran a fruit deficit. In hindsight, if I'd known what the day would bring, I would have savoured the simplicity of my breakfast.

The overall day-to-day in Oskari had improved. The people were reassured by the arrival of Commander Reider. Perhaps it was the armour—plate and pristine. Or perhaps it was the broadsword, Intrepidity—a Palisadian artifact given to him for his role in the Verena revolt. The villagers got the hero they'd been praying for, and each morning, the Commander held defensive combat lessons in the church courtyard. This provided the people with both a purpose and a distraction. Women, men, children—all were invited to participate.

After finishing my breakfast, I joined them outside. It was a dismal day, a shocking contrast to the Commander's smile.

"Well, well—look who remembered how to walk."

"Good morning, Commander." I turned to the attendees. "How go the lessons today?"

"We are feeling much safer," said one of the adolescents. "Much safer. And since we're taking a break, I have a great idea. You and Commander Michael should arm-wrestle."

"Oh, no," Michael said. "That wouldn't be a fair fight."

"One note on the Brother!" one man said.

"Two notes on the Brother!" another added.

It was an inside joke the Commander wasn't familiar with, so he chimed in with a bet of his own. "Three notes on myself!"

His confidence elicited giggles from a small gathering of women. I was pleased they'd found a new target for their affection. I was even more relieved when one of the guardsmen interrupted, huffing and puffing his way across the courtyard.

The relief was short-lived.

"Commander Reider, Brother Strauss—you're wanted at the garrison immediately," he shouted. "Your Strachan has been arrested."

When we arrived at the makeshift garrison, Rhian Sinclair had been confined to a cage, filthy and covered in blood. Not only that, but they'd stripped her down to her small-pants and the layers of cloth which bound her breasts.

"Those were new you sons-of-bitches. Have you any idea what we've gotta go through to get new things? Never mind the burden of proof and the six thousand forms, you sorry, backwater lot haven't even got—"

"Make her shut up! Why isn't she shutting up?" Captain Lobodin, red-faced and generous with his spittle, turned to the Commander.

"—the tiniest bit of appreciation for us looking after your incompetent arses, SO LET ME THE HELLS OUT."

"Rhian," Michael said.

Although she didn't look particularly thrilled, Sinclair released her white-knuckle grip on the iron bars, dropped her arms to the sides, and fell silent.

"Explanation?" I asked. "Anyone?"

Sinclair frowned, and for a few moments in suspended time, she was no longer dirty, imprisoned, or exposed against her will. We were together, alone, and exposed at our will. Almost as soon as it surfaced, I shook the image from my head.

"—and then I woke up covered in blood with this ingrate hovering over me. Took my weapons, my armour, and my new trousers, too."

"Wait—whose blood? Your blood?"

The Commander shot me a look of incredulity. "Weren't you listening? A man is dead, and Rhian was found at the scene. She doesn't remember any of it."

"How's that possible?" I asked.

"Well, as I was saying while you were off in la-la-land, one minute I was arriving in Oskari, and the next I woke up in a puddle of blood. So, I have no idea."

"Were you intoxicated?"

"No more than usual."

"Did anyone recognize the victim?"

Sinclair scoffed. "Trusty Captain L chucked his breakfast before he could have a close enough look. And for the record, I didn't recognize the man—but why would I? A few of the other guards brought the body to the church, so you might wanna check in there."

"I'm sure this is all one big misunderstanding," said the Commander.

How could it be? A Palisade Enforcer was found at the scene of a murder, covered in the victim's blood. But if Sinclair had done it, she would have a good reason and she would explain herself. She's never shied away from accepting personal responsibility. In fact, she was known to take the blame even when she wasn't guilty. She'd done it for me in the past.

"The punishment for murder in Amalia is death," Captain Lobodin said.

"Which has to be sanctioned by the Assembly first," the Commander added.

Lobodin sputtered. "Why shouldn't we make an example out of her? What's stopping me from keeping her locked up?"

"I mean, you could keep her locked up, but you'll be forced to listen to her screeching until Councilwoman Faust's representative arrives. It'd probably be best to release her under my watch."

The Commander took the diplomatic approach. In reality, Michael Reider could make quick work of the Captain who was a quarter as strong and entirely untrained. We could then free Sinclair, who would run as quickly as only a Strachan could. But we did none of those things. There were still people in danger and it was our duty to see it resolved—blessed to serve, never to be served.

Stolen story; please report.

Commander Reider shook his head. "There has to be an explanation."

I rubbed my forehead as if it would do anything to help the onset of a splitting headache. "While you all sort this out, I'll visit the mortuary and question the locals."

"Go," the Commander ordered.

There had to be an explanation, and I was determined to discover it.

There were two bodies in the mortuary. The first was concealed beneath a heavy white linen and promised an individual of small stature. The second body—our victim—was not concealed at all. He had been lain face down, and the cause of death was obvious. While I circled the stone slab and considered the stab wounds at either of the man's flanks, thousands of oats rallied in my stomach, threatening to make a dramatic exit.

I wasn't particularly squeamish. I'd enjoyed my work in the mortuary, and I'd learned to view the body like another one of my texts. But on that day, it felt personal.

I'd memorized all of Rhian Sinclair's particulars. Her favourite colour was green. Her favourite drink was Hocks Spirits aged precisely seventeen-and-a-half years. Her favourite dessert was the Sugar Moon found on the Isles of Delphia. Her second favourite method of assassination? Kidney punctures.

I'd always known what Sinclair was—what she'd been brought up to be. Her title spoke for itself. While it was never out of mind, it was out of sight. It had all been an illusion. The pain she could inflict on others had never been real. The people she'd killed had never existed. But there I stood, examining the wounds from which a man bled out and died.

Still, I couldn't hate her, and I continued to have doubts around the circumstances. Not only did Sinclair refuse responsibility, but how or why would a woman with notable skill and training murder a man in the middle of town, and then fall asleep in the evidence?

I turned the deceased man to his front, and I recognized him immediately. It was the man who challenged me to an arm-wrestle in the Widow's Peak—the husband and father of the woman and child found dead in their home.

As I paced the room, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The white sheet covering the second corpse had slipped to the side, exposing the individual's fingers. I wandered over to adjust the sheet and then continued pacing. A few moments later, it happened again. The sheet slipped and I adjusted it. Only this time, the exposed fingers closed around my wrist. The body on the slab sprung from a horizontal position to an upright one, and the sheet fell from its torso. In the same instant, my heart rate tripled, my stomach crumpled inward, and my breath became tight and tangled in my chest.

Feargus Finlay's grin was the last thing I remember before I hit the floor.

The Captain agreed to release Sinclair under the Commander's close watch. This decision came after identifying the murdered man—a man with a history of violence, public drunkenness, and aggression toward authority. Not to mention, he was at the centre of two suspicious deaths and a series of abductions. The decision may also have also been influenced by Sinclair's plans to travel out of territory.

Later that afternoon, we gathered around the table in her room at the Widow's Peak. Finlay, who had a spotty recollection of the night's events as well, said he and Sinclair arrived in Oskari in the middle of the night.

"We were coming up on the inn when the dead man stumbled out drunker than I've ever been. He picked a fight with Rhian, and I ran for the trees in case she needed back-up from a distance. That's the last thing I remember before I woke up with dirt in my mouth and leaves in strange places."

"Were there any other witnesses?" Michael asked.

"I thought I saw a lass, about a half league away," Finlay said, considering. "But I don't think she would have seen us. It was pretty dark."

"What did she look like?" the Commander continued. "What was she doing?"

"Pretty? Walking? I dunno, mate. It's still fuzzy up in here." Finlay dragged a hand through his sandy curls. "I hadn't planned on falling asleep. And when I woke up, everyone was gathered around the dead man. I really can't be involved in any big scenes at the minute, so I went to the church and played possum."

Eyeballing the Strachan, I replied, "Is that what you're calling it?"

Finlay grinned.

The Commander turned to Sinclair. "What did you learn in Jaska? Does this have anything to do with your travel plans?"

Sinclair nodded. "Around a dozen people went missing from the city about five years ago. There might have been a kidnapper, and the kidnapper might have been a killer, and the killer might have been a cannibal, but he definitely had a moustache. They've gone on believing the suspect died in a fire because the incidents stopped afterward, but the old archivist didn't sound convinced. Also, everyone involved in the case back then is dead—almost. So, our best bet now is to find the only two people in Auditoria who know a bleeding thing. Apparently."

"Didn't you think to retrieve the case files?" I asked.

Sinclair's response came in the form of the stare. Clearly she had thought of it.

But I hadn't had the chance to tell Sinclair about my trip to Leberecht, and it was obvious Finlay hadn't either. If we had, she may have mentioned the archive and this next part of our story may have played out much differently. But after knowing how things would unfold because of our lack of communication, I have no regrets.

"Anyone know anything about a Gregory Keller?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," I said. "Gregory Keller was Amali clergy—a Partisan assigned to Jaska over two decades ago. I've read that he was quite creative and he—"

"—is fascinating man, I'm sure." The Commander interrupted.

I took no offence because I was about to go on a tangent. "Yes, fascinating, Commander. But he is also dead."

"All right, so that brings us back to Vincent Delestade," Finlay said. "He's the other one with information on the case, and I know where to find him. It's going to be a pain in the arse, but I know where to find him. I've got an embark scheduled to leave for Delphia in the morning, and seeing as I have my own business on the Isles to take care of, Rhian could use a partner and Strauss could use some sunshine."

A terrible idea, I thought. Delphia is where Sinclair and I had first met face-to-face. It was where we'd first kissed and where we'd been responsible for a devastating series of unwitting catastrophes.

"That's a terrible idea," I said.

Sinclair nodded. "Not a single doubt about it. But we're looking for a slippery man in a place full of words, and I need a partner who can read. Michael has to stay here."

"Well, that settles it," the Commander said.

To protest would have been hopeless.