The Relic Guild

by Edward Cox

  ‘Wilf’s old and he doesn’t go out much,’ Angel was saying as they walked. ‘He’s supposed to be retired, but he and his wife still run this surgery from home. They don’t have many patients, but it keeps them busy. Trouble is, they’re both a bit deaf. They can’t have a conversation without resorting to shouting.’

  Marney chuckled as they came to a small, walled-in backyard that was paved with dark stone slabs and devoid of a single flower or blade of grass. The parasol was closed on the garden table, and no one sat in the chairs.

  Angel tried the back door. It was unlocked. They stepped into a dingy and hot kitchen that carried the sickly sweet smell of baking. Two dirty cups and plates sat on the kitchen table.

  ‘Wilf?’ Angel shouted. ‘It’s me – Angel. Can I have a quick word?’

  In reply, there was a crash of breaking glass from somewhere upstairs. Both agents flinched and stared at each other.

  ‘Wilf?’ Angel called again.

  This time there came the sound of creaking floorboards and a muffled thump.

  ‘Stay here,’ Angel told Marney.

  With a look of concern Angel made to investigate, but Marney stopped her.

  ‘Angel, wait!’ The empath stared up at the ceiling. The floorboards creaked again, and her gut froze.

  ‘What is it, Marney?

  ‘Whoever’s up there, I can’t feel them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t feel any emotions. It’s … just like Chaney’s Den.’

  Angel paused for a moment and listened to the sound of shuffling from the rooms above.

  ‘Marney,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Please tell me Denton lets you carry a weapon now.’

  ‘No,’ Marney replied. ‘I mean – I’m having training, but—’

  Angel swore.

  She placed her black medicine bag on the kitchen table and opened it. ‘Where’s Samuel when you need him?’ she muttered as she pulled out a wooden box. Inside was a small snub-nosed revolver. She opened the chamber and checked it was loaded, then thumbed the power stone into life. ‘Stay behind me,’ she said, and headed out of the kitchen.

  Marney blocked her fear as she crept up the stairs behind the healer. They came to a corridor that dog-legged to the left. They passed two open doors: a bathroom and a spare bedroom that had been converted into a doctor’s surgery. But, turning to the left, the corridor ended at the closed door to what must have been the master bedroom.

  There came a muffled crunching as someone trod on broken glass.

  Angel motioned for Marney to hang back a few feet as she approached the closed door. The empath could feel the healer’s courage in the face of trepidation. When Angel reached the door, she bent down to peer through the keyhole.

  A gun spat.

  The bullet smashed through the door with a spray of splinters, passed through the space where Angel’s head had been a moment before, and slammed into Marney’s shoulder.

  She couldn’t remember falling onto her back, but she was suddenly looking up at the ceiling. It felt as if the breath had been punched from her lungs, but there was no pain. From somewhere distant, Angel was shouting. The healer crawled over to her. There were splinters of wood in her hair. The shooting continued, repeating flashes of power stones and a low and hollow spitting sound: two pistols, by the sound of things. Why did she feel so numb?

  Angel grabbed the shoulders of Marney’s jacket and dragged her around the turn in the corridor. That was when the pain hit her. She yelled and struggled in the healer’s grip.

  ‘Keep still,’ Angel hissed. She pressed Marney down, opened her coat, ripped the button off her shirt, and inspected the bullet wound. Again, Marney yelled.

  ‘Good, it’s gone right through you.’

  The guns continued to fire, and tears sprang to Marney’s eyes.

  ‘Come on, Marney,’ Angel growled. ‘Dampen the pain, like Denton showed you.’

  ‘I-I can’t.’ Marney’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her teeth chattered. ‘It hurts too … it hurts too much.’

  ‘Then brace yourself, woman.’

  Angel pressed one hand against Marney’s shoulder, and slid the other underneath her body to cover the exit wound. Marney looked up and saw blood – so much blood. Angel’s skin began to glow with the pale radiance of magic. The pain that Marney had experienced so far was nothing compared to the white fire that spread through her then.

  Her scream drowned out the noise of bullets cracking the wall. Bright light, wispy and fluid, filled her vision. The agonising fire seemed to burn for an eternity inside her, and Marney wasn’t sure if she passed out or not. But when the pain finally receded, she became aware that although bullets no longer hit the corridor wall, the spitting of pistols had not stopped, and the scent of spent thaumaturgy reached her nostrils.

  Marney looked down at her shoulder; lumpy scar tissue a shade of angry pink had formed over the bullet wound, though the blood surrounding it was still slick. The wound no longer hurt.

  Her brow beaded with sweat, Angel wiped blood from her hands onto her clothes and picked up her revolver. She peered around the corner, and made an angry noise.

  ‘Golems,’ she said, looking back to Marney. ‘Two of them.’ The sound of spitting continued. ‘They’re so dumb they don’t even know they’ve run out of bullets.’

  Angel disappeared from view. Marney winced as she sat up, and then flinched as she heard the sound of hissing and cracking and something stony falling apart. The hollow noise of power stones releasing bursts of thaumaturgy had stopped.

  Angel coughed. ‘Marney, can you walk?’

  Marney could feel the sense of sadness Angel emoted. Her shoulder stiff and aching, she got to her feet and took careful steps to join the healer in the bedroom.

  Angel stood staring down at the wreckage. The pillows, blankets and mattress of a double bed had been shredded. Dressers had been upturned, ornaments smashed; and amidst the wreckage, the remains of two golems lay upon the floor, broken into stony pieces. The reek of magic hung in the air and prickled against Marney’s skin.

  ‘They just fell apart,’ Angel said in a quiet voice. ‘As soon as I shot them in the head.’

  ‘Doctor Wilf and his wife?’ Marney asked, rubbing her shoulder.

  Angel didn’t reply, as if it was too unbearable for her to imagine the torture inflicted upon two innocent, elderly denizens.

  ‘What have we found here, Angel?’ Marney asked fearfully. ‘Is this Fabian Moor’s hiding place?’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed, and Marney could feel her suspicion rising. Before she could air what she was thinking, a noise came from outside and she moved to the window.

  ‘Oh, just what we need,’ she whispered.

  Marney looked for herself. On the road outside, several denizens had gathered. They talked hurriedly among themselves, and a few were pointing at the house. Obviously Marney’s screams of pain had attracted their attentions.

  ‘Can you focus enough to conceal us?’ Angel asked Marney.

  She felt a little disoriented and numb; her shoulder wound ached, but the pain was not distracting. ‘I think so,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Let’s sneak out before the police arrive.’ Angel’s face clouded angrily. ‘I want to get back to the Nightshade and find out if Gideon knew what he was sending us into.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hope

  Clara thought that she would never be so relieved to see the light of day again. By the time Van Bam led her and Samuel out of East Side Asylum, the midmorning sun was high in a deep blue sky that was pillowed by clean white clouds. The air was warm but fresh, and at last Clara felt as though she could expunge the stench of infection that lingered in her nostrils, that clung to her hair and clothes and skin. The police and asylum staff were assigned to deal with the carnage left behind in the sublevels,
while the Relic Guild boarded the black tram and headed out of the eastern district.

  The mood in the carriage was sombre, and there was little discussion during the journey. Samuel remained silent throughout, brooding over the small terracotta jar they had found clutched in the hands of the skeleton. Van Bam had taken the time to explain to Clara the significance of the jar’s presence: just as Fabian Moor had used such a device to smuggle himself into the Labyrinth during the Genii war, so it seemed he had used the same method to unleash another member of the Genii onto the town. Clara understood the gravity of the Resident’s words, but she found it hard to fully comprehend. With the horror of the asylum now behind her, she felt mentally numb and physically drained.

  To her mild surprise, the tram did not return its passengers to the Nightshade as she had expected, but instead stopped beside a lonely side lane in the central district. After the group disembarked, the tram pulled away, and once again Clara wondered with vague interest who or what drove it. Her weariness making everything around her seem unreal, Clara followed on tired legs as Samuel led the way down a narrow alley to the back of a tall apartment building, and then up the black frame of a metal fire escape to the roof. There, the group climbed down through a hatchway to reach its underwhelming destination.

  Samuel referred to his home as a hideout, a place safe from the pitfalls and rivalries of the bounty hunting trade. It was a small and musty apartment whose living area was combined with a simple kitchen. There was a bathroom, one bedroom, and a single window with a thick curtain drawn across it. There wasn’t much in the way of trappings and personal possessions, and it was sparsely furnished. There wasn’t even a front door; the apartment was only accessible by climbing down the short ladder that led from the hatchway in the ceiling.

  It was the closest place to rest up and regroup, Van Bam said; and there was no need to return to the Nightshade yet, as Hamir was still operating on Charlie Hemlock and he wouldn’t be finished for a couple of hours. Clara didn’t understand how the Resident could possibly know this without the necromancer being present to tell him, and nor did she care. Almost as soon as she entered Samuel’s hideout, she spied a tatty but comfortable looking sofa, which she lay down upon, and was soon asleep …

  … She was the wolf.

  A challenger had dared to come to her forest and the trees were alive with the voice of her family. She led the hunt. The challenge would be met. The invader would be faced and destroyed. She would show her family how strong she was, how unafraid and ruthless, and no one would doubt her leadership again. This was her territory, her forest, and the baying of the pack filled her with lustful pride.

  She was the wolf.

  Beneath the silver glare of the moon, she bounded down an embankment to a clearing where the challenger waited for her. It was no ordinary wolf that lay there upon dead leaves and hard, root-veined earth. Its pelt was made of deep blue light that brightened and dimmed like the flexing of honed muscles. Its eyes were black holes from which dark tendrils leaked like tears of lazy smoke.

  She wasn’t afraid of it. She met its challenge with bared teeth and a low growl.

  Its voice entered her head with deep male tones: I’m not your enemy, Clara.

  The name meant nothing to her, and she began circling the challenger, slowly, gracefully, powerfully.

  It didn’t move, but its dark eyes followed her and seemed amused. I won’t fight you.

  She barked, once, loud and harsh, and her family howled from the trees.

  The challenger’s voice dared to chuckle inside her head. We weren’t supposed to meet just yet, Clara, it said. But we’ll see each other again, soon I think, when you’ll be able to understand.

  She jumped at the challenger, teeth gnashing, nails sharp. It didn’t rise to defend itself, and when she crashed into it the challenger’s body flared and filled the clearing with blazing blue light.

  She was the wolf …

  … The dream faded from memory as the sound of bickering voices disturbed her sleep.

  ‘… It’s pointless,’ Samuel was saying. ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘We must try everything, Samuel,’ Van Bam replied. ‘Gideon also believes that Moor can somehow access the Labyrinth from a remote location. I, too, was dubious at first, but you said yourself that Moor opened a portal to abduct Marney.’

  ‘I never said I was dubious,’ Samuel replied moodily. ‘I said I don’t care what Gideon thinks.’

  Gideon? Clara wondered. She didn’t open her eyes and kept up the pretence of being asleep.

  ‘Nonetheless, we have few options,’ Van Bam said sternly. ‘Wherever Marney is being held, Fabian Moor has been creating portals that lead in and out of the Labyrinth. Think about it, Samuel – if we could find one, we might be able to call for help. It is a reason for hope.’

  ‘Hope?’ Samuel snorted. ‘Van Bam, stopping Moor was going to be hard enough when we thought he was alone. But two Genii?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘We were nine strong last time, and, even with the Thaumaturgist’s help, Moor – on his own – still managed to kill half of us. This fight has gone from difficult to impossible. I don’t see any hope.’

  ‘Samuel—’

  ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘What you’re suggesting just won’t work, Van Bam!’

  ‘Still, I will try.’

  ‘Do what you like.’ Samuel’s voice sounded old and tired. ‘I’m not talking about this anymore. I need to think. I’m going to get some air.’

  Clara heard the sound of Samuel climbing the ladder to the hatchway in the ceiling. The hatch was opened, and when it closed again a few moments of silence passed before Van Bam spoke.

  ‘You can stop pretending to be asleep now, Clara.’

  Clara opened her eyes and gave a coy smile.

  Van Bam stood over her with his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t return the smile. ‘I trust you heard enough to understand the predicament we are in?’

  She nodded and sat up on the sofa. The room was dim. The only light source was the weak glow of the sun filtering through the thick curtain over the window. She stretched her back and looked around the apartment. Stripped to the bare minimum in terms of living requirements, it seemed isolated and lonely in the shadows, and Clara was struck by a sudden, pitying notion that this apartment was a good representation of Samuel’s life.

  She looked up at the Resident. ‘Who’s Gideon?’ she asked.

  Van Bam tilted his head to one side. ‘He was the former Resident of Labrys Town – my direct predecessor, in fact.’

  Clara looked bemused. ‘Gideon the Selfless?’

  ‘As he is now known – yes.’

  She wanted to laugh, believing Van Bam was making a joke, but the serious expression on his face stopped her. Neither did she feel inclined to make the obvious statement that Gideon the Selfless had died long before she was born.

  Perhaps sensing her puzzlement, Van Bam explained further. ‘Gideon is now a ghost that haunts the Nightshade. I hear his voice in my mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ was the only thing Clara could think of to say.

  ‘It is the design of my position, Clara. When a Resident dies, he or she remains as a spirit guide of sorts to whoever next attains the governorship of the Labyrinth. Just as Gideon became my guide upon his death, so I will remain in spirit as an aide to whoever replaces me. But not, I think, if we fail to stop Fabian Moor and the new Genii he has brought to Labrys Town.’

  His metallic eyes seemed to glare at her. ‘Clara, if you have remembered anything of what Marney has placed inside your mind, now would be a very good time to tell me.’

  She looked apologetic. ‘She’s there, up in my head. I can feel her, but …’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

  It was then that Clara noticed the small and dented silver tin in Van Bam’s hand. She checked the empty pockets of her hooded pullover even though sh
e already knew it was her medicine tin he held.

  Van Bam opened it and studied the little white tablets inside. ‘Monkshood, if I am not mistaken,’ he said. ‘Usually a medicine prescribed to those denizens who suffer seizures during the hours of Silver Moon. But I suspect it is also efficient at keeping a wolf at bay, yes?’

  She averted her eyes. It had been her adopted mothers, Gerdy and Brianne, who had discovered that monkshood worked on ailments other than moon-fever. Clara had lost count of how many years she had been taking it.

  She looked back at Van Bam, hesitating before she spoke. ‘It’s the only way I can stop the change,’ she said, hating the shame that rose in her voice. ‘I have no control over the wolf.’

  Van Bam’s expression became slightly less serious and a little more sympathetic. ‘Clara, being so afraid of your own shadow might just be the very cause of your troubles.’ He closed the tin with a snap. ‘Accept yourself first, and perhaps the wolf will follow your lead. But I do know this for certain – denying your magic will eventually drive you insane.’

  He offered the tin, and Clara accepted it with no small amount of relief. Despite the Resident’s comment, she took out a tablet, popped it into her mouth, and then slid the tin safely into her pocket.

  ‘Now,’ said Van Bam, ‘I need to speak further with Samuel – if he is willing – so I suggest you refresh yourself, and take some food.’

  At the mention of food, Clara’s stomach growled. She noticed a small dining table, upon which sat a pot of fresh coffee and some bread and preserves. The terracotta jar also sat there, along with Van Bam’s green glass cane.

  The Resident picked up his cane and moved to the ladder beside the window that led up to the hatchway.