Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham (15 page)

“You mean
you’re
the one responsible for aging that poor girl even further?”

Hexe nodded his head, a heartsick look on his face. “I’m sorry I lied, Tate, but things are bad enough already without being sued by her parents!”

“Are you
sure
the problem is with the gauntlet?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind,” he replied, returning his attention to the scrying stone. “The spell-signature has mutated. There seems to be a second signature emerging from beneath the original—like a message written in invisible ink that’s finally becoming detectable.”

“You mean this isn’t the real Gauntlet of Nydd?”

“No, it’s authentic all right. But it appears that the original charm has been used as a Trojan horse for another spell—not unlike a computer virus.”

“What do we do?”

“The same thing you do whenever a microwave or television starts malfunctioning: take it back to the store it came from.”

•   •   •

The first thing I noticed as we approached Madam Erys’ shop was the
FOR LEASE
sign posted in the front window. Hexe rattled the door, but it was tightly locked. Although the interior of the shop was dim and dusty, there was still enough light to see that the pair of silk opera gloves still lay draped over the counter, apparently untouched since the last time I’d seen them, more than two weeks ago.

“Excuse me, sir,” Hexe said, addressing an older Kymeran with thinning, puce-colored hair, who was sweeping the stoop in front of the millinery next door. “Do you know when Madam Erys closed her shop?”

“I couldn’t give you an exact date, Serenity,” the hatter replied, pausing to lean on his broom. “It’s been at least a couple weeks since I last saw her. Not that she was one for ‘how-you-dos’. I thought it passing strange when I saw the
FOR LET
sign in the window, since she had just opened for business a day or two before.”

“How could I be such a fool?” Hexe groaned as we headed back down the street. “I was so desperate to reclaim my magic, I waltzed right into a trap!” He banged his gauntleted fist against his thigh in frustration. “I was stupid! Stupid!
Stupid!
”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said, placing a hand on his arm. “You had no way of knowing what she was up to.”

“Yes, but part of me knew it was all too good to be true,
even
for magic!” he replied bitterly. “But I was so desperate to make myself whole, I ignored my instincts! And that bitch Erys played me like a hurdy-gurdy.”

“What now?”

“We go find Moot,” Hexe said grimly. “It was obvious from the way they talked there’s plenty of history between those two. If anyone might know where to find Madam Erys, it’ll be the good doctor. And even if he doesn’t have a clue as to where she is, he’s the one who bonded the gauntlet to my hand. If he can put it on, the bastard can sure as hell take it off again.”

•   •   •

The Stagger Inn was little changed from the first time I saw it, except maybe even smokier and more vomit-drenched, if possible. The odor was sickening, and I had to clench my jaw in order to keep from adding to the establishment’s already impressive collection of puke puddles.

Dr. Moot was seated in the same booth as last time, although, like the rest of the Stagger Inn, considerably worse for wear, with his chin resting on his breastbone and his hands curled limply about a glass of absinthe.

“Where is she, Moot?” Hexe barked, causing the more alert patrons of the bar to turn and stare in his direction. “Where’s Erys?” When the disgraced psychic surgeon did not even twitch in reply, Hexe grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a rough shake. “Wake up, you miserable old tosspot! Tell me where I can find Erys!”

As if in response, Dr. Moot toppled out of the booth and onto the sawdust-strewn floor, staring up at us with the cold, cloudy eyes of the dead.

“W
as he like that when you found him?” Lieutenant Viva asked, gesturing to the body, now hidden under a soiled tablecloth acting as a makeshift shroud.

“Yes. I mean, no,” Hexe replied with a shake of his head. “He was sitting upright when we arrived. He only fell onto the floor after I touched him. I just thought he was dead drunk not, you know, actually
dead
.”

“I see,” the PTU officer muttered as she jotted down notes, her badge dangling about her neck from a lanyard. Her long, vivid-red hair was worked into a French braid that hung all the way down to the base of her spine, and her scent—that of pink peppercorns and fresh cranberry—was a welcome respite from the sour reek of the Stagger Inn.

Once news that the PTU was on its way percolated through the tavern’s clientele, most of them had vacated the premises, leaving behind half-finished drinks and upended chairs, save for those too stupefied to either notice or care.

“Do you think it was murder?” I asked as I eyed a slightly built Kymeran with tangerine-colored hair inspecting what was left of Moot’s last drink.

“We’ll know for sure once our potion-master finishes his tests,” Viva replied. “Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out the old tosser simply rode the dragon one time too many—you know, mixing safflower oil capsules with absinthe,” she explained, upon seeing the look of confusion on my face. “Addicts claim it gives them the sensation of riding on the back of a battle-dragon—not that anyone really knows what
that
feels like anymore.”

“Lieutenant—? The absinthe tests positive for Green Death,” the potion-master announced grimly. “It’s a palytoxin made from a highly venomous form of coral. There was enough in his glass to kill him three times over.”

“Green Death was considered a relatively quick means of execution and an honorable death in ancient Kymera—there’s no known antidote,” Hexe explained. “The condemned were given a choice of either death in the arena or drinking it mixed with wine.”

“Is that bastet friend of yours still working for Dr. Mao?” Viva asked pointedly.

“Surely you don’t think Lukas
had anything to do with this?” I gasped.

“I have to start my inquiries
somewhere
,” Viva replied with a shrug. “Your friend certainly had a reason to hate Moot—after all, he worked as Boss Marz’s hambler, mutilating the feet of the weres who fought in the pits, including his own. I’m sure it pissed him off that Marz’s case getting chucked out meant Moot would be back at work, sooner or later.”

“The same could be said of most of the half beasts and werefolk who were liberated from the Maladanti’s gladiator pens—including my mother’s footman, Elmer,” Hexe countered. “Moot had plenty of enemies in Golgotham.”

“True, but even a Stagger Inn regular would have noticed a minotaur in their midst. No, whoever did this had to be able to pass for Kymeran—or at least human. And doesn’t Lukas work in an apothecary—with access to all sorts of drugs and poisons? That gives him a lot of motive and plenty of means in my book.”

“You’re assuming this was murder and not suicide?”

“Green Death might be preferable to dying in the arena, but it’s not a pleasant way to go. You basically suffocate, while remaining conscious to the very end. As a psychic surgeon, Moot would have known that. And I never pegged him as one to suffer unduly,” Viva said wryly. “Now, Serenity, if you don’t mind telling me—what, exactly, was your reason for seeking out this man?”

Hexe shifted about uncomfortably, sliding his gauntleted hand into his coat pocket. “He was my surgeon.”

Lieutenant Viva raised a bright red eyebrow but said nothing.

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking.” Hexe sighed. “But being the Heir Apparent and two dollars won’t get me a tall latte at the Devil’s Brew.”

“You let that
butcher
work on you?”

I turned to see Captain Horn, frowning in disgust, striding toward us.

“He was all I could afford,” Hexe replied stonily. “Beside, when he was sober—or close enough to it—Moot was still a skilled psychic surgeon. It was his indiscretion, not a lack of ability, that got his license to practice revoked.”

“The man sold organs to the black magic market!” Horn exclaimed, barely able to restrain his revulsion. “Hearts, livers, fetuses—!”

“I am well aware of that,” Hexe sighed. “However, I have come to believe Dr. Moot may have taken the rap in that case out of a sense of misplaced guilt.”

“He’s the one who stitched the Gauntlet of Nydd onto you? No need to look surprised—your mother told me all about it.”

“Yes,” Hexe replied hesitantly. “I sought him out today because I felt the gauntlet was in need of a slight . . . adjustment. When we arrived, we found him dead.”

“Son, I realize you have your pride,” Horn sighed wearily, “but if you needed money for something like that, you could have asked me. I would have fronted you the funds, no questions asked.”

“I don’t go to my mother for financial help,” Hexe replied stiffly, getting to his feet. “So why would I come to you? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere. Good evening, Captain.”

Once we were back on the street, I grabbed Hexe by the arm, forcing him to turn and face me. I was alarmed to see the same strange, cold cast to his eyes I first glimpsed when he tried to kill Gaza. “How can you speak to your own father like that?” I exclaimed. “He’s just worried about you, that’s all!”

“I’ve gone my entire life without his help,” Hexe replied stonily, yanking his arm free of my grasp. “And I don’t need him butting in now. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try to track down Erys. I’ll see you at home.” With that he stalked off, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

I stared after him for a long moment, feeling as if I’d just walked into someone else’s life. I kept telling myself that Hexe was under an immense amount of stress. He had already undergone a life-altering event that would have shattered a lesser man, and was extremely worried about being able to not only provide for, but also protect, both me and our unborn child. Hexe’s entire professional life, not to mention his personal identity and sense of purpose, was tied up in his ability to work Right Hand magic. And now he had discovered, in the worst way possible, that not only was his talent corrupted, but that he had been tricked into going along with it. I realized I could never fully understand the turmoil he must be going through, no more than he could truly know what it was like to be pregnant—so perhaps the best I could hope to do was be there for him while he wrestled with the question of what to do next.

As I arrived at the house, I found Captain Horn sitting on the front stoop. “I handled that badly back there, didn’t I?” The PTU chief smiled sadly. “I always had this fantasy in my head about how it would be between us, once the truth was known—but the reality is that I don’t know how to be his father, and he doesn’t know how to be my son.” He sighed as he stood up. “It may be too late for me to be the father I always wanted to be, but it’s not too late to be a proper
grandfather
. Here, I want you to have this,” he said, pressing money into my hand. “It’s not much—but it’s the least I can do.”

“Cap, I can’t accept this. You know how Hexe feels about parental charity.”

“And I respect him for it. But the money isn’t for him
or
you—it’s for my grandchild.”

“Then you should put it in a college fund,” I said as I handed the cash back to him. “That’ll do more good in the long run.”

“Very well,” Horn sighed. “If that’s what you think is best. But I want you to promise me that you’ll call next time my son is desperate enough to resort to someone like Moot.”

“I promise, Cap,” I smiled, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, favoring me with a wink as he left. “And maybe, some day, you’ll get around to telling me what
really
happened to his hand.”

As I reached into my jacket for the keys to the door, my fingers brushed against something else. I pulled it from my pocket to see what it might be, and discovered a wad of cash suspiciously similar to the one I’d just handed back to Captain Horn. As I smiled and shook my head, I was reminded of how, back in college, my dad would surreptitiously slip money into my pocket whenever he and mom came to visit me at the dorm. And suddenly, just like that, I found myself missing my parents.

A knot bloomed in my throat and my eyes grew damp. However, before I could open the front door and escape into the privacy of the house for a good cry, an unwelcome voice called my name. I turned to see Boss Marz—nattily dressed as ever—standing on the sidewalk, with his familiar Bonzo riding his left shoulder and Gaza standing at his right.

“Good evening, Ms. Eresby!” the crime lord smiled, gesturing floridly with his ring-covered hand. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it?”

“What do you want, Marz?” I snarled, trying to hide my discomfort at discovering the Maladanti at my doorstep.

“That’s
Boss
Marz to you, nump!” Gaza snapped, flexing his left hand as he spoke.

“Now, now!” Marz said as if chastising his lieutenant for using the wrong fork at table. “There’ll be time enough for that, later on. But to answer your question, Ms. Eresby, all I want to know is what you and Captain Horn were discussing so intently?”

“I wasn’t chatting about you kidnapping us and breaking Hexe’s hand, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” I said acidly.

“See? Was that so hard?” Marz’s lips pulled into a nasty smile. “As long as we understand one another, you have nothing to fear from me, Ms. Eresby. Such stress isn’t good for the baby, after all.”

“How do you know about that—?”

“A little bird told me,” Boss Marz replied, with an unpleasant glint in his eye. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Eresby. If you can.”

I
woke up and reached for his side of the bed, only to find cold sheets. Again.

In the weeks since the murder of Dr. Moot and the disappearance of Madam Erys, Hexe rarely came to bed anymore. Instead, he spent most of his nights either haunting Golgotham’s numerous nooks and crannies for some trace of the mysterious glover or locked away in his study, poring over his collection of grimoires in hope of finding a counterspell that would remove the curse on the gauntlet.

I went downstairs to a dark kitchen. There were no breakfast smells to greet me, no coffee percolating. If I wanted java, I would have to grab something at the Devil’s Brew on the way to work. I poured cold cereal into a bowl and splashed some milk on top of it and shoveled it down as fast as I could. I flipped open the lid of my lunch pail, only to find it empty. I came home so tired from work the night before, I’d neglected to make myself a sandwich and fill the thermos before going to bed. That meant buying lunch from one of the pushcarts on the street—money we really couldn’t afford to spare. Now that Hexe was no longer taking on new clients, and had parceled his regulars out to a couple of associates, our budget was tighter than a drumhead. Luckily, I still had a few more months before I had to worry about taking maternity leave.

I tried the door to Hexe’s office before I left for the day, only to find it locked. Pressing my ear to one of the panels I could hear the muffled sound of his snoring on the other side.

When I arrived at work I found Canterbury in talks with his real estate agent. He had recently decided to buy the property next door to the shop in order to expand his business, perhaps even set up a genuine showroom. I knew better than to bother him, so I quietly set to work on Canterbury Customs’ newest commission: a swanky custom rickshaw for Giles Gruff, who had been very impressed by his friend Bjorn Cowpen’s new ride. I must have lost track of time, because the next thing I knew, Canterbury was looming over me.

“It’s noon,” he announced. “Where’s your lunch pail?”

“I left it at home,” I replied. “I’ll just grab something from Nyko’s pushcart.”

Canterbury wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You shouldn’t eat crap like that even when you
aren’t
pregnant,” he said with a depreciative snort. “How about I take you to lunch? My treat?”

“You don’t have to do that, Master,” I protested.

“Hey, I feel like celebrating,” he smiled. “I just closed on the space next door. Besides, I have a business proposition for you—so we might as well discuss it over a nosh.”

“Okay—if you insist.” I grinned. “After all, you’re the boss of me.”

“Indeed I am,” he whinnied.

•   •   •

The Feed Bag, located on the corner of Maiden Lane and Horsecart Street, was a restaurant that catered exclusively to Golgotham’s centaur population. Upon entering the barnlike doorway, I was greeted by the flavorful aroma of fresh bread.

“It smells marvelous in here!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, they bake all their own bread here on the premises,” Canterbury explained as he led me up a wide ramp that took the place of a staircase. “It’s all organic—plenty of whole grains, oatmeal, that sort of thing. They also prepare marvelous salads and have an extensive vegetarian menu, both raw and cooked. A centaur’s diet is very healthy, you know, even though we eat like horses!”

Upon arriving at the second floor dining room, we were greeted by a handsome young sorrel centaur dressed from the waist up in a waiter’s jacket. “Good afternoon, Master Canterbury,” he said with a polite bob of his head. “Your stall is ready.”

“Thank you, River,” Canterbury replied, bobbing his head in kind.

The dining room was a huge, loftlike space, the walls of which were lined with box stalls of various sizes. I walked past a group of centaurs dining in one of the larger ones; they were seated on their haunches around a circular, pedestal-style table, the middle of which rotated like a lazy Susan and was loaded down with humongous loaves of homemade bread and heaping plates of turnips, apples, and alfalfa. They were all impeccably dressed from the waist up, with the males sporting elegantly tailored brocaded waistcoats and the females wearing elaborate Edwardian hats you’d expect to see on Derby Day. As we passed, one of the centaurs paused in his meal to stare at Canterbury and then shuddered from head to tail, as if trying to rid himself of a horsefly.

We were escorted to a cozy stall in the corner, where I found what looked like an adult-sized version of a baby’s high chair waiting for me. Upon clambering into the seat, I suddenly realized this was the first time I’d ever actually been face-to-face with my boss.

An ipotane dressed in a waiter’s jacket appeared, carrying a tray heavily laden with loaves of bread and raw vegetables. Without preamble, he set a salad bowl the size of a hubcap in front of me, along with a bucket of beer.

“Take that away and bring the lady some spring water!” Canterbury said sternly. Our server nodded his understanding and whisked away the offending pail.

“Don’t I even get to see a menu?” I asked.

“Since we centaurs all eat the same foodstuffs, there’s no need to waste time ordering different items,” he explained as the ipotane waiter returned, this time lugging a gallon jug of water and a plastic straw. “The moment you arrive at a table, they start bringing out food and don’t stop until they’re told otherwise.”

“Well, I certainly can’t complain about the portions,” I laughed. “This isn’t just a salad—it’s the whole garden!”

“Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do after you’ve foaled?” Canterbury asked pointedly.

“I was planning on coming back to work—assuming you still want me there,” I replied.

“I’m
very
pleased to hear that,” he smiled, a look of relief in his eyes. “You are the best apprentice I’ve ever trained, Tate.”

“That means a lot coming from you, Master Canterbury,” I said, bowing my head in a show of respect.

“It won’t be long before you will be making the transition to journeyman,” he said. “You could set up your own shop, if that’s what you want. And I won’t stand in your way, should you make that decision.”

“But I don’t
want
to leave. I
like
working with you. You’re the only person, besides Hexe, who ever really seemed to understand why working with my hands is so important to me.”

His smile grew even wider. “I can not tell you how it gladdens my heart to hear you say such things, my dear. How do feel about joining me as my business partner?”

My jaw dropped open and the salad fork fell from my hand, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. It seemed like an eternity before I was finally able to find my words. “Master—I don’t know what to say!”

“Just say yes,” he said with a laugh. “We’ll hammer out the partnership agreement before you take your maternity leave. I would be a fool to let a talent like yours walk away from me.”

“I’m sorry about getting emotional,” I said, dabbing at the sudden tears welling in my eyes with a napkin. “It must be the damn hormones!”

“At least you don’t kick like our women do!” Canterbury smiled. “You can even nurse your foal at the workshop. If it’s anything like you, it’ll have acetylene in its veins, anyway.”

•   •   •

We had finished lunch and were heading back to the workshop when we ran into traffic congestion on Maiden Lane. I didn’t really think anything of it, at first—despite the lack of automobiles, traffic jams were all too common in Golgotham. But then I heard several voices chanting in unison, as if at a sporting event.

“What’s going on?” I asked, standing up in the horse trap into order to peer over Canterbury’s withers.

“Looks like some kind of protest in front of the Machen Arms,” he replied.

As I scanned the crowded sidewalks, I spotted a familiar face. “Could you wait here for a second?” I asked as I hopped down.

“I don’t think I have much choice in the matter,” Canterbury said acerbically. “There’s no way I can back out of this snarl.”

As I moved through the outer ring of onlookers, I discovered the source of the chanting was a group of protestors, most of them Kymeran, standing behind traffic barricades. To my dismay several of them were wearing Kymeran Unification Party pins, and one of them was even waving an
ESAU WAS RIGHT
sign.

Directly across the street from the protestor stood the Machen Arms, a ten story apartment building with a central block and two flanking wings. The recessed courtyard that served as the approach to the main building was normally kept empty, save for a couple of decorative potted shrubs on either side of the entryway, but that afternoon it was filled with haphazard piles of furniture, stacks of books, and mounds of clothes. An elderly Kymeran woman, her faded scarlet tresses bound into lengthy braids coiled about her head like a pretzel, flitted back and forth among the bedsteads, armoires, and steamer trunks like a hummingbird in a summer garden. From where I stood I couldn’t tell if she was trying to cast protection spells over the items in hopes of keeping them from being stolen or simply babbling to herself in despair.

The familiar face I had glimpsed belonged to Octavia, who was talking to an elderly Kymeran gentleman with receding maroon hair liberally laced with threads of silver. I pushed my way through the throng to join them.

“Octavia—! What’s going on?”

As the firefighter turned to face me, I saw she was wearing a T-shirt bearing the message
STALEMATE CHESS
. “That chuffer Ronnie Chess is throwing my old next-door neighbor, Torn, and his wife out of their apartment today! I came here as soon as I heard to try to help.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Torn said humbly. “You were always a good neighbor.” He turned back to stare up at the building that until that day had been his home. “The old landlord promised we would be ‘grandfathered’ in. But the new owner raised our rent from seven hundred and fifty dollars to six thousand a month! Arum’s blood, there’s no way we could possibly afford that! Hana! Look who has come to help us! And she’s brought a friend!”

Torn’s wife paused in her frantic checking and double checking of their belongings to peer over the top of her Ben Franklin glasses at us. “Adon bless you both,” she said, fighting to keep the waver from her voice. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. . . .”

Before Hana could finish her sentence, an ipotane emerged from the entryway, carrying a rolled-up carpet under one arm and balancing a steamer trunk like a boom box on his opposite shoulder, and unceremoniously dumped his cargo with the rest of the couple’s property. Unable to take yet another blow to her dignity, the old woman sank down onto a mound of casually discarded clothes and began to weep into her apron.

Torn hurried to his wife’s side, slipping a protective arm about her trembling shoulders. “Now, now, Hana, darling—don’t cry,” he said, trying his best to console her.

“I can’t help it, Torn,” she sobbed. “What are we to do? We’ve lived in the same apartment for twenty years! Where do we go now?”

“Don’t you have a son who can help you?” Octavia asked hopefully.

“We
had
a son,” Torn replied tersely, all but spitting the words. “We haven’t spoken to him since he disgraced the family, thirty years ago!”

I looked up to see real estate developer Ronald Chess, the new landlord of the Machen Arms and the author of Hana and Torn’s misery, step out of the front door of the apartment building. An errant gust of wind caught his trademark comb-over, setting it momentarily on end, like the fin of a shark, before slamming it back down onto his head.

His pale eyes always seemed to be narrowed in permanent suspicion and were too small for his face, which resembled that of an overfed, slightly lumpy baby. As he scanned his surroundings, his cheeks abruptly turned bright red and his face grew even lumpier.

“What are
they
doing here?” he bellowed, pointing to Octavia and myself. He turned to the blue-haired Kymeran standing beside him who carried a five-foot-tall brass staff topped by the seal of the GoBOO. “Lash promised me all protestors would be kept five hundred feet away!”

“Who’s the dude with the big stick?” I asked.

“That’s Elok, the GoBOO’s beadle,” Torn replied forlornly. “He’s here to oversee the evictions.”

“I thought the PTU were the police in Golgotham.”

“They only deal with criminal cases,” Octavia explained. “Beadle Elok handles all the civil stuff, like collecting fines, seizing property, and evictions—that kind of thing.”

“You there!”
Elok said imperiously, gesturing with his staff as if to shoo us away. “What are you doing on this side of the street? I expressly stated no protestors beyond the barricades!”

“We’re not protesters!” Octavia snapped, flashing the Golgotham Fire Department credentials she wore on a lanyard about her neck. “We’re friends of Hana and Torn’s and we’re here to help them relocate.”

Elok’s pinched features visibly relaxed. “Very well,” he sighed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Believe me, I don’t like evictions any more than you do. But I swore an oath to do as the GoBOO commands. . . .”

“Hey! You—! Beadle!” Chess shouted, refusing to come any closer to us than he had to. “What do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you arresting those hippies like I told you to? And get these geezers out of here!” he added, pointing to Hana and Torn. “I’ve got photographers coming in from the
Herald
to take pictures for the Sunday Living section, and I don’t need them seeing this kind of shit! It looks like a goddamned yard sale out here!”

“I
know
what my duties are, Mr. Chess,” Elok replied frostily. “And must I remind you that I answer to the Golgotham Business Owners’ Organization,
not
to you?”

“Is that a fact, huh?” Chess scowled as he tapped the screen of his smartphone. “Hey, it’s me. Your boy here is giving me some lip. Says he only answers to the GoBOO. You going to set him straight or what? Here—your boss wants to talk to you,” Chess smirked as he handed the phone to Elok.

The beadle grudgingly accepted the phone as if it was a poisonous reptile. “Hello? Yes, sir,” he said, his cheeks suddenly turning beet red. “I’m sorry, I didn’t
realize
 . . . yes, of
course
, Mayor Lash! Whatever you say!”