by Edward Cox
She saw two policemen standing in the bedroom beyond. Obviously not here for pleasure, they wore the dark uniforms of the street patrols. Short rifles hung from their shoulders, and long batons were holstered at their waists. Their helmets completely concealed their heads and faces in bowls of black glass: receptor helmets, attuned to the eye devices on the streets.
One of them spoke, his voice muffled. ‘You know why we’re here?’
‘Yeah,’ replied a girl’s voice. ‘I know why you’re here.’
Although Clara could not see the speaker, she recognised the voice as that of her work colleague, Willow.
The other policeman took over, ‘We’re going to ask you some questions, and I needn’t tell you the seriousness of withholding information.’
‘Withholding information?’ Willow chuckled dryly. ‘I was there when you arrested Fat Jacob. You think I want to be treated like that?’
Fat Jacob arrested? He was the owner of the Lazy House, and a vicious master whom all the girls did their best to steer clear of.
Willow continued, ‘Good riddance is what I say. I hope it’s as bad as it gets for that fat bastard. I hope you took him to the Nightshade for the Resident to deal with.’
‘Miss Willow,’ said the first policeman, ‘you’ve confirmed Miss Clara has been missing for three days now. Any further information you might have will help our search.’
‘I’ve only heard the rumour,’ said Willow. ‘Fat Jacob sold her to that arsehole Charlie Hemlock. It must be true or I don’t suppose you’d be here.’
‘Quite. Do you know why she was sold?’
Willow’s only response was a snort.
Clara understood why. Willow knew as well as any that Fat Jacob’s contempt for his employees showed itself in the acts he sometimes forced them to perform. Selling off one of his girls would mean nothing more to him than extra beer money in his pocket.
‘Have you any idea of Charlie Hemlock’s whereabouts?’
Willow scoffed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
He’s dead in the Great Labyrinth, with any luck, Clara thought.
The policeman continued, ‘Then do you have any information on who he is working for?’
‘Whoever pays the best,’ Willow said with finality. ‘This is Charlie Hemlock we’re talking about …’
Clara had heard enough. She moved past Willow’s room and slipped into her own.
The lights of Green Glass Row glowed through the window like an early morning haze and illuminated the chaos of Clara’s room. When people disappeared in Labrys Town, they rarely resurfaced. The other whores of the Lazy House obviously thought Clara would never return, and her room had been turned over by scavengers. What remained of her clothes and belongings lay strewn across the floor. Her colleagues had helped themselves to everything that was worth selling, it seemed. But they were welcome to it all – apart from the one thing she needed now.
Clara stepped through the mess of clothes and books, and onto her bed, careful to limit the creaking of the springs in the mattress. Reaching up, she pulled free the grille of a vent above the bed, pushed her arm inside and searched around until her fingers closed on a small tin taped to the vent’s ceiling. Clara took it out and stepped back down onto the floor.
The tin was filled with little white tablets. She took one and popped it into her mouth. The taste was bitter as she chewed; her tongue and throat prickled as she swallowed. Almost immediately, a sense of calm descended, and Clara felt a little strength returning. Her thoughts became less cloudy. She closed her eyes and felt a little safer.
Peppercorn Clara: she was a wild ride, they joked; only a real man could survive a night with her. Clara’s clients never realised how close they were to the madness of magic; that only her medication prevented a monster escaping its cage—
‘What are you doing in here?’
The ceiling lamp glared into life, bathing the room in light. Clara wheeled around to be confronted by a patrolwoman. She stood in the doorway, the black glass of her receptor helmet glinting like the eye of a giant insect. Clara slipped the medicine tin into the pocket of her ill-fitting trousers, fully aware of the baton in the patrolwoman’s hand.
‘Name?’ the officer demanded.
‘Uh – Rosa.’ The lie came quickly. ‘I was just – you know – seeing if there was anything left in here worth taking.’
The patrolwoman was quiet for a moment, and Clara prayed she would find nothing suspicious about her drenched and oddly-matched clothes and bare feet. But she obviously knew the Lazy House catered for most fetishes, and finally said, ‘We’re investigating the activities of your employer, Miss Rosa. You might want to make yourself available for questioning.’
‘Oh, no problem,’ Clara said brightly. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’
The patrolwoman allowed her to leave the room. But as Clara hurried towards the stairs, the door to Willow’s room opened and the other two policemen emerged, followed by Willow herself.
Willow blinked. ‘Clara!’ she blurted. ‘You’re alive …’
Clara bolted down the stairs.
Shouts and heavy footfalls followed her.
The backdoor was now blocked by a fourth police officer. Clara dodged his grabbing hand and burst through the door to the main nightclub instead. Pounding music and flashing lights hit her as if she had run into a wall; the humidity, the stench of bodies, like a thick fluid to swim through.
The Lazy House was in full swing.
Dancers, drunk or high on drugs, swore at Clara, pushed and slapped her, as she clawed a path through the bodies to the other side of the club. As she ran up a wide staircase she saw two of the patrolmen behind her, struggling to follow her through the dancing sea. Then she was through the entrance doors, across the foyer, out onto Green Glass Row … and straight into the wide chest of Roma.
‘Clara?’ The doorman caught her by the arms. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘Another time, Roma,’ Clara panted. ‘I have to go.’
‘Hey!’ he gripped her arms tighter. ‘The police are asking about you. Fat Jacob’s been arrested. What’s going on?’
Through the doors to the Lazy House, Clara could see receptor helmets entering the foyer. Her panic rose. ‘Well, it’s like this, Roma—’ and she kneed him hard in the groin.
The big doorman groaned as he doubled over, and Clara ran into the rain, onto Green Glass Row, with no idea where she was headed.
She hadn’t run very far when the patrolwoman appeared from the side of the Lazy House and smacked a baton into her legs. Clara yelled in pain and collapsed onto the wet cobbles in a skidding heap. The patrolwoman pounced, pinning Clara to the ground, roughly cuffing her hands behind her back.
Forty Years Earlier
Hunting Treasure
The war against Spiral had been raging for two years, during which the Merchants’ Guild of Labrys Town had suffered greatly. But Mr Taffin was doing better than ever.
It wasn’t as though he was without concern or sympathy for the situation – far from it. He was thankful that Spiral’s Genii, and the legions under their command, had thus far been unable to reach the Great Labyrinth; but he regretted that while the threat of them doing so remained, the Labyrinth in its entirety had been isolated and all trade with the realms beyond the boundary walls had ceased. However, unlike most other traders, Mr Taffin did not rely on the import and export industry shared with the Houses of the Aelfir. His business was to provide a service for the merchants of Labrys Town themselves.
When the tram on which he rode arrived in the western district, Mr Taffin disembarked and immediately summoned a rickshaw. The driver was a tall and fit-looking youth, who seemed eager to serve as he pulled his cart over to his client. Mr Taffin climbed aboard, sighing as he sank into the plush, cushioned seat.
‘Linker Lane,’
he ordered, giving the footrest a tap with his crystal-topped cane. ‘Make good time, my lad, and there’s a tip in it for you.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Mr Taffin smiled as the driver’s young muscles bunched, and the rickshaw set off at a pace.
Some denizens would have it that Mr Taffin was a greedy profiteer, and worse besides. But he paid no mind to the insults of jealousy. He could not help it if the war had been kind to him, and his particular business had flourished because of it. What was he supposed to do? Apologise? Close down? No, Mr Taffin would ride the good times as he had the bad. War had not made him so rich that he could afford apartments here in the plush west side of town, among the wealthiest merchants; but it had sufficiently elevated his social standing that he could sit in the rickshaw, unashamedly proud, and with his head held high.
The streets of the western district were busy under the afternoon sun, much busier than they would have been if not for the war. Rich merchants, with little else to do these days, strolled with their children and wives, pretending that all was well in their world. Many of them glared at Mr Taffin as he passed. Mr Taffin acknowledged their disgruntlement by tapping a finger to the brim of his hat and offering a knowing smile.
Let them stare at him, the greedy profiteer from the back alleys of the northern district, in his fine, tailored suit, carrying a crystal-topped cane; let these fellow traders, with their crumbling empires and dwindling riches, see him travelling among them as an equal. Let them think what they wanted. When the morning came, many of them would come crawling to his doorstep, seeking business under the cover of the early hours. Mr Taffin would feel no shame at his good fortune, even if he had been given a helping hand by those who outranked even the most loftily positioned merchants.
When the rickshaw reached its destination, Mr Taffin handed the driver twenty Labyrinth pounds and took particular pleasure in the young man’s reaction when he declined to take the change due. The rickshaw set off in search of a fresh customer, and Mr Taffin walked down Linker Lane with a jaunty stride.
His cane ticking against the cobbles with each step, he passed quaint tearooms and boutiques, and walked on until he reached the grimy exterior of an apothecary’s called Master Remedies. A bell jingled when Taffin opened the door. Inside he was greeted by the sickly-sweet smells of potions and medicines that cast a heady atmosphere throughout the room. The shop was small and dingy, the sun struggling to penetrate the thick dirt on the windows. Mr Taffin was pleased – though not surprised – to find he was the only customer present.
‘Ah, my good Master Gene,’ he said brightly to the shopkeeper standing behind the counter. ‘I trust the afternoon finds you well?’
‘Mustn’t complain, Mr Taffin,’ Gene said in that usual lacklustre way of his. He stared at Mr Taffin through wire-framed spectacles, making no attempt to enquire after his sole customer’s well-being or to further the conversation in any way whatsoever. Then he added, ‘We make the most of what we have during such times.’
‘Indeed, indeed, Master Gene – the sun still rises in the morning, and all of that.’
‘Ah, but it shines brighter for some than others, eh?’
Mr Taffin tapped his nose and smiled knowingly, but the shopkeeper resumed staring at him.
A small and elderly man, Gene the apothecary always presented a bedraggled appearance. His shirt was never quite white, his waistcoat a little threadbare, and the wisps of his thinning hair always seemed in need of a cut or a good combing. Truth be told, the elderly apothecary was a miserable wretch who set Mr Taffin’s teeth on edge; so, as his grey eyes continued to stare out through his wire-framed spectacles, Mr Taffin looked around at the display of ornate bottles filled with colourful liquids, and cleared his throat before getting down to business.
‘Master Gene,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘I was led to believe that our – ah – benefactors have left a package with you for my attention?’
A tight smile appeared on Gene’s wrinkled face. ‘If you would be so kind, Mr Taffin, please lock the door.’
‘Of course.’
Mr Taffin kept a sour expression at bay as he turned to lock the shop door. It might have been a mystery to some how one so miserable as the apothecary, and his shabby little shop with its dirty windows and dusty floor, had managed to stay in business in such an expensive area as the western district – especially when he showed so little interest in his clientele and struggled to express even the smallest of civilities. But to Mr Taffin there was no mystery. He supposed – though he was loath to admit it – that he and Gene were fellow opportunists, and their common employers had ensured the war had been kind to both their businesses.
With the door locked, and the shop sign turned to ‘Closed’, Mr Taffin stepped up to the counter with a fresh smile. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he produced an envelope, bulging with money, which he placed upon the countertop and slid towards Gene.
‘For your efforts,’ he said with a wink.
Gene looked at the envelope, but did not move.
‘Count it, if you wish,’ Mr Taffin chuckled. ‘But I assure you, Master Gene, it is all there, as usual.’
Without a word, the apothecary took the envelope, stuffed it beneath his waistcoat, and then flipped back the hatch in the countertop. ‘You remember the room?’ he said, standing to one side.
‘How could I forget?’ Mr Taffin said, and stepped through. ‘Thank you.’
Glad to leave the miserable old apothecary behind, Mr Taffin walked through a door behind the counter and entered a short hallway. The first door on his left opened on a stuffy and dim storage room, where boxes of ingredients and bottles of liquids decorated the shelves. It smelled as sickly-sweet as the shop. There he found the man waiting for him, a man sitting upon packing crates. He wore a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face so completely in shadows that Mr Taffin could not make out a single feature. But what was easy to see was the short rifle lying across the man’s lap, power stone primed and glowing.
‘A pleasure to meet with you again,’ Mr Taffin volunteered, a little nervously. ‘I trust you have been well?’
The man remained silent, and Mr Taffin’s gaze moved on to where a flat and square package wrapped in brown paper rested upon a crate. Mr Taffin’s eyes lingered upon it.
‘Is that for me?’ he asked, knowing full well that it was. ‘It is, perhaps, a new consignment of the merchant’s poison of choice?’ He rocked back on his heels, chuckling at his witticism.
‘Shut up, Taffin,’ the man snapped, ‘before I smack that smug look off your face.’
There had been many occasions on which Mr Taffin had met this man with the shadowed face. As always, his blunt manner convinced Mr Taffin to grip his cane tightly and look at the floor.
‘Now,’ said the man. ‘You say you have new information, so let’s hear it.’
‘Ah – yes …’
Dealing with the agents of the Relic Guild was a dangerous business. They were a tricky bunch, as humourless as they were merciless. No one knew their real identities, but every denizen of Labrys Town understood that you didn’t mess with the Relic Guild, and you gave its agents a wide berth – if you could. Mr Taffin’s business was not exactly legal, and not all his clients were wealthy merchants. He often dealt with seedier characters from the underworld, and, from time to time, he heard them speaking of interesting things. Of course, they would kill him in a second if they knew he was an informant, but the Relic Guild served the highest authority in Labrys Town, and they ensured Mr Taffin’s risks were very well recompensed.
‘I have a client,’ he told the shrouded agent of the Relic Guild. ‘He is an alchemist who has fallen upon hard times since the war began. He often comes to me for … escape. Yesterday, I overheard him speaking about a job that has come his way. You have, perhaps, heard of an infamous treasure hunter named Carrick?’
/> ‘Yes, I know him,’ said the agent.
‘It would seem this Carrick and his team of treasure hunters recently procured passage to an Aelfirian House, and—’
‘Wait!’ The Relic Guild agent sat forward, but still his face remained hidden in the shadows cast by the brim of his hat. ‘They left the Labyrinth?’
‘And returned, or so I’m told.’
‘The portals are guarded, Taffin. No one’s supposed to get out into the Great Labyrinth. How did they manage it?’
‘I thought you might ask that,’ Mr Taffin replied, ‘but sadly I cannot say. My client did not seem to know.’
The man was quiet for a moment, and then sat back with a grunt of displeasure. ‘Go on.’
‘From what I can gather, when Carrick returned, it was with an Aelfirian artefact of some value. What it is, I do not know, but I can tell you that a buyer has already been found for it, and this buyer has employed my client, the alchemist, to validate the artefact’s magical properties.’
‘Details, Taffin,’ the agent demanded. ‘The transaction. When and where?’
‘Ah, that I do know. Tomorrow night, during the first hour of Silver Moon, the sale is due to take place at Chaney’s Den, a tavern in the eastern district.’
Another quiet moment passed, and the agent tapped the barrel of his rifle against his thighs. ‘I want names,’ he said. ‘Every denizen involved with Carrick’s team.’
‘Here again, I cannot be of much help,’ Mr Taffin replied. He smiled. ‘But it hardly matters – from what I’ve heard, Carrick was the only member of the treasure hunters to survive the excursion.’
The agent scoffed. ‘And I suppose you don’t know the name of the buyer, either?’