by Steve Rzasa
“Thank you.” Winch nudged Cope. The pilot grunted—he’d almost nodded off. They followed the woman in to the next room.
“I do believe she could break our necks if we gave her the excuse,” Cope whispered.
Winch stifled a reply, and was glad that he did. The woman turned slightly. “Then it is best if you do not give me an excuse, sir.”
She left them with Cope’s jaw hanging open.
“Come on in, boys.” Sheriff Tedrow didn’t sound glad to see them. His boots left barely visible, muddy outlines on the carpet as he paced. “You’re in a heap of a fix, fellas.”
“Now, Luis, let’s not be too hard on them.” Mayor-General Jonas H.H. Keysor stood from behind the wide, black desk decorated with scrollwork highlighted in silver paint. The man fairly towered over everybody else in the room. His face was square-jawed and weathered from early years of outdoor work. His hair was mostly grey, with hints of its former black, and was slicked back and to the right. He had a long nose and brown eyes that tracked every move in the room.
When Keysor held out his hand to shake Winch’s, the reporter thought the mayor-general’s shoulders—wider than those of a branter, by Winch’s guess—would be strong enough to pull his arm from its sockets. A leftover from his days as a ranch hand, perhaps.
“Pleasure to see you again, Winchell. And Cope…” Keysor shook his hand vigorously. “Always glad to have one of the finest pilots in Perch—or in the entire Sawtooth League, I might wager.”
Cope grinned slowly. “Mighty fine to meet you too, Mr. Mayor-General. Mighty fine.” He winked at Winch.
“Please, boys, have a seat.” Keysor gestured at two of the chairs upholstered in deep red that sat against the back wall. Winch and Cope pulled them up toward the desk. Keysor waited until they sat before he eased into his high-backed chair covered in brown mastodon leather. His suit was of a fine cut, accented with pinstripes and a deep blue that was almost black. His vest and tie matched. Only the white of his shirt and the gold chain of his pocket watch stood out. “The sheriff here does have a point, though I don’t agree things are as drastic as he makes them out to be.”
“’Cept that they haven’t explained why they were nosing around the wreck.”
Winch opened his mouth to protest.
Tedrow waved him off. “Oh, I know, I know: You were after a story. That Crims you work for, Davies…”
“Sheriff.” Keysor’s deep voice dropped an octave and became solid, like brick. “I will not brook such language in this office. Hear?”
“Yessir.” Tedrow’s cheeks and the top of his head turned pink. “My apologies. But you had no authority to take anything from that wreck! And Cope!”
“Me, what?” Cope said with a smile.
“Tarnation, Cope, you should know better!”
“Now, surely you aren’t all jo-fired about us doing a little creative investigating for you, Sheriff. You did let us go out there.” Cope spread his hands wide. Winch envied him. Either he never worried, or he was a superb stage actor. “Besides, we reckoned it’d be better to check things out closely before a saber-tooth happens upon the wreck for tasty leftovers.”
Winch thought he saw the mayor-general’s face show a hint of something. Sorrow? Anxiety? But then it was gone. He’d probably imagined it.
“All the same, I’d prefer it if you leave the policing to my boys,” Tedrow said sternly.
“What about the—” Cope waved his hands in a comical imitation of the cythramancer’s actions— “strange powers-thing shown by the fella who’s now laying out on a slab?”
Keysor cleared his throat. “That part would best be left out of any narrative.”
There was one thing that still bothered Winch, and he needed to voice it. “Is anyone familiar with the legends of the cythraul and the cythramancers?”
Tedrow looked perplexed, and Cope shook his head.
Keysor frowned. “Only legends.”
“Weren’t they fairies or something?” Cope asked.
“No,” Winch said. “According to the Caudex, they were the beings that once served Thel, the Allfather, and then rebelled against his empire of Unfading Lands.” Winch cleared his throat, trying to overcome his nervousness. “They were led by Akhoyan, the liar. There are stories that cythraul would inhabit the bodies of men and give them dark powers. Those people were called cythramancers.”
“Superstition and supposition,” Keysor said firmly. But he wouldn’t meet Winch’s eyes. “Nothing like that exists in Nature.”
“The Consuls wouldn’t allow it,” Tedrow said firmly. Winch had forgotten the sheriff was a follower of the Consularian Order. Their bleak outlook on the world’s fate, and their belief in ten ruling supernatural consuls who feuded amongst themselves, put them at odds with the faithful of the Exaltson. Like Winch. “It’s against the order of this world.”
Winch sighed. “I told you before, Sheriff: He blocked Cope’s bullets. With his hands. It was some kind of sphere of light, or maybe electricity? I don’t know.”
Tedrow frowned. “Pardon my unbelief, Sark, but this ain’t one of your chapel meetings. Some of us folk don’t put much stock in ghost stories.”
It was Cope’s turn to put on an angry face. “Look here, Sheriff. Winch is right—that fella pulled some strange action out there, religion or no.”
“I don’t have any proof of that, do I? You shot him, Cope, so he can’t answer my questions. Guess he didn’t block every bullet, did he? Maybe his ‘electric light’ ran out of steam?”
“I’m not proud of it, Sheriff, but it was either that son-of-a-gun or my older brother. Which one would you’ve picked?”
“I know that.” Tedrow sighed. “Not questioning that, Cope. The problem is we still don’t know a jo-fired thing about him, cythramancer nonsense aside.”
“He was from Trestleway, or thereabouts,” Winch said. “His accent showed when he was riled. And his words gave him away. Though he put on a passable Perch accent at first.”
“Trestleway.” Tedrow spat the word onto the floor. “That figures. They won’t stop moving in on us until we’re dangling from the end of their tracks.”
“Indeed.” Keysor steeped his fingers thoughtfully. “They are keen on adding us to their ever-expanding network of railroads. I don’t suppose they like our aerial traders cutting down on their profits.”
“It’s their own fault for ticking off the Caminante and getting themselves banned from the Golden Desert in the process,” Cope said.
“Excuse me, Sheriff, do you know the cause of the crash?” Winch asked.
Tedrow blew out a breath. “Aeroplanes aren’t my specialty, Winch, but it seemed to be engine trouble. Of course, it could have been pilot error, or maybe he had a blamed heart seizure. There’s no telling, not with the way that aeroplane was mashed up.”
“On anything Maledore makes, that wouldn’t daze me if it were engine trouble,” Cope said. “Just shows you that fellas who make good locomotives can’t necessarily work with anything that runs on avo-gas.”
Winch’s pencil moved almost on its own, filling his pages with notes. “Any witnesses?”
“None, ’cept a couple of ranch hands who thought they heard another aeroplane engine,” Tedrow said. “Probably just an echo—you know how loud those things get closer in to the Sawteeth.”
Winch nodded, but inwardly he doubted. “Jack,” or whatever his real name was, had told him he’d seen the crash happen. Of course, he could’ve been lying. Possible second aerocraft? “And the pilot’s identity?”
Winch couldn’t help eyeing the Thundercloud Rattler lever gun strapped at Tedrow’s right hip. When he spoke, it was to the mayor-general. “I don’t like the notion of these two getting their feet stuck in the mud of my investigation, Jonas. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why I’m sure they won’t be a bother for you.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Tedrow chewed at the corner of his mouth.
“Good.” Keysor�
�s gaze flicked from Winch to the sheriff and back. “Then I would suggest that the matter is closed.”
Winch frowned. And…what about his question? He was used to getting the run-around, but still. “Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Davies still expects a story on the crash.”
“And I see no reason why he should not have one.”
“So…” Cope waved a hand. “Who was the pilot?”
Winch grimaced. So much for the tactful approach.
“I don’t see any need to reveal it,” Tedrow snapped.
Winch knew this test. He’d taken it before over the past few years with constables, businessmen, and other figures who did not want to tell him something. He knew precisely the card to play. But he’d never played it before with the mayor-general of Perch. Might as well make this the first time. “Well, sir, if what you’re saying is you will not release this information, I’m duty bound to report that in fact in the Advocate.”
“Duty?” Tedrow said. “What do you know concerning duty? We’re trying to protect this city from…”
“Sheriff, that’s enough.” Keysor’s iron tone cut him off.
It was too late, though. “Protect Perch from what?” Winch asked.
“Trestleway, probably,” Cope said. “You think the mayor-general or the panel of trustees wants to be another way-station on their rails?”
Tedrow muttered something unintelligible and continued pacing.
Keysor looked down at his hands. “Let’s come to a mutual understanding,” he said. “I will tell you the name of the pilot—if you will leave everything else I am going to say off the record.”
Winch hesitated. Gil had warned him repeatedly regarding such scenarios. What good was information off the record if he could not use it to inform the citizens? Yet it might also prove useful to a further story. Especially if it shed any light on the mysterious man Cope had shot, and his strange powers.
Cope nudged him. “Say yes!” he hissed.
Winch shifted his note pad. As he did, it pressed against the token in his pants pocket. The drink token for the Double Tusk Hotel—it had to be some connection. “All right, sir.”
Keysor relaxed a bit. But his face was definitely sad now. Winch hadn’t imagined it. When Keysor spoke again, it was in a hushed monotone. “The young pilot you found? His name is—was—Troy Keysor. My nephew.”
Cope made a noise of astonishment.
Winch’s eyes went wide. “That’s some wings he had,” he said.
“Indeed.” Keysor rubbed at his chin. “How I’m ever going to tell his parents… They live far north, in Jenningsport. You see, my brother married a Tirodani woman—threw the entire clan into a tailspin, if you’ll pardon the comparison.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But that will have to wait. Did you find anything in the wreckage?”
Winch hesitated. He pulled the crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it to Keysor. “The man who attacked us down there was ready to kill me for that garble.”
“As should be expected. It is a message from Troy.” Keysor frowned. “But it’s in code.”
“Sir…” Tedrow stopped pacing.
“Don’t fret now, Luis, there’s nothing hurt by it. They’d doubtless guessed already.
Winch almost smacked himself in the forehead. What a buffoon! He should’ve seen that. There was another story here… He’d be sure to tell Gil, even if he had to leave out what he was learning now. “Sir, what does it say?”
“I do not know.” He sounded weary. “You see, Troy and I have exchanged such clandestine correspondence before, but always Troy has sent me a message indicating the keyword to unlock the code. This time, he failed to do so.”
“How hard can that be to guess?” Cope asked.
“That would not be prudent to reveal, I think.” Keysor gave the letter a once over. “This will take some time. Make no mention of it in your story, please.”
“Sir, I don’t think that’s a reasonable request,” Winch was going to have to try to be firm on this. “We know what we saw.”
“Off the record, Mr. Sark.” Keysor’s brow furrowed. “Nothing about the shooting will appear in print. That’s final.”
Cope hit the armrest of his chair. “Don’t go tying my brother to the tracks like that…sir. Gil Davies will publish whatever he sees fit.”
“Not information that’s off the record, Cope.” Winch shook his head.
“Also keep in mind Mr. Sun, who serves on the City-State Panel of Trustees,” Keysor said. “Sun Jianguo, the owner and publisher of the Perch Advocate. Perhaps you know him?”
Winch hadn’t forgotten that, even though Cope had. Mr. Sun was a fair and honest man, but he was also very much a supporter of the governor-general.
“Something bothering you?” Keysor asked Winch.
“It seems that whoever tried to kill both of us—this man who may or may not be from Trestleway—was very interested in the contents of that letter,” Winch said.
“That is reasonable to assume. But it’s not for you to worry over. The only reason I’ve told you the things I have, gentlemen, is because you’re known to be trustworthy, and I think we can trust you to be discreet now.”
“I’ll need to discuss this with Gil… With Mr. Davies.”
“And you will both doubtless hear from Mr. Sun. We can trust this information goes no further.” Keysor stood. Winch did likewise. Cope didn’t. Winch kicked his boot. Cope scowled and pushed out of the seat. “You boys take care now.”
Cope grabbed his hand and gave it a sharp shake. “You can count on me to keep my mouth shut. And on Winch to help it stay that way.”
Winch groaned. “It is a formidable task.”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” Keysor crossed to the door and opened it. “Miss Plank will help me keep an eye on both of you.”
The curly haired woman smiled. Winch wondered if he felt just as a mastodon did when it saw the smilodon crouched in the trees.
• • •
Gil Davies stared blankly at him for a long time. His pipe lay ignored and unlit on his desk. Winch settled into one of the worn, lime-green chairs in the editor’s corner office at the Advocate. Its stained glass windows on two sides reminded him of the Sills Museum for the Arts downtown. Images of woodland creatures frolicked under verdant branches. Winch waited for him to speak. Gil often took his time giving his verdict. After the pile Winch had just figuratively dropped into his editor’s lap, Winch was content to wait. He scratched at the bandage.
Cope, on the other hand, sat on the arm of a chair. His boot tapped a steady rhythm against its side. Winch tried a glare of brotherly admonition, but Cope simply made a rude gesture.
“Codswollop.” Gil took up his pipe. He struck a match on the desk—on one of the rare wood surfaces not cluttered with papers in various stages of yellowing—and lit it.
“I thought something similar, Gil,” Winch said. “People need to know the truth. Isn’t that what you always say?”
Gil puffed on his pipe. The noxious smoke swirled around Winch, who coughed. “You would throw my own speech into my lap,” Gil muttered. “And the good mayor-general wants us to keep this poor lad’s name out of the article?”
“He does. For the time being.”
“I suppose I would be willing to wait a week or so. He should not be surprised when the biplane wreckage shows up on the front page—provided you got me a good image.”
“Don’t I always?”
Cope slid down into the chair. “I kind of pushed him into this, Gil, but he’s right—Winch has plenty of information to give you a real whopper of a story when all’s said and done.”
“Hmm.” Gil stroked his beard. “Do you really mean to say this man was a cythramancer?”
“Like from the very pages of the Caudex.” Winch tried to steady his voice. The Advocate felt like a second home, but not now. He could almost feel the darkness watching him.
“Great clouds! I can scarce believe it.” Gil puffed fiercely on his pipe. “When I
read those passages—well, we know the Writ of Thel is true, but some things seem less likely than others.”
“I know what you mean.” Winch’s hands were folded tighter than a package delivered by the post. “So what do you want to do with this?”
“I want the story.” Gil’s tone brooked no argument.
“For this week?”
“No, the accident will do for now. We have enough information on the pilot.”
“Not that you can say anything about the shooting,” Cope grumbled.
“Hmm, yes. We’ll get ’round to that.” Gil smiled broadly. “That’s what next week’s edition is for.”
“So you want me to find out more on this fellow?” Winch had seen this coming from a distance.
“Both of you.” Gil pointed his pipe at Cope. “I don’t fancy tying myself or Annora up with this. You’ll work on this story full time. With—Exaltson, help us all—your stalwart brother’s help.”
Cope laughed. He clapped his hands together. “‘Stalwart’! I like that. Let me go see about clearing up my schedule for a few days, big brother, and we’ll start poking around.”
He left the office before Winch could compose an intelligent protest. “Are you sure, Gil? The mayor-general won’t be pleased with us still sniffing around. Neither will Sheriff Tedrow.”
“Bah. We’ll do what’s best for the paper and for the citizens—until good Mr. Sun tells me otherwise.”
“But then there’s my promise to stay off the record.”
“Keysor was talking about his nephew, wasn’t he?”
Winch nodded.
“Good. He won’t be the slightest bit put out if you looked into the identity of your assailant. Now hop to!”
“You’re the boss,” Winch said. “I defer to your wisdom.”
“Ta. Now get me my accident story!”
Winch did his best to settle in behind his typewriter, but the solitude was short-lived. Annora and Konrad clustered around his desk as he punched the keys on his typewriter.
“You know,” Annora said, “if you wanted me to write your story for you, you didn’t have to go back home and cut yourself shaving. Again.”.
