Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  “We’re aware of the unsavory,” Miss Plank said coldly. “They’re not much worry.”

  Lysanne folded her hands on her knee and did her best to stay patient as Keysor worked on deciphering the code, if indeed that was what he was doing. Having three children made that an easier task than it would be otherwise. The ticking clock above Keysor’s head, though, grew louder with each passing second. Soon there was an aerocraft engine in the room. It rattled against her skull.

  Calm down, she chided herself. Be at peace.

  “So. That is both what I expected and an odd surprise.” Keysor frowned over the paper. He spun it around on the polished dark wood desk and pushed it across to Lysanne. “Would you read my translation aloud?”

  She read the deciphered message: “Invasion Sunday morning. Battalion, twelve-hundred, armor wagons, cannon. Agent Condor plans attacks prior. Invasion masked as peacekeeping.”

  The words settled over her like an early winter’s fog. “Invasion. She speaks of Trestleway?”

  “Yes,” Keysor said. “And we’ll be fortunate if anyone in the Sawtooth League is able or willing to come to our aid if this so-called invasion takes place. Megunticook on the western coast is our largest neighbor, with 20,000 souls, but they don’t have much in the way of aerial or land forces.”

  “They have their money tied up in ships,” Miss Plank said.

  “Indeed.”

  Borman swore. “Ain’t going to be much help, any of ’em. I wouldn’t bet a barrel of whiskey.”

  “Picksborough is closest,” Lysanne said. “My father reminded us just the other day how they came to our aid during the last war. He has cousins there who are expert riflemen.”

  “That was well-nigh thirty years ago, and it hardly constituted a ‘war’ against the bandit rabble,” Keysor said. “Best they can field is a few companies of sharpshooters.”

  “He’s right, little lady. I wouldn’t waste the time,” Borman said.

  His crooked smile irked Lysanne. Such a condescending old fool. She silently handed back the message.

  Keysor glanced down again at the letter. He steepled his fingers and pressed the tips against his mouth. “Hmm. Condor. Not the first time we’ve heard that name, is it, Miss Plank?”

  “The third, sir.” Miss Plank did not sound amused.

  “Is this an acquaintance of yours? This Condor?” Lysanne was confused by Keysor’s thoughtfulness and Miss Plank’s apparent growing fury.

  “In a manner of speaking. We’d heard rumors of an agent provocateur working within Perch, passing information to our rivals, especially Trestleway. This information was mostly limited to government goings-on, though some was economic in nature. Call it industrial espionage.”

  They lapsed into silence, and Lysanne looked back and forth between the two. “And something changed?”

  Miss Plank nodded sharply.

  “You’re aware of how important the avo-gas we manufacture in Wright Valley is to Perch’s aeronautical economy?” Keysor asked.

  “As is every schoolchild.” Lysanne did not appreciate being patronized. “Mastodon fat and mountain pennycress are the base. Those are common enough, but when combined with the petroleum drilled from the valley…”

  “Correct. Three months ago, this Condor employed men to break into Hangar Zero and attempt to steal the newest formula for our signature avo-gas. I’m told it gives a greater flash steam engine performance than achieved by any other city-state. It has made Perch the envy of our competitors for the lucrative trade routes into the Golden Desert. It is, as you said, near impossible to duplicate without the specific breed of pennycress that thrives only in our mountains. The formula is known in its entirety to only a select few. The thieves almost succeeded.”

  Miss Plank coughed. She bore a very self-satisfied smile.

  “Boy, and ain’t that the truth!” Borman slapped his knees. “Never did see anyone else who managed to get your dander up so, Jonas!”

  “Thank you for the reminder, JD,” Keysor said dryly.

  Lysanne shook her head. “I’m sorry. Hangar Zero…isn’t that one of the Hunt-Hawes maintenance hangars south of the aerodrome?”

  “Yes, but it’s also home to a secure research laboratory. Rebekah Hawes does the bulk of her quite ingenious work there. And I reckon the thieves would have turned the tide against her firm quite badly if not for Miss Plank.”

  Lysanne glanced at Miss Plank. She stood calmly aside, but Lysanne saw in her mind’s eye the tussle with the two men just minutes ago replayed in painful detail.

  “But we still don’t know the identity of this Condor,” Miss Plank said in clipped tones. “Not that I have not tried very hard to uncover him.”

  “The man we did capture hung himself in his cell.” Keysor glanced at Miss Plank. “The others did not survive into arrest.”

  Lysanne swallowed. She was suddenly quite glad she hadn’t been exchanging blows with Miss Plank. “Surely you have suspicions…”

  Keysor and Miss Plank exchanged a look. “There are…possibilities,” he said.

  Borman snorted, sounding for all of Perch like an agitated branter. “Ah, they won’t let slip a thing, little lady. But for me, I put all my coin on Ferrand Molyneaux.”

  “The trustee?” Lysanne frowned. “But…but he’s an ardent supporter of all things Perch, and he has his own business to support here.”

  “Which is why I’m not convinced he has anything to do with this,” Keysor said firmly. He scowled at Borman. “And we’re not to discuss it further, JD—”

  “Don’t you ‘JD’ me, whippersnapper.” Borman cut him off like a blade severing rope. He jabbed a gnarled finger in his face. “You don’t have complete dominion over the panel of trustees, and you’d best keep that in mind. Molyneaux’s always been on the bad side of aviation in general and Hunt-Hawes in particular. Way I figure, Trestleway could roll up its tracks into here and give good ol’ Ferrand every little edge over Hunt-Hawes that his filthy heart desires. We’ve got enough hydrogen brewing from the methane fields to certain make it worth their while.”

  “The mayor-general said that will be enough.” There was such ice in Miss Plank’s quiet comment that Lysanne drew back in her chair.

  “Stop it, both of you.” Keysor mulled over the decoded message. “This is suspiciously coincidental, given the upcoming speech this afternoon.”

  “Speech?” Lysanne blinked. “Oh, the Quince memorial.”

  “Yes, it’s been scheduled for the past two months. Miss Plank?”

  “Yes?”

  “You won’t be bothered if I go ahead with the speech, will you?”

  Miss Plank stiffened. “I can adjust my plans.” She did not sound to Lysanne like she was pleased at all by the decision.

  “It may be the only way to draw this Condor out into the open.” Keysor drummed his fingers on the desk. “And you tell Mister Davies he should be there, with his camera. It promises to make quite the story.”

  “I only hope for the safe return of my husband, and the nature of your niece’s true intentions,” Lysanne said.

  Keysor frowned. “She is trustworthy to a fault. And Winchell Sark is a resourceful man.”

  It was more the idea of the two of them together in this danger that bothered Lysanne, but she bit her tongue. “There has to be something I can do to help them.”

  “There’s nothing that can be done,” Miss Plank said. “They are out of our reach.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “You needn’t worry on them,” Keysor said. “In the meantime we must prepare our forces here. Miss Plank, visit with Sheriff Tedrow and have him post his men at key locations such as the aerodrome, the hydroelectric plant, the geothermal pumps, the methane fields, the greenhouses, and Hangar Zero, if possible.”

  “Sir, Miss Hawes does have her own plainclothes security.”

  “Point taken. But extra hands won’t harm. Have the sheriff coordinate with her men.” Keysor stroked his chin. “If an in
vasion is coming, we’ll need to get word to Colonel Cuthbert. He’s likely in his cabin this time of year. He’ll have little time to ready the militia, but it must be done. We have the two standing companies, of course, but the rest he’ll pull from the police and other inactive units.”

  “I’ll go make sure the trustees are aware.” Borman stomped his way to the door. His face was tight with irritation. “You probably want me to tell Molyneaux too, eh?”

  Keysor frowned.

  “That’s what I figured.” Borman nodded to Lysanne as he opened the door to the office. “Take care of your steps, little lady.”

  Lysanne shook off his comments. “Mr. Keysor, I must get return home and speak with my family, but I must say that little adventure in the alley has awakened something in me. Now I feel I must continue to be of service in some way, if I can. Short of prayer, there’s little I can do here for my husband directly. Might I carry that communication to Colonel Cuthbert?”

  Keysor frowned. “I don’t know…”

  “Contrary to Mister Borman’s statements,” Lysanne said wryly, “I am not some ‘little lady.’ I am a businesswoman, mother, and wife of Perch, and it is my place to help where I may.” That, and it would not hurt to get a message to Picksborough, through her family. She knew people involved with their militia who would be happy to help Perch in its time of need, even if these men thought it a silly idea.

  “What of your children?”

  “I will have my mother meet them when school dismisses.”

  “We can have a constable sent ’round to watch over them.”

  Lysanne nodded. “That would be most kind.”

  “You know, your best course of action would be to watch over your children where you are most needed,” Keysor said.

  “If this city falls, what kind of protection can I offer them?” Lysanne snapped.

  “She will be fine, sir.” Miss Plank cleared her throat. “She did well in clearing up our delay en route to your office.”

  Lysanne blushed. The barrel lid, no doubt.

  Keysor appeared bemused. “All right. You do that, then. Tell Colonel Cuthbert of the situation. I’ll make out official orders for you to take. Miss Plank, when you’re through with the sheriff, please escort Mrs. Sark home. I will tele-type to the aerodrome and have them put all squadrons on alert.”

  “Miss Hawes?”

  “Yes, she’ll need to be informed. Doubtless this Condor will try to strike at her again.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Keysor took out a sheet of stationery embossed with the Perch seal. “Something troubling you, Mrs. Sark?” He pulled a pen from the inkwell.

  “I only wish that you had never selected Winch for this mission.” She longed to hold her husband. “I won’t rest until he comes back.”

  Keysor nodded. He began his orders for Colonel Cuthbert. “There’s nary a force in nature that can reckon with the love between a man and a woman. Your husband knows this to be a fact.”

  “On the contrary, sir, he knows a greater force, and so do I.” Lysanne’s heart sank. Return my husband to me, Allfather.

  Friday

  Winch did his best to enjoy the fried chicken on the less-than-clean plate set before him. As it was, all he could manage was to pick at the crispy skin, usually his favorite part. He coughed a bit from the smoke that filled the dark dining area of the Saber’s Blade like, well, like the inside of Gil Davies’ pipe. Charming.

  “Come on, Winch, we need to keep our strength up and our wits about.” Cope stripped the chicken off a drumstick. He tossed the nearly naked bone back onto his plate, where it landed amidst a lump of mashed potatoes sodden with thick, grey gravy. This, Cope savaged with his fork and thrust into his mouth. “Ish not gud to goe hngry.”

  They sat at a small, rickety table with Jesca. Both Winch and Cope had their rucksacks tucked down by their boots. Winch was not about to let the camera or the plates out of his sight again.

  The Saber’s Blade was packed full of customers like a mastodon herd at a watering hole. Saburo held court like a duke from behind his bar, deftly pouring drinks and sliding them down the polished surface one-handed. The smells were…objectionable. The noise of clacking plates and silverware, and the roars of laughter and rumble of conversations, combined into a storm of sound that concealed their conversation nicely.

  “Mother would be appalled at your manners, could she see them now.” Winch tried some of the mashed potatoes to appease Cope. They were actually quite good. The coleslaw, which already bore the imprint of Winch’s first try, was another story entirely. It was slathered with far too much dressing. “You know I don’t eat a barrelful when I’m anxious.”

  “There’s no need for anxiety, Winch.” Jesca carefully dissected her chicken. She had fixed her hair and changed clothes into a blouse free of knife cuts. She moved her shoulders gingerly, though. “Oneyear has been gone for awhile.”

  “More than an hour.” He wiped dressing off the corner of his lips with his sleeves.

  “An hour and ten minutes.” Winch held up the open pocket watch. It was the third time he’d checked the time in that span. Now it was ten minutes past eleven o’clock.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Jesca rolled her eyes. “But if he went a ways off to hide the motorwagon, it’s bound to take him a long time to return on foot.”

  “I know that.” Winch took a bite of his chicken. Also good. “I’m more concerned with our next move. We need to plan.”

  “You’ll come up with something.” Jesca stood and pushed away from the table. “Excuse me. I need to go powder my nose.”

  Winch watched her walk over to Saburo. He smiled and indicated the stairs.

  “She ought to figure highly in our plans, Winch.” Cope rested his chin on his palm.

  “Yes, I know you’re thinking of her figure.” Winch said.

  Cope winked. “Yes, that is my primary interest. But I do love a lady with the brains to match.”

  “Always?”

  Cope waved his fork around lazily. Winch saw one of the men behind them grimace. Perhaps he was worried the potatoes hanging precariously from the end of the fork would go flying. He needn’t worry. Cope wasn’t one to waste food.

  “You’re right.” Allfather, lock the fear out.

  “Now your turn.” Cope grabbed up a second drumstick. He turned it over in his hands, eyes down to the table. Winch rarely saw him this pensive. “What…happened in that interrogation?”

  “What do you mean?” Winch was still amazed he’d stood up to those Peace Branch officers in the dank interrogation dungeon not more than five hours ago. It felt tremendous.

  “I mean, when that Taube fella let me and Oneyear into the cell, your new best friend, Beam, appeared a mite out of sorts.” Cope took a bite and chewed. His eyes bored uncomfortably into Winch’s face. “So something went gone wrong. For him.”

  Winch fiddled with his fork. “What did Jesca say about it?”

  “Nothing. But don’t think I’ve not noticed the admiration in her eye, big brother.” Cope grinned. “You wolf, you.”

  “It’s not like that.” Winch mulled his answer over. “Beam… He used his dark powers on us. Tried to choke me, like Ray did to you before you shot him.”

  Cope’s eyes went wide. He set his fork down. “And Jesca?”

  “He lifted us both up off the floor when we were both still in our chairs, without even coming near. He never actually touched us.” Winch shivered at the memory. “There was something cold coming from him though. A presence of…”

  “Evil?”

  Winch nodded. “Cythraul.”

  “And then what?”

  “I prayed to Thel to stop them. And He did.”

  Cope’s mouth dropped open a notch. “He did…what?”

  “Stopped him. The hold on us was released. We fell. And Beam stared at us like we’d sprouted the wings of the Hallowed Sepyr Himself.”

  “Great clouds above!” Cope leaned back in his chair. “Y
ou mean to tell me you summoned, what, the power of Thel?”

  “I don’t know!” Winch hissed. “It does remind me of the Writ: the tales of the prophet Halwyn and his battles against the cythramancers in the olden times, and some of what Vaughn Markwater told me concerning his travels with Ifan Himself.”

  Cope put his fork down. He was taking this seriously. Winch wanted to say more but couldn’t bring himself to express the awe and the fear which had accompanied those moments.

  “Huh.” Cope reached for his cup of ale. “You know, that might be something for you to keep available.”

  “Available?” Winch didn’t like the sound of that.

  “In case we run afoul of Peace Branch any more while we’re in town.” Cope gave the remnants of his ale a swirl and tossed it back. “Fine swill. Come on now, Winch. If Thel wants you to stop Beam and his cythramancer ilk, assuming he has more of his brothers in darkness skulking around, who’re we to argue the evidence?” With that, Cope’s appetite apparently renewed, and he ate his remaining drumstick.

  Winch blinked. “So you admit Thel is the one who rules over all? That He is the one in charge?”

  “I’m willing to consider it, at least.”

  Winch smiled.

  “But this cythraul business is spectacular. Was a pattern of words you spoke that had brought about divine interference? Or does it have to do with your sincerity?” Cope wiped his mouth.

  Winch shrugged. Could it be linked his strength of faith? Could it be repeated?

  He for the rucksack at his feet and pulled from it the rolled-up pamphlet Markwater had given him. Somewhere in here…yes, there. He read it aloud: “‘When Ifan sent out seventy men to the towns of Southern Galderica, they came back very excited because they had vanquished these dark powers.’ Ah…here it is. ‘Master, we could make the cythraul bow down to us in your name!’”

  “Huh.”

  “That’s all? Cope, this is positively astonishing!” Winch tucked the pamphlet back in his rucksack. He tapped his forefinger forcefully on the table. “There is proof here that Thel wields His power through people. His people.”