“Hell,” the Red-head Pistoleer himself announced, to no one in particular. “I never took no Oath.”
Something bloomed between them, a gunpowder-reeking flower of red-gold-green, and shot out quick as a frog’s tongue to jerk Lobbel free, sending his captors spinning off in all directions. One thick-set older lady twitched a totem out from beneath her skirts even as she somersaulted back, slashing forward, peeling a whole section of Chess’s extrusion away and shattering it into sparks—but Chess simply flipped both wrists in opposite directions, thumbs slipping ’tween forefinger and middle, like he was fixing to show her what Charlie’s abuela would’ve called el higo judio. The gesture spun his remaining magic outwards, forming a protective circle ’round Lobbel that cloaked him top to toe, a weird-tinted bubble, and sent him bouncing free . . . high up in the air and over the mob’s heads, only to touch back down with a gentle pop, sprawling free, right at Songbird’s red-shod feet.
Gabriel Love turned his cold eyes on Chess, noting: “Skillfully done, Mister Pargeter. You are strong, even reduced from godhood.”
Songbird hissed. “I have told you this already, many time over. Did you think I lied?”
“Exaggerated, perhaps . . . yet here I am, proven wrong. You did well to bring him.”
“That remains to be seen,” Songbird replied, dourly.
Looked like, damn it all. For now an entirely new ripple ran the crowd’s length and breadth, a great, shared sigh of surprise turned envy shading faster yet into outright, yearning hunger. Because if Chess’s Oath-lack meant he could attack them, it also meant the opposite—that it cost ’em nothing to turn their kept-down avarice on him, every head in the place shifting to glance his way, eyes alight and nostrils widening at the sweetish stink of unprotected hexation. He was fresh meat to them, and though he could’ve taken on any one of ’em alone—any ten, probably—there were many, many more than that.
Though Chess couldn’t fail to know his danger, he hardly let it show. Just drew himself up higher, giving out with a lip-furl which peeled straightway into a toothy killer’s grin and doing his best to keep the crowd’s focus, while Yiska set Jorinda down and the girl ran straight into Lobbel’s arms, crying joyfully. Her stepfather looked up, dazed, hugging her tight. To Chess, he said: “Danke schon, Herr Pargeter.”
“Uh huh. Where’s that boy of yours?”
“I do not know. They dragged me from our rooms—”
From the horde: “Lenamarie’s rooms, ya mean, killer! Wasn’t nothin’ but a kept man, you natural bag a’—!”
Chess flipped his wrist yet again, hex-burst whip-snapping to slap the protestor quiet, finding his unseen lips without Chess even having to look ’round. Used to shoot like that, all the time, Charlie recalled, from those long-ago dime novels he’d perused, dreaming of one day meeting his idol. Like when him and the Rev—
Yeah. Just like that.
Chess took a deep in-breath, the arcane net he’d thrown over Lobbel seeming to shift and flare up higher, outlining him from top to toe in similar colours. “Only gonna say this the once,” he told the multitude, jaw set, beard bristling, “so listen well: y’all better bring out the kid, now. Or I’m comin’ in t’get him.” And he gave just the smallest smile.
Whether it was something in that smile, or his voice or eyes or stance, Charlie couldn’t tell . . . but for the first time in all their five years together, it was like he was finally seeing the Chess that used to be; the Chess, Charlie realized, he’d never really known, save as some troublesome ghost “his” Chess had sent packing long ago and didn’t like to think on. Standing here, now, was the man who’d helped turn Bewelcome to salt and laughed gleefully while he did it; the man who’d shot and knived more’n twoscore Pinks in his time, making who knew how many widows and orphans, more often than not for no purpose but spiteful whim. A killer born, soaked bone-deep in murder and mayhem—the man who’d torn a very goddess to shreds. The man whose smile, broadening now to a grin, held no fear at all: only quivering eagerness to kill, and kill again, as many as he could before he went down in a maelstrom of hexery and blood.
It gave Charlie a sick clench in the stomach, to look at. Even the lynchers seemed momentarily put off; for all their power, they didn’t run to easy violence any more than any folk did, when not at war or roused by fear to madness. Near half of ’em backed up a step, and at the rear, one housewifely looking woman actually turned, as if to obey Chess’s command. For a second, gut-chill or not, Charlie actually thought it might be enough—
“Stand yer ground!” Marsh bellowed. The order swept the lynchers like a slap; they stiffened, and Marsh stretched his hands back. Shimmers of heat swirled from him among the crowd, unfurling like swarming kudzu, binding the lynchers together into something vast and awful. Marsh glared at Chess. “You want to take this all the way, Pistoleer, you just say the damn word—but you fight one of us, you’re fightin’ all of us. ’Cause that’s what the goddam Oath means. And we’ll drain you dry, same as you would any of us. Now step back sharp, Mr. Pargeter, and leave us to deal with our own.”
Charlie’s mouth was dry, his throat cold. He’d been in many a throwdown with Chess before, even against other hexes from time to time—but never like this, never a battlefield of this import. This was Revelation waiting to happen, if both sides cut loose. What the hell was Songbird thinking, to let things go so far? He shot a look at her weirdly blank face, at Yiska standing calmly beside her and Gabriel’s wholly impassive visage; glanced back to Chess, who was still hovering, poised for bloodshed. . . .
Rider.
Yiska’s voice, or the silent memory of it. Charlie was too stiff with fear to move, but he looked to her and found her dark eyes on his. One of her fists rested against her other wrist; as he watched, she twisted and pulled the fist back, as if ripping something invisible away. What? Charlie stared as she repeated the movement, not understanding. And then her eyes went to—
—Lobbel.
It took Charlie a shameful amount of effort, to get himself in motion. Once he did, however, the sheer surprise of it seemed to stop the squared-off hexes from interfering as he strode to Lobbel’s side, pulling his knife. Lobbel gaped up at him. Charlie seized the man’s wrist, slipped the knife between flesh and leather bracelet and pulled. The razor-edge steel sliced the leather’s weave, caught for a second on the silvery wires cunningly concealed within, then burst them; with a spark-crack of light, the bracelet fell to the ground. The watching hexes gasped. Lobbel made a queer little whimper, both relief and grief, and closed his eyes.
Charlie turned to face Marsh, who was blinking at him. “That’s right, Mr. Marsh,” he said, without heat. “I ain’t sworn to Hexicas either, or any damn ‘household.’ Which means I ain’t bound to respect these little anti-hexing tokens each of you folk put on your naturals, so other hexes can’t go toyin’ with them.” He let the knife fall, reached down and grabbed Lobbel’s shoulder, heaving him to his feet. “So here you go—shield off: you don’t need your goddam rope, or your hex-tree any more. You want him dead? Kill him.” He was aware of Chess, turning to regard him with an arched eyebrow, but didn’t dare take his eyes off Marsh. “Or . . . you could use that mojo for a goddam better purpose. Look in his head. And know.” Charlie lifted his lip in disgust, willing his knees not to shake. “If you ain’t too stubborn-stupid proud to admit you might be wrong, anyway.”
Marsh’s fists clenched. The hexation Charlie’d seen before rippled over them, and he braced himself, ready to take the punch. If Marsh struck now, he might be too fast for Chess to stop. Charlie wondered if the hex-dulling metal in the bracelet would have enough effect to be worth diving for.
Without warning, however, Marsh stomped up to Lobbel instead, grabbing his head with one big hand. Closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath and held it: one heartbeat; two; three. Lobbel stared at nothing, tears trickling down his cheeks. Finally Marsh released him—Lobbel staggered, almost falling, before Charlie caught
him—and turned to the crowd.
“Wasn’t him!” he shouted. “Pistoleer’s boy has it a’right, goddamnit!”
Another reaction-strike set the crowd’s faces to changing, some baffled or disappointed, yet far more relieved, almost happy. “Just like I thought,” the woman who’d almost turned replied, stepping forward—and Charlie had to smother a laugh, seeing how she’d obviously used Marsh’s distraction to complete her task. For there was little Hansi Lobbel clutched tight in her arms, her jostling him softly to soothe him from his sleep, while he blinked tiny, confused eyes at the surrounding multitude.
“Bruder!” Jorinda exclaimed, lunging to take him—and this time, Yiska let her go. She was back at her father’s side almost before anyone could draw breath, glaring over his head, so fierce she startled him into a choked bout of crying. “So now you know, all of you, that my Vatti did not do this! With Mutti dead, we have no place here. You should let us go.”
Marsh snorted, shaking his head. “Not so fast, kiddo; don’t solve the problem of who did do it, only that it wasn’t this one natural, ’mongst the whole herd of ’em . . .”
“Then let us all go!” Another—“natural,” Charlie could only assume—man shouted, voice cracking with sudden rage. “Ain’t like you need us, nor that most of us came willin’, in the first place. You scooped us up, bound us to you with love, or fear—might do you a heap of good t’have to do things for yourselves, considerin’ you’re damn well gods on earth already!”
By his side, a soberly feyish young fellow in Quaker black shot him a stricken look. “Does thee truly wish to leave me, Aldridge?” he inquired. “If so, I would not keep thee. Thee had only to ask.”
The first man blushed deeply, visibly torn. “This ain’t the place for such as me, Increase. Thought I could try, for your sake . . . but I just can’t, boy. You’ll find someone more your equal soon enough. Not like we got kids together, after all—”
The Quaker nodded, sadly, as this last thought sent yet another wave out-sweeping through the mob. “What about the young’uns, though?” a voice called out. “Some of ’em’s hexes, some not—shouldn’t the hexes stay? And who wants to be parted from their kin, anyhow?”
“Who wants to be made to stay, when they feel ’emselves unwelcome?”
“Go, then, like Increase says!” roared Marsh. “But leave hex cleft to hex, protected from them on the outside, who still want to burn us all alive—”
“You don’t know that!” yelled a lady in green, hugging her daughters possessively—the same twins from the spider-house, Charlie recognized. “No one’s takin’ mine from me, anymore than they’re takin’ yours from you! ’Sides which, it’s up to my gals to figure whether they want to stay or go, seein’ their Pa died to keep this place free—”
Another voice, pure Five Points in its intonation: “Aye, and we’re the ones let youse three stay anyhow, safe an’ sound, wi’out e’en knowin’ if they was hex or not! So you’ve ta remember that, Missy Galt, when ye’re makin’ accusations. . . .”
Sal Followell strode forward, hands on hips, raising her voice in some sorcerous way that made it boom like thunder. “ENOUGH! By God, y’all are worse’n a passel of Quarter brats! Now SHUT YOUR MOUTHS an’ let’s talk this out, like damn human beings!”
Marsh looked like he still wanted to argue but somewhat didn’t dare, in the face of her disapproval; woman had a mountain’s worth of grit and the shout to match, Charlie thought. But then again, given what she’d lived through before the War, and after . . .
“All right, then,” Marsh said, gruffly. “Say Lenamarie’s boy there does bloom. Do we leave him to two naturals to up-bring, just hopin’ they get it right?”
“‘Two naturals’? That’s his Pa and big sis, an’ don’t you forget it.” Sal glared at him. “’Sides which, it ain’t certain at all he’s hexacious, with only one in the mix—”
“Well hell, Sal, easy enough t’find out. Just boil the vine-powder up an’ let’s see this thing done, once an’ for all.”
But at this suggestion, Lobbel pulled himself up, straighter than Charlie’d yet seen, and husked, through a rope-burnt throat: “You will not test my boy, sir. Not after how Jorinda suffered, when Lenamarie used the Receipt on her.” He turned to the crowd, shadowed eyes blazing. “For who of you has watched what that potion does, to those not seeded with your Gift? Which of you stayed with my kinder, my Engel, while that poison racked her? Who held her still, to keep her from dashing herself to pieces on walls and floor when the spasms came? Who bathed her, again and again through all the night, even when all she had left to bring up was bile? Even . . . even Lenamarie . . .” He choked, swiped at his eyes, and shook his head. In the quiet, Charlie could hear the shuffled, awkward steps of shifted weight, as the hexes looked away or at the ground. “Feiglinge,” Lobbel rasped. “Cowards, all of you. All.”
Marsh’s face turned a deep, ugly red—but Charlie, who’d seen many men’s passions fine-graded and unguarded, knew there was as much shame as anger in that colour. “Friedrich,” he said, “you want it so, I’ll play nursemaid all night to the boy myself. But this’s gotta be done. Ain’t no way ’round it.”
“Do you even know if he will survive?” Lobbel suddenly shrieked at him. His voice broke, became a whisper: “He is my son.”
“Yeah, he is. Know how many dead sons’ and daughters’ names we can all rhyme off, for bein’ who we are?” Marsh threw a glower at Sal, as the Negress drew herself up: “And I know the whole story ’bout your babies, Sal, so don’t go playin’ that card. The boy gets hurt inside town limits and expresses by surprise, before anyone can give him the Oath, like as not does die, or one of us dies. So we gotta know.”
There was a heartbeat’s pause before Sal glanced to Songbird, moment’s authority wavering, and ice shot down Charlie’s spine. He put one hand on Lobbel’s shoulder, looking desperately Chess’s way, and thinking, hoping he could hear: Any ideas, ’fore this turns even worse? I’d sure appreciate it.
But Chess didn’t even bother to flick a glance back, only held still, eyes locked on Songbird and Gabriel both—not simply ignoring Charlie, he soon recognized, though at first it seemed so (and hurt just the same, regardless). Those blank looks were something he’d seen before: hexery, done on the sly, with all of ’em in connivance. Songbird’s fingers danced on air, making small, precise movements, while Gabriel laid the backs of his hands together and pointed at the lady in green’s twin daughters, who nodded; one whispered something in her Momma’s ears, before the two of ’em linked hands and winked out. Vaguely wondering what that was all about, Charlie shifted his attention onto the trio again, and saw something take shape in Songbird’s palm—smallish, roundish and nondescript, but making a ticking sound, slight yet definite, which he could hear even from where he stood. . . .
A Manifold.
She snapped her fingers at Chess, nail-sheaths clinking; he nodded, and took it. Then strode forward into the heart of the fray, snapping—
“You prime maroons! There’s another way, and you know it—one don’t take any poison at all, just a wave and a wait.” He raised the toy high, flipping it open, and Charlie watched the crowd draw back as they registered what it was, like mice from a snake. “First damn thing Asbury made this thing for was to figure who might have hexation, even unpresented—it’s how Ed rumbled to me, long before I knew myself. And so . . .”
Chess touched the Manifold to Hansi’s head, lightly, drawing a tiny spark. Immediately, both needles perked up, spun counter-clockwise, resolving into the red. And the ticking broke out again, triumphantly loud: yes yes yes yes.
“Boy is a hex,” Marsh announced. “To be, anyhow. Like I damn well knew it.”
Chess snorted. “Can’t put anything past you, can we?”
“Aw, go break rocks in hell, Pistoleer: it’s settled now, for all your meddlin’. He stays.”
“Better take that up with her,” Chess replied, and threw Jori
nda the Manifold.
Oh, Chess, Charlie thought, with much the same intonation as: oh crap.
Caught by surprise, Marsh goggled—but even as he did, the girl’s swift free hand snatched at the air, plucking the Manifold to her; shifted her brother from arms to shoulder so she had both free, then, and spun the thing’s dials like the expert Charlie knew she was. Something sprang further open, casting a light that stopped Marsh in his tracks, fast-rooted.
“Let me, my Bruder and my Vatti go from this place unhindered, or I suck you dry,” she said.
“You ain’t got the sand, you little bitch!”
“This is what my Mutti thought,” Jorinda told him, simply. “But she learnt better.”
And there it was, finally out in the open, as the mob gasped almost in unison. Whispers went scurrying every-which-way, voicing what Charlie already had cause to know was true: Her, it was her . . . had the wrong man all along, and she knew it, ’cause she killed Lenamarie! Her own mother, Jesus God Almighty . . .
Marsh strained against the Manifold’s chain, or tried to—lit the usual fire at his knuckles, only to have it blown out like a birthday candle. But there were more than enough other hexes raring to take his place, arraying themselves ’round Jorinda in a circle, conjured weapons out and crackling. Charlie drew a step back, hand dropping to palm his gun, wondering how many he could possibly take down before the inevitable, even with Chess helping. And was startled to hear his own voice throw out, throat abruptly gone Sunday-dry—
“Hey, ’fore y’all shame yourselves in layin’ out a twelve-year-old, guilty or not—there’s two judgements set for crimes in Hex City, ain’t there? Death or exile?”
“What’s exile matter to her?” one of Marsh’s cohorts yelled back. “She’s natural, and better yet, she wants it.”
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