by Steve Rzasa
“Here,” Oneyear said. “Two-Twenty-Two.”
Winch poked his head out the window. A long two-story building of wood painted blue with grey stone foundations took up nearly one block on the north side of the street. The white lettering across the slate board above the second story windows told them they were at the Saber’s Blade Tavern. Winch eyed the crossed swords above the door, their edges serrated and dark. No one lounged about outdoors in this part of the Old City, Winch noticed.
Oneyear parked the motorwagon. “This is where we disembark, gents.”
“I’d rather be headed to the aerodrome,” Cope said. “There’s a certain Hunt-Hawes Buzzard parked in the first hangar that needs my tender care.”
“Hold the reins,” Winch said. “We don’t even know who Saburo is or whether he won’t turn us over.”
“So let’s go inside, introduce ourselves to the good proprietor, and do our blamedest to keep out of trouble. We can’t go to the Primrose, like Jesca said.” Cope unbuttoned his uniform coat and pulled it off by the sleeves. Then he rolled up the sleeves of the plain white shirt underneath. “There. A mite less soldierly.”
Jesca cleared her throat. “Ah, Cope?” She pointed at his head.
Cope’s eyes angled upward to the militia cap. “Huh. Would be a good idea to get rid of that, wouldn’t it?” He doffed the hat and placed it in Jesca’s hands. “A gift for the lady.”
“As if I needed this grubby hat,” Jesca said.
“Come along, let’s get this over with,” Winch said.
He, Cope, and Jesca crossed the quiet street to the front steps of the Saber’s Blade. Winch and Cope had their rucksacks slung over their shoulders. Jaunty guitar music filtered through the open doors.
Cope sniffed. “Smells like McAvery’s the tobacco of the day.”
Winch spared one last glance back at the motorwagon. “We shouldn’t leave that sitting about. An empty Peace Branch motorwagon in this neighborhood is a liability.”
“Fair point.” Oneyear shrugged. “You all inspect our home away from home while I make our ride disappear.”
“Get it well hidden.”
“Be careful,” Jesca said.
“I’ll be back in a while,” Oneyear said. He had the motorwagon chugging down the street in no time.
Winch watched until the motorwagon slipped down an alley farther down the block.
“Winch, Jesca said, “are you worried?”
“I just want to make sure we can trust him.” Winch shook his head. “He saved our lives, but he took payment for his services too.”
“Just because he has a financial arrangement with my uncle doesn’t make him a dishonest man,” Jesca said.
“Don’t fret about him, Winch.” Cope stood at the threshold to the Saber’s Blade. “We’ll spy plenty of the untrustworthy in here.”
The Saber’s Blade had a far darker interior than exterior. Winch could barely make out faces in the dingy barroom. If the four lanterns extinguished themselves, it would be pitch as night.
The bar faced them and ran in a long, curving J into the farther recesses of the barroom. Winch counted maybe ten people scattered about the tables, and he confirmed Cope’s analysis—more smoke filled this room than the cell back at Peace Branch.
“Welcome to the Saber’s Blade. Can I assist you folk?” The question came from a squat man standing behind the bar. He had silver hair cut very short. He had a round face surprisingly devoid of wrinkles, though three scars cut a jagged map across his left cheek. He could have been from the same race as Maddy, somewhere in the Red Lotus Domei. His shirt was pinstriped red and had the left sleeve buttoned up at the shoulder. Winch stared at the empty air where an arm should be.
Cope sauntered up to the counter and planted himself on a stool. “Have any Bartram’s Ale?” He let his rucksack drop to the floor.
The bartender cracked a half-smile. He dug out a well-used and half-empty bottle of pale liquid from under the counter. Glass thunked on the counter. He pulled the stopper and rustled up three glasses. Ale filled two in rapid succession, without splashing. The bartender stopped with his bottle poised in midair.
Winch didn’t catch what he was doing until Jesca spoke up. “Don’t stop pouring on my account.”
The bartender smiled and filled a third glass. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Winch accepted the ale. Cope raised his glass, and they clinked in a toast. He took a drink and immediately regretted it. It burned! Winch reckoned the ale would do a good job stripping ink from the Advocate’s presses.
Jesca sipped hers. Her eyes went as wide as the bottom of the glass.
“We’re looking for a friend of a friend.” Cope tossed back his drink with little effort. “Whew! Some wings on that stuff.”
“It’s ’sixty-eight. Best there is,” the bartender said flatly. “Friend of a friend, eh?”
“Yessir. Goes by the handle Saburo Sakei.” Cope raised his eyebrows a bit. “And I figure you might be him.”
The bartender’s face stiffened. “And what gives you that idea?”
“Well, you’re not too far off the branter’s back. My friend is Mad Maddy Kuroi out to the Raptor’s Cut.”
The tension melted from the man’s face. He smiled again. “Oh, so you’re chums of Maddy?”
“Well…” Cope shrugged. “Frequent and loyal customers, let’s say.”
“Fair enough. I am Saburo Sakei, the owner.” He gave a sharp bow at the waist. “Konnichiwa. You’ve seen my cousin then lately?”
“She lent us a hand or two a few days ago.” Winch kept his tone neutral.
Saburo poured Cope another ale. “You boys are from Perch?”
Cope sighed. “No hiding the accents, is there?”
“Not really. Don’t worry, I serve all kinds here.” Saburo leaned in. “Thing is, I heard word on the street there are spies afoot.”
Winch shared a look with Cope. Subtle? Hardly.
Saburo pushed the glass of ale back to Cope. “But I say, junin toiro. A customer’s a customer.”
“Well, that’s dandy, see, because we need a room to stay in,” Cope said.
“For the night only?”
“Ah, maybe one or two. We don’t know.”
Saburo gestured to Winch. “Do you and your wife need a separate room, sir?”
Wife? Winch looked at Jesca at the same moment she looked at him.
Cope sputtered on his ale.
“Ah, we will need two rooms,” Winch said quickly, “but one for myself and my brother. The other will be for the lady.”
“Whichever. The sleeping arrangements are none of my business. You pay me now for one night, and we’ll talk teratorn later.” Saburo held out his small hand.
Cope dug in his pockets for coin. Jesca was swifter. She pressed a large sum into Saburo’s hand. It was a fair sight more than the cost of the rooms, Winch judged by the way his smile expanded.
“Very good,” Saburo said. “Follow me, please.
Cope nudged Winch and jerked his head toward the door. “See if our chauffeur has returned.”
“Right.” Winch got up and stuck his head out into the sunlight, which temporarily blinded him. No sign of Oneyear yet, and it was already ten o’clock.
“Dingo! Watch the bar, and don’t let any of these slugs come back for a bottle if they don’t pay. I’ve got rooms to rent.” Saburo tossed a dirty rag at a young man who came to take his place. He crooked his finger. “This way, folks.”
He led them up a spiral staircase set in one dark corner of the barroom. Upstairs, the doors to rooms stretched out on either side of a long hallway. Their boots clumped noisily on the threadbare rug festooned with flowers. Jesca ran one finger along the wall. Her finger came away with dust. She grimaced.
“Not up to your standards?” Winch asked under his breath.
“Hardly on par with the Primrose,” Jesca whispered stiffly.
Saburo’s set of keys jingled as he unlocked one of the rooms. “Not
much, but they’re safe. Here.” He handed over one brass key to Cope and a second key to Jesca.
“Thanks. We do appreciate it.” Cope dropped more coin into the same hand.
“So do I.” Saburo smiled. “Rest up. And tell my cousin to visit sometime.”
Winch waited until Saburo was a ways down the hall before he stepped into the first room. Two mattresses sagged on frames of rusted metal. The sheets were rumpled and didn’t look like they’d pass Lysanne’s test for cleanliness. The only other furniture pieces were a dresser with peeling pale green paint and a chair that sat lopsided because one leg was shorter than the others. The white walls that desperately needed patching.
“That is pitiful,” Jesca said.
Winch tossed his rucksack onto a bed. “If ours is this bad, I can’t wait to see yours.”
Jesca raised her chin. “I don’t think that will be necessary, lover boy.”
Cope snickered.
Winch blushed. “I, uh, didn’t mean it that way.”
“Oh, I know it.” Jesca smiled. “This will be a good a place as any to lay low until Oneyear can ascertain the security at the aerodrome. Then we can figure out how to sneak in there. I’ll meet you boys downstairs for some victuals in a few minutes.”
Winch chuckled as soon as she left the room. He could hear her rattling the lock to her room. “Not a bad idea. I’m starved.”
Cope shook his head and sighed. “She is quite the lady, Winch.”
“She is that.” Winch waved a hand in front of Cope’s face. “Steady on, pilot. We should keep a weather eye for Oneyear.”
“Right. We get us all to the aerodrome, then we get the blue skies out of here.”
“If the security’s not too tight Winch peeked out the window onto the street. He could see the sky overhead, with its patches of clouds and smoke. A train whistled. “And we go home.”
Friday
Lysanne Sark removed her gloves, both of which were stained with grease and dirt. She wiped the sweat off her brow. It was nearly noon, and she’d been in the greenhouse since seven in the morning without much of a break, save ten minutes for a glass of iced tea her mother had kindly brought.
Besides, the vent pipe before her would not yield to her efforts. It would not shut off the flow of warm air. It was fine now, in early spring, but come summer, the greenhouse would have no need for steam heat from the city’s thermal wells.
“Mother?” Lysanne called. “I’m stepping outside for a spell. This vent pipe won’t cooperate, and I need to rethink my strategy.”
Lysanne’s mother, Joan Brownrigg, stood halfway down the greenhouse aisle from her. She had a pair of trimmers in one hand and the vines of a hanging philodendron in the other. The blades made a snickt with each stroke. Oval leaves fluttered to the gravel floor. “Of course, dear. I’ll manage.” She reached up to brush a leaf from her hair. “Don’t stay too long, or I’ll send one of the shop girls out after you.”
Lysanne headed out the front of the greenhouse and into the flower shop, which was attached to the greenhouse like a puppy to its mother.
One of the young women who worked for Lysanne’s family waved from behind the counter as she rang up a gentleman’s purchase of posies on the cash register. Two more women, older than Lysanne’s mother, perused the floral arrangements in the store. Their hushed argument over which flower was the superior made Lysanne laugh softly.
Pine Street was moderately busy. A dark blue motorwagon that Lysanne assumed belonged to the gentleman in the store waited silently by the wooden walk, its steam engine shut off. A pair of carts drawn by diprotodons rumbled by. She returned a wave from the lead driver.
Lysanne leaned up against a slender aspen. She inhaled the diffuse fragrance of the bright pink flowers—shooting stars—at the base of the tree. She gazed at the mountains to the south. Winch was out there somewhere—in Trestleway, she hoped. She’d prayed for him every night and morning since he’d flown off in Cope’s biplane. She had no fear for her brother-in-law—he was headstrong and a skilled survivor of practically any situation. But Winch was just a reporter. What did he know of espionage?
“Keep him safe, Ifan,” Lysanne whispered. “Don’t let my love get in over his head, please. Emin.”
She felt strangely disquieted by the sight of those southern mountains. They were ominous today—more like encroaching giants than the comforting bulwark they usually presented. Lysanne took in a deep breath of the cool, alpine air and resolved to read more from the Writ over lunch.
That saddened her. Sometimes Winch would join her for lunch. But not today. She walked up to her front steps and climbed them to the door.
A messenger boy in the familiar silver and blue livery sped up to her on a rickety bicycle. The red-face young hopped onto the sidewalk. The wheels of the bicycle were still spinning “SawtoothParcelAndLettersUrgentMessageMiss!”
Lysanne folded her arms and waited for him to catch his breath. It took longer than she expected.
He finally drew himself up to his full height and asked, “Are you Mrs. Lysanne Sark?”
“I am. You have a message for me?” She kept her voice stern with this young one. She could smell impertinence from a mile away—after all, she was a mother of three. And a wife.
The boy thrust out an envelope in his hand.
Lysanne took it and tried not to make a face at how sweaty the paper felt. The note startled her from her disgust:
Lysanne. Get down to the Advocate posthaste. There may be trouble with Winch. Confound it. Ta.—Gil Davies
The boy stood at mock attention.
Lysanne folded the note and put it into her work pants. “Wait here, please, and I’ll get you some coin.”
She hurried inside and found in her purse enough to pay the boy. He took the coin and sped away on his bicycle.
Lysanne ran back to the greenhouse. Her heart pounded from far more than exertion. Please, Thel, don’t let Winch have gotten hurt! “Mother? Mother!” Her voice echoed throughout the greenhouse. She found Joan still tending the plants and now wearing an exceedingly alarmed expression.
“What is it, child?”
“I have to go down to the newspaper.”
“Is Winch all right?”
Lysanne bit back a retort about the dangerous life of a man playing spy. Her mother had no idea the true reason Winch had left town. “He’s fine, but I need to speak with Mr. Davies. I’ll return soon.”
“All right, dear, but do be careful.”
• • •
The Advocate’s office was one block west and another block south. Lysanne walked as fast as she could without running, but she still received inquiring stares from passers-by. She chalked that up to her attire—the brown work pants stained with dirt, the low-cut sandals, the forest green blouse also decorated with dirt. Well, let them stare. Too bad for them if this was not the way a lady should dress when out and about—it was an emergency.
The clatter of the tele-typers greeted her when she flung open the door to the Advocate. Annora met her with an outstretched hand and tears brimming around her blue eyes. “Oh, Lysanne. I hope nothing’s happened to him. We’re all deathly worried. Gil hasn’t touched his pipe—I’ve never seen him this upset.”
“My word.” Lysanne held the girl’s hand firmly. “Don’t fret, Annora, I’m sure Winch and Cope are quite well.”
But if Gil was so concerned as to not even want his pipe…
True enough, the Advocate’s editor sat behind his desk staring at a sheet of paper clutched between his fingers. The pipe lay untouched on his desk. The familiar smell of smoke was muted by paper and ink. “Gil,” Lysanne said gently. “I came as soon as I could. What is the matter?”
He held out the paper. “Read it. Please.”
Lysanne took it. Someone had pasted several tele-typed strips onto one sheet. She frowned as she read:
To Gil Davies, editor of the Perch Gazette, and trouble columnist Lysanne. From Jesca and Winch, with love to Uncle.<
br />
The rest of the long strands after that were gibberish to her.
Mismuwiprm cogelzch Tfrwrm gpcrbeu. Nxz ftkhumtsgj, olnzv pruiod, gtebio. Lkxeh Gbnlbeo jmlrl rhnbnol gfcpc. Mgmomjzr frgefo el gsudpoxvdcor.
“Is this a code of some kind?”
“It bloody well isn’t the king’s Tirodani,” Gil grumbled. “Witchcraft, I tell you. I wish I knew what fool game he’s playing. But I know what we have to do with it.”
Lysanne’s eyes were still involuntarily reading the one segment—“from Jesca and Winch”—over and over. Jesca. Hadn’t that been the woman Winch had mentioned, the mayor-general’s niece? He’d apparently found her. Was she pretty? She shook off the thought.
“Are you well, lass?” Gil’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve gone a tad icy on me.”
“Oh. Well, I was just—surprised that this woman had found a way to contact us so quickly.”
Gil snorted. “Come along, now, Lysanne—how well do I know you?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I recall how steamed you were when I sent Winch with Annora off to Naxothrace for that journalism exposition. When the poor lad took her to lunch, you very near took my head off. My head, mind you—as if I’d orchestrated some grand stratagem!”
Lysanne blushed. True, and she’d given Winch quite the cold shoulder when he’d gotten home. Of course, he could have mentioned it right away instead of hiding it for fear of upsetting her. “My husband knows I can be…temperamental in that regard.”
“I’ll say.” Gil smirked.
“But neither is he devoid of jealousy,” Lysanne continued. “Do you remember that young man we had working at the greenhouse a year back?”
“Ah. The Picksborough lad? Tall and broad-shouldered?”
“Yes. The one Winch was frightfully rude toward.” Lysanne smiled. “The one who turned out to be my second cousin.”
“Point taken. Why don’t you put this nonsense behind you when you take the message to the mayor-general?”
“The mayor-general? Why?” Lysanne gave the paper back. She tried to—but Gil didn’t take it. She stood there holding it out in front of his face like a windsock in the breeze at the aerodrome.
