The Damnation Affair

those corpses had ended up inside the town’s charter.

He didn’t like that one bit.

Russ halted for a moment, his head rising. Breathing through a charmed triangle of cloth knotted around his face, blinking, he peered ahead. Gabe eased his horse forward. If there was a gap or an erasure, Russ would mend it while Gabe stood guard.

Russ’s hat shook itself, no. He continued, and this was the worst sector—due west, where the sun went to die every day.

There were plenty of gold claims in the hills, yes. All sorts of things out in the hills where the wild mancy roamed. And one particular claim, sealed up tight as a vicar’s platebox, the ancient hungry thing inside it deep in its uneasy slumber.

It was about time to ride out and check, to make certain the seal was holding. The tribes before the white man in this part of the world had whispered of something foul in the hills before they disappeared. Those garbled legends sent a cold finger down Gabe’s back the first time he heard them, because those of the Order knew how much truth there could be in such whispers.

Yes, he had to go out soon. In sunshine, though. No amount of gold could have made either man venture west in the dark. Not through those hills. Some other idiots might, though, and if they brought trouble back to town it was Gabe who would be setting it to rights.

Thinking about that claim put him in a worse mood, if that was possible. Something was nagging at him, and there was no way to tease it out when people kept misbehaving. Something to do with that claim, and the—

Russ pulled his horse up short, and Gabe’s mouth went dry. Sparks flew, blue-white and the lower, duller red of the chartermage’s mancy. Russ dismounted, and the rifle was in Gabe’s hands, steady and comforting. He covered the hole while the chartermage crouched, teasing together the circuit-strands, binding them with knots that flashed with ancient symbols of protection against malice, ill-chance…

And evil.

The rifle was steady. Dust slipped and slithered, if the wind didn’t abate by morning they were looking at a regular old simoun, and everyone who was half-crazy before would go all the way into full-blown lunatic while the wind lasted. He’d be busy keeping some semblance of order, and Catherine—who knew how she’d react? The winds were the hardest thing to take, sometimes.

Russ straightened. The border was repaired. The chartermage’s shoulders relaxed a little. He turned back to his horse, and the rifle jerked in Gabe’s hands. He worked the bolt again, and the shadow fled, sudden eerie phosphorescence leaving a slugtrail on flying dust. There was a flash of white shirt, braces, and a suggestion of loose, flopping hair.

Man-shaped, could be anything. Nightflyer, a skomorje—but they don’t like it when it’s dry—or maybe even wendigo, though there hasn’t been any spoor and it’s not winter. That would just cap everything off. The rifle’s barrel moved slowly, covering a smooth arc. Ain’t a rotting corpse, though; they don’t glow at night. It could be…but we sealed that claim. I sealed that claim up solid.

“Gabe?” Russ called over the wind’s mounting rush, and both horses were nervous. The charming on their hoods would keep the dust out of sensitive membranes, but no beast Gabe had ever ridden liked a hood.

“Not sure,” he called back. “Mount up.”

The chartermage swung himself into his saddle with a grunt. He waited until Gabe kneed his horse forward to continue, both animals picking their way with finicky delicacy. The western charterstone was very near, and once they reached it the circuit was finished.

Man-shaped. Tall and skinny. Flopping hair. Couldn’t see much else. The glow, though. That’s troublesome.

God damn it. He was going to have to go visit that claim again, and sooner rather than later.

Chapter 18

Mr. Overton was a curious case. His skin was the color of coffee with cream, and his dark hair was slicked down with something that resembled wax. He was no taller than Cat herself, with a long nose, and his full lips were pulled tight as he shook some of the biscuit-colored dust from his bowler hat.

His eyes were odd, too, a variety of light almost-yellow she had never seen before. His charing—a brass ring, denoting some form of servitude in his past—was alive with a soft red glow, showing him to be a chartermage.

No wonder he had come to the West. Even in the Northern provinces a chartermage of his particular color might find it difficult to find proper work—if he did not fall foul of a coffle-gang meant to drag him into the dark South where he could be drained of his mancy and turned into a soulless automaton, living only in name.

Robbie had wanted to enter Army service, but their father had categorically forbade it. The War had been fought to settle the Abolition Question, but even after all the blood and trouble there seemed precious little settled. Not when there were still coffle-gangs; she had seen them on the streets of Boston the very day she had left.

It gave one the shudders to think of, although Cat’s parents had been firmly of the State’s Rights opinion. Now, as she eyed the man before her, she wondered if she should have perhaps paid more attention to the Question. It was an altogether uncomfortable thing to have one who would be affected so intimately by such a debate before one in the flesh.

Li Ang hurried away, her step light on the stairs, and little Jonathan’s wailing ceased after a few moments. Cat straightened her gloves. “How do you do, sir.”

“How do, ma’am.” He moved as if to touch his hatbrim, his gaze roving everywhere but to her face. “Gabe said you’d be needing an escort to the schoolhouse.”

“So he thinks.” She adjusted her grip on the leather satchel and lifted her chin. “May I offer you some tea? Or coffee; I believe Li Ang knows how to make such an infusion.”

“No thank you, ma’am. Best get going, there’s work to be done today.”

Indeed there is. “Certainly.” She stepped forward, and at least he was polite—he opened her front door, sparing only a brief glance at the porch outside where the…thing…had been last night.

“I’ll be fetching you too,” he said over his shoulder as he stumped down the steps, his stride wide and aggressive. “Gabe left at dawn, business elsewhere.”

“I see.” Left? Where on earth would one go, here? To another town, perhaps? Why?

But she could not ask. The wind had died—which was a mercy. The blowing dust and moaning air all night had invaded Cat’s dreams, and she had dreamed of Robbie as well. Terrible dreams, full of dark cavernous dripping spaces and flashes of tearing, awful blue-white brilliance.

My nerves are not steady at all.

The sky was a bruise, and the dust had scoured everything to the same dun colors as Jack Gabriel’s coat. No wonder the garden looked so sad and dingy. She accepted Mr. Overton’s hand and climbed into the wagon, and the patient bay horse flicked his tail. He had a curious fan-shaped burlap thing affixed to his head, glowing with mancy. “What does that do?” she wondered aloud, then answered her own question. “Ah. The dust. Are such storms usual, Mr. Overton?”

“Simoun, they call ’em.” He hauled himself up on the other side with a sigh. He still did not look directly at her. “Poison wind. Sometimes it goes on for days. People can’t take it. They go back East.” He gave the last two words far more emphasis than they merited, and flicked the whip gently at the bay, who stepped to with a will.

“I found it rather soothing.” Cat set her chin and adjusted her veil. And why would you suggest I retreat to Boston, sir? This is our first real acquaintance; the difference in our station does not matter nearly so much here in the wilderness. Or does it?

“You’d be the only one. Can I ask you something, miss?”

You just did. “Certainly, sir.”