LIKE THE REST of the town, the lobby of the Fountain was under renovation. Large white sheets draped the furniture and walls, as if the hotel hosted a gathering of ghosts lounging in odd positions.
“We’d like a room,” Desmond said.
“Passing through or staying for a while?” The concierge had a thick mustache and a patch of hair on his chin. He smoothed down errant tufts of hair with his palm. Despite a vest and jacket, his shirt was unbuttoned and filthy about the collar. A long watch chain dangled from his jacket pocket to his vest.
“Tonight for now. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”
“Right.” Glancing between Desmond and the boy, the man’s eyes betrayed him mentally putting his thumb on the scales. “That’ll be one hundred credits. In advance.”
“I see.” Desmond fished in his change purse. Their funds were running low. He would need to find work soon or risk them begging in the streets. He withdrew a Jamaican bank note. A five-hundred-dollar bill with a portrait of Grandy Nanny on it. One of the freedom fighters who drove away Albion forces from the Jamaican shores during the Maroon Wars. Like an important part of his history, he held on to it. A reminder of a memory. He whispered to himself, “Nanny for Queen.”
“We don’t take any play money here. Only Albion credits or Tejas currency.”
“What about this?” Desmond produced a gold coin. “Surely you could make do with this.”
“We don’t make change.” The man held the coin between his index finger and thumb with an appraising gaze. “But this will guarantee . . . two nights.”
“Three.”
“Fine, but no refunds if you opt to leave early.”
Movement caught Desmond’s eye in the mirror behind the man. He hadn’t put the habits of spycraft behind him. Shrouded among the winding stairs, a sheet-covered coat rack, and some decorative plants, a figure stood near the back corner of the lobby under the stairwell. His high black boots and dark pants didn’t draw attention to him. However, his cape reminded Desmond of someone. A Kabbalist agent. Desmond whirled around, brandishing his cane like a sword. The man wasn’t there.
“Everything all right?” the concierge asked.
“Yes it’s fine.” Desmond glanced from one end of the lobby to the other. Finding no trace of the man, he lowered his cane. “I thought I saw an old . . . friend.”
The concierge eyed the cane. “We don’t look too kindly on those sorts of friendships rekindling their acquaintance. This is a much gentler joint than the Redeemer, I promise you.”
“I’m dining there this evening. With Mr. Hearst.” Desmond let the name fall to see what kind of reaction it would receive.
“My, you do have fancy friends.” The man handed him a set of keys without further commentary.
* * *
Desmond filled a water basin and washed his face. He’d drawn a bath for Lij and let the boy splash around while he finished donning his attire for the evening. If there was one thing he truly missed of his old life, it was his dandied wardrobe. Theirs was a life on the run, but he still allowed himself one clothing indulgence. A fuchsia-colored shirt against a dark emerald suit. A pocket kerchief matched his shirt.
“How do you like the room?” Desmond asked as Lij emerged from the bathroom.
“It is fine, I guess.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘I guess’?”
“I’m guessing. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?” Lij didn’t look at him.
“Are you enjoying being around people a little more?”
“One percent. I hear all the noise.” Lij wore white pinstriped pants and a collared blue shirt with large pockets. Lij loved pockets.
“Well, let’s see what the good people of Abandon have to offer.”
Desmond helped him finish dressing before putting the final trimmings on his own outfit. He eased an unlit pipe into his mouth and grabbed his tan-handled cane. His dark sunglasses hid a third of his face.
Marveling at the mechanical horses as they trotted along, Desmond hadn’t seen such craftsmanship since leaving Jamaica. Hundreds of metal squares, like armor weave-molded on a frame, formed their gleaming, sleek bodies. The clockwork beasts threw chunks of mud with each step. Only a few horse-drawn carriages filled the streets. Unlike other cities, where cars clogged the paved city arteries with such thick congestion that every morning, the city suffered a traffic coronary.
“Everyone here seems to have a gun,” Lij said.
“They do love their guns here.”
“I don’t like them. They hurt people.”
“That’s what they were designed to do,” Desmond said.
“You hurt people.”
“Sometimes. That was what I was trained to do in order to protect the people I cared about.”
“This one time, you hurt a man in a cape.”
“I remember.”
“He came after us. He kept following us from place to place, like a shadow. He said he was after me and that I was a weapon.”
“You’re not a weapon.”
“He lied and said I was. I didn’t like him. He made me . . .” Lij clapped his hands. Every now and then, Lij would get stuck on a point. Like a needle caught in the groove of a phonogram, he kept coming back to whatever made him anxious until he worked it out of his system.
“How did he make you feel?” Desmond held his hand loosely but gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Scared. And angry. I wanted to go to my quiet place.”
“The special room?”
“No, my quiet place. They sometimes let me do that. It helped me get calm.”
“We all sometimes need to go to our quiet place.”
“Yours is under a tree.”
Desmond smiled. “It helps me think.”
“This one time you ran and jumped on a man with a cape. You started kicking and punching and rolling on the ground.”
“I remember. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.”
“All right.” Lij walked a little more.
A man limped by on a set of crutches, his leg missing from the knee down. Two men punched each other while a crowd watched. Neither one particularly angry, their fight seemed more of an exercise in venting anger. A trashcan fire warmed a family between buildings. Rats scurried along the windowsill of the closed general store, anxious to get to the feed inventory. What Desmond hated most was the smell. The mud may have been mixed with waste from sewer overflows. A heavy odor fell from the factory. Everything had a hint of something burnt, as if someone overworked the bellows and stoked flames, scorching the walls of buildings.
Lij snapped back to attention. “You kept kicking and punching him. I thought I was in trouble.”
“You weren’t in trouble.”
“I thought I made trouble.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Bad men wanted to do bad things to you.”
“And you kept kicking and punching him. You kept me safe.”
“I told you, I protect the people I care about.”
“I don’t like this place. There are too many shadows.”
“I know.” Desmond knew they were being watched. Herded. Each step toward the Redeemer carried a sense of inevitability. If their enemies had found them, best to gather them, have them reveal themselves. Deal with them one way or another.
A thin haze of smoky air hung in the air as if not wanting to cross the threshold of the Redeemer’s lobby. In the flickering gaslit glow of the chandelier, a few men sat around card tables, smoking pipes and muttering to themselves. They held their cards either close to their vests or flat against the table. A series of open flames ringed the small stage. A piano player let his fingers dance along the keys, producing a jaunty melody. But no showgirls took to the stage. The music rose and fell, a choreographed metronome. A few men glanced with expectation to the stage, but without so much as a curtain rustle to hold their attention, they turned back to their games.
Stepping inside, he felt all eyes in the room quickly fall on him. The piano ceased its tinkling, holding its breath in an extended pause before picking back up a few measures later. Desmond scanned the saloon, but he didn’t see their erstwhile dinner companion.
“This here’s no place for a child, boy.”
Desmond fully expected to turn and see the rude man from earlier that day. Though this new man could have been his relation, it was not him. Desmond began to wonder if there were but two sorts of people in Tejas: the rude ones itching for a confrontation and the overly chatty ones looking to learn a stranger’s life story. He didn’t like the way the man looked at either of them. “There are no children here.”
The man took a moment to size Desmond up one last time. Through the thick lenses of his beer goggles, he saw something he didn’t like. Or he’d sobered up enough for common sense to take over. “Just giving you fair warning’s all.”
The man stumbled back toward the saloon, the darkness and smoky haze swallowing him in a few steps. Desmond turned in time to see the woman from the street stride through the doorway.
“Well, ain’t this a pig living in muck,” she said.
“I’m getting accustomed to the constant posturing, I suppose,” Desmond said.
“You certainly clean up nice.”
“It’s not every day one is invited to dine with the closest thing to a Chancellor of a city one had never been in before.”
“When you put it that way, I’m downright envious.”
“Well, I’m curious as to what he has to say. At the very least, it’s a free meal and I expect it to be interesting.”
“Interesting . . . is a word.” She stared at him with a gaze that struck him as one part flirtation and two parts appraisal.
“Well, well, well, look at all the pretty people gathered in one place. I doubt the Redeemer can take it.” Mr. Hearst paraded down the steps, taking his time to ensure all eyes remained on him. He capped his green outfit with a cowboy hat, but he wore it like he was new to it and it didn’t fit natural. When he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he studied the woman and Desmond. The intensity of scrutiny reminded Desmond of how Lij often stared at people who drew his full attention. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all. We didn’t see you and we thought it best to wait by the main door,” Desmond said.
“Yeah, the Redeemer’s not exactly casual family dining, but it’ll do in a pinch. I’m here now; shall we go in?” Mr. Hearst held the door, then ran his eyes up and down the woman. “Where are my manners? Garrison Hearst at your service.”
“Cayt Siringo.”
“Enchanted.” Mr. Hearst bent low to kiss her hand. “You, my dear, are welcome to join us.”
“Now, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Cayt said.
“Nonsense. I’d be kicking myself for the rest of the night if I refused the opportunity for the company of so exquisite a creature.”
“In that case, I’d love to join you.” Cayt curtsied and stepped through the doorway.
Eyes from each of the tables watched them to their seats, some more surreptitiously than others. The rude man and the one who could be his relation kept their eyes on the drinks in front of them. A waitress met them immediately and ushered them to the rear of the saloon. Another set of stairs wrapped around the back wall and side of the room, creating a small alcove around a back table. It afforded them a view of the entire saloon floor as well as a measure of privacy.
The waitress cast an uncertain eye toward Lij, but Mr. Hearst waved off her unneeded attention. Desmond moved to the seat closest to the back wall and immediately noted the exits. Though he left the seat beside him vacant, Lij refused it and stood behind him.
“Cigarette?” Mr. Hearst held out a gold cigarette container. “Carolina-grown.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Cayt took a cigarette and held it to her lips for Mr. Hearst to light.
“And you?”
“I have my own.” Desmond reached into his vest pocket to withdraw the pouch. He deftly rolled a spliff only half of what he normally rolled, so that he’d have enough to roll one last one later. With quite the production, he took a long hit, held the smoke for several heartbeats before letting loose a thick cloud of smoke.
“An unusual odor, I must say,” Mr. Hearst said.
“It’s not from Carolina.”
“Speaking of unusual, so is your accent. Where are you from?”
“You’re the second person to remark on my accent.” Desmond smirked at Cayt.
“I may have mentioned that if he were affecting an Albion accent, or worse, a Tejan one, he still had room to perfect it,” Cayt said.
“I must say I do agree with the lady. Still, I can’t quite place it,” Mr. Hearst pressed.
“Jamaica.” Desmond smiled to keep up pretenses, but he knew an interrogation when he heard one. He’d dealt with men like Mr. Hearst before. Men who enjoyed their power but enjoyed watching people dance to their tune even more.
“You’re a long way from home.”
“We’re on an extended vacation. When I was young, I always wished to see more of the world. To better know its people, walk among them. Learn from them.”
“How much of the world do you plan to see?”
The man fished for information. Desmond wasn’t going to give him much. “We haven’t decided. There’s so much to see here.”
“We’re so close to the Five Civilized Tribes border; had you given that any consideration?”
“It was difficult enough crossing the Tejas border from Albion. The borders of the Five Civilized Tribes seem particularly . . . contested.”
“You know how border disputes go.” Mr. Hearst waved his cigarette about in search of an ashtray. A waitress brought one over and then busied herself at another table. “Folks squabbling over who owns what land.”
“Land ownership is where true wealth lies,” Desmond said.
“And the resources they represent. Some of the California lands have gold veins so thick that you can scoop up with your hands . . . all going to waste ’cause these godless, bloodthirsty heathens ain’t got the sense God gave them.”
“I’m quite familiar with being seen as a potential well of resources. It’s Albion’s chief lesson of interaction with its neighbors.”
Mr. Hearst read Desmond’s expression of unease. “I don’t mean to offend. Look here, I’ve got nothing against those people. I just have a habit of saying what a lot of people think, especially around these parts, and—not being politically shrewd—I forget my words may shock some folks. If it makes you feel any better, you should know that I’m part Indian. On my father’s side.”
“You’re part full of shit,” Cayt said. “Everyone claims they’re part Indian, like it’s some sort of fashion statement.”
Mr. Hearst took the casual insult in stride, but he slowly turned to her like a missile turret acquiring a new target. “So, how is it that you and Mr. Coke became acquainted?”
“An accident of circumstances, I’d say,” Cayt said.
“We bumped into each other on the promenade. Not too long after you and I were first introduced,” Desmond said.
“It was a busy day for you. Lots of interesting characters to meet,” Mr. Hearst said.
“The people of Tejas do love to . . . introduce themselves. It’s not how I imagined this place would be.”
“You think us all gun-crazed militia types, barricading ourselves in our homes with stores of food and ammo, waiting for the government invasion?”
“So the news would have people believe.”
“The Vox Dei and Vox Populi are owned by Lord Leighton Melbourne. The Vox Populi electro-transmissions are an opiate for the masses, and I’d sooner wipe my ass with the Vox Dei than read it.”
Desmond shifted. “There’s a lady and child present.”
“Well, how a man tends to the needs of his ass says a lot about him,” Cayt said.
“I like this one. She’s a hoot. Can I buy you all a round of drinks before we get down to it? I have it on good authority that the bartender keeps a bottle of thirty-three-year-old whiskey from the Scottish highlands in his special stock. I’ve been hankering to try it.”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Desmond said.
“Not a drinking man?”
“Not as much these days.”
“The duty of parenthood, I suppose.” Mr. Hearst snapped his fingers and the waitress stepped to attention. “I never hope to find out.”
“Whiskey. Neat,” Cayt said.
“Two sarsaparillas for the gentleman and his son. Two whiskeys. The good stuff. Neat.” Mr. Hearst waved her off like he brushed lint from his shoulders. “Now, you were saying about how you two met.”
“Up until a couple hours ago, we’d never met,” Cayt said again.
“Cayt—may I call you Cayt?”
“Of course. We’re all friends here.”
“Cayt, how does it that a young woman such as yourself finds her way to the fair city of Abandon?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, despite how Desmond portrays our international appeal, we’re fairly off the beaten track.”
“You’re here,” she said.
“I happen to own a residence here to oversee some of my interests, but, to be frank, most folks find this here town to be like a wart on a gentleman’s unmentionables. No one finds their way here on accident.”
“I’d say the tent city on the outskirts begs to differ.”
“Those are drifters and migrant workers. Folks like Mr. Coke here, looking for work as they pass through.”
“And I couldn’t be?” Cayt asked.
“Don’t be so modest.” Mr. Hearst stirred. He leaned forward, his eyes intense. His voice dropped a little with the vague hint of patience running out.
“I’m a girl of gossamer interests.”
“What does that mean?”
“I come and go as I please.” Cayt met his eyes, unblinking. She reached into her purse. Mr. Hearst hard-eyed her movements but relaxed when she withdrew her fan.
“A leaf blown in the wind,” Mr. Hearst said.
“Exactly.”
“A woman of independent means? I’m not familiar with the Siringo family name.”
“We’re . . . I’m from Matagorda State. In southwestern Tejas.”
“I thought I recognized that particular brand of twang. Living off the family trust?”
“Manners.” Cayt unfurled her fan and began to flutter it. She upticked her chin toward the boy. “I almost died when I was his age. Smallpox. My mother passed away soon after. I learned early on how to make my own way.”
“What work brings you to Abandon?”
Desmond turned to her to take particular note of how she’d respond to this line of inquiry.
Cayt passed the briefest of glances between them. Her lips upturned slightly at the edges, enjoying an unspoken game. “I’m strictly a consultant. I take on jobs that intrigue me.”
“A woman of intrigue. How did you get into . . . consulting?” Mr. Hearst asked.
“You know how you get to that age when you find yourself rather adrift in life? Folks didn’t think I was going to make it, especially since I was a scrawny something. When I got better, I was determined to be a cowgirl. I was a crack shot and pretty fair with a rope. Then I bumped into a phrenologist at a county fair. He took a reading of my cranium and convinced me to change my line of work.” Cayt closed her fan. “I might ask you the question of why do you take such an interest in us.”
“You two are what I call anomalies.”
“How so?”
“Neither of you quite fit. You’re like a tick bite that I can’t seem to scratch. A couple of strangers who blow into town about the same time. You may know each other already, you may not. It might all be coincidence, but I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”
“A place like Abandon, off the beaten track as you say, would be the perfect place for someone to make a fresh start for themselves,” Desmond said with caution. “Away from interference from the crown.”
“A place for a feller . . . or lady . . . to get lost,” Cayt said.
“Or to be found.” Mr. Hearst settled back into his chair.
The waitress arrived with the drinks. She poured out the bottles of sarsaparilla into tall glasses and left the remainder in the bottles besides them. She set the two shot glasses in front of both Mr. Hearst and Cayt. Everyone eyed their drinks. The air between them slowly soured as their patience with the game were thin for them all now.
“To good health,” Mr. Hearst raised a shot glass.
Cayt raised her glass, clinked it against his, and then downed her drink in a single gulp. She overturned the empty glass and slammed it to the table. “Sipping is for a lady’s tea party.”
Mr. Hearst tossed his drink back and slammed his glass to the table. He shook two fingers at the waitress before turning back to Desmond. “It’s not too often that we get a Negro passing through here.”
The man delivered the words like a probe, waiting to see how Desmond would react.
“It’s a free republic, as I understand.” Desmond sipped his sarsaparilla.
“The freest.” Mr. Hearst threw his head back with a relaxed chuckle. “That damn fool regent, Lincoln, did his level best to tear the country apart way back when until the crown saw fit to have him removed.”
“A conspiracy buff?” Cayt asked.
“A realist. Regent Lincoln was bad for business. And this here United States territory is the engine that drives the business of Albion. We can trace the Tejas Free Republic and the current tensions directly back to his original missteps.”
“Sounds like given Tejas’s independent status, you ought to be more grateful to him, then.” Desmond hoped that he disguised his bristling at any disparagement of Regent Lincoln and what he attempted to do. With his efforts to free a people, in Jamaica, he was hailed as a hope for a new era of relations between the two countries.
“I am but a simple businessman with several business interests. As my reputation is largely the stuff of dime novels, I’ll admit that some of my family’s fortune found its origins in smuggling, bootlegging, and piracy before we fully legitimized and headed west. I followed the railways and airships, like a hopper, except my goal was to control them, not hitch rides on them. And when I found Abandon, I found my home. Well, my base of operations hidden from all things civilized. It was here that I established my consortium of like-minded businessmen.”
Desmond took another swig of his sarsaparilla. The saloon patrons chatted amiably in low murmurs. None of them ordered any drinks. No one touched their cards. Too many cast surreptitious glances toward their table. “Kabbalists.”
“It has taken on the appearance of a quasi-political movement. At its heart, it is about people pursuing truths. About themselves. About mankind. About the universal forces that govern our lives.” Mr. Hearst took another cigarette for himself. “Politics is always a tricky business to discuss in polite company.”
“I hope you don’t hold back on my account,” Cayt said.
“All right, then, the take-home lesson is that people always get the government they allow. Albion officials telling us we’re trespassing on our own land. Here in Tejas, we got sick and tired of the crown creeping into our everyday lives. No matter what you’re doing, there the crown is with a law and a tax. We just want to be left alone. The tensions you referred to began with our protests over the crown declaring ownership of public lands. Land seized for their mineral reserves. That was the final straw. It didn’t take much to stir up some anti-crown sentiment. Albion rules with a heavy hand, too much control, too much interference in lives and businesses. We were already frustrated with the crown over their oppressive laws and regulation. Taxation without representation. All of their oppressive tactics. Dissidents had been fleeing to Tejas in such droves, the phrase ‘Gone to Tejas’ became popular.
“Our little . . . insurrection party threw a cog into Albion’s Western Design dream: a coast-to-coast version of the United States, and they’ve resented us ever since. The crown can label us occupiers all they want. Our armed citizens patrols our borders as members of the Watchmen. Our militia men stand as our first line of armed resistance against government tyranny.”
“You protect what’s yours,” Desmond said.
Mr. Hearst leveled a cool eye at him; his gaze flicked behind him to Lij. He downed the second shot of whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the table. “Doesn’t that boy ever speak?”
“All the time. To me. When he feels safe.” Desmond re-gripped the handle of his cane.
“I grow weary of these games. Let us get down to the business at hand.”
“And what business is that?” Cayt asked.
“I assume the same business that brought you to Abandon, Miss Siringo. Shall I tell you a story?”
“I do so enjoy a good yarn.”
“In Jamaica, there was a Maroon leader named Colonel Malcolm Juba. Malcolm the First, he declared himself, a petty tyrant of a man, unreasonable and generally a misanthrope when it comes to business, but no one could say that he lacked vision. Or audacity. Though he ruled his kingdom with a cruel hand, he could not stem the raucous tide of people whose interests collided. None were strong enough to overthrow him, but their constant agitation made his rule troublesome. He constantly had to deal with threats within his kingdom.
“No outsider could be at all certain about the internal politics of the Jamaican power structure. The Rastafarians had their own factions. Obeahists worked ‘The Science,’ mixing their brand of mysticism and politics. There was even this group of radicals who called themselves the Niyabingi. They fancied themselves secret soldiers who carried out the will of the people. They planned to ride the world of the Colonel and allow the people to remake their government.
“All of the various interests vied for the power or minds of the people. So Malcolm decided that he needed a symbol, a story to stir the imaginations and unite the hearts of his people. A living idea he could control as well as exploit. If he could not find a symbol, he would make one. He thought back through the history of his people and chose their most personal story. The Rastafarians had a leader, Haile Selassie, the Roaring Lion, who fit the bill. We have to be careful because names have power.” He tried to guess an answer from Lij’s face, but none was forthcoming. “Born Tafari Makonnen, the King of Abyssinia, a messiah descended from King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.
“Malcolm turned to the science of the Age of Reason. From a sample of His Imperial Majesty, his scientists played with cells, the building blocks of life, to create new life in a glass womb. Without mother. Without father. Only Malcolm. The plan was to raise the boy as the returned Haile Selassie, with Malcolm as the man behind the curtain. But he didn’t count on a member of the Niyabingi going off script and taking the boy out of play entirely. Stirred up quite the hornet’s nest.”
“As you said, people get the government they allow,” Desmond said.
“I don’t like that story,” Lij whispered in his ear. “And there are a lot of shadows in here.”
“I noticed.” Desmond had that feeling again of being watched. Stalked. His hunters remained out of sight, though he knew they were there. Like mirages noticed only out of the corners of his eyes.
“If I may, I’d like to propose a peaceable solution to our little impasse,” Mr. Hearst said with the smugness of a man hiding an ace up his sleeve at the card table. “What if war was declared, everyone showed up, but no one fought? Not Albion, not Jamaica, not Tejas.”
“Like a standoff?” Desmond frowned skeptically.
“No winners. Well, except for the people who designed and sold their weapons.”
“And the people in charge of rebuilding afterwards,” Cayt added.
“And the gravediggers,” Desmond said. “There is always big business in death.”
“We are on the cusp of a new age. A technology race to the next breakthrough. He who controls the technology controls the future. And Lij is technology.” Mr. Hearst rested both arms on the table and huddled toward them. He continued in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “I have my agents placed about this room. All of them watching and waiting for my signal.”
“I know. They’re sloppy. I spotted them when we arrived at the Fountain. I imagine a couple are going through our room as we chat.”
“You imagine correctly.”
“What about Cayt?”
“What makes you think I couldn’t handle myself?” Cayt asked.
“Oh, I suspect you can. My guess is that you’re a special operative with the Pinkerton Agency,” Desmond said. “And that was your partner Mr. Hearst or the good citizens of Abandon left on display.”
“I wondered,” Mr. Hearst said. “For whom do you . . . consult?”
“I wouldn’t be much of a consultant if I just gave up that sort of information, now, would I?” she said.
“I have my suspicions. Lord Melbourne would have great interest in the secrets the boy carries within him. So, the ways I see it, you ain’t got but a couple of choices. You see, you ain’t as lost as you thought you were. I know you’re here. Lord Melbourne knows you’re here. I’m guessing your own people were on the next airship out of Jamaica and can’t be far behind. So, either you make your deal with the devil of your choosing or you make peace with whatever god you people pray to these days.” Mr. Hearst pushed away from the table slightly, like a man stuffed after a full meal. He surveyed his guests one more time. “I’ll leave you two to discuss your options among yourselves. You can reach me in my suite with your answer.”
Cayt put her hand on his, halting him. “Before you go, I have a couple of observations.”
“And what might those be, little lady?” Mr. Hearst asked.
“The first is strictly conjecture. The name Garrison Hearst carries with it a significant weight. He is a man of note, used to dealing with captains of industry, regents, even royalty. I have trouble believing that he would, in person, have a face-to-face meeting that a low-level aide-de-camp; am I saying that right?” She turned to Desmond, who half-shrugged. “That an aide-de-camp should handle.”
“Are you saying that I’m not who I represent myself to be?”
“Oh, I believe who you represent, only that you aren’t him. Second.” She turned to Desmond. “How many do you count?”
Without missing a beat, Desmond noted the positions of the other patrons and the bartender. “A dozen.”
“A dozen of your men stand between us and the front door. I have trouble believing that you’re just going to let us walk out of here, no matter what we decide.”
“How you leave here is entirely up to you.” For the first time, Mr. Hearst’s voice wavered.
Cayt patted Mr. Hearst down while keeping a friendly smile on her face. “Whether you live longer than the next few minutes so that you can give Mr. Hearst our answer depends on you keeping your hands in plain sight and you remaining all friendly-like.”
They sat in silence. The moment stretched. Two men blocked the main door. The ones playing poker hadn’t overturned a card in quite a while. It was like they were too bored to keep up the pretense while waiting for a signal. Mr. Hearst’s exit was probably their sign. Now they grew anxious.
“Do you still have the music box?” Lij asked.
Mr. Hearst jumped at the sound of the boy’s voice.
“I sure do, hon.” Cayt retrieved the box and handed it to him. “You can keep it.”
The opening notes of “Beautiful Dreamer” tinkled from the metal tines as the clockwork gears spun the tiny porcelain dancer.
“You want him for your employer,” Desmond said.
“The only thing I want right now is to make it out of this room alive. You saw what they did to my partner.”
“If they are armed like the last agent who attacked us, their weapons are probably set to stun in order to not to risk hurting the boy.”
“Mine aren’t,” she said. “Besides, they might be hesitant to fire with their ringleader here with us.”
“Are you even armed?”
“A lady never tells. You?”
“Swords don’t have stun settings.” Desmond slowly turned the handle of his cane and withdrew his blade underneath the table.
“You seriously brought a sword to a gunfight?”
“I held out hope that all I’d have to fight tonight was an overdone steak.”
The weight of a person creeping down the stairwell caused a step above them to creak. With the flick of her wrists, twin modified Colt Mustangs slid into Cayt’s hands along mechanical arm braces hidden by her dangling sleeves. She fired twice above them and a body tumbled over the bannister. Desmond overturned their table.
“Thirteen, then,” he said.
The men in the saloon scrambled for cover and began to fire. The air sizzled. Electric pulses from handheld weapons battered the overturned table. Desmond stretched his neck to the left, then to the right, slowly popping his joints. He glanced from Cayt’s drawn weapons to her eyes. She gazed from his sword back to his eyes. With a nod, they established the barest of truces.
Cayt dove. Sliding from behind the table, she fired from her side. Two men yelped in response.
Desmond lunged toward the nearest table. The rude man took cover behind a wooden pole near his table. Desmond leapt at him before he could fire. With his free hand, Desmond took him by the hair and slammed his head into the table. Desmond kept moving. The man who could have been kin to the rude one fumbled in bringing his weapon to bear. Desmond rammed the hilt of his cane into the side of the man’s skull.
I guess there’s a stun setting after all, he thought.
Desmond whirled to scoop up Lij and make a break for the door. When he turned, a man clutched the boy to him. His weapon trained at Lij’s head.
The man started to speak. “Now, you just . . .”
A weapon fired. The man’s face grew quizzical, as if not understanding what happened. A neat hole perforated his forehead. His eyes rolled skyward and his body dropped where it stood. Desmond turned and nodded. Cayt returned the gesture.
She leapt and ran along the bar, firing her weapons madly. Yet she hit targets with a preternatural ease. Four more bodies dropped. When she ran out of bullets, Cayt flung the guns as distraction. She laughed wildly as she pounced on several men.
With Lij in tow behind him, Desmond wasted few movements. A man aimed a shotgun at Desmond’s head. Stepping toward the man, Desmond knocked the weapon to the side like he was blocking a punch. He ran the man through with his blade. There was a wet chuff and the man let loose a soft grunt. Desmond withdrew the blade and moved toward the door.
Four men in black capes ran into the room to join the two men guarding the door. The ponchos unfurled, revealing the mechanical works of their lower torsos. Gears whirred around a central cavity, which housed a series of electrodes. Electricity arced between them. Kabbalist agents. The men formed a semicircle.
Cayt tumbled into them like a four-limbed bowling ball. From the corner of his eye, he caught her kicking a man. She sent him headfirst into the corner of the bar. A punch sent another man sprawling. She grabbed a mug from the bar, shattering it against the head of one man, she jammed the handle of what remained into the chest cavity of another.
Desmond grabbed the nearest man. He spun him around to use as a shield against the remaining men. In formation, the men moved like armored vehicles. An agent threw a slow, telegraphed blow. As a squad, they depended too much on their armor to absorb much of the punishment. Desmond sidestepped the blow. He jammed his sword into the gears of the man’s arm. This severed the limb at the shoulder.
Desmond blocked two punches with the sheath of his cane. He thrust it into the man’s gut. Desmond dropped to one knee and spun. His blade sliced across the man’s legs. It clanged, metal on metal. He rolled before the man stomped where Desmond’s head once was. Scrabbling to his feet, Desmond barely managed to avoid a punch. He turned to his left and ducked. He hooked his cane handle to the man’s ankle. Sweeping his feet out from under him, Desmond cracked the man in the head as he fell.
Cayt slid under a wild punch, pivoted, and slammed her elbow into a man’s groin. Twice for good measure. The man dropped his weapon. She head-butted him and let him drop to the ground.
Lij stood near the door, between Desmond and Cayt. “Beautiful Dancer” played like a mechanical flute.
“We have unfinished business, you and I.” Cayt took in ragged gasps of air.
“How so?” Desmond breathed heavily, taking a slow step away from the pile of men.
“You need to hand the boy over to me.”
“The boy is my charge.”
“And I have an employer to report to.” Cayt held out her arm. No weapon sprang to her hand. She hunted for a pulse weapon.
Desmond grabbed Lij with such force, the boy dropped his music box. A low wail grew to a mad howl as Lij kicked and screamed. Dashing through the saloon lobby, Desmond ran with the boy under his arm to the street. A mechanical horse was parked at the curb. He slung the keening boy on top of the horse, pressing him hard—he was afraid, too hard—into the horse’s nape for fear the lad in his fit would wriggle free and fall off. With a yell, Desmond spun the horse into action.
Cayt ran onto the street and fired once after them.
Desmond’s side burned, but he couldn’t chance checking his wound until they got free of Tejas’ borders. With their enemies pressing in on them, they had to keep moving to make it into the Five Civilized Tribes territory.