Chapter 14: 13 – The Inevitable Twist

Andrei

We arrived in Jaska by the following afternoon, and Finlay had convinced me to meet with Peter’s employer later that night. Was it really the worst idea to make another connection, and what could it hurt to hear the man out? For the time being, we dropped the portrait off in a guest room at the church where, like any other church across the six territories, we were promised free board and sanctuary.

From there, we went our separate ways, making plans to meet up again later at the local tavern.

The trip to the glassworks proved uninspiring. I placed the order for Ivana’s window, and using my own allowance, covered the cost and delivery back to Oskari. At the time, the stipend for an active Partisan was fifteen notes per week. The vast majority of those earnings would typically be spent on provisions, information, safe-housing, and the occasional recreational activity. Most Partisans lived stipend-to-stipend. Unless, like myself, they led a modest existence, with a simple diet, free accommodations, and no social life.

The Jaskan streets seemed dirtier than I remembered, the numbers seemed fewer, and the stone buildings seemed smaller. I considered the possibility this was only an illusion. I hadn’t been back in almost a decade, and I’d grown cynical and taller. From the glassworks, I carried on through the industrial compound, beyond the town centre, and northbound toward the market. Following Peter’s directions, I located my next destination tucked in an alley behind the florist. The Steel Needle.

It was a curious shop, not only for its fuchsia-coloured walls, or even the overpowering flowery scent. The most interesting aspect was the woman behind the counter. As a Legacy Partisan, she’d have retired from active duty at the age of thirty and petitioned the Assembly to introduce her craft to one of five non-native territories. Success in such a petition was rare, approved as a way to promote culture.

Shenanigans. The Assembly couldn’t care less for cross-culture encouragement. They only cared if their pockets were overflowing. I hadn’t met many Legacy Partisans while on my pilgrimage, so my curiosity was piqued. I approached the counter, smiled, and no sooner felt the cool, sharp edge of a blade against my neck.

“Your disguise is convincing,” the seamstress said. Her voice was sultry and carried the melodic rhythm of a Delphi. “You, however, are not.”

It had been an odd week, and in this moment, I came to full terms with my destiny. I would spend the rest of my life confused. “My name is Brother Andrei Strauss, second to the church of Oskari under the tutelage of Konstantin Belaia…”

The woman squinted.

“…and I’d be pleased to show you my identification if you promise not to take my head.”

Silence until the seamstress lowered the rapier.

“You are telling the truth.”

“Yes, I am. And I should report you both for threats against an unarmed clergy, and for what I assume was an unsanctioned use of telepathy.”

“I don’t care.” The seamstress shrugged and set her weapon down behind the counter. She adjusted the big blue bow keeping her auburn hair restrained. “I’ve seen it all; from defects to thieves, drunks to murderers, and I’ve dealt with my fair share of perverts to boot. My attack was a reflex. I did not intrude on your thoughts, Brother Strauss. You are telling the truth because I know who you are. You look just like her.”

“Like who?”

“Kaisa,” she said, and when she got no reaction from me, she tried again. “Kaisa Laine—your mother.”

It may be difficult to believe, but it was the first time learning her name. All that time, and I would’ve sworn it was Traitorous Bitch.

“Did you know her—Kaisa—well?”

“No one knew Kaisa well, darling. Well—there was Andreas, of course—your father. They were an odd couple, but I was always secretly rooting for them.” The seamstress clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she seemed to reminisce. “It really is such a pity.”

Other than Councilwoman Faust’s recent revelations, it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said about my parents.

The seamstress shook her head again, only this time as if clearing negative thoughts. She then smiled, and asked if there was anything she could do to help. We’d come a long way in the short time since she tried to kill me. I placed an order for a set of robes similar to my own, and was informed they’d be ready for pick-up at dusk.

I hadn’t expected to leave the Steel Needle with anything right away, but I left with my parents’ names and a new perspective on who they might have been. I considered whether I should have taken advantage of the opportunity to ask questions, and then I decided I wasn’t sure what I’d have asked anyway.

As I made my way back to the church, I took a detour near the orphanage where I’d spent the first eight years of my life. The most horrifying memories of my childhood were buried there, and part of me hoped the building would no longer be standing. When I approached, the three-storey house looked exactly the same. I recalled vividly the day the Consulates arrived to collect me and another Partisan. I remembered being frightened and still traumatized from accidentally injuring and almost killing one of my peers. I remembered being jealous of the other boy who seemed altogether thrilled. He spent the carriage ride to the Drop asking questions such as, “Will I get to wear armour?” and, “Do I get a sword?” and, “What’s a Strachan?” and, “Are we there yet?”

Being prone to motion-sickness, I hadn’t slept well on the way to Jaska. When I arrived back at the church, I retreated to our room for a nap. My number one priority in that moment was getting some rest, because while I had no way of knowing what the night would bring, I had statistics and a grim outlook.

---

After my nap, I scooped up the portrait of Zacharias Vonsinfonie and returned to the Steel Needle to collect my order. From there, it was a trip through the markets and beyond the slums where families may have scavenged over scraps, and thieves may have perfected their plots. Somewhere, a woman may have wept for a love she’d yet to meet, while elsewhere, a woman sick of being loved may have been preparing for another night of it.

In the Three Drinks tavern, a Strachan absolutely dangled upside down from the rafters.

When he saw me enter, Feargus Finlay flipped twice in the air before landing with only the faintest thud against the floor. The crowd was loving it, but as we were already running late for our meeting with Peter’s employer, there was no time for dallying. Much to the dismay of the locals, we left the smoke-filled tavern in favour of the city streets.

When we arrived outside, I handed Finlay a bundle of crimson cloth.

“Put this on.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Your new reason for being.”

The Strachan wrinkled his nose as he unfolded the bundle.

“I still don’t get it.”

“These are your new robes. Your new title is Petitioner Finlay—or Finnegan. Whichever. I’ll still be Andrei Strauss, but I’ll be your escort on your pilgrimage through Amalia. Even in Oskari, your presence will no longer be in question. Problem solved.”

For a long, drawn moment, Feargus Finlay was speechless. He slipped the robes over his casual tunic and trousers, and then he conceded with a simple, "Well played, mate."

For the meeting with Peter’s employer, we traveled to the Jaskar—an exclusive lounge in the city’s eastern quarter. Everything in black and white, the stairs spiraled up three storeys and the floor was patterned in such a way it appeared as though the room was spinning. The Jaskar imposed strict regulations, not limited to mandatory hats and the condition that all patrons wear black. This would have been nice to know in advance.

While I stood out against the other Amali in the room, the Strachan’s freckled complexion and sandy blonde hair shone like the sun.

The Patrons were too polite to gossip, but they were not too polite to stare.

Our host was waiting in the lobby when we arrived. He was dressed for the occasion in a silk shirt, ruffled tie, and a tall black hat. Built much like the Commander, his dark brown eyes were set beneath thick, black brows—Amali through and through. The man introduced himself as Alexander, and if not for his connections with the owner, I doubted I’d have made it past security. I put nothing past Finlay.

Ignoring our audience, Alexander directed us to a private section where he urged us to make ourselves comfortable on the black leather couches. Drinks had already been served atop the surface of an iron table. Peppermint tea for two, and for the Strachan, a pink drink aptly named the Piglet.

“I’m prepared to offer you 3,500 notes for the portrait.”

Finlay smiled and nodded. “That’s mighty generous of you…”

Generous? It was utterly mad.

“…but I reckon we’ll pass.”

“I see,” Alexander said. “What will you do with the portrait otherwise?”

The Strachan shrugged. “It seemed Ivana wanted Palisade to have it. She said it was important to us, and by that, she probably meant the collective us. That’s what people usually mean when they say that.”

“I see.” Alexander blew the steam from his tea, setting it down again. “I was not aware your organization recognized the Vonsinfonie Brothers as anything but legend.”

“It does not,” I said.

Alexander nodded. “And what do you believe, Brother Strauss?”

“What I believe is unimportant. The important thing is—”

“The important thing is, we’d like the name of their tailor,” Finlay said.

Alexander’s laugh was short, but left no reason to think it was anything but sincere. “Yes. As would I, Mister Finnegan.”

“Petitioner Finnegan, but please—call me Jack.”

I imagined Alexander could have snapped his fingers and the entire establishment would have come calling. Instead, he smiled and excused himself in favour of the bar.

The Strachan and I watched until we were certain the Barren had fallen out of range.

“He seems nice," Finlay said. "I think we should sell it.”

“I thought we agreed, the portrait is a clue. What if we need it?”

“The portrait isn’t important—I promise. What’s important is the message behind it.” The Strachan shook the last drop of his Piglet into his mouth. “Do you trust me?”

Feargus Finlay was an extension of my bond with Sinclair. I trusted him implicitly only because I trusted her implicitly, and the two were bonded since birth. I had only just taken my first sip of tea when Alexander returned with Finlay’s second Piglet. He took his seat, sharing anticipatory glances between us.

“Have we come to a decision?”

“If I may ask, Alexander, what would you do with the portrait?”

“I would hang it in my library, but the real question should be: what would you do with 4,000 notes?”

“Excess doesn’t exactly suit our line of work.”

“But wouldn’t it? Your Oskari has seen better days.”

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Who did this strange, spoiled man think he was, playing on my moral obligation to a desperate population? I turned my attention to the Strachan who seemed to be leaving the decision to me. While he worked on his second Piglet, Alexander had yet to touch his tea.

“If you want to help the village, you are free to do so,” I said.

“Am I?” Alexander shrugged. “The people of Oskari are prideful. They are fearful of those outside their prison, and they are envious of those who’ve left it. The village will die waiting for its miracle, and you, Brother Strauss, could deliver it.”

It was a manipulative play, but the benefits were undeniable. Alexander would have his portrait, and the Strachan and I would have one less possession to cart around on our travels. The funds would ensure the villagers stood a chance against the winter and then some. While the trade went against Palisade regulations, I was not about to believe Palisade would expend their resources on the village I’d promised to protect. There was but one loss in the equation, and Ivana would never have to know.

In the end, we were one portrait down and 4,000 notes richer. And as Finlay said his goodbyes to Zacharias Vonsinfonie, I shook hands with the mysterious man of wealth. It was not what I was expecting.

I felt the proof of labour in his thick, calloused hands

---

Back in our room at the church, Feargus Finlay sat cross-legged on the floor with a map of Amalia sprawled out before him. He promised me he had some insight, and that he knew what he was looking for, but after what felt like a century watching him drag his finger in zigzags across the map, I was beginning to doubt.

“Well, I can’t find it.”

“Can’t find what?”

“Amsteg.”

“I’ve studied Amalia extensively and I’ve never seen or heard of a place called Amsteg," I said. "Why are you looking for it on the map?”

“Amsteg, 3215. That’s what it said on the back of the canvas.”

I finally understood what Finlay meant when he said the portrait wasn’t as important as the message behind it. I hadn’t even thought to take the portrait out of its frame.

"I should have thought of that. I should have seen it myself."

Finlay nodded. "You should have, but you didn't. So, help me think."

From the corner of the bed, I peered down at the map.

“If Amsteg is a place, then I suspect 3215 is a date.”

“There’s our problem. We can’t find Amsteg on the map because it doesn’t exist yet. You really should have told me the Vonpurplesuit Brothers were from the future.”

Suppressing the urge to scream, I sighed instead. “If the Vonsinfonie Brothers truly existed, they existed pre-Divide.”

“You really should have told me that.”

“Quite certain I did.”

“I’m sure I’d remember if you had.”

“What difference does it make, Finlay? You know now, and if there were once a place called Amsteg, it no longer exists.”

The Strachan scooted over to the bed and collected his satchel. “The place might not exist, but I reckon the land still does. We could cross-reference.”

“As far as I know, there are no maps of Auditoria pre-Divide.”

The Strachan searched the depths of his satchel until he produced a crumpled scroll bound with a dirty white ribbon. He waved it in front of my face.

“You must be kidding,” I said.

“Usually, but no. My folks gave this to me a few years back afore they were shipped out to Stracha. And afore you say, ‘Why Feargus Barnabas Finlay, how dare you steal from your parents!’ I mean, they actually gave it to me.”

And perhaps they had, but what Finlay's parents most certainly had not done, was name their son Feargus Barnabas.

---

Post-Divide, the city of Amsteg appeared on the map as the township of Istok. After planning it out, we expected the journey from Jaska to take us three full days, including time spent at camp. We were able to afford a carriage and an experienced driver using a small portion of the funds from the portrait. I vowed to replace what I could. For the duration of the trip, Finlay was on his best behaviour, and if I weren’t so grateful, I may have been suspicious.

I should have been suspicious.

At the beginning of our third day on the road, I decided to ask for some personal advice. Closing the notebook he’d been scribbling in off and on since our departure, Finlay turned in his seat and gave me his undivided attention.

“If your parents died before you could meet them, would you want to know about their lives? Would you want to know what they were like?”

Finlay replied easily. “I’d wanna know everything.”

I dug my nails into the seat while we traversed a bumpy stretch of road. There were no doors on the carriage, and as I grew even more nauseated by the turbulence, I kept my attention turned away from the fast-moving trees outside.

“What if it turned out you were better off not knowing?”

The Strachan shrugged. “It sounds like you’re making this about me when it’s obviously about you. You should say what you mean, Strauss, so I can give you some sage advice and we can move on from talking about our feelings.”

Reminded of Sinclair, I couldn’t help but smile. “The seamstress in Jaska let slip my parents’ names, and in light of that—and in light of this ridiculous quest—I’ve been wondering whether I should want to learn more.”

Finlay huffed. “That isn’t something you’re meant to decide. Either you do, or you don’t. And seeing as you’re asking, I reckon you do. Forget the outcome, mate. You can’t control what you learn, but you can control what you learn from it.”

The advice came at me fast and hard, throwing me into another of my notorious broods. Finlay was right. Whatever knowledge I ran from would not harm me unless I let it. By the onset of dusk, my nausea had subsided to a tolerable minimum. The Strachan had since returned to his notebook, scribbling with joyous enthusiasm.

“Finlay, what have you been writing this whole time?”

“A letter to Rhian. Wanna say something?”

Absolutely I did. “I can’t think of anything,” I said. “Besides, how will she read it?”

“She can’t read, but she can see.” Finlay revealed a few pages of his journal, each of them filled with strange symbols and people composed of circles and lines.

“Lovely,” I said. “I take it the frowning figure represents me?”

“Who else?”

“Fine work, Finlay. How do you intend to deliver it?”

“I don’t know, but I miss her. We haven’t been separated this long since we were still spitting up on ourselves in our cribs.”

“I understand. The prelude to your spitting up on each other outside taverns.”

“Exactly.”

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt happy. I might even have laughed if it weren’t for what happened next. I clenched my teeth while the horses whinnied and the wagon wheels clattered around us. There was a sharp turn, and a curved turn, and we were traveling faster, and faster, and faster until…

“Go dead!” was the last thing I remember hearing before being shoved out the door. I reached for my satchel, and out the wagon I went—hitting the dirt like a sack of meat. Rolling, rolling, rolling. All the while the man at the reins shouted and whipped at the horses who did anything but follow directions. The screams and neighs became nothing but echoes as the the horses and driver flew into the chasm. Down, down, down…

That night, a man and two beasts were killed.

We never did learn for certain what spooked the horses, but in time, we’d have enough information to speculate.

That night at camp, while I mourned a human life, the Strachan wept—openly and unashamed—for the horses.

---

The township of Istok was home to friendly people, a sustainable fishing industry, and a gruesome history. There stood a house within the town, and within the house, many families had lived and loved. Many families had, too, died tragically. Wives and children murdered in cold blood by their own patron—their remains left behind to burn in a fire. The home was time after time rebuilt, the cycle repeating for centuries to come.

We will eventually circle back around to Istok, learn more of its history, and experience the legendary house for ourselves. But for now, Finlay and I stopped at the Bountiful Blessing—once a brothel, it became the town’s only inn. We were extended a warm and unexpected welcome, and for the better part of an hour, Finlay chatted with the proprietress while I ate bread, drank broth, and nursed a bruised body. When it came time to retire, we took separate rooms at my insistence.

It was a peaceful sleep, unlike any I’d had in recent weeks. In the morning, I felt well-rested if not a bit stiff and cotton-mouthed. My flask was exactly where I’d left it on the bedside table, but the stack of parchment tucked underneath had not been there the night before. The first page was penned in a familiar hand, and the contents had me quickly forgetting about my thirst.

Good morning, Strauss!

I’ve attached the permissions you’ll need to get into Leberecht. That’s where you’ll need to go next. I suppose I could have told you that from the start, but that would have been boring. I had a lot more fun with the riddle. :) I can’t go with you, but I hear it’s a nice place. The folks at the church will be expecting you in a friendly way.

Yours truly,
Feargus Alistair Finlay

P.S. Try smiling once in a while. But not too often. It might look suspicious.

Certain that my semi-conscious state was impairing me, I cleared my eyes and read the letter again. And then again, and again until I'd committed it to memory. At first I was confused, and then I decided the smiley face was a nice touch, and then I was angry. If Finlay knew from the start where to go, had any of it been real? I thought back to the conversation with Councilwoman Faust and it occurred to me: she never said she didn’t know what the key was for, or where the lock would be found. She only said my parents had been searching. The riddle was Finlay’s flair, and her instructions were in my hand. Her instructions were the permissions to enter Leberecht.

Curse that Strachan and his ever-changing name! What else hadn’t be told me?

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