Magic and Loss

I finished my tea and followed him inside. I peeked into the study and saw Hexe peering at one of Bartho’s cameras through a teardrop-shaped scrying crystal, just like a jeweler studying the cleavage plane on a diamond.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I said, kissing him good night.

“Love you, too,” he replied absently, not taking his eyes off his work.

Beanie ran up the stairs ahead of me, and upon reaching the second floor landing, he turned around and stared back down at me, his little Boston terrier head tilted to one side, as if to say “What’s keeping you, Mom?”

As I crawled into bed, Beanie hopped in after me, burrowing under the covers like he was going after a vole. I heard the eaves outside the bedroom window groan ever-so-slightly, as Scratch, dressed in a far fiercer skin than the one he wore earlier that day, prowled about the rooftop, keeping watch for the things that go bump in the night.

* * *

One of the downsides of being an apprentice is that you do a lot of scut work. If a chore is trivial, tedious, or unpleasant, you can rely on your master to assign it to you. In this case, I was to pick up Canterbury’s new suit from his tailor.

Before moving to Golgotham it had never occurred to me that centaurs were into couture. In fact, I had assumed what clothing they did wear was more for our modesty than theirs. Boy, did I get schooled. Turns out centaurs, male and female alike, are the biggest fashionistas this side of the Garment District.

While centaurs do tend toward minimal dressage while at work, once they’re off the clock they like to dress to the nines in fancy jackets and vests, with matching ornamental caparisons that drape over their hindquarters. Oh, and they are absolutely mental for hats, the more elaborate the better. When they’re not busy at work—and centaurs are easily the most industrious race to be found in Golgotham—they can be found swanning about the Hippodrome or the Clip-Clop Club, showing off their newest duds.

I guess the reason centaurs are so fashion-conscious is because everything they wear has to be either custom-made or retrofitted. There’s no such thing as buying off-the-rack when your top half is a size six and your bottom half is a size horse. That means every centaur worth their oats has a personal tailor. Canterbury’s happened to be Rienzi, who worked out of a stall in the oldest open-air market still operating in New York City.

The Fly Market, located inside an Industrial Gothic loggia with an iron-clad roof and brick porticos, is alive, in its way. And like all living things, it is constantly growing and changing. There are literally hundreds of stalls inside it, and just when I think I have a grip on who runs what, or what stall belongs where, everything seems to up and move about, if for no other reason than to be mischievous.

As I entered, the constant noise generated by the surrounding merchants as they haggled and argued with customers and suppliers made it sound as if I were walking into a gigantic beehive. I passed a mustard-haired Kymeran woman selling owl-faced tea sets, who sat across the aisle from an herbalist with plum-colored dreadlocks who was selling Arabian za’atar to housewives and warlocks alike, who was set up next to a confectioner selling lollipops coated in chili powder and hand-dipped chocolate centipedes. I scanned the labyrinth of stalls, finally spotting Rienzi’s banner several aisles in.

As I walked up, the tailor was putting a hem in a length of fabric with a manual sewing machine especially designed to accommodate his lower body, working its treadle with a front hoof. Rienzi was a handsome bay centaur, with a reddish lower body, mane, and tail, dressed in a striking waistcoat fashioned from liquid satin and covered in embroidered silver roses.

“I’m here to pick up Canterbury’s suit,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the noise of the sewing machine.

The tailor gave an equine snort and set aside his work. “Here it is,” he said, handing me what looked like a folded satin quilt with a deep wine paisley pattern. “Will you be paying for it now, or should I add it to your master’s bill?”

Before I could answer, the buzz and hubbub of the Fly Market stopped as if cut by a knife. Baffled, I looked around to see what could possibly make everyone fall silent all at once. I got my answer: Boss Marz was walking down one of the aisles, flanked on either side by strutting Maladanti spellslingers. The crime lord did not seem in the least diminished by his time in the Tombs, nor did he seem to be suffering any ill effects from taking a war- hammer to the solar plexus.

What made my blood run cold, however, was the sight of the tiny squirrel monkey, dressed in a red velvet fez and matching vest, perched on Marz’s left shoulder. I had hoped I’d seen the last of his familiar when Bonzo disincorporated rather than risk being killed on the mortal plane by Scratch when they tangled one-on-one. But there he was, the little shit, accompanying his master on his rounds as if nothing had ever happened.

Boss Marz stood in the intersection of two wide aisles near the center of the loggia and smirked at the sea of fearful faces staring at him. His voice boomed out, echoing through the now-silent Fly Market like thunder from an approaching storm.

“It has come to my attention that many of you, over these last few months, have failed to pay your tribute to the Maladanti! In case you are suffering from the delusion that because I and my associates, here, have been detained elsewhere, that you are no longer under any obligation to provide us with a percentage of your profits in order to continue to do business in the Fly Market—please allow me to disabuse you of such wrong thinking!”

The crime lord pointed his left hand at a nearby magic candle booth, tended by an elderly Kymeran man with receding mint-green hair. “In Arum’s name—please, no!” the candlemaker begged, lifting his hands in supplication.

But there was no point in pleading for mercy from Boss Marz—and none at all to be found from his familiar. With a squeal of delight, Bonzo leapt from his master’s shoulder and scampered along his outstretched arm, jumping from Marz’s hand like a swimmer off a diving board.

The moment the squirrel monkey hit the floor it took on its demonic aspect, transforming into what looked like the misbegotten result of a threesome between a mandrill baboon, a hyena, and a stegosaurus, while still dressed like an organ-grinder’s monkey. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the familiar bounded over the counter and snatched up the hapless vendor, disappearing with his captive in a cloud of smoke that reeked of brimstone and monkey house.

A moment later, Bonzo, once more reduced in size, reappeared on his master’s shoulder, licking his lips and picking at his teeth. Boss Marz chuckled and rewarded his familiar with a pistachio nut, which it greedily grabbed and devoured.

“I trust I have made myself perfectly clear,” he said to his horror-struck audience. “Come the next tribute day, I expect each and every one of you to make good on all you owe me. Good day, citizens.”

A gasp of horror rippled throughout the Fly Market, followed by a chorus of fearful murmurs as the merchants began frantically talking among themselves. As the lord of the Maladanti turned to leave, he looked about the Fly Market a final time. I desperately wanted to somehow duck out of sight, but I found myself rooted to the spot, too terrified to move. As his gaze fell on me, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and he raised his right hand to his brow, in a mock salute, accompanied by an unpleasant little smile.

The moment Marz turned his back on me, the fear that had kept me glued to the spot instantly dissolved. I snatched up the bundle I had been sent to retrieve and hurried in the opposite direction as fast as I could go.

Chapter 4

When I arrived at work, I told Canterbury what I’d seen at the Fly Market. He was visibly shocked and immediately told me to take the rest of the day off.

“But what about the exhibit for the museum?” I asked, pointing to the bits and pieces of clockwork dragon scattered about the workshop.

“Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “You’d be of no use to me, and a danger to yourself, if you tried to