The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) by C.A. Sanders
Authors: C.A. Sanders
Ads: Link
Smokestack to kidnap the baby if he had to.
Molly meant nothing to them, but she died on my watch. She meant something to me.
I said my goodbyes to Leenie and elbowed Hendricks away. We caught the lumbering, stinking omnibus at Chatham Square and muscled our way through the throng until we found seats. We rode to Thirteenth Street and walked to my flat.
“What do we do now?” said Hendricks.
A plan began to form. “Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. Wear something,” I thought on the right word. “Poor.”
“I hope this is over soon. I never want to go back there.” He hailed a carriage and rumbled back to Turtle House.
I headed to the local rag picker. There were a few things I was gonna need.
Nathaniel
Rabbi Manuel Levitt is a broad man with a broad beard and broad humor. He lives with his granddaughters on Henry Street in the Seventh Ward, which the Germans and Jews claim as their own.
Levitt is a different kind of mageling than someone like Tom. His magic comes from his faith as much as his books. He performs a type of magic called Kabbalah , known to the Jewish people alone. It’s a magic that I don’t entirely understand and as ancient as anything that Master Sol ever taught me. The art of petitioning the Lord is lost on most of us, but the good rabbi seems to manage.
As luck would have it, I can apparate down to the Seventh Ward with no concerns of being seen. I own a fish market on Pike Street, with a back room that I can flash into. I traced the proper rune in the air, and the world disappeared. When it came back, I stood in darkness.
A mere thought filled the room with light. In the center of the room sat a Troll, now cursing and shielding his eyes from the light. “God’s balls, didja have ta make it so bright?”
“Sorry, Mak,” I said. I noticed that he was sans apron and covered in fish guts. He sat on a stool, claw deep in a fish’s belly. A pile of gutted fish lay in a wooden crate to his side. “Do you always work in the dark?”
“Easier on the eyes.” He pointed to one of his bulging, yellow globes. “If ya don’t mind, I’ve got some work ta do.”
“Oh yes, carry on.” I opened the door to the front room, dismissing my light spell as I went. I walked out the front door, nodding to the Troll behind the fish counter.
I do my best to find Dwellers jobs elsewhere, but I also hire many of them. I own all sorts of groceries, factories and shops in the city, and I own quite a bit of land. Despite the rumors, I don’t spin straw into gold. The Star of Nine forbids such a thing, as it could ruin a city’s economy, but immortality breeds its own wealth.
The moment I stepped out into the street, I took in the unique scent of fish guts, urine, coal smoke, and manure. As I headed north on Pike, I picked up overtones of spilled beer and sizzling sausage. It seems like every ward has a signature smell. You can find your way by nose alone.
The Seventh Ward is at the southern end of what they call Kleindeutschland , or Little Germany. Once away from the docks, the ethnic peculiarities take over. The streets hum with the dream of a new life far from the oppression of their homelands. I passed a beer garden on one corner. The thump of drums and whine of accordion mixed with the sound of sellers and shoppers. Peddlers lined both sides of the street, men and horses crowded the center. A gaggle of goblins in their human disguises haggled with a fruit peddler over some apples.
I found Levitt’s building. It was another one of those brick tenements. This area had been destroyed by fire several times, but they keep rebuilding, bigger and better. It makes me proud of my people.
Despite the air of everyday business, something struck me as wrong. I felt tension in the air, like the tingling before a storm. Maybe it was the furtive glances people leveled at each other—or maybe it was the editorial I read in the
Molly meant nothing to them, but she died on my watch. She meant something to me.
I said my goodbyes to Leenie and elbowed Hendricks away. We caught the lumbering, stinking omnibus at Chatham Square and muscled our way through the throng until we found seats. We rode to Thirteenth Street and walked to my flat.
“What do we do now?” said Hendricks.
A plan began to form. “Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. Wear something,” I thought on the right word. “Poor.”
“I hope this is over soon. I never want to go back there.” He hailed a carriage and rumbled back to Turtle House.
I headed to the local rag picker. There were a few things I was gonna need.
Nathaniel
Rabbi Manuel Levitt is a broad man with a broad beard and broad humor. He lives with his granddaughters on Henry Street in the Seventh Ward, which the Germans and Jews claim as their own.
Levitt is a different kind of mageling than someone like Tom. His magic comes from his faith as much as his books. He performs a type of magic called Kabbalah , known to the Jewish people alone. It’s a magic that I don’t entirely understand and as ancient as anything that Master Sol ever taught me. The art of petitioning the Lord is lost on most of us, but the good rabbi seems to manage.
As luck would have it, I can apparate down to the Seventh Ward with no concerns of being seen. I own a fish market on Pike Street, with a back room that I can flash into. I traced the proper rune in the air, and the world disappeared. When it came back, I stood in darkness.
A mere thought filled the room with light. In the center of the room sat a Troll, now cursing and shielding his eyes from the light. “God’s balls, didja have ta make it so bright?”
“Sorry, Mak,” I said. I noticed that he was sans apron and covered in fish guts. He sat on a stool, claw deep in a fish’s belly. A pile of gutted fish lay in a wooden crate to his side. “Do you always work in the dark?”
“Easier on the eyes.” He pointed to one of his bulging, yellow globes. “If ya don’t mind, I’ve got some work ta do.”
“Oh yes, carry on.” I opened the door to the front room, dismissing my light spell as I went. I walked out the front door, nodding to the Troll behind the fish counter.
I do my best to find Dwellers jobs elsewhere, but I also hire many of them. I own all sorts of groceries, factories and shops in the city, and I own quite a bit of land. Despite the rumors, I don’t spin straw into gold. The Star of Nine forbids such a thing, as it could ruin a city’s economy, but immortality breeds its own wealth.
The moment I stepped out into the street, I took in the unique scent of fish guts, urine, coal smoke, and manure. As I headed north on Pike, I picked up overtones of spilled beer and sizzling sausage. It seems like every ward has a signature smell. You can find your way by nose alone.
The Seventh Ward is at the southern end of what they call Kleindeutschland , or Little Germany. Once away from the docks, the ethnic peculiarities take over. The streets hum with the dream of a new life far from the oppression of their homelands. I passed a beer garden on one corner. The thump of drums and whine of accordion mixed with the sound of sellers and shoppers. Peddlers lined both sides of the street, men and horses crowded the center. A gaggle of goblins in their human disguises haggled with a fruit peddler over some apples.
I found Levitt’s building. It was another one of those brick tenements. This area had been destroyed by fire several times, but they keep rebuilding, bigger and better. It makes me proud of my people.
Despite the air of everyday business, something struck me as wrong. I felt tension in the air, like the tingling before a storm. Maybe it was the furtive glances people leveled at each other—or maybe it was the editorial I read in the
Similar Books
