Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  “No, no, lass. That’s why I called you down here. The message says ‘with love to Uncle,’ and the mayor-general is this woman’s uncle.” Gil tapped the paper with his index finger but still didn’t take it from her. “What’s that mean, ‘trouble columnist,’ by the by?”

  “Oh, that.” Lysanne smiled. “That’s my nickname for your beloved reporter. ‘Trouble.’ You’ve heard me call him that before, remember?”

  Gil’s eyes were blank for a spell. Then he slapped his desk with such vehemence Lysanne took back the paper. “Confound and cursed! I should have known. What a blind hamster…” He shook his head in utter disgust. “The fact of the matter, lass, is that I don’t dare take any note anywhere near City Hall. You see, that isn’t the only communique I’ve received in the past few days.” Gil scrounged on his desk under a mound of papers. “Ah! There be the offender.”

  Lysanne read it.

  DAVIES. KEEP YOUR CRIMS NOSE WHERE IT BELONGS, LEST IT BE CUT OFF AND FED TO YOU. STAY AWAY FROM THE MAYOR-GENERAL’S BUSINESS. YOU ARE ALWAYS WATCHED—TURBULENCIS

  She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my.”

  “Man or woman, I can’t say. And I don’t rightly care!” Gil snatched up his pipe. He struck a match on the desk with the fury of an executioner swinging his axe. Puffs of smoke filled the room. He settled back into his chair with a contented grunt. “Been waiting a far sight too long to do that.”

  “So you want me to take this message to the governor-general,” Lysanne said.

  “Is it that obvious, lass?”

  “As transparent as your door window. And don’t call me ‘lass,’ Gill. It’s ‘Lysanne’ or ‘Mrs. Sark.’”

  “Fine, fine. You’ll do us both a service.” Gil grabbed back the threat. “Let me keep hold of that. It does the soul good to be reminded that the enemies of Thel and Ifan will always hound the faithful.”

  Lysanne tucked the note into her pants pocket. “I’ll entrust you to do the praying, while I do the walking.”

  “Go with haste, then.” Gil shook his head and expelled a plume of smoke. “Far too much tomfoolery for a news story. Your husband had better have a good mastodon-sized one when he comes back, for all the consternation he’s caused me!”

  • • •

  Jesca and Winch.

  The phrase came back to her three times. And she’d barely made it two buildings from the Advocate. She did her best not to grind her teeth. Mother had always warned her of that habit.

  Completely irrational, she knew. But what would Winch say or do if he were in her place, and Jesca were a handsome young man? A spy or a soldier?

  Not that Lysanne suspected her husband of anything untoward. It was just the idea that this…this woman…was off gallivanting with Winch on who knew what kind of escapade. It was the not knowing, the uncertainty, that tortured her. Lysanne sighed. She and Winch were both the jealous types, there was no doubting it.

  She almost trampled the fairy bells growing in the dirt along the edge of the building. Lysanne never stepped on a flower if she could help it.

  She was halfway up South Street, just passing the intersection with Pine, when the noise startled her.

  The motorwagon’s horn squawked. Lysanne turned. She saw a man in a dark coat and grey pants leap out of the road onto the sidewalk, not fifty feet behind her. The motorwagon, actually a large truck laden down with bundles, slowed long enough for the surly, bearded driver to shake a hairy fist out the side. Steam puffed from exhaust pipes. “Yer goin’ to lose a leg that way, fella! Watch the road!”

  The man behind her paid no attention. Instead he peered into the window of a tailor’s shop, his hooked nose pressed near to the glass. His black beard covered the bottom half of his squared face, and dark eyes glittered under a bowler hat. Those eyes flicked Lysanne’s way and back again.

  She kept up her steady pace, taking pains not to let this person know she’d seen him looking at her. Here came Mrs. Tebbins, dressed all in dark blue and holding a large carpetbag. As the older woman passed, Lysanne turned and said hello. She used the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the man in the hat walking behind her. His pace was every bit determined as her own.

  Lysanne willed herself not to panic. Then anger overtook her fear. Whoever this man was, whatever he wanted, she was certain it had to do with Gil Davies and his messages. Well, he’d not take a thing from her.

  She let nothing distract her from her course. But the footsteps behind her became insistent. Lysanne stopped to look in a dressmaker’s window.

  The man stopped too. He examined what was in the nearest window to him. Quilts.

  So he was following. She hadn’t imagined it. Lysanne took a deep breath. There were so many people on this street she knew, it offered the opportunity for distraction.

  She turned around and started back the way she came. The man looked from the quilt store window to her.

  “Good day, sir.” Lysanne smiled.

  He stared blankly. “Ah…good day.” He tipped his hat but fumbled with it.

  She passed him and caught up with Mrs. Tebbins.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Sark.” The elderly woman patted her hand. “How are you, dear?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” Lysanne glanced back. The man followed them. His expression was cold. “Will you join us for cross-stitch next week?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I have a project I’m just dying to show the rest of our group. It’s been a bear to work on. I fouled up on it when I did a half stitch instead of a whole stitch, and in the wrong color, no less.”

  “That is a difficulty.” Lysanne nodded. That man still followed them. Surely he wouldn’t accost her in daylight in front of Mrs. Tebbins, not with so many witnesses around.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Tebbins stopped and turned.

  The man smiled. He was handsome, with a rugged jawline and a black moustache trimmed neatly. “You dropped this.” He held out a white kerchief. He had an accent Lysanne found familiar, but couldn’t place.

  “My goodness! I don’t recall dropping it. Are you certain it came from my handbag?”

  “Well, I didn’t see who dropped it, actually. I assumed it was yours.” The man stared at Lysanne. “Perhaps it is yours.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t.” Lysanne took a step back. They stood at the entrance to an alley.

  A second man came up the sidewalk from behind her. This one was shorter and stouter and had beady eyes. “Is there a problem?” He sounded like a bullfrog, and had the same accent.

  Lysanne knew it now. They spoke like men from Trestleway.

  “I don’t believe I know either of you gents.” Mrs. Tebbins clucked her tongue. “It’s quite improper to approach two strangers on the street, especially a woman so immodestly dressed.”

  Lysanne pressed her palm against the pants pocket containing the message for the mayor-general. “I—I must be on my way. Mrs. Tebbins, might I accompany you?”

  “Oh? I thought you were headed the other way, Mrs. Sark.”

  The man with the beady eyes glared. “That’s not what’s going to happen. We have business with Mrs. Sark.”

  Lysanne glanced down at his hands. The tip of a knife’s blade glittered from the end of his sleeve. She couldn’t bear to keep Mrs. Tebbins in such potential danger, but perhaps they’d leave them both be.

  “Well, then, I’ll leave you be. Good day, Mrs. Sark.” Mrs. Tebbins walked away.

  “Please—” Lysanne halted.

  The man with the hat and moustache had a firm grip on her upper arm. He smiled. “Let us retire to somewhere more private for our conversation.” He pulled her into the alley. Barrels stood as sentinels lining either side.

  Lysanne wrenched her arm free. She opened her mouth to shout, but the one with the knife clamped a hand over her face.

  His hand stank of sweat and beer. He pressed the blade against the base of her throat. It had a serrated edge. “You’ll hand over the message, or whatever it is you’re taki
n’.”

  “No need to get too rough, Greer.” The man with the moustache glanced out of the alley. “Put the knife down. Let’s get further back from the street.”

  Greer, the stout one, lowered the blade. Lysanne wrenched out of his grip and placed a kick at his knee. She had the tremendous satisfaction of hearing a sudden pop and the man swear vociferously.

  The man with the moustache drew a pepperbox pistol.. “That wasn’t the right road to take, ma’am.”

  “There’s only one road to take. I’ll see you burn before I take the wrong one.” Lysanne pressed against the brick wall of the building behind her. Something bumped her leg. It was one of the barrels. She put up a good front, but inside she warred with herself. Was the message worth it? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to give it to them.

  “If you call for help, you’ll be dead the next instant,” the man said. “Consider that.”

  Greer staggered toward her, dragging his limp leg. He had a vicious sneer on his face, and the serrated blade did not look any friendlier. “I don’t care what we do first, Patterson,” he said to his cohort, “but I’m taking her to a dark corner without you.”

  “No need to add to our crimes.” Patterson held his pistol steady.

  “You think it matters now? I’m due payment. And she’ll pay…”

  “I said, no.” Patterson stared down his partner. “You’ll not disgrace her.”

  “The only disgrace I see is you two.”

  Whose voice had that been? The two men and Lysanne blinked at each other for one frozen, and somewhat absurd minute of shared befuddlement. Then they all looked back at the entrance of the alley.

  A woman, her face hidden in the shade of the alley and the sunlit street behind her, took a few steady steps toward them. Her boots crunched on the stones embedded in the dirt. All Lysanne could make out at first was her black curly hair and brown overcoat, worn over a white blouse and loose blue trousers. She recognized the woman’s gait. She’d seen her at the dance. She worked for the mayor-general. What was her name?

  “You boys put your playthings away and walk off.” The new arrival stood easy, hands clasped behind her back.

  Greer chuckled. He turned toward the woman. He waved his knife. “I’m not takin’ any more lip from womenfolk!”

  She stepped nearer. “Don’t do it.”

  “Tarnal spikes, Greer!” Patterson spat the words. “Let’s just get the message and be done.”

  Greer glared openly at the woman. They stood five feet apart. Lysanne saw something dangerous behind her eyes. They were a stunning hazel. Blame it all, what had Winch said…? Oh, yes.

  Miss Plank.

  Greer lunged. Miss Plank’s left hand seized his wrist like a viper striking its prey. She wrenched it back at an angle Lysanne swore not possible without removing said wrist. Greer howled, his face pale with pain.

  Miss Plank yanked him forward. His knife flopped to the dirt. Her right fist struck his breastbone dead center. Greer staggered out of her grasp. Then she pivoted and swung her leg out and up.

  One boot heel to the jaw sent him airborne.

  Patterson swore and spun his pistol at Miss Plank. Lysanne saw it swing away from her slowly, as if she were watching her daughter McKinley fan the pages of one of those flip-books. She bumped against the wooden barrel again.

  Its lid lay lopsided on top.

  Lysanne pulled it free, wood scraping on wood. Patterson faced her, but his gun stayed pointed at Miss Plank.

  Thel don’t let him shoot!

  Lysanne swung the lid with all her might. The rim thudded against his chest. His head snapped back and forth on his neck like a rocking horse.

  He didn’t drop the gun.

  But something silver flashed. Lysanne gasped in horror at the knife protruding from his right shoulder—a knife with a serrated edge. The pistol man used his other hand, trembling so badly Lysanne thought he’d have trouble controlling it, to yank the blade free. He grunted loudly.

  Miss Plank flew at him. They collided just as he managed to fire one shot. The sound echoed sharply in the narrow alley. Lysanne held the barrel lid up before her like a shield and prayed desperately for the bullet to miss. She heard whumps and thumps, flesh against fabric and bone, then a sodden splash.

  She lowered the lid. Patterson lay sprawled in a puddle, blood mixed with mud, crimson in brown. Miss Plank loomed over him. Her chest heaved as she slipped the htless man’s gun into her own pocket. She retrieved the bloody knife from the ground. Lysanne swallowed against the sour taste in her mouth as she watched Miss Plank wipe blood from the knife off on a handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” Lysanne held Miss Plank’s arm. “Thank you so much. I thought—”

  “Come along, Mrs. Sark,” she said. Her even tones could have been inquiring as to the health of Lysanne’s mother. “The mayor-general won’t want us to tarry here when you’re obviously carrying important news.”

  • • •

  Miss Plank did not take her to the front entrance of City Hall. Instead she led Lysanne around to a service entrance.

  “Who were those men?” Lysanne was still shaken by the attempted abduction.

  “Agents of Trestleway. They have been in town for several days now, and I have kept close watch on them.” Miss Plank opened the door with an ornate, antique-looking key and ushered Lysanne inside. “They had caused no ruckus until now, so I didn’t feel it was prudent to act before.”

  “I do appreciate your intervention. Where are we?” Lysanne craned her neck to look up the tall, squared staircase that reached far up into the gloom above her head.

  “The private entrance entrusted to all those who loyally serve Perch.” Miss Plank started up the stairs.

  After a long hike to the top, and Lysanne giving praise to the Exaltson that she hadn’t given up mountain climbing after the children were born, they stopped at a small platform. Before them sat another door, except that this looked more to Lysanne like a flat panel set into the dark wall. What light there was in this stairwell came from some kind of vent over their heads. Miss Plank reached to one side and tugged on a brass chain festooned with cobwebs. Lysanne heard a muffled chime followed by the sound of someone closing a door.

  “All right,” said deep voice. “Come in now.”

  Miss Plank inserted her key into a lock Lysanne didn’t see in the darkness. She put her shoulder on the panel and slid it open.

  Lysanne’s eyes widened at the sight of the opulent office before them. The flax-colored walls and golden carpet, the illustrious black desk and plush leather chairs, the windows beaming in the morning sun…

  And the tall, broad-shouldered man in the pinstriped suit awaiting them.

  “Mayor-General!” Lysanne pushed into the room, ignoring the tsk from Miss Plank. She fumbled with the message. The paper was crumbled and a corner torn off, but by the Allfather, she’d delivered it.

  “Mrs. Sark.” Mayor-General Jonas Keysor folded both hands over Lysanne’s outstretched one. They were weathered and tough from years of labor. Trustee JD Borman stood behind him. “You’re looking well, if somewhat harried.” He raised an eyebrow at Miss Plank. “I wager this is not a social call?”

  “Tarnation, Jonas, don’t be a rude fool!” Borman pushed by the much taller mayor-general. For an older man who did not take good care of himself—that was what Lysanne had heard about his rough habits—he looked downright spry. He gave Lysanne a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Ain’t nothing wrong that we can’t put right.”

  She wasn’t sure, though, that what troubled her was any business of Borman’s. Lysanne looked to Miss Plank for confirmation. The other woman gave a curt nod. “Mrs. Sark was waylaid en route to see you, sir, by agents of Trestleway. I managed to persuade them to let her keep her appointment.”

  Keysor smirked. “Well done.”

  “Winch is in trouble of some kind, and so is…your niece.” Lysanne quashed her initial word choice, “some woman,” and made the substitution. “
They sent this coded message to Gil Davies at the Advocate.”

  Keysor took the paper. His eyes flicked across every line.

  Something slammed shut behind Lysanne, making her jump forward. She spun around. Miss Plank gave the bookshelf a once over—the bookshelf, Lysanne realized, and not a door. With the exception of two sets of dirty shoeprints on the otherwise immaculate carpet, there was no evidence of the secret entrance.

  Borman swore and stomped his foot on the carpet. “Blame it all, Jonas! You could’ve told a fella what your plans were. Sending that stick boy and his hotshot aero-pilot off into the lion’s mouth…”

  “Sir, I’d appreciate if you didn’t refer to my husband that way,” Lysanne snapped.

  Borman stared at her, agape.

  Keysor let a small smile slip through his mask. “Jesca did well, disguising this.” Keysor waved absentmindedly at Lysanne, as he sat behind his desk. “Ladies, sit. You can stand, JD, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Lysanne sank comfortably into the leather chair. Miss Plank did not. She instead took up sentry duty by the door. The real one, not the bookshelf. If Lysanne had not seen her in action, the very stoic pose would seem ridiculous. As it was, Miss Plank could look more threatening only if she had a gun in hand.

  And Lysanne knew she had at least one on her person.

  “What’re you planning to do with that branter-scratch?” Borman planted his hands on Keysor’s desk and gave the letter a once over.

  “She would have included a key…” Keysor stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “We thought it had something to do with ‘trouble.’ My nickname for Winch,” Lysanne said.

  “Yes. Yes, I see. That would work.” Keysor rummaged in his desk until he came up with a somewhat tarnished brass disc. Lysanne leaned forward. She’d never seen anything quite like it. It had two concentric circles of letters that were off center from each other. Keysor thumbed the wheel with precision in his left hand and scribbled notes on a sheet of paper with his right.

  “Little lady, you did the right thing comin’ to us as swiftly as you did.” Borman made a face. “The sheriff’s told us there’s all manner of unsavory types driftin’ into town. He’s had a tarnal time sorting the ones with legitimate business from the rabble-rousers.”