“’Cause she sees more ghosts than I do, every day of the week; don’t draw attention to yourself, you’ll be just one more shade amidst the throng. All I need you to do is find them, listen, come back here and tell me what you’ve learned . . . and then, soldier, consider yourself discharged.” He held out the Atwood’s bottle. “I break this, you’re free—beyond my reach for good. Back to . . .”
He hesitated, lowering the bottle. The question seemed to spill up out of him, more of its own will than his. “Kees, I have to ask. What’s it . . . like? Where—you were?”
Silence, for long seconds. Then: You’ll find out soon enough, I expect, the ghost he’d once called friend replied. Now: we done?
“All but. Though if you were minded to look in on Chess as well, on your way back—” Rook broke off, shook his head. “No, bad idea. Forget I even said it.”
For all Rook might wish different, Chess knew himself legitimately aggrieved and would seek the price, no matter what; let the world die screaming, so long’s he had his vengeance. The man didn’t forget, never forgave. To do so, he’d say, would be making himself a God he didn’t believe in’s bitch.
Chuckling a bit at this last part, the Rev glanced up to find Hosteen’s phantom eyes upon him, full of something annoyingly unreadable.
He might not kill you, even now, he offered, you only told ’im you was sorry.
The very idea made Rook laugh full-out, long and loud.
“Oh, Kees,” he said, eventually. “You know Chess, like you know me. So how damn likely is that?”
Sure as nightfall, however, the old Hollander would end up giving Chess a fly-by, if only for old times’ sake—entirely of his own will, this way, with not a hint of Rook pushing him in that direction. Which really was about the only way he could hope to gain knowledge of Chess’s current whereabouts, since if Songbird had had a taste, the once, then Chess had had . . . all of him. And still did.
Rook mounted the Temple’s inner staircases slowly, his footfalls leaden. ’Til, at the top, he fell back into bed without even bothering to kick off his boots and slept at once, stretched out beside devastation’s handmaid—a black, dreamless sleep, with darkness his only pillow.
Chapter Eleven
The last thing Mister Pargeter—Chess—did, before they came up over the final ridge, was to change Yancey’s much-abused wedding rig to a set of clothes more boy-fit; denim breeches, a loose cotton shirt, wool stockings, black boots. Pointing out: “You plan on walkin’ blind into a nest of no-’counts and raperees, I can tell you from personal experience how trousers are a sight harder to get off, ’specially if you fight back hard while they’re at it.”
Yancey hoped she didn’t turn too pale at the thought. “Is that . . . likely?”
“Not while I’m around,” Mister Morrow put in, voice dropping growl-low. Chess gave him a little eye-flick of amused appraisal, followed by a shrug.
“Let’s put it this way, then,” he told Yancey, “if you ain’t got the sand to look after your own business, we ain’t got the time to do it for you. Fair enough?” Yancey nodded. “Which reminds me—have to cut that hair, you want to stay inconspicuous.”
Both hands flew to her head, like he aimed to do it right then. “No!”
Morrow again, sweet reason itself: “She can braid it up tight, stick it under a hat. ’Course, you’ll have to conjure that for her, too.”
Chess hissed in annoyance, but popped his own off and ran a sparking finger ’round the brim, making it subdivide like string-cut dough: two identical beavers, one of ’em already sized to fit Yancey’s skull and top-knot alike.
“There,” he said, tossing it her way—then turned back to the others. “She keeps her pride and glory; whoop-de-do. But once we’re through Joe’s door she’d better at least act the damn man, is all I’m sayin’.”
Geyer opened his mouth, but it was Yancey who answered, thinning her voice as cold as she knew how, from years of wrangling drunks and settling bills. “A play-role you aim to coach me in, I suppose? If not, I suggest we get going.” She widened her glare to incl
ude the other two. “And while we’re at it, I’ll thank you to never again discuss me to my face like livestock, gentlemen.”
Scooping her disordered ’do into a twist, she jammed the “new” hat down over it and brushed past all three of them to climb the next hill, resisting the urge to hike up those phantom skirts no longer restricting her movements. Geyer tried to take her arm, but she threw him off (as gently as possible).
If I’m to be Adamized, there’s no more reliance on men’s kindnesses, lest I give the wrong impression. Chess doesn’t play such games, after all . . . and he’s far more cause to, given.
In her annoyance, she’d forgotten he could probably hear everything passed through her brainpan, he only concentrated hard enough.
So it was unsurprising yet blush-provoking when she heard him remark: “That’s one tough little stargazer you’ve yoked yourself to, Ed.”
Morrow huffed, legging it upwards. “She ain’t, neither—and she’s a widow now, too, so show some damn respect,” was all he threw back.
“Marriage for money’s not but one step away from outright whoredom, in my opinion.”
Yancey stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
Those green eyes met hers, cool and poisonous, even less human than before. “All right, then: you and that tin star of yours, was that truly made in heaven? Or maybe something your Pa dreamed up ’cause he wanted law as family, and you went along, ’cause you might as well raffle your maidenhead to the biggest gun in town as not?”