Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  However, I will admit to being bored with the assembly line nature of the work and bummed there was no outlet for creative expression. But what bothered me the most was that by the time I got home, I was normally too tired to focus on my art.

  Then, two months into my job as a blacksmith, I was approached by Canterbury and offered a job as a striker—essentially working as his apprentice. I jumped at the opportunity, as he was not only a well-regarded Master Smith but also a ferromancer.

  One of the biggest misconceptions humans have when it comes to magic is that it’s like water from a tap, with the only difference being whether it’s hot or cold. The truth is, there are as many different variants of magic as there are specialties in medicine. For example, weather witches summon storms; pyromancers control fire; necromancers work dark magic using the bodies of the dead; and ferromancers shape and control metal.

  While centaurs normally are without magic, Canterbury was quite literally a horse of different color, courtesy of a Kymeran father. While he could be a bit of a taskmaster at times, we got along very well together and I had become quite fond of him. In many ways he reminded me of my old art instructor at Wellesley, Professor Stobaugh, who had been the first to suggest I focus on metalwork rather than on the more traditional clay and stone.

  Unlike the other businesses along Horsecart Street, Canterbury Customs did not have a proper storefront. Instead, it was located in Fetlock Mews, a dead-end alleyway situated between Perdition Street and Shoemaker Lane. The mews was lined with two-story stables that served as both places of business and homes for various centaurian farriers, wainwrights, and saddlers. Although Chiron Livery churned out most of the horseshoes used by the centaur and ipotane communities, there was still plenty of commercial business for those who catered to Golgotham’s carriage trade.

  As I walked onto the shop floor, I saw my boss and mentor inspecting the armature for the wings of the clockwork dragon that took up half the workspace. The scale-model saurian was scattered about—a head here, a leg there, another leg somewhere else—like a classic car undergoing restoration. But in this case we were trying to rebuild a model that had not been seen on the road—or the skies—for over a thousand years.

  Canterbury wore a leather blacksmith’s apron over his upper torso, as well as safety goggles, and kept his chartreuse mane short and tail bobbed for fear of flying sparks from his forge. Although he had the power to shape metal without the use of tools, he also utilized traditional fabrication methods as well, in order to conserve energy. After all, magic can be exhausting work, even for someone with the constitution of a horse.

  “Morning, boss. Here’s that liniment you wanted,” I said, tossing him the bottle. “Hexe says to keep it off your Kymeran bits.”

  “Understood,” Canterbury replied, catching the package with a six-fingered hand. “And don’t forget to punch in.”

  I nodded my understanding and plucked my card from its slot on the “out” board of the antique time clock hanging on the wall and slipped it inside the slot in its face, accompanied by a loud “clunk,” then dutifully placed it in a slot on the “in” side of the board. It seemed a lot of trouble for a single employee, but Canterbury was a stickler for punctuality.

  “Do you think we’ll make the deadline for the museum?” I asked as I opened my work locker and removed my safety gear.

  “There’s no ‘thinking’—I know we’ll make deadline,” he replied. “We have to. I promised the Curator it would be ready in time for the Jubilee. I’ve got a lot riding on this piece.”

  “What part of it are we working on today?”

  “The right foreleg,” he replied, picking up the bar of steel sitting on the workbench in front of him as if it weighed no more than a two-by-four.

  I watched in mute admiration as Canterbury stroked the metal as if it were a kitten, causing it to instantly soften beneath his touch. He then reworked it, like a potter at his wheel, with nothing more than his hands, teasing it into a new shape. Within minutes what had once been a simple steel bar was now the shin bone of a dragon.

  Canterbury stepped aside, so I could pick up the piece with a pair of tongs and quench it in the nearby water bath. Although he had used his bare hands to shape the steel, the finished piece was as hot as if it had just been pulled from the heat of a forge. There was a mighty hiss and a plume of steam arose from the converted horse trough, as if the dragon we were assembling piecemeal was trying to communicate with us.

  Once the tibia was properly tempered, I would then fit it into the articulated knee joint and weld it into place. After that we would construct the ankle and move on to the foot. In many ways, what I was doing with Canterbury was no different from what I had done creating my “action figures,” save that instead of scrounging salvage yards for found metal, I was working with a living machine shop who could literally fabricate any necessary part by hand.

  “What about the skin for this thing?” I asked, as I pulled on my welding gloves. “It doesn’t seem right to send him out into the world with all his cogs and gears hanging out.”

  “I asked the Curator about that. She said the museum would be providing an actual shed.”

  I wasn’t surprised that they had a dragon skin that had lasted so long. Hexe’s mother had a suit of armor made from the same thing standing in her foyer. That shit’s hardcore. We continued to labor over the clockwork dragon for the rest of the morning, until Canterbury signaled it was time for lunch.

  As I retrieved my lunch pail from my locker, a tall, good-looking man with blond hair entered the workshop unannounced. He was dressed in a full-length mink pimp-coat, an open-necked velour shirt, and a pair of extremely tight pants cinched by a thick, buff-colored suede belt. It wasn’t until the belt unknotted itself from about his waist and dropped to the floor, switching back and forth like the tail of a cat, that I recognized the visitor as Bjorn Cowpen, the leader of Golgotham’s huldrefolk, a council member of the GoBOO, and owner of several adult entertainment establishments located on Duivel Street.

  “Good afternoon, Councilman,” Canterbury said, bobbing his head in ritual greeting. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I’m in the market for a new carriage, Master Canterbury. Something suitably upscale, of course. Chiron tells me you’re the best in Golgotham.”

  “Lord Chiron is most kind,” the centaur replied, “but not inaccurate. There is nothing my apprentice and I can not fabricate.”

  The huldu turned to look at me as I sat at my workbench eating my lunch. “You have a female apprentice?” he asked, raising a dubious eyebrow. “And human, at that?”

  My cheeks flushed as I bit into the sandwich, vigorously chewing in order to keep myself from saying something that might cost Canterbury Customs a sale.

  “I assure you, Councilman, she is most adept, despite such shortcomings,” Canterbury replied smoothly. “Come; let us retire to my office. Perhaps you can elaborate on exactly what it is you’re looking for? That will help me when I crunch the numbers for your quote.” He then led Cowpen up the ramp that led to the second floor, which served as both his office and living space. When they came back down, a half hour later, I could tell by the way their tails were twitching that they’d struck a deal.

  “Not to worry, Councilman,” Canterbury assured him. “Your new carriage will be everything you desire, and more!” Upon closing the shop doors, the centaur sneezed violently, sending a shudder from the nape of his neck to his flanks. “Blood of Nessus! As much money as that huldu has, you’d think he could afford better cologne!”

  “At least he was willing to overlook your hiring practices,” I said sarcastically, pushing back the visor of my welding helmet.

  “Don’t take what I said about your ‘shortcomings’ seriously, my dear. And don’t let what he said bother you. Bjorn Cowpen may be able to buy and sell me five times over, but he’s far from the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “Oh, he’s a tool all right,” I agreed.

 
; “Well, if it’s any consolation, he was more put off by you being a woman than a human. I’m afraid he doesn’t see much use for females of any kind outside of his clubs.”

  “Great. He’s a bigot and a sexist.”

  “When I first started out, I ran into a great deal of bigotry, as you might expect,” Canterbury said, favoring me with a sad, wise smile. “After all, I am most certainly not Kymeran, but neither am I a true centaur. The herd tolerates me, but they’ve never fully trusted me. I was bullied a great deal as a colt. Although my father was never able to publicly acknowledge me, he did take responsibility for training me in the magical arts. ‘Master your craft, and the fools will beat a path to your door,’ he used to tell me. In time, the quality of my work made the ones who used to look down on me forget their prejudices—or at least rein them in while in my presence. You needn’t worry about the likes of Bjorn, my dear,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder. “Your talent will make them honor you, whether they like it or not.”

  • • •

  It was past six in the evening by the time I finally punched out. I waved farewell to Canterbury, who wished me a good night and made sure to remind me, as always, that he expected me in bright and early the very next day.

  Although Horsecart Street was largely the domain of the centaurs and their cousins, the horse-legged ipotanes, virtually every major paranormal ethnic group can be found hurrying in and out of its various storefronts. A pair of leprechauns, dressed in green designer clothes, stood on the street corner, handing out fliers for Seamus O’Fae’s political campaign.

  Seamus, leader of the Wee Folk Anti-Defamation League, had recently announced his candidacy for mayor of Golgotham. It was the first time in the pocket city-state’s history that anyone besides a Kymeran had dared throw their hat into the ring. The incumbent, Mayor Lash, had every reason to sweat. His opponent was a well-spoken, politically savvy lawyer who, despite his diminutive size—or, perhaps, because of it—was as tenacious as a terrier.

  “Best of the evenin’ to ye, Miss Eresby,” one of the leprechauns said as he slipped a leaflet into my hand.

  “Same to you, Tullamore. How long before you finish probation?” I asked, motioning to the tiny monitoring bracelet strapped to his right ankle.

  “I got another t’ree months to go,” he replied solemnly. “Then I’m as free as a bird! I’m thankful for Mr. O’Fae pleadin’ me charges down from Felony Enchantment to Mischief-Makin’ and keepin’ me out of lock-up. The Tombs is a miserable place for us Wee Folk.”

  “Well, Seamus has my support, for what it’s worth,” I said. “And try not to turn anyone into a pig again, no matter how much they might deserve it!”

  “That I will, ma’am.”

  As I crossed to the other side of the street, I was suddenly aware that I was being watched. This, in and of itself, was not a new or unexpected sensation for me. As the human consort of the Heir Apparent, I was routinely gawked and glared at whenever I went out in public. But what I was feeling was decidedly more predatory than usual. The last time the hair on the back of my neck stood up like that, I found a demon staring in my window.

  I abruptly spun on my heels, hoping to surprise whoever it was tailing me, and saw a Kymeran woman with slate blue hair dart into a doorway. When she didn’t reemerge, I shrugged and continued my walk home. I let the incident go and quickly put the woman out of my mind. After all, if I fixated on everything odd in Golgotham, I’d never get anything done.

  Chapter 2

  I arrived home that evening to find fellow artist, human, and recent citizen of Golgotham “Bartho” Bartholomew conferring with Hexe. They were drinking spiced chai and staring at a collection of cameras, both digital and old-school 35mm, which were sitting on the middle of the kitchen table like a paparazzi centerpiece.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself?” I grinned as the photographer rose to hug me. “I haven’t seen you since the morning after the riot!”

  “Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been on the road with Talisman. I’m their official photographer, now,” he explained.

  “Well, I’m glad to see your eye no longer looks like an eggplant.”

  “You and me both!” he said with a humorless laugh. “I’m bringing a police brutality suit against the city, by the way. I’m not going to let those pigs get away with smashing my camera and trying to blind me! Seamus O’Fae is representing me, along with anyone else who got roughed up that night.”

  “Seamus is going up against City Hall?” I gave a low whistle of admiration. “Now that is going to be one hell of a courtroom battle! But what’s with the cameras?”

  “I think someone’s put a curse on them,” Bartho sighed. “The last couple of weeks I’ve been getting these crazy double exposures, even when I’m using the digital cameras. They were blurry at first, but now they’re becoming more and more distinct.”

  “Who would want to curse your cameras?” I frowned.

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone jealous of the attention I’m getting? Or maybe the asshole cop I’m suing? That’s usually who pays to have curses put on people, isn’t it, Hexe—jealous bastards and assholes?”

  “That has certainly been my experience,” Hexe admitted as he turned one of the cameras over in his hands. “But, to be honest, I’m not so sure that’s what is going on here. Usually curses have some sort of occult signature, if you know where to look—kind of like a poker player’s tell. But I’m not seeing anything like that. Are you sure it isn’t a manufacturing defect of some kind?”

  “I’ve taken them to two certified repair shops—one here, and the other in London, when I was on the road. Each swears up and down there’s nothing wrong with them. Besides, how could a manufacturing defect replicate itself identically in cameras made by three completely different companies?”

  “You’re right; that doesn’t sound natural,” Hexe conceded, his brow knitting even further. “Perhaps an individual component was cursed, instead of the entire mechanism? That would make it a lot harder to detect,” he mused aloud. “I’ll run a series of scrying stones over these so I can get a better idea of what I’m dealing with. I should be able to ascertain what’s up within the next day or so.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Hexe.” Bartho grinned. “Holy crap—is that the time? Sorry I can’t hang around and chat, Tate, but I’ve got to go over depositions with Seamus.”

  As Hexe escorted Bartho to the front door, I headed upstairs to change out of my work clothes and take a shower. Twenty minutes later I returned to find Hexe sitting at the desk in his study, balancing the checkbook. I bent over and nuzzled his neck, savoring his unique scent of citrus, moss, and leather as I did so.

  “So how was your day at work?” he asked, reaching up with one hand to stroke my hair.

  “I made a dragon leg,” I replied. “You know—same-old-same-old.”

  “Is that so?” He chuckled as I sat down in his lap.

  “And how was your day?” I asked between kisses.

  “Fairly.” Smooch. “Uneventful.” Smack. “I lifted a minor curse off a client.” Smooch. “Someone afflicted him with crossed eyes.” Double smooch.

  I glanced down at the open checkbook and the stack of bills that sat beside it. “So—how are we doing?”

  Hexe heaved a sigh, prodding the calculator as if it were a poisonous toad. “Well, between your day job, the rent from the boarders, and what I bring in from my steadier clients, we’re making ends meet. But just barely.”

  “Why can’t we use witchfire to light the house like they do at the Rookery?” I asked as I scowled at the most recent ConEd bill.

  “Witchfire might not be metered, but it’s not free,” he replied. “Sorcerers can drain themselves pretty quickly, if they’re not careful. The braziers at the Rookery are communal fires—each Kymeran who rents a booth there contributes a flame to the kitty. That’s why they burn as brightly as they do. The GoBOO allowed gas lines and electricity into Golgotham because it frees
up occult energy that normally would go toward ‘public utilities.’ Of course, there are those who claim that dependence on human inventions weakens us far more than lighting our homes with witchfire.”

  “So much for snapping your fingers and magically making the rent and keeping the lights on,” I sighed.

  “Hey, I’m just a wizard, not a miracle worker,” Hexe said with a wry smile. “ConEd has no more qualms about shutting off a past-due warlock than they do a plumber in Queens.”

  “Is this a good time to talk, or would you guys rather be alone right now?”

  I looked up to see our housemate and friend, Lukas, standing in the doorway of the study. The young shape-shifter had been living at the boardinghouse ever since he ended up in the backyard after escaping from Boss Marz’s fighting pit, months ago. Despite the fact he was a boarder, I was actually surprised to see him, as he now spent most of his time working at Dr. Mao’s apothecary and acupuncture parlor. Of course, the fact Lukas’ girlfriend, Meikei, was also the boss’s daughter might have had something to do with that.

  “You’re not interrupting anything—yet,” Hexe replied. “What’s on your mind, Lukas?”

  The young were-cat frowned and lowered his gaze to his scuffed Vans. “I owe you guys everything,” he said uneasily as he scratched at his sandy hair. “I mean, if it weren’t for you, I’d either be pit-fighting or dead right now. You know I consider you guys more my family than the one I was born to. . . .”

  Hexe quietly motioned for me to get out of his lap. “Lukas—what are you trying to say?” He frowned.

  The young bastet’s cheeks turned even redder. “I—I’m moving out.”

  “What?” I yelped. “You’re not going back home, are you—?”