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Langobard peered into the hall’s recesses. “That sounds like Doc Asbury.”

“Indeed,” Sophy agreed. “Once again, I see Mister Pinkerton has chosen to delegate his leadership duties.” Her eyes moved to Morrow, now rising to join Asbury, as the older man made his limping way down. “And Agent Morrow, as well — good to see the Agency represented directly by someone, at least. You are always welcome.”

Morrow cleared his throat. “Widow Love, Mayor Langobard, Captain Washford.” Adding, hesitating a scant beat before reflex overrode distaste: “Reverend Catlin.”

“Agent Morrow!” The pastor projected a blitheness so unflagging Morrow was hard put to figure whether it sprung from profound idiocy, incalculable self-confidence, or some admixture of both. “God bless and keep you. I take it your latest errand was successful?”

“Thank you, Reverend — we can deal with the niceties later, if you please.” Langobard leaned forward, table creaking under his weight. “But for once, Agent Morrow, I find myself and the Widow in full agreement. Where is Mister Pinkerton? Are we not important enough to receive our information from him at first-hand?”

Asbury shifted. “No, no. Mister Pinkerton wanted to come, I do assure you. But . . . circumstances . . .” He shrugged, helpless, as the crowd fell back to muttering.

He’s fighting a return of his old complaint, the old man had told Morrow, at the depot. It does seem to continue flaring up; the symptoms worsen, as well. Though I remain confident I shall find a true solution soon, he’d added, far too quickly to reassure.

For his own part, Morrow did not care to imagine what Pinkerton’s unnaturally imbued hex-hunger — like that of a born magic-user, yet somehow more venomous, eroding his very humanity along with his health and strength if not constantly fed — would look like, after “worsening.” He was only grateful he hadn’t yet had to find out.

“What the Professor’s tryin’ to say,” he interposed, “is how Mister Pinkerton’s needed particularly close to hand in camp these days, ’specially in times of war.”

“Huh.” Langobard leaned back, with a disgusted noise. “’Tween honest folk and hexes, war’s like men versus little red ants on a hill, with them the men in this equation.”

“Not so.” This last came from Captain Washford. “They’ve power, sure, but comparatively few have imagination or the discipline enough to wield it optimally, whilst we have numbers and persistence. Plus, we know full well what we fight for: Our entire world’s survival.”

“Oh, Hex City’s Lady don’t seek to destroy that,” Morrow remarked; “it’s hers already, by her lights. And she’ll need us, too, after — as fuel, for that Machine of hers.”

Catlin said hopefully: “Yet, to paraphrase Matthew 7:12 . . . if we leave them alone, might be they’ll leave us alone?”

“Uh huh. And might be pigs’ll learn to live shit-free, but I somewhat doubt it.”

Langobard scowled. “Gentlemen . . .”

“No, Mayor; Agent Morrow’s right, impoliteness aside.” Sophy’s mouth twitched, shaped a ghost of a smile. “Those to the north won’t let us be, not so long’s they do the Rev’s bidding, or he does hers.”

“Exactly.” Morrow glanced from the Widow to Langobard, then Washford. “All of you have a chunk of the truth, and we need to parse it out proper. Though we don’t dare wait much longer to take the fight toward Hex City once again, we can’t afford to do so unarmed.” He gestured to Asbury, who opened the heavy hide rucksack slung at his waist. “Now, the Doc here’s worked hard preparing the tools we need, in order to steal at least some hope of victory. So, with your permission . . .”

Asbury cleared his throat, turning the glass-faced device he’d withdrawn from side to side, so all could see. “This, which you may have already heard of, is the Manifold,” he said. “I shall not waste time explaining its construction, save to note that its clockwork incorporates gears of magnetized metal and a silver-iron-sodium alloy.” He twisted the fob several times, setting its gears a-whirl. “Once activated, the interaction of these kinetic-magnetic energies with the arcane conductivity of the alloy creates a field capable of disrupting hexacious input. While active, this device may be used as a shield against witchery and a weapon to dispel standing enchantments — merely strike the object or creature in question, and its efficacy will be dispersed.”

“Very clever, Doctor,” Langobard began. “Yet I fail to see what use one gadget might possibly be. . . .”

Here he trailed off, however, when Asbury upended the rest of his baggage onto the stage with a great cascading metallic clatter. Dozens of Manifolds slid out, shining in the light of the hall’s lanterns, and the crowd’s manner — hitherto that of bemusement — sharpened, with electrical fierceness, to an excitement so palpable it made Morrow grin.

“One to any who think they need one,” Asbury declared. “A charitable donation to our Bewelcomite fellow travellers in the War on Hex, care of Mister Pinkerton . . . and myself, of course.”

“Amazing.” Washford rubbed his chin. “Delicate mechanisms, though, Doctor, am I right? Not amenable to direct impact, grit in the gears — or being dropped?” As Asbury flushed: “Not that I mean to belittle your contribution, but we must know its limits. Will this truly work on any hex? Even ones such as Reverend Rook, or his Lady?” Adding, with a sidelong look at Morrow: “Or that other demi-deity we all know of . . . can we speak his name aloud, without inviting his participation?”

“Chess Pargeter’s no part of this,” Morrow replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Not anymore.”

“But reports put him all over the battlefield — at its edges, in the thick of the fray. He’s been seen at the station, watching trains come in. Hell, he’s been seen in people’s dreams.”

Here Catlin shook his head, smiling stupid-wide. “Wouldn’t place much trust in those tales, Captain — we’re none of us Daniels. People dream of what they fear.”

“And they fear what they have reason to. Don’t they, Mister Morrow?”

Suddenly, everyone was looking Morrow’s way.

Knowing Asbury in particular awaited his reply, he took the time to draw breath, before allowing:

“It’s true enough that something wages a campaign ’gainst the Rev and Herself, wearing . . . Pargeter’s shape, then turns the hammer ’gainst us, whenever we interfere. Take it from me, though — it ain’t him. I’ve been close enough to tell.” People fell silent, embarrassed by the implications. “For my money, he died in your town square, bringing y’all back from Beyond.”

Looking to Sophy, he was obscurely heartened to see her nod, albeit reluctantly. But Washford, who — like all the newest arrivals — hadn’t witnessed that particular anti-miracle for himself, stayed sceptical.