Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  Cope whistled low. “Ain’t that quite a sight.”

  “Come. We have a few hundred yards to go.” Jesca led the way.

  Winch marveled at the tunnel. There were symbols carved at random intervals—images of animals, of stars, of strange shapes he couldn’t decipher. “What is this?”

  “Ancient pathways constructed long before modern Trestleway was settled,” Jesca said. “Legend has it that Tirodani explorers set up some kind of compound or trading post on the site of the city in the old days of the Great Commonwealth.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “No one knows.” Jesca shone her lamp at the walls. “Some historians think it was abandoned when the current Ice Era started.”

  They came to a space cut from the rock on the left side. Some kind of cubicle or space for worship?

  Jesca beckoned Winch near. “You’ll want to listen to this. I assume you have a notepad—being a reporter?”

  “Of course.” Winch dug it and a pencil from his pocket. Drat. The tip had broken. He rummaged some more and found another. “All right.”

  Jesca stepped into the wide space. Winch saw a crumpled metal pipe hanging down from the ceiling. It protruded from the rock. “Apologies,” she said. “There’s not much room. Cope?”

  “Yes, Jesca?”

  “Please keep an eye to the passageway. I’ve never seen anyone down here, but sometimes feral dogs find their way into the tunnels.”

  “Huh. Lovely.” Cope drew his gun. “Mind if I keep the lamp, then?”

  “Certainly.” Jesca handed it over. “Winch, come here.”

  Winch stepped up into the space. She was right—there wasn’t much room. He was standing far too close to her. There were the lilacs again. Winch cleared his throat nervously.

  “Can you see well enough?” Jesca whispered. Her eyes glittered in the dim light from the lamp in the passageway.

  Winch nodded, mute.

  “Then listen.” She leaned an ear to the pipe.

  Winch did likewise. It put his face a hand’s breadth from hers. And he heard…

  Voices. Tinny, but definitely belonging to men. Winch strained to make out their words. “Where is this coming from?”

  “From the Silver Spur Cafe, a block over from the Primrose.” Jesca whispered, making it easier for Winch to hear the voices. “This pipe must be connected to the air vents in the building, though not intentionally. It leads up to one of the back rooms used for private meetings by Trestleway Consolidated.”

  “And you know this how?” Winch could hear distinct words now. Something about “preparations are underway,” and “Can we be ready in a fortnight?” and something that sounded like “south rail sheds.”

  “I make it a point to know what Consolidated’s leadership is up to.” Jesca’s smile was angelic in the soft glow of the lamp.

  Winch did his best to ignore it. “Wait.” He strained to hear. There was someone speaking. With a recognizable voice.

  “Our scheme is flawless.”

  Ehrlichmann. The Second Councilor who’d made the illfated presentation at Perch just the other day. Winch gritted his teeth.

  “Only if my people are fully deployed,” said a deeper voice.

  That voice, even muted as it was, coming down the pipe, could have knocked Winch over. He nearly dropped his notepad.

  Jesca grabbed his wrist with a cool hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “That’s Crittenden Beam. Of the Peace Branch.” Winch stared at the pipe. “And I think he’s a cythramancer.”

  Thursday

  Jesca opened her mouth to ask a question, but Winch started scribbling furiously on his notepad.

  Cope stuck his head into the alcove. “What? You think that Beam fellow is here?

  Winch shushed him furiously. He dove on, trying to record the conversation. But he couldn’t catch every word, as faint as they were after drifting two stories down an old pipe:

  Ehrlichmann: Trust you have all…resources available for…departure?

  Beam: You don’t need to worry, Second Councilor.…We’ve…and wagons to do the job.

  Ehrlichmann:…about the aero…

  Beam: I’ve taken care…. So that should…on the Perch aerodrome…

  Beam:…tells me we may have some trouble…

  Ehrlichmann: With whom?

  Beam: The mayor-general…his people down here. It’s possible…have a contact…them with information concerning our activities.

  Winch’s heart accelerated. Thel preserve him. Beam knew Perch was spying on Trestleway, and he knew Jonas Keysor had sent someone down to retrieve information.

  Jesca peered at his notepad. “There’s no way he can know who you are.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past these types, Jesca.” Cope scowled. “They’d better keep their filthy hands off my plane, though.”

  Winch lost part of the conversation as clattering noises—a waiter delivering food, or perhaps removing dishes?—flooded the pipe. Then it cleared.

  Beam:…and I assumed you want…exactly what we have prepared.

  Ehrlichmann: Yes, I will…to report to the First Councilor and his staff. So let’s…I’ll stop by around ten.”

  Beam: Tonight is fine…should be assembled at the South Rail Shed. And you’ll have…of my men present.

  Ehrlichmann: Good. And what…saboteurs?

  Winch blinked. Saboteurs?

  Beam: He’s well apprised of…and what he must do. Once Keysor…then everyone will view it as an anarchist’s assassination. No…or anyone else in the Sawtooth League…will know. And then we…like cavalry to the rescue, to put down…and restore order.

  Ehrlichmann: Good. Make certain…there can be dispute once we have the city…control.

  Beam: Cheers.

  Glasses clinked. Even that tiny sound of vibrating glass failed to snap Winch from his sudden stupor.

  “Would you mind a repeat, Winch?” Cope tapped the rock with his gun. “For those of us not sticking our ears up a rusty pipe.”

  “They sound as if they’re planning to kill Mayor-General Keysor,” Winch whispered. Jesca gasped and Cope cursed. “And something about going to Perch after that happens, like…well, like a rescue.”

  Jesca shook her head. “I don’t believe them. Of all the gall!”

  “What?”

  “Apologies. Several years ago, when Pearly’s Bend was still an independent town resisting efforts for Trestleway Consolidated to extend the rail spur up Wright Valley, their council members were killed in a motorwagon accident.” Jesca’s eyes looked like flint in the lamp’s glow. “Soon after, riots started in the city center. Few people were hurt, but the town’s armory and some other major structures were demolished in a fire. And then Trestleway…”

  “Rode in like cavalry coming to the rescue? They sent some kind of relief force?” Winch asked.

  “Yes.” Jesca’s mouth twisted. “Though this relief force consisted of three hundred militia and ten armored motorwagons. They apparently ‘restored order’ in that town of 900 people, though only after several very public executions.”

  “Are you telling me that’s what these track-heads want to do to Perch?” Cope swore again. “Because if they do—”

  “What? You think the League will protect Perch?” Jesca made a face. “No one came to help Pearly’s Bend.”

  “No one in the League came to help, but help did come.” Winch scratched his beard as he rifled through the memories. “I remember hearing the stories, now. Mintannic protested and threatened trade sanctions, but Trestleway called their bluff. It’s not as if Mintannic sent an army in to sort things out—they only do that up north. And the other cities of the Sawtooth League are reluctant to do more than defend themselves. They don’t want to stand in Trestleway’s path.”

  “Trestleway had best take care if they try that on Perch,” Jesca said. “It sounds as if that would be the last straw for Mintannic. They will slap trade sanctions against Trestleway.

/>   “All right.” Cope kept shifting his glance up and down the dark tunnel. Winch heard no sound save for the echo of their voices and the trickle of water. “So now what?”

  “The men up there mentioned the South Rail Sheds,” Winch said. “That’s apparently important to their plan.”

  “Huh. I say we sneak on over there and see what sort of force they’ve gathered up.” Cope grinned. “Am I right, Jesca?”

  Jesca returned the smile. “You are a brave one—or perhaps foolhardy.”

  “Difficult to tell,” Cope said cheerily.

  “They will doubtless have guards at the South Rail Sheds,” Jesca said. “Guards who will pay close attention to their surroundings and will not be easily swayed by bribery.”

  “Then we’ll just have to come up with our own plan.” Cope rubbed his chin.

  “Ah, Cope?” Winch didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. “Shouldn’t we attempt to make contact with the Mayor-General and let him decide on a course of action?”

  “Not by telegraph.” Jesca shook her head. “Peace Branch has people monitoring the wires in all directions.”

  “And what would we accomplish by going to the rail sheds? Why not go back to Perch directly?”

  Cope holstered his gun. “Winch, look. We’re the only ones here. You and me—and Jesca too, of course. Nobody else friendly to Perch knows about this. And you’re the one who’s always telling me the people have a right to know the truth, yes?”

  “Yes.” Winch’s stomach churned.

  “If you and I are going to make this stick, we have to get solid proof. And nothing says proof like a good photograph.”

  “I had a feeling you were going to suggest that.”

  “Don’t fret. We sneak into that shed place, you take some nice images, and we sneak out.” Cope grinned. “And we can always give sabotage a go. Break some things so as to throw a wrench in their invasion.”

  Winch couldn’t suppress his smile at Cope’s boundless enthusiasm. “And then we’re off again?”

  “Of course.”

  Jesca raised her eyebrows. “You two sound as if you’ve done this before.”

  “The hiding and photographing? Of course.” Cope winked. “The sneaking, well, not so much.”

  • • •

  Jesca reserved for them a room at the Primrose, a room just down the hall from hers. It was spare by comparison, with two metal frame beds, a wash room, and a dresser crammed into a living space that Winch could circle easily as he paced. He didn’t do much resting—or eating. Or much of anything but worry.

  “Will you stop that?” Cope lay on his bed, eyes shut, and hands behind his head. “You’re just like a rookie pilot trying to decide if he can make his first landing without slamming into Trafton’s Cliff.”

  “And what we’re considering is far more dangerous.” Winch stopped pacing.

  “Confound it, Winch.” Cope’s sat up roughly in bed. “What about your Thel?”

  “My what?”

  “Your all-powerful being who saved your soul or whatever he did.” Cope scowled. “You talk like he’s the greatest thing since the flash steam engine.”

  “He is the author of life, and the Allfather to his people,” Winch said tersely. “And you should keep respect in your tone when you speak his name, even if you don’t believe.”

  “You think I’m the one who doesn’t believe? Have you heard yourself talking? You don’t have a lick of faith in him!”

  Winch stared, numbed by the accusation. Cope couldn’t have hurt him more if he’d shot him in the gut. “Wha…huh?”

  “You heard me. I reckon you don’t really believe in him, if you’re too scared to do what needs to be done.” Cope stood up. He poked Winch in the chest—hard. “How can you believe that Ifan or whatever is going to hold you in his hands, but then turn around and be such a coward when you have to really trust him?”

  “I am not a coward.”

  “Prove it. You have a wife and three kids, Winch. What do you think will happen to them if Trestleway runs roughshod over our city? Do you think their militia is going to worry whether the press is free?” Cope snorted. “Please. They’ll string you up—probably for being a Crims sympathizer—and then Lysanne will be fair game…”

  Winch swung a punch at him. Cope ducked it—of course—and landed his own punch on Winch’s shoulder. He staggered back, then launched himself at Cope.

  They slammed against the bed, grappled across it, and then toppled off to the side. Cope hollered as his arm hit the floor. Winch landed on him. He didn’t care one whit about Cope’s arm. He grabbed a handful of Cope’s shirt.

  To his shock, Cope smiled up at him. “See? You’ve got fight. And gumption. Now use it.”

  Winch sagged back against the bed. “I’m…I’m sorry.” Ifan forgive me for succumbing to anger.

  “I was just trying to force you to act. It worked.”

  “It usually does.”

  “Do you remember when I made fun of your school newsletter column?”

  “What, when I was thirteen?” Winch grimaced. “I threw mud at your head. And got in trouble with Mother.”

  “All part of my scheme.”

  Winch looked down at his hands. “I know I’m afraid, and I try—I really do try—but it seems like no matter how hard I pray or how much I read…”

  “Read?”

  Winch pulled the crumpled pamphlet from his pocket. “Some of the words of Ifan. Vaughn Markwater recorded those. Ifan tells us not to fear—like it’s an order and we can just obey it and everything will stop.”

  Cope propped himself up on his elbows. “You mean the fear?”

  Winch nodded. “It’s not like a pull chain for me, Cope—I can’t just make it stop.”

  “Sounds like you’d better put more stock in his words, brother.”

  Winch sighed. “I want to do what’s right. And that’s when it’s hardest to do the right thing.”

  “I can fathom that.” Cope patted him on the arm. “So let’s do this thing tonight, and do what’s right.”

  “Sneaking around the rail sheds is ‘right’?”

  “More right than invading an innocent city-state.”

  “Well…” Winch bit his lip. Did he really believe? Didn’t Ifan promise that the Allfather would save his soul? And if his body was hurt—or worse—wouldn’t his soul go on?

  Faith and doubt.

  “All right. I’m with you.” Winch tried a smile, but it was halfhearted.

  “That’s a good fella.” Cope made a face. “Now get up.”

  “What?”

  “You’re sitting on my legs.”

  • • •

  Quarter ’til ten o’clock. Winch squinted hard to make out the hands on his pocket watch. It was dark enough on the south edge of Trestleway, away from the glare of streetlamps, that Winch wondered if they’d ever see another person. Certainly they’d seen no one since they’d passed through the south gate of the Old City.

  Winch sat in the back seat of a spindly red and black motorwagon. It sputtered softly and hissed steam from its engine. Cope drove, and Jesca sat on his other side.

  Cope shook his head as he drove it down a wide street that cut between towering factories. “And what exactly did you say to the guard that made him look the other way?”

  Jesca smiled at his question. “He’s a frequent customer. Of the Primrose, that is—not of mine. I gave Madam Stohl’s guarantee of a free hour.”

  “Oh.” Cope winked. “And if I wanted to arrange some time with you?”

  Winch shook his head. Leave it to his brother to try to arrange time with a beautiful woman when they were all wearing dark cloaks over their clothes, dark wool caps, and driving into the heart of Trestleway’s plots.

  Jesca looked Cope up and down. Then she shook her head. “Apologies. I’m not much for pilots. But if you remain on your best behavior, maybe I’ll let you carry my coat.”

  Winch laughed at Cope’s suddenly bla
nk expression. No wonder Winch got along well with this Jesca.

  “Now pay attention, please. Our turn is coming up at the next block, on your left.”

  Cope muttered something Winch couldn’t hear but acquiesced to her directions. The motorwagon slowed as it went around the bend past a brick and stone factory with a handful of broken windows. What they saw next apparently reactivated Cope’s wit. “Well. That’s…big.”

  The South Rail Sheds stretched over what Winch could imagine easily as several dozen acres. The main building was gargantuan, reaching more than six stories up and hundreds of feet long. Four arched gateways stood shut and, Winch assumed, locked. Through the metal grating he could see four sets of black locomotives hulking under scattered overhead lights. Tracks ran all around the building, out to the adjacent sheds that were in themselves as big as the Primrose Hotel. Long lines of boxcars and flatbeds sat in patient queues around the yard. The entire affair was fenced in.

  Winch counted a half-dozen men in militia uniform, their carbines glinting in the dim light from a few lampposts inside the fence.

  “How are you planning to get us through that?” Cope drummed his fingers on the steering levers. “I’m certain that, as fetching a lady as you are, not all the guards will be swayed by your falsely lascivious promises.”

  “I had nothing of the sort in mind.” Jesca reached down into the rucksack at her feet. She pulled pair of steel cutters up into view. Cope chuckled. “We simply cut our way in.”

  “And how do we do that without being seen?” Winch gestured at the guards. “There are two at the gate alone.”

  “We go nowhere near the gate.” Jesca pointed off to the right. “There.”

  One of the smaller rail sheds butted up to the fence—Winch guessed they were ten feet apart. On the other side of the fence was a crumbling brick structure that was missing a roof, directly across the street from a cooper’s shop.

  “Pull the car into this alleyway.” Jesca prodded Cope. “We’ll go on foot.”

  “Whatever you desire, Jesca,” Cope said with mock solemnity.

  He piloted the motorwagon into the narrow alley with the same skill he showed in the cockpit. Winch clambered out of the back seat as the engine rattled to a stop. It was damp here, the air thicker and warmer than in the Sawteeth. Winch pulled his cloak tight around his neck. He made sure the rucksack containing his camera was secure under his arm.