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 theyre 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 theyre not busy at workand centaurs are easily the most industrious race to be found in Golgothamthey 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. Theres 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. Canterburys 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 zaatar 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 Rienzis 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.
Im here to pick up Canterburys 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 masters 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 Marzs left shoulder. I had hoped Id 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 Marketplease 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 Arums nameplease, no! the candlemaker begged, lifting his hands in supplication.
But there was no point in pleading for mercy from Boss Marzand none at all to be found from his familiar. With a squeal of delight, Bonzo leapt from his masters shoulder and scampered along his outstretched arm, jumping from Marzs 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-grinders 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 masters 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 Id 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.
Dont worry about that, he replied. Youd be of no use to me, and a danger to yourself, if you tried to work right now. The last thing I need is for you to fire up a welding torch with shaky hands and a wandering mind. Just be here all the earlier tomorrow. And dont worryIm not going to dock you for the day.
Thanks, Master, I said with a wan smile.
No problem. Now beat it before I kick myself for my generosity.
Upon returning home, I heard voices conversing in the study. I peeked in and saw Hexe sitting at his desk, with Beanie cradled in his lap and Scratch perched atop the back of his chair while he talked to Bartho.
What do you mean my cameras arent jinxed? The photographer frowned.
I went over each of them several times with my finest scrying stones, Hexe replied, gesturing to the cameras arrayed before him. They are definitely not cursed. However, I did discover that they have been exposed to magical energy.
Can you tell whos responsible? Because I really want to put a boot up the ass of whoever did this.
Then you better bend over. Because, according to my divinations, youre the source of the magic.
Barthos jaw dropped open like a drawbridge. Youre kidding, right? I mean, how is that possible?
Because youre manifesting through your art form, just like I have, I interjected.
Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. What are you doing home this time of day?
Canterbury gave me the day off, I said, brushing aside the question. Im more interested in hearing how Bartho got himself all magical.
Well, Im not exactly sure whats happening, but its a well-known fact that the human psychics who live in Golgotham have considerably stronger abilities than those who live elsewhere, Hexe explained. Perhaps artistic humans are affected in much the same way? I mean, artists routinely create something from nothing using only their craft and force of willits essentially the same thing a witch or warlock does when we work magic.
If thats true, then why hasnt this phenomenon been documented before now? Bartho asked, a dubious look on his face.
For the simple reason that, despite a long history of artists being drawn to my people, up until recently normal humans such as you and Tate have steered clear of Golgotham and similar enclaves, Hexe sighed. Of course, Goya and Dali dont count, as they were Kymeran themselves. And then there was Toulouse-Lautrec, who was a member of the dwarven community. And while Picasso may have kept a Kymeran mistress, he did not live with her in the heart of the Pigalle, surrounded by her family. No, it has only been recently that the old prejudices against my people have finally begun to fade and humans like you and Tate have become brave enough to dwell amongst us.
The photographer scratched his head. You mean any human who hangs out in Golgotham is going to end up with a case of the magics?
No, I suspect it will only affect artistic types, and only those that live here for several months. But, in any case, this is a very interesting development.
But how does it explain why my mojo, or whatever you call it, is generating double exposures?
Oh, those arent double exposures, Hexe replied matter-of-factly. Theyre ghosts.
Barthos eyes widened until it looked like they would launch themselves out of his skull. You mean I see dead people?
No, you only take pictures of them, Hexe explained. Youve become a spirit photographer, just like the original Ouija. As your talent matures, and you learn to control it, the images will become more and more distinct and youll be able to see them in the cameras viewfinder. In time, you may even learn to communicate with your subjects.
Why the hell would I want to do that? Bartho yelped.
Theres nothing to be worried about, Hexe said reassuringly. The vast majority of ghosts are perfectly nice people. They just happen to be dead, thats all. However, should you see any with red eyes, run away as fast as you can.
That doesnt sounds scary at all, Bartho groaned. So what do I do about these ghosts popping up in my pictures?
Well, you can always Photoshop them out. . . .
* * *
After a bewildered Bartho left with his collection of cameras, Hexe and I retired to the kitchen. So why did Canterbury give you the day off? he asked. Was there an accident at work?
Before I could answer, I heard an odd clattering sound from upstairs, as if someone were walking around in wooden shoes. Whats that noise? I frowned.
Thats the new boarder, Hexe explained.
I raised an eyebrow in surprise as I glanced up at the ceiling. That was quick! You didnt even have time to put up a flier at Strega Nona!
We were lucky. I got a call from Giles Gruff, right after you left this morning. He said a lady friend of his was in a tight spot. . . .
Why am I not surprised? I said sarcastically. Giles was the leader of the satyr community and Golgothams most notorious bon vivant and rarely seen without a comely nymph on both arms.
Sorry about all the noise while I was traipsing about upstairsI left my mufflers in my work locker.
I turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice and saw an attractive young faun standing in the kitchen doorway. She had almond-shaped eyes with luxurious auburn curls that accented the small horn buds jutting from her forehead, and from the waist down she had the hind legs and tail of a goat. She was dressed in a long-sleeved red shirt with a black vest emblazoned with a stylized tongue of flame over her heart along with the initials GFD embroidered in gold threadthe traditional uniform of a Golgotham firefighter.
You must be Tate; its a pleasure to meet you, the faun said. My uncle speaks very highly of you. Im Octavia. She then flashed Hexe a heartfelt smile. Thank you, Serenity. I appreciate you allowing me to move in on such short notice. It was something of a surprise, coming home after my shift to find an eviction notice tacked to my door.
Its no problem at all, he replied. Any friend of Giles is a friend of mine.
I assure you both that you neednt worry about me partying to all hours, Octavia said solemnly. We fauns are far more domesticated than our satyr brethrensave for Uncle Giles, of course.
Let me guessyou had an apartment in the Machen Arms, didnt you? I asked.
You must have seen the headlines the other day, the faun said with a humorless laugh. I had a one-bedroom apartment there for the last five years, she explained, her tone becoming bitter. My lease came up for renewal yesterday, and suddenly my rent skyrocketed from seven hundred dollars to five thousand a month, literally overnight! Can you believe that minotaur shit?
Im afraid I can, I sighed. Ronald Chess has been playing the exact same game in the rest of Manhattan for over thirty years now. He buys up older, rent-controlled prewar apartment buildings and then, when the leases come up for renewal, he jacks the rent up through the roof. Once the previous tenants are evicted, he slaps granite countertops on everything and slops a new coat of paint on the walls and turns it condo.