Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham (16 page)

“I’m glad we’ve gotten
that
cleared up,” Chess said as he reclaimed his phone. “Now bust these hippies and get them out of here.”

As the sigil atop Elok’s beadle-staff suddenly began to glow, I took a step toward Chess, who drew back as if I might spit on him.

“I don’t think that’s a smart idea, Ronnie.”

The real estate tycoon gave me the same look he would something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “That’s
Mr. Chess
to you, toots.”

“And that’s
Ms. Eresby
to you, fella,” I replied.

“You’re not related to Timothy Eresby, are you?” he asked, unease flickering in his too-small eyes.

“He’s my dad.” I said, taking a perverse pleasure as I watched the color drain from his overstuffed face.

Back when my father had harbored political aspirations, he and Chess had butted heads more than once. What was it my old man used to call him? Ah, yes “that short-fingered vulgarian.” Ronald Chess might not respect the arts, Golgotham, women, or people he called “hippies,” but he most certainly respected money, which meant at that moment he respected
me.

Of course, he had no idea that my parents had cut me off without a dime and we hadn’t spoken in months, but there was no way I was going to tell
him
that. . . .

“Perhaps I was a little
too
rash,” he said to Elok. “There’s no need to get rough. If these young, um, ladies are here to help the old couple move their things, I’ve got no beef with that. Just be quick about it.”

“You heard Mr. Chess,” the beadle grunted. “Get the old man and his wife packed up, if that’s what you’re here for. You’ve got two hours, or I’ll have the lot of you in the Tombs for obstruction. . . .” Suddenly a snowball came sailing through the midsummer air, striking Elok square in the face. “Who conjured that?” the beadle sputtered as he wiped the ice crystals from his eyes.

“Traitor!”
one of the protestors from across the street shouted.
“Why is the GoBOO sucking up to numps?”

“Here now! I’m just doing my job!” Elok protested angrily. The sigil atop his staff of office flickered back to life, this time even stronger than before.

“The GoBOO is selling us out!”
A second voice shouted as another snowball came arcing toward the beadle.

As Elok slammed the butt of the staff against the pavement there was a ringing sound, like that of a gigantic gong. Fingers of blue-white electricity shot forth from the seal of office, vaporizing the icy projectile in midflight while scorching a zigzag pattern into the cobblestones, scant millimeters from where the protestors were gathered. There was so much electricity in the air it made my hair fluff out like an angry cat and Chess’ comb-over stand up like a cockatoo’s crest.

For a horrible moment I thought I was going to be caught in yet another race riot, like the one at the Calf. But instead of retaliating, the protestors lowered their signs and gradually dispersed. Although there was a good deal of mumbling and resentful looks thrown in the beadle’s direction, none of them were willing to go against the GoBOO’s authority.

Elok pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, a look of open relief on his face. “Praise the Sunken Spires
that’s
over with,” he grunted. “That could have been far uglier. At least they were only throwing snowballs. Now get the old couple out of here, while you still can.”

“I’m sorry, Tate,” Octavia sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to get mixed up in this.”

“That’s okay. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. I don’t mind helping Torn and Hana move.”

“Move to where?” Hana said tearfully. “We have nowhere to go.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance?” Now that the roadblock had been removed, Canterbury had freed himself from the traffic jam and was now standing at the curb in front of the apartment building. “I have just purchased the stable adjoining my shop. There is an apartment loft on its second floor. Granted, it’s designed for centaurs, but it can be easily retrofitted to accommodate bipeds. It’s yours if you want it.”

“That is most kind of you, friend centaur,” Torn said. “But we do not expect charity. My wife and I insist on paying our way.”

“Of course,” Canterbury replied with a nod of his head. “I’m sure we can reach a satisfactory agreement.”

“You have saved us, just as Arum delivered our people!” Hana exclaimed, lifting her glasses to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“Are we not
all
Golgothamites here?” Canterbury smiled.

“Okay, let ’er drop!”

There was a sound from high above, like the sail of a tall ship being unfurled, and a huge canvas banner fell from the roof of the center structure of the Machen Arms. It was so big it covered every window on the apartment building from the tenth to the fifth floor.

GOLGOTHAMVUE CONDOS
VINTAGE LUXURY STARTING AT EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND.
A CHECKMATE PROPERTY.

A
fter carting Hana and Torn’s belongings back to Fetlock Mews, Canterbury, Octavia, and I immediately set to work retrofitting the loft next door.

The second floor apartment was a huge open space with no interior walls save for a stable-box in one corner large enough to accommodate a pair of centaurs, which was fairly easy to convert into a traditional bedroom. However, upon laying eyes on the bathroom—with its tiled surfaces, reticulated shower-hoses, and scrubbing wands—I coaxed Canterbury into bringing in a licensed plumber to tackle the task of making it truly biped-friendly. Some things, I have learned, are best left to the professionals.

Since it was going to be a couple of days before the loft would be truly habitable, Octavia volunteered her room at the boardinghouse to her former neighbors. At first the old couple refused, claiming they didn’t want to impose any more than they already had, but finally relented once she explained she was scheduled for a week’s rotation at the firehouse anyway. Octavia and I helped the elderly couple pack a couple of changes of clothes and a few other essentials into a carpetbag and left Canterbury to deal with the plumber.

“Is this where you live now?” Torn asked in surprise, peering out the window of the brougham at the boardinghouse.

“Yes,” Octavia replied. “I’m renting from Tate’s boyfriend.”

“This boyfriend of yours—he’s Kymeran?” Torn asked warily.

“Yes,” I replied. “Is that a problem?”

He opened his mouth, as if to launch into a tirade, only to be silenced by a glare from his wife. The old man shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Things were
different
when we were coming up, that’s all,” he muttered, by way of explanation.

As we entered, we were greeted, as usual, by Beanie, who came scampering from the back of the house, eyes agog and tongue flapping.

“That’s an unusual-looking familiar,” Torn said as he studied the Boston terrier. “What kind of demon is it?”

“It’s a pedigreed frog-bat. Can’t you tell?” Scratch sneered as he sauntered into the room. “Now that I’ve answered your question, it’s your turn to answer mine: what are you two doing here?”

Torn gave a dry, humorless laugh. “I see the cat still has a tongue.”

“You two know each other?” I frowned.

“We
three
know each other,” the familiar purred as he brushed up against Hana’s leg. “Now
you
I’m glad to see. You’re the one who made those
scrumptious
mouse-meat pies. . . .”

“You mean mincemeat, don’t you?” Octavia corrected.

“I
know
what I said.”

“It’s good to see you,
too
, Scratch,” Hana smiled. As she reached down to stroke the familiar’s chamoislike skin, Scratch rose onto his hind legs and pressed the flat of his head into the palm of her hand, a public show of fondness I’d never seen him bestow on anyone besides Hexe.

I turned and gave Torn a quizzical look. “Do you mind telling me how it is you’re so, uh, familiar with my boyfriend’s familiar?”

“My wife and I served the late Witch King, Lord Eben and his consort, Lady Lyra, for forty years,” Torn explained with a melancholy smile. “I was the butler; she was the cook. My own father had served the previous Witch King in the same capacity, as had his father before him, and
his
father before
him
—going back to the drowning of Kymera.

“In fact, I was born in the servants’ quarters on the third floor, back before it became unstable,” he said, gesturing to the stairs that led to the upper stories of the house. “Hana and I began our service as children, and we saw to the Royal Family until the day Lord Eben breathed his last. After that, Lady Syra pensioned us off and we moved into the Machen Arms. Today is the first time we’ve set foot in this house in twenty years.”

“Is Hexe, I mean, His Serenity at home?” Hana asked hopefully.

“He left just before you arrived. I’m afraid he had pressing business elsewhere,” Scratch replied.

“Let me show you and Hana where you’ll be staying,” Octavia said as she reached to take the carpetbag from Torn. “It’s the second bedroom off the stairs. . . .”

“That would be Lady Syra’s old room,” the old butler grunted, refusing to relinquish his grip on his luggage. “I know it well.”

As Octavia made sure her friends were settled in, I retreated to my room to change out of my work clothes. I tried to call Hexe on his cell, to let him know about our new houseguests, but it rolled straight to voice mail. I left a brief message, asking him to call me back ASAP, and then stripped down to my undies.

I turned sideways to inspect my silhouette in the mirror. I was just over three months along, and my lower abdomen was already swelling like a ripening fruit. I rested a hand on my stomach and gave it a little pat. I was still conflicted about advertising my pregnancy to the world at large, given the recent racial tensions in Golgotham, but there was only so much camouflage I could expect from my welder’s jumpsuit. Pretty soon everyone and his familiar was going to know I was carrying the Heir Apparent’s child simply by looking at me.

I found myself suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of dizziness and decided to stretch out on the bed for a couple of minutes. I must have been more tired than I realized, because the next thing I knew I was awakened by the smell of cooking.

My initial thought was that it was morning and that Hexe was once more making breakfast in the kitchen. Then I glanced at the bedside clock and realized it was still evening, albeit an hour or so later than when I first lay down. Feeling slightly disoriented, I put on a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt and headed downstairs.

Hana was in the kitchen, tending boiling pots and a sizzling skillet, while her husband busied himself setting the table in the dining room, each moving about their tasks as easily as if they were in their own home. The old woman smiled upon spotting me standing in the doorway.

“Did you have a nice nap, dear?” she asked pleasantly. “I checked in on you earlier and saw you were asleep—you must be exhausted after today, given your situation.” She glanced meaningfully at my shrouded midriff.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied. “But you didn’t have to do all this. . . .”

“It’s the least Torn and I can do,” she said as she retrieved a roasting pan from the oven. “You have been extremely good to us—I daresay you have shown far more kindness to us than any human ever has.”

“We’re not
all
like Chess,” I said with a wry smile. “Although I should point out that you don’t have to be a Kymeran for him to treat you shabbily.”

“Such an
awful
man!” Hana clucked her tongue in reproach. “Truly dreadful!”

“You should have let me curse him.”

Hana cast a disapproving glance at Torn, who was standing in the doorway of the dining room. “Things were bad enough already without us making it worse. Besides, he was probably wearing protective talismans strong enough to turn back every spell in the book. His type never set foot in Golgotham without loading themselves down with counter-charms.”

“I still should have
tried
,” Torn grunted. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“You’ve never cursed anyone in your life.” Hana laughed as she kissed his cheek. “You’re not that kind of man; that’s why I married you.”

Torn’s normally taciturn demeanor melted away as he took his wife’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And all this time I thought it was my good looks and chiseled abs.”

We took dinner that night in the formal dining room. Hana had whipped up an impressive four course meal from items I’d forgotten were even in the kitchen: creamed parsnips, butterscotch yams, braised kale, and roast caribou in blackberry sauce. Torn insisted on serving me, neatly depositing portions of each entrée onto my plate with the precision of a brain surgeon.

As I watched him at work, I was suddenly reminded of Clarence, my family’s butler. Clarence had been my friend and confidante throughout childhood, and the only adult in my young life that actively encouraged my artistic streak. I found myself wondering how he was doing, as he was getting on in years, and felt a surge of shame that I had not called him to tell him about the baby. I silently scolded myself for holding the fact my parents were his employers against him.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve ever taken a meal at this table,” Torn said as he sat down. “Back when Hana and I were in service, we normally ate in the kitchen.”

“It’s the first time I’ve eaten in here, as well,” I admitted, glancing up at the twin crystal chandeliers that dangled from the claws of a wrought-iron dragon mounted to the ceiling. “It always seemed a little bit much for just Hexe and me.”

“In the old days, Lord Eben and Lady Lyra took every meal in here,” Hana said wistfully. “Even toward the end, with Lord Eben bedridden, Lady Lyra still dined in this room.”

“Perhaps you could tell me what Hexe’s grandparents were like? He doesn’t really talk about them that much.”

“Lord Eben was what you would call Old School, nowadays,” Torn replied. “He believed in keeping faith with the traditions of our ancestors, and was often very stern in that regard when it came to his children. However, he was far more . . . progressive than his own father. Lord Jynx would have had Hexe smothered at birth and taken Lady Syra’s magic as punishment for daring to bring a half-caste child into the Royal Family.

“As for myself, I found Lord Eben to be a just man—strict at times, but fair-minded when it came to his rulings as justicar. He was particularly well regarded by the dwarven Thanes. As for Lady Lyra, she was a gracious, kindhearted woman. She’s the one who made sure Hana and I were properly pensioned off by the GoBOO. In the old days, retainers were paid out of the Royal Treasury—now we’re considered civil servants.”

“Did they love him?”

“Who? Hexe? They positively
adored
the boy!” Hana said with a laugh.

“Almost as much as they were ashamed of him,” Torn added sourly.

•   •   •

After dinner, Torn and Hana insisted on clearing the tables and doing the dishes. The two of them moved like a well-oiled machine, whisking away the plates without having to ask one another a single question. Not that there wasn’t plenty of communication going on between them—but it was done in the shorthand of the exchanged glance, which is unique to the deeply married.

At one point I announced that I was headed down to the basement to fetch a load of fresh towels and bed linens from the dryer. On my way back, I noticed that the kitchen was empty and all the dinner dishes washed and returned to their cabinets. As I reached the second floor landing, I saw that the door to Octavia’s room was shut, although I could hear the muted murmur of voices on the other side.

“She’s
what
?” Torn’s shout was enough to make me drop the folded blankets I was carrying.

“Must you be so
loud
?” Hana responded in a hushed voice. “What if she hears you?”

“It’s Syra all over again!” Torn fumed. “He’s just like his father! No respect for tradition!”

“After all this time, can’t you let that go? Tradition has already cost us a son, as well as a grandson. Isn’t that enough? And frankly, he could do a great deal worse, if you ask me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said as I opened the door to Octavia’s room.

Torn and Hana spun about in guilty surprise, like children caught raiding the cookie jar. “I
told
you to mind your voice!” Hana hissed.

“You’re Hexe’s
other
set of grandparents, aren’t you?”

“So you’re
finally
figuring that out,” Scratch sneered as he strolled into the room. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Hana admitted. “Horn is our son.”

“
Was
our son,” Torn interjected stiffly. “I disowned him when I discovered what he’d done. Our family has served the heirs of Adon for countless generations—but he disobeyed the one rule
all
Servitors must obey: no fraternization. Of course, Lord Eben had to let him go when they discovered the truth, severing a tradition of service that stretched back to the sinking of the spires! He dishonored his family, disgraced his lineage . . . he’s brought nothing but shame on us.”

“But Horn’s the captain of the PTU!” I interjected. “He’s one of the most important people in Golgotham!”

“His place was to
serve
!” Torn shot back angrily. “Just as I served, and my father before me, and
his
father before
him
!”

“But he
does
serve—except now his duty is to
all
of Golgotham, not just the Royal Family,” I pointed out.

“The girl’s right, you old grump,” Hana said, folding her arms over her sagging breasts. “I’ve tolerated this grudge against our son long enough! Besides, it’s not like you don’t have a scrapbook of newspaper clippings detailing every arrest he’s ever made and promotion he’s received.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about who you are?” I asked.

“Force of habit, I suppose,” Torn sighed. “The only way we were allowed to be a part of Hexe’s life was if we never revealed the true nature of our relationship to him. Lord Eben made us swear an oath of secrecy. Should we break it, we would be banished from Golgotham.”

“Ugh. How awful! That must have been difficult for you.”

“Yes, but we got used to it,” Hana said as she took her husband’s hand in hers. “At least we had access to our grandson when he was young, even if we couldn’t tell him who we were. That all changed when Lord Eben died and Lady Syra became the Witch Queen. Once we were pensioned off, we were no longer able to see Hexe on a regular basis. Oh, Lady Syra would send us snapshots now and then, but that’s not the same. The last time we actually laid eyes on him was at Lady Lyra’s funeral, fifteen years ago. He was already growing into a fine young man.”

“I don’t understand—why have you kept your distance for so long? Lord Eben was the one who swore you to secrecy, not Lady Syra. Why not come forward once the old Witch King was dead?”