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“Oh, fuck that horse-crap,” he said. “You ‘had’ to ruin your life just to ruin mine, ’cause soft don’t win the race? Makes it sound like Rook’s Book without the poesy. At least that Hell-whore Ixchel and the Enemy got a bit of patter to go with their craziness, even if it’s all in some palaver I can’t speak. So apologize or don’t, but save the excuses, ’cause I don’t want none.”

“Little boy. You don’t want none of nothin’ . . . never did.” Oona shook her head once more, half rueful, half malicious. “But you’re gonna get it.”

Then, catching hold of what Chess could only assume was that phantom cord again, she reached out for him, fingers flickering impatiently. “Now — shall we?”

Chess let out his breath, more than half minded to say No, just to see the look on her face. Then thought, amazed: But my friends are waiting. And wasn’t it sadly strange how easy that word came to his lips now, as if he’d had friends all his life, ’stead of only learning what that meant a tad too late to be worth the education?

Even natural perversity wasn’t enough to keep him here, though.

“Let’s,” he said, shortly. And took her proffered hand.

BOOK TWO: SAVAGE WEAPONS

November 13, 1867

Month Fourteen, Day Six Crocodile

Festival: Still Quecholli, or Treasured Feather

Day Cipactli (Crocodile) is governed by Tonactecuhtli, Lord of Nurturance, as its provider of tonalli or Shadow Soul life energy. Cipactli is an auspicious day, ruled by energetic work signifying advancement and honour, good for beginnings. But this trecena, which starts with day Cozcacuauhtli (Vulture), is ruled by Xolotl, god of fire and bad luck, who sometimes aids the dead on their journey to Mictlan. It therefore signifies the wisdom and freedom of old age, representing the path of the setting sun — and while the way of the warrior points to the primal relationship between predator and prey, this sign points to the Third Way, which is neither.

Accordingly, these thirteen days are set aside to perfect the Way of the Scavenger. While the young heart must strategize between offence and defence, the old heart floats like the clouds, stooping to earth only to take what no one else wants. These are good days for disengaging; bad days for participating.

By the Mayan Long Count calendar, today is governed by Piltzintecuhtli the Youthful Lord, who is the planet Mercury — the sun’s little brother, that planet visible just before sunrise, or just after sunset. His wife is Tlazteotl, filth-eater, who redeems through lust and may be invoked during childbirth. He is the third Lord of the Night.

SEVEN DIALS: THREE

This is where the gods killed themselves to make the sun and the moon come up.

Down here in the dark, in the house of dust. Down under the black water, deep and deeper. At the very farthest point, the great taproot, where the crack in all worlds begins. This is where a thousand catastrophes lurk, waiting to be rediscovered — where a million apocalypses slumber, waiting to be recalled. Where the end of all things lies fallow, hoping to be summoned, to fulfill its purpose: to complete itself, and everything else.

In truth, there is no denying that all of our ancestors knew that just as the world began, the world must end; on this point, there is never any debate. The only valid consideration is neither if, nor when — but how.

For the Mexica, first came Nahui-Ocelotl, the Jaguar Sun, whose inhabitants were devoured by wild beasts. Then Nahui-Ehécatl, the Wind Sun, whose inhabitants were destroyed by hurricanes; Nahui-Quiahuitl, the Rain Sun, whose inhabitants were washed away in a rain of fire; and Nahui-Atl, the Water Sun, whose inhabitants died by flood — except for those who became fish, as well as that single man and woman who escaped alive, only to be transformed into dogs.

After Nahui-Atl, Quetzalcoatl himself went down to Mictlan and stole the bones of all previous races from Mictantecuhtli, skeleton lord of death’s kingdom. These he then pulverized and used to create clay, blending it with divine blood shed from a wound in his own divine penis, through which he had threaded a penitent rope of thorns. And from this clay was moulded the current world’s population, baked to life in a furnace powered by Quetzalcoatl’s heart, the glorious morning star.

This, therefore, is why we mutilate ourselves, give all we can afford (and more) in our worshippers’ service, improving their too-brief lives on the assumption that they then will be glad to die — perfect, happy, knowing themselves loved — for us, in our stead.

To keep this pain-born orrery we all occupy turning.

Throughout the last phase of his short life, Chess had seen wonders enough to flatter himself whatever miracle might manifest now as he gripped his mother’s hand, reduced by circumstance to childish dependency, he’d take it in stride. Mind-wrenching shifts, vertig

o and displacement, convulsive transfigurations of earth and sky with everything washed away under foot — he’d endured all that, and more. Nothing could surprise him.

What would it be like, though, this time, when the world around him peeled back to let whatever lay behind unshuck itself? Couldn’t be worse than here, he’d’ve snarled, once — but experience suggested otherwise.

But I’ve fought my way clear of Hell before, Chess thought.

Oona smiled — and yanked hard on the unseen line of tension in her other hand, twanging it bowstring sharp. The recoil pulled ’em first skyward, predictably, as a hooked fish’s tug will set the line whipping. But they didn’t go too far in that direction, instead finding themselves dragged headlong a bare few feet up off the wet black street, kicking up slime and trash; Oona went first, red hair flapping like a torn flag in a windstorm, her grip on Chess’s hand just hard enough to haul him in her wake.

By the time he’d recovered, nonplussed, they were halfway down a narrow crevice between buildings previously near-invisible in the gloom, staring at a blank, crumbling brick wall. Rancid puddles pooled between the flagstones, mud squelching beneath Chess’s boots. Oona bit one dirty knuckle and considered the wall, as if she hadn’t expected it.

“What’s the deal?” he demanded. “Thought we were goin’ up, not side-a-ways.”

“Well, I fought the same,” she snapped back, “so if I knew, I’d damn well say. The thread, it definitely goes in ’ere, after all that; right dead-centre of this brick I’m pointin’ at, neat as a whistle. But — ” She stepped forward and began to probe the wall, hands spidering lightly over the bricks; her brows knotted, peering still closer. “ — after that, I dunno.”

“No way through?”