by Steve Rzasa
Troy stepped in line behind an older couple whose hair was as white as the floor tile. The scones and pastries lined up in the glass counter tempted him with both their appearance and aroma. Troy scanned the tins of tea in the huge wooden display rack behind the clerk.
“Good morning, Mister Keysor. Haven’t seen you in a spell.” The counter clerk, Jeremiah, was a gangly lad with a bright red goatee and so many freckles on his face it was near impossible to see the skin beneath. “Your typical? Western Pallus Blend, no sugar, drop of lemon, raspberry and cinnamon scone. Buttered.”
“Yes, please. I’m impressed you remember.”
Jeremiah grinned. “It’s how I keep the customers happy.”
He retrieved the tea from the proper tin and dumped it into a mug. He worked the levers of the of the tea pump behind him. Steaming water filled the mug.
Troy paid for his tea and scone. He made sure to leave a sizeable tip for Jeremiah. There were a few two-top seats in the back corner, so Troy selected one that gave him a fine view of the salon windows facing out to Haupt Avenue.
No sign of the Peace Branch officer. But that did not mean he’d gone.
Never mind. There would be time to worry over that later. Troy opened the model railroading book to the index. He slipped his notebook from his pocket and dug for a pencil. On the last page was a grid of letters, baffling to the untrained eye but a lexicon for Troy. He decoded the message from Jesca using their mutual keyword for the month—CRIMS.
He smiled. Most fitting.
His pencil scratched across the paper. He took a sip of tea but did not pause his writing. All around him conversation flowed, insulating him from any unwanted attention.
The message was simple:
MEET AT SCHULTHEISS NOON SUN.
“Schultheiss,” he whispered. Today, at noon? It must be important if Jesca wanted him to rendezvous immediately. He’d only gotten the note delivered about the book late last night.
Jeremiah approached the table. Troy hadn’t heard him; rather, the movement out of the corner of his eye was enough of an alert. Troy pocketed the notebook and made as if he were reading the book.
“Mister Keysor?”
“Yes, Jeremiah?”
“There’s a man come ‘round to the back door, sir. The alley entrance.” Jeremiah twisted his fingers. “He’s asked the manager to send you out, quiet like.”
“I see.” Troy set the tea cup down. It rattled enough to slosh tea on the saucer. “I appreciate your telling me.”
“Yes, sir. He’s—well, he’s Peace Branch, Mister Keysor.” Jeremiah kept his tone even and conversational, soft enough that it would be lost to others in the din. Troy was grateful the young man had the wit to do so. It’d served them both well before.
“That is unsurprising. I’d best be going.” Troy took a final sip of tea. He hadn’t touched a crumb of scone, having long since lost his appetite. He grabbed the book and turned from his chair.
On second thought, perhaps he’d want the scone later. Troy shoved it into a pocket. He didn’t care one whit about crumbs.
“Mister Keysor?”
“Yes, Jeremiah?”
“If that fellow’s waiting on you in the back, perhaps you’d best exit out the front. So you don’t have to get your suit mussed in the alley.” Jeremiah smiled. “It’s filthy back there.”
“Ah. I see. Yes, thanks.” Troy grinned back. “Could you tell him to meet me around front?”
Jeremiah glanced at the counter. A handful of people had lined up, and they looked none to patient. “Oh, I’ll do that, but it may take me a mite longer to get him the message than he’d like.”
“Whenever you can manage.” Troy tipped his hat.
Escape.
He slipped out the front door. There was enough a gap in traffic for him to walk swiftly across. He made it with room to spare as a huge double-wagon loaded with grain came trundling along, a pair of surly diprotodon baying and moaning as they pulled. A line of motor-wagons honked their horns from behind.
“I suppose I’ll miss that appointment with Peace Branch,” Troy murmured. “So busy on these streets, it’s difficult to find a fellow.”
Part Three
Troy knew he had to spend the next several hours on the move, lest Peace Branch catch up with him. His evasion of the officer sniffing at his heels caught him some time, but the security force of Trestleway was relentless in its pursuit.
He boarded an autobus painted bright yellow and green at the corner of Haupt and Kinner. It was a tall, wobbly vehicle that seated twenty passengers on chairs of wood slats and wrought iron. He paid the driver the fare and selected a seat close to the back, where a secondary exit and entrance allowed egress onto a small balcony, much like the caboose of a train.
“Next stop, Lenetz!” The driver cranked the drive handle and the bus, clanking and wheezing, surged into traffic.
Lenetz Avenue would be far enough, for the time being. Troy pulled out his pocket watch. Nine thirty-three. Very good. On a Sunday morning, after the early Telru religious services, there was one other place the Tirodani of Trestleway gathered en masse: the Antonis Museum of Art and Antiquities.
Troy read his book during the drive, but kept a close watch on his fellow passengers: old men smoking pipes; young families with squabbling children; a pair of overly romantic young couples. Any among them could be informants for Peace Branch. It was said a man could not ride the rails of Trestleway without passing by a person on the payroll of the city-state, for good or ill.
He hadn’t been down to Lenetz at all this winter or since the ice and snow had melted. The cherry blossoms had faded some, but they were still a soft hue of pink. They lined the entire length of Lenetz Avenue, softening the edges of brick and stone structures while adding color to the plain white homes.
The fog of early morning had completely burned off, and the sun warmed the air nicely. Troy strolled down Lenetz with the model railroading book tucked under his arm. He saw only an elderly couple on a walk on the other side of the street; otherwise the avenue was devoid of pedestrians. A trio of militia on branter-back came trotting down the road behind him. The branters’ hooves clacked along the paving stones. Each one had a pair of pearly horns, a long tail and powerful legs that made for fine riding mounts. The lead officer astride the brown mount waved as he passed.
Troy returned the gesture. The militia did not cause him any alarm. They were the brawn. Peace Branch was the brains, and far more dangerous.
The Antonis Museum was a long, narrow edifice with a white marble front and sandstone walls. It was a story taller than most of the buildings around it, but did not loom so much as appear to watch over its surroundings. The decorations along the edge of the roof included statues of Consularian deities and woodland creatures.
Inside the main entrance was a round vestibule a hundred feet across, lined with paintings of all kinds—portraits, vistas and fantastical representations of mythologies. The floor was stone tile and amplified footsteps sharply. Troy greeted the clerk at the front desk and paid the entrance fee. He didn’t bother to look at the map of the museum layout hanging from the wall behind her. He knew it by heart.
Troy took the corridor to the east wing. He spent a good ten minutes perusing the Guiliani frescos and LeMay portraits. There were a few people here and there, some of whom were close to his age. The men all wore light colored suits of grey or tan.
He’d fit in well.
No Peace Branch men made an appearance. Troy allowed himself a breath to relax. He took the next branching corridor to the conservatory. Glass ceilings slanted high overhead. The morning sun heated humid air, but not warm enough to make a man sweat. The conservatory housed greenery from across southern Galderica—violets and vines, trees and shrubbery. Beyond the rows of pots and shelves was the rear door to the museum gardens.
Troy nodded a greeting to an elderly man sitting at a black metal table, reading the newspaper. He found a chair in an alcove formed by mi
niature weeping birches. Here would suffice.
He propped open the book and started into his scone, crumbs or no.
The sun moved overhead, the shadows cast by the trees shifting upon the pages of the book. Troy’s attention was fixated on the doors at either end of the conservatory. He could see between the branches of the birch, allowing him to spot people coming and going well before they noticed him.
It proved beneficial when the Peace Branch officer walked into the conservatory.
Troy made immediately for the back door. He did not stop to apologize when he bumped into a woman and her child. Nor did he pause when the officer called out in a smooth alto, “You, sir. Stand where you are!”
“I think not.” Troy fled to the gardens.
Hedges enveloped him. The gardens took up near the same area as the museum, and many citizens of Trestleway were fond of the winding paths that took strolling pedestrians past four fountains. Troy remembered most was that he could not get across the Cobalt River winding along the east side of the garden—far too wide and fast-moving.
He turned a corner and found another Peace Branch man walking toward him.
Confound it.
This one was shorter, stocky with a broad chest. His expression was far less tolerant than that of Troy’s pursuer. “Troy Keysor!”
Blame it all, they knew his name and face. He dodged right down a narrow path. Footsteps pounded on the walkway behind him.
Which way? Left.
He ran. Skidded to a halt. Turned right down another branch of the paths. Pushed between a couple who’d decided this would be a fine place for a discreet kiss.
Shouts echoed behind him. A detached part of his panic-stricken mind told him neither officer had drawn a weapon, or fired warning shots. They doubtless wanted him alive.
Alive to confess.
There was a groundskeeper up ahead, raking leaves from the path. He had on a shabby, brown coat stained with dirt and a wide-brimmed hat of beaten, worn leather. Troy smiled his broadest smile. “Good day, sir.” Troy dug into his pocket for the most coin he could find. This was turning into a rather expensive outing. “I have a proposition for you.”
A few minutes later, he slipped out the west side of the garden, rake propped over his shoulder. The coat was ill-fitting, and the hat stank of sweat and beer. But Troy could care less.
Because he walked by one of the Peace Branch men without them taking the slightest notice.
Part Four
Troy managed to avoid any further encounters with Peace Branch en route to Schultheiss. It was only when he passed through the red brick pillars of the park that he shed the shabby coat and ratty hat he’d traded from the groundskeeper at the museum.
Schultheiss was the grandest open-air park in the entire Old City. Enclosed within the walls as tall as a man were several dozen acres of paths, groves and rock outcroppings that surrounded a broad field. This patch of green was filled today with tents striped white, purple, black, and blue. Smells of roasted meat, fresh fruits, and carved wood mingled under the heat of the mid-day sun. There were so many people here. Troy eased into the crowd gratefully.
He found Jesca at the floral stand. She held a bouquet of primroses to her chin. Sunlight caught the tendrils of fiery red hair dangling from beneath her hat. She was dressed in a formal suit and skirt of deep green. Her eyes were the same shade.
“Hello, Troy.” She kissed him on the cheek. “It’s good to see you well.”
“My sister, good day to you.” Troy returned the kiss.
“You look tired. Did you have a difficult time making it here?”
Troy smiled. He plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow. “Enough to make me feel alive, yes.”
“Good. We wouldn’t want you dead. Come.” Jesca held out her hand. “Let’s walk.”
Troy offered his arm. Together they threaded their way through the crowd.
“How are things at the city telegraphy office?” Troy kept a smile on his face. His heart hammered against his ribs but he didn’t dare betray his nerves.
“I haven’t worked there in quite some time, Troy. I’ve had to find another profession. It was … far too stressful.” She, too, smiled, but Troy could read beyond the expression. After all, he’d been reading her moods since they played behind their father’s barn.
“Where do you work now?”
“Let’s not talk of that.” Jesca’s gaze darted sidelong at the paperboy hawking the day’s issue of the Consolidated Register. “We have more important matters at hand.”
“Of course.”
They came upon a circular bench wrapped around the trunk of an elm. Troy let Jesca sit first, so that she was shaded well—and obscured from most passers-by. He perched himself on the edge so he was partially concealed, yet could see with just a quick twist of the head all that transpired in the market.
“You know I would not have left the office unless the situation had become dire,” Jesca whispered.
“I know it. You’ve always been brave.”
“Especially when it came to leaping off the barn roof with our own set of homemade wings,” Jesca said.
Troy chuckled. “I screamed my head off, and Father came running. The irony is I’m the one who became a pilot.”
“We’ll need that skill soon enough if I can’t get you in to the telegraph office.”
“What do you mean?”
She opened her hand. A brass key sat in her palm. “They made me turn in my key when I resigned, but I made a copy. It pays to have access to a tele-typer at all hours, what with Peace Branch so busy these days.”
“Speaking of—” Troy glanced about the market. No, he could see none of the tell-tale back suits and red ties. That did not mean their spies were not about. “Peace Branch has taken an inordinate interest in me as of late. Much more than I expected. Would you know something about that?”
Jesca nodded. “Troy, when I worked in the telegraphy office, I intercepted every pertinent communiqué I could and passed them along to you.”
“It was brave of you. I made sure Uncle Jonas received them all—discreetly, of course.”
“I knew you would.” She patted his hand. “But the last bit I found—there was no way to send it. One of the men from Peace Branch came by the office the day after I took down the information and transmitted it to the proper recipient. He was a terrifying man—eyes of ice, pale as death. He questioned me, politely, but I could tell he knew I was hiding something.”
“Jesca, you should have come to me sooner.”
“There was too much risk. If it wasn’t for my friends in high places, as it were, I’d already be in custody. As it was, this was all I was able to get.”
She passed him a square of paper. Its edges were bent, and it had the appearance of being stuffed in a pocket for far too long. Troy unfolded it until it was a rectangle as long as his hand but as narrow as two fingers side by side. The writing was Jesca’s flowing script.
“Trestleway—is going to invade Perch? Within the week?” Troy could not believe the words even as they left his mouth. “How…how can this be?”
“The telegrams I intercepted within the past few weeks I worked in the office all point to this—troop movements, weapons amassment, funds disbursement. They were all coded between parties.”
“But you deciphered them,” Troy said. He grinned.
“Of course. Apologies, I couldn’t bring you any documents. But the evidence was there. I safeguarded it in the First Consolidated Bank. It’s in a safe deposit box, under our mother’s name. She was kind enough to sign a document that allows us both access.”
“Yes. Yes, I see.” Troy’s palms were sweating. He handed Jesca back the paper. “But … invade Perch? It’s madness.”
“It’s a threat response, Troy. Trestleway Consolidated Locomotive is losing money to aeroplane travel and trade in exotic goods, especially from the routes into the Golden Desert. You have to understand, Consolidated owns the go
vernment here.”
“As I’m well aware. We have to get this information to Uncle Jonas.” Troy glanced over his shoulder. He saw no one suspicious—no one overtly so, that is.
“I must stay clear of the bank. You should go, in my place. Contact me as soon as you have the information, and I will get us into the telegraphy office.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s for the best.”
They rose from the benches. Troy led them to a stand serving fish and chips. “I’m famished—didn’t get much in the way of breakfast save for a scone. Would you like something?”
“No, I’ve arranged a meal with my—employer.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Watch what you say and where you step.”
Troy smiled. He patted her on the cheek. “I always do.”
He made it to the bank without spotting a single Peace Branch officer. Troy smirked at the thought of the officers scrambling across the city in a vain attempt to locate him. They really should be embarrassed that a novice at this cloak-and-dagger business could out-maneuver them.
The teller at the safe deposit box window smiled politely as he filled out the forms. He provided his Trestleway-issued travel folios and was whisked to a back room with a marble-lined floor and chairs upholstered in red velvet. The teller left him alone with the contents of the box and pulled a curtain aside the room’s entrance as she left.
Troy unlocked the box. It contained an envelope wrapped tight with string. Its sides bulged with whatever treats Jesca had managed to cram in. Troy slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.
He returned the key, thanked the teller, and was back out on the street in front of First Consolidated Bank a mere ten minutes after his arrival. From here, he could slip down an alley to avoid the main streets as he headed to the telegraphy office.
Troy had taken no more than ten steps into the shadows of the nearest alley when he heard the whistling of the same folk tune.
He stopped. The alley smelled of fetid garbage and rancid food, but he paid that no heed as the Peace Branch man walked a measured stride toward him.
