The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Rhian

They'd all gone. Michael, That Varis, Strauss, Gus. They'd all gone and it was bloody brilliant. I had The House to myself for a while and it felt like I could breathe. Don't get me wrong, apart from just about everything, those weeks in Oskari with my friends were the best I'd had in ages. Thing is, I needed some space to feel sick without a single witness.

Before leaving for The Place with That Bach, Strauss shut down the church. We helped by putting up barricades and boarding up the doors. They'd only hold up for so long against Those Things from the other side, but it seemed the right thing to do to keep the Barrens out. The church closing was the talk around town, so when I wasn't lazing around The House, I stood guard in front of the doors. Some folks stopped by crying about Father Belaia's passing, others stopped by asking after Strauss. Some wanted to know more about the barricades. I might have said something about a fungus that may or may not have been deadly.

Once they'd grown used to seeing my piss-head around, some of the locals were all right. The rest asked for advice.

"What's the problem? I asked.

"It's my husband."

"Is he missing?"

"No."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

"Is he trying to kill you?"

"No."

"Then I probably can't help you, lass."

"The problem is, Broth—Father Strauss wishes to employ me as an educator, teaching practical life-skills to the children."

"Sounds good, go for it."

"I would, but my husband forbids it."

"Want him taken care of, then?"

"Taken—my husband? No, no! I don't want him dead, Partisan. I want his blessing."

"Your life, lass. Do it or don't."

"But he—"

"Will he hit you?"

"No, but we would—"

"Will you stepping out of the house for a couple hours a day destroy your lives and those of everyone you love?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then seeing as you're not a slave or the saviour of the goddess-be-damned world by the sounds of it, do it. Argue about it. Seems nothing much would change save the weight of your purses. Reckon he'll forget he had a problem, and he'll carry on pretending it was his idea to begin with."

Give a person advice in Oskari and you'll never hear the end of it. Look, I can't say I ever said the proper words to the folk who asked for them, but I said words, and they smiled and said thank you. The smiles were all right, but I hated thank-yous.

The thing about cooking, it's easier when someone else does it. I'm not sure I mentioned, but Michael was an excellent cook and he took good care of us during our time at The House. Trouble was, Michael was still at the Drop and I was hungry. Bright side, the Widow's Peak was always loads of fun. All those painted eyes following us around, faces of folks I'd never know. Also, there was Ivana.

"Let me get this straight, half of Palisade shows up while Oskari's riddled with murders, riots, and moldy mushrooms? Never thought I'd see that church shut down. This is great, Rhian. Really great," she said. And there wasn't a thing sarcastic about it. The village intrigue was good for business.

"Happy to help," I said.

"Hungry? Thirsty?"

I was, so I ordered the roast chicken, potatoes, and a tankard of apple juice. It was tasty enough to remember. If I'd had enough notes, I might have ordered seconds. At about dusk, the door to the Peak started opening and closing. I had to wee, and the cold air wasn't helping, but I wasn't about to give up my seat at the bar. Not for anything.

Not for anything except for one thing.

The door swung open again, but that time was different. That time, there was so much goddess-be-damned noise, I couldn't help but turn around.

Clink, clang, bang, thud.

For all the Strachan luck, you'll never believe who walked in next.

The folk in Oskari weren't ready for a lass looking like Adeline Blanchett, so the minute I saw her, I leaped from my stool and dragged her arse outside. The Squeaky Lass squeaked, looking back at the Widow's Peak all forlornly and whatnot. She was disappointed, I could tell, but the mood turned around soon enough.

"It's so good to see you, Enforcer Rhian. I nearly fainted when my mother told me I'd been personally requested. Requested! A pity I didn't have the chance to meet him in person. Say, would it be too much trouble to ask you to formally introduce us?"

I set aside being confused for the time being and asked, "Who?"

"Why, Feargus Finlay, of course."

"Gus did this?"

"Who else? And never in a million years did I think she would allow it, but here I am. Mother believes the practical experience will be essential to my succession."

Horseshite. A successor in active duty? Didn't happen. Didn't bloody happen unless a Councilwoman had a better pet waiting in the wings. By that time, I was ninety-nine-point-nine per cent sure the Assembly was trying to kill us, and Adeline Blanchett was just added to the hit list. She wouldn't be succeeding a damned thing, I reckoned.

Anyhow, there wasn't any sense pissing on her parade. Also, I tolerated the lass a lot more than I pretended not to. I might have even been happy to see her.

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Seeing as I could, I took her on a tour of the village.

"That there's the general store," I said after passing the general store. Imagine that. "We call it the general store on account of it generally has a store. You'll probably never get what you need, but the man behind the counter's all right for a natter."

"It sounds wonderful," Adeline replied, and she meant it, too.

Dragging a massive trunk behind her, she was having a spot of trouble keeping up with my fast-walking. But she did what she could, occasionally adjusting the fuzzy hat she wore that day. It had ear flaps, and her big red hair was sticking out the sides. I didn't know much about fashion, but at least she'd had the sense to dress for winter.

"It's a good thing I've brought plenty of additional stock," she added. "Weapons, tools, clothing, and I hope you don't mind, but I let myself into your room. I thought you may prefer some of your own things."

I didn't mind.

"It's so lovely, isn't it? All these people living in their little houses. It's all so lovely. It reminds me of what we fight for. Although, I never imagined it would be so dirty. Are the Amali opposed to bathing? I don't recall reading that."

"You get used to it."

I'd lived in Stracha for eight years afore being brought to Palisade, and I'd been around the world a few times since then. I'd seen villages and Barrens aplenty. Rich ones, dirty ones, angry ones, all the ones. Adeline Blanchett was Palisade bred, born, and polished all shiny. She'd never been anywhere but there.

"Well, that's about all there is," I said. "There's the church, but it's closed, and there's an old man living by the well who makes excellent pies. If anything needs stitching, see the lass in the crooked shack by the orchard. Any questions?"

"Yes," she said. "Where will I be sleeping? It's been a long trip."

"At The House with the rest of us. You can bunk with me."

"How exciting. And where will I be working? Agent Finlay insisted I pack my workshop."

It was a fair question. Gus could be back at any given time, Michael and That Varis wouldn't be away for much longer, and with Those Things lurking beneath the church, Strauss made five. The House would be cramped, and the lass needed space. I had some ideas for what she could do with those special talents of hers. And I wasn't talking about walking in those ridiculous boots.

"You've got two options, lass. On one hand, there's a pretty house with a kitchen, and a garden, and whatnot. Loads of people have been murdered in it, and our enemy could show up at any time."

"…and the second option?"

"Piece of shite shack on the north side, been abandoned a while."

"And our enemy? Will they…?"

"Look, nowhere's safe. But knowing that means everywhere's a bit less dangerous. Follow?"

"I think I do," she said. "In that case, would you judge me terribly if I told you I'd prefer the pretty house with all the murders?"

I shrugged. To each their own.

As we toured The Murder House, I was seeing folks and things not there. There was a den filled with reddish-brownish furniture, but the actual furniture was pale. Three bedrooms upstairs—one with a lantern lit through the night and a brown-eyed boy scared of the dark. 'Course, there was no lantern, and there was no boy. There was just an unmade deathbed. One with a man and a woman sound asleep, but Adeline and I were all alone. The final room with the butter-yellow drapes—a lass by the window, waiting, watching with those big amber eyes. The drapes were brown.

"Enforcer Rhian, is everything all right?"

"Fine," I said. "Can you make this place work?"

Adeline nodded her bouncy red head.

"Good. Got any mirrors?"

"Yes, shards. But why?"

"Put them up all over the goddess-be-damned place. Got silver?"

Poor pet. Her brow was all twisted up in a knot. "Of course not. But why?"

I fished around in my satchel until I found the silver ring I'd stolen from the ancient bard. I had gloves, but I'd sliced the fingers off every pair I owned. I'd be itchy later.

"Reckon you could fashion a bullet out of this?"

"Yes, I think so, but I would have to—wait, why?"

"Reckon you could teach me to shoot a pistol properly?"

"Yes! Of course, but—"

"Why?"

"Yes, Enforcer Rhian. I mean no disrespect, but you've been behaving rather strangely since we arrived. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"Frankly, there's plenty wrong. But now you're here, I'm feeling much better about our chances at making it right. Look, none of what I'm about to say is gonna make a lick of sense, but that's too bloody bad. Interrupt me and I'll cut your hair off in your sleep."

I made my point. The Squeaky Lass squeaked.

"All right, here goes: there are Barrens, and there are Partisans, and then there are these fuckers we've been fighting. I call them Those Things on account of Devourerers is a stupid bloody name and I can't even say it properly. They can do almost anything we can do, but they can do it all at once. They've died already, so they're not afraid of much. As far as we know, the only surefire way to kill them again is to lop off their heads, and unless they're fresh, they'll disintegrate into ash once they're dead—again. They hate silver and sunlight more than we do and you won't be able to tell them apart from Barrens save the fact that they scream at mirrors. Any questions?"

Turned out, she had a lot of questions.