by Steve Rzasa
“Quite convenient for you.” Hawes’s eyes narrowed. “And who in blue skies might you be?”
“Captain Crittenden Beam, Citizen’s Peace Branch.”
Winch snapped the tip right off his pencil. His mind went blank as he scrambled about in his pocket for a replacement. The Branch? This was Beam! The man who’d stayed with Reardon Ray, the potential killer, at the Double Tusk. And he was an enforcer for Trestleway? Great.
Borman made a choking noise. He shared a look with Winch. Winch did his best not to make any further reaction.
Keysor stepped up to Beam. “Mr. Beam, I would suggest you keep about the Branch’s business of spying on its own citizens and stay out of Perch’s affairs.”
Ehrlichmann put a hand on Beam’s arm. There was some battle of wills between the two, Winch was sure of it, but nothing he could pinpoint. Beam gave a slight nod and stepped aside.
“I must concur with Captain Beam. You have no evidence for this accusation, and I hereby register my full diplomatic outrage!” Ehrlichmann sputtered. Winch decided the man would make a fine stage actor. “When the Council hears of this—”
“You can tell your council that when they no longer stoop to threats and intimidation—as ineffectual as they are—we in Perch might be willing to discuss a treaty further,” Hawes said. “But that won’t be today. Our negotiations are ended, gentlemen.”
The harsh roar of aeroplane engines drowned out Ehrlichmann’s angry retort. The Perch fighters landed amidst cheers from the technicians and the gathered crowd. Winch watched each plane set down, one after the other. Cope’s biplane—one of its wings flapping torn in the wind—was last to touch the tarmac. Winch took a photograph.
Molyneaux cleared his throat. “Madame Chairman, if I may, we have adjourned the meeting without formally tabling the agenda. Without the full panel of trustees present, you have no authority to render such a decision.”
Hawes raised an eyebrow. “Quite right, Thomas. However, since we are adjourned, as you point out, I see no need to specify when the adjournment will end—even if it is months from now.”
With that, she stormed off toward the Hunt-Hawes factories. Molyneaux and Trafton followed, with the former continuing his protests. Borman chuckled. “Don’t suppose you boys need ta get a bite to eat at the Double Tusk before you leave town?”
“Leave town?” Ehrlichmann said.
Keysor nodded. “Sheriff, why don’t you and your constables escort our dignitaries back to the Oriental Lodge and see to it they are not late checking out?”
That was when Winch noted that a cadre of five constables had gathered behind Tedrow.
Ehrlichmann snapped his fingers. He turned toward their motorwagon, his entourage trailing at his heels.
Beam gave them all a cold stare as he swept by.
“Hey!” Cope strode toward them, his fellow pilots following. Daisy was right by his side. She looked tense and dragged out, but Cope wore an expression of pure fury. His coat flapped in the wind, and he was on a direct intercept course with Ehrlichmann. “You know blamed well where those aeroplanes came from, don’t you!”
Beam stepped between them. Cope wasn’t stopping. His fists were balled.
Winch thought Beam might pull a gun on Cope. But Beam just held up his hand, fingers spread wide, curled slightly toward Cope.
Cope skidded to a halt. He held up his hand to stop Daisy. Treadwell Krol—the tall, burly and bald pilot whom Winch recognized from the aerodrome—almost plowed into them from behind. He glowered, his eyebrows thick and brown like a cave-bear’s fur. He had a brown beard that hid nearly all of his mouth.
Beam held his hand steady. Winch had seen that pose before.
Reardon Ray had done the same thing. When he’d swatted Cope’s bullets from the air.
The moment passed in silence. Beam lowered his hand. Ehrlichmann snapped his fingers again, and the entire contingent loaded in the motorwagon.
Cope blew out a breath. “He’s fortunate I didn’t tie him to a prop and fire up the engine.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t have a gun,” Daisy said.
Winch stared as the vehicle rattled away. “I don’t think the man needs one.”
Wednesday
The chapel service on Wednesday was a special occasion. Third Street Chapel held it only on the first Wednesday of the month and called it “reflections.” Winch loved honoring a tradition Ifan had instilled in his pupils.
It was even more important this Wednesday, Winch thought, because of the guest preacher present.
There was a crowd outside the chapel building. They spoke in hushed tones as the man walked up the steps and into the building. His name was Vaughn Markwater. He was average height, of modest good looks, and possessed of curly red hair streaked with grey. Lines on his face gave him the appearance of being maybe ten years Winch’s senior. He wore plain but well-kept clothing.
“Did he really walk with Ifan?” someone whispered.
“I daresay he did.” Gil Davies puffed on his pipe. “Followed him on all his travels.”
“Just think of it—he took meals with him, like any other man,” Lysanne said.
Fremont looked up from his book. “Didn’t the students all die? Why is he here?”
Winch held on to Wade’s and McKinley’s hands. “He’s continuing the mission of his master and teacher by teaching others.”
Thirty-seven people gathered in the long hall. Its worn, tin ceiling sagged in a few places. Mid-afternoon light filtered in through four narrow windows. Winch wished he had more time to help out with repairs or could suggest a better location, but the fact was that it remained one of the few buildings available for the congregation’s use. It was hard to find someone who would rent a place out for Exalters to worship in.
The people there were a cross section of Perch’s population. Winch, Lysanne, and their three children sat in the wooden seats toward the back of the hall with five other couples and their offspring. The sounds of soft shushing, the rustle of fabric, and the periodic knocking of little shoes against chair legs made for a constant noise.
Several other younger and older couples sat farther toward the front. Gil was seated, as usual, in the front row with next to the regular teacher and two other men who served as elders in the chapel. A few widows and single young men—well-dressed pilots, workers in rough garb, and ranch hands in their slicked-up best—filled out the rest of the chairs. A few had the red or auburn hair of Tirodani descendants, but they were not the majority—skins of all colors blended here.
Vaughn Markwater gestured with his right hand to the piece of metal hanging on the wall behind him. It was a half foot wide, perhaps as tall as a man, and punched through with nine holes top to bottom. “It has only been ten years since our Master Ifan died and returned to us. Ten years. You all know this symbol. This is why you gather in this building on the first Wednesday of the month and every Sunday—it’s an ever-present reminder of our Master Ifan’s sacrifice. When the Telru reverends saw his power and heard him demand their repentance, they conspired with the Trestleway authorities to have Ifan killed.” Markwater’s eyes were filled with sorrow, but his voice shook with force. It was rough and untrained, but his words nailed Winch to his seat.
“Ifan came back to life on the third day.” Gil punctuated the words with jabs from his smoldering pipe. One of the elders wrinkles his nose at the smell.
“Yes! You know what is written. And I tell you, this is what I saw. He held my hand.” Markwater reached toward them with trembling fingers. “That same third day. I saw the gunshot wounds in his body. He looked me square in the eye and said, ‘Take the gift of my peace. It’s yours.’”
Winch gripped Lysanne’s hand. She smiled warmly at him. He’d be forever in her debt for showing her this path.
Markwater pointed toward the windows. “Now, it’s overcast today, but we all know how bright the sun really shines, clouds or not. I suspect our pilot brethren know this above all.” That brought
chuckles and nods from the aeromen in the congregation. “You see, Ifan is the sun—the Exaltson, to pull a little pun—who clears away all the clouds of doubt and the shadows of our sorrow.”
Winch fidgeted. He tightened his grip on Lysanne’s hand.
She squeezed back. “Be still,” she whispered. “He’s here with us.”
“Thank you.” Winch smiled weakly. He couldn’t, though, rid his mind of the image of Reardon Ray versus Cope’s bullets—and, more, recently, Beam’s hand in the identical position.
“There is no power greater than Thel. None.” Markwater took a step toward the windows. He raised a folded set of papers up to the light.
“Yes, yes, all well and good.” Gil stuck his pipe between clenched teeth. “We know the stories from the Caudex of the Prophet Halwyn that tell of how he defeated the cythramancers’ army at the Battle of Searsmont Forest. That was after they routed the vaunted Great Army of the Commonwealth. But that was then. What do you say now, for this modern age?”
“It is nothing I say that makes a difference,” Markwater said. “Thel never changes, and neither does his writ. The words of Ifan are true. He spoke these to us thirty years ago. Listen.” He held up the papers and read:
There was a gent who was possessed by a cythraul. Nobody could hold him back when the dark powers seized him. He saw Ifan and hollered, “What do you want? Are you trying to destroy me? I know who you are, Ifan—the Hallowed of Thel! The Exaltson!”
Ifan rebuked it. “Quiet! Get out of him, now!”
The cythraul screamed and tore right out of that man, but not before he rattled his body terribly.
Markwater folded the paper slowly. The crinkling was the only sound in the hall. “I saw the things Ifan did. Saw the dark forces reduced to hollow threats and empty breezes, made powerless before him. You have nothing to fear.”
Nothing to fear. Winch wanted badly to really believe those words. He’d seen the same phrase in the full narrative of Leighton, circulated among the Exalters of the Sawtooth region last year. Hadn’t he written that Ifan cleared the skies of the thunderheads and lightning when they threatened to knock an aeroliner from the sky? Just like that…
“Why are you so afraid? Don’t you know what Thel can do?” Winch murmured the memorized words. It was a question to which he feared—there it was again!—he’d never find the answer.
The congregation rose for a song. Winch smiled as his daughter, McKinley, leapt to her feet and shared a pamphlet of hymns with her mother. Ward busied himself by scribbling on a dog-eared, rumpled pad of paper with a tiny nub of a pencil. A strange, twisted castle emerged from the lines. But he too got to his feet.
Fremont, Winch’s oldest boy, had his nose nearly buried in a thin book. Winch wasn’t surprised. He leaned down a bit. “Fremont, find a place to stop reading Aero-Pirates of the Red Hills and stand for the hymn.” Fremont rolled his eyes. Winch frowned. He gave his son a jab on the shoulder. “Now. Please.”
Fremont’s shoes hit the wood floor with an exaggerated stomp, and he stood sullenly. The sudden noise—and the speed with which several elderly women’s heads snapped around to target the offense—made Winch’s face burn. Sometimes that boy…
When the service ended, Winch helped Lysanne herd everyone out the door onto Third Street. Markwater stood off to the right, under a pair of aspens, deep in conversation with Gil and one of the elders. It was warm out this afternoon. Winch doffed his dark coat, as had several other men leaving the service.
Ward jumped a couple of steps on the wooden sidewalk. A pair of nearby branters moaned their dismay at the sound. “Father! Can’t we bring our motorwagon to chapel like some of the other families?”
“No, Ward, five blocks is hardly a trying distance to walk.” It was a familiar conversation. Winch waved good-bye to the Changs as they drove away.
“But Chang Tze-Li has one…”
“And his family lives a good five miles up the East Divide Road. End of discussion.” Winch saw Gil shake Markwater’s hand and start up the street. “Lysanne?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you mind starting ahead with the children? I’d like to speak with Teacher Markwater.”
Lysanne’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you’d leave me at the mercies of all three, would you?”
Winch smiled. “But you can more than handle it, sweet.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. For his trouble he received a swat on the backside with a pamphlet. “Hey!”
Lysanne grinned at him. “Come, children.”
Fremont looked up from his book as they walked away. “Is Father in trouble?”
“Possibly.” Lysanne blew him a kiss.
Winch shook his head.
“My wife would have responded the same way.”
Markwater stood not three feet from him. Up close, Winch could see the shadows and wrinkles lining his eyes.
“Mr. Markwater.” Winch extended his hand. “Winchell Sark.”
“Nice to meet you.” Markwater shook his hand.
“Thank you for coming to speak here in Perch.”
“You’re quite welcome. I judge by your demeanor that you have something pressing to ask. It was hard to miss you waiting there while I spoke with the elders.”
“Yes, well…” Winch swallowed his nerves. “It was something I’d rather they didn’t hear. Although Gil—Mr. Davies—is well aware of… You see, a few days ago, I believe I may have met a cythramancer.”
Markwater’s expression changed subtly. It was, Winch thought, like watching water freeze over in winter. “Not a topic to be broached likely, son. Is there anything you have to ask me beyond what it written in the Tirodani Caudex?”
“You traveled with Ifan…the Exaltson himself.” Winch adjusted his glasses. “Surely there is something you saw, or something he said…”
“I saw a cythramancer exercise his power,” Markwater said abruptly. “Ifan put a stop to it posthaste. And he showed us that we of faith could rely on the Allfather to bind the cythraul.”
Winch’s heart hammered against his rib cage. Real. He’d feared he’d imagined the whole thing. It was enough to render him speechless. After all these centuries, all the vaunted progress of mankind as he rode the rails and the skies, and yet this dark power could still reach up from the mists of the dark past.
It had reached out for him.
Markwater must have sensed Winch’s discomfort, because he put both hands on his shoulders and faced him directly. “Listen to me. Listen!” Markwater gave him a little shake. “There is no power Ifan cannot defeat. None. The things we saw… Like the story I just related to you all—is there any doubt of that? What I don’t always tell, but what I tell you now, is that in his many rantings, the man possessed by the cythraul told us that he had been a cythramancer before.”
Winch blinked. “Before what?”
“Before the dark forces tired of his so-called service and chained him merely for their entertainment.” Markwater scowled.
Winch extricated himself from the man’s grasp. “I will be frank: This talk terrifies me. I don’t know what I should do. All I know is that there was one cythramancer—and perhaps more—out there in recent days. Perhaps they threaten this city. They have to be stopped.”
“For your family’s sake.”
“Of course!” Winch snapped. Fear boiled away into anger. “And don’t insinuate that there is nothing I can do, just because…” Winch rolled his sleeve roughly down and bared his thin arm. “Because I’m like this!”
“Son, the Allfather loves you no matter how strong you are, what you look like, or how smart you are.” Markwater smiled slightly. “If he wanted perfect, he never would have chosen me. A philanderer and property assessor? Not exactly prime pupil material for the one who freed us from sin’s bonds.”
Winch turned away. He was angry at himself for losing control, and angry that he had been dragged into a confrontation with powers beyond his understanding. He was just a reporter, after all. “I’m sorry
. None of this is your fault. It’s just…”
“You don’t know what to do with the fear.”
Winch nodded. He turned back to face Markwater. “Were you afraid?”
“All the time.” Markwater’s face fell. “Right up until Ifan died. But don’t you see? There’s nothing left to fear. He’s the one who tells Death what to do. And if there are cythramancers lurking around, then they can do nothing to your soul. That is safe in the Allfather’s hands.” Markwater dug into his pocket. He handed a rolled-up pamphlet to Winch. “Take this. Read it. I wrote these words as I sat at His feet. And let the Writ of Thel give you strength.”
Winch accepted the pamphlet. “Thank you. I will try.”
“Do more than try. The Exaltson is the only one who can save you.”
• • •
Winch anticipated the Fifth Festival as a time to celebrate spring He stood in the city park under the darkening skies with the pink glow of the setting sun in the west and decided that the city had done another excellent job of decorating this year.
Hundreds of people milled about on the grassy knoll that was fenced by slender firs and aspens. Men in all manner of plain suits and women in a dazzling array of dresses from simple to extravagant. The women stood out almost like butterflies among their drab companions, especially radiant as the lampposts scattered like sentries along the edge of the knoll flickered to life.
A truck rumbled by. It was full of men dressed in dark green uniforms. They all carried carbines. Winch figured he should have brought his camera, because apparently the militia had been called out.
Motorwagons bordered the park like a palisade of black, blue, green, and red. Dozens of white canvas tents rose like miniature steeples above the festival-goers. Underneath the tents’ pointed tops, merchants hawked food, drink, and various games of chance. Music echoed from the shell-shaped amphitheater at the far end as the Old Fool Mountain Band fired up their banjos, fiddles, and guitars. Many couples had already taken to the wooden dance floor that had been set up about thirty feet from the band shell. Other folk stood about, deep in conversation. They looked downright perturbed.
