Storm of Locusts

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  “Do I get to wear a fancy suit?” she says finally.

  He grins. “You can wear a tiara if you want.”

  “No,” she says, already putting her guns back where they came from. “We’ll do this right.”

  Chapter 25

  The air outside is decidedly cold. I’d forgotten somehow that it was December, just a few days before Keshmish. Since Neizghání didn’t celebrate the holiday and my past years had been spent solely in his company, it had kind of slipped my mind. I remember the Keshmishes of my childhood, but only in the most limited notion. I remember my nalí always got us a tree. Sometimes they were cheap, something secondhand or a freebie from the tribe, but I didn’t know the difference at the time. All I knew was that I loved the way it shined. The lights, the ornaments. Gifts weren’t much. New socks from the trading post, some hand-me-downs from one of the ladies at the chapter house. Even then I mostly liked the wrapping paper more than the presents themselves. Since most gifts came in old newspaper or paper bags folded and taped closed, the ones with the shine, no matter how gaudy and metallic, were my favorite.

  I’m thinking about that now, as we make our way through all the shiny representatives here for the auction, dressed up in color and spectacle as they mill around outside. Rissa, Aaron, and I maneuver through the crowd, trying to blend in. There’s a break in the action and people have come outside to socialize, gathering around small bonfires, drinking hot alcoholic drinks of some kind and waiting for things to resume inside. There’s a decidedly festive feeling to the night, not what I was expecting from a bunch of criminals and slave traders. It’s disconcerting to think that a few levels beneath our feet, Rissa and I were in a cage awaiting vivisection just an hour ago. I shudder involuntarily, remind myself that a pretty veneer does not mean these people aren’t monsters.

  Aaron sidles up to us, handing Rissa a drink. She takes it with only the slightest acknowledgment, playing her role as representative to the hilt. I don’t get a drink. Aaron explained it would be weird for a representative’s bodyguard to drink anything at all. So I tuck my hands in my sleeves, duck my head a little deeper into the heavy black cowl I’m wearing to cover my hair and most of my face, and wait.

  “They’re going to be starting up again soon,” Aaron says, leaning in so we can both hear. “We got lucky. Exotics haven’t come up yet.”

  “Do you have to keep calling them that?” Rissa says, her voice low and angry.

  Aaron blinks, caught off guard. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  Rissa huffs, waves his apology away. “Just . . . call them something else.”

  Aaron looks crestfallen in the wake of Rissa’s admonishment.

  “What else can you tell me about Amangiri?” I ask.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asks, not sounding like he wants to share.

  “I’ve heard of a cult leader from there, the White Locust.”

  Aaron stills, and his strange eyes meet mine. “Do you know him?” he asks, his voice tight.

  “Only by name,” I say, working not to give anything away, thrown by his sudden intensity.

  “You thinking of joining up?” he asks sharply.

  “No.”

  He studies me for a moment before he decides something. Whatever it is, he relaxes. He throws off one of his careless shrugs, like he’s not really invested in my answer. A lie. “The White Locust has been buying up the market in things that go boom. That’s about all I know.”

  “Anyone know why?”

  “Who cares why, as long as he’s paying?”

  “I heard he wants to destroy the world.”

  Aaron laughs, loud enough for a few curious people around us to turn and look. “This is the apocalypse, lady. Who cares if some nutjob with wings wants to blow some shit up?”

  “Your boss, maybe?”

  “My ex-boss. And profiteering is Bishop’s middle name. We’re making the explosives, aren’t we? You don’t kill the goose laying the golden egg.”

  If that’s true, I wonder why Aaron has such a strong reaction to me asking about him. But I don’t feel like arguing about it, so I scan the crowd, looking for Amangiri’s representative. How many people with wings can there be?

  “You are going to get us up close to the front, right?” Rissa asks, leaning in to talk to Aaron. “Once we are inside the auction tent?”

  “I let the guard know that Cletus Goodacre’s little sister was here and that his family’s looking to get back into the Harvesting business. He promised to find you prime seating.”

  Rissa pales a little. She pulls the long gold coat Aaron found her closer around her body. Despite being a little shaky around the edges at the prospect of pretending to be in the market for body parts, she looks downright regal. She’s unplaited her hair, letting it loose around her head in a halo of burnished copper. Her brown skin glows in the ruddy firelight, her massive hoop earrings flicker brightly, and the gold-flocked three-piece suit she’s wearing hugs her body worshipfully. But it’s really in the way she carries herself. The high tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders. She was born to the role, looking every inch the wealthy criminal heir.

  And Aaron can’t stop staring at her. Or bringing her things. His infatuation might be amusing under other circumstances, but right now I just find it disturbing. I can still hear him asking his friend to choose between losing his tongue or his balls, a very sharp scalpel in his hand.

  “Don’t I know you?” comes a voice to my left. We all turn, my hand going for my gun.

  The woman who spoke shifts her gaze from Rissa to lift an overarched and heavily drawn-in eyebrow in my direction. Pale skin made paler by a thick application of powder, bloodred lips outlined in black, a long, thin nose made for looking down on her lessers. Her black hair coils in intricate ropes around her head, adorned with a dragon’s den of colorful jewels. More jewels drip from her ears and neck, an ostentatious show of wealth.

  “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Rissa says, her voice pitched to match the haughtiness of the woman before us.

  “Elena Urioste,” the older woman introduces herself, her tone clear that we should already know who she is.

  And I do know that name. The Uriostes of the Burque, infamous water barons and land-grant heirs, the old-school Hispanic royalty of the newly developed city-states of the Southwest. And the family responsible for beating Kai half to death to prove a point about their daughter’s nonexistent virginity.

  Elena holds out a hand to Rissa, who introduces herself as Rissa Goodacre. They touch fingers briefly, a Diné handshake. Elena’s dark eyes linger after Rissa removes her hand.

  “I understand you are in the Harvesting market?”

  “Inquiring,” Rissa corrects her smoothly. “Not here to buy, simply to observe. We, my family, haven’t made a commitment yet.”

  Elena purses her lips. “If you are looking for potential growth opportunities, perhaps we should speak at length. The Uriostes have had an interest in expanding into Dinétah, and if you decide to move forward, certainly the Burque has a surplus of resources we would be happy to supply.” She laughs, high and artificial. “I have to say, I admire what your mother has done in Dinétah. We’ve been trying for a foothold there for a while, but tribal red tape.” She clicks her tongue. “A ruse of delay, I’m afraid. They favor their own. Your family is one of the few exceptions.”

  “Maybe they just don’t want to do business with you,” I say.

  They all turn to stare.

  “Pardon?” Elena Urioste says, her tone suggesting I’m a bug that suddenly learned to speak and she doesn’t approve.

  “Why don’t you go get me another drink,” Rissa says coolly, but her message is clear enough. I’ve overstepped, forgotten my role. I bite my tongue, remind myself why I’m here and that none of this matters. That if I wanted Elena Urioste dead, she would be in seconds, bodyguard or not.

  “Now, Maggie,” Rissa says, her jaw tight.

  I nod curtly and turn
toward the place I saw Aaron get the drinks earlier. But I’m saved from servant duty as a dull gong sounds somewhere close to the tent, signaling that the auction is starting up again.

  Rissa inclines her head, a small bow in Elena’s direction. “Until next time.”

  Elena smiles, and I’ve seen more sincere smiles on rattlesnakes. Aaron motions Rissa toward the tent, and I follow, eyes on Elena Urioste and her goon, hand on my gun.

  She watches me back, her eyes laughing, brimming with poison.

  “Monsters everywhere,” I mutter.

  She cocks her head like she heard me. I guess she did. I give her a little salute, and once I’m convinced she’s not a threat, at least not right now, I walk into the auction tent.

  * * *

  Aaron’s friend was true to his word, finding us a table in the center of the room. The place is filled to capacity, a series of small round tables spaced intermittently throughout the room, surrounded by straight-backed chairs. In the center of the room is a raised circular stage probably twenty feet in diameter. A spotlight shines down on the stage, which at the moment is empty.

  “Are you sure we won’t be recognized by your people?” I ask Aaron.

  “You don’t look the same as when you came in, and it’s not so unusual for me to be escorting a representative around. Besides, nobody can see good once the house lights are off, and all attention will be on the baby in the middle.”

  “Baby?” Rissa asks, horrified.

  “An expression,” he reassures her. “No babies.”

  “Just teenagers,” I murmur.

  We take our seats, the conversation around us still lively and loud. I scan for anyone who might be a threat, but all the representatives seem engrossed in whatever socializing or business has brought them here. I see a tall bilagáana woman in a full-length white dress, high-necked and long sleeves, a pattern of flowers around the hem. She’s leaning on the arm of a man in a black suit, white shirt, and thin black tie. His brown hair is parted neatly and slicked back close to his head. He reminds me of the Mormon missionaries who used to travel the rez when I was a kid. Which means he and the woman are probably from the Kingdom. The woman catches my eye, and I turn away before I’m forced to interact.

  Others roam the room. I haven’t see a representative from Dinétah, but there’s a young woman in a deep blue one-shouldered dress, her hair split into two symmetrical buns on the side of her head like butterfly wings. Hopi Nation. But no winged people. It seems the White Locust is only interested in purchasing explosives.

  The lights blink twice, and conversation falls. A lone man walks purposefully down the aisle through the center of the room, crisp white shirt clean once again. Bishop hops nimbly up on the stage and raises his hands for silence. The crowd’s murmur fades obediently.

  “Yá’át’ééh, bienvenidos, and welcome, to honored guests and scoundrels alike,” he says, spreading his arms wide, his voice pitched theatrically. “Tonight, Knifetown is honored to offer you a very special evening, a revel of commerce just in time for your Keshmish shopping.”

  At that the crowd laughs, applauding lightly, and Bishop gives them a little bow.

  “Perhaps Granddad needs a new liver. Or your new bride a house girl to do the dirty work. Or maybe you’re in the market for a bride yourself. Someone young enough to give you a rise when you need it most!” The representatives twitter knowingly, and I struggle to hold back the bile rising in my throat. I glance over at Rissa. Her face is demure, her eyes focused on the show up front. But her hand is clasping the bidding paddle so hard her knuckles are white.

  “Look no further! Knifetown has it all. Every need, every want, every pleasure once forbidden in the old world has been reborn in the new! Some say the Big Water ushered in a broken age, but here at Knifetown we say it brought in a golden one! For those with the wealth and the will to seize it!” He mimes gripping something in a fist, pulling it close to his chest. “Because everything in Knifetown is for sale. Just you ask, and Bishop will do his best to make sure you receive!”

  At this the crowd claps for real. There’s even a few whistles and shouts, which echo around the room in excitement.

  “I thought Bishop was all about sin?”

  “Commerce is sacred in all its forms,” Aaron mutters.

  “And now . . . !” Bishop throws his arm out with a flourish. The spotlight splits in two. Once half of the light stays put, but the other rotates over to a corner of the stage that was dark before. It rests on a bald bilagáana man in a bright red jacquard tuxedo jacket. The man looks up into the light, a layer of sweat evident on his pate. He wipes at it with a handkerchief, looking nervous, and motions Bishop over.

  Bishop, his salesman smile still firmly in place, bows slightly to the crowd. A few voices call out, wondering what the delay is. He apes an overly dramatic shrug and then puts his hands together as if praying, begging patience from the crowd. But I can see his face as he turns back to the auctioneer, and it’s half rage . . . and half fear. He can feel it too. The promise of violence in the air. Despite the veneer of civility, the people in this tent are a wrong word away from tearing one another apart. Aaron may talk big about the auction operating under a truce, but all this friendly mingling is clearly a sham.

  The two men put their heads together, whispering furiously. They argue back and forth until the other man throws up his hands in frustration, and with the flair of a performer, stomps off the stage.

  Someone boos, the Hopi woman.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Aaron quietly. I can feel the shift in the crowd. Eager before for flesh to buy, they are now growing eager for something else. Maybe Bishop’s head.

  “Never seen this before,” he admits, rubbing at his burn scars. “But if the auctioneer’s done left, something’s wrong.”

  Bishop turns to the crowd, his smile looking a little sickly around the edges. He clears his throat, wringing his hands. “It seems we have a small delay,” he says, his voice trying for reassuring but coming across as one step below desperate.

  “What’s the problem, Bishop?” the black-suited man from the Kingdom yells. “We’ve come a long way for tonight.”

  “I want a wife!” another man shouts.

  “You promised me a houseboy!” someone else says.

  And suddenly everyone is shouting at once, demanding the things—the people—Bishop promised them.

  Bishop swallows. Under the spotlight, the otherwise invisible outline of the old stains on his white shirt stand out like amoebas. He rubs at his neck with a fleshy hand. “I understand you have wants, and Bishop has made promises, but this is unexpected.”

  “Spit it out!” the man in the suit shouts.

  Bishop clears his throat. “It appears the exotics we had for you tonight have gone missing.”

  A shout of disbelief goes up. Another, angry and demanding an explanation. The Mormon woman stands up to leave, turning her back to Bishop.

  And that’s when the bomb goes off.

  Chapter 26

  A concussive boom. Sounds become a distant echo, the screams around me dampened.

  I hit the floor, scrambling for cover under the table. Rissa and Aaron do the same. The back end of the auction tent caves in, the wooden support beams cracking and collapsing the heavy canvas down onto the guests inside. A scream, and I turn in time to see the Kingdom representative, a splinter of wood as thick as my wrist protruding from his neck.

  A hand touches my shoulder, and I have my knife out and swinging for the offender’s neck faster than the Kingdom representative’s last breath. It’s Ben. She looks like at me with huge eyes. Eyes that are painted with a thick layer of black liner and green eyeshadow. Heavy blush colors her cheeks, and her lips are an unnatural pink. She looks like someone’s sick version of a doll.

  “Maggie!” she squeaks, and I pull my swing just in time, the knife edge striking the dirt floor inches from her head.

  “What in the actual fuck!”

  “Ben!
” Rissa shouts, crawling toward us. She leans in and gives the girl a brief hug, which Ben returns. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” Ben asks, breathless. Her eyes cut to me, to the knife just to the left of her cheek, and then back to Rissa.

  “We’re rescuing you!” Rissa says.

  Another massive crack echoes through the tent, and the spotlight that was attached to the roof beam crashes to the ground.

  “We’ve got to go,” Aaron says urgently. “The whole thing’s coming down.”

  “Who’s he?” Ben asks, wary.

  “One of the bad guys,” I say.

  “Who’s helping us get out of here.” Rissa shoots me an annoyed look. “We’ll explain later. Right now we follow him.”

  Which we do, scrambling through the chaos and noise. The auction tent has turned into a madhouse, people in their ruined finery stumbling through the semi-darkness, tables overturned, half the tent fallen down in a suffocating layer of heavy white canvas. Aaron clambers through the crowd, sometimes on his feet, and other times we’re forced to duck and crawl under tables and through the stampeding crowd. It seems like an eternity before we reach the side of the tent. Aaron grabs the edge, heaves it up over his head and motions us under. Rissa first, ducking, and then Ben. Aaron. Me last. The canvas comes down on my head, and there’s a moment of darkness and smothering weight. I push blindly forward, trusting that this is the way out. We clear in a handful of seconds. No time to rest, we sprint for the Tank and our waiting plane.

  “Where are we going?” Ben asks, as light on her feet as ever, flushed with excitement.

  “Aaron was the pilot, from the canyon,” I explain. “He can fly that plane. Was that your bomb?”

  Ben beams. “I would have waited if I knew you were coming,” she says, sheepish. “Didn’t mean to ruin your rescue.”

  She is completely sincere when she says it, and I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cuss her out. I settle on, “It’s fine. Next time.”