“Normally, I’d agree with you,” Hexe replied. “But these aren’t normal times, Tate. I have to regain the use of my right hand. If that means becoming involved with a dodgy sorceress . . . well, it won’t be the first time.”
“Dori was different, and you know that,” I protested. “And I can’t believe I just defended someone who tried to turn me into a toad.”
“Is there a problem, Serenity?” Madam Erys asked, turning back to give me a disapproving look as she opened the door to the Stagger Inn.
“No, everything’s fine,” he assured her.
Against my better judgment, I followed them into the bar. The moment I set foot inside, my eyes began to water and I started to cough. Kymerans tend to smoke like clogged chimneys when they’re sober, and even more so when they’re drunk. The interior of the Stagger Inn was filled with a blue-tinged pall that hung in the air as thick as fog. Judging from its smell, the miasma was a mixture of tobacco, hashish, and opium smoke from a variety of cigars, hookahs, and pipes.
We continued through a low-slung archway into a public room with ponderous beams overhead and worm-shot planking underfoot. The main room had neither electric nor gaslight fixtures, and was instead lit by stray balls of witchfire, which bumped against the low ceiling like wandering toy balloons. The Stagger Inn’s clientele was composed of the hardest drinkers in Golgotham, mostly satyrs, ipotanes, maenads, and leprechauns, and it was reflected in the pub’s atmosphere. This was not the kind of place you go to in order to celebrate a birthday or commemorate an anniversary; this was the kind of place you go to in order to drink as much as possible, for as cheaply as possible, for as long as possible before either throwing up, losing consciousness, or being thrown out, if not all three.
At the back of the room was what passed for the bar, behind which stood an older maenad, her leopard-skin cloak askew and one boob hanging out. As I watched, she poured absinthe into a greasy-looking cocktail glass and handed it to a blowzy nymph, who transported it to a booth in one of the shadowier corners of the main room.
“That’s our contact,” Madam Erys said, pointing to the older Kymeran the waitress had just served.
Although I had never personally met the tall, thin man with the receding sage-colored hair and long, tapering fingers before, I instantly recognized him as Dr. Moot, who occasionally worked for the Maladanti. This was because, months ago, I had seen him reflected within a scrying stone, mutilating the feet of my friend Lukas with a silver scalpel.
Hexe recoiled, his mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. “You can keep the gauntlet, Madam Erys. I know this man, and I refuse to have anything to do with him.”
As Hexe turned to leave, Dr. Moot raised his glass of absinthe in a mock salute. “Have it your way, Serenity,” he said in a slightly slurred, overloud voice. “But good luck finding anyone else willing to work as cheap as me. Or, perhaps, you’ll find a boneknitter somewhere who can turn a Malleus Maleficarum fracture widdershins.”
Hexe spun back around to glare at Moot, his face gray as old porridge. “How do you know about that?”
“How do you think I know?” the psychic surgeon sneered. “Now sit down before you call any more attention to yourself.” He gestured to the seat opposite him with a long-fingered hand. “The tosspots around here aren’t so soused they won’t eventually notice the Heir Apparent slumming it amongst them. And if Marz finds out I’m talking to you, he won’t hesitate to clip my wings, so to speak,” he said, miming cutting off one of his fingers with a pair of scissors.
Hexe hesitated for a moment and then grudgingly sat down in the booth opposite the disgraced surgeon. I slid in after him, leaving Erys to drag over a chair from a nearby table. The smell of wormwood radiated from Moot so strongly I at first assumed he’d accidently spilled his absinthe onto himself.
“When Madam here told me she had someone interested in the Gauntlet of Nydd, I knew it had to be you. I’ve agreed to do the surgery—but only because I owe her a debt. After which, we’re done; is that understood?” Moot said, shooting a meaningful look in the glover’s direction.
“Of course,” Madam Erys replied stiffly.
“I used to be friends with your Uncle Esau, you know,” Dr. Moot said as he studied Hexe over the rim of his glass. “I worked with him on those clockwork limbs of his. He first learned how to construct them from the Royal Surgeon, Dr. Tork, but Esau later went on to refine the technique. He crafted the limbs, and I handled the surgery. That was a long, long time ago, though.”
“Did you know his wife back then?” Hexe asked.
The question seemed to catch Moot off guard. He glanced over at Madam Erys and then dropped his gaze into the green depths of the absinthe. “Of course, I knew Nina,” he said solemnly. “I’m the one who introduced them.”
“What was she like?” Hexe asked, a quizzical look on his face. “No one in my family is willing to talk about her. In fact, I never even knew she existed until recently.”
Before Dr. Moot could reply, Madam Erys abruptly stood up as if an unseen puppeteer had yanked her upright by invisible strings. “Please excuse me; I need a drink,” she said in a cold, clipped voice. As the glover headed toward the bar, a look of relief flickered across Dr. Moot’s eyes.
“Nina was a wonderful, wonderful woman,” he said, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, as if afraid of being overheard. “I met her at the same place I met your uncle—at Thamaturgical College. She and I were both studying the Healing Arts, and happened to take the same potions class under Professor Kohl. I later went into psychic surgery, while she developed into one of the best potion-makers I’ve ever known. One day I invited her over to the workshop I shared with your uncle, to see what we were working on. The moment she and Esau saw one another, any chance I had with her went out the window.” He gave a wry, sad laugh at that point, and suddenly, despite myself, I felt a twinge of pity for the butchering bastard. “Nina was a very kind and caring woman—and that’s what made her such a marvelous healer. She could not look at a person in pain and not be moved to alleviate their suffering.”
“I’m having a hard time imagining my uncle being married to someone like that,” Hexe said skeptically.
“Esau was . . . different back then,” Dr. Moot said with a heavy sigh. “He was always possessed of a strong personality, and he was never that fond of humans to begin with, but he didn’t become a devotee of the Left Hand Path and radical misanthrope until after he lost Nina. She was the one who kept his darker nature in check, I guess.”
“What, exactly, happened to her?”
“About thirty-five years ago, Nina got a call from one of her steady clients who lived outside Golgotham. The client had originally been cursed with dropsy, which Nina succeeded in reversing. However, the client later suffered an unexpected relapse, swelling up like a parade balloon. Although she was uncomfortable with leaving Golgotham at that time of night, Nina agreed to personally deliver the necessary potion. On her way back from the client’s apartment, she ran afoul of a group of human street toughs, who, once they realized she was Kymeran, starting chasing her.
“Nina wasn’t a strong spellcaster—like I said, her specialty was potions—and didn’t believe in using offensive magic, even for defensive purposes. She was so desperate to avoid conflict, she ran out into Broadway without looking, and was hit by a Yellow Cab. She was already in a coma when they wheeled her into the ER at Golgotham General. As it happened, I was working the surgery rotation when she came in. I tried my best to revive her, but the trauma was too great. I was forced to declare her brain-dead. Esau never forgave me for not saving her. And neither did I.” Moot fell silent for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, as if watching something far away and long ago, before taking a deep breath and shaking himself free. “Let me see your hand.”
Hexe shifted about uncomfortably, but did as he was asked, presenting his splinted hand for inspection. Dr. Moot pursed his lips and gently probed the damaged appendage, his own hand climbing about
it like a spider checking its web. To my horror, the psychic surgeon’s fingertips dipped beneath Hexe’s skin as easily as if they were breaking the surface of a pool of water.
“The injuries to the metacarpals are quite severe,” Moot said with a frown. “But the nerve damage isn’t as bad as I would have thought. I should be able to bond the gauntlet relatively easily.”
“How soon can you do the work?” Hexe asked, excitement starting to seep into his voice.
“I’ve got a surgery set up in Pickman’s Slip,” Moot replied. “I can do it now, if that’s what you want.”
“Are you certain you want to go through with this, Hexe?” I asked worriedly. Everything seemed to be moving way too fast and way too weird, even for Golgotham.
“What I ‘want’ has nothing to do with it,” he replied grimly. “I have no choice in this matter. I have to regain dexterity in my right hand. Without it, I can’t provide for myself, much less our child.”
There was a sudden gasp, and I looked up to find Madam Erys had returned from the bar. She stood there with a snifter of Cynar in one hand, staring at me with a barely concealed looked of disgust and horror. So much for inviting her to the baby shower.
Chapter 13
It was not surprising Moot worked out of Pickman’s Slip. Golgotham’s riverfront neighborhood was notorious for its rows of ancient warehouses, flops, and taverns that catered to longshoremen, and had long been considered the kind of place where dirty deeds could be done dirt cheap.
Save for the tacky, over-the-top splendor of Lorelei’s tiki restaurant, Pickman’s Slip can be best described as low-rent, although “depressing” and “unsafe” also come to mind. The neighborhood’s general gloominess is due to its close proximity to the Ferry Street Terminus, which houses the elaborate barques that transport Golgotham’s dead to their final resting place on Scylla Point. As for the Slip’s reputation for being dangerous, that was largely due to the troll community that dwelt beneath the nearby Brooklyn Bridge.
Dr. Moot’s place of business was located in the basement below a dilapidated meat pie shop, next door to a hookah bar. The so-called “surgery” was one huge room that smelled of rising damp, with thick, square-cut posts supporting the ceiling, which was so low it was impossible to wear a hat indoors. There was an antique surgery table, the type raised and lowered by a huge, wheellike crank, in the middle of the room, above which dangled a mechanic’s lamp suspended by a bright orange extension cord. One corner was sectioned off with old blankets strung from clothesline, behind which was what passed for Moot’s living quarters.
“Roll up your sleeve and make yourself comfortable, Serenity,” Moot said, patting the surgical table’s stainless-steel top.
“Hexe, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whispered as he hopped up onto the table. “I mean, look at this place! It couldn’t pass inspection as a tattoo parlor! I wouldn’t let this guy neuter Beanie, much less try to fix your hand!”
“Tate, I know you’re concerned,” he replied wearily. “But, please, I beg of you, stop trying to talk me out of this.”
“I know, I know,” I sighed. “It’s a Kymeran thing; I wouldn’t understand.”
Dr. Moot opened a cupboard and removed a dark green bottle without a label. He poured a finger of thick, bright yellow liquid into a greasy-looking shot glass and handed it to Hexe.
“What is that?” I asked, intercepting the glass and giving it a suspicious sniff.
“Safflower oil, if you must know,” Dr. Moot replied sharply, snatching it back from my hand. “It’s for his safety. Psychic surgery itself is relatively painless, but I can’t have him wriggling around while I’m working, can I?”
“I’ll be okay, Tate,” Hexe said as he accepted the shot glass, “just as long as you promise to hold my left hand.”
“Believe me, I’m not going anywhere,” I assured him.
Hexe knocked back the safflower oil like it was a shot of tequila and stretched out on the surgical table. I stood next to him, holding his left hand in both of my own. Within seconds his facial muscles began to relax and his golden eyes rolled back in his head.
Moot slipped on a headband that resembled an antique doctor’s reflector, save that it was fashioned from a flat scrying stone and set on a swivel, so that it could be rotated in front of his eyes. After removing the splint from Hexe’s right hand, he turned to Madam Erys, who was holding what looked like a clamshell jewelry case. She flipped open the lid, revealing the Gauntlet of Nydd. Even in the miserable light of Moot’s dingy surgery, the artifact glittered and gleamed like frost at sunrise.
“Heavens and hells!” Moot exclaimed hoarsely, shaking his head in admiration. “Such exquisite workmanship! It makes Esau’s prosthetic arms look like clockwork toys!” Once he removed the gauntlet, Erys closed the case with a snap that would have done a crocodile proud.
Dr. Moot removed the splint on Hexe’s wounded hand and carefully slipped the gauntlet onto Hexe’s hand. As he did so, I was finally able to get my first unobstructed view of the damage inflicted by the witch-hammer since the night of the attack. Although I was relieved to see the swelling and bruising had been greatly reduced, I was shocked to discover that Hexe’s fingers looked as if they were trying to avoid one another.
Once the gauntlet was secured in place, Moot strode over to a nearby table and plunged his hands into a jar of that blue stuff barbers keep their combs in. Flicking the excess disinfectant from his hands, he took a deep breath and flipped the scrying stone attached to his headband into place over his right eye and began to gently stroke Hexe’s wrist and forearm with his long, delicate fingers.
At first I could not tell what he was doing. Then I saw the psychic surgeon’s fingertips dip past the gauntlet covering Hexe’s mangled hand. Moot’s spidery digits moved like those of a skilled lace maker as he spliced nerve endings, grafted muscle, and shaved away bone without shedding a drop of blood. After an hour, he stepped away from the table and swung the scrying stone back into place, his face drawn and covered in sweat.
“The bonding is completed,” he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. He walked back over to the prep table and took a swig from the jar of blue stuff. “There. That’s better.”
“How long before he wakes up?” I asked anxiously, staring at Hexe’s silver-clad hand.
“He should come out of it in five minutes or so,” Dr. Moot said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are some matters that require discussion with Madam Erys.” With that, he and the glover retired behind the curtains at the back of the surgery.
I looked down at my own hands, which were still clasping Hexe’s motionless left one. His breathing was that of a man in a deep sleep, and I could tell that his eyeballs were twitching behind their lids, keeping track of whatever was gamboling through his drug-fueled dreams. It was the most peaceful I’d seen him since the Jubilee.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” I murmured aloud, more for my benefit than his, as I brushed the purple hair away from his face.
Suddenly Dr. Moot’s voice announced heatedly from behind the curtain: “I’ve done what you asked of me! Whatever debt I owed is now paid in full! Never contact me again—is that understood? I can’t bear the sight of you. Wasn’t it enough that you lured her away? Must you torment me in such a ghastly manner as well?”
“She was not ‘lured,’” Erys replied dryly. “She chose of her own free will. When will you get that through that liquor-soaked sponge you call your brain? But I am more than happy to agree to your conditions. Far be it from me to prevent you from continuing to wallow in self-pity and whatever intoxicant might be closest to hand.”
Before I could wonder what the two could be possibly squabbling about, Hexe’s eyelids fluttered and he began to stir.
“He’s coming around!” I shouted.
The arguing voices fell silent. Dr. Moot threw back the blankets that served as his privacy curtain and returned to the table. He took Hexe’s pulse and inspected his pup
ils. “How do you feel, Serenity?” he asked.
“Did it work?” Hexe rasped in reply.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Moot said as he helped his patient sit up. As Hexe swung his legs over the side of the table, the psychic surgeon picked up the shot glass he had used to serve the sedative and tossed it at him. “Catch!”
Hexe snatched the flying glass in midair with his right hand without a moment’s hesitation. He then stared in amazement at his appendage, now encased from wrist to fingertips in shimmering silver and white gold.
“Is there any pain?” Moot asked.
“There’s no pain,” Hexe replied with a shake of his head. “I can tell that the glass I’m holding has weight and is hard and smooth, but the sensations themselves are . . . distant, like I’m picking something up while wearing a silk glove.”
“That disconnected feeling should fade, in time,” Moot assured him. “Eventually the gauntlet will completely merge with the sensory receptors in your brain, and it’ll be just like the hand you were born with.”
“I owe you my life, Dr. Moot,” Hexe said solemnly.
Moot flinched and dropped his gaze. “You owe me nothing, Serenity. This was done to discharge a debt, not out of any desire to curry favor.”
“Regardless of the reason, you have still done me a great service I will not soon forget.”
“You are too kind, Serenity,” the psychic surgeon muttered, his cheeks flushing red.
“Can I take him home now?” I asked, not bothering to hide my eagerness to get the hell away from Moot and Madam Erys.
“Of course,” Moot replied, quickly regathering himself. “There may be the occasional ‘hiccup’ over the next few days as his nervous system becomes accustomed to the gauntlet, but otherwise, he’s good to go.”
“I thank you for the loan of the gauntlet, Madam Erys,” Hexe said as he put his jacket back on, this time without my help.
“The honor is all mine, Serenity,” the glover replied, her pale gray eyes shining like pieces of polished tin. “May you wear it in good health.”
Magic and Loss g-3 Page 12
