Least I know how to dress myself, he thought, resentful, as he threw his long body past Chess, to glare at the wall. For Chess no longer showed much interest in fashion, beyond what nattiness was attendant on being able to fit your clothes to yourself automatically, with no alterations necessary.
“You gonna turn in soon, or what?” he demanded. “It’s gone twelve midnight, by that bell they keep ringin’.”
Chess shook his head, got back up and went to the desk. “I got Council in the morning—need to study up on these papers Lobbel gave us.” Sifting through the yellowed sheaves, he scrunched up his face at them. “Damn, but that woman had bad hand-script! Don’t even look like English, half the time.”
“She was German.”
“Once, sure; hell, we all came from somewhere. But even Songbird knows you gotta palaver foremost in the agreed-on tongue, ’specially if you want any votes.”
“Yeah, well . . . maybe that wasn’t her aim.”
Chess squinted down at the page. “No, she was fixed to propose something just the day after she died.” He held up one sheet. “A law’d keep all ‘naturals’ out of city governance.”
Charlie sat up. “Even Missus Love?”
“Don’t specify, but I can’t see how not. Thing is, she wasn’t against the idea of unhexacious capping in with hexes from the start; Lobbel’s on three committees yet, same as Carver and the Widow both, makin’ calls on everything from building permits and navigation to where and when people have to dump their trash. And nobody else seems to have ever much minded him havin’ his say, either.”
“So what changed?”
“Bears asking, I s’pose. Man, I am no good at this sort’a foolery.”
“You’re probably better than you think, but lay that by—c’mere a spell, keep me company. Think I might just know me a few tricks you’ll like better.”
To which Chess gave a dismissive shrug, unimpressed by such ham-handed flirtations. Yet allowed himself to be enfolded nonetheless, without a fight, when Charlie sidled up behind.
Much of that night they sported as usual, since nothing either said to the other while upright was much like to put them off that. Chess was a man of appetites, and Charlie had always hitherto revelled in the knowledge that he fit ’em; learned ably what best made Chess purr or spit, applied those skills with a will, and enjoyed the consequences. But once the height of the tussle was past, they fell off in opposite directions—either to sleep, like Chess, or stay awake and brood with chin on hands, like Charlie.
Given he wasn’t contemplative by nature, and misliked the directions this weird place pointed his thoughts in, he expected to keep watch the rest of the night, trying to figure out just how many separate roofs the one overhanging them must’ve been sewn together from. So he was somewhat amazed when he jerked awake hours later, alone, with Chess’s side of the bed already gone cold.
“You are . . . the Pistoleer’s boy?” a voice asked, from the doorway—soft and high enough Charlie’s start was more reflex than fright. Its owner came cat-stepping out of the hall’s shadow, revealing herself a slender, barefoot russet-haired girl in a scoured-silk dress. She cupped her elbows, shivering, though the desert dawn was already warming the air—and as she did, Charlie saw how her fine-boned looks were far too much like her mother’s for him to miss his guess.
“Sure, like you’d be Jorinda von Grafin,” he rejoined, pettishly pleased to see her start. Answering the obvious question: “No, I ain’t no hex, girl—just an old sinning son of Adam, same’s you’re a daughter of Eve. I look and I listen, is all.”
“You were there, when the Pistoleer questioned my Vatti, yes?” Only on the one word was there any trace of German harshness, but Charlie’s ear caught the formality of one who’d learned English in a household not even a full generation native. “Because I solemnly swear to you, Mister Alarid—”
“Charlie.” He cut her off, hand raising. “Plain old Charlie, and it’s Chess damn Pargeter, not the Pistoleer—” She blinked at the scorn in his voice. “Plus, Lobbel ain’t your proper father, is he?”
“As good as!” Jorinda darted forward, suddenly all a-bristle. “The man who sired me I never knew. Friedrich is my Vatti, my father, truly, more than any man living, and he is innocent.”
“And you’re telling me because . . . ?”
“Because I want to join you; myself, my Vatti, Hansi. In service, to the Pi—apologies. To Mister Chess Pargeter.”
“Oh, do ya?” Charlie unfolded himself, hauling one of the bed-sheets up to cover what little modesty he still had, for odd though she might be she was tender, and probably hadn’t reckoned on perusing any strange man’s parts quite this early. “Just what the hell kinda service you think I’m in to Chess, girlie? You think ’cause I ain’t a hex, I’m bound to skip and scuttle at his say-so?”
“No, please—I meant no disrespect—” Jorinda squared her shoulders, met his gaze again, straight on; despite himself, Charlie found himself impressed by the kid’s gumption. “It is just . . . the way of things, here. If you are not Hexen, you must pledge as part of some Hexe’s holdings—put yourself in their employ? And from then on you will be protected, from . . . mistreatment.”
“Jesus Christ and all His angels, is that how it is? Lincoln freed the slaves, back in 1865.”
“Slavery? No, no.” Jorinda knotted her hands, visibly struggling for the right word. A woven leather bracelet, like her father’s but narrower and finer, adorned her wrist. “Hexen-hausvolk are not owned, but . . . attached? Not as law, not something written down. My father, brother and me, we were all part of my Mutti’s household, which meant no Hexe of this city could work a spell on any of us, unless she consented. Since Oathing is like marriage, family becomes part of you, like flesh. And then . . . things changed.”
“’Tween your Ma and Pa, you mean, ’fore she died?” Jorinda nodded. “That why she wanted a law made said no natural could hold office in Hexicas?”
“Yes, exactly. If my Vatti kept a place apart from my Mutti, she could not hold so much sway over things he could and could not do—he might make a place for himself she could not enter, for me and for my little brother, also.”
“He says he loved her.”
“Oh, doubtless. But Hansi is his son, too; she wanted him tested, and my Vatti . . . did not.”
Charlie frowned. “To find out if he’s a hex? Mighty young, for that.”
“Gabriel Love was younger, when the boon came on him.”
“Yeah, but he was salt-turned, just like his Mama; hell, he’d be salten still, if Chess hadn’t ripped his own guts out on Bewelcome’s doorstep to unmake it. Though I did hear how old Doc Asbury fixed up a way to birth hexes through without putting ’em in harm’s way, by brewing Weed tea and such. . . .” Here Jorinda shivered once more, and Charlie had to fight down the urge to sweep her into a comforting hug like she was his own kindred, some little prima carnal, lejana or even politica; wasn’t his charge, after all. He barely knew the gal.
“Point is, I think there’s maybe more to it than that,” he suggested, finally. And saw her nod again.
“Yes,” she said, sad, as though all this was her fault. “Because my Vatti, he saw for himself what the Hexen-Doktor’s Trial did, to me.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Sophronia Love said, and Charlie didn’t think she was lying; her voice held far too much anger, subsumed beneath a rigorous politeness. “The idea of using Doctor Asbury’s methods here, after we saw their effects during the Schism . . . and on children? Grown adults, lamentably many, still labour undelivered in our hospital, not yet full healed from the hash Allan Pinkerton made of Asbury’s research. Whyever would Lenamarie—”
“Ma’am, I don’t know. But that’s what Jorinda told me.”
Beside Sophy, Gabriel Love raised a brow, provoking a sharp sigh from his mother. “We’ve spoken on this before, son,” she told him. “If you’ve aught to say to Mister Alarid, use your mouth—not
addressing folks directly is rudeness, when you know they don’t share your capacities.”
Though the boy looked as though he’d like to roll his eyes at this, to his credit, he held off. Instead, he turned to Charlie, and asked: “You believed her?”
“Got no reason not to.”
“Nor of knowing if she misrepresented, either—unintentionally.”
“Nope. ’Cause being a simple human man, I just have t’take folks at their word.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, and Charlie had less than half a second ’fore some invisible gust gripped his head vice-tight, sweeping through it at force. Memory kinoscoped behind his eyes, a stack of magic-lantern plates shuffle-torn from their box by that spirit-gale, squirting slickly from his brain-pan towards the boy’s: last night’s powwow with Chess, plus what came after, in full, wet detail; Jorinda’s visit; every thought and feeling, every separate moment. The mind-sifting was all the more sickening for how painless it was, how easy, how totally irresistible—
"Gabriel!"
Charlie reeled, blinking, released with a single crack of flesh on—something else. By the time he’d focused once more, Sophy Love stood all a-glare at her son, rubbing one hand, who sat sullen in turn with his pudgy cheek only slightly reddened, a dim shield-aura fading ’round him. “‘This hurts me more than you,’” she quoted, bitterly. “Truer words never spoke. Oh, most women have it easy by comparison, raising a child who can’t encase himself ’gainst correction. . . .”
“But now we at least know he’s not lying, or mistaken,” Gabriel threw back. “Which means—”
“—nothing, that’s what . . . not one thing we couldn’t already count as certain, saving your foolishness!”
Gabriel leaned back, startled by her fury. Charlie watched the boy-hex’s eerie gaze drop, hurt-softened, and heard him protest, petulant as any ordinary child: “I can’t help what I am, Mama.”
“No. But what you choose to do, you can help that. Or should.”
“Ma’am . . .” Charlie was surprised to find himself putting in, “. . . he didn’t hurt me, truly. I’m sure the boy’s sorry.”
Sophy Love shook her queenly head. “Mister Alarid, I’m afraid you give my son too much credit. But the matter will be taken up elsewhere, since as part of our compact, I’m quite sure Miss Wu must already know what’s passed—perhaps whatever she has to say will prove more efficacious.”
Snapped Gabriel, at that: “Oh, Songbird won’t care, mother. He’s just a natural—”
This time, since Charlie was somewhat expecting the hexacious crack of sundered air which followed, he didn’t start—simply blinked away spots, ’til he could confirm who now stood alongside them. "Just a what-all again, youngster?" Chess Pargeter inquired, deceptively mild.
“I did him no harm, he says so himself. You have no claim here, Pistoleer.”
“You’re the ones called me in in the first place, small fry, and I very much do have a claim, where young Mister Charlemagne is concerned. ’Sides which, you might not be so quick to dismiss the natural in future, given it’s what killed your Miss von Grafin.”
Now both heads swung his way, mother and son—and Chess held up one hand, palm dramatically flourished open to display the busted-open wreck of a brass-shelled, mercury-sloshing, no longer clockwork-ticking something even Charlie knew not to mistake for a pocket-watch.
“Found it under the floorboards, just south of where her heels fell,” he said, “which means it must’ve been right under her, when she was still upright. I’d reckon she probably stepped right over it while working a spell, or contemplating on one—the Manifold must’ve latched on, sucked hard and kept on suckin’ ’til they both fizzled out. Seen it done before, though usually with somebody else on the receiving end. But Ed Morrow did tell me Doc Asbury’d been messin’ ’round with models you could pull a key on and leave to set, like a short-fuse grenade tricked out with gears . . .”
“Her own hexation turned against her,” Gabriel murmured.
“Ain’t as hard as you’d figure,” Chess replied. “’Sides which—what-all else’ve they got t’fight us with, in the end, but arcanistric tricks? We see ’em comin’, they’re done ’fore they even get started.”
Sophy Love stared at him. “Whoever used this . . . method against Lenamarie was not a hex, then,” she said, slowly, as though wanting to hear the words out loud.
“Manifold blast cancels magic, in every direction; that’s according t’Ed Morrow, again. Makes it near-impossible to tell who did it, either way—someone without spellcraft, striking first and hardest, or a secret hex-rival bent on framin’ some easy target, to take the stink off their own trail. Don’t s’pose you got any dead-speakers to hand, do ya?”
“No one here has that skill,” Gabriel confirmed, at Sophy’s glance. “Such people are few and far between . . . fewer even than us. But you know one, I hear.”
Missus Kloves, he means, Charlie thought, and twitched at the memory of that neat little dark-haired woman’s sly half-grin, mere shape of it enough to provoke more true affection from Chess than he felt like he’d been able to in five long years’ worth of hard riding and equal-hard bed-warming. Which was unfair, and Charlie knew it . . . but before he could even start to properly mask the reaction, Chess saw it, and sighed.
So I seem jealous, and he gets to look long-suffering; Christ, I’d wanted to play these sort’a games, could’ve stayed home and married any one of the gals my folks were always pushing my way, even after they knew better.
That was unworthy too, though, of both of them. Charlie drew himself up full height, therefore, and offered: “Want me to ride for her, Chess? Shouldn’t take but a half-day if I go full out, y’all set this flying spin-top down in just the right place.”
This time, however, the other three did shake their heads, pretty well in unison. “Could’ve brought her here at a snap, I was a god still,” Chess replied, “and I would’ve, too, without even askin’ first. Good thing how these days, I know better.” To Gabe: “You and Songbird live in each other’s pockets yet, that’s what your Ma said, right? So the two’ve you can boost me and make sure no one else listens in, if I crave to confab with Yancey a while in her dreams.”
“You assume neither of us was involved, Pistoleer.”
“Am I wrong to? Or is there something you’re itchin’ t’tell me, Sheriff Love’s boy?”
Though the child in question didn’t raise a brow, Missus Sophy bristled visibly, perhaps suddenly recalling how Chess had stood close by and done nothing much both while Reverend Rook cursed Bewelcome down, and when Missus Kloves relieved the Widow’s re-born man of his skull-top. Luckily, however, this was the exact same moment Songbird chose to make her entrance, with all the fanfare Charlie might’ve expected her to muster.
No fit place for a lowly “natural” such as myself, he thought, loudly, knowing all three of ’em would probably hear, but only really caring about one: Chess, to whom he tipped his hat in gentlemanly fashion, and promptly took his leave. Let them work all this magickal foolery out to their own satisfaction, since he could neither help nor hinder any further, so far as he knew; Charlie Alarid had an arachnorse stabled someplace within walking distance, most probably skittish, hungry, and in sore need of checking in on. . . .
She’ll be happy to see me, at the very least, he told himself.
When he reached the stables at last, he found that woman chief Yiska curry-combing the coarse black pile of old Claw-foot’s upper abdomen and humming soothingly, bent close enough so’s the spider could feel it through its palps. Charlie clapped their usual signal as he entered the double-wide stall (three short and fast, two slower, repeat), and whistled, for all he knew she couldn’t really “hear” him; immediately, her leftish bank of eyes spun ’round his way, and she twiddled her mandibles in what he took for a greeting, clicking softly. Yiska nodded, approvingly.
“We have cared for her, as well as she will allow,” she told
Charlie, “but I am glad to see you, for Hexicas’s motion unsettles the eight-legged ones, always. Look—she has spun a web.”
“I see it. What’cha think you’re gonna catch here, honey, birds?” The arachnorse sleeked herself against his chaps, spreading scent to mark him as hers. “You had any sugar to give her, I’d be grateful.”
Yiska nodded up at one of the several children who sat swinging their feet over the edge of the nearest guard-wall, watching; the boy took off running, as two gals behind him—twins?—worked a charm so fast and deft it was like they were playing at cat’s-cradle, opening a glowing door in the wall’s tarry planks for him to flip open and clamber through. This in turn sealed fast shut behind him, then traversed the wall’s whole length like a streak of luminous paint, opening again as it hit the ground. The boy emerged, panting, heaving a bucket of pre-mixed sweet-water almost as big as his own chest.
“Where you want it, Mister?” he asked Charlie, who pointed to the lowest rungs of Claw-foot’s sticky construction. Nodding, the kid lowered his burden down careful, spattered a fragrant handful of droplets further up the web, then leapt back as the arachnorse came all a-skitter with its jaws fair slavering, tracking ’em to their source.
“She don’t mean you harm,” Charlie assured him. “Not that her bite ain’t bad, ’cause it is, and she’s got no bark to speak of, so you gotta keep your eyes open. But seein’ you brung her food when she hungered, from now on, she’ll remember.”
The kid stared, fascinated, as Claw-foot tried her level best to cram her whole head into the slop, at least as far as it’d fit. “Never saw one this close up before,” he admitted.
Charlie looked at Yiska. “You rode a ’norse yourself, or so I heard . . . one of the Old Woman Butte clutch. What happened to that?”
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