Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

“Right. He was in the newspaper a long ways back. Didn’t Trestleway execute him on conspiracy charges?”

  “They did. Ten years ago”

  Cope grunted softly. Winch heard him tap on the console—a gloved finger rapping on glass. “I never understood all that penance business. Wasn’t he some kind of magician?”

  “No!” Winch hadn’t meant to snap. Cope didn’t understand. “No. He and Thel are one and the same. The Exaltson and the Allfather. If you believe that he died and came back to l—”

  “Yes, penance, I see.” Cope tapped the canopy glass. “Coming up on your left. Shall I tip us over for a good shot?”

  Winch sighed at the conversation and dug his folding portable camera from the shoulder bag. “Right. Let’s see.”

  There. A smudge on the grassy terrain—blackened from a small fire, by the looks of it. The otherwise green wavy grass was ripped up where the plane had apparently skidded upon hitting the ground. Debris was everywhere. At least the pilot had stayed away both from the river’s edge and the thick stand of Roper pine nearby. Not that it had done him any good, but it did make for better photos.

  Ten mastodons grazed nearby the crash site. Winch wondered what they had made of the accident.

  He slapped a chem-plate into the back of the camera. He steadied the device—a tricky endeavor, given the jouncing around of the biplane. Click. He slid the used plate out, tucked in the bag, and inserted a new one. Click.

  “Good enough for you?”

  “That will do.” Winch packed his equipment away.

  “Don’t you want to go in for a close-up?” Cope grinned at him over his shoulder.

  “Will the sheriff be upset?”

  “Oh, he won’t be bothered, if we don’t tell a soul!”

  “Well…” Winch scratched his beard. “Gil will be happier if I can take a close look at the plane before the City Regulator sees it in the scrap yard…”

  “Time to set her down then!”

  Cope sent the Buzzard on a long, sharp right turn. Winch yelped and held on as everything tipped 90 degrees. The scenery danced wildly outside the cockpit. Cope whooped.

  The plane finally leveled out. Now Winch could see trees whipping by at eye level. The engine slowed, and the biplane touched both wheels down with minimal fuss. Winch was impressed. It was a very smooth landing, considering that it was in pasture.

  • • •

  The brothers clambered down from the Buzzard. Cope had put them not fifty feet from the wreckage. A trio of mastodons stood nearby. Winch could hear them chewing on the grass and lowlying shrubs. He took two more photos then stashed his camera in this bag and slung it over his shoulder. He took his notebook out and attacked the paper with pencil.

  “You can scribble all of this down pretty quickly.” Cope peered over Winch’s shoulder.

  “I have to get it right off the reel. If I wait around too long—” Winch shrugged. “It just goes away.” Winch checked his watch. There was plenty of time to get this sketch and photographs back to the office before his next appointment this morning.

  “Huh. Well, I’ll take your word for it.” Cope ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s go give it the old once-over.”

  They followed the furrow dug by the plane crash. Winch took care not to step in any of the mastodon “hills.” Cope might have his tall-legged flying boots, but dress shoes were no protection against muck.

  The mastodons watched the two men with evident curiosity. One of them, the male, raised its trunk and trumpeted a greeting. Winch figured he was five feet tall, a bit bigger than the two females with him. Like the ladies’, his fur was short and reddish-brown, but he sported huge, curving tusks.

  Normally Winch would get a picture of such a fine sight—Gil loved to have daily life photographs in the newspaper—but he had only a half dozen plates remaining. He kept on sketching the crash site.

  “Whoever this fellow was, he wasn’t a half bad pilot.” Cope pointed. “You can see how he put her right down on her belly.”

  The plane was mashed to pieces, and the ground churned into a mess.

  “This doesn’t seem to surprise you,” Winch said.

  Cope’s smile had a hint of sadness. “I’ve seen my fair share of crashes, Winch.”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  Cope clapped him on the shoulders. “Don’t fret. Do you want me to check on the pilot’s body?”

  Winch smiled sheepishly. “Yes, please.” He stood back a good ten feet from the mangled aeroplane.

  Cope stepped gingerly around the debris. He put his hands on the crumpled fuselage and leaned in to the cockpit. His face darkened. “No doubt about it. He’s dead. Cold as a wagon tire. Must not have had time to use his skysail—it’s still packed behind him. Huh.”

  “‘Huh,’ what?”

  “He’s a Tirodani. Hair is redder than a boy’s backside after a spanking.” Cope shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Cri…er, a Tirodani pilot.”

  “It’s allowed, Cope. They’re a long way from their days of slavery.” Winch put the sketch book back into his pocket. He could finish that later—he had the beginnings down well enough. He crouched down and held the camera steady.

  “Make sure you get my good side.” Cope grinned.

  “Which side would that be?”

  “Either one, of course.”

  Winch snapped the picture, making sure to capture the aeroplane and the furrow it had dug in the pasture. That would do. He slipped the used plate into his bag.

  “Here.” Cope reached into the cockpit. He pulled out a tattered bag.

  Winch frowned. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Looks like a courier pouch of some sort. Why don’t you take a look?” He tossed it.

  Winch caught the pouch in one hand. “We should leave this for the sheriff.”

  “Pfft. As if he would be able to make sense of it.” Cope scowled. “It belonged to a pilot, so a pilot should find out what it is.”

  “So you should look.”

  “No, you look.”

  Winch shook his head. “I’m not about to go digging through a dead man’s belongings, not even for a story.”

  Cope rolled his eyes. He sauntered over. “Don’t you smell the adventure, Winch?” He snatched back the pouch.

  Winch wrinkled his nose. “The only things I smell are spilled fuel, burnt grass, and mastodon.”

  “Fine, fine.” Cope unhooked the buckle on the pouch and opened it.

  And made a face.

  “It’s just a letter. Here.” He dumped the contents into Winch’s hand. “I’m going to go check the debris trail and see if there are any pieces with markings that would let us identify the aeroplane. You’ll be all right on your own?”

  “I should say so.” Winch smiled. “Unless the mastodons give me difficulty.”

  “Ha! That would make for news, wouldn’t it?” Cope jogged off along the debris trail.

  Winch walked carefully around the plane. A gust of wind blew by. Winch saw something reddish shift in the cockpit—a scarf? He swallowed hard and edged closer.

  The pilot’s scarf flapped in the breeze. His cap was still fastened to his head, but his red sideburns were evident. His skin, naturally pale save for scattered freckles, was even whiter in death. Winch felt nauseated. He pressed five fingers to his forehead, to his throat, and then to his chest. “May Ifan have mercy on your soul.” Winch pulled the scarf over the young man’s face and tucked it into his collar.

  Young man. He could be as old as Cope—so maybe six years younger than Winch.

  Winch stepped back from the aeroplane. Despite the sunshine, it was chilly here at the edge of the trees. Shadows reached out for him. He turned the plain cream-colored envelope over in his hand. It bore one name.

  Jonas H.H. Keysor.

  “The mayor-general?” Winch’s scratched his beard.

  “Hello, there!”

  Winch spun around. A rancher on branterback rode up through a gap in th
e pines. He had an easy-going smile and tipped his wide-brimmed, tan hat. His long coat was almost the same shade of tan, and he wore a well-used red flannel shirt. He had on a wool vest that was buttoned shut.

  Winch relaxed. The mastodons were probably part of his herd. He waved a greeting. “Winchell Sark, Perch Advocate. We’re doing a story on the wreck here.”

  “Yep, I saw it bounce right off that dirt over thar.” The rancher dismounted the white and brown branter with ease. He offered a hand for Winch to shake. “Jack Shelly.”

  Winch smiled and shook his hand.

  The hand was clean. Something about that bothered Winch, but for now he was glad to have another person around. Cope was nowhere to be seen. Probably still chasing plane parts over the gentle hills.

  “Find somethin’?” Jack’s voice was kind, though it was hard to get a good look at his face as shaded as it was under that hat. A scratch on his chin gave him a tough look.

  Winch squinted. Scratch? It was more like a scar. “A letter. It was among the pilot’s personal effects. What ranch are you from?”

  “Oh, the Bar K. Just got the work last week, and boy let me tell you, it’s a plumb sight better than anythin’ you’ll find west of here!”

  “Yes, I’ve heard there’s little work out on the coast. Now if you’ll excuse me?” Winch started to walk off. He felt uneasy around this man, as friendly as he was. He should really get Cope, or put the letter in the Buzzard.

  “Well, I’ll be needin’ that letter first.”

  Winch stopped. He looked back at Jack, who was just a few steps away. “No, I think it’s best if I get this to the sheriff and his men when they arrive.”

  Jack’s cheerful expression slid right off his face. He lunged for Winch and snatched his shirt in his fist. The other hand produced a slender, shining knife. It poked the front of Winch’s throat. Jack’s hat fell to the ground, revealing blond hair. His eyes were pale grey and his face full of malice.

  Winch’s heart nearly froze.

  “You will hand over the letter, or I will cut your throat.” Jack’s jovial tone was gone. This new voice was hard, cold, and a hollow imitation.

  Winch held out the envelope. He did his best to still his trembling hand.

  “Jack” released his grasp on Winch’s shirt long enough to swipe the envelope. “Walk toward the forest,” he said. “Now.”

  Winch did as he was told. Where was Cope? The man behind him—it was funny how soon he stopped thinking of him as Jack, the friendly rancher—kept one hand on Winch’s back. The knife was there somewhere. Winch knew it.

  They walked back in a good fifteen feet under the tree cover. “Stop,” the man said. “Do not turn around. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Winch waited. The man yanked the shoulder bag away and rummaged through its contents.

  “What did you take photographs of?”

  “The wreck,” Winch said. “From the air and on the ground.”

  Silence. The bag dropped to the ground with a clunk. Winch cringed. Despite the danger, he was not looking forward to facing Gil if the camera were damaged.

  Winch heard paper tear ever so quietly. For a moment only the sound of the robins in the trees and the distant shriek of a teratorn soaring over the river filled the air. Suddenly a hand jerked Winch roughly around. The look in the man’s eyes…“What in the tracks is this?” He waved the letter before Winch.

  It was too quick—Winch could not make out the words. They were a blur. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Look!” The man held the letter up again.

  Winch read the page:

  ARQALSLWMG HSHNE QFCHSUWF PU QGQFJL DMBW BUKZWOU JOZBSJA JQAUH.

  It was just a jumble of nonsensical letters.

  “Where is the real letter? This has to be a fake!” The man yanked Winch closer, crumpling the letter in his fist as he seized Winch’s vest. He held the knife up.

  Winch’s heart pounded against his rib cage. “I don’t know what you mean! I just found it in the wreck…”

  “Stop stalling! You will tell me!”

  BLAM.

  The man whirled around at the sound of the gunshot. He positioned himself with Winch as a partial shield and the knife pressed close to Winch’s throat.

  Cope stood by the wreck. He aimed his Thundercloud Rattler lever-action pistol straight at the man. The brass, wood, and black steel gleamed in the sun. Winch was glad the burning look in Cope’s eyes was directed at the man with the knife.

  “Consider that your warning bell.” Cope took a few slow steps forward. “Put down the knife, and let him be.”

  “Take another step closer, and I will gut him like a trout.” The man flicked the knife down.

  Winch cried out. The shallow cut stung like all get-out. Worse than damage inflicted by a shaving blade, he reckoned.

  “You put down that confounded blade before I punch you full of holes!” Cope’s finger twitched on the trigger.

  “Temper.” The man’s voice regained some calm. “You let down your gun, and perhaps we can negotiate. I only want the letter.”

  Cope shook his head. The muzzle of his gun dipped a bit. “Stranger, I don’t know what in blue skies you’re talking—”

  Cope fired.

  But the man wasn’t fooled, apparently. The bullet caromed off—something. It reminded Winch of a clear bowl, a half a bubble of barely shimmering…what?

  The bubble formed around the man’s outstretched left hand.

  “That was unwise,” the man said. “You do not comprehend the forces at work here.”

  Cope gaped. But his bravado recovered quickly. “Comprehend this.” He fired twice more in quick succession. At the man’s head.

  The man deflected both shots easily.

  Winch was sweating profusely. “Cope, while I am thankful for your rescue attempt, would you please stop firing that thing at me?”

  “I’m aiming at him!” Cope sounded cross. Winch didn’t blame him. “If he’d quit that shining…whatever he’s got…”

  “Shut up!” The man muttered some words under his breath that Winch could neither fully hear nor translate.

  Cope stopped speaking in mid-sentence. His mouth hung open wide.

  “Difficulty breathing?” the man asked nonchalantly.

  Cope choked and gasped. He dropped his gun and grabbed for his throat with both hands. His face was getting pale.

  “Think this as your last thoughts, prop-boy,” the man hissed. “It is never wise to oppose the power of cythraul.”

  Winch’s mind raced. He had to do something. Cope’s lips were going purple. But Winch couldn’t very well throw the man off and fight him with his camera, or his notepad, or…

  His pencil. It was in his pants pocket.

  Winch let his fingers brush the opening of the pocket. He eased his hand and felt the back end of the pencil. He slowly pulled it out.

  Cope stopped choking. He stopped making any sound at all. The man behind Winch chuckled.

  Winch jabbed it hard into the man’s leg.

  He screamed so loud the robins in the trees took to panicked flight. The mastodons in the distance trumpeted repeated alarm.

  The man threw Winch aside. Good thing he always kept his pencil sharp.

  But the man still had his knife. He turned on Winch, one hand pressed against the bloody wound in his leg. His face contorted with rage. “I should have killed you…”

  BLAM.

  Blood burst from the man’s chest. It spattered on Winch. The man collapsed at his feet. The crumpled letter rolled across the grass. With it fell something shiny.

  Cope lay on his side on the ground, his gun raised. Smoke curled from the muzzle. “’Bout time…he shut up…too,” he gasped.

  Winch staggered to Cope. “Are you hurt?”

  “Sore throat…and my lungs are afire. But other than that, I’m peachy.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cope winked. “What are brothers for?”

  Winch went back over to t
he man’s body. On the ground were the letter and the shiny object—a token, Winch saw. He grabbed both up quickly. The token was good for a drink at the Double Tusk Hotel. Right down the street from the Advocate office.

  After what he’d just been through, he’d need a drink.

  Monday

  Winch sat next to Cope in the office of Perch’s mayor-general. He fingered the bandage on the lower part of his neck—souvenir from his encounter with the so-called Jack Shelly. Cope, by contrast, had not a scratch on him. His eyes, though, carried a haunted look, and his skin was still pale.

  “Thanks, Cope.” Winch’s throat was dry.

  Cope half-smiled. “I think you’ve already said it twice.”

  “And it needs saying again.” Winch put his hand on his shoulder. “You saved my life.”

  “Ah, you had a hand in that—or rather, a pencil.” Cope’s mouth widened into a grin. “Besides which, you did the same for me.”

  But Winch did have doubt. He considered his arms and legs, skinny as saplings. Winch might have faith in Thel, but he did not have any faith in his own strength. Would he be able to defend himself? His family? Constant comparison would not help him any—and hadn’t he read that Thel had formed him in the very womb? And that Ifan cared for every hair on his head?

  He pushed the thoughts aside. There were better things to dwell upon—such as, who was the man who had tried to kill them? Winch shivered as he saw Cope in his mind’s eye, choking. What a story that attack would make. He’d wager Gil would rather have supernatural abilities on the front page than an aeroplane crash.

  Could it be? Could the old tales be true?

  The morning sun beaming through the round window of the mayor-general’s waiting room warmed Winch in spite of his cold thoughts. It made the flax-colored walls and goldenrod carpeting glow, and it bathed everything in the same aura. The two women seated at the desks under the window appeared to ignore Winch and Cope. They had their heads buried in stacks of letters and piles of paper. The four tele-typers between them took turns pounding out incoming messages from Perch’s central telegraph office.

  “Winchell Sark? Copernicus Sark?” A tall, slender woman with a severe expression and curly black hair stood at the walnut-paneled door to the left of the secretaries. She wore a much simpler dress and blouse than her colleagues. “The mayor-general will see you now.” As she beckoned the brothers forward, Winch took note of how taut and strong her arms looked.