The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) (15 page)

Near Bloomingdale Road, Wythe turned north through a manor’s open gate.  There were several carriages driving in, along with people on horses and on foot.  They all appeared to be well dressed, but not in formal ware.  They were journeymen, not gentlemen. I steered Tumbler between the gates and followed the stream of people.

We trotted away from the manor house, a grand house in the New Roman design.  Instead, we went to a large field with wooden risers in a V shape at one end. The risers were filling with spectators that eagerly watched the men on the field.  I couldn’t see the ball, but I knew they were throwing one, warming up their arms against the November chill.

Wythe and a companion exited their carriage and walked to the field, apparently unaware of my presence. I dismounted and tied Tumbler’s reins to a small tree.

A young man with a smith’s shoulders passed me.  “Who’s playing?” I asked.

“The Knickerbockers came over from Hoboken and challenged the Gotham club,” he chittered. “Mayor Wood set the game up.  It’s the last game of the year, before the snow gets too deep.  I’m guessin’ ol’ Doc Adams strikes five or six aces on his own.  Who’re you for?”

“I’m an Empires man, myself,” I said.  “But any game’s a good game.”  I like base-ball, and the Knickerbocker rules are much better than the Boston rules we used at Yale.

I kept my eye on Wythe and he climbed to the top riser, overlooking the third base.  I recognized the man with him as the Turk he played cards with at The Bloody Knuckle.  The dusky man looked uncomfortable in his wool coat and topper.  Wythe, on the other hand, cut a dashing figure in his wear.

The crowd cheered as the Gothams took the field.  They were fielding ten men today, three on the bases and five in the outfield, besides the pitcher and catcher.  The Knickerbockers usually fielded nine, with Doc Adams playing halfway in the short outfield between the second and third bases.

I sat next to Wythe, keeping my eyes on the game.  “Good view,” I mumbled as I sat.  “I hope the Gothams give ‘em what for.”

He smiled and gave a quick nod.  “Yes, I love the game.  Unlike so many sports, base-ball requires as keen a mind as a body.  Every pitch from the feeder is a battle of wits with the striker.  Every count is a new battle.”  He angled his head toward his companion.  “Mehmet, would you find another seat?  The gentleman and I have something private to discuss.”

“As you wish, Captain.”  Mehmet moved to a riser three planks down, apologizing to the men he stepped over.

Wythe looked me up and down and tapped his eye patch. Never did the amused expression leave his face.  “Your clothes were perfect the other night, Officer Hood, but your accent was terrible.  You’re lucky Smokestack doesn’t know what a Texan sounds like.  He probably got his ideas from the theater.”

I looked to my left and right, half expecting Shadow McGuirk to leap out and slash my throat. I thought to deny, but it’d be a weak bluff.  “So you know, but I know a secret about you too.”

“That I’m a wizard,” he stated as the crowd cheered a strike past the fielders. Two aces crossed home base.  “Like your boxer friend, I believe. The Watchmage’s apprentice.”

Damn. “How did you know?”

“No disguise can hide that one.  Tall as a bean pole, and near as stiff.” He smiled again, content as a kitten.  “Now that we’ve undressed each other’s secrets, perhaps we can do business.”

“Me first,” I said.  “What did Vanderlay give you?”

“A headache,” he said.  “I’m sure you know the man he is.  He owed me something, and I collected.  But we have other, more pressing, matters to speak of, don’t we?”  There was an odd lilt to his voice, something foreign, but pleasant.  “What you and young Hendricks are doing is quite dangerous.  If Smokestack was to find out,” he let his words hang in the air like smoke.

“I’m aware.”

“It would be a terrible fate for you.  Such potential lost.  Not to mention your poor friend.  He’d have to face wizard law, which is far crueler than ours.  They have centuries to think on ways to break a man.” He laughed with his lips closed. “Unless you want young Hendricks broken. That would explain much.”

I was speechless, on my heels.  He read everything about me and called every bluff.  The worst part was the calm, even pleasant, way he spoke.  He was threatening me with death, but saying it like we’re talking over tea. “Your game’s black-mail, not base-ball.”

“I consider it a mutually beneficial partnership. You tell me what round Hendricks will knock his opponents out, and you can go on with your charade. You don’t, and,” he paused and raised his eyes to the sky.  I followed his gaze.  Clouds in the shape of rabbits floated past, chased by a wolfen storm cloud.  “Black-mail is such a crude technique,” he said. “But I suppose a good artist uses all the paints on his palette.”

“If I told my father, he’d wizard you a prison so deep, you’d be taking tea with the Devil.”

“His arm stretches no further than his city limits.  All Watchmages suffer that weakness, which is why I so adore the open sea.  On the sea, I’m my own Watchmage.”

“King of cod.  Master of mackerel.”

“Call me what you will, it won’t change who I am,” he said.  Wythe lifted his hand as if giving an invisible toast. “Don’t misunderstand me, Nathaniel. I admire your courage and wits. You fooled Smokestack, a man that doesn’t fool easy.  If you live, you might someday be an equal.  As for now, you’re in my employ.”

I sighed.  There was no beating this man, even in banter. “I’ll help you,” I said.  “If you help me.”

He held out his hands in a welcoming gesture.  “I am at your service.”

“You’re aware that I’m searching for the Vanderlay baby.”

“I am.  I commend you on your efforts.  Even if you fail, it makes a great story for the papers,” he said with a rascal’s smirk.

“What were you arguing with John Vanderlay about?”

“I see,” he said.  “You think me a kidnapper.  That’s not a bad guess.  I’ve relocated people in the past, although more often people relocate themselves.”  Wythe looked off to the ball field. He stayed silent for a long time. I wondered where his mind was traveling to.  Had it returned to sea?  Or was it somewhere no ship could sail?

Finally, Wythe spoke. “As I said, I was collecting my due. Vanderlay had something that was precious to me.  He was careless and broke it.  I wanted…” he shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter what I wanted.  What I received was cold coffee.”

“That’s a rather cryptic answer. An honest man doesn’t speak in circles.”

“I never said I was honest,” he said. “But the best liars tell the truth when they can.”

I was far from convinced.  “How long have you been in port?”

“I passed through the Narrows the day the Vanderlay lad was taken.  You can verify at the customs office.”

“I will.” He was still hiding something. I could hear it in his voice.  He black-mailed me on pain of death, but only to fix his bets.  No, he was guilty of something, and wanted me afraid to move against him. “Do you know a woman named Molly Hyde?” I asked.

His face came together like a draw string.  “Yes, I knew her. She was a very lovely girl,” he said.  He looked out into the field and sighed. “I grow weary of the game.  The Knickerbockers are too far ahead for my tastes.”  He stood and tapped his patch.  “We’ll meet again, and you’ll keep your word.”

“I will.”

Wythe saluted with a grin and took his leave.

I watched the rest of the game, but my mind was elsewhere. It ended after three innings, when the Knickerbockers reached twenty-one aces. 

Wythe left me with meat to chew on. Wythe said he knew Molly, but I said ‘know.’

Nathaniel

I slept for a couple of hours, not long enough.  I wished that I could sleep all day and refresh my energies and wits.  Alas, it was not to be.  I had an appointment that I couldn’t afford to miss.

Geebee and Seabreaze knew to avoid me when I met with this man.  I swiped a bottle of gin from the case, sans glass.  Before I was aware of it, I was sitting in that little corner of my study, looking at the portrait of Anna.  The tears fell before the gin hit my lips.  I slipped a garnet out of my pocket and placed it on the desk. 

The gin helped me remember.  I clutched the garnet tight.

The summer of 1824 was good for New York City.  The air was hot, but not the humid, sweltering summers so common on the island.  Dutch style sloops still dominated the North River, although smoke-belching steamships were gaining fast.  It was one of the last innocent summers.

In August, The Marquis de Lafayette made his grand return to America.  I was already on my fourth lifetime.  My first life ended long ago, my second gave his life for his country, and my third took up the cause until it was time to fake my death again.  The Marquis was a hero, and while he would not recognize me, I knew him well.

I watched as he marched down Broadway, flanked by New York’s richest and bookended by fire wagons.  The wagons rang their bells in jubilation, the people cheered, and the Marquis waved placidly, the great hero of two worlds smiling at the well-deserved adoration.

Master Sol refused to come, so I went to the parade alone.  I waited for the Marquis to pass by.  The throng crushed and pushed me back and forth like the ocean.  A swell took me from behind and pushed me into her.

For a mere moment, she looked me in the eyes.  Blue eyes.  I tried to stammer an apology, but before my tongue unfroze, the crowd had washed her away.  A few minutes later, the Marquis rode by, but the moment had lost its luster.

I saw her later that day when the crowd broke up.  She followed her mother and father, talking excitedly as the older pair ignored her. She twirled the parasol on her shoulder as she spoke.

I called a cool breeze to blow her parasol my way.  It floated in the air, still twirling, landing in my hand. 

We met halfway between.  “I think you lost this,” I said.

“It’s not lost, but thank you.”  She smiled.  I smiled.

I wish that I could always remember her this way, the rose in her cheeks, the pert, questioning smile on her lips, as if the world’s absurdity amused rather than saddened.

No, I remember her in bed, the color drained from her face. I remember my arms draped around her as she died, my tears staining the covers.  I remember looking up and seeing my son’s accusing face.

As usual, my office was a whirlwind of controlled chaos.  Somewhere among the bookshelves and floating bundles of papers was Teepatok, orchestrating the swirl of paper with easy swishes of his hands.  He stacked his desk in perfect piles, each organized in his own indecipherable fashion.  Several more piles floated above him, well out of reach.  He gestured to one and it lowered enough for him to stack more papers on top of it.

“You’re late for your meeting,” he said like a doting grandmother.  “You should know better, a wizard must never be late.”

“I’m never late. I arrive exactly when I get there.”

He furrowed his already furrowed brow.  “There are new files on your desk.  The mundane are on the left, magical on the right.  Past due are on your desk, new are floating.”  He looked at the papers around him.  “You have too many past due.  I do wish you’d spend more time here.  I can’t do everything alone.”

“I could hire you an assistant.”

He shuddered at the reply.  “I’d rather work sunrise to sundown than suffer someone to ruin my work.” 

“I know you would,” I said. “Have you plans for Thanksgiving?  There’s always a place at my table for you.”

“Oh no, no, no,” he said while shaking his head.  “I’ll be in Fordham with my Jeejee and her husband.  How she can stand living with that human, I don’t comprehend, but family is all.  Besides, I have to enjoy the grandchildren while I can.”

I didn’t know if he implied his own fading or the short lives of humans.  Even with Dweller blood, his grandchildren would live a human’s life span.  There is little evidence of Dweller blood when they have children with humans.  The children may have tendencies towards their Dweller parent—a Gnome’s child may have an affinity with crafts or farm work--but that’s all.

It was quite the scandal when Jeejee married Mister Andersen.  She spends her life behind her human disguise.  Even her husband is ignorant of her true nature.  Many Watchmages forbid such unions, but who am I to stand between lovers?

Teepatok sighed and moved some papers that were fine where they were. “Go on then.  Misthistle should be here soon.”

I walked into my office, and the stacks were exactly as Teepatok said.  Watchmagery has too much paperwork involved.  Besides keeping track of Dwellers and magelings in New York, I receive reports on all supernormal events between Philadelphia and Boston.  Ghost sightings, potential Warp, mysterious creatures, and the like.  In addition, I must keep correspondence with other Watchmages.  America had two others, in Washington and in Philadelphia, but I was their
de facto
leader. Add on the constant reports to the Star of Nine in Europe, and it was ponderous work.

My mundane papers were even more ponderous.  I was a major land holder in the city and nearby villages.  I owned several businesses, a few factories, and was the silent partner in several magazines and printing presses.  By keeping up appearances as a wealthy man, nephew of the old stock Knickerbocker Solomon Hood, I could hide my wizardly responsibilities. 

Recently, I’ve been involved in a plan to buy land in the center of the island.  It’s a plan championed by several, including my friend William Bryant, a great lover of nature.  He had the idea of a Hyde Park for New York, a refuge from the smoke and soot of the city. I have been buying land for the past five years, though there are still several estates near Harlem that refuse to do business.  I feared another Jones’s Wood debacle.

Teepatok knocked on my door.  “Misthistle is here.  Shall I send him in?”

“Please.”

Misthistle slid past Teepatok and positioned himself against the wall. “Greetings, my friend.  You look unwell.  Have you been eating?”

“Well enough.  There’s no need for worry.”

“As you say, but I sense something far different.”

Misthistle was a Sluagh, and although his people are grouped with Dwellers, they are quite different, more akin to Elementals.  Sluagh are pieces of the Veil that broke off and became trapped in our world.  They appear as living shadow, but are much more.  The effect of the material world gives them sentience, but also a thirst.  Sluagh subsist on the despair of others.  In this city, they dine well.

I drew a bottle and glass from a desk drawer and poured to the rim.

“You seem a bit unsteady, Nathaniel.  I worry.”

“It helps.”

He crossed his legs, or so I inferred, as he exists in two dimensions.  “How may I serve my Watchmage today?”

“There’s too much going on in the city these days.  Kidnappings, riots…”

“Flying dogs,” he interrupted.

I rubbed my temples.  My head was pounding, and the gin wasn’t numbing it.  “You know about that?”

“Not just I.  I may be the best at what I do, but I’m not the only one that does it,” he said.  “What can I tell you?” 

“I need to know everything.”

“That would take quite an amount of time.”

I grumbled.  “The Vanderlay kidnapping, the Pooka and the Fire Elemental, and how Cadatchen’s connected.”

“What makes you think he is?”

“He always is.”

Misthistle chuckled, an eerie sound that reminded me of the ocean.  “I can help you.” He put one open palm forward.

“Yes, of course.”  I took the garnet out of my pocket.  “Your fee.”

He took the stone from my hand and clutched it in his.  He threw his head back, relishing the empowered despair.  “Your pain is of a rare vintage.  I wonder if it will grow with age.  Forever is such a long time.  I remember your Anna.  This time of year must be especially difficult.”

“Enough.  Tell me what I need to know.”

“I worry about y—”

“Yes, you worry about me.  Everybody does.”

“Slaugh do not have many friends.  I count you as one.”

“I can’t imagine why.  On to work, if you please.”

He chuckled again.  “The Pooka in question’s name is Sniddlenose.  He’s a small player on this stage.  He works for Grizzlemaw, Cadatchen, Lenieth Whispers, whoever’s hiring.  He’s good with second story work and swiping handkerchiefs.  I’m surprised to see him involved in a riot or carrying a talisman of that power.”

“Where would he get it?”

“Not from a Shining One.  Only the Sidhe have power enough to make something like that, and I would know it if one of them did so.  He must’ve gotten it from one of your magelings.  As I said, Sniddlenose is a burglar by trade.  He could’ve nicked it from some mageling without them even knowing.”  He held the garnet by a finger and thumb, and the stone melted into his hand and vanished.  “These magelings are an epidemic. You need a firmer hand with amateurs like Mister Lancaster.  They’re growing in number, and only a few have actually registered with you.  A purge might be in order, dare I say.”

I shook my head.  “No more pyres.” I saw the result of Master Sol’s one purge. Never again.

“The community is concerned.  Rumors abound of them capturing Shining Ones for experiments.  Our blood is very potent magic, you understand.”

“I do.  It will be looked into once the baby is found,” I said.  This was becoming a very uncomfortable discussion, and my head started to ache.

“A political answer.  Not like you at all.” He pointed to my glass.  “Maybe it’s time to find temperance?”

“Maybe it’s time to be quiet,” I snapped.  “I apologize, that was unbecoming.”

“I’ve heard worse.’ He shifted in his seat.  “But not from you.”

I put the gin to my lips and swallowed.  “You’re sure that Cadatchen has nothing to do with this?”

“I’ve been his advisor since New Amsterdam.  This would be a shocking change in procedure for him.  No, Cadatchen is a rapier, not a mallet.  He would never do something so crude.  Although…”