The Relic Guild

by Edward Cox

  ‘When do you leave?’ she asked.

  ‘At dawn. Angel and I are to meet the ambassador and his entourage at the Nightshade.’

  Marney pursed her lips. ‘You’ll have to watch out for Ebril’s daughter.’

  Van Bam looked surprised. ‘I did not know he had a daughter.’

  ‘Well, he does, and she knows all about the Relic Guild,’ Marney said sourly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Her name’s Namji. She’s a slippery bitch, and I don’t trust her, Van Bam. She’s hiding something.’ Marney raised an eyebrow. ‘And she’s got a thing for you. She was admiring you from the shadows when last you visited her father.’

  ‘Oh … then I shall keep your warning in mind.’ He grinned at her. ‘Is this Namji attractive?’

  Marney slapped Van Bam’s chest, and he laughed.

  ‘You could at least say you’ll miss me,’ she said moodily.

  ‘Of course I will,’ he replied with heartfelt honesty. ‘I will be thinking of you every day we are apart.’

  She bit her lower lip. ‘How … how long will you be gone?’

  ‘For as long as it takes, I’m afraid.’

  Marney nodded, and then gave a smile that was as crooked as it was mischievous. ‘Then I’d better give you something to remember me by.’

  She pulled Van Bam down onto the bed and climbed on top of him.

  As their lips met, Marney felt a sudden flash of emotion from him that frightened her at first; that the deeper part of her consciousness wanted to block. It wasn’t the cold and hopeless alien reverie she had felt while he stood by the window; it was something warm and real that washed over her, passionate and strong. It trickled into her being like nothing she had experienced before, and she could not prevent a rush of happiness forcing a chuckle from her mouth as Van Bam revealed his true feelings for her.

  ‘I love you too,’ she breathed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Underground

  Considering that so much mystery surrounded the Nightshade, that its foundations were imbued with such ancient and powerful thaumaturgy, Fabian Moor felt surprisingly underwhelmed to be standing inside the Resident’s fabled home. Its walls had been impossible to penetrate during the war. Even mighty Lord Spiral had not known of any way to breach its defences. But even with the war ended so long ago, and the Timewatcher having abandoned the Great Labyrinth and its town, the Nightshade should have been much harder to overcome than this. All it had taken was a simple trick. Moor considered himself almost disappointed. It was somewhat laughable.

  Within a bland chamber that reeked of magic, he stood upon shards of broken glass which glittered like uncut jewels beneath the light of a ceiling prism. To one side, a skeleton lay upon a metal gurney, its ribcage missing and its skull smashed. Not one sliver of flesh remained on Charlie Hemlock’s bones, and that was as it should be. The man had been a venal idiot in life, but he had served his purpose well enough. Moor supposed he should harbour a small if begrudging amount of gratitude for the way Hemlock had so easily smuggled the new Resident into the Nightshade.

  Hagi Tabet hung in the centre of the chamber, dangling from a web of leathery tentacles that extended from her back to pierce the walls, floor and ceiling. They burrowed deep into the substance of the Nightshade, siphoning its magic. Considering Tabet was the recipient of such power, she seemed astoundingly relaxed; her eyes were closed, her expression slack as though sleeping, and she swayed gently in her web even as her blood dried upon the floor beneath her. Like a parasite that had wormed its way into the nerve-centre of a society, she now controlled a million humans. The Labyrinth was at last the domain of the Genii.

  But there was so much further to go.

  Tabet’s face twitched. Her leg kicked out. She moaned softly. Moor found himself leaning forward, eager to hear the report he was waiting for. But Tabet didn’t open her eyes or speak; she became still on her web once again, her expression one of dreamy contentment. With a frustrated snort, Moor dug deep to find the patience to continue waiting.

  Always waiting, he thought with the same simmering anger that had been his only companion through the isolation of the past forty years. Always waiting …

  Upon returning to the Labyrinth, Moor had been curious to discover what events had taken place at the end of the war against the Timewatcher. These humans did so like to write their histories. The libraries of Labrys Town contained any number of so-called factual accounts, written by supposedly learned men who compiled their truths with the arrogant air of actually having been witness to the events. Moor had been offended by almost every word he had read.

  The Last Storm, human history called it; the day the armies of the Thaumaturgists conducted a synchronised attack on every last Genii stronghold. Spiral’s forces were already weak, one historian claimed; another said the Genii had abandoned their posts and fled in fear. They made the Last Storm sound like an easy slaughter, a contest no harder to win than a child stamping on ants. In a single day, they alleged, the final denouement came, and the Timewatcher was victorious. And She Herself came out of hiding to serve justice.

  Moor was intrigued to read of the creation of the Retrospective and of the Aelfir who had been banished to dwell in that place of dead time and corrosion. He had been unsurprised to learn the surviving Genii had been mercilessly executed, flung into the long death of the Nothing of Far and Deep. But what he could not stomach, what angered him the most, were the lies surrounding the final punishment of Lord Spiral.

  These historians described Lord Spiral as a coward. They said he had begged the Timewatcher for forgiveness and mercy at the end. They said he had wept at Her feet and pleaded to reclaim his place at Her side on Mother Earth. But, disgraced and ridiculed, his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

  But the Timewatcher had not considered execution sufficient punishment for Spiral. She had fashioned a timeless void in which, for always, Spiral would be forced to face and regret his every atrocity. She had created a prison realm, a terrible House of pain and suffering, which She called Oldest Place. And to Oldest Place, She exiled Spiral, thus chaining him to eternal torment.

  Only the Timewatcher knew the true location of Oldest Place, the historians said. Some believed it was an unreachable realm, set to drift lost and aimless in the depths of space; others that it was buried deep beneath the wrath and nightmare of the Retrospective. But all agreed that as the sole prisoner of Oldest Place, Lord Spiral had been reduced to a slavering animal, an ignoble beast whose only desire was to feed upon the souls of the dead.

  Not one of these learned humans had been capable of writing a logical historical account of the war. They had speculated with fairytales and ghost stories, myths and legends, guesses and lies. How little they knew of Spiral and Oldest Place. How little they suspected that a new storm was heading their way. The waiting was almost over.

  ‘Hello, Fabian.’

  Hagi Tabet’s eyes were open. They were unfocused, directed vaguely in Moor’s direction.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded of her.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘So many eyes on the streets, so many ways in which to see this town, yet I cannot see the Relic Guild. They have disappeared from my sight.’

  ‘You have people searching for them?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She smiled dreamily. ‘The denizens have taken to their new Resident quite favourably. Especially Captain Jeter. His police force continues to scour the town for the Relic Guild.’

  Moor growled in irritation. ‘What of the necromancer?’

  ‘Ah, yes – Hamir …’ Tabet swayed gently on her web of tentacles. ‘He, too, has found a place to hide from my eyes, but he is still inside the Nightshade. Somewhere.’

  ‘Ensure he cannot leave. I want him found.’

  ‘Have patience, Fabian, my servants are hunting him down even as we speak.’

  Mo
or had seen Tabet’s servants, the monstrous aspects of the new Resident that now roamed the corridors of the Nightshade. They clearly represented a damaged state of mind – the head injuries Tabet had sustained during the war with the Timewatcher must have been far worse than he realised.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Make sure they capture him alive.’

  At that moment the door to the chamber opened, and Mo Asajad entered, dragging a struggling woman behind her by the hair. The woman sobbed and choked on grunted words, grabbing weakly at the hand that pulled her. Her eyes remained tightly closed until Asajad threw her beneath the dangling feet of Hagi Tabet.

  On all fours, the woman looked up at the naked figure held aloft by leathery tentacles. She then turned to look at Moor. Her eyes were wide with terror, her face was tear-streaked, and blood coated her chin and the front of her clothes in a thick red line.

  She grunted some unintelligible plea, and only then did Moor realise her tongue had been ripped out. He turned a questioning frown to his fellow Genii.

  Asajad shrugged. ‘She was so boring, Fabian.’

  ‘Just get it done,’ he told her.

  Asajad turned her attention to the new Resident, who was gazing at the denizen almost lovingly. ‘Hagi, I’ve brought you some supper.’

  Up on her web, Tabet began shaking. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. Her mouth opened wide, releasing a low groan of pleasure towards the ceiling. Convulsions shook her body and set her swinging in her web.

  Wailing like a panicked animal, the woman scrambled across the floor, cutting her hands and knees on shards of glass, desperate to reach the open door.

  She didn’t get far.

  As Moor blocked her path, he noticed Tabet’s stomach had distended as though she had completed the full cycle of pregnancy in a matter of seconds. Her navel protruded from the balloon of her body like the head of a snake. It turned this way and that, a tentacle wriggling to free its length. Slowly, more and more of the tentacle slid from Tabet’s navel, lowering to the floor: a leathery length of rope coated in blood and pinkish jelly. It slithered through broken glass, and rose up behind the woman.

  Still on her hands and knees, the woman looked up with pleading eyes at Moor, searching in the wrong place for mercy. She did not see that Tabet’s appendage had opened its mouth behind her; that the toothless maw, stretching wider and wider, had risen above her. She didn’t get time to grunt or scream as the tentacle struck, quick as a viper, and swallowed her head. Its greasy, thin lips sucked her wholly into a leathery sack that contracted and expanded with strong muscles, chewing, devouring.

  Upon her web, Tabet’s head was thrown back, her limbs splayed and rigid as though frozen. She made tight and violent jerking movements – sensitive, it seemed, to the flexes of the sack as it pushed nourishment up into her body.

  Asajad sighed and shook her head. ‘These denizens really aren’t much sport,’ she said, watching as the chewing sack grew steadily smaller.

  ‘Now you’ve had your fun,’ Moor said warningly, ‘perhaps you might turn your attentions to more constructive pursuits?’

  ‘Constructive pursuits?’ Asajad looked dubious. ‘Like searching for the Relic Guild? Really, Fabian, what’s the point?’

  Moor glared at her.

  A lazy smile curled her lip. ‘Surely it’s a small matter. There’s nothing those magickers can do to us.’

  ‘Don’t be so certain,’ Moor said levelly.

  Asajad clucked her tongue. ‘Are you sure your desire for revenge is not clouding your judgement?’

  She spoke with effortless confidence, and Moor’s irritation deepened. He had not sacrificed his body, waited for so long in the shadows, to be drawn into a petty squabble over dominance. The misguided manner with which Asajad disregarded his leadership of this small band of Genii disturbed him. Her arrogance was growing, and, if it was left unchecked, mistakes would be made, something would get missed.

  ‘I will not rest until the Relic Guild is destroyed,’ he told her. ‘And nor will you. Understood?’

  She bobbed her head in a gesture of obeisance, but turned to face the feeding Resident. ‘Then what constructive pursuit do you have in mind for me, my Lord Moor?’

  ‘I want you to find Hamir,’ he said, ignoring the mockery in her tone. ‘He is here, somewhere, hiding.’

  ‘Again, Fabian, what’s the point?’ There was a tired edge to Asajad’s purr. ‘Hamir is a minor nuisance, nothing more.’

  ‘Ignorantly spoken,’ Moor grumbled with a sneer. ‘That necromancer knows as many of the Nightshade’s secrets as the cursed Timewatcher. I, for one, would very much like to talk to him.’

  Once more, open amusement decorated Asajad’s gaunt face, and Moor rounded on her.

  ‘Go and find Hamir!’ he barked. ‘Bring him to me for questioning.’

  Asajad raised an eyebrow. ‘He will not be compliant,’ she said darkly.

  ‘Then persuade him.’

  ‘And if I cannot?’

  ‘Kill him, of course!’

  She seemed pleased, and gave another mock bow. ‘As you wish, my Lord Moor.’ She sauntered out of the room, but looked back over her shoulder to say, ‘I’ll see you for breakfast, Hagi.’ Then she was gone.

  On the floor, the bulbous sack of Tabet’s appendage was now a limp mass, like a deflated balloon. It twitched and made a deep gurgling sound. Finally, its flaccid mouth opened and squeezed out a pile of sticky, pale bones. The skull was the last thing to emerge. Red jelly was impacted into both eye sockets. They shone like wet rubies.

  Tabet sucked the appendage back into her body, leaving a fist-sized bud, raw and pink, in her navel. She stared down at Moor, once again surrounded by an air of serenity and contentment. Her arms and legs waved in the air with slow, graceful movements as if she was treading water, but her eyes vibrated, flickering from side to side as though trapped in the void between sanity and madness.

  ‘Where is Viktor?’ she asked. ‘When will he be with us?’

  ‘Do not concern yourself with Viktor Gadreel.’ Moor replied. His lip curled and hatred entered his tone. ‘Just find me the damned Relic Guild.’

  In the gloom and stench of the sewers beneath the streets of Labrys Town, Samuel held the bounty hunter to his chest. With one hand covering his captive’s nose and mouth, he used the other to crush his windpipe. Samuel’s opponent was strong, but his struggles could not overpower Old Man Sam’s iron grip. The depth of despair lacing his strangled pleas for mercy could not appeal to the magicker’s sympathies. There would be no reprieve. The man hadn’t seen Samuel coming, hadn’t even heard him. Underestimating an old man would be the last thing he would ever do.

  Samuel’s fingers dug deeper into the man’s throat, tightening like a vice. With a grunt, he leaned back, lifting his prey’s feet off the floor. What would have been screams of pain were no more than choked sobs in the gloom. Samuel wrenched at the bounty hunter’s throat – once, twice, again and again – mercilessly, desperate to cause pain, to strangle, to break. He ignored the wet and warm signals that his victim had soiled himself, and didn’t stop wrenching until the bounty hunter’s struggles had ceased and he fell limp.

  Samuel let the dead body slide to the greasy floor.

  He gritted his teeth, relishing the strength in his limbs. His prescient awareness felt warm inside him, but it did not flare or warn of imminent danger, and he took a few moments to steady his breathing, staring down at the dead man at his feet.

  As a rule, bounty hunters didn’t care for partnerships, as that meant sharing rewards. Evidently, the prize for scalping Old Man Sam was big enough to allow a temporary alliance. Samuel’s prescient awareness had told him that four bounty hunters had followed him down into the sewers. His magic had also told him to let them come, to leave no enemy behind him, to allow the hunters to group in a place where they would become prey for Old Man Sam. Inclu
ding the man Samuel had killed back at his hideout, that meant five assassins had picked up the contract. Three were still alive. Somewhere.

  A chinking sound disturbed his thoughts.

  It wasn’t the first time he had heard it. It came from somewhere far off, echoing through the sewers like the distant clang of a hammer striking stone. After repeating several times, it fell silent again, the final echo ringing away to nothing. With a frown, Samuel left the dead bounty hunter behind, and moved off. The soft pulses of his magic steered his direction, and he trusted where they would lead him.

  The term ‘sewers’ hardly did justice to the world beneath Labrys Town. They were more like the shadow of the town, a distorted mirror image, a reflection in a stagnant pond. Up above, trams ran along streets on their tracks; below, rivers of murky sewage water flowed beneath a series of grand arches. Where there were buildings, great support pillars of dark stone stretched from ground to ceiling; alleys and side lanes were mimicked by tunnels that led from one riverside walkway to another, as did the narrow bridges that curved over the flow of rancid waters; and where the sun or moons cast their light down upon the denizens, grimy glow lamps shed patches of pale illumination here and there to break the gloom.

  The sewers had always provided the Relic Guild with a means to move undetected and unhindered. It was a secret place that no regular denizen was supposed to see. Samuel had shown his foes the entrance back in his bathroom, but at least they had been stupid enough to follow him.

  Striding purposefully along a walkway, Samuel cut right into a tunnel. Every surface of the sewers was slick and damp. In dark corners, poisonous fungi sprouted from piles of filth. Glistening moss grew on the walls and paths, and the atmosphere was oddly clammy, as if a film of oil clung to the air. The stench of this place was more repulsive than Samuel remembered, but it was a familiar smell that reminded him of a better time, a bygone day when the Relic Guild had meant something.