by Gemma Files
“Did ye think I’d only one purpose in mind for this attack?” Pinkerton spread his hands, grinning once more. “I knew Rook would move against Missus Love directly, sooner rather than later; this is a man used to congregations, knowing full well the value of a God-chose leader. Let slip news of a town meeting wi’ all the leading citizens present, and I thought it likely he’d try for a decapitating strike — which would, in turn, open the way for our train. The opportunity to test your devices under fire was icing on that verra same cake.”
Asbury straightened with effort. “Sir,” he rasped, “I do not appreciate being treated so . . . disposably, exigencies of war notwithstanding — ”
“All you need appreciate is what I tell you, ye daft old gaffer,” Pinkerton snarled, all humour abruptly gone. “Now get back to your tent and rest, for I want your faculties clear for tomorrow’s work — entirely clear, d’ye grasp my meaning? I smell so much as a wisp of gin on you, Professor, and I’ll sober ye up my way, the which you’ll not enjoy at all.” He snapped his fingers, setting sparks a-crackle. “Now go.”
The doctor stared at him one moment more, then left, without further word.
Morrow thought about how much he owed Chess Pargeter, and how little of that debt he’d been able to repay, thus far. At the same time, meanwhile, he thought about exactly how hard Chess would’ve laughed at the idea of anyone owing him anything, before pointing out that most of the danger he’d “saved” Morrow from had been danger Morrow’d only gotten into on account of travelling with Chess, in the first place. Hell, he could almost hear that little red-headed bitch-bastard’s voice, a sharp hint of laughter between every word: Why ex-agent Morrow, you sad sentimental; don’t be an idjit, Ed. ’Cause fine a ride as we might’ve took on each other, a time or two, we’re neither of us so nice as to be worth gettin’ killed over.
Pinkerton turned back, grin once more in place. “As for you, Ed — I’ll see you off to your rest soon too, no fear. There’s just one last . . . service . . . I require of ye tonight, beforehand.”
Silence stretched out, uncomfortably unbroken, ’til Morrow made himself ask, finally: “And — that would be?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Led at a quick clip by the man himself, Pinkerton, Ludlow, Carver and Morrow made their way past Camp Pink’s primary fortifications: palisades, trench lines, reels of that strange new “barbed” wire with its diamond-shaped points, ordered wholesale from Ohio. For he always did have to be at the forefront of invention, did Mister Allan, even with hexation left entirely aside — and this was but one more innovation in the repertoire, same as the painstakingly compiled surveillance files, the “rogue’s gallery” of photographic arrays, or the forays into long distance crime-cracking by telegraph and pony express. Hell, the man probably even considered Fitz Hugh Ludlow’s presence just another arrow for the legend-building quiver, each wordy observation waiting to be tamed into yet another brick for the Agency’s public façade.
What is it you’re taking us out here to show him, exactly, “boss”? Morrow wondered. And why in the Christ do you need me on hand, to do it?
Of course, when stacked up against hexation’s threat, most measures — those not devised by Doc Asbury, at any rate — seemed ridiculously inadequate; more make-work and reassurance than aught else, good for little except keeping everyone busy, between charges. But over these last months, Morrow had seen for himself that those hexes with strength enough to bypass the line were fewer and farther between than one might suppose. In fact, perfectly mundane shells and slugs could take even the strongest down, if combined with enough luck, speed and massed fire.
As Washford had noted, for all the sheer power Hex City’s citizens boasted, almost none of them had any training in war, discipline under fire, or — most tellingly of all — practice working together. More than one sortie from New Aztectlan had failed when coordination broke down on the battlefield; the largest turned rout because one flank of hexes tried to lead a charge straight into the twelve-pounder Napoleons’ teeth, disastrously overestimating their own ability to protect their line from case shot and canister shells. Indeed, the carnage of that one September afternoon taught such a sharp lesson that even if the truly dangerous-minded enemy captains — Rook himself, New York Hank, the mysterious Chink Pinkerton’s intelligencers named merely as “Honourable” — managed to devise a counter-tactic, they wouldn’t be able to find sufficient volunteers in their ranks willing to attempt it.
Then again, all of Camp Pink had spent days listening to the screams of men dying on ceiba tree spikes, or seen whole waves transfigured into sandstone, before being shattered by some casual power-lash from behind the City’s seemingly impenetrable walls. And so the opposing forces had settled into standoff, striking and counter-striking in wary dashes, co-opting what sporadic reinforcements they could from hexes arriving in answer to the Call, and waiting for something to break. Yet stalemate notwithstanding, the air was so often filled with metallic blood-stink it simply didn’t strike Morrow all that strange to be smelling it even now, even here, at one of the farthest-forward entrenchments.
Not until the four-foot-wide earthwork trough dug behind said marker hove into sight, at least. And when, just a moment later, he saw the gleam of torchlight reflected redly from the shifting liquid surface — realizing, as he did, just why the stink hung so thick here — Morrow found himself gulping back a twinge of nausea. Two hex-handlers sat on camp stools nearby, wearily wiping dark stains off their hands; at their feet, tarred wooden buckets lay tipped and stickily empty. Carver stared with horror at the result, Ludlow with avidity, clearly composing chapter titles in his mind: Hex-Harried, American ’Tecs Driven to Emulate the Enemy’s Methods of Sanguinary Sacrifice — Says Pinkerton: “We Will Fight Fire with Fire, and Blood with Blood!”
“Read your report, Edward, whilst ye were napping,” said Pinkerton, rubbing his hands briskly together. “Going by it, this Smoking Mirror of yuirs seems almost . . . dealable-with, may we say? More so than Lady Rainbow and her ilk, leastways.”
“Not sure what dispatch you read, sir, but from my angle, that was hardly the gist of it.”
“It rose against Rook’s bitch directly, for once, and with witnesses aplenty — that’s different, in itself. A clear indication that so long as it and we are both set on bringing her down, the creature’s obviously more wi’ us than against us.”
Morrow all but goggled. “Well,” he said, finally, “perhaps I failed to adequately describe the moment, then, if that’s what you took away from it. But had you been present yourself — ”
“‘My enemy’s enemy,’ Ed . . . our single best choice of ally, really, given the selection. Classic tactics, in the Alexandrine mode.”
“Again, I’m not half the scholar you are, sir, and don’t pretend to be. But from my own experience, that maxim’s only good advice if the enemy you’re dealin’ with isn’t the Enemy.”
“Nevertheless.” Dismissing his arguments outright, Pinkerton indicated the trough with a theatrical sweep of one hand, offering Morrow a knife with the other. “Dinna be shy, Ed — gift us wi’ your expertise. Summon the thing that wears yuir friend’s shape, and let’s see what it thinks of my ideas.”
“And just how d’you suggest I — ?” Morrow exhaled, gustily. “Aw, hell; all right.”
For all had been abruptly made clear; much as he might want to believe otherwise, if Pinkerton had anything to say about it then this was going to happen, no matter what feeble objections Morrow might raise. Accepting the blade, therefore, he stepped to the trough’s side and laid one wrist open with a quick cross-wise stroke, letting the resultant dark jet fall to mingle with what blood already lay there.
Had to be swinish, he thought, already a touch lightheaded, or horse; no way to get that volume of human blood shed without someone noticing, and challenging its necessity. Or so he hoped.
Pinkerton glanced to Carver and Ludlow, fixing them both. “To be clear, gents: this is to be a negot
iation, no’ any sort of attempt at a binding. Any man draws weapon once this begins, he’ll be flogged.”
“Absolutely,” Ludlow agreed, without apparent qualm, or at least no wish to see his soft hide striped. But Carver merely stared back, obedience flecked with dismay; looked over at Morrow, brows hiked. As if to say: I thought it was us against the Hex, not for it. Thought you at least was righteous, “Ed,” even with unrighteousness aplenty all about. . . .
Just himself talking to himself, and Morrow knew it. Still, anger came surging up nonetheless, through mounting dizziness — and when he opened his mouth as though to snap at the younger man, what spilled out between his lips instead was a hiss-slur-click of unfamiliar Old Mex words, like he was some sort of human spirit-trumpet . . . nahuatl, the echo inside his skull named them. Blood-jet poetry drawn forth with the pulse of his own heart’s juice, which all who were close enough to hear found they somehow understood:
O yohualli icahuacan teuctlin popoca ahuiltilon Dios ipalnemohuani: chimalli xochitl in cuecuepontimani in mahuiztli moteca molinian tlalticpac, ye nican ic xochimicohuayan in ixtlahuac itec a ohuaya ohuaya.
(At night rises up the smoke of the warriors, a delight to the Lord the Giver of Life; the shield-flower spreads abroad its leaves — marvellous deeds agitate the earth; here is the place of the fatal flowers of death, which bloom to cover the fields.)
Maca mahui noyollo ye oncan ixtlahuatl itic, noconele hua in itzimiquiliztli zan quinequin toyollo yaomiquiztla ohuaya.
(Let not my soul dread that open field; I earnestly desire the beginning of the slaughter, may your soul long for that murderous strife.)
In ma oc tonahuican antocnihuan ayiahuc, ma oc xonahuiacan antepilhuan in ixtlahuatl itec, y nemoaquihuic zan tictotlanehuia o a in chimalli xochitl in tlachinoll, ohuaya, ohuaya, ohuaya.
(Let us rejoice, dear friends, and may you rejoice, O children, both within the open field and going forth to it — let us revel amid the shield-flowers of the battle.)
“Ohuaya,” he repeated, bittersweet and thick, as through a mouthful of marigold-scented gore. “Huitzilopochtli, Tezcatlipoca, Xipe Totec, Quetzalcoatl: come one, come all, come now, come. Ohuaya. Ohuaya. Ohuaya.”
The invocation released Morrow, then, allowing him to stumble backward, cut wrist suddenly afire. Showing startling presence of mind, it was Ludlow who stepped up to knot a kerchief tightly over the gash, murmuring out the side of his mouth as he did: “Most uncanny, sir! The Apostles’ gift of tongues, Hell-translated? If there is any way you might approximate some version of the original, er, Aztectlish for me, later — ”
Here, thankfully, he broke off, eyes widening: the blood-filled trough’s dense scum-skin had begun to bubble and steam, letting off a noise considerably thicker than that of boiling water — viscous, almost glutinous. Carver backed slowly away, clearly primed to draw, order or no. Pinkerton himself stepped to one side and, with no ceremony at all, grabbed one of the hex-handlers by the shoulder; the man stiffened, flailed and fell over to lie helpless, sucked near-dry in an instant, while blue-green light leaked out between Pinkerton’s knuckles like marsh slime.
“Thought we were goin’ to negotiate,” said Morrow, dry-mouthed.
“Aye, and it’s purest folly not to do so from strength, where ye can,” said Pinkerton, not taking his eyes from the trench, while Morrow wished his mouth was wet enough to spit. Should’ve thrown that damn knife into the trench and walked away, he thought; let him go fish for it, he wants this so —
Just then, the blood exploded upward, splattering hot gore in all directions. It splashed off Pinkerton’s shields like water from an oiled parasol, but Carver, Morrow, Ludlow and the hex-handlers, less protected, were all drenched instantly: blind, mildly scalded, repulsed beyond telling. Morrow choked and swiped his eyes clear, then felt an immediate urge to laugh hysterically at the look on Ludlow’s face, gaping down at his ruined notebook. But when his gaze moved further, to the thing that now stood on the blood’s surface like some awful Christ-parody, all idea of mirth died hard.
As in Bewelcome, the Enemy was naked but for a twining “suit” of Red Weed, still full of those bone-bits it’d picked up travelling through the earth — war trophies, decay-jewels, insults to dead and living alike. The vine’s flowers hissed, extending their pistils like tiny tongues. His face still looked like Chess’s, but stiff and set, as though worn like a mask, Xipe Totec-style; red hair, blue skin and green eyes all glowed with lightning, falling wispy from him as a mange-struck hound’s shed fur. And behind him, on the earth, his shadow seemed to hump up far too large and black for his small form, moving with a sickening independence.
Yet the wry, contemptuous smile he . . . it . . . wore twisted unexpectedly in Morrow’s gut, so like was it to one his lost friend might’ve come up with, under similar circumstances.
“Allan Pinkerton,” the thing said, seeming to taste the name — only one, after all, to the many it bore, from Chess Pargeter to Night Wind, Smoking Mirror, We Are His Slaves, and so on. “We recall you. Speak.”
Though Pinkerton had to moisten his lips, his voice came out laudably steady. “First off, I’d like tae thank ye for your actions in Bewelcome, which saved many innocent lives. Yuir generosity will no’ soon be forgot — ”
The Enemy gave a snort, and horked out a glob of blood at Pinkerton’s feet, where the droplet sizzled and sprouted into a Weed-tendril, lashing upward to suck hungrily at Pinkerton’s shields. With a yelp, the Agency chief slammed his boot down, bursting it to spray, then turned his glare on the creature who’d spawned it, which sniffed disdainfully.
“I expect neither gratitude nor reverence from you, human man,” it replied. “In fact, I suspect nothing you can offer would hold any interest for me at all, unless you prove otherwise. So speak the truth to me now, or say nothing.”
Pinkerton scowled. “Verra well. Ye could not have failed to witness the demonstration of our new capacities, which we believe may suffice to destroy any foe of a hexological nature, no matter how powerful — if, that is, we can somehow get within sufficient proximity.” He paused. “Am I correct to think that your interests lie merely in preserving the world as ’tis, rather than remaking — or ruling — it?”
“It is true I leave such meaningless occupations to others, as a rule. As for this world, Fifth in its line . . . why would I want it ended? Its disorder gives me great amusement.”
“So you don’t see there’s any great call for a Sixth, eh?”
“What my sister wants is to fall back, not move forward — by her own admission, she wishes to restore the Fourth, height of our reign, which ended in floods and was remade from bones. But she fools herself. No system built on death can ever be maintained past its due time; her ambition is an impossibility. I have only to play my games, and wait for her defeat.”
“You know what’s happening inside Hex City, then — New Aztectlan, as they call it.”
“At this very moment?” The Chess-thing shrugged. “I have some idea, but no. Does that disappoint you, Allan Pinkerton?”
“Somewhat. But I’ve found most deities disappoint, eventually.”
The Enemy matched Pinkerton’s wry grin with one of its own, slightly wider, displaying a row of black glass shark-teeth. “I have found the same,” it replied. “And yet . . .” Here it nodded to a point further out into the desert, empty as a robbed socket. Blinked Chess’s eyes, mildly.
Hell’s it doin’ now? Morrow barely had time to think, before something popped out of nowhere, high above. Two — no, make that three — somethings, falling fast.
The Enemy threw a hand up, casting Weed like sparks. Tendrils whipped ’round the lowermost body’s arms and legs, breaking its fall, jolting out a high-pitched cry in piteous Spanish; the other two felt its tug and leaped away, legs threshing, like the air itself was water. One was a dark girl with Creole hair, her hazel eyes lash-fringed and liquid, while the other . . .
“Hell,” Private Carver blurted out, “that’s th
at gal from Bewelcome, ain’t it? One who tried to smother me.”
Morrow nodded. “One of Three-Fingered Hank’s wives, yeah; I recall her. But — ” Why’s she here, without him? Or that Irish colleen tried to blast Sophy Love, either?
“Good questions, soldier,” the Enemy noted, as though he’d spoke them aloud. “Shall we ask the lady to explain herself?”
Pinkerton cast Morrow a foul look, making him colour. “Well, I — ”
The Weed cracked once more, snaring Berta Schemerhorne and her sister-wife (Eulalia Parr, the intelligencers’ dispatches gave her name as), pulling them back down. At Pinkerton’s finger-snap, the hex-handlers — the half-drained one recovered, or at least recovered enough — sprang forward, armed with hexation-deadening bridles spun from magnesium, to lasso and slap a set of temporary collars on ’em.
Reflexively, Carver moved to help, gun out; seemed to Morrow in retrospect that he almost seemed to think better of it, halfway into that first step, but no one could say the boy — ’scuse me, free man of colour — wasn’t game. And no matter how the women fought, without their power, they were just Eve’s weak flesh: a double-helping of Adam’s rib served rare, supposedly made for submission to God and man together.
Morrow had never particularly credited that teaching, really; it’d never described how his Ma and Pa got on, and he certainly didn’t believe it now, after having palled ’round even briefly with the likes of Songbird and Yiska, let alone Yancey Colder Kloves. But he still sometimes caught these things resounding inside him, hearkening back to that part of him which’d once thought Chess’s sort of outright daffodil patently incapable of beating a “real man” in battle, or that victory for non-hex over hex might be ensured by praying hard enough.
“Let go, damn you,” Miss Berta snarled, while Miss Eulie and the third arrival, a big-eyed Mex girl-child, clung each to each, only pried loose with great effort on Carver’s part. “We didn’t come to fight! We came to damn well surrender!”
