Those last words barely audible at all, a spray of consonants, petering off into silence.
With Ed and Yancey looking on, Chess gave yet one more coyote howl, then pulled his own ear-bob out and threw it down where the Crack used to be so hard it skittered ’cross what ridge of knit rock was left, leaving a trail of blood.
He tore at his own hair with both hands, utterly unheedful of any damage he might do himself, and cried out while he did it, like Rachel at Rama, “Ohhhhhhhh, that damn MAN! Lord God Almighty, Jesus Jesus fuck — what the hell’m I gonna do now, Ed, Yancey — what, for the love of Christ-shit-Jesus, without him to keep on runnin’ after? What’m I gonna do?”
Hammering on the ground with bloody knuckles ’til Ed grappled even closer hold of him from one way, Yancey from the other, and held on ’til his yells stilled to sobs.
So that by the time Hex City came back — slowly but spectacularly, by degrees, kept aloft with nothing but the combined willpower of a hundred oath-linked hexes — they found the battle over, the world repaired. And Chess Pargeter — former god of Red Weed and War-Lightning — collapsed in the wreckage, weeping in Ed Morrow and Yancey Colder Kloves’ arms, unashamed as a child.
The next day, Morrow and Yancey were gone, and Chess with them. But even had they been present to lend a hand, Frank Geyer thought New Aztectlan would still have required far more mending than its citizenry were currently feeling up to. The hex-folk in general, having gutted themselves to work their great translocation, had barely enough strength to keep breathing — not to mention that with the Crack sewn closed, they simply weren’t like to regain their personal power anywhere near as quick as they’d become used to being able to.
Eventually, seeing how little there was left by way of real food and supplies, Jonas Carver — last survivor of the Thirteenth still present — volunteered the now-empty Camp Pink, pointing out that the quartermasters’ tents were still well-stocked with all manner of usefulness: bandages, bottles of ether and surgical alcohol, provisions and water barrels, cots and blankets for the wounded, and so on. He, Fitz Hugh Ludlow, and Sal Followell organized the City’s small-folk, leading them out to scavenge the campsite.
Meantime, Comandante Delgado of the Mexican Imperial Army cloistered himself with his countrymen, including those poor souls who’d been Ixchel’s blood-cultists; Sophy Love, surprisingly, had joined in his crusade, ministering to men, women and children alike, treating wounds and counselling them on their bewildered loss. Geyer hadn’t known she spoke Spanish, but when he realized she’d borne Gabe with her all throughout, much became clear. Nothing was yet decided, far as he could tell, but it spoke well for Delgado’s common sense that even though he couldn’t possibly have grasped everything which had happened, he saw no fault in ceasing to fight when no enemy remained worth continuing on with. If today’s bloodshed did provide grounds for a true declaration of War some time in the future, therefore, it would not be at Delgado’s exhortation.
“The Carlotta colonist soldiers demand repatriation,” Sophy told Geyer, during a quiet break near noon. They sat at an outdoor trestle table brought back from Camp Pink, Gabe hungrily feeding at Sophy’s breast. “Back to Texas, with never a care for what agreements they break; just like all men, my Mesach excepted. Those benighted worshippers of Her, though, have so little left to guide them in this world, I misdoubt they have any clear idea where to go.” She paused. “Then again, Bewelcome is still on a new rail line, and has room for any who wish to stay.”
“You do know everyone there thinks you’re dead, ma’am.”
“Yes, and telling them otherwise will be awkward. But it’ll have to be done.” She sighed, looked down at Gabe — who had fallen asleep, happily sated — and rebuttoned her dress, briskly. “Perhaps it’s for the best we won’t be staying.”
“Ma’am?”
Sophy gave an impatient snort. “Our Oath, Mister Geyer. My son’s bound to Miss Songbird for life, or as good as, so therefore I am too, through him. And with Miss Songbird, in turn, bound to that heathen shamaness, Yiska . . .” Geyer noted with interest that she’d said “heathen” far more as absent habit than with any real judgement. “. . . well, they do seem to prefer not to settle long in any one place, whatever its virtues.”
Geyer hesitated, staring at the table-top. “Friend of mine told me one of his favourite jokes, once — he’d been a chaplain in the Union Army, back in the War,” he said at last. “He said to me, ‘Frank, do you know the one sure way to make God laugh?’” He paused until Sophy finally brought her gaze back to him, then finished: “‘Tell Him your plans.’”
Sophy blinked, gave an odd, abrupt sound that seemed half sob, half laugh, and wiped her eyes.
“For who knoweth the hour and the day, indeed,” she agreed.
As they sat there in companionable silence, meanwhile, Doctor Asbury bustled up, plunking himself down without waiting to be invited. In one hand, he held one of his Manifolds, a sheaf of scribble-covered paper in the other, which latter he brandished at Geyer as if it were a map to buried treasure, blue eyes alight with near-fanatical excitement.
“These measurements of the ambient ch’i confirm it! They match my calculations — not exactly, but so close as to preclude coincidence. Do you realize what this proves, Mister Geyer? That the relationship between magical energies is exactly that exhibited by Newtonian mathematics vis-à-vis gravity and mass! And this, in turn, only strengthens my primary hypothesis: that what we term hexation, ‘magic,’ must therefore operate not in antithesis to the laws of the physical universe, but in sympathy with them, even when it initially appears to break those same laws, completely!”
But Geyer had already stopped paying attention by the time he saw Thiel coming up behind Asbury, and stood to greet him. “George,” he said. “See you managed to make Doctor Asbury’s acquaintance without my help, after all.”
Thiel waved a dismissive hand. “Best laid plans, Frank, just like you said to Missus Love; don’t give it a thought.” He sat down, giving Sophy a respectful nod, and gestured Geyer back to his seat. “I was lucky enough to encounter the Doctor while he took surveys of the City’s, what would you say, magical geography? If his analyses prove correct — and so much of his work has, thus far — well, then . . . they open up some very interesting possibilities indeed, to say the least. For our nation, and the world.”
“Pinkerton thought the same, you’ll remember.”
Thiel’s face clouded. “Indeed. But that’s why you’ll need to be a part of it, Frank, from the very beginning — to act as my conscience, a true critic, a friend, rather than an underling. What the boss never had, in other words.”
The rest of it lay between them, unspoken: A check on me, if needed. To make sure things never go so far again.
Glancing up once more, Thiel recognized yet another approaching figure and stood, in reflex courtesy; Geyer mirrored him automatically, then saw why. It was Songbird, veiled in new-conjured red silk under an equally new-made parasol. Asbury, still intent on jotting the Manifold’s numbers down in his notes, did not notice until Thiel cleared his throat.
“Lady Yu,” he announced, loudly.
Asbury jerked, startled, and jumped to his feet. “Miss Songbird! Most humble apologies — I didn’t, er, I was, well — ”
“Old fool,” Songbird called him, with something between annoyance and an odd sort of affection. “You wished me to make inquiries. Would you know their results, or not?”
“. . . please.”
&n
bsp; “I have probed those hexes willing to allow it, studying the binding structure of their Oath, and found that the banishment of their Lady and the death of their High Priest has rendered it much simplified. Each hex of this City is now bound to every other, as safe from their hunger as they are from their own, and with the united power of the whole City to draw on.” She held up an elegant white hand, correctly reading the alarm in Geyer’s eyes, and added: “Subject, that is, to that whole’s consent. Let any hex draw too much of the City’s pooled might for his own ends, and any who objects may draw it back, undoing his efforts. Let Oathbound hexes quarrel, and their own Oath will prevent any true hexacious harm to one another — a mutual neutralization, like the Diné’s Hataalii binding. Only those works on which all, or most, of the City-folk agree may be fed by them all at once, and even those will be greatly weakened if but a small portion actively contests them.”