Magic and Loss

“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 decolletage 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 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