Feargus

When we arrived in Jaska, we secured ourselves a room at the church and unloaded the portrait for the time being. I had somewhere to be, and Strauss said he'd be fine placing the order at the glassworks on his own. So, once we split up, I took a quick tour. The stained glass was a delightful touch in an otherwise dull looking city. But when I'd seen everything I needed to see, I set out for my top secret meeting. I had a map of the city, but I didn't need it following the directions Faust and Alexander gave me.

The Steel Needle was tucked in behind a flower shop, easy to miss if you didn't know it was there. I hadn't seen Vivienne Delaterre in a few years, not since she'd retired into Legacy status and opened her cross-culture shop in Jaska. She was one of mine and Rhian's favourite teachers, though her classes weren't exactly a walk in the candy shop. But her role as the counter-telepathy instructor meant she was in the unique position of knowing almost everything about everyone she'd ever taught. That made her incredibly powerful.

Fortunately, she hated Councilwoman Blanchett, and according to Faust, was one of Kelly's agents. The bell chimed when I walked through the door, and the second Vivienne registered who she was looking at, she waved me into her sewing room behind the curtain.

"I should have known it would be you," she said, and then for a moment, she looked hopeful. "Rhian, too?"

My stomach sank. Rhian wasn't kidding when she said we'd been together our whole lives—even more so mine. She was only three months older than I was, and I was brought to the orphanage when I was just a few weeks old. We hadn't been apart for more than a few days at a time since, and usually only because she was in solitaire. I was trying not to think about how much I missed her. It was distracting.

"No Rhian," I said. "Not yet."

Vivienne nodded, fixing the over-sized purple bow she wore in her hair that day.

I knew she wasn't much for idle chitchat, so I got straight to the point: "Faust said you'd have the details on a guard politics matter."

"Of course, the corrupt Captain," she said. "Tyrant on the inside, yet beloved by the people on the outside. A masterclass feat, darling. Internally, many wish to see Marat Kavelin promoted in his place, but if Zelda intervenes, it will seem to the general populace like nepotism and an overexertion of power."

Marat Kavelin—the name was quietly notorious for being a Barren born to a pair of Amali Partisans. I reckoned he was around mine and Rhian's age, and I'm guessing if Faust wanted him in, he was a piece on the board. Anyhow, good old Kavelin. He's popped in and out of the pages a few times, so you ought to know who he is by now.

What's important is: the current Captain needed to be dealt with carefully, without sparking internal conflict or external outrage. Not only that, but Councilwoman Faust believed he had blackmail on those most likely to try moving against him. And if I had to place a bet, he had someone in place to distribute the dirt if something untoward happened to him. There were a number of ways I could handle the situation, but getting my hands on that information so it couldn't be released was the first step.

Vivienne filled me in on what she knew, like the names of a few guards who were loyal to the Captain, and a few who weren't, some of his social habits, preferences, all that good stuff, see. The perks of being a telepath in a city full of Barren folk, unless you were the polite sort, there'd be next to nothing you wouldn't know.

"I suppose you can't just, you know, convince the Captain to be a nice guy and step down?"

Vivienne laughed. "Some people aren't worth the effort that would require, my dear."

Worth asking me to kill, mind you. And it wouldn't be the first time they did—not even the tenth time. Not even the—aye, reckon you get the idea. But typically in these situations, I'd come up with the plan, and Rhian would do the murdering. Sometimes we'd have to do the murdering together, but she'd done substantially more murdering. There's really no gentle way to put it. But again, I was really trying not to think about Rhian.

I only had a short time to make everything happen, and I had plans to meet with Strauss later that evening at the Three Drinks tavern before our chat with Alexander. I'd have to time this—whatever this ended up being—perfectly.

Anyhow, no time for dallying, so after saying toodles to Vivienne, I threw my hood up and dipped out.

???

What I know, he doesn't know, and I know, he'll soon know.

???

The nice thing about Jaska was that it wasn't Oskari. The people were more open-minded, and though some looked at me sideways, the reception wasn't half-bad. Sometimes, the best way to hide is to not hide, so I carried on through the streets as if I belonged, but I ducked behind a stall when I caught a glimpse of Strauss heading in the direction of… The Steel Needle? Maybe he'd torn his robe. Maybe he needed new undies. But I was only one devastatingly handsome man, and I couldn't be in two places at once. Babysitting Strauss was on hold for the minute.

Though it's not always obvious, Strachan Partisans are plenty powerful in their own right. Not only for being fast, but for jumping and climbing as well as any cat, and for being as stealthy as one, too. We were excellent swimmers, could hold our breaths for three, four times the length of any Barren, reduce our footfalls to virtual silence, and even slow our own heartbeats.

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While I was scoping out the guard compound from the bell tower, I was able to get a good look at the layout, of the courtyard, identify the Captain, observe him moving in and out of his quarters, which to my immense relief, was its own building on the grounds and not somewhere inside the garrison. Rhian would have found that stupid because it was.

I watched him pick his nose and flick it, tell a fellow off for missing a wrist guard, and then he stayed inside for the rest of the afternoon. A few guards came by with requests, but he sent most of them away—apparently he was very busy preparing his grand public address for the next morning. And speaking of: it was painfully obvious he'd be giving it from the rampart, judging by the workers fussing about up there. Eventually he let one of his visitors in. The guard stayed for twenty-seven minutes, and then the two of them wandered off together.

Business as usual, right?

I saw what I needed to see, so when the Captain and his mate grabbed a few other guards going off-shift and made plans to have some drinks at the Three Drinks, I followed them.

On the way, I snatched a hefty-looking keyring from some unsuspecting merchant shilling pumpkins from a stall. People really ought not to leave their keys lying around like that.

The inn was buzzing that evening, which was perfect for me. The group of guards gathered 'round the biggest table in the room which seemed to have been on reserve. The rest of the tables were filled, but there were a few free spots at the bar. That wouldn't do.

The smaller table near the big table caught my eye. The three gents seated around looked to be roughly my age, seemed to be half in the bag already, and by the bits floating around in their drinks, I reckoned they could only afford the shittiest ale. So, I greeted the bartender with an easy grin and ordered four pints of their least shitty ale. You think I'm kidding, but those were the options: shitty ale, shittier ale, and shittiest ale. After settling up, I made my way over, set the drinks down on the table, and had a seat.

"Hey, thanks," one of the lads said.

"No problem, mates," I replied. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion. Just passing through, and I don't know anyone in town. Nothing says desperate like getting drunk on your own, am I right?"

For the record, nobody was in the tavern getting drunk on their own that night. That would have been a mighty rude thing to say otherwise.

The three chuckled and introduced themselves. Handshakes all around.

"Jack Finnegan," I said. "What are we celebrating?"

Number One patted Number Two on the back. "This one's getting married."

From the big table, the Captain guffawed. "Good luck with that."

"She's one of the good ones," Number Three added. "Wish I'd found her first."

The three lads laughed, and the Captain snorted.

"They all start out that way," he said. "Talk to me again in ten years."

The guard table went back to their conversation, ordering up another round. Meanwhile, Lad Number One had a tough time peeling his eyes away from me. I'd seen that look before.

"Not seen a Strachan before, mate?" I asked. You know, in a nice way. It wasn't far-fetched.

He shook his head. "I have so many questions."

Lad Number Two and Three looked like they had questions, too, and the lot at the guard table peered over curiously.

"Well, I'm an open book," I said. "So, how about, let's make a game of it."

The rest of the tavern turned around in their seats.

I stood from my chair. "All right, seeing as this game will require you all to drink your drinks at a Strachan's speed, all rounds on me tonight."

The crowd cheered. The bartender saluted a mug. Blah, blah. Good thing I got that bonus advance on my allowance. Then again, this was exactly why I got that bonus advance on my allowance. Money equals options, and options equals increased chances of success in any given situation. Kelly's no dolt.

"So the way this works, mates: I'll state a fact about Strachan, or Strachan Partisans—but is it a fact? Maybe, but just maybe I'm lying. It'll be up to you lot to decide: true, or false? If you're right, you get to drink. And if you're wrong, you may as well drink, too!"

Everybody cheered again, and the bartender started pouring ales in advance.

I rubbed my hands together while I thought of a good one. I'd come up with the game two minutes ago. "Strachan are born without fingernails."

You'd think that one would be obvious, but it was fifty-fifty on the trues and falses.

Everybody drank, questions were asked, people knew very little, more drinks were served and consumed, and when most folks were sitting at the level of unawareness I needed them at, I said, "Strachan Partisans can jump six feet in the air."

True. And do you know what's also true? Strachan have a higher tolerance to alcohol than most. Drinking anything other than Hocks spirits or Hockberry wine is essentially the same as drinking weak ale diluted in ten parts water. That's why I loved a good Piglet, see. The Hockberry made it pink, and the Hockberry made me drunk. Unlike the shitty ale.

Again, mixed bag—some said true, some said false, but I knew where it would lead. Most regular, foreign, and/or uneducated people thought we were just, "The fast ones."

"If it's true, show us!" one of the guards said.

"If it's true?" I grinned. "Well, you know what else is true? A Strachan never refuses a challenge." I found an open space, and hopped foot to foot as if psyching myself up. Six feet, easy. I leaped up and grabbed hold of the rafter above, hanging from one arm.

Everybody in the tavern lost their minds, even the Captain who was on his fifth drink by now. The crowd exploded while I moved across the ceiling, the keyring I carried adding some music the whole affair. I dangled for a while above the guard table and when I was in position, I performed a triple flip and landed behind him. Now, when someone falls or jumps from a height, it's expected they're going to bend at the knee to absorb the shock. I really didn't have to, but I did, and when I did, I unhooked the Captain's keys from his belt and switched them out with the pumpkin keys.

"Again!" the crowd demanded.

And what the crowd wanted, the crowd got. I had what I needed. Just one more thing—

After putting on another display, I announced that seeing as it was my fault everybody was fully in the bag, rooms for the night were also on me. "Especially you, sir—!" I pointed 'drunkenly' to the Captain. "Don't need to give your wife a reason to nag." He laughed and said he'd tell her he had to work an overnight.

Too easy, mates. I went to the bar and paid upfront for everything, and once more, everybody shouted, "Again!"

"Yeah! Do the thing where you hang upside down!"

Right—up I went, six feet in the air, hanging by the rafters. Swing for momentum, flip, and hang. I stayed there for a while as everybody marveled until the door opened. And Strauss, carrying his parcel of undies I presumed, stood, staring, speechless.

True story: I'd trade just about anything to see the expression on his face again.

Before that day, I don't even think I'd ever seen him make one.

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