Marizol blinked at Pinkerton, then flung herself over and grabbed him by the knees, sobs and rapid Spanish rendering her babble unintelligible. Pinkerton looked discomfited; Ludlow hid a smirk. Berta and Eulie exchanged looks of relief.
“She is thanking you for saving her,” the Enemy explained, smirking.
Morrow’s hackles abruptly went up.
“Saving her?” He asked, warily. “From what?”
Though he’d directed the question to the Enemy, it was Eulie who answered. “We’ll tell you gladly, sir: the Lady, Ixchel — ” She pronounced it eetch-ell, mangling the name unmercifully. “ — is in bad straits indeed. That body she uses is rotting ’round her, so she’s desperate for a new one, with poor Marizol her first choice.”
Berta nodded. “It’s true,” she agreed. “Keep her from acquiring a new vessel, and your war’s more than half-won.”
Pinkerton’s face went terrifyingly still. “Then you’ve just brought something the Lady wants most desperately right into me own camp,” he replied, flatly. “What makes you think she’ll not rend heaven and earth to get this little chit back?”
“Oh, there is no point to that.” Again, the Enemy interjected, as if it found nothing more enjoyable than to be helpful. “My sister’s great honour has already been openly rejected — cast back into her teeth, before all her subjects! For one must love a god to become the god’s ixiptla, and this girl does not love my sister . . . nor, I think, will she ever.”
“Easy enough to say,” Pinkerton mused. “But Doc Asbury’s spoke enough on the workings of this Oath, and claims it’s no’ love ye need — only consent, which ye can get in many ways. What assurances do I have that the Lady won’t reach for this girl again, even here? That she won’t rise up from the earth, say, seize you two and tell the girl if she doesnae cooperate, you’ll be killed?”
Eulie gaped, while Berta sputtered. “I, I — don’t think it works like that, Mister Pinkerton — ”
Morrow cleared his throat, loudly. “Sir, we get her far enough away, fast enough, and she’ll be safe. The Lady barely ever leaves the City — hasn’t travelled beyond since it first went up, aside from the attack on Bewelcome, and she sure went home fast enough after that. Might well be she can’t go any farther, or the Oath ties her to her seat of power, sure as it does all the others; she’s got to know that if she leaves her folk for too long now, they’ll lose all hope — and then she’s lost. I’m telling you, sir, she won’t risk it for one girl this late in the game, new vessel or no. She ain’t that foolish.”
Pinkerton returned Morrow’s gaze, gave a slow, considering nod. “You make good sense, Edward.” As Morrow let out his breath, however, Pinkerton went on: “But I’m no’ sure I credit the Lady with your brand of logic. ’Sides which . . . I dinna see a point in taking the chance.”
For the first time since the War, under fire, Morrow froze — so was therefore unable to do anything about it when, without changing expression, Pinkerton put his quick-drawn pistol’s barrel against Marizol’s forehead, and fired. The back of the girl’s head blew out in a burst of bone, atomizing gore. Her eyes still wide, she let go and toppled limply back into the trough, splashing heavily, vanishing from sight.
Ludlow threw up his hands; Eulie collapsed in a dead faint; Berta shrieked like a gutted horse and flung herself against her restraints, twisting madly, while the hex-handlers forced her down onto her face. “Marizol!” she screamed into the cold earth, voice muffled. “Marizol!”
Only sheer numbness (another War-time legacy) kept Morrow from doubling over and retching in similar fashion. And from the greyish undertone to Carver’s face, he saw, the Private felt much the same way.
The Enemy, on the other hand, closed its eyes, breathed deep and smiled — and God damn it all if this too wasn’t a Chess-smile, recognizable from close-quarters inspection: blissful grin of satiation achieved, absinthe after long dryness, violence after long restraint or climax after celibacy.
Sacrifice received once more, however inadvertent, or unasked. And accepted.
Morrow remembered little of the rest, though he vaguely recalled Carver taking charge of Berta and Eulie, shepherding them off to the stockade. A moment stood out peculiarly, tintype-stamped on his brain — Berta staring at Carver in dazed recognition, as if only now realizing how close she’d come to killing him, bare hours earlier. Nearby, Ludlow sat on the ground, once more examining his blood-drenched notebook, like a child does a broken toy.
The Enemy’s words, too, he had somehow managed to file away, as it thanked Pinkerton for the life rendered up to it, and gave its counterproposal: The day after the day after tomorrow, at sun’s highest apex, I will stand before the walls of New Aztectlan — challenge my sister to leave her City and do me battle, god against god. If she dares not accept, even more loyalty and will to fight will be lost amongst her retinue; if she does, then surely you shall see, and seize, an opportunity. Whatever the result, your victory will be that much closer.
“‘God against god’ . . . that suggests ye might lose,” Pinkerton observed, so incautiously it made Morrow want to scream. “Mayhaps there’s other reward in it for yuirself, though, hmmm? Something worth the risk?”
But the Enemy only laughed.
Avoidance of boredom is reward enough for me, Allan Pinkerton, it said, then sunk back into the trough, taking its bounty along with it — disappearing so utterly that nothing whatsoever remained in its wake, not even little Marizol’s pathetic corpse.
Lying fully clothed on his cot yet again, Morrow stared up at his tent’s canvas ceiling in silence, then closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly, letting fatigue bear him down. He thought on Geyer, most likely still hidden in Asbury’s tent; wondered how long it would take for Asbury to hear what had happened, and if that would finally be enough to drive him to flee with Geyer, after all. Then turned his mind to Yancey, knowing he had to dream of her if he could, for she needed to know what was happening — just how bad things already were, and would likely become.
And God, but he just needed to touch her, be with her — so much so he was almost afraid she would recoil, if she sensed that depth of need in him. The world grew fuzzy; his heartbeat slowed. His limbs were heavy. Soft darkness enshrouded him. Morrow went into it gladly, waiting for contact . . .
. . . only to open his eyes again but one second later, and find the Enemy in his bed.
“Christ,” he said, disconsolate, “not you again.”
It was like some bad parody of more memories than he liked to tally up: Chess Pargeter’s fa
ce hanging over his, studying him while he slept; one deft little set of pistoleer’s fingers tracing his body up and down, admiring it for handholds. As though he was just considering where best to clamber on and amuse himself a while, seeing what-all he could get away with before Morrow returned enough to his senses to object to the indignity.
“No one will miss your presence, soldier,” the Enemy replied, coolly. “I only thought we should talk further, before my arrangement with your general comes to pass.”
“Yeah, that was quite the bill of goods you sold him on. I’m takin’ it things won’t happen exactly the way you gave him t’understand they might, come mornin’ after next.”