A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

“If it’s all the same, then . . . why here, ’stead of anyplace else?”

Yiska shrugged. “There has always been much power here, a spiral that hides us from Rainbow Woman’s sight; it should help the little ghost to heal, too, if she ever unstiffens her pretty neck enough to accept the Spinner’s counsel. Just as it helps the Spinner stay . . . in Balance.”

Was that the exact right sense of the word, though? Yancey’s gift might help her understand much of the Na’isha tongue, but some concepts still eluded her.

“Besides, here we have long sight and fresh water, game to hunt if we are sparing. And most of all, here it should be easiest to send out the Call,” said Yiska.

“Call . . . to who?”

Yiska had only stared steadily at her, not needing to make her thoughts loud, or think at all. Yet “saying,” nevertheless: You know who.

The Chaco Wash flowed northward within walking distance of the butte’s foot, running unseasonably high and fast. Yancey went to bathe there most mornings, not letting the water’s increasing frigidity as months wore on deter her from her ritual cleansings — and “ritual” was the proper word. They had become a touchstone, a reconnection with the flesh, a grounding, calming process which washed away most — if never all — of the bone-deep weariness of her work.

For similar reasons, Songbird performed her own set of daily ablutions, though usually much later on and in hiding, with water Yiska brought her. Unused even to dressing without help, she had at first tried to beat her embroidered red satin outfit clean against the cavern walls until it began showing signs of wear and tear, at which point she’d given up, and gone silent and filthy. When Yancey tried to help she’d spat at her, claiming that when she regained the full extent of her magic, she would punish all interfering white ghosts accordingly.

By mid-July, a month into their stay, the realization she still wasn’t yet strong enough to reweave her outfit from its own decaying components — and didn’t seem likely to recover such strength anytime soon — finally sank Songbird into despair, prompting Yiska to take charge. The war-shamaness began to bring presents, some probably traded for on provision-gathering trips, others made, with painstaking skill: a pair of deerskin breeches and gartered leggings, neatly stitched, to replace her worn-through pyjama-pants; moccasins beaded in red and white, with rawhide soles; even a “squaw-dress” woven on a blanket loom with sides and shoulders laced together, leaving room for armholes and a poncho-style neckline. A full blanket, once added overtop, made for far better shading than Songbird’s original scarlet silk wedding veil — and provided a stylish accoutrement, too, ’specially when fringed with a hundred pierced abalone shell slices that rattled as she walked, announcing her queenly tread.

At first, the hex-girl greeted these overtures with grumbling, sarcasm . . . what sounded to Yancey like outright insults, for all she was careful to keep to her own language for those. But as time wore on, persuaded that tolerating Yiska’s aid was her only hope if she wanted to stay presentable, Songbird finally allowed the woman to touch her long enough to braid her white hair back into two tight plaits, then coil and pin them into a bun at the back of her head, protecting her delicate nape. She settled into the game, appearing to accept such tribute as her due. Adopted a murmuring, musical tone, gave compliments, even favoured Yiska on occasion with an occasional flirtatious glance from under bleached eyelashes.

These gifts were a form of courtship, as all involved well knew; hell, Yancey recalled receiving much the same treatment from (the late) Marshal Uther Kloves, though his love tokens ran to colourful store-bought frippery, the kind her Pa’d probably assured him all young maids dreamt on. He’d hoped to gain her hand in the bargain, with her heart following somewhat after — not quite the same sort of outright transaction Miz Songbird was no doubt used to from her time on San Francisco’s Gold Coast, but not so very far away from it as Yancey might’ve once been comfortable to think, either.

Marriage for money’s not but one step away from outright whoredom, in my opinion, Chess Pargeter had told her in the desert outside Splitfoot’s, just before she’d pasted him one ’cross the chops. Back then, it’d seemed like deadliest insult; now it just rang like wisdom, hard-won, hard-worn.

According to fled Pinkerton Frank Geyer, Yiska had a reputation for being “like” Chess — a lover of fellow women just as Chess’s own urges leaned only to other men, which suggested a fairly good idea of what the martial squaw hoped to gain from whatever bargain she and Songbird might negotiate. Seeing them together at close quarters, however, Yancey found she wasn’t so sure. Her own upbringing hadn’t kept her overly innocent, after all. Lust she knew, well enough to recognize, but love as well, in several varieties.

“This Old Woman in the rock we squat on,” she heard Songbird say now, sponging herself clean with the remaining length of her veil, while Yiska leaned on guard against the canyon wall, carefully angling her gaze to keep the girl’s modesty intact. “Is that this Changing Woman of yours, the . . . Ash-da Nah-lay?”

Yiska shook her head, black mane swinging. “Asdzaa Nadleehe, Three Ages in One, the woman who is transformed time and again — this is somewhere she watches over, yes, like all thin places. But Tse Diyil’s Old Woman is another thing entirely, to be feared, not worshipped. Almost Anaye.”

“A ghost, then.”

“Perhaps. When I was young, my grandfather told me no one was allowed on top of the butte, or even allowed to lean against its sides. A long time ago, they used to say a lady lived there, called She Who Dries You Out. Every so often she would go to a nearby canyon and fill her jug with water, then carry it back. Sometimes, she would take a man up to the top of the butte with her. Next morning, her beauty would be gone; she would be old and ferocious, very hungry. The man would be tied up in the sun, dry and dusty, and when he asked for water she’d piss into a

bowl instead, telling him to drink it. Soon the man would make his way back down the butte, get thin, and then die.”

“Ah, so she is a jiang-sh’i, beautiful suck-blood demon: a corpse who never withers, with only its lower soul remaining. We also tell this story, but better.”

“Since Ch’in stories are always better, uh?”

“You are learning, barbarian.” Done with her toilette, Songbird squeezed out the last of the water, tucking her silks away once more into her narrow bodice. “And was she very dark, this Drying Lady in your grandfather’s tales, the way you and your men are — like something carved from wood, or cast in copper? Do you still fear to meet her, having disobeyed his advice and occupied her home?”

At this, Yiska smiled, wide enough to show her eyeteeth. “In fact, I had always heard that she was fair, White Shell Girl,” she replied. “Like the moon, or a cow’s hide without one flaw, brushed until it shines. And no, I do not fear to meet her, or her reflection. I dream on it.”

Songbird sniffed. “Thus proving only that you are as foolish as I have always thought.”

“One more idiot barbarian savage,” Yiska replied, nodding, “in a nation of long-nosed ghosts. Is that the way this song goes?”

“You have said it, not I.”

“You are the one who says it over and over, trying to make it hard for me to like you. But when have I ever let that stop me?”

With a hiss, Songbird snatched up her blanket, wrapped it so as to leave only her eyes visible and flounced forth, striding into the morning sunlight with her fringes all a-jangle. Yiska just stood and watched her go, still smiling.

“Has trouble with saying thanks, that one,” Yancey spoke up, after a moment, “and more trouble yet with feeling grateful. Or needing someone.”

“I have noticed.”

“Seems to me she got raised to think pretty much every way people deal with each other is just . . . business. People like that — they don’t tend to treat any kind of affection too gently. They can be hurtful, whether or not they mean to be. And very hurtful, when they do mean it.”