The Hexslinger Omnibus

by A Book of Tongues; A Rope of Thorns; Tree of Bones; Hexmas; Like a Bowl of Fire; In Scarlet Town (Today) (epub)

  “Your hex-work’s in seeing,” Rook said. “Which means you must’ve noted the same bindings ’tween our dead friends I did.”

  “Heard what the old man said, too. ‘Power of an oath,’ huh? Any oath—’twixt any hex? Or hexes?”

  “Theoretically.” Rook rubbed his chin, inquisitive mind stirring creakily back to life, with an oddly pleasant ache. “Practically, seems like the stronger the hex, the more who swear, the stronger the oath. Yet their vows didn’t trump the City’s binding.”

  “And drained ’em all the faster, for bleeding power twice-a-ways,” Fennig agreed. “Maybe that’s why it never struck Herself somebody else might try it, in the first place.”

  “Your g’hals are bound each to each too, though, from what I observed.”

  “Each t’each and each t’me, neat as any god-botherer’s marriage-packet—and since that’s what Señor Hex-no-more and his boyos seem to’ve done as well, the lesson I take is don’t never try your strength outright ’gainst the City’s, no matter how many you got webbed in on the same spell-rope, ’cause it’s doomed to pull every last man jack of you down.”

  “Mmm. And yet . . .” Rook paused, brow knitting. “Maybe it’d’ve gone differently, had it been every man jack of ’em uprising in the first place, ’stead of just that one.”

  Epiphany’s flash lit both their faces at once, small, but bright enough neither risked a glance at the other, for fear of snuffing it outright.

  “A true Patriot’s creed,” Fennig said, approvingly. “All hexes created equal; no wonder she never conceived of it.” His serpent’s smile took on a fiercer edge. “Don’t really grasp who-all she’s dealin’ with, hereabouts and today, do she?”

  “No,” said Rook, softly.”To her, what swears to her is hers—full stop—and four centuries back, her subjects felt the same. Threw ’emselves headlong into the fire, and thought ’emselves blessed. But when an American swears to something . . . it’s a two-way street. He expects to get what he pays for, and keep what he earns.”

  “He was right, ’bout her—the Mex, I mean. Wasn’t he?”

  Rook didn’t quite allow himself to agree, he certainly didn’t argue. Nodding to what little enough was left of the coupsters, by now: “You see what came of that, though.”

  “What I see is, if he knew more’n most, he didn’t know near enough. Like . . . where best t’hit.”

  “And you do, I suppose?”

  “No. But I will.”

  At the sound of those four small words, Rook felt a shiver of something fragile, almost hope-flavoured, so deep down he could’ve easily chosen to ignore it entirely.

  Instead, he made sure to point out: “She’s a god, you know.”

  “Oh, cert. But ain’t we all, to some degree?” Here Fennig chuckled, only partly amused. “Philosophy aside, though, no God ever did nothin’ much for me, Rev; you neither, I suspect.”

  Not for the first time, Rook wished (devoutly would be the first word to his tongue, had it not tasted so bitter) that he could still pray; that he had the right, let alone the capacity. Granted, he’d never gotten much of a reply, when he had. But given how, this time, it wouldn’t be strictly on his own behalf—well. So odd a display of unselfishness from a career hypocrite like himself should really count for something, surely?

  Apparently not, judging from the Almighty’s characteristically unbroken silence.

  “But there’s a crack in everything, y’see, Reverend,” Fennig continued, all unknowing. “You just have to keep handy to find it, keep quiet . . . and pay attention. So what I’ll do is all the above-mentioned, while lookin’ t’me and mine in the interim. And since you’re the biggest dog I can count on to try and keep the Missuses Fennig and I out of Saint Terra, I’ll stand by you as well, back you up ’gainst all comers. Sound fine?”

  “All comers?” Rook repeated.

  “Even Herself, needs be . . . eventually.”

  Again, there seemed not much to add. So Fennig touched his three fingers to hat-brim and specs-rim together, in half-salute. “Be seein’ you?” he asked.

  “Can’t see how not,” said Rook.

  A final shrug. “Bene.”

  And with a furl of his cane, he walked on.

  When the moon rose, the newest entrants were thrown a roustabout all up and down Temple Street. Like most Hex City hoys, it spun on the same discovery Rook and Chess had once stumbled on without knowing, to their mutual satisfaction: How, when jammed in proximity, the hex-hunger often became carnal rather than fatal, though equal-voracious and undistinguishing—meat being meat, after all, just like blood was blood.

  Rook usually put in an appearance at these shindigs, partly to seed the impression his approval was required for them to continue, but he never stayed long, drank little, and refused all offers of companionship; stayed faithful to Ixchel, after both their fashions. Not that she cared if he had it off briefly with some light-skirt—or equal-light pair of britches, come to that—but to do so risked entanglement, accusations of favouritism, trouble. And more trouble, at this point, was the very last thing he needed to buy.

  Were-lights of a score of different hues floated ’round the mob, throwing shadows in red, yellow, silver-white, green. Those folk whose craft ran to brewing and distillation set up dispensary stations on the crowd’s edges, while on a platform raised up by a moment’s impulse, a score of musicians hammered away with enthusiasm, englamoured clouds a-moil above. The hexes danced on earth, air, roofs, walls, indiscriminately; some put on and flung off new shapes, casual as most changed hats. And wherever the crowd fell away, sorcerously inclined revellers could be glimpsed . . . taking one another . . . in any and every sense one might conceive.

  Tonight, however, Rook leaned down over the same balcony whose architecture he’d planted in Chess’s dreams, while the Mother of all Hanged Men ran her icy little fingers up the inside of his naked thigh to cup him from behind. And damn if he didn’t rouse at the pressure, still, to meet her halfway—purple-swole, dripping. Like any qualm-free monster.

  Far beneath, he glimpsed a figure climbing onto one of the tables, and noted how the celebrants gathered ’round fell immediately quiet: Fennig’s sweetheart, the gravid one, Clodagh. Who lifted her Irish voice in a familiar tune, snapping her fingers for accompaniment.

  “Oh sis, come down by the water’s side, sing I down, oh, sing I day—

  Oh sis, come down by the water’s side—the boy’s the one for me!

  Oh sis, come down by the water’s side, the eldest to the youngest

  cried. . . .”

  She sang the lay incongruously upbeat, which was why it took him a fatal few moments to recognize it—too late entirely, to stop the knife from twisting in his gut.

  “Sayin’ I’ll be true . . . unto my love—”

  “—if my love’ll be true to me,” Rook finished, beneath his breath. Feeling the full weight of what he’d done break over him, a salt-hot wave of regret.

  Ixchel, always aware of his thoughts, touched her rough tongue to his sweaty spine, laving the middle-top vertebrae as though she longed to bite straightway in, to hear them crunch between her pointy jade-flake teeth.

  He will come, husband, she said. It is . . . inevitable.

  And she drew him down.

  Though Rook’s Hell would be hot enough once he got there, Ixchel’s was cold, which explained why she so often needed warming. Still, it was an empty place, for all its passion, what with the Chess-shaped hole left forever open in its centre.

  My bed. Self-chose—self-made. Nothing for it but to lie down, and keep on lying.

  So Reverend Rook did his duty as the rowdy-dow spun on, marking mental time ’til he’d be able to get back to that other experiment he’d started, just before dawn. . . .

  Morrow did say how’s you had a lock of hair on
him, tucked away in some dolly-bag, said Kees Hosteen’s shade—dead these many months, from an accidental application of lead while doing the Rev unwitting service. Hosteen, who’d thought he was betraying one master to help another only to end up losing both, and himself, besides. You keep a little somethin’ from the rest of us, too? Or am I just special?

  “The latter,” Rook lied. “Which is why, when I found I needed a favour . . . I naturally thought of you.”

  Oh, joy.

  “One only, and important enough that when you’re done, I’ll slip the chain; you’ll be free to slide off for wherever, with no further demands on your valuable time. Can’t beat those odds.”

  Yeah, sounds just peachy. That how they’re sellin’ indentured slavery, these days?

  “I could ask less nicely, you really want me to,” Rook observed.

  There was a pause, the barest flicker of something indistinct passing ’cross Hosteen’s face—a sigh, turned inside out. Incentive enough to make Rook smile, and continue.

  “Pinks’ll be moving against us, likely soon. So we need intelligence, to give us some warning what to expect . . . it’s a must, Kees. Old soldier like you knows that.”

  Hosteen still looked sceptical. Would’ve thought you’d just conjure that up yourself, frankly . . . sleep with that Bible of yours under your pillow and pull prophecy out of your dreams, like Joseph. What in the hell d’you need me for?

  Rook held up a hand to show the never-quite-healed burn across his palm. “The Book’s gone, Kees, a good while back. ’Sides which, there are factors which make it hard to act direct; Miz Songbird, for one. She’s . . . got the taste of me.”

  A smirk. Ain’t that convenient.

  “No, Kees, it’s very inconvenient, in point of fact. But I did find a way to get around it.”

  It took Hosteen a beat, before his insubstantial face fell. Aw, shit.

  “Indeed.”

  You do know she knows me too, right, Rev? From Tampico, when the Pinks came to pull Ed and Chess outta Mexico City, after it fell over. What makes you think I can slide under her notice, when you can’t?

  “’Cause she sees more ghosts than I do, every day of the week; don’t draw attention to yourself, you’ll be just one more shade amidst the throng. All I need you to do is find them, listen, come back here and tell me what you’ve learned . . . and then, soldier, consider yourself discharged.” He held out the Atwood’s bottle. “I break this, you’re free—beyond my reach for good. Back to . . .”

  He hesitated, lowering the bottle. The question seemed to spill up out of him, more of its own will than his. “Kees, I have to ask. What’s it . . . like? Where—you were?”

  Silence, for long seconds. Then: You’ll find out soon enough, I expect, the ghost he’d once called friend replied. Now: we done?

  “All but. Though if you were minded to look in on Chess as well, on your way back—” Rook broke off, shook his head. “No, bad idea. Forget I even said it.”

  For all Rook might wish different, Chess knew himself legitimately aggrieved and would seek the price, no matter what; let the world die screaming, so long’s he had his vengeance. The man didn’t forget, never forgave. To do so, he’d say, would be making himself a God he didn’t believe in’s bitch.

  Chuckling a bit at this last part, the Rev glanced up to find Hosteen’s phantom eyes upon him, full of something annoyingly unreadable.

  He might not kill you, even now, he offered, you only told ’im you was sorry.

  The very idea made Rook laugh full-out, long and loud.

  “Oh, Kees,” he said, eventually. “You know Chess, like you know me. So how damn likely is that?”

  Sure as nightfall, however, the old Hollander would end up giving Chess a fly-by, if only for old times’ sake—entirely of his own will, this way, with not a hint of Rook pushing him in that direction. Which really was about the only way he could hope to gain knowledge of Chess’s current whereabouts, since if Songbird had had a taste, the once, then Chess had had . . . all of him. And still did.

  Rook mounted the Temple’s inner staircases slowly, his footfalls leaden. ’Til, at the top, he fell back into bed without even bothering to kick off his boots and slept at once, stretched out beside devastation’s handmaid—a black, dreamless sleep, with darkness his only pillow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The last thing Mister Pargeter—Chess—did, before they came up over the final ridge, was to change Yancey’s much-abused wedding rig to a set of clothes more boy-fit; denim breeches, a loose cotton shirt, wool stockings, black boots. Pointing out: “You plan on walkin’ blind into a nest of no-’counts and raperees, I can tell you from personal experience how trousers are a sight harder to get off, ’specially if you fight back hard while they’re at it.”

  Yancey hoped she didn’t turn too pale at the thought. “Is that . . . likely?”

  “Not while I’m around,” Mister Morrow put in, voice dropping growl-low. Chess gave him a little eye-flick of amused appraisal, followed by a shrug.

  “Let’s put it this way, then,” he told Yancey, “if you ain’t got the sand to look after your own business, we ain’t got the time to do it for you. Fair enough?” Yancey nodded. “Which reminds me—have to cut that hair, you want to stay inconspicuous.”

  Both hands flew to her head, like he aimed to do it right then. “No!”

  Morrow again, sweet reason itself: “She can braid it up tight, stick it under a hat. ’Course, you’ll have to conjure that for her, too.”

  Chess hissed in annoyance, but popped his own off and ran a sparking finger ’round the brim, making it subdivide like string-cut dough: two identical beavers, one of ’em already sized to fit Yancey’s skull and top-knot alike.

  “There,” he said, tossing it her way—then turned back to the others. “She keeps her pride and glory; whoop-de-do. But once we’re through Joe’s door she’d better at least act the damn man, is all I’m sayin’.”

  Geyer opened his mouth, but it was Yancey who answered, thinning her voice as cold as she knew how, from years of wrangling drunks and settling bills. “A play-role you aim to coach me in, I suppose? If not, I suggest we get going.” She widened her glare to include the other two. “And while we’re at it, I’ll thank you to never again discuss me to my face like livestock, gentlemen.”

  Scooping her disordered ’do into a twist, she jammed the “new” hat down over it and brushed past all three of them to climb the next hill, resisting the urge to hike up those phantom skirts no longer restricting her movements. Geyer tried to take her arm, but she threw him off (as gently as possible).

  If I’m to be Adamized, there’s no more reliance on men’s kindnesses, lest I give the wrong impression. Chess doesn’t play such games, after all . . . and he’s far more cause to, given.

  In her annoyance, she’d forgotten he could probably hear everything passed through her brainpan, he only concentrated hard enough.

  So it was unsurprising yet blush-provoking when she heard him remark: “That’s one tough little stargazer you’ve yoked yourself to, Ed.”

  Morrow huffed, legging it upwards. “She ain’t, neither—and she’s a widow now, too, so show some damn respect,” was all he threw back.

  “Marriage for money’s not but one step away from outright whoredom, in my opinion.”

  Yancey stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me?”

  Those green eyes met hers, cool and poisonous, even less human than before. “All right, then: you and that tin star of yours, was that truly made in heaven? Or maybe something your Pa dreamed up ’cause he wanted law as family, and you went along, ’cause you might as well raffle your maidenhead to the biggest gun in town as not?”

  You, sir, are a toad, Yancey thought at him, bell-clear and deliberate, blush deepening. Meanwhile snapping, out loud: “None of your beeswax!
He’s dead ’cause of you, anyhow—”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right: me, not you, for thinkin’ you could handle things on your ownsome. And you really do look like you miss him, too.”

  Geyer opened his mouth again, but too late, for Yancey had already punched the pistoleer full in his mocking face. “Oh my Jesus!” Morrow yelled out, and grabbed for her, bent on fending off whatever came next—but Chess just rocked back a tad, putting one hand to his split lip to taste the blood, before barking out a red-tinged laugh.

  “Gal,” he said, “I must admit I like you better this way, ’stead of all polite and persnickety; makes you seem like you got fire in your belly. Which you’re gonna need.”

  “And I’m supposed to be flattered, I expect? Balls to that! You’re a petty, heathenish deity indeed.”

  Chess shrugged once more, split lip already healed over. “Well, you’re the one started prayin’ to me in the first place—but since it’s all the apology you’re like to get, I guess you can either take it, or don’t. ’Cause I surely don’t give a damn.”

  A swish of dust, and he was out of reach. Yancey bent over a moment, panting harsh, sick with the helpless urge to kill: him, Sheriff Love, Reverend Rook and that Mexican blood-goddess of his, for gifting Chess Pargeter with such power when they knew him unfit to bear it. God Almighty.

  Geyer scuffed the hill with his boot-tip, seeming more embarrassed than anything else. But Mister Morrow’s hand fell on her shoulder, comfort-warm as Uther’s had always been—and though she shouldn’t’ve let it stay there, she did. “We’ll be there soon enough,” he told her.

  “Wonderful.”

  “Chess . . .” Morrow gave a sigh, choosing his next few words with laudable care. “Listen . . . he knows he’s done wrong by you, by all your folk, and it’s makin’ him hit out. But I know he feels badly, just the same.”