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whip-quick—not
at
Rook per se, the way he had thus far. But not caring all too much if he happened to overhear, either.
    Turning away, he saw the city’s black blur immediately resolve, as though it felt his attention—ripen all over with squirmy detail, like a dead dog bred maggots. A raw smell struck him, all gunpowder, vomit and hot blood, like Chinee New Year in a San Fran slaughterhouse. Crowds reeled through the streets, their ruckus peculiarly muted, even as magic spilled brilliantly off them. Shapes blurred in flux; power arced from open mouth to open mouth; men and women danced and fought on empty air, easy as though it were solid ground.
    Around them, meanwhile, buildings even larger than the front line could now be observed overhanging in unnaturally rock-smooth drapes, and it took Chess a moment to figure why: not a one of them bore the lines of brick and mortar, or even daub-sealed log palisades. Instead, every structure was a single seamless piece, some of granite, some marble or sandstone, some of wood still lined with bark and dripping with sap—as if they’d been raised up like clay out of living rock, or force-grown from tortured tree roots. And the tallest of all reared high directly opposite them, a step-pyramid temple with a great bonfire blaze at its peak, black column of smoke pouring upwards into the green clouds, an unending river of night.
    What you got on the grill over there, exactly, makes it go so hot and bright?
Chess demanded.
    Oh, this ’n’ that. Care to see?
    Chess gave an angry sigh. He felt Rook work on him un-ceasingly—a pull like falling, the inexorability of sheer mass—and fought it, the only way he knew how: dirty.
    I’m thinkin’ it don’t matter much to you, whether I do or don’t,
he snapped back.
But let me take a guess—that’s your Moloch, ain’t it? The Satan-hole you throw your own children down, on her command, and watch ’em as they burn to flinders.
    He’d known it soon as he laid eyes on it, from the very stink of the smoke. Tasted the power in the back of his throat, burnt and burning, the way that last drink you guzzled before puking left behind a taste you couldn’t quite seem to part with.
    The lure of it pulled at him like fish-hooks, so horrid, so profane. So . . . delicious.
    And you did
that
to me too, you big bastard,
Chess thought, dizzily nauseous with rage.
Gave me your disease, like you were dolin’ out the clap; made me into just another hop-head. Put
your
jones into me and let it fester, knowing once I’d took my first jolt, I’d never be able to pull it back out.
    But Rook just shrugged.
Oh, it’s only the stupid who go to feed the Machine. Those as can’t keep control long enough to be useful.
    Chess felt that space under his ribs clutch again.
You doing them same’s you did me?
    Hell, no. Think the Lady and me want more little gods runnin’ ’round? No, they kill ’emselves, mainly—jump in the cistern, or throw ten-at-a-time necktie parties in the
yaxche
forest, down where the big roots grow. Seems they somehow got the idea it’ll complete their ‘transition.’
    ’Cause
you
told ’em so.
    Well, we sure don’t tell ’em any different.
    Chess clenched his hands on the iron rail and he felt its edges press into both palms, vaguely flaky, as with rust or rotting paint. So
real
, and yet . . .
    A dream,
he told himself.
That’s all this is. He can’t touch me, not really.
    Not him. And not
her
, either.
    Yet even as he formed the thought, he knew it in error. Because now he could feel the darkness clotting all around him, swallowing him whole. Shadow like mist to his waist and a disembodied mouth nuzzling at his parts, sweet-dreadful, rousing him like no other woman’s ever could; wrong, Jesus, so damn
wrong
. A rising buzz. A rustling of papery wings.
    Look down, risk just the quickest glance, and that black at his belt became her swirling hair—she looked up, smiled in welcome, her jade-chip teeth sharp.
    I have