Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  There were constables about too, and they were armed.

  “Hard to believe it gets bigger and more elaborate every year,” Winch said to Lysanne as they walked across the field. “I’m surprised the city went ahead with the festival, given the air raid.”

  “It’s not the first time we’ve been raided in the past few years,” Lysanne said. “They had to rebuild the north greenhouses after that nighttime attack in ‘Ninety-Four. People aren’t as shaken by it as they used to be.”

  “There’s not a prettier sight than Perch all kitted out for a party.”

  “Oh, that’s for certain. More importantly, I should be certain you’re not spending all your admiration on the other finely dressed ladies.” Lysanne winked at him.

  Winch smiled. She had her hair fixed in elaborate braids high on her head and wore the shimmering necklace of bluestone he’d given her for her last birthday. Her dress was a long purple and blue affair that revealed her smooth, strong shoulders.

  “Of course, not,” Winch said. He gave her a kiss. “Merely saving it for the best of them all.”

  Lysanne poked him lightly in the arm. “I might believe that.” She put her hand through the crook in Winch’s arm. “Hmm, your suit has a few wrinkles. But you still look dashing.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Wait, now—what’s this?” Lysanne patted his jacket pocket.

  “Er, nothing much.”

  She slipped his notebook out. “You brought work along? For shame.”

  “You never know when a story will happen, my love. And now I’m glad I did, because I can take note of those constables and the truck full of militia that went by.”

  Lysanne shook her head.

  “Sorry.” Winch tucked the notebook back into his pocket. He ran a finger around collar of his white shirt to loosen it. The deep blue suit and vest was the only one he had for special occasions as this, and it fit like a straightjacket.

  They walked over to the concession stands. Winch doled out a few coins for two glasses of green cider.

  Lysanne tasted hers. Her cheeks pinked. “That has quite the kick this year!”

  “I’d heard it was a good crop down at the Shinseki orchard last fall.” Winch sipped his. The cold liquid bit at his mouth and ran smoothly down his throat. “Nice to be able to enjoy these in quiet.”

  Lysanne gestured to the band shell. “Hardly quiet.”

  “Well…” Winch smirked. “Child quiet.”

  Lysanne laughed. “Oh, poor Grandma and Grandpa, left in the clutches of our three little darlings.”

  “I have already prayed for their survival,” Winch said solemnly.

  Over by the dance stage, Winch waved hello to Annora. She was pulling her husband onto the stage. Winch almost laughed aloud at the look of exultation on the face of the tall, burly mason.

  “Winchell!” The voice came from Winch’s right. “Enjoying the night air?”

  Gil stood just a few steps away. He was, of course, armed with his pipe. His red hair and beard fairly glowed against his immaculate black vest and grey coat. But what caught Winch’s gaze more were the two women attending to Gil’s either arm. He recognized them as the sisters who ran the florist booth over on Carrington. Both were about Gil’s age—and neither were married, Winch knew.

  “Not as much as you, I’d reckon,” Winch said.

  Lysanne elbowed him, but her smile said he wasn’t in trouble.

  Gil puffed on his pipe. “True, true. A Merry Quince to you on this fine Fifth Festival! Come along, ladies, let us attend to this thirst for cider that has me in its grasp.”

  They both laughed as Gil led them away. Lysanne shook her head. She fixed Winch with a powerful glare.

  “What?” Winch asked.

  “Don’t get yourself any ideas.”

  “About what?”

  “About having all these women at your beck and call.” She waggled a finger at his nose. “Trouble.”

  “Fear not, sweet. You are enough woman for me.” That earned him a swat. “Ouch!”

  “That’s what you deserve.” Lysanne kissed his cheek. “Come along, Trouble, let’s dance.”

  They set their glasses onto one of the many folding tables set up across the knoll. Lysanne pulled Winch up onto the dance stage just in time for the next rollicking song. Two of the fiddlers whooped and stomped along with the rhythm of the fast tune. Winch did his best to keep up as Lysanne dance sprightly to the music, but his feet were better skilled at tripping. Still, he wasn’t too terrible.

  As they whirled around through the dancing couples, Winch spotted Cope. His brother was utterly transformed to the point of being almost unrecognizable with his hair tamed and his body wedged into a suit. True to form, his tie was an overly showy maroon cravat. Cope would be Cope. He grinned in Winch’s direction and waved.

  That’s when Winch noted the woman standing with him. She had blond hair secured in a bun save for a few tendrils that curled down by her ears. Winch was just wondering if he’d ever seen her before, perhaps wearing something more utilitarian than the white and green dress she wore now, when Lysanne gasped.

  “That’s Daisy!” she said.

  Winch blinked. He nearly lost his balance but managed to keep dancing as Cope and Daisy climbed the steps to the platform. Clouds above—it really was Cope’s fellow pilot.

  The music ended to cheers and claps. Cope sidled over. “Hello, Winch. Lysanne, don’t you look ravishing, as usual.” He plucked Lysanne’s hand from Winch’s and gave it a kiss.

  Winch gave him a playful push. “Glad you made it. I thought they’d have you and the rest of the pilots on patrol.”

  “Oh, Tread and the other fellas are up. Plus, anti-air guns are still in place, and there’s militia posted on the roads out of the city. So I get some time to breathe.”

  “Very good,” Winch said. “And Daisy, nice to see you again.”

  She nodded. “Hello, Winch, Lysanne.”

  “Hello, Daisy. I love your dress!” Lysanne took her hands.

  Despite her appearance, Daisy still seemed as formal and stern as when Winch had last seen her pulling the damaged prop off her biplane at the aerodrome. She smiled awkwardly. “It doesn’t make it out of my wardrobe often.”

  “Well, then, let’s not waste it for a moment!” Cope held out his hand to Daisy as the band struck up a slower tune. “Shall we?”

  Daisy’s cheeks turned an alarming pink, but she grinned back. “Lead on, flyboy.”

  Cope smoothly twirled her off into the slow, formal dance.

  Lysanne shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I know.” Winch watched Cope’s infinitely more skillful feet with envy. “I never thought she’d come here with him.”

  “I meant, that your brother is a fine dancer and you’re standing here gawking. And the gawking isn’t directed at me. Trouble.” Lysanne smiled.

  Winch half-bowed. “Of course, m’lady. Allow me.”

  As they danced, Winch could finally relax and let the events of the past few days drift from his mind. For now it was just the music, the laughter and cheers, the stars emerging in the midnight blue sky, and the breeze in the air. Lysanne pressed her hand against his cheek, and he winked at her.

  Winch could see, however, that others were not so carefree. Many couples spoke in hushed tones, with somber expressions on their faces. Older men and their wives looked the most concerned, while the young were more apt to be dancing and drinking. But even a few of the instrumentalists looked worried.

  When the song stopped, Winch found someone waiting for him.

  Miss Plank stood off to the side of the steps leading up onto the platform. She wore a fancy purple and white dress that made her look far more elegant than Winch would have thought possible. But while her expression was softened and pleasant, her gaze locked on Winch.

  “Miss Plank. Good to see you.” Winch cleared his throat nervously. Lysanne looked from one to the other with caution. “This is my wi
fe, Lys—”

  “Come with me, please.” Miss Plank’s voice was quick and snapped like a whip.

  “Well, can’t we at least—”

  Winch choked on his words as Miss Plank’s hand drew something silver from her small handbag. He found himself staring into the tiny double barrels of a Bay sidehammer pistol.

  Lysanne gasped. “My word.”

  Cope strode grimly toward him, through the oblivious festival-goers. Daisy was no longer his escort. Instead Sheriff Tedrow, his badge gleaming and suit crisply cleaned, followed.

  “Looks like we’re off to work for a mite, Winch,” Cope said sourly.

  Winch swallowed. Miss Plank gestured with the gun.

  Mayor-General Keysor stood at the bottom of the steps.

  Tedrow prodded Cope. “Get along now, boys, so you can be back for the rest of the party.”

  Winch squeezed Lysanne’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” Assuming of course that no one tries to kill me, he thought.

  “Winch, Cope, I hope you’re having a nice evening,” Keysor said as he mounted the steps.

  “We were,” Cope muttered. “For a spell.”

  Keysor pulled something from his jacket. Cope tensed, and for once Winch was exceeding glad Cope wasn’t carrying his repeater—he tended to grab for it in such situations. But they’d both overreacted. No new gun faced them—it was just the latest edition of the Perch Advocate.

  “Fine words on the raid this morning.” Keysor held up the front page, which showed Winch something he’d seen a hundred times over in the bowels of the Advocate’s press cellar—the sprawling headlines, the lengthy story, and the photos. There were the exploding dirigibles in the distance, there was the Trestleway delegation.

  “I hope you didn’t take offense at anything we wrote.” Winch was only half truthful there.

  “No. Though I do wish I’d held my tongue in some places.” Keysor shrugged. “But the truth is the truth.”

  “That it is.”

  “Let’s take a walk, shall we?” Keysor smiled. “Miss Plank tells me we have much to discuss.”

  • • •

  Winch and Cope followed Keysor deeper into the park, away from the lights and laughter. Soon crickets provided the only sounds. Keysor kept up a steady pace ahead of them. Cope nudged Winch. “He’s not got a notion to march us off Trafton’s Cliff, does he?”

  Winch glanced over his shoulder. Miss Plank, though still an elegant sight in her dress, followed them with a purposeful gait that told him she hadn’t come along to admire. At least she’d packed away the gun. “I can’t say. But let’s not give him any suggestions.”

  “Right.”

  They finally stopped beside a bend in Stone Creek. The water churned at their feet. Winch watched the way it rushed by the submerged rocks—snowmelt must’ve been greater than last year. The last few days had been warm, which thus fed the melting.

  Keysor beckoned them from farther down the bank. He stood on one of the long, flat stones that lined the creek where it sliced through the park.

  Winch stiffened as they stepped out onto the stones under Miss Plank’s watchful gaze. They were far enough from the festivities that he could hear only faint strains of music carried on a wind that made the leaves shiver. If the mayor-general aimed to dispose of them, and since Miss Plank was armed…

  Keysor’s smile was barely visible in the twilight. “Stand easy, boys. You’re not here for punishment.”

  Cope grinned. “So this is a social call, is it? Does that mean I get my chance to sashay with the lovely Miss Plank?”

  She patted her handbag in response. Cope blanched—no doubt he remembered, as Winch did, the tiny gun she’d brandished at the party.

  “I’d take that as a decline, Cope,” Winch said.

  “Huh. Must be losing my altitude.”

  Keysor frowned. “I understand you boys have been doing precisely the opposite of my advice.”

  Winch wondered how much he knew. “Such as?”

  “Such as snooping around the Trestleway delegation at the Oriental Lodge, or conversing with an Exalter leader of ill-repute?”

  The mayor-general had to know the first bit because Miss Plank had followed them to the Oriental—and saved their hides, Winch remembered. But the second remark set his teeth on edge. “Vaughn Markwater is of the highest character. So you’re spying on us, is that it?”

  “Seems only fair, as you’re conducting your own investigation.” Keysor regarded him coolly. “And what have you found?”

  Winch kept his tongue until he was sure he should divulge. “That the men involved may well be cythramancers. The ancient peoples you thought did not exist, if I recall.” Winch didn’t mean it as harshly as he said it, but there it was.

  To his surprise, Keysor nodded. “Good. The sheriff, you see, has had little luck on that angle.”

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Remember?”

  “That’s the letter—”

  “That you recovered from Troy’s downed aerocraft. Yes.” Keysor unfolded it with care. Its crumpling was unnervingly loud in the spring silence. “You see here, I told you I would eventually find a key that worked to unlock its secret.”

  He handed it to Winch. Underneath the typed scramble Winch could read plainly a message in the mayor-general’s flowing script:

  TRESTLEWAY PLANS INVASION IN QUINCE

  DATE UNKNOWN CONTACT JESCA.

  Winch could only stare. His mouth was dry.

  Cope leaned over his shoulder. “Let me see.”

  Keysor let Cope look at it, then he took the paper back.

  “Jesca,” Cope said. “Huh. A pretty name. Does she have a pretty face to match?”

  “She does. She’s my niece.”

  “Troy’s sister,” Winch said.

  Keysor nodded. “She was working in a telegraphy office in Trestleway.”

  “Was?”

  “A few months ago, she told Troy—who subsequently told me—that she’d stumbled onto something possibly dangerous. She resigned her post. Troy did not see or hear from her again, or so I thought. Neither did I hear from her, until her name appeared in this note.”

  “So is this true? Trestleway is planning an invasion?” Winch had trouble believing the words leaving his own mouth.

  “Troy was convinced that they were up to something, and that raid they sent may have been more than bandits looking for quick pay or eager to dole out devastation,” Keysor said. “It may have been a test of our defenses.”

  “I thought you were oddly silent during that argument between Chairman Hawes and the councilor from Trestleway,” Winch said. “Usually your public comments are more…voluminous.”

  Miss Plank scowled at him.

  But Keysor chuckled. “Truthful as always. Yes, I had my suspicions about that attack. And the destruction of the raiders cemented that suspicions. It was a test of some kind, to see our aerial defenses firsthand.”

  “And you know that for a fact?” Winch asked.

  “Yes. Miss Plank?”

  She drew a ragged scrap of paper from her purse.

  Winch took it. It smelled strongly of smoke, and he could tell it had been badly burned. The fragment contained only parts of words and what appeared to be—“This is some kind of pay order.”

  “It is,” Miss Plank said. “For services rendered. You’ll notice there’s a portion of embossed stamp at the corner.”

  Winch had noticed that. He could make out part of a crosshatch that resembled train tracks. “It could be part of Trestleway’s seal.”

  “No joking?” Cope leaned in for a look. “That’s some wings.”

  “That would be an understatement,” Keysor said dryly. “So you see, there is something afoot—and we need to know precisely what. It even occurred to me that this ‘invasion’ could be code for something else, some kind of cloaked action.”

  Cope shook his head. “Sounds like you ought to find this Jesca gal, since she’s
the one on location. I still don’t understand why we’re here at the brook. And why I’m not dancing with a very pretty pilot. ”

  “Exactly, Copernicus Sark. Precisely. Sending a message back to Jesca is far too dangerous. There’s too great a chance someone at one of the telegraphy offices down the line will intercept it. And for security reasons none of my…assets have their own tele-typers.”

  “Assets?” Winch was dying to write this all down. Good thing his notepad still rode safely in his jacket pocket. “You have contacts there, then.”

  “Yes. Obviously, I cannot go myself. Nor can Miss Plank. For reasons best left unsaid.”

  Winch didn’t like where this was heading. He exchanged a look with Cope. “Then…what did you have in mind?”

  Keysor put his hands on their shoulders. “Gentlemen, pack your bags. I am sending you to Trestleway to find Jesca to save us from invasion.”

  Thursday

  The words came back to Winch in a nightmare.

  He jerked upright in bed. It was still early. Far too early. The finches were chirping gleefully in the aspens outside their bedroom window. Somewhere far off, a terratorn’s shriek rent the morning air.

  Winch ran a hand through his hair. Sweat drenched the sheet. He sat up, breathing heavily, and letting the morning coolness take away some of the heat burning on his bare chest. “Allfather, give me peace.” Winch squeezed his eyes shut. “Work Your will in me. Where I am weak, be my strength. Emin.”

  There’d be no avoiding his task this morning. He’d done his best to prepare last night, through packing, prayer, and talking with Lysanne.

  It seemed he had more work to do.

  Lysanne stirred beside him. “Hmm? What is it?”

  “Nothing. I’ll be All right.” Winch settled back into bed. Lysanne rolled over and put an arm across his chest. She pushed up against him, flesh against flesh. Memories of last night—after the packing, prayer, and talk—elbowed Winch’s fears aside.

  “You will be able to do this, Winch.” Lysanne traced a lazy path across his chest with her finger.

  “How did you know that’s what I was thinking about?”

  “Wifely intuition.” She smiled at him. “That, and you were speaking in your sleep.”