by Steve Rzasa
Lysanne knelt there. She had dirt stains on her work pants, and the sleeves of her dark green blouse were rolled up. She didn’t seem to notice Winch at first—her eyes, the same blue-grey as the twins’, were focused on the iron clippers. Her hands were small by comparison to Winch’s.
He sidled up to her. “You look lovely.”
Lysanne gasped. Then she made a face—very similar to the one McKinley had made at breakfast, Winch thought. She whacked him on the leg playfully with the clippers. “That was a dirty trick.” She had a lilting voice that made Winch’s heart skip.
“Speaking of dirty…” Winch knelt down beside her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “The children are off to school.”
Lysanne sighed. “So it will be quiet around here for a while.”
“At least until you open the doors at nine.” Winch glanced down toward the still-darkened store at the front of the greenhouse. “I’m off to see Cope for breakfast. There’s flapjacks left in the breadbox.”
“Thanks, my Trouble.” Lysanne kissed him back. “You are quite the breakfast gourmet these days.”
“Well, it’s either that or I come out here and clip aimlessly at flowers while you cook breakfast.” Winch smiled. “I think we both know which works better.”
Lysanne smiled back. “So you’re off to see Cope?”
“Yes.”
She fingered the mark on his neck. Winch flinched. It was still sore. “You had better promise me you will be careful,” she said sternly.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I shall have to hurt you.” Lysanne waved the clippers at him again but Winch dodged them this time. She laughed. But it was abbreviated. “Winch, I’m serious. This is not as if you were interviewing some hotel owner and they off and hit you with a smoking pipe.”
“Which has happened, mind.”
Lysanne’s eyes narrowed into the familiar be-serious-now-or-else look.
“Sorry, dear.”
“You said you think this man might have been a cythramancer.”
Winch almost regretted telling Lysanne exactly what had happened at the biplane wreck. The only thing he was sure of was that he could not keep the events secret from her. “I only said it was a possibility. But how else can I explain what I saw?”
He peered off into the shadows at the far end of the greenhouse. That man’s deflection of Cope’s bullets—
“Cythramancer,” he said. “Someone who deals with the dark forces of Akhoyan. Can it be true?” He shook his head. “Lysanne, even if the man himself weren’t dangerous—which he was—the cythraul who possessed him, if that’s indeed what I was dealing with, are enemies of the Allfather.”
“I know that!” Then she sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound peevish. But you know what you have to do—pray for the wisdom to do the right thing and for protection. It’s at the boots of Ifan himself.”
“You’re right.” Winch gave a wry smile. “As usual.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lysanne held his hands. “Just remember that the Hallowed Sepyr is more powerful, that He is the advisor and one in three with the Allfather and Exaltson.”
If only his faith were as strong as hers. “What I wouldn’t give to have met Ifan in person ten years ago. Pray for me, please.” Winch straightened and half-smiled. “And for Cope, while you’re at it.”
“I’ll try to remember him.” Lysanne’s expression turned sly. “There’s no telling what mischief you two might concoct.”
• • •
Ridgik’s was a popular diner on Klondike Avenue. The low wood and brick building stretched along the road, two blocks down from the East School. This morning, as usual, it was busy. Winch squeezed into a small booth, set his shoulder bag beside him, and found Cope shoveling sausages into his mouth.
“Guud, ya mahde ift!” Cope swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
He sounded loud to Winch. Of course, with as many people jammed into the diner as there were, Winch was not surprised. Pilots, merchants, clusters of older men, and pairs of women were all speaking over one another. He picked up bits and pieces of sundry conversations but had to stop listening—too many people and too much information.
“Are you and Lysanne going to the Fifth Festival tomorrow afternoon?”
“We wouldn’t miss it. After we attend mid-week chapel, though. It’s only once a month, so we need to go first.”
“Ah. Right. Well, I guess I’ll see you after that.”
“You said you had something?” Winch asked.
“Yes. Here!” Cope flagged down a server. “Get this man some eggs and sausage, will you? One of the teratorn omelets. And raspberry juice with ice for him. More coffee for me.”
The woman took down the order and hurried off without a word. Winch opened his mouth to protest but the pinch of the game, the critical moment, passed. “Thanks. Now, you found what?”
“Right. That fellow you told mentioned.” Cope leaned in a bit. “See, one of Daisy’s—you know Daisy, she flies co-pilot for me sometimes—anyways, one of her friends works at the Grand Cathedral of Consuls. Up on Main Street.”
Winch kept his face neutral. The Grand Cathedral was the largest religious building in town, a temple overseeing temples, and headquarters for the Consularian Order. But Daisy Axford was a fairly level-headed lady, and if her friend had heard something of interest…
“She says yesterday a group of five gents showed up there, dressed fit to meet a mayor-general, hats in hand.” Cope tapped his fork on the tabletop. “She’d never seen them before—turns out they’re some kind of delegation from Trestleway.”
“Delegation?” The server arrived with a steaming mug of coffee and a glass of ruby-colored liquid for Winch. The ice clinked as he accepted it. “Thank you.”
When she left, Winch continued in a lower voice. “Borman down at the Double Tusk told me Trestleway was going to make some kind of appearance at the Panel of Trustees meeting tonight. Something to do with a treaty.”
Cope slugged down some coffee. “Ack! That’s strong. And foul. Good drink.” He waved a hand. “I don’t buy it. The only thing they’ve ever wanted out of Perch is our coin—and probably the Hunt-Hawes factories, if they could get their slimy gloves on them.”
Winch chuckled. “So you think Daisy’s friend saw what she thinks she saw?”
“As sure as there’s three hundred and forty two days in a year.”
“Thankfully she didn’t run into anyone who might be a cythramancer.”
Cope went suddenly quiet. He added a bit of cream to the coffee. He stirred it lazily. “Winch, all this palaver over those…folks…”
“Yes?”
“It reminds me of Father and Mother. You remember how they always peddled those tales of magic-users from the olden times…”
“This isn’t magic, Cope. It isn’t parlor sleight of hand.” Winch’s insides went cold. “This is a dark power, one that mankind shouldn’t meddle in.”
“You know that’s what I meant. It’s…the fear part of it.” Cope’s smile was wan. “I’m not afraid of much, big brother, but when that fella knocked my bullets out of the air like they were gnats…”
“I understand.” Did he ever. “But I have to try to trust in the words of Ifan. The Allfather will never drop us from his arms.”
“Huh.” Cope sipped some of his coffee. “Cope, they might be the invisible forces of darkness to you, but there’s lots of folk who see them as fairytale leftovers.”
“Think of them as rebels, Cope. Rebels against the empire of Thel.” He was repeating all he’d learned as accurately as he could remember.
But did he believe it? Truly?
Cope fell silent. He hadn’t touched any more of his food. The server brought Winch’s eggs. To his relief, his anxiety hadn’t lessened his appetite. Winch thanked her and dug into the omelet. “Cope, you weren’t pulling on the branter’s tail—this is much better chow than usual.”
Cop
e raised his mug. “They’ve a new cook, and she’s worth her weight in avo-gas. Say, you have your camera with you?”
“Of course.” Winch patted the shoulder bag.
Cope grinned. “Just so happens I have the morning off. Are you up for some more investigating?”
“Back at the crash site?”
“Nope. Got somewhere else in mind. Clues and such.”
Winch looked around the restaurant. “As long as Sheriff Tedrow doesn’t catch wind of it…”
“Atta-boy!” Cope tossed back the remnants of his coffee. “Hurry, now and finish up. The Trestleway folks are staying at the Oriental Lodge.”
Winch ate as quickly as he dared, lest his stomach feel the unpleasant aftereffects of stuffing his face in the same manner Cope had. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”
“Can’t let the reporter get the scoop all the time, can I?
• • •
To characterize the Oriental Lodge as the premier hotel in Perch was to make a gross understatement. Broad wooden timbers crisscrossed red and white stone of the five-story main section. Winch stared at its soaring peaks, its long three-story wings stretching out to either side, its ornate cupolas, and its shining windows.
“Just think,” he said to Cope. “On any given day you can walk through these doors and find a Megunticook shipping magnate sharing coffee with a mining boss from Picksborough or even a representative of the Mintannic Mercantile House.”
“I doubt they’d let either of us in,” Cope said. “We simply don’t have the coin.”
“True.” Winch scanned the rear of the hotel. He surveyed the sprawling courtyard and the surrounding gardens for any sign of the Trestleway contingent. He and Cope had ensconced themselves in a stand of broadleaf maples just off the Stone Creek, not a hundred feet from the courtyards.
“How do you know a man from Trestleway?” Cope asked.
Winch saw his grin and knew he was being prompted for the all-too-familiar punch line. “From the tracks on his backside.”
Cope guffawed. “I always did like that one.”
Winch shushed him and pointed.
A quintet of men in tan and cream suits emerged from the wide-open courtyard doors of the lodge. One wore a darker shade of tan than the rest and had the general build of an apple barrel. Winch surmised from the way he snapped orders to the others and from the orange sash of fine satin draped across his vest that he must be in charge.
“Track-heads,” Cope said. “Make sure you take a good image that captures their ugly side.”
“I’ll do my best.” Winch steadied his camera with one arm and braced his body against the tree. Wait. Someone else was entering focus.
A tall man with a drooping moustache. He strode out and spoke with the rotund leader. He wore all black—hat, coat, and vest—save for the white collar of his shirt and the brilliant red necktie.
Hmm. Winch snapped a photo. He yanked the plate out and held it away from himself. “Cope? Get me a new one.”
“Got it.” Cope tucked the used plate into the bag and pulled out a fresh one. He squinted up as a pair of aeroplanes buzzed overhead. “Huh. Some of the new fellas must be making the run back to Picksborough…”
“Cope!” Winch hissed.
“Sorry!” Cope slapped the plate into Winch’s hand.
Winch shook his head and slammed the new one into his camera—perhaps a bit too forcefully. He aimed the camera for a second photo—
The man with the red tie looked his way.
Winch ducked behind the tree.
Cope stared. “What?”
“He may have seen us.” Winch’s breath came hard. The look in that man’s eye—it was not friendly. Keep us hidden, Allfather.
“Who?” Cope went to peer around the tree—
“No!” Winch tugged on his arm. “Wait one moment.”
They waited. Finally they both risked a look.
The group of men had moved off. They weren’t looking anywhere near the brothers’ hiding place.
Winch exhaled. He longed for a simpler assignment.
“Looks like the sky still shines on us.” Cope clapped Winch on the shoulder.
“Prayer helps more so.” Winch glanced down at his camera. He hoped the single image he’d snapped would come out.
“Hey!”
Winch looked behind them. Two men stood by the creek bank. Stood was a loose approximation—one of the men swayed. The other took a few staggering steps toward Winch and Cope. Winch had never seen either man before, but their muscular builds and surly faces could not bode well. He saw that both had something tucked up the right sleeves of their threadbare coats.
“Can we help you gents?” Cope ambled forward. His hand slid down toward his holstered gun.
Both men produced volley guns from their sleeves. Cope’s hand froze. At this close range, Winch was sure Cope couldn’t shoot both men before they emptied the combined twelve barrels of the small handguns into us.
“Just you keep your fingers off that iron,” the taller of the two men said. He and his partner kept their guns at waist level. “We’re all just goin’ on a stroll into those trees yonder, see? And we’ll be needin’ that camera.”
Winch clutched the bag tightly.
Cope clenched his fists. “If you think we’re coming along without a fuss, your skulls are full of branter hair.”
“Cope, let’s not antagonize them.” Winch held up the bag. Even as he spoke, he prayed for wisdom to make the next move. One that would not get them shot. “Now perhaps we can negotiate…”
A blur hurtled through the air from the nearby gardens. Whatever it was struck the shorter thug in the head with such force that his neck twisted around like a biplane’s prop. He collapsed in a limp pile.
The taller partner had time to aim his volley gun. But he didn’t fire.
Winch didn’t suppose he could shoot at a woman, either.
He saw the woman with black curly hair bolt forward from the hedges of the garden. She moved so quickly that Winch thought he was seeing one of the flip books his children enjoyed. She grabbed the man’s gun hand, twisted it sharply to the right, and planted her right elbow firmly under his jaw.
He toppled into the creek with a tremendous splash.
Winch stared. Cope’s mouth hung wide open.
Miss Plank wore a long coat over the same simple blouse she’d had on in the mayor-general’s office, except that she’d donned flattering blue pants and tall boots. A holster hung from either hip of her ornately decorated leather gun belt.
“Gentlemen,” she said softly. “I trust you’re both well this morning”
The brothers nodded mutely.
She knelt down and retrieved a short, blunt truncheon of black rubber from the grass. Winch realized that was what had struck down the first man. “These men have been following you since you left Ridgik’s. I’m sorry to say their intentions were less than sterling. That tall man with the black suit? He hired them sometime yesterday to have you two tracked—and silenced, if the opportunity arose.”
Winch swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry.
“Then if you’re quite done here, I will have the sheriff send a man for these ruffians.” She smiled thinly. “Have a pleasant day.” She strolled off with such smoothness that she practically melted into the gardens.
Cope found his voice first. “I could have done that.”
Winch stared at him in utter disbelief.
“All right, perhaps not.”
Tuesday
Winch wanted to wait around at the Advocate office to see if his photo did indeed turn out, but Gil would have none of it.
“I’ve let you off your leash for one day, and you’ve brought me gold spun from thread!” He chewed on his pipe and grinned. “That’s a good lad. Now get your carcass over to the panel of trustees meeting. If these Trestleway types show, you’ll get a sight more to add.”
Winch nodded. “As you wish, Chief.”
He slip
ped out into the front hall. Annora waved good-bye to him with her scissors. The stack of tele-type messages before her on the L-shaped counter resembled a rabbit’s nest of white paper.
“You’ll have quite the time sorting those out,” Winch said.
“Since Gil refuses to put out that pipe in the office, I think I’d rather drop the whole mastodon mess on his desk,” she said firmly. One of the tele-type machines clacked out a new message. She grabbed the loose end and cut the message free with such force Winch thought she might shatter the blades.
Outside, Winch found Cope leaning against the office windows. The wind blew down South Street, adding a chill to the spring air, but Winch saw he had his sleeves rolled up. “So?”
“Gil would rather I be at the meeting than wait around for the darkroom.”
“A shame.” Cope clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I suppose I’ll retire to the aerodrome.”
“I thought you had the day off.”
“I do, but Daisy should have returned from her overnight flight to Megunticook with the coastal parcels.” Cope rolled his eyes. “She’s been harassing me to get some work done on my Buzzard’s engine. I don’t think it’s a problem. So maybe I can use my charm that works so well with the gentler gender and talk her out of it.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Winch said. “Send me a note if you hear anything further.”
Cope tossed him a mock salute.
Winch couldn’t blame Cope for abandoning their investigation at this point. There was no evidence linking anyone on the Trestleway delegation to the mysterious—and dead—Mr. Reardon Ray from the Double Tusk Hotel register.
Cope sauntered off down the street. Winch had tried so many times to share his faith with Cope, but some things couldn’t be forced.
“Ifan, keep your hand on my brother and guide his steps down the road to you. Show him your fire. Emin.”
Winch took a peek at his pocket watch: nine thirty. There was plenty of time for him to make his way over to City Hall on Main Street before the trustees meeting began.
While en route he stopped to chat with Señor Cavallo at the corner grocery to see what news he might have heard as of late. He spotted Constable Vincennes taking a report down at the scene of a motorwagon–versus-diprotodon accident. The motorwagon had been traveling at a very slow speed and so had taken the brunt of the damage. It looked as if the vehicle had been crumpled in a giant’s hands. A man in overalls tended to the wound on the howling diprotodon’s flank.
