“And that’s Ms. Eresby to you, fella,” I replied.
“You’re not related to Timothy Eresby, are you?” he asked, unease flickering in his too-small eyes.
“He’s my dad.” I said, taking a perverse pleasure as I watched the color drain from his overstuffed face.
Back when my father had harbored political aspirations, he and Chess had butted heads more than once. What was it my old man used to call him? Ah, yes “that short-fingered vulgarian.” Ronald Chess might not respect the arts, Golgotham, women, or people he called “hippies,” but he most certainly respected money, which meant at that moment he respected me.
Of course, he had no idea that my parents had cut me off without a dime and we hadn’t spoken in months, but there was no way I was going to tell him that. . . .
“Perhaps I was a little too rash,” he said to Elok. “There’s no need to get rough. If these young, um, ladies are here to help the old couple move their things, I’ve got no beef with that. Just be quick about it.”
“You heard Mr. Chess,” the beadle grunted. “Get the old man and his wife packed up, if that’s what you’re here for. You’ve got two hours, or I’ll have the lot of you in the Tombs for obstruction. . . .” Suddenly a snowball came sailing through the midsummer air, striking Elok square in the face. “Who conjured that?” the beadle sputtered as he wiped the ice crystals from his eyes.
“Traitor!” one of the protestors from across the street shouted. “Why is the GoBOO sucking up to numps?”
“Here now! I’m just doing my job!” Elok protested angrily. The sigil atop his staff of office flickered back to life, this time even stronger than before.
“The GoBOO is selling us out!” A second voice shouted as another snowball came arcing toward the beadle.
As Elok slammed the butt of the staff against the pavement there was a ringing sound, like that of a gigantic gong. Fingers of blue-white electricity shot forth from the seal of office, vaporizing the icy projectile in midflight while scorching a zigzag pattern into the cobblestones, scant millimeters from where the protestors were gathered. There was so much electricity in the air it made my hair fluff out like an angry cat and Chess’ comb-over stand up like a cockatoo’s crest.
For a horrible moment I thought I was going to be caught in yet another race riot, like the one at the Calf. But instead of retaliating, the protestors lowered their signs and gradually dispersed. Although there was a good deal of mumbling and resentful looks thrown in the beadle’s direction, none of them were willing to go against the GoBOO’s authority.
Elok pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, a look of open relief on his face. “Praise the Sunken Spires that’s over with,” he grunted. “That could have been far uglier. At least they were only throwing snowballs. Now get the old couple out of here, while you still can.”
“I’m sorry, Tate,” Octavia sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to get mixed up in this.”
“That’s okay. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. I don’t mind helping Torn and Hana move.”
“Move to where?” Hana said tearfully. “We have nowhere to go.”
“Perhaps I can be of some assistance?” Now that the roadblock had been removed, Canterbury had freed himself from the traffic jam and was now standing at the curb in front of the apartment building. “I have just purchased the stable adjoining my shop. There is an apartment loft on its second floor. Granted, it’s designed for centaurs, but it can be easily retrofitted to accommodate bipeds. It’s yours if you want it.”
“That is most kind of you, friend centaur,” Torn said. “But we do not expect charity. My wife and I insist on paying our way.”
“Of course,” Canterbury replied with a nod of his head. “I’m sure we can reach a satisfactory agreement.”
“You have saved us, just as Arum delivered our people!” Hana exclaimed, lifting her glasses to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Are we not all Golgothamites here?” Canterbury smiled.
“Okay, let ’er drop!”
There was a sound from high above, like the sail of a tall ship being unfurled, and a huge canvas banner fell from the roof of the center structure of the Machen Arms. It was so big it covered every window on the apartment building from the tenth to the fifth floor.
GOLGOTHAMVUE CONDOS
VINTAGE LUXURY STARTING AT EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND.
A CHECKMATE PROPERTY.
Chapter 18
After carting Hana and Torn’s belongings back to Fetlock Mews, Canterbury, Octavia, and I immediately set to work retrofitting the loft next door.
The second floor apartment was a huge open space with no interior walls save for a stable-box in one corner large enough to accommodate a pair of centaurs, which was fairly easy to convert into a traditional bedroom. However, upon laying eyes on the bathroom—with its tiled surfaces, reticulated shower-hoses, and scrubbing wands—I coaxed Canterbury into bringing in a licensed plumber to tackle the task of making it truly biped-friendly. Some things, I have learned, are best left to the professionals.
Since it was going to be a couple of days before the loft would be truly habitable, Octavia volunteered her room at the boardinghouse to her former neighbors. At first the old couple refused, claiming they didn’t want to impose any more than they already had, but finally relented once she explained she was scheduled for a week’s rotation at the firehouse anyway. Octavia and I helped the elderly couple pack a couple of changes of clothes and a few other essentials into a carpetbag and left Canterbury to deal with the plumber.
“Is this where you live now?” Torn asked in surprise, peering out the window of the brougham at the boardinghouse.
“Yes,” Octavia replied. “I’m renting from Tate’s boyfriend.”
“This boyfriend of yours—he’s Kymeran?” Torn asked warily.
“Yes,” I replied. “Is that a problem?”
He opened his mouth, as if to launch into a tirade, only to be silenced by a glare from his wife. The old man shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Things were different when we were coming up, that’s all,” he muttered, by way of explanation.
As we entered, we were greeted, as usual, by Beanie, who came scampering from the back of the house, eyes agog and tongue flapping.
“That’s an unusual-looking familiar,” Torn said as he studied the Boston terrier. “What kind of demon is it?”
“It’s a pedigreed frog-bat. Can’t you tell?” Scratch sneered as he sauntered into the room. “Now that I’ve answered your question, it’s your turn to answer mine: what are you two doing here?”
Torn gave a dry, humorless laugh. “I see the cat still has a tongue.”
“You two know each other?” I frowned.
“We three know each other,” the familiar purred as he brushed up against Hana’s leg. “Now you I’m glad to see. You’re the one who made those scrumptious mouse-meat pies. . . .”
“You mean mincemeat, don’t you?” Octavia corrected.
“I know what I said.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Scratch,” Hana smiled. As she reached down to stroke the familiar’s chamoislike skin, Scratch rose onto his hind legs and pressed the flat of his head into the palm of her hand, a public show of fondness I’d never seen him bestow on anyone besides Hexe.