by Steve Rzasa
A few photographs later, Winch left the constable to sort out the details between the red-faced owners of both modes of transport.
City Hall was one of the oldest buildings in Perch. It was around the same age as the other brick structures down this western end of Main Street and South Street. The building was three-stories tall, made of red brick, and had a set of wide stained-glass doors leading inside. Workmen labored on a tan stone addition to the right, meant to house new offices. Perch was growing. A pole protruded from the roof, and a flag rustled in the breeze—blue field with white biplane silhouette on the left, two horizontal red strips bisected by a white stripe with three yellow stars.
Winch went inside and excused himself through knots of men having quiet conversation just inside the main doors. The meeting room for the panel of trustees was the largest space on this level, with wide windows open on to Main Street. The floor was carpeted in maroon, and the walls were painted a faint peach. At the front of the room, a long curving desk with nine seats faced out to the audience. Mayor-General Keysor sat behind that long desk at his own seat. Miss Plank scribbled notes from him at lightning speed at his side. She gave Winch a wink.
The seal of Perch, three feet wide and sculpted in bronze, hung behind them. The mountains, mastodon, biplane, river, trees, and stars were grouped together under a blazing sun. The sight of the more than century-old seal gave Winch a sense of pride in his home that almost nothing else did.
The Trestleway contingent was already there. The barrel-shaped man in charge, his four cohorts, and the tall man in black all sat in one row on the opposite site of the room from Winch, and two rows up. They were having a stoop-shouldered, hissing whispers conversation. Except for the man in black. He stared resolutely forward.
Winch took a seat near the back corner, by the window, on one of the semi-comfortable wooden chairs. He leaned back and took note of everything around him.
When 10 o’clock rolled around, the Panel of Trustees filed in. Winch gave a slight nod to J.D. Borman, founder of the Double Tusk—he bore the expression of a man ready to fight—and to Sun Jianguo, the owner and publisher of the Perch Advocate. Mr. Sun was a short, slender man with jet black hair greying at the temples. His clean-shaven face was round and sallow, but his expression was serene as usual.
The trustees took their seats with much rustling of papers in the leather folders they carried. Winch got his notebook and pencil ready.
The woman seated at center, Chairman Rebekah Hawes, took up the pine gavel and slammed it against a marble pedestal. “This special meeting of the Perch City-State Panel of Trustees is now in session,” she said in a sharp and exceedingly loud voice. Winch watched Chairman Hawes scour the room with her eyes. They were a stormy grey that demanded everyone’s attention. Her hair, straight and brown with hints of grey, had come loose from her braid in a few spots, and she wore a women’s blouse and a jacket in dark greys that was of a severe cut. Everything about her was stern. “All rise for the pledge.”
Everyone arose, even the Trestleway delegation. They stood out with their lighter-colored suits of a less substantial material and foreign cut. Besides them and Winch, there were only a half dozen others in the room—including one of whom he recognized to be a reporter from the City Regulator, the larger weekly newspaper in town. The burly young blond man made a sly face.
Winch faced the flag of Perch and recited the pledge. He noticed Sheriff Tedrow sidle into the room. The sheriff’s eyes darted around before locking like searchlights onto the Trestleway men. He too joined in on the pledge.
“Please be seated.” Fabric rustled as they all settled into their chairs. Chairman Hawes folded her hands on the desk before her. “The first and only item on today’s agenda is the proposal from the Trestleway Conglomerate Council to extend a treaty of mutual benefit to the City-State of Perch.”
Borman snorted. It sounded like a gunshot in the small room. Hawes speared him with her iron gaze and, to Winch’s amusement, Borman sat up straighter in his chair.
“Have all the trustees had time to peruse the proposal?” Hawes asked firmly. Nods and murmurs answered her. “Good. We’ll hear from the Trestleway delegation first, then. Mr. Ehrlichmann?”
The lead man stood. He gave a slight, sharp bow at the waist—Trestleway tradition. “Frederick Ehrlichmann, Second Councilor and special envoy. We are, of course, delighted to be here in your charming little city.”
Winch made sure he wrote down every word. He noted how Hawes’ expression tightened at the phrase “little city.” Winch’s counterpart from the Regulator wrote swiftly too.
“As you are well aware,” Ehrlichmann said, “the prosperity of Trestleway is in her railroads, and her railroads reach far across Galderica. They will soon reach all the way to the teeming streets of Mintannic.” If his chest puffed out any more Winch was afraid he’d lose a few vest buttons.
Borman snorted.
Winch raised his hand. “Excuse me.”
Ehrlichmann scowled over his shoulder, face dripping disdain. Winch hated this part of his work. He never wanted all the faces in the room to be directed at him. His stomach clenched, and his heart accelerated.
The man in the black clothes stared, heavy-lidded, right at him.
“Yes, Mr.…?” Hawes let the question drag out.
“Winchell Sark, Perch Advocate. I request a facsimile of this proposal for myself and my colleague from the Regulator.” Winch said it quickly, so he wouldn’t falter.
Hawes perused the proposal. “I have no objections.”
“Ahem.” Ferrand Molyneaux, seated to her right, drummed his fingers on the desk. He had a sharp nose, and his curled black moustache went well, Winch thought, with his slicked-down black hair. His was the finest tailored set of clothes in the room—from his violet cravat to matching vest and dark coat. “This is not the sort of thing we should be giving, in my opinion, to the rabble press.”
“It would be a hard thing to keep hidden, Mr. Molyneaux.” Keysor’s deep voice boomed from the back. “I see no problem with providing facsimiles. My assistant has some with her, in fact. Miss Plank?”
She descended from her desk and handed out two of the same leather folders—first to Winch, then to the Regulator reporter. He in turn gave Winch a slow but cautious nod.
“Thank you.” As Winch opened the folder, he met Keysor’s eyes. Awfully convenient to have those facsimiles lying nearby ready for distribution.
“Please continue, Mr. Ehrlichmann,” Hawes said.
“Yes. Very well.” Ehrlichmann gave Winch another withering gaze before he continued, “As I was saying, the prosperity of Trestleway is something we desire to share with those not so fortunate.”
“Ain’t that somethin’.” Borman leaned back in his chair, thumbs under his suspenders. “Didn’t know we was less fortunate up here in Perch.”
Chuckles rippled among the trustees. Even Hawes cracked a smile. Molyneaux scowled deeply.
“As you will no doubt see in our treaty proposal,” Ehrlichmann said, “we wish to extend not only our economic interaction but military protection to the cities of the Sawtooth League, especially Perch. I’m sure we can all agree that the profit to be made would benefit both our cities.”
Winch flipped quickly through the proposal, scanning it for relevancies. Hmm…there was a section in there for mutual defense. It looked similar to the agreements Perch had already made with other cities.
“And tell us,” Mr. Sun said quietly, “how will the arrangement you have offered be of better service than that of the Sawtooth League?”
“Our direct rail link to the vast cities of the northern reaches can greatly enrich your city,” Ehrlichmann said. “Workmen are hard at labor to extend our rails to the nearest connector with Mintannic, that great seat of the old Commonwealth.”
“We have already inaugurated a run to Mintannic,” Sun said. “Last spring.”
Ehrlichmann apparently chose not to hear the remark. He held out his hand
s and smiled. “Of course, we would be like partners in this venture, and you would not have to be dependent on a singular mode of transportation.”
Ah. There it was. Winch scribbled that comment down. Then he found a page that matched Ehrlichmann’s suggestion. The northernmost reach of Trestleway’s spur in Wright Valley ended at Pearly’s Bend. Seventy-five miles north of the city.
“Yeah, we all read it. You want a rail spur to come 175 miles up the valley to Perch.” Borman waggled the proposal before him. “Some branter-hair about a train platform at the foot of the cliff. You plannin’ to bypass Fort DeSmet?”
Winch had wondered that. Fort DeSmet was the nearest major city-state in the Sawtooth League, at precisely 111 miles south of Perch.
“As I understand it, there are some four thousand people there who might be amicable to our arrival. No, we would include them as a stop along the way, along with any other town that so desired.”
“And what if we don’t ‘so desire’?” Borman scowled. “This just sounds like you don’t fancy us makin’ the coin off our aeroplanes that we do now!”
Ehrlichmann scrunched his nose and scowled. “That’s quite the accusation, and I fully resent it,” Ehrlichmann huffed. “The citizens of Trestleway, represented by Trestleway Locomotion Consolidated, are merely seeking to extend the hand of commerce and friendship to our brothers in the north, and to bring them into a greater network, one that has world-wide reach.”
“A network you brought Farmingdale into last fall, I hear,” said Adele Trafton. She was the oldest trustee and the matriarch of the Trafton clan. Her hair was shock white, and she peered at the proceedings through thick bifocals, but when she spoke her words were like bullets. “I reckon there wasn’t much they could do to say no, especially when their crops went suddenly sour.”
Ehrlichmann sniffed. He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “What are you insinuating, Ma’am?”
Mrs. Trafton smiled. “It was curious timing. That’s all.”
“An unfortunate incident for them. But I am grateful, of course, that we were able to help out when we could. Thanks be to the strength of the Consuls above.” Winch could see perspiration beading along Ehrlichmann’s forehead.
“The bottom line is, Mr. Ehrlichmann, Second Councilor and special envoy, that we here in Perch do not need Trestleway’s helping hand.” Trafton waved her hand about. “Look around this room and this city. We can reach any city-state you can, faster, with our aerocraft and our far better avo-gas.
“Other city-states rely on our hydrogen production. Hunt-Hawes is churning out new aeroplanes daily, our trade links with the Golden Desert caravans are prosperous, and we have made our own niche with specialty goods to and from Mintannic. Important passengers have already realized they can make less time to Las Sietecopas by aeroplane than over your rails. Indeed, if you would like, we could talk in this meeting about adding Trestleway to Perch’s transportation network.”
Winch wasn’t surprised she’d taken that angle. The Traftons were the big traders in Perch—along with the Keysors—and they had a firm grasp of which markets made what coin. There had to be some steamed feelings right about now.
Winch listened as Ehrlichmann offered up a counter-argument, but he kept watch on the trustees’ faces—Hawes’ irritation, Trafton’s smirk, Borman’s perpetual but deepening frown, Molyneaux’s…
Huh. Molyneaux looked irritable, as usual, but he kept glancing sideways at Hawes and Trafton. Winch chalked it up to jealousy.
“There’s more to this city than aeroplanes,” Molyneaux said. “Mine is the oldest mercantile house in Perch, unless you’ve forgotten, and in our coldest winter months there is little flying to be had. The winds can be treacherous then. Trade can only go out by motorwagon—or mastodon caravan, if the roads are particularly poor.”
“That only highlights the vulnerability of your existence,” Ehrlichmann said. Winch snapped his attention back to him. His face was fairly pink, and if his hands grasped the back of the chair before him any harder he’d likely break it. “What if one of the three plagues were to come sweeping down from the north again?”
That brought an audible groan from Adele Trafton.
“Lookee here!” Borman hit the desk with an open hand. “You know blamed well as any of us there ain’t been one of those plagues since long before I was a nursin’ babe, so don’t get us all jo-fired over nothin’! There hasn’t been anything as bad as the three plagues all at once since the fall of the Commonwealth, and that was five hundred years ago!”
Hawes banged her gavel. “Ladies and gentlemen, this discussion is failing to live up to its name. We all understand the ramifications of this treaty, correct?” She got mostly nods from the trustees. “And Mr. Ehrlichmann, you no doubt appreciate our concerns about becoming nothing but another stop along Trestleway’s ever growing rail system?”
Ehrlichmann muttered something Winch couldn’t hear, but it must have been an agreement, because Hawes nodded in satisfaction. “Now let me speak my piece. Mrs. Trafton and Mr. Borman are right: We don’t need Trestleway. Perch was the first to invest substantially in aerocraft development, and you see now where we are. Our network of landing fields and aero-routes is expanding, Mr. Ehrlichmann, nearly as far as your rails. And we can go a sight faster than you. But if a city-state doesn’t want our business, we just pass them by without leaving nary a mark on the land. Can you say the same?”
Ehrlichmann opened his mouth to respond, but Molyneaux beat him to the punch. “Fine words from you, Chairman Hawes, when it’s your name on the side of the very factory that produces those aeroplanes!”
Winch grimaced. He’d wondered when that point would be raised. Granted, Chairman Hawes was more of an aeroplane designer than actual management, but still…
Hawes glared at Molyneaux. “I’m speaking about what is best for Perch.”
“I’m speaking about what is best for Perch too. That does not automatically presuppose aerial superiority.” Molyneaux smiled. Winch found it an oily, unpleasant expression. “There are many routes to prosperity, both on land and in the air.”
That brought some murmurs of agreement from the other trustees. Mr. Sun made no sound, either of affirmation or negation. Borman and Trafton shared the same perturbed face as Chairman Hawes.
“Isn’t it true, Councilor Ehrlichmann,” Adele Trafton asked, “that Trestleway’s true interest in Perch is our air routes to the Caminante settlements?”
Ehrlichmann blanched. He shook a finger at the trustees. “We have our own trade relations with the Caminante caravan clans.”
“But very little, thanks to your war.”
Ehrlichmann scowled. “Those…people value their desert sands a bit more than is reasonable and would not allow us the natural right given by the Consuls to expand our rail system.”
“They consider their ‘sea of the sun’ to be hallowed terrain,” Mr. Sun said quietly. “You must realize they will never allow any manmade structure—not even wheels—to touch the sands. That is why they restrict our aerocraft and their own homes to the hamadas and oases.”
“Superstition. Trestleway decided it was necessary to use military persuasion.”
“Which failed.” Trafton smiled.
Snickers traveled around the table. Ehrlichmann’s companions shifted in their seats.
“That is an exception to the rule,” Ehrlichmann said. “When reasonable people see the benefit of Trestleway’s power, the power granted by the divine favor of the Consuls, they join us,” he said firmly. “The raiders and bandits out there are dangerous—”
“And well within our capability to handle,” Keysor said. He’d stayed quiet during the debate, but Winch doubted he’d missed anything.
Miss Plank was still furiously writing—she would have made a fantastic reporter, given she could write faster than he. Winch glanced over at his competitor from the Regulator, who flashed Winch a smile in return. Yes, this was the kind of thing their editors would like: public off
icials shedding civility. Good headlines.
Winch glanced at the man in black. He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved. He’d barely blinked. Winch couldn’t figure his role in the Trestleway group. He was massive enough—perhaps he was a bodyguard of some fashion.
Borman launched into a tirade against the encroaching Trestleway rails, but from outside came the sound of a keening wail. Winch listened. It was a siren, but not the fire warning.
Hawes’ eyes went wide. “This meeting is adjourned for the time being.” She smacked the gavel. Then she bustled from behind the table and went straight out the door.
All at once the trustees were in a major uproar. The Trestleway delegates fidgeted, looking worse than cats in a room full of rockers.
Someone must have opened the main doors, because Winch could hear the alarm more clearly now. His heart froze.
Air raid.
Tuesday
Cope had his hands buried deep in the engine of his Buzzard. He was daydreaming about all the eligible young ladies who might attend the Fifth Festival the next night when the siren blared. He pulled his hands back so fast he cut his hand on a sharp bit of metal. Cope swore.
“Cope!” Daisy waved at him from the mouth of the hangar. She was tall and blond, and she wore her leather flight jacket and held her cap in one hand. “All-squadron alert! Raiders to the west!”
Cope sprinted from the hangar. The siren wailed over all other noise on the tarmac. Technicians struggled with guide tethers as they herded a dirigible toward the debatable safety of the large hangars. A few tried in vain to calm branters braying and groaning at the noise. Others worked to guide aerocraft of all shapes and sizes off the tarmac into adjacent hangars. Cope looked off to the west, and what he saw made him grind his teeth in anger.
Two long, black shapes loomed on the horizon. They would have fit right in with dark storm clouds, had there been any. But against a clear blue backdrop sprinkled with cottony wisps of cloud they were easily distinguishable as attack dirigibles.
