by Steve Rzasa
The men who’d been ready to pummel Cope cheered. They shouldered past the twin guards and hooted their appreciation at whatever they saw inside. Even the spitter doffed his hat politely. “Thankyoukindly, ma’am,” he stammered then scooted through the door.
Which left Cope and Winch staring at the woman. Her expression remained frozen—amicable, but only just. “Boys, you seemed to have kicked over a hornet’s nest.”
Winch recovered his voice first. “My name is Wi—ah, Walter Rogers, and this is my brother, Copland. We’ve come looking for…a friend, of sorts. Her name is Jesca—”
“Why don’t we step inside?” Her tone forbade dispute. She waited expectantly.
Cope got the gist before Winch did. He dove in and offered his arm. She tucked her arm into his. “Lead on, fair lady,” Cope said.
Winch was herded in by the giant, silent twins.
Inside, the noise was unbearable. The parlor of the Primrose Palace was red. Red rugs on wood floor, red wallpaper, red upholstery on the chairs. He didn’t know so many shades of red existed—scarlet, vermillion, and many more. Winch noticed their hostess whispering something in Cope’s ear. He nodded in apparent agreement.
The room took up the entire first floor of the hotel. A wide stairwell rose on the right side of the bar to a second floor balcony of rooms and hallways. Dozens of men played cards, drank, and ate at round tables scattered around the room. A squat, toad-like little man sat hunched in the left corner, his crooked hands pounding out a rowdy tune on the pianoforte, steam rising from the back of the instrument. More men stood in line along the bar, half-sitting on stools or not at all, drinks in hand. Beer, wine, ale—the smells mingled with human stink. It was sour in the extreme.
And then there were the women. They came in all shapes and sizes, and Winch did his best to not stare openly. That was difficult, given their state of undress. Lacy undergarments apparently functioned as public wear at the Primrose.
“Sasha! Marguerite!” A giggling blonde and a sly-faced brunette materialized as if from the ether at the woman’s command. “Please show this fellow where to find drink to his liking. Two free, on the house.”
Cope spread his arms wide. “Ladies! It would be my everlasting pleasure.”
They each grabbed an arm and pulled, laughing as Cope let himself be dragged along.
Winch caught him by the rucksack. “Shouldn’t we be looking for our contact?”
“I think you can handle that for a while, big brother of mine. Why don’t you have some fun yourself?” Cope patted him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I won’t flap my gums around Lysanne.”
Winch stared open-mouthed as Cope abandoned him.
The hostess woman put her had on Winch’s arm. The touch jolted him from his astonishment. “Why don’t you follow me?” She led Winch to the stairs. “We’re not to be disturbed,” she said to the twin bodyguards. They halted at the foot of the stairs. “Tell Madam Stohl we may be an hour.”
The men nodded in unison.
Winch finally found his voice as he followed her up the stairs. “Excuse me, Miss, but I don’t think…”
She turned and put a finger to his lips. Heat rose to Winch’s face. He figured his coloration must match that of the décor by now. She smiled coyly. “No palaver, please.” She gently took his hand and lead him to the second floor.
Winch managed to extract his hand—just in time to accidentally brush up against another woman and her paramour. “Pardon me,” Winch said. But they appeared far too intertwined to care.
“Miss, I think you may have the wrong idea about my visit.” It didn’t seem to him that the woman was listening as they walked down a narrow hallway decorated with a handful of floral paintings. The doors were of cherry pine, and all were closed. Winch didn’t want to know the source of the muffled noises behind them. “We’re trying to locate…an acquaintance. It’s urgent we see her as soon as possible.”
The woman opened one door at the far end of the hall. She gestured for Winch to enter.
He frowned. And wished she’d taken Cope instead. But she hadn’t, so he went in. She might be able to lead him to Jesca.
The room was decorated in a fashion similar to the rest of the hotel, except that the walls were white plaster. A large oil painting of a mountain scene hung over a very large, very plush bed. In the room were also a desk, a phonograph, two spindly chairs, an ornately carved dressing table with mirror, and folding closet doors. It seemed unusually well-apportioned for a room designed for…well…
The woman leaned up against the doorway, arms crossed. “Are you sure all you have time for is business?” she asked quietly.
“Erm…” Winch hadn’t felt this awkward in a long spell. He couldn’t recall ever being cornered in a room with a beautiful woman who wasn’t Lysanne. “It’s more that…”
She closed the door. The lock clicked behind her. She took a long step over to him. They were nose to nose. Winch could feel her breath, and he smelled the faint scent of lilacs. He had no words.
“Would you mind if I turned on some music?” She did not let him respond. Instead she crossed to the phonograph.
Winch exhaled sharply. What was he thinking? “I’m sorry, but I can’t…do this. You really must tell me…”
She threw him a sharp look that was so out of keeping with her demeanor to this point that it slapped him silent. But the words out of her mouth were as sweet as ever. “This should set the mood, don’t you think?”
She cranked the handle to set the wax cylinder turning. A slow melody poured forth from the phonograph, filling the room from floor to ceiling. The woman walked back to Winch.
He felt compelled to back away from her. He did so, until he bumped into the bed frame.
The woman shook her head. “It’s safe to speak now, unless you’re not done being frightened.” Her voice was still the same soft one, but there was a more serious edge to it. And she watched him keenly, like a bird of prey.
Winch swallowed. “So…you’re not really…” He gestured to the bed.
She smiled. “Apologies. That was simply to keep up appearances. As is the music.”
“Ah.” Winch relaxed a bit. “Well. That’s good. I mean…sorry.”
“Let’s start this over, shall we?” She extended her hand. “I’m Jesca. Jesca Keysor.”
Winch stared at her for a half a stanza of the music. The face—now he could see some similarity to the dead pilot, Troy. Especially the cheekbones and around the eyes. “Oh. Is there any way you can prove that?”
Her smile faltered. Then she dug her fingers at the edge of her hair. Winch grunted in surprise as she pulled back the brown wig. Her hair underneath was bound up tightly, completely hidden from view.
And it was a stunning bright red.
“They do not care much for people of Tirodani descent here.” She shrugged. “So you make adjustments.”
“That makes things simpler, doesn’t it?”
“For both of us. I assume your arrival here—and your obvious Perch accents—mean that Troy got his message through to Uncle?”
Winch’s heart fell. Why did he have to be the one to deliver the news? He supposed it was fitting, in a macabre way—him being a reporter. “Mayor-General Keysor did receive the message from Troy, but…there was an accident.”
Jesca’s hands flew to her face. “His aeroplane?”
Winch nodded glumly. “He crashed, and…died on impact. I’m very sorry.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, and she turned toward the window. Her shoulders shook, but Winch couldn’t hear her crying over the music. He took a step forward—his first instinct when Lysanne cried—but pulled up short. This was not his wife. And this was precarious.
Jesca straightened her shoulders. When she faced Winch again, the tears were still there, but there wasn’t as much sadness as purpose. “I told him it was dangerous. Troy was never one to take my advice to stay out of trouble. That was what made him courageous.”
“
It’s courageous of you to stay here in Trestleway,” Winch said.
“Hardly that. It’s my duty to my family.” Jesca wiped at the corners of her eyes. “I’m safe enough here—Madam Stohl knows only that I am conducting my own affairs. She gives me rein to act as her assistant and manager. As long as I pay her well to do so, she keeps the authorities away.”
Winch grimaced at his own memories of dealings with the Peace Branch. “There’s more to this than just Trestleway’s traditional authorities. There are powers at work…”
“The cythramancers? Yes, I am aware.”
She might as well have told Winch she had a branter tail tucked under her dress. “You…know?”
“I’ve had near interceptions by their members on the Peace Branch here. I was worried Troy would be tailed when he sneaked out of Trestleway with the note for Uncle. A suspicion confirmed by your saying Troy died in an ‘accident.’ The cythramancers tend to be fond of ‘accidents’ rather than direct confrontation.”
“Except when they hold you at knifepoint.” Winch rubbed self-consciously at the wound under his collar.
“So you have met them?” Jesca folded her arms. “And you survived.”
It seemed ludicrous to Winch to be discussing these things alone with a woman in a fancy dress in the bedroom of a bordello, with music ringing from the phonograph. “Only through the grace of Thel.” Winch shrugged. “That, and my brother is an excellent shot with a pistol. When there are no force bubbles to deflect bullets, that is.”
“Thel? Will he protect you where the Consuls do not?”
Winch didn’t appreciate the mockery in her tone. “I have no faith in any so-called Consuls.”
“Neither do I. And Thel was of little use to the troublemaker Ifan when he died here.”
“That’s not true…”
Jesca waved off his answer. “My apologies, Mr. Rogers. Anything to do with superstition sets me on edge. Which doesn’t mean I take it lightly.” She stepped up closer to him and put her hands on her hips. “Why are you here?”
“Well, because the Mayor-General asked it of me. And, I have a story to investigate.”
“That’s all well and good. But why are you here? What does this all mean to you?”
Winch hesitated. How many times had he wondered that? He could be back in his office, or at home eating lunch with Lysanne in the greenhouse shop, or visiting the local merchants for news tidbits. Instead he was in a city covered in steam and smoke, generally despised his people—and probably wanted to conquer his home. “I want—the truth.”
Jesca tilted her head. “And if that truth means the end of Perch?”
“Then I have to tell that story.”
Jesca’s eyebrows arched. The force behind his statement surprised Winch too. Truth be told, he held on to the bedrail so she wouldn’t see his hands beginning to shake.
They just looked at each other. At length, the phonograph came to the end of the song.
Jesca looked out the window. “Have you boys eaten lunch?”
Winch blinked. Food was the last thing on his mind. He dug for his pocket watch. It was past eleven o’clock. That was it? It felt like he’d left his wife behind on the tarmac at Perch weeks ago, not six hours ago. “No, not yet. I’m afraid we don’t know the town well enough to find a decent café.”
Jesca smiled at him. “Then go and fetch your brother. I know just the place.”
Winch nodded. He unlocked the door and opened it.
“Mr. Rogers?”
Winch stopped. “Ahem. Yes?”
Jesca looked quite bemused. “Make certain you bring him here first.” She walked up to him, and before Winch could protest, she grabbed his arm. She tossed his rucksack onto the floor, rolled up his sleeves, and untucked part of his shirt. “And do act the part of a man who is well-pleased by me, hmm?” Then she kissed him on the cheek.
Winch blushed.
She looked at his cheeks and nodded. “That will do.”
• • •
It was no trick at all to find Cope. Or Copland—whomever. Winch sighed. This alias business was silly.
Three women surrounded him. He had a bottle of something frothy in one hand, and his other hand was busily exploring the silky robe of one of the women. She giggled and slapped at his encroaching fingers. Her protest seemed halfhearted to Winch.
“There’s the man! The man of letters!” Cope shoved the girl aside and wrapped his arm around Winch’s shoulder. He belched. “Sorry.”
Winch wrinkled his nose. “I should think so.” Ifan save me. “Come along. Our hostess…ah, wants to see us both.”
Cope’s gaggle of girls pouted. “Oh, Miss Thalia always takes the best ones,” said a brunette.
Cope grinned. “Far be it for me to fuss. But it looks like she prefers the more bookish type, dear brother.” He rubbed a thumb on Winch’s cheek, right where Jesca had kissed him.
Winch reached up in a panic. Yes, there was red on his fingers. Lipstick. He tugged Cope away from the women and back up the stairs. “If you say a thing to Lysanne, I will push you out of your aeroplane without a skysail.”
“Huh. Then who’s going to fly, clouds-for-brains?” With the hand holding the frothy bottle, Cope blew a trio of kisses behind him. “Farewell, darlings!”
The women waved after him…Then scattered in search of fresh prey.
Once they were safely inside Jesca’s room, Winch rounded on Cope. “That was a fool thing to do, going and getting yourself drunk.”
“Who’s drunk?” Cope set the bottle down on the table. “Honestly, ‘Walter,’ you assume you’re the only one who can play-act?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Jesca stood by the window, arms crossed.
“Cope, this is our Jesca Keysor,” Winch said.
“Charmed to meet you, yet again,” Cope said. “Well done, big brother.
Jesca cleared her throat. “Now ‘Walter’ and ‘Copland,’” she said dryly, “I don’t suppose you could do me the kindness of telling me your real names, since you know mine, after all.”
“Of course.” Cope extended a hand with a flourish. “Copernicus Sark, ace pilot, ladies’ man, and younger, but handsomer, brother to the inestimable reporter and wordsmith Winchell Sark.”
“Charmed.” Jesca held his hand. Cope planted a kiss on her knuckles. “Though I must say, I am partial to a quiet man in glasses.”
Winch turned his attention to his boots.
Cope shook his head. “Women. A great mystery.” He clapped his hands together. “Right. So, what’s next? I don’t know about you all, but I’m starved.”
“Apologies. We are going to a café, but not to eat. Perhaps later.” Jesca walked to the desk. She removed the wax cylinder from the phonograph. She selected a much larger one from the box nearby and inserted it. Then she cranked up the music and flipped a brass lever on one side. A slow, mournful song poured from the phonograph. “That should last longer than before. And it will repeat.”
The melody that played was sweet, and Cope made a face. “Not something you can shake a leg to, is it? No fiddle work.”
“It’s only for distraction, Cope.” Winch hoped this Jesca knew what she was doing. “So…are we leaving now?”
“First, let me slip into something more comfortable.” Jesca opened the closet door. She had a rainbow’s worth of colorful gowns and opulent travel cloaks inside. “No…not that one…” She pulled them apart. “Ah. Here we are.”
There was a door behind the clothing.
“Fly me over the sun,” Cope said. Winch nodded silently.
Jesca sidled into the closet. She grabbed the door’s rusted handle and pushed sideways. The door slid slowly and quietly into the wall. A dark space loomed beyond. “Copernicus…”
“Please, call me ‘Cope.’”
“Cope, would you be so good as to get the oil lamp from under the bed?”
Cope reached under the bed and emerged with a brass lamp in hand. He rummaged in his rucksa
ck. “Hold—I should have some matches. There we are.” He lit the lamp and adjusted the flame.
“Let me have it, please.” Jesca shone the lamp into the darkness behind the clothing. Winch saw a slender, curving rail of black metal and a long, wooden beam running from the ceiling straight down the center. And glistening metal steps. It was a spiral staircase, going down.
Jesca waved. “Don’t be shy, boys. Follow me.” She picked up the hem of her dress with one hand and descended into the darkness. The light cast a flickering shadow of her body in a warm halo.
Cope prodded Winch. “You’re up next.”
Winch frowned. “Why not you?”
Cope rolled his eyes. “Because I have the gun. Got to guard the door.” He patted his holster.
A fair point. Winch stepped into the closet. Cool, damp air drifted up the stairwell. He took hold of the railing—it was slick with moisture. Condensation? He prayed for wisdom and hoped it would be enough to keep his fear at bay.
Winch descended into the dark, following Jesca’s light below. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow confines of the shaft. The walls were wood and brick—Winch could hear muffled sounds from behind them. They were going down through the hotel into Thel only knew where.
A thump above startled him. Winch spun around.
“I shut the closet door and the secret one too.” Cope’s bootsteps rattled above him.
“Shhh.” Jesca paused. “Watch your step.”
The trio continued in silence. Winch couldn’t tell how far down they were, but it seemed to be more than two stories. Halfway down the walls changed to stone. Finally Jesca’s footsteps switched in tone from metallic clunks to a muffled scuff. “Are we there?” Winch asked.
“We’re at the bottom.” Jesca’s voice had a hollow echo to it, like she was in a larger space than the cramped staircase. “Come down, please.”
A moment later Winch saw why her voice had echoed. He exited a narrow doorframe and stepped into a stone passageway. He had no idea how far it went—all see was pitch black staring back at him in either direction. Water trickled in a stream a foot wide down the center of a rough-hewn stone floor. The curving walls were rock, as if the place had been carved—and Winch supposed it had, judging by what felt like tool marks as he ran a hand over the cool surface.
