The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Jonas

The gate to Pop’s house was open.  It’s always open.

I led Tumbler, my horse, down the long path that led to Turtle House. The stone house had a smooth roof—like a shell—so the name fit like an old boot. 

Pop owned a peck of land, enough that he had several of those Dwellers working as tenant farmers.  Some I’ve known since I was in short pants.  Some are new, like the big fella that mucks the stables.  I left Tumbler with him before I pulled on Pop’s doorbell.

Hendricks, Pop’s footman, greeted me.  “Jona—I mean, Officer Hood.  What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Is Pop home?”

“Your father is at his office. He should return shortly.”

I looked him over while waiting for him to invite me in.  He was tall, a head taller than me, and I’m a tall man.  His Adam’s apple jutted out from his neck, and he was all elbows, knees, and worry.  I’d wager he began to shave a year or two ago.

I continued to wait, and he started to fidget.

“Oh!  Forgive me, please come in.  You can wait in the study.”  He waved for me to come inside and took my hat and coat.  “May I bring you anything?”  He bustled after me as I stepped inside. 

“A whiskey.”

“Oh, yes,”  Hendricks said. I noticed the strain to keep smiling.  “The whiskey is in the study already.  Mister Hood likes his liquor close by.”

“So do I.  You don’t have to show me, I used to live here.”  I entered the study, went right to the liquor stand, and poured myself a good slug.  I sat down on a plush, red chair, and amused myself with the book that I pulled from my vest,
Black Billy and the Tumbleweed Riders
. 

Sometimes I wish I that I was out there, riding Tumbler on the open range instead of the paving stones.  I’d rather fight off injuns and bandits than drunken b’hoys and purse cutters.  I’m an officer in the Municipal Police. Men call us Munis and b’hoys call us leatherheads.  The badge means nothing to the ruffs and chalkers that prowl the Bowery.

Badge work is nothing more than waving traffic on Third and Fourth Avenues, beating drunks, and collecting protection money from the local saloons and grocers.  Anything more and we’re supposed to turn away. But my Roundsman couldn’t turn me away from this crime, a real crime.  I knew something they didn’t, which is why I needed Pop.

I read until Pop appeared from nowhere, a slight clap and the scent of seared air preceding him.  He took off his sack coat and his ratty gray hat and pitched them into the air.  He waggled a finger and they flew from the room. 

I stuffed
Black Billy
into my vest.

“Hello, Jonas,” he said.  “It’s cold in here.”

“It’s November, Pop.”

“Yes. I think I need something to warm me.” He pointed a finger and the fireplace erupted into flame.  A bottle of port poured itself into a glass and floated to his favorite chair, where he settled down.  “I’m still tired from last night’s orientation.”

“Another fight?”

“Not as bad as the last one. Will you be staying for supper?  I’m sure that Seabreaze cooked too much—and I know you love her cooking.”

“I ate at the station house.  I’m here because I need your help.”

“You do?” He put his port on the table, next to an antique oil lamp that threw an unnatural amount of light.  He leaned forward and crossed his legs.  “I don’t remember the last time you asked me for help.”

“Me neither.” There was no sense dancing round it. “The Vanderlay baby was kidnapped.”

“John and Edna’s?”

“He went missing yesterday.  There’s no trace.  The one witness is the nursemaid, and she’s in the hospital.  Whoever crossed her got her good.”

Pop sipped at his port. He scowled, and I know that it wasn’t from his drink.  “How can I help?” he asked. 

“The woman’s running around blaming the Hebrews.  She said that they stole little Stewart for their rituals, that they use baby blood for their bread…”

“Bah, only Russians and Turks believe that.  In this age of reason…”

“Irish, too,” I said.  “And if the Nativists hear it, they’ll lynch every last Hebrew in the city.” 

“You still haven’t said how I can help.”

“I’ve never seen a crime like this.  I think it might be magic.  If you could...wizard something up, maybe you’ll find something?”

He sighed, and I knew the answer.  “Watchmages can’t meddle in human affairs. The Star of Nine is specific and unyielding about this rule.”

“No one’ll see, Pop.  I’ll make sure, there won’t be any wart.”

“Warp.”

“None of that either.”

He shook his head and sipped at his drink.

I leaned forward. “But what if…” I began. “What if there was magic involved?  You’d have to meddle.”

He turned and looked at a picture on the wall.  It was a copy of
The Drunkard’s Progress
, and it hung over the liquor cabinet.  “I want to help.  If you can find proof,” he finally said. “But not before that. It’s still cold in here.” He wagged a finger and the hearth fire roared.

“That’s just fizzing, Pop,” I grumbled.  I don’t have magic to make things happen, I have wits and dukes.   I wish I could wizard up hearth fires with a finger wag too.

The November night was cold, and disappointment made it worse.  I saddled up Tumbler and thanked Arrock, or whatever that whapper’s name was. I never got it right.  I crossed the gate and rode down muddy Third Avenue.

A light snow began to fall, and I pulled my coat tighter.  I hate the cold.  Pop once gave me a hat to protect against it, but I lost it at university.  I had three tens and a pair, how could I lose?

Even at night, the streets were crowded. I wove through a pretzel of people and horses. Pushcarts, carriages, and hacks choked both sides of the street in six crooked columns.  Often, one hack would see an opening in another lane, cut across, and upset everyone’s applecart.  You can learn a peck about people by how they handle their carts.  The Upper Ten-thousand in their fancy carriages run the smaller hacks off the road, and the omnibus drivers take pleasure in driving through mud holes.  Mama and Pop raised me an upperten, but I prefer boots to shoes and wool to silk.

The street mongers on the sidewalks called out their wares in song:
Oysters! Oysters! Fresh from the sea! A dime for a dozen, I’ll shuck ‘em for free
, or the clothes peddler shouting
Ol’ clo’! Ol’ clo’!
In an accent I couldn’t place.  Was it German? Russian? Someplace I’ve never heard of? Who knows, they all end up here.

On Thirty-Second Street, a drunk squared to water a saloon wall.  I rapped my daystick on the sidewalk and glared at him.  He looked up, saw the uniform, badge and club, and scampered away.  Some people.  It’s not difficult to find an outhouse.

I bought some hot corn from a little g’hal on Twenty-Eighth to eat in the saddle, like they do out west. 

“You be careful,” I said.  The girl was no more than four and a half feet.  “You get inside soon, or you won’t be walking home with those coins tonight.”

She sneered.  “If they try it, I’ll chalk ‘em.”  She showed me the rusty razor in her sleeve.  I nodded and filled my mouth with corn.  It’d been boiling for too long, but I smiled and chewed.

By the time I got to my flat, the night deepened enough that the b’hoys came out to sport: the midnight gangs and pickpockets, the orphaned street arabs, and the bare-knuckled boxers.  I wish that I could sport with them; their lives were where the adventure was.  I suppose that as a Muni, I did get to play—but not the way that I wanted.

I stabled Tumbler and tossed the groomsman a couple of pennies.  I live on Thirteenth near Third, on the outskirts of Little Germany.  It’s mostly clerks and craftsmen on my block, with uppertens to the west and immigrants to the east.  I stopped at the grocer on the corner, bought a bucket of beer, and then climbed the stairs to my apartment.

As far as homes went, it isn’t a bad one.  It’s a French flat, the owner of the building rents each floor to a different person. A Yankee family lives below me, three kids, a fat woman, and a man with beaten eyes and hunched shoulders.  His name’s Jim Appleton, and he writes for the Tribune.  We drink together sometimes, and the man pours out his troubles like wine. Still, he likes a laugh, and doesn’t mind helping me home if I get laddered.

I closed the door behind me and found a lamp.  I lit it and then the stove for some heat.  I shed my Muni blues on the floor and dipped a mug in the beer.

This is all I have, twenty-two years behind me, a nice flat, and complete boredom. This kidnapping was the first real excitement I’d felt as a Muni.  I wasn’t used to being stumped, and I sure as Sodom wasn’t used to asking Pop for help. 

I heard a fire bell in the distance and saw the flames maybe a mile south, toward the Bowery.  One fire bell, two fire bells.  I pictured the scene.  Two different firewagons’ll show up at the same time.  They’ll start fighting, and the building’ll turn to ash while they dust coats.  It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.  I’d go, but I’d never get there in time.  Besides, one man can’t do nothing.

Tomorrow I’ll call on the nursemaid at the hospital.  For now, I have a beer, Black Billy, and bed.

Nathaniel

If you’ll pardon the pun, magic is tricky.  It’s rather like weaving cloth.  A wizard spins the different threads of magic from the elements: Air, Water, Earth, Fire, and Aether.  He joins the threads with Chaos energy and weaves them into a pattern.  Chaos into Order.  Magic.

While only true wizards can build enough energy to weave at will, anyone with the right training can cast simple magic using the elements within them.  They’re called magelings, and part of my responsibility is to enforce The Star of Nine’s laws for and against them.

The human body can produce a small amount of energy.  Magelings often draw their power from other objects: candles, herbs, gemstones and the like.  Doctor Dee—advisor to Elizabeth the First—was famous for his collection of crystal balls.  Some other magelings draw their powers from more nefarious places.

I know the lure of magic, and I do my best to teach those that want to learn.  My present student is the brightest that I have ever had, and he’s in for a surprise today.

“Hendricks,” I called from my basement laboratory.  I heard the shuffling of feet, and the boy rushed down the stairs.

“You called, sir?”

“I wish to talk to you.  Come closer, my boy.”

He walked the fifty feet from the stairs to the center of my laboratory, where I stood next to a desk stacked with books.  My laboratory needed to be large. I keep the teaching area away from my experiments, which are separate from the summoning circles, which are far from my potions, crystals, and other curiosities.  Of course, the entire room had to be completely free of dust, dirt, and grime.  A stray hair or speck of dust could be disastrous for the wrong spell.  The entire room was actually a pocket inside of the Veil.  This protected Turtle House in case of an accident.  Why should everyone suffer for my carelessness?

Geebee (my housekeeper) does an excellent job of keeping the laboratory spotless.  She’s the younger daughter of Pellofun, a Gnome that has homesteaded on this land since before I was born.  Gnomes, along with their ancestral rival, Goblins, were the first of the Dweller races to come to Manhattan.  Many came along with the Dutch and Huguenots.

“What is it, sir?” Hendricks’ Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. His voice was high and quivery.

“How long have I been teaching you?”

“Three years, sir.  Since I was fifteen.”

“Yes.”  I rubbed my whiskers and turned my smile into a frown. “Hendricks…Ezekiel…I fear that you have reached the limits of your humours.”

“I see, sir.”  His eyes slowly fell downward, like an old man dozing.

“You have one of the keenest minds that I’ve ever known.  I’ll not let your potential go to waste.  You have the talent, but you lack the power.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

I couldn’t hold the frown any longer. “This should add what you lack.”  I reached into my vest pocket and withdrew a pendant and chain.  “I empowered this with my own Chaos Seed.  It’ll need replenishing after a time, but it should provide the power to perform true magic.”  I tossed him the chain.  He fumbled it, but recovered before it hit the ground.  “I know you’re a man of faith so I forged it as a cross.”

Hendricks was quiet, his cheeks flushed red.  “I’m speechless, sir.”

“An apprentice calls his teacher ‘Master.’ Tradition, and all.”  I summoned a small amount of Chaos and traced a rune in the air.  A leather-bound book flew from a bookcase and into my hands.  I gave it to Hendricks.  “You’ll need this as well.  The first ten pages are filled with runes that you already know.  The rest is blank.  Fill it as you will.”

He thumbed through the pages.  Joy shone from his face like a newly lit lamp.

“Of course, this means that I’ll expect more of you.  It’s not easy work, and it’ll push your mind to its limits. Can you do this?”

He closed the book.  “Yes, sir,” he quickly added, “Master.”

“Excellent.  Now if you don’t mind, I have an annoyance in Five Points to deal with.”  My head ached with the thought.  “Study those runes, but don’t try anything dangerous until I return.  I’d rather not have an army of brooms waiting for me.”

“Honor bright, Master.”

“Good lad.”

Three carriages passed me by on Third Avenue before one deemed me worthy of fare.  Perhaps it was my lack of fashion sense.  I admit that it’s hard at my age to keep with the times.  Even Beau Brummel couldn’t save me, though he might rise from the grave to try. Forgive me, oh Columbia, for my past-date clothes and my master’s rumpled hat.  The hat was a gift, and quite the reservoir of magic.  Forgive my Watchmage’s cane, as archaic as the gilding might look.  My world is not yours.

“Where to?” said the coachman after pulling up his horses.

“Almack’s, on Baxter and Bayard.”

The coachman turned his head and leered.  “Ain’t goin’ down to Five Points.  The smell spooks the horses.  I’ll bring ya down the Bow’ry an’ that’s it.”

“Chatham Square it is.”

The coachman cracked his reins and the horses leapt into the road.  We sped down Third like a pack of hellhounds was on our trail, cutting off carriages, hacks, and anyone foolish enough to try and cross.  People dove away as we raced by.  We almost ran down a German that was peddling hats from a barrow.  He jumped into his cart, scattering hats along the avenue.  As one might expect, the hats quickly disappeared. 

There was a copy of the
Subterranean
lying on the seat, and I flipped through it as we rode.  I glanced over a report on the war in Crimea and then an editorial about the forthcoming visit by an English and Turkish delegation. They planned to have Thanksgiving dinner with Mayor Wood and then Christmas with President Pierce.  The writer accused the English of trying to draw us into Crimea. I rarely agree with the
Subterranean
, excepting their cries against the English.

I skimmed a second article that referenced the Vanderlay kidnapping and its alleged connection to the Hebrew population.  Apparently the Vanderlays spoke with the press.  The article made both the Munis and the Hebrews look awful, like they were working together to massacre babies.  Stories like that lead to men hanging from lamp posts.

Even in this early afternoon, the Bowery was alive with music from every theater and salon.  I heard a bass drum thundering out a beat from a beer garden while two youths on fiddle and banjo played “Gipsy Davy” next to an oyster monger.  The bent-backed man sang along while selling.  He did brisk business as people tapped their feet while eating off the half shell.  A young couple in patched clothing danced together and fed each other oysters.

The Bowery.  If Broadway was paved with gold, the Bowery was plated in tin.

The carriage slowed down, as the traffic was too much even for this madman.  The coachman shouted curses in different languages at the pedestrians.

“You are quite the polyglot,” I said.

“What? I don’t take for that.  Keep it up an’ I’ll bust ya’ sniffer.”

“It’s a compliment.  It means that you speak many languages.”

“Oh.” He turned his head back to the traffic in time to dodge a yellow dog.  “Ya’ gotta when you drive.  Ne’er know who you’ll meet.”

Finally, thankfully, we reached Chatham Square.  I handed him some pennies and stepped into the sidewalk. Light snow drifted down and vanished in the street. I stepped past some fresh horse apples and made my way west, past a trio of salons and a grocer.  Chatham Street connected with Baxter, and took me to the heart of Hell.

Where Baxter meets Cross and Anthony is a slice of filth known as Paradise Square, the rotted core of the Five Points neighborhood.  First one notices the smell.  It’s manure, bad liquor, rotting animals, and sometimes corpses, blended into a perfume of putrescence.  I willed a globe of fresh air around my head, lest the stench overtake me.  In nearly every building is a liquor house. Even at this time of day, drunks of every ilk sprawled on the wooden sidewalks, not caring about the falling snow.  Many will die by sunrise tomorrow, either choked on their vomit or slashed by a cut-purse. 

I didn’t have to go this way. I could’ve skirted Paradise Square completely.  I choose to bear witness.  I’m banned from interfering with magic, but I’m still a man.

I bent down in front of a filthy child and slipped several coins in his hands.  “Run away,” I whispered.  “Take the rail road out of town.  Find a farm and work there.  Get out before it kills you.”

He looked at me with dull eyes and pocketed the coins.  “I will, mistah,” but he didn’t move. The snow came down faster, and a stiff wind blew it sideways. The boy shivered in the street.

The other orphans surrounded me with outstretched hands.  I spent the next ten minutes handing out coins until my pockets were empty and the streets were coated in snow.  As I left the square, I saw a bigger boy punch a smaller one and take his coins.

I followed Baxter out of Paradise Square and around the infamous Mulberry Bend.  I sensed several pairs of eyes following me, but I trusted in the natural shield my Chaos Seed spreads around me. 

I came to a dancehall called “Pete Williams’ Place,” but everyone calls it Almack’s after the hall in London.  It was a place where even the wealthy would visit, a tourist attraction for the Upper Ten-thousand.  They might promenade down Broadway with their wives during the day, take in a vaudeville show on the Bowery at night, and then come to Almack’s to drink until dawn finds them penniless and sometimes shoeless.

I slipped down an alley behind Almack’s and turned the corner.  On the back wall stood a door only visible to the super-normal.  They called it Glamour Hall, and it was beyond any sane man’s sensibilities. I raised my cane and rapped on the door. 

A drunk urinating in a pile of garbage looked at me, wondering why I was knocking on a stone wall.  I shot him a glare and he scrambled off through the falling snow.  His mind might not be able to handle what came next, and the Warp would turn the alley to dreams and nightmares.

An eye slit cracked open in the door, slammed closed, and the entire door swung open.  A large figure stepped through the doorway.  He tilted his head down and loomed over me.

“Whaddaya want, Watchmage?  You ain’t welcome here.”

“I’ve merely come for a drink, Tordreck, and to speak with Cadatchen.”

“Prince Cadatchen don’t wanna see ya’.  He busy.”  Tordreck flexed and puffed out his massive chest.  Even for an Ogre, Tordreck was big.  He was close to nine feet tall, and as broad as two large men standing side by side.  His jaundiced skin matched his greasy hair.  He wore a black tailcoat that bulged in the chest and arms.  I suspected that he liked it that way.

“I wish to be polite.  I don’t have to ask.” I rolled a spark of lightning from one finger to the other, a reminder that I could make his evening unpleasant.

He growled and his forehead furrowed like a newly plowed acre.  “Prince busy.  Come back later…please.”

“That’s much more gentlemanly, but alas, I cannot.  Time is precious, and I must see him now.”

The Ogre thought for a long time.  A rat scurried across the street.  A baby’s cry echoed from a flophouse, and was silenced.  He grunted and lumbered inside. I followed him.

Even if it weren’t for the patrons, Glamour Hall would be out of place anywhere in the world.  Cadatchen carved the space from between planes of existence, a tiny pocket in the Veil similar to my laboratory.  The crowded floor was a dark otherworldly wood.  Tables formed a Fibonacci pattern across the floor.