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“Heard what the old man said, too. ‘Power of an oath,’ huh? Any oath—’twixt any hex? Or hexes?”

“Theoretically.” Rook rubbed his chin, inquisitive mind stirring creakily back to life, with an oddly pleasant ache. “Practically, seems like the stronger the hex, the more who swear, the stronger the oath. Yet their vows didn’t trump the City’s binding.”

“And drained ’em all the faster, for bleeding power twice-a-ways,” Fennig agreed. “Maybe that’s why it never struck Herself somebody else might try it, in the first place.”

“Your g’hals are bound each to each too, though, from what I observed.”

“Each t’each and each t’me, neat as any god-botherer’s marriage-packet—and since that’s what Señor Hex-no-more and his boyos seem to’ve done as well, the lesson I take is don’t never try your strength outright ’gainst the City’s, no matter how many you got webbed in on the same spell-rope, ’cause it’s doomed to pull every last man jack of you down.”

“Mmm. And yet . . .” Rook paused, brow knitting. “Maybe it’d’ve gone differently, had it been every man jack of ’em uprising in the first place, ’stead of just that one.”

Epiphany’s flash lit both their faces at once, small, but bright enough neither risked a glance at the other, for fear of snuffing it outright.

“A true Patriot’s creed,” Fennig said, approvingly. “All hexes created equal; no wonder she never conceived of it.” His serpent’s smile took on a fiercer edge. “Don’t really grasp who-all she’s dealin’ with, hereabouts and today, do she?”

“No,” said Rook, softly.”To her, what swears to her is hers—full stop—and four centuries back, her subjects felt the same. Threw ’emselves headlong into the fire, and thought ’emselves blessed. But when an American swears to something . . . it’s a two-way street. He expects to get what he pays for, and keep what he earns.”

“He was right, ’bout her—the Mex, I mean. Wasn’t he?”

Rook didn’t quite allow himself to agree, he certainly didn’t argue. Nodding to what little enough was left of the coupsters, by now: “You see what came of that, though.”

“What I see is, if he knew more’n most, he didn’t know near enough. Like . . . where best t’hit.”

“And you do, I suppose?”

“No. But I will.”

At the sound of those four small words, Rook felt a shiver of something fragile, almost hope-flavoured, so deep down he could’ve easily chosen to ignore it entirely.

Instead, he made sure to point out: “She’s a god, you know.”

“Oh, cert. But ain’t we all, to some degree?” Here Fennig chuckled, only partly amused. “Philosophy aside, though, no God ever did nothin’ much for me, Rev; you neither, I suspect.”

Not for the first time, Rook wished (devoutly would be the first word to his tongue, had it not tasted so bitter) that he could still pray; that he had the right, let alone the capacity. Granted, he’d never gotten much of a reply, when he had. But given how, this time, it wouldn’t be strictly on his own behalf—well. So odd a display of unselfishness from a career hypocrite like himself should really count for something, surely?

Apparently not, judging from the Almighty’s characteristically unbroken silence.

“But there’s a crack in everything, y’see, Reverend,” Fennig continued, all unknowing. “You just have to keep handy to find it, keep quiet . . . and pay attention. So what I’ll do is all the above-mentioned, while lookin’ t’me and mine in the interim. And since you’re the biggest dog I can count on to try and keep the Missuses Fennig and I out of Saint Terra, I’ll stand by you as well, back you up ’gainst all comers. Sound fine?”

“All comers?” Rook repeated.

“Even Herself, needs be . . . eventually.”

Again, there seemed not much to add. So Fennig touched his th

ree fingers to hat-brim and specs-rim together, in half-salute. “Be seein’ you?” he asked.

“Can’t see how not,” said Rook.

A final shrug. “Bene.”

And with a furl of his cane, he walked on.

When the moon rose, the newest entrants were thrown a roustabout all up and down Temple Street. Like most Hex City hoys, it spun on the same discovery Rook and Chess had once stumbled on without knowing, to their mutual satisfaction: How, when jammed in proximity, the hex-hunger often became carnal rather than fatal, though equal-voracious and undistinguishing—meat being meat, after all, just like blood was blood.

Rook usually put in an appearance at these shindigs, partly to seed the impression his approval was required for them to continue, but he never stayed long, drank little, and refused all offers of companionship; stayed faithful to Ixchel, after both their fashions. Not that she cared if he had it off briefly with some light-skirt—or equal-light pair of britches, come to that—but to do so risked entanglement, accusations of favouritism, trouble. And more trouble, at this point, was the very last thing he needed to buy.

Were-lights of a score of different hues floated ’round the mob, throwing shadows in red, yellow, silver-white, green. Those folk whose craft ran to brewing and distillation set up dispensary stations on the crowd’s edges, while on a platform raised up by a moment’s impulse, a score of musicians hammered away with enthusiasm, englamoured clouds a-moil above. The hexes danced on earth, air, roofs, walls, indiscriminately; some put on and flung off new shapes, casual as most changed hats. And wherever the crowd fell away, sorcerously inclined revellers could be glimpsed . . . taking one another . . . in any and every sense one might conceive.