Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

So it was decided — and five days after that night in the Two Sisters, Rook and Chess sat looking down on Bewelcome on horseback, from the same sharply sloping outcrop over which sunrise reached that threadbare-pleasant little settlement, most mornings. Had any Bewelcomeites chanced to glance their way, however, they would have seen nothing but what was rapidly becoming one of Rook’s favourite illusions, a heat-haze which repelled the eye without inciting even the briefest comment, and bent the reflecting sky like water.

Located several miles past the very outermost edge of the Bisti Badlands, Sheriff Mesach Love’s stronghold was the sort of place Rook’s gang would normally ride through at top speed, not looking ’round while they did, then never think of again. Its folks were almost universally the sort who’d probably call themselves “poor but honest” — more poor than honest, by Rook’s reckoning — and hadn’t even put up much in the way of a Main Street, thus far. But maybe they were just waiting ’til Love got his church built.

“This place really is the asshole of the world,” Chess observed, idly.

“You truly do despise simple people, don’t you, Chess?” Rook asked. “Why is that, I wonder?”

Chess shrugged. “Just don’t think too much on them, that’s all.”

“And I’m sure they’d be happy to keep it that way, too, they knew you like I do.”

But all that would change, and soon enough, if things went according to the plan they’d roughed out back a mile or so, squatted in the shadow of a startling green cliff, surrounded by a wild moonscape of sandstone and shale.

“They’ll beat on you, I reckon, once they catch you,” Rook said, to which Chess gave that same shrug again, since they both knew he was only stating the obvious.

“Reckon so. But given they already eat a steady diet of Love’s holy horse-crap down there, I’ll bet I’ve had worse.”

“Holy horse-crap?”

“Aw, Ash, you know — ‘for God so loved the world,’ et cetera.” Chess’s glare turned vicious. “Like any God worth his salt wouldn’t know what a bag of filth he’d shit out on top of every one of us, and make himself sick laughin’ over it.”

“Sheriff Love believes in a good God, no doubt.” Chess didn’t answer. “Okay, then how’s this: I find I might still believe in the Lord myself, Chess, down deep. Hate to disappoint.”

Did he, though? The Lord, yes. but a good God? A forgiving one?

God is always good, Brother Rook, the old preacher in his home town had once told him, so long ago. And He always wants to forgive. It’s just that we so seldom allow Him that opportunity.

Rook felt a vague knot form in his chest, right where his heart should be. Didn’t want to think too hard on that, though, so he looked over at Chess, instead, smiling at the thought of his pocket-sized Satan ever begging forgiveness — and the knot swelled up even higher, bruising his lungs, making his stomach clench. “As for God,” Chess said, “you choose t’believe in him, that’s all well ’n’ good, I s’pose. Does he believe in you, though? My personal bet would be — not like I do.”

But to that, of course, there was nothing to say.

They laid in their heels, and galloped down in opposite directions.

It was Joseph in Genesis which gave Rook the words to lay a misdirective glamour over the

ir camp, just as the sun finally sank beneath the horizon: “And the keeper of the prison committed to Joseph’s hand all the prisoners that were in the prison. and whatsoever they did there, he was the doer of it,” he murmured, back to the town, while Hosteen and the others watched uneasily, and red light fell bloody on the pages. “Because the LORD was with him, and that which he did, the LORD made it to prosper.”

The verses thrummed in his mouth, as yet another heat-shimmer distortion washed over the camp, and all of them vanished at once.

Walking into town took an hour. By that time, the “streets” were lit with lantern overspill and pit-bound cook-fires here and there between the tents. There was a rising ruckus already to be heard, even from a distance — gunshots, hoof beats, shouts and blows: Chess, doing his job.

Truly amazing, the amount of trouble one small man can cause, Rook thought. Especially if he really puts his mind to it.

Watch the dust, he’d told the rest, and keep your weapons handy. Remember, they won’t be able to see you, not ’til I’m done . . . so make your own way and look out for yourself, ’cause any man’s dumb enough to wander off, he’s gonna find himself stranded in the desert. And we’re not stoppin’ to pick up any damn strays, afterwards.

And now, he could hear somebody yelling, from ’round the next “corner” — an alleyway down the side of that half-raised frame where the church was eventually set to plant itself.

“Rook! We know you’re out there, blasphemer. . . . ”

“Best come collect your catamite, ‘Reverend’! ’Course, he ain’t too good-lookin’, anymore; had to dirty him up a touch. Hope ya don’t mind.”

Yelled a third voice: “Oh, he’s plenty good with a gun, I’ll give you that. Get hold of him in close quarters, though, and the bitch fights like a damn bar-room gal!”

Close enough to make out features, now. There was a variety of scuffle and tug going on, somewhat obscure — ’til all at once, Rook figured it out. They were hauling Chess out through the crowd’s heart, running him down a vicious little gauntlet of slaps, punches and kicks as they did. One particular thick-set roughneck reached back into the thick of it to grab Chess by whatever ear came handiest and threw him bodily forward into the dust, where he landed doubled up, gasping out a curse.

“Just shut the fuck up, faggot,” the man said, and kicked him in the side. “Might as well keep your mouth free for other things, while you still got most’ve your teeth.”

Now, Rook thought, hands curling into claws.