by Edward Cox
Van Bam released Clara’s hand and dropped the illusion of invisibility. He moved to the cellar’s far wall and pushed aside some crates to reveal a patch of brickwork decorated with tiny maze patterns.
‘More secrets?’ Clara said levelly.
Van Bam didn’t reply. He placed his hands against the patch, and yet another hidden door appeared. But this time, as it swung open, it revealed a space only as small as a closet, with a ladder that led down into a large hole in the floor.
A faint stench reached her nostrils, sour, stagnant.
‘What’s down there?’ she asked.
‘A place where the eyes of the Nightshade cannot see us,’ Van Bam said, and he motioned to the ladder. ‘After you.’
Forty Years Earlier
Watching the Watchers
Van Bam had little idea of how much time had passed since he had last slept. At least twenty-four hours, he reasoned, but probably closer to forty-eight. Yet, at that moment, secreted away deep in the southern district, in an old and disused warehouse that was hidden amidst a landscape of other warehouses, sleeping was the last thing on the illusionist’s mind.
He watched, stunned and amazed, as Hamir performed feats of thaumaturgy before his eyes. With the aid of the mysterious script on the pages of the leather-bound book, the small and elderly necromancer worked upon the sphere of dull grey metal that appeared at once solid and liquid, as it hovered five feet or so above the ground. Metallurgy, the necromancer called it, akin to the art used to create the impressive and imposing automatons; and with this art, he would turn the sphere into some kind of weapon that would aid the Relic Guild in their hunt for Fabian Moor.
Whispering all the while, Hamir manipulated the metallic substance like a sculptor moulding clay. He pinched at its dull surface, creating eight rough points that encircled the sphere as if it was a head wearing a crown of spikes. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, gave a soft ‘Hmm,’ and then continued to whisper the language of the Thaumaturgists. One by one, slowly but assuredly, each spike began to lengthen.
To Van Bam, it seemed he watched shoots growing from the giant, grey seed of some strange flower. He tried to listen and understand the words Hamir whispered, but in vain. The language of the Thaumaturgists was quick and breathy, fleeting, unintelligible, sighed like the eerie vocal accompaniment to unheard music. Van Bam resigned himself; of this greater science, there was clearly nothing he could hope to comprehend. And for the hundredth time since entering this warehouse, he wondered what deeds and secrets lay in Hamir’s past.
Each of the eight spikes grew to a thin and rigid limb, easily twice the length of a man’s arm span, and the sphere diminished, shrank to the size of a watermelon. It reminded Van Bam of a metallic sun radiating shafts of silver light. Hamir continued to whisper and, with deft hands, work upon the stick-thin limbs in turn, fashioning knuckle joints halfway along their lengths. From these joints he bent the lower half of each limb, until they all pointed towards the floor.
Hamir stepped back and his breathy voice whispered to the construct as a whole. It ceased hovering. As the point of each limb touched the warehouse floor with a soft tick, the necromancer fell silent. The construct resembled a small-bodied spider; it rose and fell on its new legs with a gentle motion, as if breathing.
‘A little crude,’ Hamir said, ‘but it will serve our purpose well enough.’
‘It is impressive,’ Van Bam replied. ‘But a spider to catch a Genii?’
‘Spiders are perhaps the most proficient hunters that ever lived, Van Bam. And they have been so for far longer than even the Timewatcher knows. However, your dubious tone isn’t without some justification. This spider is not quite ready for the hunt – yet.’
So saying, the necromancer whispered more words of thaumaturgy. He waited until the construct had lowered its melon-sized body sufficiently for him to begin working upon it. He stepped closer, to stand between two of the construct’s thin legs. The underside of the body he left as a hemisphere of dull grey; but the topside he flattened until it became a smooth surface. From the centre of this surface he pinched the metallic substance and fashioned a single spike, long and sharp.
‘The problem you face with capturing Fabian Moor,’ Hamir said, ‘is that you have absolutely no idea what he looks like.’ He turned his back on the spider and approached the sack-cloth bag, which so far had lain ignored by the warehouse wall. ‘He is not a Skywatcher. There are no silver wings upon his back by which he might be identified. Fabian Moor, in most respects, will appear as any other denizen.’
Van Bam frowned as the necromancer opened the bag and pulled out a grotesque parody of a human head. The golem’s clammy face looked like a clay model fashioned by a child’s clumsy hands. Van Bam knew this head had once been flesh and blood, and had belonged to Betsy, the unfortunate barmaid that Denton, Samuel and Marney had found at Chaney’s Den.
Hamir held the head up so he was face-to-face with it.
‘The interesting thing about golems is that the magic which animates them always congregates within the cranium – like a brain, if you will. Even without its body and limbs, this golem is quite alive – or perhaps active is a better choice of word.’
Van Bam didn’t doubt the necromancer, but he could detect no life. The golem appeared totally inanimate. There were no eyeballs in its sockets, no lids to blink. Its toothless maw hung agape, and not even a twitch moved its features.
Hamir carried the remains of the golem over to the metallic spider. Without pause, he pushed the soft stone down onto the spike protruding from the flattened body. The spike emerged from the top of the head and, with more whispered words from Hamir, the tip melted to form a rough cap that held the head in place. The golem’s mouth moved, as if shocked into motion, and Van Bam half expected a scream of pain to come from it. But it remained silent and became still again.
Van Bam pursed his lips. ‘You have killed it?’ he asked.
‘No, no – you misunderstand, Van Bam,’ Hamir replied. ‘The metal is absorbing the magic within the stone. The two are now in symbiosis.’
The necromancer came to stand beside the illusionist, and he studied his work with a slight expression of satisfaction. In truth, the thin-legged construct, with its small body and vaguely human head, appeared more an artist’s surreal interpretation of a spider than a weapon capable of capturing a mighty Genii.
Hamir said, ‘Fabian Moor created this golem, and golems are always loyal to their creators. You might say the spider now has eyes and ears with which to find its bearings and steer its course.’
‘Ah,’ said Van Bam. ‘Then the magic in Fabian Moor’s virus will work against him. It will lead the hunter to its prey, like Samuel’s spirit compass?’
‘Yes, the principles are not dissimilar. The golem will be keen to reunite itself with its master. The spider will be eager to capture him.’
‘And bring him back here, to this warehouse?’
‘Well, we can hardly invite a Genii inside the Nightshade, can we?’
‘No, we cannot.’ Van Bam stared at the spider. ‘You make it sound so simple, Hamir. Success is assured?’
‘There is always a chance of failure, Van Bam, even in thaumaturgy. However, my immediate concern is for the denizens. They will not react well to seeing this construct roaming their streets. And that is where you come in, my dear illusionist.’ He gestured for Van Bam to step forward. ‘As we discussed, if you would …’
Van Bam nodded and gave Hamir the green glass cane to hold for him.
As Van Bam approached the spider apprehensively, it lifted itself up on its legs, adjusting to his height, and he stood beneath it. Hemmed in by thin legs, the illusionist looked up at the lower hemisphere of the construct’s body.
‘Place your hand against the metal,’ Hamir instructed. ‘Ensure you do not touch the golem.’
Van Bam felt unsu
re. He was so used to the feel of the green glass cane in his hand that he scarcely remembered what it felt like to use magic without it.
‘I do not understand,’ he said. ‘How can my magic affect a thing of thaumaturgy? Any illusion I cast upon it will wear off once it strays from my immediate vicinity.’
Hamir made a slight sound that might have been a chuckle. ‘This metal is more intelligent than most humans,’ he said. ‘You will be teaching it, Van Bam, not casting upon it. All that is required is the touch of your skin. Now, if you please, lay your hand upon the construct’s body.’
Gingerly, Van Bam reached up and cupped the dull grey hemisphere. At first it gave him a strange, tingling feeling. And then he gasped.
His thoughts were filled with an intense burst of colours and shapes. But it was not merely imagery that flooded his mind; the cool, grey metal was sending him a greeting, welcoming his presence. Its pulses travelled up and down Van Bam’s arm, curious, searching for intents and meanings. It wanted to know the purpose for this union, and Van Bam let it know. Struggling against extreme sensations, he gave the spider directions, information, just as Hamir had instructed him to.
Sentient, intelligent, the metal accepted his knowledge, drank it from his mind even as he thought it. A soft configuration of shapes let him know that it understood; a blend of colours thanked him for his teaching, for his gift. A soft radiance rippled like water, asking him who he was.
‘That is all, Van Bam. Stand clear, please.’ The voice came from such a distant place that it seemed unimportant. ‘Right now, Van Bam.’
‘No,’ he whispered.
The touch of the strange, conscious metallic substance was too alluring. The longer they remained connected, the more he would learn to understand it, just as it understood him. They were growing to know each other. A rush of desire filled him. Soon, he felt sure, he would come to gain an indelible insight into thaumaturgy and its use. He would rise above his colleagues in the Relic Guild, become so much more than a magicker—
‘I said stand clear!’
Van Bam snapped his hand back. Momentarily weakened, he stumbled away from the spider, breathing hard.
Hamir gave him a knowing look. ‘Addictive, isn’t it?’
A little steadier on his feet now, Van Bam stood beside the necromancer and accepted his green glass cane. He looked at it as though he had never seen it before.
‘In this instance,’ Hamir said, ‘the one advantage a magicker has over a Thaumaturgist is simplicity.’ He took a step towards the spider. ‘To teach this construct the art of illusion through the thaumaturgic language would be a lengthy process. But when instructed by one already adept in this simple, prescribed gift – well, observe …’
Once again, Hamir spoke in fleeting, breathy whispers. Van Bam almost understood what the necromancer was saying this time, but the memory of the strange language was already slipping from his mind.
The spider shimmered as though a wave of energy had passed through it. Slowly, from the ground up, the construct faded until it disappeared entirely. Even Van Bam, who had always been able to see through his own illusions of invisibility, could not detect the spider in any form.
Hamir reached out until his hand found something solid in thin air. He rapped his knuckles upon it with a dull metallic ring.
‘Even Fabian Moor will not see the spider coming,’ he said.
Van Bam, still dazed by his experience, was filled with awe. To think that he, a simple magicker of the Relic Guild, had taught this incredible substance the art of invisibility.
At that moment, the security mechanisms in the warehouse door clicked and whirred. With a harsh rattling the shutter rose, and Angel ducked inside.
‘Hello boys,’ she said brightly. ‘Having fun?’
Van Bam looked at her, but didn’t know how to reply.
Hamir ignored her presence entirely. He picked up the book of thaumaturgy, sat cross-legged upon the floor, and began leafing through it again.
‘Wh-What are you doing here?’ Van Bam managed to ask.
‘Gideon sent me.’ With a frown, Angel looked around the warehouse, as though suspicious that something was hiding from her. ‘Hamir, I need Van Bam.’
‘Excellent timing,’ Hamir replied without looking up from the book. ‘I was just thinking the exact opposite.’
Angel smirked at the slight.
Van Bam stared at the necromancer for a moment. ‘Thank you, Hamir,’ he said. ‘It has been an education.’
When the necromancer failed to acknowledge this statement of gratitude, Van Bam left the warehouse with Angel, leaving him to whatever acts of magical engineering he would perform next.
Outside, Van Bam was surprised to find it was late afternoon, and the sun was sinking towards the boundary wall. He rubbed his forehead and took several deep breaths.
‘Are you all right?’ Angel asked.
‘Yes, yes I’m fine,’ he replied, shaking himself. ‘So, I’m assuming Gideon has assigned us a mission?’
‘Yep.’ She was grinning at him excitedly, but Van Bam could also read trepidation on Angel’s face.
‘Would you like to tell me what it is?’
‘Well …’ Angel pursed her lips. ‘You’ll definitely need to pack a bag first.’
‘Why? Where are we going?’
She rocked her head from side to side. ‘Look, if there’s someone special in your life – and I’m guessing there is, Van Bam – you might want to take some time to say goodbye. Marney’s had a rough enough day as it is.’
Small, slender throwing daggers slipped from Marney’s hand – one, two, three, four – to whisper through the air before thudding into the torso of a well-padded mannequin. With grim satisfaction and gritted teeth Marney pulled the daggers free, returned to her original position, and threw them again. This time, each blade sank into the mannequin’s face: one in each eye, one in the forehead, and the last was embedded into its mouth. Again, she retrieved her weapons; again, she threw them.
Marney had lost track of how much time she had spent practising in the training room within the Nightshade, but it was long enough to have reduced the mannequin to a wretched thing of shredded stuffing. Over and over she threw the daggers, always with a sense of anger.
The whole time, Denton had not said a word. The old empath sat in a tatty but comfortable armchair watching her efforts. Although he emoted nothing, Marney could feel his appraising gaze. She did her best to ignore him, but eventually his silence grated on her.
She threw the daggers one more time and left them stuck in her target as she turned to her mentor.
‘How many times have I thrown?’ she asked him.
Denton shrugged and pulled a face that suggested he had lost count.
‘And how many times have I missed the mark?’
The old empath gave a wry smile. ‘Marney, I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Then you know I won’t be dissuaded. I’m carrying a weapon from now on, Denton. That’s all there is to it.’
She worked her shoulder. It was stiff. The bullet wound had left a dull ache deep inside the joint, and Angel’s healing had given her some crude and lumpy scarring.
‘I need something to carry these daggers in,’ she decided. ‘A baldric. Do we have a baldric?’
‘Marney, slow down,’ Denton said. ‘I can’t fault your marksmanship, but you’re aiming at a static dummy. It won’t be so simple when your target is moving, when it is living.’
Marney shook her head. ‘I don’t care. There’s no way I’m getting caught defenceless again, not like I did this morning.’
‘You weren’t defenceless. Angel was with you.’
‘Angel was lucky,’ Marney stormed. ‘What would I have done if she had been killed?’
Denton pulled a face that suggested Marney’s arguments carried little w
ater. She swore and retrieved her daggers from the mannequin. One after the other they sank into their target again, and Marney was barely aware of the small, angry noises she made with each throw. Not until the mist of tears came to her eyes, and she missed the mannequin, sending a dagger clanging against the maze-patterned wall behind it, did she stop and face Denton again.
‘Did he know?’ she said angrily, breathing hard. ‘Did Gideon send us to that house knowing what we would find?’
Denton pursed his lips. ‘Marney, despite what you and the others might think of our Resident, Gideon would not send his agents into a life-threatening situation without warning them first.’
‘No?’ Marney gritted her teeth. ‘Angel didn’t ask for me to meet her, you know. Gideon was playing games with us, just like Angel said he would. We could’ve been killed, Denton. What if Fabian Moor had come back while we were there?’
‘Believe me, Gideon did not know what he was sending you into. No doubt he suspected the house enough not to want Angel there alone. But knowing Fabian Moor was using the place as a hideout?’ He shook his head.
‘Well, we’ll know soon enough,’ Marney growled. ‘Angel went to confront Gideon and find out the truth.’
‘So you said.’ Denton puffed his cheeks. ‘If you ask me, it can’t have gone well or she would’ve come back by now.’
‘Well, I didn’t ask you,’ Marney snapped and she retrieved the daggers yet again. This time, at her first attempt, a sharp pain flared in her shoulder, and the blade missed its mark by a wide margin. She screamed a curse at the top of her lungs, and then rounded on her mentor.
‘Those golems had guns, Denton! They shot me!’
For the first time, Marney felt Denton’s empathy brush against her senses. He sent her sympathy filled with patience and kindness, but most of all she felt his deep sadness. She expected words of wisdom to follow, along with teachings and lessons that she was in no mind to hear; but then, to her surprise, he said, ‘I got shot once.’