“Come on,” Hexe said, giving my arm a tug. “You can window-shop later.” He continued down the street, checking the address on the business card with the house numbers over the shops. After passing a tailor specializing in cloaks of invisibility and a millinery selling thinking caps, he came to a stop in front of a wooden trade sign in the shape of a six-fingered hand. Perched atop it was a large raven, preening its shiny black feathers with its ebon beak. As we approached the storefront, it cawed noisily and took to the air.
In the window of the shop were a number of mannequin hands posed in a variety of spell configurations, both left-and-right handed, each sheathed in a glove of some kind. Some of the gloves looked fairly ordinary, but the display also included one made from spiderwebs and another that looked like it was fashioned from pieced together bits of a broken mirror.
The bell over the shop door tinkled discreetly as we entered. The atmosphere inside the shop was strangely close and smelled faintly of dust, like a rarely used storage locker. The back of the shop was curtained off from the sales floor, which featured a long glass display counter, behind which stood a cabinet full of small, narrow drawers that took up the entire wall. An antique cash register, the kind with elaborate scrollwork and amount flags instead of digital readouts, sat unattended on the counter. A pair of white, full-length silk opera gloves were casually draped over the edge of the counter like the shed skins of twin albino pythons.
Hexe stepped forward, looking about the otherwise empty store. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
The curtain at the back of the shop twitched aside and Erys emerged, moving with slightly overly deliberate movements, like an actress playing a part onstage. “Ah! Serenity! Welcome to my humble establishment! You honor me greatly!” She smiled. “I take it you’ve changed your mind since last we spoke?”
“Let’s just say you’ve piqued my interest,” Hexe replied. “How long have you been keeping shop on Shoemaker Lane, Madam Erys?”
“I am a relative newcomer to Golgotham,” she explained. “I only recently relocated my business from the Faubourg Cauchemar.”
“Is there that much of a demand for magic gloves nowadays?” I asked, staring at the wall-sized cabinets in disbelief.
Madam Erys’ pale gray eyes flickered toward me in thinly veiled distaste. Away from the aromas of the Calf’s dining room, I was finally able to get a good whiff of her scent. She smelled strongly of dill and sulfured molasses—two scents that were, in and of themselves, pleasant enough, but, when combined, seemed unnatural.
“Should a customer wish to be a classical pianist, or a virtuoso violinist, I can make them the next Rachmaninoff or Isaac Stern with a pair of silk concert gloves,” she replied stiffly. “Or should they desire to win at the crap tables, I have a pair of special kid gloves that will ensure they’ll never roll snake eyes again. I also have an outfielder’s mitt guaranteed to attract baseballs like a magnet. Anything that can be done by hand, can be enhanced by my merchandise.” She turned to Hexe, flashing him an obsequious smile. “Allow me to show you the gauntlet. Once you inspect it, you’ll see it is, indeed, the genuine article.” Madam Erys pulled one of the drawers from its cubby hole, like a banker removing a safety deposit box, and placed it atop the counter. The interior of the drawer was lined in velvet and contained a solitary chain-mail glove that shimmered in the dusty light of the shop like a jeweled fish still wet from the sea.
It didn’t look forged as much as woven from silver filigree. The palm and knuckle-bridge were protected by a metal cuff of white gold and engraved with the sinuous form of a dragon, while the tips of each digit—all six of them—were capped in platinum and inset with pieces of polished jade to give the semblance of fingernails. It was, without a doubt, the most breathtakingly beautiful item of clothing I’d ever seen in my life.
Hexe removed a small scrying stone from his pocket and passed it back and forth over the gauntlet like a magnifying glass. “It does appear to be Vlad’s spellwork,” he mused aloud. “I recognize his signature from the family archives.” He studied it for a long moment, the glittering silver skin reflected in his golden eyes. “How much do you want?” he asked.
“Are you nuts?” I whispered. “There’s no way we can afford that thing, even if I wasn’t cut off from the family fortune!”
Hexe gave me a tiny shake of the head and put a finger to his lips, his signal for let me handle this. I grudgingly fell silent.
“I would rather not bring something so vulgar as money into this,” Madam Erys replied carefully. “As a loyal Kymeran, it is my honor, nay, my duty to offer such an artifact to you, Serenity.”
“You humble me with your generosity, Madam Erys,” Hexe said, with a ritual bow of his head. “But surely there is something I can offer in return?”
“A royal warrant of appointment would be most appreciated, Serenity. As you can see, my business is not what it could be,” she said, gesturing to the dust gathering in the corners of the shop. “There are still those in Golgotham, and elsewhere, who put great stock in where members of the Royal Family receive their goods, especially the Heir Apparent.”
“Consider it done, Madam Erys,” Hexe replied. “But I only accept your kind offer on condition that it is merely a loan. As soon as I no longer require the use of the gauntlet, I will return it to you, with my sincerest thanks.”
“Of course, Serenity,” Erys smiled, bowing her head. “However, I must warn you that in order for you to wield the Gauntlet of Nydd, it must be bonded to your nervous system.”
“Ah. I see,” Hexe said, the smile falling away from his face. He pushed the gauntlet’s display case back toward the glover. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it in your care until I can afford such elective surgery.”
“That won’t be necessary, Serenity,” Madam Erys said quickly. “I know a psychic surgeon who owes me a favor. I’m certain he’ll quote you a reasonable price.”
“How soon would he be able to do the work?”
Madam Erys reached into her décolletage and removed a heart-shaped locket-watch on a golden chain. “If we hurry, he should be able to squeeze you in today.”
• • •
“I thought you said we were going to your doctor-friend’s office?” Hexe frowned.
“I didn’t say he was my friend,” Erys replied a bit sharply. “Just that he owed me a favor. Besides, he conducts most of his business from here.”
As it turned out, “here,” as Madam Erys so put it, was none other than the Stagger Inn, one of the lowest of Golgotham’s low taverns. It was not the kind of establishment one would expect a respectable psychic surgeon to be hanging out in during office hours. However, if you were looking for cheap intoxicants and a knife fight, you’d definitely come to the right place.
“I don’t like this at all,” I whispered. “And I really don’t like her. Something’s screwy about all this. Can’t we just forget about this gauntlet thing and go back home, please?”
“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 con
tinued 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.
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