A Book Of Tongues (23 page)

The morning the gang made Splitfoot Joe’s — there to wait for
Reverend Rook to join them, just how he’d instructed — Ed Morrow
woke up aching, long before everybody else, and crept off into the
bushes to do his business. The needle of pain he felt still dug deep
in the meat behind one eye wasn’t even one splinter as bad as when
he’d got caught in the Rev’s wards, a mere week previous, but it
did have that same very particular stink about it, nonetheless: a
spiritual marking, same as Cain’s. A hex-bag hangover.

Thrust deep in his waistcoat pocket, the Manifold whirled and
chittered, like it aimed to break his rib. Groaning, Morrow dragged
the damn thing out and popped it open, then glowered down at the
face reflected within its glass-set lid — not exactly unfamiliar, but
not
his
, either.

“Rev,” he rasped.

“Took you long enough to answer.”

Morrow squinted hard through his hurt, which was rapidly
spiking worse. “Well . . . sorry, I s’pose. Just not quite used t’this
method of communication, as yet.”

“Understandable. So — how’re the boys? Chess gettin’ cranky
yet?”

“Like a cat on a Goddamn skillet.”

Rook laughed. “Sounds ’bout what I expected. Well, he won’t
have much longer to fret — won’t be but a half-day more ’til you
reach Splitfoot’s. And once you do, I’ll be home before breakfast.”

“Okay, that’s — good. I guess.”

A moment of silence passed, during which Morrow could only
wonder if there was something further — something specific — Rook
had expected him to volunteer. Unbidden, his mind jumped back
to their last layover, where he’d caught three separate instances of
what he now knew must be magic welling up inside Chess, stagnant
and explosive, before backing up and leaking out: one new-signed
gang member’s gun misfiring in practice, blowing off his thumb;
eatery plates exploding when the cook dumped a scoop of stew into
them; a store windowpane cracking right across as Chess’s shadow
passed by. In the town’s single saloon, Chess had look stank-eye on
some fool who’d just taken the trick in a card-game he was barely
bothering to play — and when the idjit was dumb enough to grin
back, a lamp flared up blue-hot behind him, throwing sparks that
set his cards on fire.

The longer Rook wasn’t around to siphon it off, that influence
Morrow could sometime feel boiling off of Chess at times kept
ramping up, fit to blow. And though Chess didn’t seem to feel
anything beyond ordinary orneriness, overall, something still made
him want to keep Morrow close, like a lucky piece — to sit with,
drink with, demand jokes from.

It raised Morrow’s hackles . . . and Chess’s, too, eventually.

“Just what the hell you lookin’ so scared of, anyhow?” he snapped,
when Morrow failed to meet his eyes directly. “I mean, God damn!
Got on fine enough back at the Sisters, didn’t we?”

Which was true enough, as far as that went. Trouble was, Morrow
knew Chess for a hex now, and couldn’t
un
-know it — couldn’t stop
wanting to treat him careful, no more than cheerfully juggle lit
dynamite.

But from Rook’s point of view, all of the above was probably just
his problem. So Morrow sat tight, keeping whatever trepidations he
might have strictly to himself.

“You still there, Ed?” The Reverend asked.

“Yessir.”

“Thought I’d lost you, just for a minute.”

Oh, how I wish you had,
Morrow couldn’t keep himself from
thinking — then almost jumped upright when he saw Rook smirk,
as he did. Then, before he could stop himself, another thought
followed:
Christ Almighty! He can’t really
hear
inside my head, ’stead of
just
talk
there . . . can he? Even this far away?

“Well . . . that’d be the key question to ponder on, Ed, ’specially in
your current position,” Rook replied. “Wouldn’t it?”

And then, while Morrow stood yet agape, struggling to compose
a suitable rejoinder — Rook was simply
gone
, leaving him staring at
his own reflection.

The Manifold whirred down within seconds, gave a final death-beetle click, and slept once more.

Legendarily, Splitfoot Joe’s had gained its infamously catchy moniker
from the axe-split bottom edge of its sign, where (supposedly) the
first “Joe” had once painted a bright red cleft foot with a grinning
devil standing upon it — a symbol that served, in place of words few
of his customers could read, to signify that the saloon was open for
business. And since it also stood not five miles from the Mexico
border in a conveniently hard-to-find valley, Splitfoot’s — along
with the town surrounding it — had since become an unofficial way
station for cross-border traffic of questionable character, a place
with a foot in two lands.

After Chess, Hosteen and the rest — what was left of Reverend
Rook’s gang, some eight to ten gentlemen of fortune — took up
their residence that evening, the task of dickering over rates fell to
Morrow, for reasons he found mysterious.

“Okay, we’re square,” he told Chess, when negotiations were
concluded, and passed him the absinthe Joe had thrown in on top.
“This here’s your bottle, by the by.”

Chess nodded, popping the cork. “He try anything?”

“Wanted ten cents on the dollar, but I jewed him down. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.”

“Yeah, old Joe’s a tricksy fucker.” Then, contemplating the room
through twin scrims of glass and gently sloshing green liquid:

“Might be
I
should go have words with him, later, ’fore we get to
orderin’ up our bill.”

Morrow and Hosteen exchanged a glance. Chess had started
drinking pretty much the minute they’d left the Two Sisters and
hadn’t let up yet — just seeking to muffle the lack of Rook, maybe.
Which certainly argued for him having Honest-to-Christ feelings,
just like anybody else.

Or not. But feelings, anyhow — fairy-coloured ones, hallucinatory
and mean, drawn closer surface-wards with each fresh swig.

“Oh, we’re well set up, Chess,” Hosteen assured him, tapping his
money belt. “The Rev gave us plenty of gelt. No need — ”

“ — for trouble?” Chess swivelled ’round, grinning nastily. “Aw,
that’s sweet of you to care, Kees.” To Morrow: “And where’d
you
learn
to pinch pennies so fine, anyhow? Half this band’a numbskulls can’t
count to twenty-one, ’less they’re naked.”

“Just careful, is all. Best to be, not knowin’ exactly when the
Rev’s comin’ back — ”

“Rook’ll be
back
soon ’nough,” Chess said, a bit too quick for
comfort, “whenever and however he damn well pleases. He told —
you
— he’d be back; that’s good enough for me. In fact . . .”

“Chess Pargeter?”

This was a new voice entirely, drink-roughened and shaky, from
directly behind Chess — some cowboy, barely old enough to shave.
Morrow stared at the scarred table-top, suddenly more exhausted
than scared. Thinking:
Aw, great.

Looked like the Bird-in-Hand all over again, at best. And at
worst —

“Chess Pargeter,” the cowboy repeated. “You’re him, right? If so,
we’re gonna have words.”

“Seems I’m lettin’ you have them now,” said Chess, not looking
up.

“You recall a waiter-gal used to work here, name of Sadie?”

“No.”

“You broke her head open last time you come through here, over
that damn Reverend of yours.” He had a sun-reddened face, with
spots of colour burned high on broad cheekbones. “She never woke
up. Died of a fever, a week after.”

“Boy . . . I’ve killed a
lot
of people.”

“She
meant
somethin’ t’me!”

“I can see that. Question is, what? You even think about that part
yourself?” The cowboy laid hand to gun, flushing further. “’Sides
which — you waited what, a half-year? Somebody killed the Rev, I
wouldn’t wait two minutes.”

“Well . . . I had to train.”

At that, Chess nodded. “Good thought, on your part. So — ”

The kid caught his eye-flick, and barely had time to touch
holster. Chess cross-drew at the same instant, so quick he’d already
shot the kid twice before the boy even had time to realize what had
happened. Then didn’t bother to watch as the kid collapsed, skull
cracking heavily on the saloon floor.

Morrow stared at Chess, who raised an eyebrow back at him.
“What? You thought we was gonna have us an honest-to-shit
shootout, in the middle of the damn street? Please.”

Like some kinda
fair fight
, or somethin’?
Morrow thought, his
stomach clutching queasily.
Guess not.

It must’ve shown on his face, though, because Chess snorted
out a sour half-laugh — as though even he felt some inexplicable
wrongness in what he’d just done, and was annoyed by it.

“Sit yourself back down, Ed,” he ordered. “Joe’ll get this — ” he
nodded toward the body “ — took away, and I got most’ve a bottle yet
to drink. I don’t aim to do it alone.”

Morrow had a giddy moment’s thought of slapping Chess right
across the chops and walking out, bullet in the back or no. But
Chess — who might just as easily be well aware of that fact as blithely
ignorant — just met his eyes straight on, unflinching.

“You heard ’im,” he said. “Boy didn’t know half what he oughta;
be crueller to prolong the misery. ’Sides — he’d waited long enough.”

Up on the wall, a greasy pastoral Joe’d hung to block a draft
first fell sidelong, then detached altogether, hitting the floor with
a clatter. The noise seemed to spur Joe’s slim consort of musicians-in-residence to draw out a wheezy squeeze-box, and set to mangling
a tune that sounded for all the world like Chess’s Ma’s favourite:
For
I’ll be true to my love, if . . .

Blood on the sawdust, coming up in clots, and a few flies, already
gathering: perhaps this
was
the price of “being true,” sometimes,
sadly enough. Especially when you didn’t take care to pick and
choose who best to do it
to
—

But that was a lesson Chess himself might have to learn, someday.
“All right,” Morrow said, finally. And took his seat once more.

One bottle became two, and Hosteen switched to rotgut early on, “to
stay crafty” — but since Morrow’d been kept busy matching Chess at
absinthe slug for slug, might be he’d already lost his ability to reckon
such matters. Now they were upstairs, in Chess’s quarters, playing a
hand of cards while Chess supposedly kept score. Whenever Morrow
looked over, however, he found him messing with his armaments
instead — stripping one gun after the other, tallying up shot,
stropping Hosteen’s former blade to a keen gleam.

“Anyhow,” Hosteen told Morrow suddenly, re-ordering his
hand, “here’s the latest from San Fran, ’fore I forget to tell ya ’bout
it
again
— word is, after whatever the Rev got done doin’, half that
bitch Songbird’s whole knock-shop fell down, leavin’ her out on the
street. Then, next thing she knows, the Pinkertons’re there, too.
Mister Head Agent Allan himself at the helm, b’lieve it or not, ’long
with some fancy Northern professor he got hooked to his outfit.”

“What for, exactly?”

“Well, as t’ that . . . you recall back in th’ War, when the Bluebellies
tried t’ put hexes t’ work, fightin’ on behalf of the Union? Reckoned
if they looked ’mongst the Irish brigades, say, an’ took up all those
who turned after a sizeable battle — always
was
one or two, per
major engagement — they could cobble a devastatin’ force t’gether,
’specially if they added in every fled nigger with sim’lar inclinations
in on top. But
Mages don’t meddle,
so they got t’ squabblin’ midst
themselves, killed each other an’ sucked the corpses dry, long ’fore
they ever drew anywhere near
us
. . . .”

Asbury’s lecture in action,
Morrow thought.

“Still, guess Pinkerton’s fixed t’ get back at it again, ’cause Miss
Songbird cut her a deal, turned State’s, for the cost o’ repairs. That
an’ a license t’ come after the Rev, no doubt, with just as many Pinks
as they’ll lend ’er.” Hosteen threw down. “Annnd . . . Ace, king,
queen, jack, ten. I take the trick.”

Morrow frowned. “Thought we was playin’ whist.”

“
Whist
?” Hosteen rose, almost up-ending his own chair in the
process. “Well, that’s me done for. Gotta go fall down.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“Yeah. Jus’ bet you will.”

He turned for the door, studying Chess, who barely seemed to
notice — then sighed, and moved on. But —

“’Night, Kees,” Chess finally called out, gaily, just as the door
clicked shut behind the old man’s back. And snickered, right down
into his purple shirt-sleeve.

“You
have
to — ?” Morrow snapped, then stopped. Not quite fast
enough, though.

Chess sat forward, chin propped on one palm, as the other fell to
stroke his favourite plaything’s shiny pearl inlay.

“Don’t much enjoy me playin’ with old Mister H, do ya, Ed?” He
asked. “And why is that, I wonder.”

“’Cause he’s my
friend
? Yours too, I always thought.”

Chess shrugged, eyes narrowing. “Sure. But then again — you
think
quite a whole damn lot, ’bout a full spread of very different
subjects. Don’t think I ain’t noticed.”

Morrow held himself still as possible under that scrutiny, while
in his pocket, the Manifold gave a shiver.
Just sit tight and shut the
fuck up,
Morrow told it, and braced to wait it out, as though he could
somehow
will
Chess’s unconscious hexation back into him; bad
enough Chess might be fixing to shoot him, without adding spells
in, on top of the mix.

“’Bout that boy’s woman,” Chess said, suddenly. “Fact is . . . I just
didn’t calculate her dyin’. Hell, I had bottles broke on
my
head, lots
of times, and I ain’t dead.”