Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  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!”

  “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, th
e 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.

  Chapter 18

  After 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.”