A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

’Sides from Yiska and her crew, that is — Yiska, and Yancey, and whatever-the-hell that thing was ran off with Songbird, who ain’t probably feeling too friendly toward you either, right about now.

“Why not the Texicans?” Pinkerton demanded.

“’Cause you’d see that coming, and there’s no way you haven’t already made overtures their way, anyhow. Might just as well sign up with Hex City and see how that shook down, I wanted to paint myself into a corner.”

He watched the Agency’s founder ponder this, and thought: But at this point, I’d probably “ally” with Satan’s left nut if I thought it’d take you down, you unreliable sumbitch. And depending where Chess’s meat-suit ends up next, I may yet, in a fashion.

Morrow could still remember how much he’d respected Pinkerton, once — how glad he’d been to wear the badge, to take up the case against Rook (and Chess) that’d led him this long and looping way. Recollection of that first private train-bound briefing, back when Asbury’s theories on integrating hexes into society were fired with idealistic zeal rather than liquor, made him almost as sad as remembering the many ways Pinkerton’s subsequent actions had contributed, since then, to thoroughly disabusing both Morrow and Asbury of those notions.

Could be his thoughts had run just a bit too loud for comfort, however. Pinkerton’s eyes narrowed. Without warning, he grabbed Morrow’s jaw, fingers digging deep. Morrow gasped as power smashed down upon him, sizzling against his skin and searing his mind, burrowing in with that horrible shoving grip as Pinkerton’s will knotted itself with his, a fist in his soul.

For a moment, Morrow felt his mouth open to let everything spill forth, without exception. But a second later, the other man’s mental grip shattered, slipping free — Morrow staggered back, only stopping himself from raising (and pumping) his eight-gauge with a vast, convulsive effort.

Pinkerton studied him, apparently a bit too closely concentrated on fine interior detail to notice how close he’d come to getting his head blown off. “Verra interesting indeed, Edward,” he mused, the sheer speed of his anger’s disappearance in itself disturbing. “That signature ’round your person, interfering with my investigations; since I know ye’ve not replaced your Manifold as yet, could it be ye’ve gone hex yourself, and not told me? Or struck up a bargain, mayhap, with some Power or other. . . .” He stopped, smiling. “Ah, though — I think, in fact, we both ken the name of one entity with whom ye had a most intimate relationship, before this conflict got quite underway. Do we not?”

Rook’s words returned: You’ve already seen how hard it is to hurt Chess. Stay close, and that’ll be you, too. But that whole “prophet of the Skinless Man” sham had served its ends and been done with, surely; whatever protection he’d been gifted on the overspill had to’ve died when Chess did, hadn’t it? And yet — if not, as Pinkerton’s just-proven inability to simply seize his mind and squeeze it for anything he wanted would seem to argue, then . . .

Maybe Chess — the real Chess — is still alive, somewhere deep down. Inside the Enemy itself.

To merely form the thought was almost enough to stop his breath. Still, he barely had time to consider it any further than a heartbeat, before a knock at the door interrupted them.

The new arrival proved to be Asbury, looking deeply, wretchedly miasmic.

Geyer must still be lurking back in his tent, Morrow guessed, and tensed, hoping the Professor’s thoughts wouldn’t give anything away. Soon enough, however, it became clear that Pinkerton was clearly long-accustomed to paying as little attention to Asbury’s interior workings as he could manage — a decision which one could only hope would eventually prove a profound mistake, on his part.

“Apologies for disturbing you, Doctor,” said Pinkerton. “I presume from Ed here’s manifest survival that your test went well, but thought I’d as lief confirm it in person, and privately. Were we successful, then?”

“Admirably so,” Asbury admitted. “What third-mark Manifolds saw action performed optimally even when used foolishly, just as Reverend Rook himself proved unable to resist our new alloys. Yet, all this aside, I am unsure if the price paid was worth it.” As Pinkerton raised a brow: “Missus Sophronia Love, sir, and her babe — both lost, victims of the Reverend’s depredations. Without her to approve our methods, Bewelcome will be far less willing to provide us logistical support for the next advance, or otherwise. . . .”

Pinkerton snorted. “Though no man can question your genius, Doctor, your understanding of human psychology remains dearly deficient. A figurehead martyr does as well in rousing bellicosity as the Love woman would e’er have done her own self — and, better yet, lacks her disturbing tendency to argue.” Collapsing into the same chair the medium had used, he tilted it back, smiling rakish over tented fingertips. “On t’other hand, I’ve good news for you, too — our distraction worked. The hex-train arrived while the Reverend’s forces were engaged upon Bewelcome, laden down wi’ the last of the supplies you need for that ‘Land Ironclad’ you designed. Should take but a day or so to finish the vehicle’s assembly; arm its pieces with your anti-hexological shells, and we’ll have an assault no amount of hexation can turn back.” His eyes glittered at the image, hungrily.

“That is good news,” said Asbury, looking as though he wanted to retch. “I can attend to that in the morn — wait. ‘Distraction’?”

“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.