by Gemma Files
“He was Sheriff here, sir. He founded this town, along with its militia — swore in each and every man-at-arms who defended this place against iniquity in its infant stages, long before Mister Pinkerton or Captain Washford made their appearance, on this very Bible.” She tapped the tome, drably bound in practical oilskin, which even now rested close by her right hand, where her gurgling son could play with its well-worn edges. “My husband is the reason Bewelcome exists.”
“For which we all thank him, and kindly. But in case you hadn’t yet noticed — he’s dead.”
Reaction to this ran through the crowd like a ripple, and Morrow watched face after face turn Sophy’s way, studying her steel façade for any sign of a crack. None came: the woman was immaculate, grief-hardened like stoneware. Even with her youth, bereavement and stern beauty sentimentally leavened by the baby balanced on one knee, Mesach Love’s former bride might as well have been a corpse herself, her coarse black weeds and implacable regard erasing any hint of allure.
“Are we so quick to forget our Gideons, then, when we have so much need of them, if only as examples?” the Widow asked. “The Sword of the Lord may be wielded by anyone, Mayor, so long as the fight — and the warrior — be righteous. It says so here, in Judges.”
At this, Catlin raised hand and voice together, in all-too-polite objection. “Now, Sister Sophy, I’m not entirely sure that’s the correct interpretation to place on — ”
“Sure does,” someone behind Morrow confirmed; “sure does. She’s right about that.”
Sophy knew her audience. The ripple grew, became a general agreeing murmur.
“Sheriff taught her himself, and there wasn’t no one better’n him for Scripture.”
“Or bravery. ’Member when he stood toe-to-toe ’gainst Reverend Rook, with nothin’ but the Lord for backup? Devil won that round, but only halfway; even Satan himself couldn’t keep them two parted, or let young Gabe there stay bewitched.”
“And so what if he went down later on, still fighting? All flesh turns grass, eventually — way of the world. Yet it was God himself told the first Zealot: Peace be unto thee, thou mighty man of valour; fear not; thou shalt not altogether die.”
“That’s enough!” Langobard thumped the tabletop, face reddening. “Missus Love, there’s courage, and then there’s plain foolhardiness. The Harmons and the de Groots were told not to take lots so far north, and suffered the consequences. But I’ll not strip every field of able bodies, ’specially this close to harvest, and in this weather! If these men have an honest need to tend their lands — ”
Sophy drew herself up, suddenly ablaze, shifting Gabe to her hip. “More delay!” she shouted, uncowed. “You have done it again and again, since your election. Indeed, I begin to wonder if we shall ever be ready to march on Hex City, upon your say-so!” Morrow watched as a group of some dozen townsfolk — all with faces he recognized from the aftermath of Bewelcome’s resurrection, that day Ludlow so yearned to pick his brain on, and all well-armed — assembled at the stage’s far end, gathering ’round Sophy like Templars to the Ark. “The people of this town dare not wait forever — ”
“The people of Bewelcome voted me Mayor, Missus Love, not you!” Langobard bellowed back. “I won’t be dictated to, not by a mere female grasping at power she has no right to — earthly, or otherwise!”
“I repeat: this is my husband’s town, with Gabriel his only heir. What small influence I have here I hold in trust, for them both.”
“And therein lies the rub. For this is still a democracy we inhabit, madam, one in which your son has yet to attain his age of majority, let alone be elected to any sort of public office.”
“Be Mayor, then, Mister Langobard.” Abruptly, Sophy was all ice once more; Langobard rocked back on his heels, nonplussed. “Fulfill the charges given you. You know as well as I do that Bewelcome is over-billeted with Mister Pinkerton’s operatives and Captain Washford’s soldiers — we cannot feed them forever, much less endure the riff-raff, provenderers and Hooker-girls trailing in their wake. As for the newcomers who’ve helped to settle our God-blessed land — His kindness be with them all, but a growing population is a distraction we can ill afford, one which renders us daily less united in our purpose.”
“You were less displeased with our success when the depot station went up. Without Mister Pinkerton’s influence, it might well have been years before we saw a rail line out here — ”
“And Captain Washford can well speak to the problems that caused,” Sophy went on, inexorably. “Or am I wrong, Captain, in thinking that the supply-line trains have been consistently preyed upon by Reverend Rook’s forces, since they finally began regular runs?”
Washford rose, his stance more uncomfortable than ever. “Raids’ve increased, yes, like we knew they would. Still, they serve to draw the hexes’ attention away from Camp Pink, where Doc Asbury assures me he’s developing new measures to counteract the enemy’s resources — ”
“Yes, yes, all right.” Langobard cut Washford off with a peevish wave, ignoring how the other man’s eyes flashed. “To recap, Missus: though your points are taken, you must now take mine. I am in charge here, not you, and I don’t aim to see us all go the same way as Mesach Love himself, solely ’cause you’ve lost patience for justice.”
An underhanded strike, but one which seemed to hit, and deeply. For a moment, Sophy looked down, studying the table, as though in search of an answer — and as the blue granite of her gaze softened, Morrow got a sudden sense of the pain which lay behind it: still jagged as the moment after Yancey Kloves’ bullet met her man’s skull, these long months later. A hurt which had burned away everything in her that once rang gentle, purifying through calcination to leave nothing behind but commitment, cold as any butcher’s blade.
And this image, in turn, sent his mind careening back toward the woman who’d spawned it. Lost Yancey, whom he’d known so briefly, at least in the flesh, yet thought on so damn often. For a man to yearn after a woman he barely knew was more comedy than tragedy, prime as any vaudeville. But it was a hard thing nonetheless, to find himself so lamentably haunted by somebody who, he could only assume — could only hope, devoutly, fervently — probably wasn’t even dead.
He had a fair idea that she probably still rode with the man-squaw Yiska and her renegades, yoked to the will of that undead harridan, “Grandma.” Stranded amongst savages, with Pinkerton’s former pet sorceress Songbird her only “civilized” companion — was that any place for her to heal, even with her own bitter vengeance already accomplished? Or was she changing yet further, so much they’d be unrecognizable to one another when next they met?
Those few nocturnal reveries he’d had of her since, however, sweetly fleeting as they were, seemed so damn real. Even now, shutting his eyes, it was like he was there: the taste of her skin, the feel of her in his arms, that scent he could never recall on wakening, yet knew he’d know for hers under any circumstances. They lay abed, tracing each other like a pattern while she let down her dark hair, a curtain shutting them away from the world; in between bouts, she quizzed him on subjects he liked to think might give her aid or comfort, wherever she found herself.
Where are you? He’d asked her, once.
Only to watch her shake her head, sadly, and reply: Can’t tell you that, Ed. Too dangerous, for both of us. We’re working at a disadvantage, after all.
I miss you, he told her, to which she shaped a smile, already fading: sweet, just the way he remembered, or thought he did. For there was much about her he found slipping away likewise, worn down by time and distance — and all the time meeting only in dreams probably didn’t help much, on that score.
Of course, there was another ghost held tenancy in Morrow’s brainpan, too: someone also still upright, at least bodily, who he tried his best to avoid musing about at all, and mostly failed.
For awake or sleeping, Morrow intermittently felt Chess Pargeter’s touch, heard his voice, his sly laugh, the punctuational double-cock of
his guns. He saw red hair glint under every hat, read Chess’s rooster-proud strut in a thousand passing walks. Thinking, as he did: This must’ve been how it was for him, with the Rev. . . .
“You mistake me,” Sophy Love replied, at last. “No person in this room knows more keenly than I do that Law is the only certain cure for lawlessness — Mesach preached on that very subject many a time, and though he knew he might never live to see it truly flower, we held it worth the price. For Law is the future’s currency, Mayor, and once established, it must be defended. Tooth and nail.” The knuckles of her hands, folded primly before her, were white. “But if our enemies are not defeated, all Law will fall before them. Therefore do not count me so much impatient as afraid, lest all of us should lose what slim chance at it we have.”
The room was shamed to silence. And Morrow, caught in admiration, could only marvel at those stupid enough to think “mere” women unfit to rule.
It was the mild, reedy voice of Professor of Experimental Arcanistry Joachim Asbury which broke the spell first, declaring: “Missus Love, your position — though eminently moral — remains strategically unsound, in almost every respect.”
Langobard peered into the hall’s recesses. “That sounds like Doc Asbury.”
“Indeed,” Sophy agreed. “Once again, I see Mister Pinkerton has chosen to delegate his leadership duties.” Her eyes moved to Morrow, now rising to join Asbury, as the older man made his limping way down. “And Agent Morrow, as well — good to see the Agency represented directly by someone, at least. You are always welcome.”
Morrow cleared his throat. “Widow Love, Mayor Langobard, Captain Washford.” Adding, hesitating a scant beat before reflex overrode distaste: “Reverend Catlin.”
“Agent Morrow!” The pastor projected a blitheness so unflagging Morrow was hard put to figure whether it sprung from profound idiocy, incalculable self-confidence, or some admixture of both. “God bless and keep you. I take it your latest errand was successful?”
“Thank you, Reverend — we can deal with the niceties later, if you please.” Langobard leaned forward, table creaking under his weight. “But for once, Agent Morrow, I find myself and the Widow in full agreement. Where is Mister Pinkerton? Are we not important enough to receive our information from him at first-hand?”
Asbury shifted. “No, no. Mister Pinkerton wanted to come, I do assure you. But . . . circumstances . . .” He shrugged, helpless, as the crowd fell back to muttering.
He’s fighting a return of his old complaint, the old man had told Morrow, at the depot. It does seem to continue flaring up; the symptoms worsen, as well. Though I remain confident I shall find a true solution soon, he’d added, far too quickly to reassure.
For his own part, Morrow did not care to imagine what Pinkerton’s unnaturally imbued hex-hunger — like that of a born magic-user, yet somehow more venomous, eroding his very humanity along with his health and strength if not constantly fed — would look like, after “worsening.” He was only grateful he hadn’t yet had to find out.
“What the Professor’s tryin’ to say,” he interposed, “is how Mister Pinkerton’s needed particularly close to hand in camp these days, ’specially in times of war.”
“Huh.” Langobard leaned back, with a disgusted noise. “’Tween honest folk and hexes, war’s like men versus little red ants on a hill, with them the men in this equation.”
“Not so.” This last came from Captain Washford. “They’ve power, sure, but comparatively few have imagination or the discipline enough to wield it optimally, whilst we have numbers and persistence. Plus, we know full well what we fight for: Our entire world’s survival.”
“Oh, Hex City’s Lady don’t seek to destroy that,” Morrow remarked; “it’s hers already, by her lights. And she’ll need us, too, after — as fuel, for that Machine of hers.”
Catlin said hopefully: “Yet, to paraphrase Matthew 7:12 . . . if we leave them alone, might be they’ll leave us alone?”
“Uh huh. And might be pigs’ll learn to live shit-free, but I somewhat doubt it.”
Langobard scowled. “Gentlemen . . .”
“No, Mayor; Agent Morrow’s right, impoliteness aside.” Sophy’s mouth twitched, shaped a ghost of a smile. “Those to the north won’t let us be, not so long’s they do the Rev’s bidding, or he does hers.”
“Exactly.” Morrow glanced from the Widow to Langobard, then Washford. “All of you have a chunk of the truth, and we need to parse it out proper. Though we don’t dare wait much longer to take the fight toward Hex City once again, we can’t afford to do so unarmed.” He gestured to Asbury, who opened the heavy hide rucksack slung at his waist. “Now, the Doc here’s worked hard preparing the tools we need, in order to steal at least some hope of victory. So, with your permission . . .”
Asbury cleared his throat, turning the glass-faced device he’d withdrawn from side to side, so all could see. “This, which you may have already heard of, is the Manifold,” he said. “I shall not waste time explaining its construction, save to note that its clockwork incorporates gears of magnetized metal and a silver-iron-sodium alloy.” He twisted the fob several times, setting its gears a-whirl. “Once activated, the interaction of these kinetic-magnetic energies with the arcane conductivity of the alloy creates a field capable of disrupting hexacious input. While active, this device may be used as a shield against witchery and a weapon to dispel standing enchantments — merely strike the object or creature in question, and its efficacy will be dispersed.”
“Very clever, Doctor,” Langobard began. “Yet I fail to see what use one gadget might possibly be. . . .”
Here he trailed off, however, when Asbury upended the rest of his baggage onto the stage with a great cascading metallic clatter. Dozens of Manifolds slid out, shining in the light of the hall’s lanterns, and the crowd’s manner — hitherto that of bemusement — sharpened, with electrical fierceness, to an excitement so palpable it made Morrow grin.
“One to any who think they need one,” Asbury declared. “A charitable donation to our Bewelcomite fellow travellers in the War on Hex, care of Mister Pinkerton . . . and myself, of course.”
“Amazing.” Washford rubbed his chin. “Delicate mechanisms, though, Doctor, am I right? Not amenable to direct impact, grit in the gears — or being dropped?” As Asbury flushed: “Not that I mean to belittle your contribution, but we must know its limits. Will this truly work on any hex? Even ones such as Reverend Rook, or his Lady?” Adding, with a sidelong look at Morrow: “Or that other demi-deity we all know of . . . can we speak his name aloud, without inviting his participation?”
“Chess Pargeter’s no part of this,” Morrow replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Not anymore.”
“But reports put him all over the battlefield — at its edges, in the thick of the fray. He’s been seen at the station, watching trains come in. Hell, he’s been seen in people’s dreams.”
Here Catlin shook his head, smiling stupid-wide. “Wouldn’t place much trust in those tales, Captain — we’re none of us Daniels. People dream of what they fear.”
“And they fear what they have reason to. Don’t they, Mister Morrow?”
Suddenly, everyone was looking Morrow’s way.
Knowing Asbury in particular awaited his reply, he took the time to draw breath, before allowing:
“It’s true enough that something wages a campaign ’gainst the Rev and Herself, wearing . . . Pargeter’s shape, then turns the hammer ’gainst us, whenever we interfere. Take it from me, though — it ain’t him. I’ve been close enough to tell.” People fell silent, embarrassed by the implications. “For my money, he died in your town square, bringing y’all back from Beyond.”
Looking to Sophy, he was obscurely heartened to see her nod, albeit reluctantly. But Washford, who — like all the newest arrivals — hadn’t witnessed that particular anti-miracle for himself, stayed sceptical.
“The point still stands,” he said. “Regarding our biggest guns, and theirs — �
�
“Doc might have a thing or two to say ’bout that,” Morrow replied, looking to Asbury, who nodded.
“At Mister Pinkerton’s request,” he began, “I have improvised a mechanical analogue to the Hex City Oath, which — according to our information, gleaned mostly from deserters — apparently prevents those hexes who consider themselves its citizens from parasiting each other and yet still allows them to use their powers individually, though not against either the Lady nor her sworn consort, Reverend Rook. I had previously thought to shield our former ally Miss Yu Ming-ch’in — or Songbird, as she prefers to be called — from contagion by giving her a prototype version of the neutralization bracket we now distribute to all Camp Pink hexes. In her case it proved ineffective, but not in any way through the item’s own fault.”
Nope, Morrow thought. All that was on “Mister” Pinkerton’s head, for breaking it off her and swallowing the pieces, ’fore they had the chance to take permanent effect — chawing ’em down like jerky, to suck up all the sweet hex-juice inside. ’Cause when the fit’s on him, he can’t keep himself in check at all . . . and seein’ how you were one of the last to see him that-a-way, Missus Love, I’d say it’s no longer a great mystery why he shuns your company. Since he can glimpse the shadow of his monstrous self in your eyes, same way he does in mine, he keeps us both at arm’s length, dealing with us through middlemen; simply happens I’m the one in the middle, this time.
As though his words were bleeding over, Sophy Love’s clean white forehead wrinkled prettily. “And this restrains any secret hostility they may harbour toward the Pinkerton Detective Agency, as well? For with so many hexes under his command, I don’t doubt but Mister Pinkerton must sleep with one eye open, always ready for attack — ”
“Oh, the Thaumaturgical Law of Replication sees to that,” Asbury assured her. “All our brackets are cast from the same mold as Miss Songbird’s first shackle, with that close-held by the boss — Pinkerton — himself. And he who holds the master prototype may also use it to reverse the flow, de-powering every bracket-wearing hex who thinks to stand against him.”
