A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

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!”

Pinkerton loomed above her as a half-dozen sentries rushed over, ringing the captives with rifle muzzles. “Oh, aye? And what would yuir man Fennig think of that, I wonder?”

“Nothing,” Eulie said, softly. “Hank’s dead — Clodagh too. Lady Rainbow killed him.”

“Killed them both, the bitch, and after all he did for her, as well. Though, with Clo . . .” Berta shook her head, angry tears leaking

free. “. . . hell, you’ll see soon enough, I guess,” she concluded, at last.

Pinkerton nodded to the child. “So who’s this?

The girl gulped back her sobs. “Marizol es mi nombre, jefe,” she got out. “Mi madre e padre — mama, papa . . . they bring me to the City, to worship the Lady with them. I am not bruja, I swear it! I grow up in Huejuquilla, I am no one — I only wish to go home. Please . . .” As she slumped, Morrow knelt, circling her with one arm; she pressed herself into his side, shivering, with cold and fever mixed. “Please,” she whispered. “I wish to go home.”

Morrow looked to Pinkerton, who snorted in exasperation. “Sweet Christ, Edward, we’ve neither time nor men to spare on repatriations — how close do you think any State-uniformed man would get to the border, with the Hapsburg on the march? Still . . .

belike the Bewelcomites could be persuaded to handle one more refugee.” With a small but real smile: “She’s no’ much of an eater by the looks of her anyways.”