The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1)

by C. A. Sanders

  “Wise words, I suppose.”

  He wiped some dribbles of tea from his bushy beard. “You look like a man that needs to laugh more, Herr Watchmage.” His merry eyes turned serious. “So what brings you to my hovel? Is this about the rich lady’s schmatte?”

  “The baby?”

  “Baby? What baby? I mean that handkerchief that she keeps waving around. The crazy shikse doesn’t even know what she has. But you know, Herr Watchmage, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.” I admitted.

  Levitt’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful! One should always embrace a moment to learn. I have a book about it here somewhere…” his voice trailed off as he moved to his desk. “I took it out last week to make sure that she had what I thought.” He shuffled the mess around, mumbling to himself. “Ah ha! Here it is.” He raised a worn book in triumph.

  “The relic in question is here,” he said, flipping to a page. The words were in Hebrew, which I hadn’t used in several decades.

  “You know your Genesis, I’m sure. Do you remember the story of Yosef and his coat?” Levitt turned the page. On the next page was an illustration of a young man being thrown into a pit by older men. A colored mantle was in one man’s hands.

  “She has the Coat of Many Colors?” I asked with a frown. After seeing a hundred finger bones of Christ over the years, I’ve grown a thick skin when it comes to holy relics.

  “The very same. You’ve felt its power. That’s the power of The Lord passing his gifts on to his people. Yosef was a great prophet and wizard, and this is his legacy. The coat belongs with his people.

  “You?”

  “Us. It belongs with us, not some shtotty goyish family.”

  I looked at the unfamiliar letters in the book. If there was something I should know, I wouldn’t find it there. “You offered Missus Vanderlay money for the handkerchief.”

  “I did, as much as I could gather from my people. Money, we don’t have, but we have our traditions. That rag is bupkis to her, but to us, more precious than gold.”

  “It sounds like you want it desperately.”

  “I do.”

  “Is that why you took the baby? To trade?”

  A confused expression came across his face. “I didn’t take a baby. I would never do that. I didn’t even know one was missing.”

  “It’s been in all the papers.”

  “Not the Jewish ones.”

  “The Vanderlay baby’s gone. The missus thinks that you did it.” I leaned in and spoke in a softer voice. “She’s been saying that you took him for a blood ritual. There’ve been some very nasty articles in the papers about your people. They’re calling for your heads.”

  “Oy.” Levitt’s hand shook as he drank his tea. “Why couldn’t this be a nice visit for tea and jokes?”

  I rose from my chair and scanned the room. “Do you mind if I look in the other rooms?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Do as you must. There’s not much to see.”

  I stepped into the darkened hallway. Rabbi Levitt picked up a candlestick and followed.

  “They’re calling for our heads? ‘There are no pogroms in America,’ my uncle said. ‘The streets are paved with gold.’ Bah.” The rabbi wrung his hands and mumbled a prayer.

  The hallway was short, and opened into a rectangular room with a cooking stove on one side. A pair of wooden cabinets stood near a table. One of them was open, and a curly haired girl pulled a pair of onions from it. Two older men sat on the floor, playing chess with shaped pieces of brick, while a boy in knickers too big for him watched with half-closed eyes.

  Levitt gave the girl a kiss on the head. “My granddaughter,” he said to me. “Ruchel, when will the soup be done?”

  “It needs more schmaltz,” she said. “Hershel went to the butcher to buy some. It has to cook all night, Zaydee. And carrots, he went to buy carrots. We still have chopped herring and pickled tomatoes for tonight.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. My stomach growled with yearning. I was hungry before my time, and herring was my Achilles heel.

  I saw no signs of the Vanderlay baby, so I continued to the next room. I realized that these rooms were set like rail cars, one box joining with another, a small community living inside a wooden centipede. Every room had pallets of wood and straw. A cockroach skittled across the uneven floor. The lone window in the room was half open, and I discerned a growing rumble from outside.

  Strange, I sensed the present of magic in the room beyond. It was that odd Hebrew magic, and it was powerful. I stepped into the dim hallway between.

  Levitt clicked his tongue. “You don’t have to go into the last room. That’s Uncle Shmuel. He’s not feeling well.”

  “There’s magic in there. Are you hiding something?”

  “No. I made Shmuel a blanket to help him get better. Ruchel knitted it, in truth, and I drew the patterns and said the prayers. She’s very good at knitting and sewing, my Ruchel. She’ll make a good wife someday. And Rifka is such a sweet girl, she sings and dances like an angel. She sings when she sells hot corn, and does so well. She even plays the violin. I’m so proud of them.”

  I entered the room while he protested with the magic of guilt. The room was as he said. There was a lone pallet against the western wall. Sitting in the darkness, with a blanket over his body, was a large, pale man. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. My senses screamed at the powerful magic around him.

  “It’s a good spell, am I right?” Levitt said. “Imagine what I could do with Yosef’s coat. I could heal hundreds.”

  I heard yelling and fighting from out in the street. The front door burst open, and I made out a young girl’s panicked voice, soon joined by several others. The noise grew louder and angrier.

  I ran to the window while Levitt ran to the front room. A crowd gathered around the building and two others. Men with lanterns and burning paper set a line of pushcarts on fire, an angry blaze against the calm November mist.

  “Murderers!” Shouted a patchwork of Irish, Negros, English, and French. It would’ve been beautiful to see such unity if it wasn’t so channeled into hate. “Give us the baby!”

  Two men dragged a Hebrew man down to the street and tore the clothes from his back. Another ripped his shoes off and stomped on the legs. The man cried for help, but none came. I couldn’t let this stand.

  I spun the air below into a small whirlwind that snuffed the fires, Debris drove the attackers away from the poor man. The injured Hebrew crawled under an overturned cart, invisible among the screaming men and horses.

  Levitt called for me. His family and housemates huddled together. Levitt was in the middle of a prayer, and I felt the magic surrounding them. He ended the prayer as I came to him.

  A brick smashed through the window and landed on the table. Another brick came through and struck one of the housemates on the foot. He cried out and fell to the floor.

  Someone pounded on the front door. “Drag ‘em out on hang ‘em!” Came the call from beyond the door. “Burn them!” Shouted another.

  “How can we help?” asked Levitt. He held Ruchel and a younger girl that I assumed to be Rifka.

  “Get everyone into the back room and use your prayers to protect them,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do here.”

  “Let me stay. I can help you,” he said. His voice was stern and resolved. A cloak of light seemed to surround him, and I felt that strange magic of his people radiating. It was stronger than I expected—true faith is a great power—but he was still but a mageling.

  “Help your people.”

  He began a protest, but then nodded solemnly. “To Uncle Shmuel’s room.” He guided the two girls through the hall. The others followed, the injured man steadying himself against the wall for support.

  The rioters continued to pound on the door. The hinges shook and loosened. They would be through soon. I traced a rune and braced the door with a wall of solid air. I wondered how long until the police came, or if they’d come at all.
/>   I looked out the broken window. There were Dwellers among the rioters, hiding their true forms behind illusions. They were as prone to suspicion and hate as much as anyone, and races like Redcaps and Goblins were always eager for mayhem. I saw a white rabbit Pooka in the crowd, a pair of Redcaps, and a Troll with a thick cigar in his teeth. The Troll threw a rotten cabbage. It sailed through the window and splattered against the far wall. The Redcaps cheered and cursed.

  I felt a sudden surge of magic as the Pooka wound his arm back and threw a glass bottle. It smashed open, followed by the massive roar of a raging fire. I shielded my eyes as a giant, man-shaped fire grew from the flames. Two green eyes peered at the building. Its face revealed a large, toothy maw as it stuck its arm through the window.

  A Fire Elemental was loose on Henry Street.

  Jonas

  I looked a mess. With my hair greasy and tangled and my face unshaven for days, I looked completely off my chump.

  I dunked my head in pump water and lathered up my face with soap. This might work, I thought. My beard was coming in, and my side lilacs were full and wild. If I shave my chin, I’ll look a whole new man.

  I had a page of Black Billy and the Tumbleweed Riders folded over, and I went back to it for reference. The boots that I bought off the ragpicker yesterday’ll have to do. I tied a kerchief around my bare neck. The hat—broad brimmed and made of straw—would almost finish the disguise. I needed just one more touch.

  I strapped a gun belt to my waist and slipped my Colt Patterson into the holster. I’ve been waiting a long time for an excuse to put this on. Police don’t carry pistols. If there’s a situation where we would need one—like one of the monthly riots the gangs have for fun—the mayor calls in the Seventh Regiment and lets them do the killing. But like Black Billy says, ‘I reckon you ain’t nothin’ wit’out a pistol an’ horse.’

  I pinned my badge to the inside of my vest where no one could see. The police might take me in for having a barker, but the badge would explain, as long as it’s not a Met.

  Someone knocked on the door. I took a few swings at my new accent before I answered. “Y’all come in. Leave yer boots at the door,” I said without looking away from the mirror. I caught Hendricks’s reflection in the mirror as he walked in.

  “You sound strange. Are you well?” he asked.

  “I’m as fine as a fiddle. Tryin’ out mah new accent.” I coughed from the strain in my throat. “Do I sound like a cowboy?”

  “How would I know what a cowboy sounds like? How would you know?”

  “From the theater, same as anyone. If they put it on stage, it has to be true.” I turned around. “I asked you to wear old clothes.”

  “My old clothes are at my parents’ house. I…they…I can’t get them. Is that a pistol? What do you need a pistol for?”

  “Part of the costume, pardner.” I left the mirror and rummaged through my trunk. “I’ll find something for you. You have to look tough, blood an’ guts…” I found an old black vest. “Put this on.”

  He slipped the vest on. “It’s short.”

  “No, you’re tall. Now for your hair.”

  “What are we doing this for?” He eyed the soap in my hand. “What are you thinking?” he asked as he backed away.

  I stepped forward with the soap. “Your hair makes you look like a prat.”

  “Leave my hair alone.”

  I took another step closer. “It washes out. Don’t be limp.”

  He had to bend down for me to soap up his hair. “It won’t work,” said Hendricks.

  “Nonsense. That’s because you don’t understand people.”

  “People?”

  “People.” I finished with Hendricks and looked in the hall mirror. I don’t know if I looked like a Texan, a cowboy or any kind of that gullyfluff. I knew that I looked like every cowboy that ever crossed the Bowery stage. To a crowd like the one I was expecting, that’s all that mattered. A wink’s as good as a nod to a blind horse.

  “It’s all very simple,” I continued. “Are you a gambling man?”

  Hendricks shook his head, but stood proud at the confession.

  “Of course not.” I looked back to him, then back to the mirror. “To gamble well, you have to read people. To read people, you have to break their patterns and make them react to the change. That’s when they make mistakes and you find out who they really are.”

  Hendricks touched his newly soaped locks. He looked at the residue on his hand and frowned. “I’m not convinced.”

  “You will be. When I go in there, the first thing they’ll think is that I’m a rube and try to take advantage. Second, they’ll think I’m a shark and act wary. Either way, they’ll be off their guard. You gotta heat a pot to make it boil.”

  “And you need a disguise for that?”

  I tilted my head and nodded. “I can’t take the chance of anyone recognizing me. You never forget the face of the policeman that put you in shackles.” I didn’t recognize the man in the mirror, but I pictured him drawing down on me. I narrowed my eyes into a flinty, prairie-scorched squint.

  “So the cowboy disguise, it has nothing to do with those?” He pointed at my bookcase. Black Bart. Joaquim Murieta. The Deerslayer. Dozens of other stories that have fueled my dreams since I was reading off a horn book.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tightened my gun belt and tipped my hat. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go find a killer.”

  Hendricks complained the entire carriage ride to Chatham Square, too. “What are we doing?” He asked as he fidgeted with his new vest.

  “We’re going to The Bloody Knuckle. Smokestack Sullivan has connections to Vanderlay and Molly—and motive, too. We’re gonna buy some drinks, make some wagers, and see what we find.” I paid the driver at Chatham Square and we walked the rest of the way. “You,” I said in a lower voice, “are going to magic something up and find this sneaky wizard.”

  “And if he’s not there?”

  “Then I get Smokestack alone and you make him talk.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Then pray we find the wizard.”

  We passed an accident on Catharine, two carriages and a pushcart. A horse lay on the ground and screamed, its forelegs broken. A man—the owner, I presume—dolefully bent down and slit the beast’s throat. Meanwhile, the rags from the ragpickers’ upturned pushcarts disappeared into the crowd.

  After a time, we reached The Bloody Knuckle. It was a two-story structure of brick and wood, flush against a large warehouse covered in painted signs. Then again, every building in the Lower Wards is covered in painted signs. A feisty reel echoed from inside, along with the sounds of men cheering and stamping their feet.

  “Shall we?” I asked. Hendricks nodded stiffly, and we stepped inside.

  As a man used to the noise of the city streets and not avoidant of the saloons, I should’ve been ready for the sights inside. I was not.

  Three steps in and my boots sat in a puddle of beer. A short man with side-lilacs twirled his dance partner into me. I caught her in my arms. The man said something to me that I couldn’t understand and poked me in the chest with his finger. I looked at Hendricks—who was struck dumb from the pub’s chaos—and then back at the short man.

  “Now pardner, you threw her into me,” I said with my best drawl, like I had seen in Mose the Fireboy Goes West. He poked me again. I grabbed his wrist with one hand, his little finger in the other, and bent his finger back. You never saw a man drop to his knees so fast. “You grabbed the wrong pig by the tail.” I let go when the tears formed in his eyes. He slunk towards the door, clutching his injured hand. I tipped my straw hat to the lady and smiled.

  Three bartenders tended the horseshoe-shaped bar, but you couldn’t see them behind the pack of drinkers holding out their wooden cups. All of the tables were filled with b’hoys playing cards and cursing their luck. Barmaids in devilishly low cut dresses more fit for Paris carried beers and danced with patrons.
Pay enough for a dance and she brought you upstairs.

  At the center of the carnival was a tall man—almost as tall as Hendricks—with a black stovepipe hat banded in silver, thick eyebrows, and a wide handlebar mustache. In his mouth was a thick, black cigar. He slapped people on the back and shouted greetings. At no time did the cigar leave its spot between his teeth.

  “I-I can’t be here,” Hendricks said. “This is the Devil’s playground.” He grabbed me by the shoulder. “I can’t be here.”

  I gently removed his hand. “Remember what we’re doing.” He nodded, but the way his Adam’s apple bobbed told a different story. “There’s Leenie. I’ll go talk to her. You waggle your fingers and see if you can find the wizard.”

  I found Leenie in the back, where the floor was cleared for dancing couples. She was fighting off a man that pinched her on the rear, though not fighting as hard as a lady might. There was a resigned look on her face, like it was something she was used to. She wore too much makeup, and her revealing dress showed off ample cat-heads that I didn’t notice before. I moved closer to overhear the conversation.

  The man held up a half-dime and pointed up stairs. She shook her head. “I’m fer dancin’ only.” The man held up two half-dimes, then replaced them with a bank note.

  She stepped away, but the man grabbed her by the wrist. Leenie’s free hand went to her chest as if startled, but I saw the ploy. The small knife hidden in her bosom gleamed as she drew it.

  I stepped up to her before she slashed the man. “Half-dime fo’ a dance, purdy lady?”

  Her mouth opened in shock when she saw me, yet quickly regained her composure. The man glowered at me, but I saw right away that there was no fire in the man. He’d get the tail down and find some other girl.

  She slipped the knife back into its hidden sheath, and we danced to the fiddler’s waltz. “Which one’s Smokestack?”

  “The hell ye doin’ here? Yer gonna get us both kilt. An’ why’re you wearin’ that stupid hat?”