Foreign Devils by John Hornor Jacobs Page B

all of Hot Springs.
    ‘I daresay there are,’ Wasler said. He straightened his jacket. ‘But not by my – or Winifred’s – hands. Persa, the engineer who developed this technology – and also my brother – said that there were some unfortunate occurrences in the development of the device.’
    Fisk whistled. ‘That’s not good. How did he figure it out?’
    ‘The possessed often had an undeniable compulsion to view its portrait. When it wasn’t killing or eating or, well, laughing.’
    Fisk remained still. But I remember the mirth and hideous glee of the Crimson Man. They were a cheerful bunch, those devils that made it into our world.
    ‘I assure you,’ Wasler continued, ‘I have never had any such thing happen. And I assure you, it will not happen.’
    ‘Better make sure of that, mister,’ Fisk said.
    ‘And you might want to let folks know, up front, that they’re at risk,’ I said.
    ‘But they might not agree, then,’ Wasler said. ‘To the portraiture.’
    ‘That’s right. But at least you won’t get shot, afterwards,’ I said.
    ‘Surely you aren’t that angry—’
    I chuckled. ‘I’m not, though it’s not my favourite news. But other folk of the territories?’ I placed a thumb at my crotch and drew it upwards. ‘They’ll split you from crotch to collar just as soon as look at you.’
    He swallowed. ‘I will remember your advice,’ he said, and scurried back to his tent.

    The next morning, we’d reached the wide, open shoal plains where foothills softened and levelled and the Big Rill widened and became shallower. Lomax beckoned me into their tent. Winfried was studiously maintaining their gear, the infernographical device on the table in front of her, while Wasler opened a leather portfolio and riffled through parchment until he came upon my portrait.
    He’d painted in my eyes – artfully, no doubt – but they were slightly off. On the rest of the portrait, he’d applied a thin wash of colours, blue and pink in the sky, blue-grey for the snowless bits of the White Mountains, a burst of orange and gold for the blooming gambels on the shore. And browns for me. Taken wholly, it was quite a rendering.
    ‘I’m honoured, Mr Lomax. You and your sister will do well, I think, in this endeavour. For my part, I am glad to have seen it,’ I said, and gave a slight bow.
    Wasler beamed and even on Winfred’s face a half-grin made an appearance.
    From without, a bell clanged. Maskelyne’s bully-boys had gathered on the lower deck, where the captain stood.
    ‘Hark me, braws! We’re nigh on Bear Leg. Tend your animals and buck or see me if you’ll river on with us!’ Maskelyne bellowed, loud enough to rival any centurion’s holler. ‘We’ll see smoke by the sixth hour! That is all.’

    Bear Leg hadn’t changed much since we’d left it three months before: still muddy but there were more wooden shacks and buildings than tents now. And there was a proper wharf – before there’d only been the Cornelian ’s swing stages. The Quiberon muscled into position with the incessant beat of the snare-drum and the bleating of sheep. From below, I could hear Bess haw in anticipation.
    As Fisk and I readied our gear and tack, I noticed Wasler and Winfried speaking together quite intently, as if arguing. Eventually, Winfried threw up her hands and re-entered the tent. Wasler cast his gaze about, found Fisk and I standing below, and trotted down to join us.
    ‘A word, if I may,’ Wasler said, a tad breathless. ‘I’ve discussed it with Winfried and we would ask a service of you.’
    ‘A service?’ Fisk asked.
    ‘I have been thinking,’ Wasler said.
    Fisk, holding a translucent rolling paper flat in his palm and stuffing it with tabac from a pouch at his belt, said, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Congratulations,’ before twisting the smoke and thumbing a match into flame. The scent of sulphur and brimstone filled the air.
    Wasler blinked, glanced at me. Then continued on: ‘As you