A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Here Fennig turned to Rook full-on, eyes literally glowing; his smoked lenses, twin glass-sheathed lantern wicks, swum brim-full of bright blue light. “So why ain’t we takin’ more care in the building of it, is what I want to know? Why ain’t we puttin’ all our gifts together now we can—make something that’ll last long after we die, ’stead of dryin’ up and blowin’ away?”

Rook raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. That anyone had finally asked the question at all was occasion enough; that it was this man was genuinely surprising.

“Bear in mind, Hank, never was a hex born took easy to another tellin’ him what to do—which is why I don’t foresee many folk signing up for latrine duty, sad to say. Still,” he looked around, “city don’t run itself, that’s for certain.”

“No.” Fennig narrowed his eyes at Ixchel’s ziggurat, as if measuring it. “Seems like she ain’t quite taken that into account.”

“That’s my lady wife you’re talkin’ about, New York.”

“Apologies, Reverend; I’d never get ’tween a man and his mutton.” He visibly rummaged for the next few words, fitting ’em carefully together. “And yet—there’s none’a the rest of you comes from a city upwards of two thousand strong, am I right? ’Cept maybe for her, an’ I don’t think she was the one had administration of it, or wanted such. That’s why she’s got you.”

“Ain’t all that many of us, either.”

“Not yet,” Fennig shot back. “But more hexes than ever dwelt in one place, more every day—and not hexes alone, either. You know a lot of ’em come in on the very edge of turnin’, and them’s the ones bring along sweethearts, kids. There’ve been others gone out to roust farmers and crafters from any town they can find, bind ’em into service. Hell, who d’you think’s working the crop-plots, out where the Lady’s gussied up the soil? My guess, we got two or three normal folk for every hex—and that’s as like as not to go up, not down.” A deep breath. “Pretty soon, the way we’ve been goin’ on won’t be halfway good enough, any more. And when that day comes . . . well, might be you need to delegate. Might be . . . we can even afford to trust one another.”

He hesitated, considering Rook’s impassive expression. “For now, at least,” he added.

Rook thought it over. In silence, they turned down what had become, by default, Hex City’s “Main Street”—a broad laneway run straight east from the open square before the ziggurat, so the knife-wielders at temple’s peak looked direct into the sun each dawn. Its course was kept empty by something between divine decree and curse—any hex who thought to raise up a structure too near the road found himself suddenly struck down, all forgings collapsed to dust and glitter. Whether he lived long enough after to recover was dependent on Ixchel’s mood, once the case was brought before her.

No matter how ruthlessly she policed her processional, however, the Lady was utterly indifferent to what might spring up just beyond. So instead of epic bas-reliefs and exotic marketplaces, canals to feed the farms beyond or elegant garden-set homes, New Aztectlan resembled some unholy mix of every foreign poor-folks’ quarter Rook’d ever seen, infused with the wrecked, would-be grandeur shared by all too many Confederate towns during the War’s dying days. But better and worse than both, because . . . well, look at who’d built it.

A transparent cube, walls, floor and ceiling all grown from something Rook thought might be actual diamond, with a twirling ribbon of multicoloured light spinning endlessly inside, was home to a barber-surgeon who used his keen-edged fingers for scissors and scalpel. A popular groggery-saloon boasted a façade as grand and glorious as any Parisian vaudevillery’s—’til you passed at an angle and glimpsed it for what it was: parchment-thin, kept upright by hexation and nothing else, with a clumsy thing of sap-weeping planks hid behind. The domed brown blister kitty-corner ’cross from it was, Rook knew, a brothel

run collectively by a half-dozen young women who’d masked their true talents in whoring, safe from priest or lawman alike, ’til the Call brought them here. Now they’d carved themselves a fresh business-domicile right out of the earth, with utter disinterest for stylish considerations; those in search of witch-pussy would just have to eat a peck of dirt, or go wanting.

And the general store where the fruits of raids and conjurings were offered for purchase seemed at first glance like a longhouse cabin, ’til a closer look showed every bark-clad log fused smoothly with its neighbour, stumps sprouting green leaves and threading knotted roots down into the earth. Scattered among the larger buildings, like warts on a toad’s skin, were huts housing anywhere from one to a dozen citizens: those who’d staked a claim but didn’t have enough power, as yet, to claim more territory.

It was all so unimaginative, Rook thought, with a spasm of disgust; even the most ostentatious displays were mere peacockery, mundane vanity writ larger, not deeper. As if the only thing these people could think to do, given power and freedom most could only dream of, was to ape the lives they’d left, substituting trade in raw magic for gold or cash.

“Right mess, ain’t it?” Fennig commented, with disturbing acuity.

“Old habits, I s’pose,” Rook allowed.

“Womenfolk like routine.” Fennig glanced sideways at Rook’s raised eyebrow. “Ain’t you noticed, Rev? Near three of every five hex-workers in this town’s of a feminine nature.” He shrugged. “Plain sense, you think about it—power comes to a woman with her first bleeding, but only t’one of us if we’re hurt near to death. Bound t’be more of them than us.”

Fire blazed in Rook’s memory, silent and searing: a haystack beneath a ladder upon which a poor boy with one square pupil was bound, his skin blackening, mouth open in a wail so soundless even the sparrow-marking God had not answered.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But that might be why they get caught so easy, too. Not to mention how witches bear witch-children, eventually—and more than half the time, both drink each other dry. We men are spared that bargain, at least.”

“Except,” Fennig countered, “here, we don’t need t’be.” He looked at the people beginning to gather along both street-sides, watching them pass: a hodgepodge of male and female, old and young, black and brown, red and pale, even a sprinkling of true Chinee-yellow, the sort Miss Songbird’s pig-pale skin would never support. Plus various children, owl-blinking at their parents’ elbows; Fennig nodded their way. “Some of those might be hexes-in-waiting already, but that don’t mean we gotta be fearful. I could raise up a son, here, Reverend . . . you, too.”

The truth of that shook him, twisting Rook’s gut in a way he could never have expected. With numb dread, he thought: What we do here has changed things already. Won’t stop, either, just ’cause she don’t see it happening.

“A man wants to change his circumstances might do better to have no kin in tow, though,” Rook observed, voice deceptively even. “One thing I’ve learned in this vocation, Henry . . . trust comes easier, when there’s less to lose.”

The three-fingered hand danced lightly up, making some mock-casual adjustment—and Rook felt the icy touch of Fennig’s regard fix on him, peering inwards. For answer, he drew on his own mojo, like a lawman clearing his guns; force pressed ’gainst force a moment, as the air seemed to hush. Then Fennig let his breath out, dropping hand to belt, and Rook showed his appreciation for the gesture by returning the favour.

“Don’t dream too big, son, is all I suggest,” he told Fennig, without rancour. “’Cause Christ knows, this ain’t no democracy, and it ain’t our dreams take pride of place. That’s the kind’a mistake leads a man to the Machine.”

Fennig’s jaw tightened. “There’s some might be thinkin’ to make that mistake, sure. But I ain’t one of ’em.”

“Just as well. Those risin’ against me might have some chance. Those risin’ against her? None at all.”

“Well, laying any talk of ‘rising’ by . . .” Fennig waved his hand, dismissing all thoughts of conflict. “Don’t see no reason we can’t make some improvements, nonetheless. For all our benefits.”

“Laudable goal, Henry. Others feel the same, you know of?”

“Not all of ’em, no. But we don’t need all—some’s bound for that Machine of yours, just like you said, no matter what they do.”