Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  “I’d wager he’s Peace Branch, so rope your eyeballs back into your head,” Cope muttered. “Now who’s preoccupied, brother?”

  Joyce Lane was nearly deserted. They had only to make way for a lone carriage in the red livery of Trestleway Locomotion Consolidated. They nodded their hellos to the man at the reins of the diprotodon, but Winch barely noticed him. Instead he inspected the glass front of a bookstore in a two-story green wooden building. Its construction was identical to the haberdashery and ice cream parlor on either side. White numbers painted on the door identified it as Seventy-Seven. Winch tried not to stare at the impressive display of the newest dime novels sitting alongside musty tomes.

  “Well, here’s ‘Lock’s Book & Print,’” Cope read off the name printed on the wide window. “Ha! And it’s ‘Oneyear Hines, proprietor.’ Sounds like our man.”

  They hitched their branters to a wrought-iron railing along the street. Only the sound of their boots thudding on the wooden sidewalk interrupted the silence down Joyce Lane, which was little more than an alley. Winch was keenly aware of the murmur of activity on Hospitality Row nearby as he opened the door. Bells chimed a four-note greeting overhead, and the floorboards underfoot creaked in response.

  “Hello, there!” Cope’s voice bounced back at them off the rafters. Bookshelf after bookshelf filled the small storefront. “Anyone around? You’ve got customers!”

  Slow, dragging footsteps echoed.

  Winch elbowed Cope. “Do try to be subtle this time.”

  Cope stuck out his tongue.

  A man appeared behind the desk at the back of the store. He was tall—tall enough that Winch and Cope had to look up to meet his dark-eyed stare. His skin was bronze and his face solemn. Black hair was swept back into a long ponytail. He wore a dark green shirt under an unbuttoned brown vest, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Ink smudged both arms, the muscles thick as tree trunks. By the way he planted his hands on the counter next to the cash register, Winch gathered he was waiting for the brothers to make introductions.

  “Walter Rogers.” Winch offered a hand. “And this is my brother, Copland. Would you be Oneyear Hines?”

  Oneyear nodded. Slowly.

  “Ah. Good.” Winch coughed. “We understand you have printing services available.”

  Oneyear nodded again.

  “Specifically, punch-tape?”

  This time, Oneyear hesitated. Then came a slow, double nod.

  “All right then.” Cope unstrapped Winch’s rucksack and fumbled around for the punch-tape. “So how’s about you take a look at—”

  Metal whispered on cloth. Oneyear lifted a Thundercloud Asp pistol and leveled it at Winch’s head. Oneyear’s finger twitched on the trigger, his other fingers were poised against the lever. The muzzle looked wrong, to Winch—its walls far too thick. Of course, Winch couldn’t contemplate much else with the gun in his face.

  “Take your hand out of the bag, real easy like.” Oneyear’s voice was deep but soft.

  Cope nodded in triplicate. He withdrew his hand. In it, he grasped the punch-tape.

  The tension in Oneyear’s face slackened, and the pistol lowered away from Winch. “My apologies. Folk who come in here have all manner of business transactions in mind. Sometimes they’re informants for Peace Branch.”

  “You make a habit of pulling a gun on the police?” Winch asked.

  “Only their informants.” Oneyear gave them a lopsided smile. “But only one manner of folk come in here with punch-tape. They’re either genuinely in need of regular help, or they’re people with connections to my friend in Perch. And judging by your hill-boy accents…”

  “Hill-boy?” Cope scowled.

  Oneyear tucked the pistol back into his vest.

  “So you weren’t really going to shoot us, then,” Winch said hopefully. “Someone may have heard.”

  “Not with the silencing block on the end.” Oneyear smiled again.

  Winch’s stomach did an unpleasant flip.

  The door bells jangled. Cope’s head snapped around, but Winch did his best to remain frozen in place.

  Oneyear, though, reached under the counter and brought up an old book with a tattered leather cover. “It’s just as I were saying, Mr. Rogers, there’s quite a bit we can do for this book of yours. Now, it’s a fairly common title, so the cost shouldn’t amount to more than…” Oneyear’s voice trailed off. “Oh. Hello, Sergeant.”

  The Peace Branch man walked toward them. He had his arms clasped behind his back and a pleasant smile on his face. “Gentlemen.”

  Winch noticed Oneyear did not draw a gun on him.

  “Hello there.” Cope brought out his brightest smile. “Glad to make your acquaint—”

  “Citizen’s Peace Branch. Sergeant Franz Taube.” Taube pulled aside his jacket, revealing a silver emblem pinned to his vest—a dove carrying a sword. His pleasant smile remained in place. “Folios, please.”

  Cope dutifully handed over the documents. “My, you boys here in Trestleway do like your identifications.”

  “You fellows seem new to the Old City,” Taube said as he perused the documents. Unlike the aerodrome attendant and the gate sergeant, this man turned the documents on edge and held them up to the light. “I do not get the sense you’re well accustomed to Trestleway.”

  “Well,” Cope said, “I haven’t visited but a few times.”

  “There’s so many sights one can scarce take them all in,” Winch added.

  Cope flashed him a look that plainly read, Button up.

  “Hmm. I wonder.” Taube did not return the folios. “Perchance you’d accompany me to the precinct—I have some more questions for you. And some friends who can vouch for the validity of your folios.”

  Winch held a smile on his face, but inwardly he batted down a rising panic. Winch had no idea how, but this man seemed to have guessed that their folios could be forged. If they were arrested and interrogated…

  “Now, Franz, do you really have to hassle my customers?” Oneyear came around the counter. Out here, he seemed even bigger. With one hand tucked into his pocket, he put the other meaty mitt on Taube’s shoulder. “Let’s just let them be.”

  Taube raised an eyebrow. “That’s a not inconsiderable request.”

  “What are acquaintances for?” Oneyear pulled his other hand from his pocket and offered it to Taube to shake. Taube hesitated but then accepted. Winch caught a glimpse of something folded—paper? coin?—and tinged in red.

  Taube stuffed his own hand hurriedly inside his jacket. “You gentlemen enjoy the Old City, but mind your manners.” Taube returned the folios to Cope, who stood there looking stunned. Taube tipped his hat. “Perchance we’ll meet again if you step outside the rails.”

  Winch gave a polite wave. He elbowed Cope, who snapped suddenly from his trance.

  “Huh? Oh, sure thing, officer sir.”

  As soon as Taube left, Cope blew out a loud breath. “Oneyear, I think I like you a whole lot better now.”

  Oneyear chuckled. “Franz knows me well. And I know him well enough that he’s not likely to cause trouble with my customers.”

  “Does he know?” Winch asked.

  “Know what? That I have friends in Perch?” Oneyear smirked. “He thinks it’s my grandmamma. Now, let’s see what you have on that punch-tape. Follow me.”

  • • •

  Oneyear led them behind the counter and through a closet-sized hallway. The stairs at the back led them down to a dingy basement, lit by only a handful of bulbs suspended precariously from the ceiling. Winch spotted the two printing presses right off the bat—the main printing press, which was a massive beast of iron, steel, and wood frames, and the smaller line-puncher set off to one side on a thick-legged table.

  Their guide took the punch-tape from Cope. He fixed it to the feed cylinder then threw the switch on the side of the machine. Winch saw it had a fuel tank hooked to the furnace. The boiler rumbled. Steam hissed through valves, and the machine rattled to
life, the cylinder spinning the tape into the innards of the line puncher. Oneyear cranked on another lever. This time, the machine’s cylinder halted and reversed direction. Then it began tapping out letters—like a tele-typer.

  “Doesn’t seem to be a terribly long message. Folk sometimes bring me whole pamphlets.” Oneyear shook his head in disdain. “Then they expect me to be done as fast as lightning. Amateurs.”

  “Really.” Winch looked at Cope, who just shrugged.

  The smells of the ink and the warm metal reminded Winch of the Advocate’s printing presses in its own basement. That recollection gave Winch a powerful fit of homesickness. In no time, though, Oneyear yanked the piece of paper from the machine and shut it off. It wheezed a contented sigh. Steam petered out. Oneyear patted it with affection. “Probably needs its cylinder replaced. Here you are, gents.”

  Winch accepted the paper. Now to see what was so important that Mayor-General Keysor demanded it be hidden in code. Cope craned his neck for a peek, but Winch shouldered him aside.

  This note looked more like odd poetry than an urgent message.

  Cope elbowed Winch. “Read it aloud.”

  “All right. Here:

  Did you find mother’s locket?

  Make sure, Jesca, that you

  Trim the primrose bush outside.

  Such a palace for wasps.’”

  Cope blinked. Before Winch could hazard a comment, Oneyear’s laugh boomed in the confined space. “Boys, you don’t have a sharp spike’s clue what that says, do you?”

  “Ah, no. If we did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be standing here catching bugs with my trap wide open,” Cope said sourly.

  “Give it here.” Oneyear took the paper. He flattened it out against the wall with one hand. Then he rummaged in a pocket. Thick fingers held up a slender red pencil. “Your friend up there in Perch likes his ciphers, and he’s always keen to try out a new one on me. But he went for one of our classics this time.”

  Oneyear circled words on the paper. Winch’s eyes widened—not just any words, but the middle one in each of the four lines. Oneyear smiled over his shoulder. “You see it now, correct?”

  Winch nodded. “I’m distressed I did not see it sooner.”

  “How’s about a bit more edification for those of us with apparent eye problems?” Cope said.

  “It’s a null cipher.” Winch accepted the paper back from Oneyear. “See? Every middle word in these four lines of five words each is part of the message. The other words make it seem like poetry. But when you remove them all…”

  Oneyear had scribbled below the message in red pencil four words:

  “Find Jesca Primrose Palace.”

  Cope frowned. “What’s ‘Primrose Palace’?”

  “A hotel with a fine coat of paint on the outside and all the hedonism and seedy types that you could fill jail with on the inside.” Oneyear shook his head. “Sorry to say, boys, but if this Jesca is there, well…she’s not likely serving drinks off a silver tray,”

  “Huh. Sure. Well, you’ve been a tremendous help.” Cope smiled. “We do appreciate it.”

  Oneyear nodded. “And I’d appreciate my fee.”

  “Fee?” Winch asked.

  “One hundred.” Oneyear crossed his arms. Muscles rippled.

  “What? That’s banditry!” Winch was appalled. So much for his assumption this man was some kind of patriot for Perch…

  “Here, steady your wings, Winch.” Cope dug into his rucksack and, to Winch’s shock, produced a roll of red-rims, the paper currency of Trestleway. “One hundred, you hulking thief. Your employer’s much obliged, I reckon.”

  “Reckon so too.” Oneyear pocketed the money. He gave them a broad smile. “Pleasant day, gents.”

  • • •

  Cope didn’t say more until they were back in the saddle.

  “Fantastic. Another address.”

  “You’d prefer a large sign in gold lettering announcing our intentions to all of Trestleway?” Winch said irritably. He twitched his reins to get his branter going.

  “Never mind. You just lead on, Mother Hen.”

  “I think I will. And you’d do best to keep an eye out for more Peace Branch fellows.”

  Winch found the Primrose Palace prominently marked on the map. Getting there correctly, though, proved harder.

  “I’ll have you know,” Cope muttered as Winch led them back to the correct street for the fourth time, “that there are two more Branch goons around that corner.”

  “Under the newspaper stand’s awning?” Winch craned his neck. He saw Sergeant Taube join them. So they were being followed.

  “Don’t look!” Cope sighed. “Conspicuous is something we want to avoid.”

  “Sorry.” Winch caught sight of a line of peaked roofs poking above the flat tops of the nearest buildings. “Ah. There it is.”

  Sure enough, the words “Primrose Palace” blazed in the sun, written out in gold and white. The hotel was adorned beautifully in deep blue shutters and window frames on brilliant white walls. It was four stories tall, bound on either end by small cupolas that reminded Winch of the Oriental Lodge back home. But that was where all similarity to the Oriental ended. This might be a big hotel, but judging by the loud music and raucous noise drifting through the wide open double doors atop the long porch, it was anything but respectable. Men lounged on the porch. They wore clothing better suited for work outdoors than inside a fine establishment.

  “You reckon we’ll get our branters back if we leave them here?” Cope asked as he dismounted.

  Winch noticed how Cope made sure his pistol hung prominently from his hip. They stared at the brothers with the same expression Winch had seen on hungry dire-wolves over a mastodon’s carcass.

  “I’m sure I don’t care much right now,” Winch muttered.

  “Buck up, brother.” Cope slapped him on the back. “We can’t very well stay out here.”

  “Why not?”

  Cope pointed back the way they’d come. Sergeant Taube, the Peace Branch man who’d intercepted them at Oneyear’s bookstore, stepped out from a dark blue motorwagon. Two men in black suits and red ties accompanied him. “I don’t think those fellows were hired for their conversation skills.”

  “No. Not unless they converse with mastodons.” Winch sighed.

  “Follow along. And stay close to me, will you? We’re just here to have a good time like these men, as far as anybody else knows or cares.”

  Winch took slow, measured steps up onto the porch. Deep green shrubs sporting pink primroses walled off the wooden porch on either side of the steps and hung from planters under the second story windows. The sweet smell eased Winch’s worries a mite—he pined for the warm silence of the family greenhouse instead.

  He nodded to the men on the porch. One of them, his hat drooped low and a half-empty bottle in his hand, responded by spitting at his feet.

  Oh, yes. They should have a grand time. “Ifan protect us.”

  Cope grinned. “Let’s go have some fun.”

  The man who had spat pushed unsteadily to his feet. He glowered up at Cope—he was just short enough to have to bend his neck back to look him in the eye. “Yer not comin’ through our doors unless you’ve got an invitation, fly-brains.”

  Cope rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you’re the doorman?”

  The man didn’t answer directly. “You heard me, maggot.”

  “All right. Just so happens I have an invitation.” Cope dropped his hand to his holster. “Would you care to read it? It has your name on it.”

  “Cope!” Winch grabbed his arm. Taube and the other Peace Branch men were still mingling with passers-by on the opposite side of the street. Taube glanced their way, but none of the officers made a move. “Don’t attract any more attention, please.”

  The man spat again. He yanked a hunting knife from his coat. “You’d do best to shut your face, slicker, or I’ll gut…”

  He never got the rest of his insult out. That was likely
due to the sudden appearance of Cope’s pistol in front of his teeth. “Now that’s no way to greet a friendly visitor to your friendly city.” Cope sounded anything but friendly to Winch. “How’s about you put your knitting needle back in your purse before I add some much-needed ventilation to that hot head of yours?”

  Winch took a step back. The other men on the porch now ignored their bottles. They converged on the standoff—Winch had that image of dire-wolves again.

  Winch saw Taube prod his Peace Branch fellows across the street. Winch had to end this before they all wound up in jail. Or worse.

  “Gentlemen, please! This is no way to enjoy our fine establishment.”

  Those were the sort of words Winch had wanted to deploy. But he hadn’t said them. He gaped at the beautiful woman in a green dress standing in the wide open front doors. Beautiful was a terrible understatement—Winch struggled to dredge up a single memory of a woman as stunning as her. The dress fit well everywhere it was supposed to. Soft brown hair, pale skin, eyes of hazel-flecked emerald, freckles that crinkled on her cheeks as she smiled.

  Winch wasn’t the only one to stare. Cope’s mouth hung open like a hangar door. The vagrants on the porch straightened with military precision.

  “Please. Put down your weapons and let me treat you to our hospitality.” She put a slender hand on Cope’s gun and gently pushed it down. Her other hand caressed the wrist of fellow holding the knife.

  Cope’s initial look of shock faded into his customary smile, and he winked at Winch. “I told you we’d have fun.”

  Thursday

  The woman was not alone. Two men of massive proportions flanked her in the doorway. Winch wondered if they were twins, given their near identical physiques, from the square jaws and bulging arms to the same grey pants and vests.

  “These men will make sure you are taken care of,” the woman said loudly.

  Winch saw Taube and his Peace Branch officers still standing outside. They hadn’t moved to intervene in the fight. Were they inept? Or just there for surveillance?

  The woman extended her arms. “Two drinks apiece, on the house.”