Left Hand Magic (7 page)

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Authors: Nancy A. Collins

BOOK: Left Hand Magic
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“It is my duty as a healer and adherent to the Right Hand Path to serve a client to my fullest ability, no matter what the circumstance,” Hexe replied stonily.
“Don’t hand me that spraint about protecting clients!” Esau said with a nasty laugh. “The nump wasn’t one of your regulars—she goes to that inept little juggler, Kama.”
“It was Kama who asked for my assistance,” Hexe explained. “I was honor-bound to help. Besides, I didn’t realize the curse was your work until I removed it.”
“Well, thanks to your meddling, my client is demanding a refund!” Esau said angrily. “In the thirty years I’ve been dealing in afflictions, I have
never
had to return money to a client! And I expect you to make good on what you’ve cost me!”
“Have you lost your mind?” Hexe snorted derisively. “You accuse me of hiding behind my mother, but you’re the one who’s constantly running to your sister to complain about me, instead of coming to my home and addressing your grievances to my face.”
“You’ve made sure I’ll never set foot in that house again,” Esau snapped. “By renting out a room to a garden-variety nump, you’ve contaminated my childhood home and opened the door for others to follow!” Suddenly the necromancer did a double take in my direction. “What is
that
doing here?” he demanded, focusing a look of such venomous hatred upon me that my mouth went dry. I attempted to return his glare, but could not hold my gaze; it was like looking into the eyes of a king cobra readying to strike.
“Her name is Tate,” Hexe said firmly, his hands curling into fists. “And she’s here with me.”
“I’d heard rumors that your son was dallying with a nump,” Esau sneered. “Now I see it’s true. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s inherited his mother’s poor taste in bed partners.”
Lady Syra gasped as if her brother had slapped her. Hexe stepped forward, his eyes flashing like polished shields. “You’ll apologize to my mother and my girlfriend right this minute!”
“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” Esau scoffed. “You’re not wizard enough to make me do anything, whelp!”
“Just try me and see, old man.”
“That’s enough, Esau!” Lady Syra snapped, struggling to recover control of the situation. “And the same goes for you, Hexe! This is neither the time nor the place for a duel.”
If Esau heard his sister, he showed no sign of it. Instead, his black, hateful gaze was now riveted on Hexe. “It’s time someone taught you a lesson about sticking your nose into Left-Handed business,” he said, flipping his half-cape out of the way.
“I get enough of this foolishness already. I don’t need it in my own house,” Lady Syra shouted. “Esau, I command you to stand down!”
Suddenly an orb of fire shot from the necromancer’s left hand. I recognized hellfire when I saw it, and I knew it burns whatever it touches to the bone. I automatically jumped to my feet, only to have Lady Syra snare my wrist, anchoring me to the spot as if I’d been grabbed by one of my own sculptures.
Hexe raised his right hand and with a flick of his wrist sent the fiery projectile back the way it had come, like a tennis player returning an opening serve. Esau lifted his own right hand in an attempt to deflect the returning volley, but the fireball’s course remained unchanged and he was forced to jump out of the way as it zoomed past and struck the far end of the dining table, where it exploded like a paintball full of phosphorous. The flames spread rapidly, racing along the length of the tablecloth and jumping onto the adjoining chairs.
Lady Syra let go of my hand and stretched her arms above her head, tilting her head back as she began to recite an incantation in a language that was old when the first pyramids were raised. Water poured down from nowhere, soaking everyone and everything in the dining room. The charred dining table hissed like a snake as the hellfire was extinguished. The Witch Queen then closed her hands into fists and the downpour halted as if turned off at a faucet.
All of us were drenched, but Esau looked like he’d fallen into a carnival dunk tank, with his dark hair plastered to his skull and water dripping from his heavy woolen coat. It was the first time I’d ever seen the necromancer caught off balance, and I allowed myself a giggle. Esau glared daggers at me, but this time I held my ground, refusing to be intimidated by someone who looked like a half-drowned rat.
“How
dare
you—?!” the Witch Queen said in a voice as sharp and steely as a surgeon’s scalpel. “You enter my home uninvited, threaten my servants, insult both me and my guest, attack my son, and then, to add injury to insult, set fire to my good tablecloth!”
“I’ll admit that things got a
little
out of control,” Esau said as he tried to wring the rainwater from his sodden overcoat. “But it’s not my fault—your brat challenged me!”
“Yeah, you sure schooled me in the superiority of the Left Hand,” Hexe snorted.
Esau opened his mouth to retort, only to fall silent under the Witch Queen’s withering stare.
“I don’t care
how
much business Hexe has cost you, Esau—not even a member of the royal family is permitted to raise a left hand against the Heir Apparent! By Kymeran law, what you just did qualifies as attempted regicide, with a penalty of death. For years I have tolerated your bullying and disrespect out of a misplaced sense of loyalty and, yes, guilt. But I can no longer ignore or excuse your behavior.
“What I am about to say, Esau, does not come easy to me, but you have left me no choice. You are my brother. When we were children, I loved you and looked up to you. But that was before you chose to walk the Left Hand Path. The lifestyle you embrace has turned the boy I once adored into a bitter, twisted stranger. I would give anything to have the brother I knew and loved restored to me, but I realize now that you are too far down the spiral to ever return.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, readying herself for what she had to say. “Esau: I now speak to you not as your sister but as the Witch Queen. As of this moment forward, you are banished from the royal presence. I never wish to see your face or hear your voice again. Should you cross my path, I will have no choice but to treat you as a hostile and engage you in ritual combat. Now leave me, and consider yourself lucky I do not banish you from Golgotham as well.”
For the briefest moment there was a flicker of sorrow in Esau’s golden eyes, like a cloud scudding across the face of the moon. Then the darkness returned, dimming what little light remained within him.
Lady Syra gestured to the door of the dining room, which swung open of its own accord, revealing a worried Amos standing on the threshold. Esau bowed stiffly to his sister, then turned on his heel and strode from the room without a backward glance.
Lady Syra watched him go, her hands clasped tightly before her. Save for the single tear running down her cheek, it was as if she was made of stone, neither breathing nor blinking until Hexe touched her shoulder. Only then did she start, as if waking from a dream.
“That was a very difficult and unpleasant thing for me to do. But it was inevitable,” she said wearily. “I’m sorry you were subjected to such poor manners by a member of my family, Tate. Normally my dinner guests needn’t fear dying in a house fire. I can see why my son is so taken with you—you possess a strong lick of courage. Not everyone would have kept their head under such circumstances. Now, if you don’t mind—Amos and I need to address the damage done to my home. I trust you can find your way out.”
Hexe nodded his understanding, and kissed his mother on the forehead. She smiled wanly and caressed his cheek before motioning for Amos to join her in the heavily sodden and badly charred dining room.
As we passed by the wall of photographs on our way out, my eye was caught by an old Kodachrome that showed a teenaged Lady Syra dressed in a miniskirt, standing with her arm about the shoulder of a handsome, slightly older Kymeran man with an indigo blue Beatles haircut, dressed in a paisley-print Nehru jacket. With a start, I realized the friendly, smiling face and kind, caring golden eyes belonged to Esau.
Chapter 5
 
S
ince we didn’t have a chance to finish dinner, and were in dire need of a few stiff drinks after our ordeal, Hexe and I hailed a centaur and decided to go to the Two-Headed Calf. During the ride, Hexe didn’t have much to say, and seemed lost in thought. From what I had gleaned from the conversation between him and his mother, there was considerably more family drama going on than I previously realized. Hexe had never mentioned his dad before, and I had assumed that Lady Syra was either a divorcée or a widow. Now it was becoming clear that things were far more complicated than just a messy divorce. Still, despite my curiosity, I refrained from asking any further questions concerning his father. I decided it would be best if he told me the story on his terms, instead of having it pried out of him piece by piece.
The Two-Headed Calf was situated a couple blocks down and over from the boardinghouse, and had been in business continuously since before the Revolutionary War. Above the entrance was suspended an old-fashioned wooden pub sign depicting its namesake: the left head goggle-eyed, tongue-lolling drunk, while the right head contentedly munched on a daisy. As Hexe opened the door for me, a cloud of cigarette smoke wafted out to greet us.
One of the more unpleasant aspects of Golgotham that I had been forced to get used to was the fact that damn near every Kymeran smokes like a clogged chimney, especially in public. Whether by sorcerous design or genetic fluke, they are not susceptible to cancer, so their attitude toward tobacco and other carcinogens is considerably different than that of human society. I counted myself lucky that Hexe didn’t indulge in the habit, but I still had to deal with secondhand smoke whenever we went out on the town.
The Calf was jumping when we arrived, the bar elbow to elbow as a live band played in the back to a raucously appreciative audience—a good number of which appeared to be human.
“Who are they?” I asked, pointing to the musicians playing an earsplitting cross of punk and traditional Kymeran folk tunes on electrically amplified violin, hurdy-gurdy, and accordion.
“They’re called Talisman,” Hexe explained, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the music. “I went to grammar school with the lead singer, Polk. They’re getting some interest from a major label. It’s about time there was a
real
crossover Kymeran rock act. Bowie doesn’t count.”
A handful of college students sat in one of the booths, talking animatedly among themselves as they nursed tankards of barley wine and took pictures of their surroundings with their cell phones.
Lafo, the Calf’s head bartender, chief cook, and bottle washer, left his place behind the horseshoe-shaped bar and came out to greet us. He was close to seven feet tall, and with his long, flowing, ketchup red beard and the elaborate tattoos swarming his forearms, he looked more like a pirate than a respected restaurateur. As he welcomed us, my hand was briefly engulfed by his.
“Good to see you two, as always,” he said with a grin.
“Seems you’ve acquired a new clientele.” Hexe nodded at the looky-loos and chuckled.
“There’s a write-up somewhere online listing the Calf as ‘The Weirdest Place to Get a Drink in New York City,’ or some bullshit like that,” Lafo explained with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “They’ve been pouring in like water all week. I appreciate the business, but by the sunken spires, what a load of whiny chuffers! They’re always going on about the cigarette smoke and asking for nachos and light beer. Where do they think they are? Applebee’s? Plus, now the regulars are pissed at me because I won’t kick ’em out!”
As he spoke, the door to the Calf opened and another knot of young humans arrived, gaping at the bar’s interior with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. As they entered, a couple of the regular patrons exited, roughly jostling the looky-loos on their way out.
“See what I mean?” Lafo grunted. “Some of my best customers have accused me of selling out. Ha! You’ll know I’ve sold out the day you see cheeseburgers on the menu!”
“We were planning to stay for a drink and some dinner, but it looks like you’re full up,” Hexe said as he scanned the crowded room.
“I can fix that,” Lafo assured him. The tavern owner walked over to a nearby table occupied by a couple of young college kids. “Hey, you!” he barked. “Go stand at the bar!”
“But we’re sitting here!” the braver of the two protested.
“And I
own
where you’re sitting. So you can either stand at the bar and finish your drinks, or you can show me some ID. Which is it gonna be, kiddos?” The students grumbled under their breath, but they still got up and took their drinks to the bar. “There ya go—best seats in the house!” Lafo said with a lavish flourish of his catcher’s mitt–sized hand. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Chorea over to take your order.”
“Oh—are she and Faro back from their honeymoon?” I asked.
“Well,
she’s
back,” Lafo replied. “I’m not too sure about Faro’s whereabouts.”
A few seconds later Chorea, one of the Calf’s barmaids, appeared at our table, order pad in hand and a ballpoint pen tucked inside the wreath of ivy and grapevine that adorned her raven black hair. The looky-loos in the booth opposite from us snickered as they blatantly ogled the maenad’s voluptuous body through her gossamer-sheer chiton. My cheeks burned with shame, not for Chorea but out of embarrassment for the behavior of my fellow humans.

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