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)

  Sophy nodded slowly. “I suppose so . . . yet he did say something else to me. That ‘When a hex breaks an oath, it means more than you know.’ And Doctor Asbury claims it’s an oath of some kind lets the Hex City folk work and live together — something they swear to that Lady of theirs, or the City, or each other.”

  “The Spinner once told the bilagaana blackrobe Rook of a binding of that kind.”

  Both women started; Yiska had come up behind them as they spoke, stealthy as ever, with Songbird in barefoot tow, blanket-wrap slid down to her shoulders to guard against the chill and her white hair seething in the cold wind.

  “If two Hataalii wish to live together safely,” Yiska continued, “there is a song by which they may bind their power into perfect balance, each feeding off each — but only if both agree to give up the Hataalii path completely, for fear of turning Anaye. And afterward, their power can never be divided. Break that oath, and one of the two must take it all, leaving the other dead.”

  Sophy grimaced. “I believe I can see why that arrangement held no appeal for Reverend Rook, prompting him to cobble together his own.” Then, glancing from Yancey back to Yiska: “Still, whatever the strictures of Hex City’s Oath, it clearly requires no sacrifice of power, and yet will work for any hex who swears it.”

  “Like that story of ‘English’ Oona’s,” said Yancey thoughtfully. At Sophy’s blank look, she explained. “Chess’s mother; I’ve been using her to reach Chess, down in Mictlan-Xibalba. She said somebody worked a binding on her which was kin to that ‘song’ of Grandma’s, albeit more grotesque. He used it to trick his victims into giving up their power to him — sucked them dry, like the wampyr in my Ma’s old folktales, then somehow fixed that link in place, so it stayed forever open but left them alive and leaking, a bucket with no bottom.” Yancey scraped up a handful of sand in one fist, then spread her fingers and let it sift down into her other cupped hand. “Whatever they gathered, ever after, trickled instantly away. They couldn’t hold any magic long enough to work even the simplest spell.”

  Songbird scoffed. “Impossible. Once fully flowered, no magician’s reservoir of ch’i is so fragile as to be permanently punctured thus, short of death — ” She stopped, mouth open. “ — but when was this magic worked upon that red-haired whore, the man-killer’s dam?”

  “When she was giving birth to Chess,” said Yancey steadily. “And — not coincidentally, I’m sure — right when her own hexation was coming awake, for good. Expression, Asbury calls it. The man who did it to her was Chess’s own father, too.”

  “Ai-yaaah.” Songbird gripped her own elbows, shivering. “Three workers all linked by blood, with the mother in mid-bloom, fighting to survive her own babe’s hunger . . . yes, perhaps only then could it be done. Devour the magic so forcefully as to destroy what holds it, without killing the holder, while the ch’i channels are open but not yet fully rooted. With but a little more skill, one might even make the transference permanent — the victim’s power would flow perpetually to the thief, allowing him to draw on her ch’i as well as his own. The sorcerer who worked such a binding upon even a few victims, therefore, would be near-invincible. . . .”

  “Might well be what he was trying for,” said Yancey. “Though I didn’t hear everything Oona said to Chess, this hex — ‘Columcille’ — was some piece of work. Guess we can be thankful he either didn’t succeed, or got killed ’fore he could do so more than once.” Dismissing the matter with a shudder, she looked back to Yiska. “Whichever, what does seem so is that the common element here’s consent, no matter the arrangement — that everyone has to swear to it willingly, make some sort of union.”

  “Like marriage,” said Sophy. “A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and they become one flesh: Ephesians, 5:31. What if — ” She stopped, thunderstruck. “What if that’s what the Oath does for the Hex City hexes? Makes all their separate power into one common pool, so they don’t have to prey hexaciously on each other, ’cause once they swear the Oath, they are each other — spiritually united?”

  Yancey and Yiska exchanged a startled look, as Songbird shook her head again. “I do not think any simple vow would suffice, a mere clerk’s contract, even were it possible. Say a group of mo-shu-shi could, and would, bind all their ch’i freely into a shared reserve; certainly, they would feel no call to feed on any of their own. But neither would any of the circle be able to work any spell without the consent of all the rest, and how likely is that?”

  Songbird turned to Yiska “Say you and two of your braves quarrelled over who would own a horse; would you consider it an acceptable solution to share the beast, but only so long as all three of you rode at once, all held the reins at once, so any disagreement over direction would send it in circles as you all pulled on those reins ’til the strongest won, or they snapped?”

  “That would be one mightily large horse,” Yiska noted, dryly.

  “I understand the argument,” Yancey replied. “Still, the New Aztectlan Hataalii don’t seem quite so constricted, at least with regard to one another.”

  “But they are ‘so constricted’ with any regard to her — the Lady,” Sophy broke in. “In Mister Ludlow’s articles, his sources say not only does she feed freely on those hexes sacrificed to her in their usual devil-rites, but also upon those who break their laws, or defy her — that, by Hex City’s reckoning, to do the latter is to risk the former.” Unable to sit still, she rose and paced, adjusting Gabe to a more comfortable position as she worked her way through the idea. “If they’re all bound primarily to her, and only secondarily to each other, that would make her the cornerstone of the whole City, hexaciously speaking. So were she to be destroyed, the entirety of the Oath would collapse, and . . .”

  She trailed off, abruptly excited and sickened, as she saw where thorough pursuit of that logic-chain must — inevitably — lead.

  “And hundreds of Hataalii in unnaturally close company, many already given up to the Witchery Way, would turn upon each other in an instant.” For something so massive, Grandma could move with amazing quiet when she exerted herself; all eyes turned her way as the words rumbled through that motionless crack which served for her mouth, finishing Sophy’s thought. “So this must be the Enemy’s plan. For his cat’s-paw Allan Pinkerton to tear her loose from this world, inevitably causing his own destruction, along with that of thousands more.” The petrified bone-mask face grated as it turned, pinning Yiska now. “Well, then, granddaughter. If you still believe that Balance can and should be achieved for this City, then we must seek some other way to deal with her . . . and have only hours in which to find it.”

  “Yes,” Sophy agreed — then stiffened, as something struck her. “Wait just a minute, uh . . . ma’am . . . how is it I can understand you, now? Has someone bespelled me after all, without my knowledge?”

  The thing’s huge head tilted, then gave a scrape of laughter. “Ask the dead-speaker — she who bound your thoughts together with your son’s,” it said, indicating Yancey. “Did you think such a communion would leave no marks? You hear what he hears, only that.”

  “Are our preparations then complete, Spinner?” asked Yiska.

  “If the dead-speaker is ready to attempt another Call, then yes. Yet from what I gather, you may have already devised something to augment our efforts even further. . . .”

  Yancey shot them a glance, like: Didn’t tell me, if so.

  Yiska gestured, dismissive. “A thought, no more — that it may be possible to alter the peace-binding, so Hataalii might swear to share their power rather than merely balance it away. It would have strictures of its own, but it would allow a far safer conjunction, and could be dissolved without requiring death.”

  “Not necessarily, anyhow,” Yancey chimed in. “God knows, if the plan’s to boost my Call with hexation, I’d just as soon nobody be fighting to keep from killing each other while you’re doing it.”

  Songbird backed away, upright
and bristling. “Wait — do you truly consider attempting such a thing? Here, now? With me? I will not!” She glared at Grandma. “You, who so recently fed upon my ch’i, how long has it been since you were weak enough to be so taken — especially at the hands of some puling old man, who claimed to torture out of kindness?” She whirled to Sophy, who blinked, startled. “You have known this Professor, Joachim Asbury; perhaps you think him gentle, well-meaning, in his doddering foolishness? He tore away everything I am, and did it as a gift!” Her voice cracked. “‘You are so young,’ he said, when we lay there in the sand, my leg broken; ‘I thought you might accept it, change more gently, become . . .’

  What? Some pitying gweilo’s maid-of-all-work?” Songbird shook her head, eyes wet with rage. “Idiot! I will not diminish, or allow myself to be diminished, let alone by one such as he. Or by you, either — any of you, however urgent your purpose.”

  “Calm yourself, White Shell Girl.” Yiska told her, soothingly. “None here intend you harm.”

  “You have already done harm!” Songbird raged. “You came here to die in battle, like a warrior. I came against my will, vowing not to leave without my full power restored, and not to die at all.”

  Yiska sighed. “And yet earlier you mocked at Sophronia Love, for fearing to be touched by magic? You must set aside your own fear, which keeps you small. I will swear with you myself, if that will ease your mind.”

  “No,” Grandma declared. “You are no Hataalii, not fully, with your weapons-love and your lack of study! That would be as useless as to swear with the dead-speaker — ”

  “Do you say my word is worthless, Spinner?” Yiska asked, not looking away from Songbird — and her voice, though calm, was dangerous.

  “I say only that if we are to attempt this at all, it must be done between true Hataalii, not with medicine workers, or dead-speakers.” With a groaning sound she rose to full height, towering over Songbird, so high Sophy somewhat fought down the urge to cringe back herself. “If you will not do this, ghost girl, seeing the child cannot, then we must risk the working unbound, and deal with what happens as it happens.”

  “’Scuse me, ladies.”

  Sophy had to admit she found an odd pleasure in the others’ startlement, for though confounding expectations might win you no trust, it did at least command attention. But then again, truth could be its own compulsion — and God had put something in her head just now, plain as day. She couldn’t fail to act on it.

  “Was my understanding that if we can’t retrieve Chess Pargeter’s soul from its current limbo,” she began, therefore, “our chances of thwarting Mister and ‘Missus’ Rook are much reduced — and that if they’re not stopped, the whole land, the whole world, will be ruined or destroyed. That correct?” A nod from Yiska. “Then if Miz Songbird won’t bond with you, Spinner . . .” For all her effort, here Sophy’s voice broke, but she forced herself on. “. . . you can bond with Gabriel, through me. With Missus Kloves here to tutor, I’ll show him what has to be done, and the Oath’ll be made.” She glanced back at Yancey, who had closed her mouth, grey eyes wide. “Why else was I bound to Gabe, if not for that?”

  Given it was impossible to read Grandma’s face or voice, Sophy had to wonder if the sympathy she thought she heard in the creature’s next words — dim though it might ring — was nothing but her own imagination.

  “Salt-man’s wife,” she rumbled, “your own beliefs say that to do this will damn your son’s soul — and if your heart shares this opinion still, he will know it. Such things cannot be hidden, when a sharing reaches such depths. Being a baby, he will not understand — will feel only your doubt and fear and make it his own, perhaps even strike back at you, seeing it as a betrayal. Knowing all this, do you truly feel Gai-bree-ell — ” Startling to hear one English name, however mangled, amidst all the transposed Indian. “ — will be better off, for putting him to such risk?”

  Sophy took a shivering breath, fighting for calm, and replied, slowly: “Seeing how I was always taught that merely to possess hexation at all was damnation irrevocable, then . . . if that’s true, Gabe . . .”

  . . . is damned already.

  But no. She didn’t believe that, and couldn’t say it.

  Instead — picking her way from word to word carefully — she said, “. . . at any rate, nothing we’ve talked of can do him any more harm. And if it’s not true — if hexation is just a force like lightning, or bodily vitality — then all that matters is how it’s used, not whether, and only the things one chooses to do with it can constitute resistance of Grace. For since all mortal men are born equally depraved, Gabe’s best hope is to be with those who can most aptly teach him . . . ’specially if he can be made safe from their unholy hungers, as well as his own.”

  Cuddling him close, she watched him sleep for a moment. “So even if you are all damned,” she added, voice kept low, “this makes you the ones best suited to teach us how Gabriel might escape that same fate — and if you are not, then Gabriel need not be, either. But whichever the case, there is no profit in fleeing the tests God demands of us.”

  A long silence passed, broken only by the crackling of the conjure-circle’s fire, the faint susurrus of a wind smelling of smoke, ice, and chaparral. And when Grandma finally spoke again, it was in the quietest — most human — tone Sophy had ever heard from her, as yet.

  “Almost, Sophronia Love,” she said, “you persuade me to think better of bilagaana. Perhaps you can learn.”

  Sophy didn’t know if she was meant to be complimented, or insulted.

  “If this constitutes agreement, then let’s about it,” was all she said, in reply. And strode briskly into the circle, snapping over her shoulder, to Yancey, “Missus Kloves, you’d best oversee this procedure. Sooner it’s complete, the sooner we can send you on your seeking-journey, and see what ensues.”

  “Wait, gods damn you! Wait!”

  It was Songbird, chasing after Sophy now with the clumsiness of one unaccustomed to running; when she caught up, she was gasping, as though she’d never quite adjusted to no longer being able to levitate her way through life.

  “If you are so set on gambling with your son’s life — his ch’i, his soul — then do not bind him to her . . . to what she is now.” She jabbed a finger angrily at Grandma, already a-trudge into the circle behind her, with Yiska and Yancey flanking. “She is a ghost with no flesh, a violation of wu hsing, an aberration of all Five Forces clinging to existence by will alone; there is nothing in her which may not come unravelled tomorrow, or the next day. And what then of any soul bound to hers?”

  “Miss Yu, I really don’t have time — ”

  Spasmodically quick, Songbird grabbed for Sophy’s arm, startling her still; was this really the first time Sophy could ever recall the girl voluntarily touching anyone? It seemed entirely unpremeditated — even Grandma paused mid-step, possibly exhaling, though her state made that hard to reckon.

  One way or the other, they all seemed equally surprised by what Songbird had to say next.

  “If you must do this, then . . . it should be with me.”

  Not letting go of Sophy, she looked to Grandma, shoulders braced as if against imminent impact. But it was Yiska who answered, telling her mentor: “She is not wrong, Spinner.”

  The firelight showed a certain warmth dancing in her eyes, deeper than mere congratulation over Songbird’s unselfishness; the Chinese hex flushed to see it, reaction painfully visible on her bleached skin. Behind them, Yancey coughed and covered her mouth, not quite able to hide a smirk whose implications Sophy — suddenly a bit red herself — found she did not quite wish to guess at.

  “No. She is not.” There was no anger in Grandma’s reply, only a vast weariness. “And so, as Sophronia Love has said — let us begin with you, dead-speaker.”

  Yancey bowed, joining Songbird and Sophy by the fire, without protest.

  “Ma’am,” she said.

  Taking Songbird’s hand, she laid he
r other palm on Sophy’s, cradling Gabe’s head, and nodded at her. “You should wake him,” she murmured. Nodding back, Sophy shifted Gabe’s weight, planning to gently jostle him out of slumber — then paused.

  Probing the new connections ’tween her mind and his, she gradually increased the intensity of her focus on Gabe, in no manner she could easily describe: As if her intention were a Dietz lamp, turning its oil-soaked wick steadily up until its bright blaze cut through all shadows. In her arms, Gabe yawned and blinked his eyes open, awareness quickening in reflex echo of hers. He smiled toothlessly, love pouring back into her, leavened a moment later by hunger — it had been some hours since he’d fed, she realized. Soon, she promised.

  The promise was met by an imperious impatience that, in spite of everything, made her want to laugh. Gabe answered the thought with his own jolt of pleasure, gurgling.

  Abruptly, two new presences intruded on their shared perception. Yancey’s mind she recognized, its inner strength clear water over forged steel, while the other’s . . . Sophy felt Gabe recoiling, and reached out to steady him, even as she forced herself not to retreat. The image that came fastest to mind was of a damaged locomotive, once mighty, now battered and leaking steam, limping along near the end of its fuel. Behind it dragged a carriage-train of memories, grindingly heavy for the shortness of Yu Ming-ch’in’s life — a culture older than the Saviour Himself, calcified in pride and rigidity; a role laid out one hundred generations earlier, dooming her to be bred and born to be bought and sold. A fate-path once thought immoveable, now crazed with fractures like some frost-cracked granite block, and the helpless terror of not knowing what would replace it.

  The moment all these things passed through Sophy’s head, a spark of fury flared up — Songbird’s reflexive rejection of any attempt at pity, striking Sophy like a slap. Thrust back between her and Gabriel, Sophy took the blow without flinching, already feeling the strain as their separate magics roused to mutual, instinctive awareness. Now, she tried to send, a raw surge of urgency, nowhere so coherent as a word.