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Valentine found his Type Three and put in a red-striped Quickwood magazine.
"Frat has a visitor. He's coming in with a parley," one of the Wolves said, shining a flashlight on himself as he approached through the brush. "It's a freak-Reaper-with a flag of truce."
Valentine recognized what he saw prodded along by Frat, a forage bag over its head. It was taller, more spindly than most Reapers, and its tightly wound apparel had tufts of fur at the edges. Great wings were folded at its side so they stuck out behind like a pair of curved swords, and it paced with torso bobbing and head bobbing, knees reversed like a bird.
He'd seen something like this before, perched on a limb, watching him load his column back onto boats after their gun raid into Kentucky.
A big scallop-shaped pouch hung from its waist, loose and empty, but apart from that it bore no weapons or other obvious gear.
"Ranks only, please," Valentine said to the gaping men. He glanced up at the clear sky, looking for other fliers, and then addressed the newcomer. "I will keep you blindfolded. No reason for you to look around."
"It is in your nature to quiver in fear." The creature had a high, faintly squawking voice, as though a goose were talking, rather than an ordinary Reaper's breathy whisper. Though softly spoken, the high-pitched words carried through the night like the notes of a flute.
"He knows how to get things off on the right foot," Chieftain said, his twin, gracefully curved forged-steel tomahawks at the ready.
"Those wings give me the loosies," Ma said. "I hate a bird you can't eat."
Bee brought up her big Grog gun and used a tree branch to rest it on with the sights lined up on the Reaper.
Valentine guessed that her gun wouldn't kill it, but it'd tear off an almighty big piece on the way through. The Reaper looked fragile. He wondered if the Kurians had built it to be proof against Quickwood, and was tempted to test it. Give Boelnitz something colorful at last: gunning down an emissary under its flag of truce.
Valentine looked at Mrs. O'Coombe, who had drawn herself up to her full height, hand resting on a pistol belt she'd strapped on. She nodded to Valentine.
"What do you have to say?" he asked.
"We are-how would you understand it?-an important branch of a larger tree concerning itself with affairs in North America. We of like mind are fond of you humans-such a mix of greatness and folly, with your charming notions of assistance to those outside your name. They call us the Jack in the Box. We've done our best to research the source and are somewhat confused, for we have nothing to do with hamburgers and French fries or a winding musical toy."
Its speech had an uncanny sound to it, as though the words were being forced through a vocalization apparatus ill-suited to English, yet it was easy to comprehend the words. Valentine wondered of the bird thing was making noises of the appropriate length, and the Kurian was speaking directly to their brains.
"Let's hear him whistle 'Pop Goes the Weasel,' " Silvertip said quietly to Chieftain.
"Still, there," Valentine called over his shoulder. "Lieutenant, wrap a handkerchief over that bag. I get the feeling he's looking right through it."
Frat threw his rain poncho over the Reaper's head.
"That's better."
"Indeed. We can't smell you anymore, just this musty fabric. What do you use for waterproofing, apart from grotty, bacteria-gathering mammal oils?"
"Reaper blood," Chieftain said.
"What is your real name, Jack in the Box?" Valentine asked.
"Silence, renegade. Return the brass ring you so ill-advisedly carry or we will say no more."
They all stood in silence for five full minutes-Valentine timed it with his watch.
"Perhaps we should start breakfast," Valentine said.
"Return the ring!"
"I earned it fairly. If you want it, try to take it."
"This is one of your flags of truce!" Jack in the Box's avatar said.
"Then speak your piece," Valentine said. "Do you want to surrender to us?"
"I come to offer a bargain. I like the people of this land: their independent streak, their enjoyment of hearty meals and entertainments, their work ethic-but most of all their adaptability. From a few escaped legworms running wild they have built an entire civilization, using them alternately as a food source and transportation and warcraft. They even use the skins of the eggs. No Grog dared penetrate a legworm nest with fresh spawn wriggling about, yet they send teenagers in to snatch the material from under living scythes."
