The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) Read Free Page B

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