A Rope of Thorns (24 page)

“What happened?” Geyer asked, at last.

To which Songbird gave a vicious little smile, and replied, “Chess Pargeter happened. Did he not, Mister Pinkerton?”

“Shut your foul mouth, ye Chink-eyed hooer,” Pinkerton ordered her, without rancour.

Doctor Asbury shuddered, hastening to try and mediate. “Miss Songbird, Mister Pinkerton—please! A modicum of sympathy might be accounted an amiable gesture, between allies.”

Songbird snorted. “He deserves none.”

“Don’t I, madam? That wretched invert shot me in my face—”

“As you all but dared him to. Call yourself a general? You are unfit, on every level.”

As if conjured, a gun appeared in Pinkerton’s hand (probably dropped from a spring-loaded sleeve-rig; Geyer had seen such back in Chicago, amongst the gambling set). “It’s a prerogative of generals,” he rasped, “to execute traitors—or incompetents. Was your witchery simply too feeble to match Pargeter’s, or did ye let him loose on me a-purpose?” To Songbird’s disdainful raised eyebrow: “Oh, I’ve seen ye stop shots before. But bear in mind my . . . condition—and the rate of Dr. Asbury’s progress. Are ye so sure we’ve no surprises for ye?”

Songbird sniffed. “Mechanical
niou-se
,” she replied, dismissively. “My arts are not to be encompassed by such trifles. You may test his tricks against mine, at your convenience.”

Geyer cleared his throat. “Gents, lady—this all strikes me a mite counterproductive. Surely, Pargeter’s threat enough we should probably deal with him first before settling private scores, let alone moving on to Reverend Rook and his . . . whatever she is, after.”

A moment passed, and Pinkerton re-holstered; Songbird looked away, petulant rather than angry, danger dissipated, leaving Asbury to cast Geyer a grateful look.

“This ‘Weed’ the dispatches tell of,” Geyer asked him. “Some natural plant augmented, pure hexation only, some hybrid of the two? And how does it play out, exactly, in this game?”

Flipping his black-covered notebook open, Asbury showed Geyer a sample stuck beneath waxed paper: dried reddish-brown oval leaves and long trumpet-shaped flowers affixed to a corded vine, the whole gone a green-beige colour, like mouldy parchment.

“As it manifests within Mister Pargeter’s vicinity,” Asbury began, “the Weed appears a heavily mutant version of
Datura inoxia
, a species of the family
Solanaceae
—known locally as thorn-apple, moonflower, Indian-root,
nacazcul
,
toloatzin
, or
tolguache
, and so on.” He used a cunning little pair of tongs to pluck one leaf from the page, holding it up so the hair-like tendrils covering it, fine as down, shone in a greyish halo.

“In its natural state,” Asbury continued, “it contains a number of powerful hallucinogens, explaining the near-universal reports of visions on encounter of its hexaciously altered form; many savage tribes used this plant to engender religious deliriums, in order to enter their so-called ‘spirit realm.’” Asbury replaced the leaf once more, disquietingly careful. “Expert herbalistic skill was required to ensure safe dosage, since its variable potency easily induces coma, or even death. But the Red Weed
itself
has not directly killed anyone, that we can verify—neither through exposure, nor even ingestion.”

Songbird made a sound in her throat, possibly risible, or merely exasperated. “As always,
gweilo
, you study much to say little. We workers know that plant for what it is: a casting line fishing for deeper prey, death for any of our kind to remain within its reach too long.”

Asbury inclined his head, stiffly. “Miss Songbird is correct, of course,” he admitted. “The hexacious do seem mortally vulnerable to the Weed, given sufficient proximity. Which is due, I believe, to its secondary aspect—the fact that it serves as a power collector, and transmitter channel, for Mister Pargeter’s own magical energies. Consider a spiderweb, spun naturally wherever the spider comes to rest, by which it traps the insects it feeds on. After enough time—and larder stock—such webs may achieve a density that changes their environs. For Mister Pargeter, I believe the Weed serves this same function: a manifestation of his magic, evoking
and
altering this plant into a medium of transmogrification.”

“Transmogrification . . . change?” repeated Geyer.

“In the land itself, Agent Geyer. Fed by spilled blood, as tradition commanded the old Aztec and Mayan deities be reverenced, the Weed changes whatever area it covers—the natural soil and flora—renders them green and fertile, and transfers power into Pargeter as it does so. I speculate this confirms that the god-aspect bestowed upon Pargeter by his sacrificial ordeal is a fertility or “year-king” deity; from descriptions of the ritual itself, most likely the god named Xipe Totec—”

It was Pinkerton’s turn to clear his throat, now; a sound both forceful and sickeningly liquid, as though something in his larynx were decaying. “What Asbury’s sayin’ is, Pargeter brings the Weed along with him, then makes sure it digs in deep. He’s changin’ Arizona and parts adjacent to something else entirely—and soon, we’ll have no chance of stoppin’ him.”

Ducking down, Asbury unrolled a map of the southwestern States. Across the southern part of Arizona, spilling over the nexus where it met New Mexico and Old Mexico beyond, clouds of red ink dots were scattered, while dates written nearby confirmed a rough schedule.

“Self-evidently, the Weed follows Mister Pargeter’s route northwest-ward, after his Tampico escape,” he pointed out. “Yet in addition to Pargeter’s clear line of travel, Weed also manifests spontaneously—as far north as Utah, by some reports, as well as in Nevada and California. And despite Arizona bearing the heaviest concentration, one area remains curiously untouched.” With his thumb, he touched a circle in the state’s northern territory, surrounded by red on all sides; Geyer knew it at once, even done to scale.

“Hex City.”

“New Aztectlan, they call it,” Asbury corrected. “Several miles from the township of Bewelcome, thaumaturgically destroyed by Reverend Rook in ’65—a devastation enhanced by Pargeter’s own incipient manifestation. Whether as an after-effect of that destruction or not, the Weed appears incapable of manifesting on Bewelcomite soil; samples brought there desiccate in minutes.”

“Samples? You’ve more of it, then?” said Geyer. Asbury nodded. “Alive?”

This brought an unusually long hesitation. “As it can be,” he said, eventually. “
Datura nacazcul
appears sustained by human blood alone, which limits our ability to raise it. But it has proven valuable nonetheless—since, as a hex-engendered species, it has a certain capacity to treat certain . . . conditions.”

“Mine, he means,” Pinkerton explained, without equivocation. “We make tinctures of it; helps keep this God-cursed affliction at bay, to a degree. Ye can smoke it as well, though like wi’ the Indians, getting the right dosage’s devilish difficult.” His wounded face spasmed, eyes gone oddly dead. “Turn the De’il’s spawn against the De’il, and God will laugh outright.”

Yancey felt Geyer’s dismay and fright bone-deep, though she knew his face would’ve no more moved than Morrow’s, under similar circumstances—and abruptly, she pitied them both. To never feel free to give way, vent one’s worst feelings to the wind . . . she couldn’t imagine it, living that way.

Chess Pargeter and I have that in common, at least,
she thought.

“Thiel,” said Pinkerton, abruptly. “I told you in my missive, Frank, Thiel is . . . unreliable. Hence your summons.”

“Sir, that simply cannot be true. I’ve known George Thiel for years; if there were any man less likely to betray—”

But Asbury, one hand lifted as if to shade his face against the light, was shaking his head in tiny, frantic movements behind its shelter. Songbird only looked amused.

Pinkerton put one fist down on the table and left it there, no further emphasis needed. “Yuir loyalty does you credit, Frank, but I’ve sources of information you don’t. Leave it at that, and be content.” Adding, to Geyer’s open mouth: “Now is the time for orders, not talk. Will you obey, or no’?”

Geyer could only nod.

Pinkerton jabbed a sausage-like finger at the map, flicking Asbury’s aside. “Along wi’ the Professor’s theories, Miz Songbird’s Celestial scryings suggest a reason for why Rook chose Bewelcome to raise his New Babylon next to: the place is dead. No’ just of life—of magic. Which may suit it to our needs.”

Asbury leaned forward. “If my calculations are correct, any fully wakened hex entering that area will soon have only what strength he takes in to work magic with. Once exhausted, he will not be able to replenish himself, until he leaves. With more exact data, I believe I can construct a mechanism to exploit that effect, neutralizing hexation completely within its boundaries—an invaluable property for a base of operations against a city of hexes, you will appreciate. Logically, this should also produce full neutralization of Reverend Rook’s summonings, so those hexes who
do
choose to serve our cause may be free of that distraction.”

“A weak term,” muttered Songbird, “seeing how from dawn to dusk, it hooks at my skull so I must spill half my power each day to endure it.”

Since Pinkerton and Asbury gave no indication they’d heard, Geyer decided to pretend likewise. “All very impressive, Doctor, but I’m—”

“—no hex, aye, Frank; we ken,” Pinkerton interrupted. “That was no’ a problem for Morrow, either, ’til he commenced to let his britches do the thinking.” The light in his eyes was back, exultant. “A short trip wi’ one of the guid Doctor’s devices, a day or two in observation, and we shall be in a position t’meet ye not far outside the ruined land itself.”

Geyer glanced back down, following the red dots’ swathe. “And Pargeter? He’s clearly on his way to Hex City, moving faster than any mundane transport could take him—what do I do if he turns up?”

Pinkerton smiled. “Agent, if ye should chance to encounter Chess Pargeter, then run, fast and far as ye can. If possible, before he sees
yuirself
at all.”

But here Yancey stopped listening, the big man’s voice abruptly falling to a buzz in the middle distance. For her guts had suddenly clenched up at the sight of the name on one black dot, not yet marked in red, sitting defenceless in the path of that encroaching tide—innocent, blameless, and utterly unaware of what would come upon it.

Hoffstedt’s Hoard.

Then—Songbird lifted her head, as if she heard noise from another carriage; glanced around suspiciously, almond-flesh eyes already narrowed against even this dim light and squeezing further, almost to slits. Yancey gulped. She held her thoughts still inside Geyer’s head, breath slow; Songbird’s gaze passed over “her” as if Geyer was not there, but did not alight. Lightheaded with fear, Yancey followed that gaze, wondering what it saw.

A near-fatal mistake. The mere alignment of focus seemed to trigger a snapback of mystical forces, and for an awful second, Songbird’s vision
was
Yancey’s: she saw shimmering veils of power spark and flare outside, cloaking the train in invisible fire, as it thundered across the landscape. But clinging to that veil, peering like a street urchin sneaking a furtive peek into some knocking shop’s back windows, was a burly man with a coarse grey beard, transparent as dirty glass.

Songbird reared back, shrieked a fast and furious string of Chinese, backed up by power’s whiplash; Yancey felt her hand slice air and ether alike, slamming both window-ward. Caught in its path, the bearded spectre outside distorted lengthwise, like smeared ink—

—and Yancey sat back into her proper body, still locked upright at Splitfoot Joe’s table, muscles stiff as a day-old corpse’s, while a dizzying chill swept her from head to toe. Released, her hand fair flew from Geyer’s wrist, movement alone appearing to transmit somewhat of the same sensation to him; he gasped out loud and stared at her, rigid, like she’d grown another head.

What gave you the right to rummage ’hind my eyes, Miss, when I’ve tried to treat you kind?
he thought, so theatrical tin-thunder sharp she winced, trying to block it out.

“That ghost, on the train’s side,” she said, out loud. “Songbird . . .
knew
him.”

Morrow frowned. “What ghost? And—how d’you know
that
name, anyhow?”

The information came rattling out headlong through Yancey’s throat, unstoppable: “Little Chinese witch, barely more than a child, works with—”
Don’t say Pinkerton’s name!
She had to remind herself, forcibly. “—your boss, and Doctor Asbury . . . there’s something wrong with her, more so even than the usual. Bone-bleached, eyes so weak she can’t see properly in any world but the spirits’, can’t bear the light of the sun or walk outside without two veils and a parasol.”

But now they were both regarding her with a similar pitch of horror, which finally stopped her in her tracks.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, weakly, eyes avoiding Geyer’s. “I just needed to know. What you knew.”

The Pinkerton swallowed. “Are you . . . you’re a hex?”

“No. Hell, no.”

“Then how—”

Yancey felt a hopeless lurch; the innate Goddamned impossibility of telling him anything acceptable suddenly fell on her all of a piece, with all the dead weight of grief deferred.

“There’s other things in this world, Mister ‘Grey,’” was all she could manage, finally, “and I’m one of them. That’s all.”

But then, you should understand
that
, given what we left behind us.
Sheriff Love, and all his godless Man-of-God works.

And maybe he
could
hear her still, hard as she was labouring to make it so’s he couldn’t. Because with that, Geyer nodded his head, looked down at his hands, took a great fresh breath—and started over.

“She did seem to see something, though I didn’t; left quick enough, afterwards. The boss and Asbury just let her go. I thought . . . well, I had other things on my mind, at the moment.”

Mister Morrow broke in, impatient: “Hold on here, let’s go back a minute, ’fore we outpace ourselves.
What
ghost?”