A Book Of Tongues by Gemma Files

always wanted something in return.”
    “Money?”
    “Naw, trade, usually. Dry boots, bullets . . . you see that knife of
his? I give him that. Wouldn’t let you fuck him, though, no matter
what. You can do that with your wife , he used to say. Then this one big
bastard tries it, and Chess fights back so hard he gives him two black
eyes. ’Course, he was big, and he had friends. After, he says: Guess
you’re mine now, bitch . But Chess didn’t cry about it none, just said: I
ain’t no-damn-body’s, motherfucker.
    “And after our next engagement, what do you know? All three
of ’em ended up in the doc’s tent, and all three of ’em died ‘of their
injuries.’ Which is real interestin’, considering how the only thing
that big fucker had was a cracked head, all one of his friends’d lost
was a finger, and the last one’d just been shot in the ass-cheek.
But there they were the next mornin’, blue and stiff . . . with their
throats cut, ear to ear.”
    “Is that what landed Chess in the stockade?”
    “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But we was deep in Injun country
at the time, so they let it go, ’cause it gave ’em an explanation — plus,
the Lieut still had Bluebellies left needed killin’, and Chess was the
best we had at that particular game.” Hosteen paused. “Then Rook
joined up.”
    “And?”
    “Oh, Chess wanted him right from the start, but the Rev wouldn’t
have none of it, ’cause he said what he really wanted was to save
Chess’s soul instead. So he used to spend a good part of each night
preachin’, while Chess just sat there noddin’ and cleanin’ his guns —
bidin’ his time. What surprised me was exactly how long Chess went
along with it all, considerin’.”
    “The Rev seems to have given up on that idea somewhat, since,”
Morrow said.
    To which Hosteen just laughed, and nodded. “I reckon how gettin’
hung will probably do that to a fellow,” he said. “’Specially when it’s
for somethin’ you didn’t even do.”
    Which probably bore looking into at some point, but not by
Morrow, and especially not tonight. Because tonight would be
when Ed Morrow finally either got that damn Manifold reading
for Professor Asbury, or took off, either way. After the mess at
Songbird’s, he’d had just about enough spooky shit to last him the
rest of this life, or any other.
    God knew, it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, before this. Those few
times he had found himself observed at this practice (never by Rook
or Chess, thank Christ, so far as he could ascertain), he’d claimed
the Manifold was simply a tricksy sort of pocket-watch he’d picked
up along the way. Got it off a dead Pink, he’d told Hosteen, and felt
his heart drop over the way that otherwise so-congenial old man
grinned wide at the very idea. Fact was, if any of Rook’s bunch were
to find out where his true allegiances were, they’d shoot him first in
the back, then in the skull once he was down, like a broke-leg horse.
    But every attempt had ended the exact same way, in confusion
and doubt. Oh, the needles spun all right, into — and immediately
back out of — the coveted red zone. What they didn’t do was stay there
long enough to register either way, let alone produce any numbers
for Asbury’s equation . . . as though something was interfering with
the magical heat Rook threw off, or the man’s precious “ ch’i ” was
being blocked by something at least as powerful as it was.
    Still, Morrow didn’t know enough about the Manifold to guess
at what that might be; if the thing was broke, he not only couldn’t
fix it, but he wouldn’t even be able to tell. Which made this the best
possible time for one more try, since at least he knew Chess and the
Rev were both as distracted as they’d ever be.
    Straining to move quietly as possible, Morrow levered himself
up off the bed, feeling his ginger way across the floor, ears peeled
for creaks. His shotgun he left leaned up against the door-frame;
if