The Relic Guild (39 page)
‘Let’s try this again,’ Jeter growled. ‘Where is he?’
Clara made no reply. She wasn’t frightened; she was angry. The wolf was stirring inside her, and she welcomed the feeling. It gave her courage.
Jeter pushed his dark glasses further up his nose. He had removed the jacket of his uniform, and on his white shirt were spots of Clara’s blood.
‘I know you brought Van Bam with you,’ he said. ‘Where is he now?’
Clara shrugged, and the chains rattled.
‘Did he abandon you?’ Jeter whispered cruelly. ‘Is that it?’
‘You have no idea of the trouble you’re in, Jeter.’
A sneer came to his angular face.
‘You should let me go,’ she continued.
Jeter gave a lopsided smile and snorted. ‘What I should have done was recognise you for what you are the first time I arrested you. I should’ve known that your aim was to get to the Nightshade and possess the Resident. I should never have let you go. But I won’t make the same mistake twice.’
‘You’re an idiot.’
Jeter slapped her face.
Clara relished the sting.
The patrolmen flanking the police captain aimed short rifles at their captive. The violet glow of power stones set behind the barrels of the rifles reflected off the black glass of their receptor helmets. They hadn’t spoken once during the interrogation and they gave off no scent. But their body language spoke volumes.
Earlier, when they had entered the grey security cell, they had stuck so close to their captain it suggested they were afraid to be in the room with Clara. They had done nothing but watch as Jeter beat her, and the cowardice of them all disgusted her.
‘You’ve run out of options, demon-lover,’ Jeter said. He tapped a square object in his breast pocket. Clara’s tablets rattled inside her medicine tin. ‘Your magic won’t work on me.’
She looked down at her clenched fists, at her chains. Was she really so expendable? Would Van Bam really abandon her so easily, so quickly?
The whole situation seemed to have been turned upside down. Van Bam was the Resident, and Jeter had no choice but to remain subservient to him. But the police captain’s belief that Clara had somehow possessed Van Bam and converted him to demon-worship, was gripping the man almost to the point of madness. What could have persuaded him of this?
‘You think one of your followers will rescue you?’ Jeter said. ‘That Van Bam will return? Or are you hoping that Old Man Sam will storm the building to save you?’
Clara looked up sharply at Jeter, and he shook his head as if pitying her.
‘I think you’ve outlived your usefulness, Miss Clara. As for Old Man Sam – well, I should think by now he’s quite dead.’
Clara looked down at her hands again. She could feel Marney’s presence in her head, but wasn’t surprised that it offered no advice. Clara opened and closed her fingers. She felt so strong, but frustrated by the chains. If she could only get free … she wouldn’t bother with her medicine.
‘Look at me,’ Jeter said.
When Clara didn’t look up, the police captain grabbed her under the chin and forced her head back. His fingers dug into her skin painfully.
‘Your plan to bring the Retrospective to Labrys Town will not succeed
.
So I ask you again – where is Van Bam,
whore
?’
Clara spat in his face.
To her surprise, Jeter didn’t react with violence. Instead, he stepped back, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and calmly wiped the blood and spittle from his face and glasses. The two patrolmen, almost identical in their appearance, remained still, holding their rifles with cold, unwavering aims.
Jeter said, ‘Your attempt to spread disease did not work at the asylum, and it won’t work anywhere else.’ He dropped the soiled handkerchief to the floor. ‘You will never bring down the boundary wall and unleash the Retrospective. We have stopped you, demon-lover. You have failed.’
Clara laughed then, a dry, huffing sound that was full of scorn for this absurd change in events.
Jeter frowned at her. ‘Feigning insanity won’t save you.’ His voice was low, loaded with menace. ‘If it was up to me, I’d simply give you to the Retrospective, and then we’d see how far your love of demons gets you.’ His teeth clenched as Clara’s laughing deepened. ‘But, unfortunately your fate isn’t up to me. That’s to be decided by the new Resident.’
Clara’s laughing stopped abruptly. She looked at the two patrolmen, and then back at their captain. Anxiety stirred her blood as Jeter’s strange pronouncements made less and less sense to her. ‘The new Resident?’
Jeter raised a supercilious eyebrow, his smile triumphant. ‘There’s fear in your eyes, and rightly so. Hagi Tabet is stronger than that blind fool Van Bam, and she will ensure your end is as bad as it gets.’
‘Jeter …’ Clara’s thoughts were suddenly dominated by the image of a terracotta jar clutched in the hands of a skeleton. ‘What are you talking about? Who’s Hagi Tabet?’
To Clara’s surprise, it was the patrolman standing to Jeter’s right who answered. ‘It is no use, Clara,’ he said, his voice low, clear, and strangely unmuffled by the receptor helmet. ‘He will not listen to anything you say.’
Jeter looked at the patrolman with a frown, but then turned sharply to his left as there was an audible
pop
and the other patrolman turned to fine green smoke that swirled and faded and disappeared entirely.
Mouth hanging slack, Jeter turned back to his right. As he did so, the remaining patrolman rammed the butt of his rifle into his face. There was a light chime and a soft flash of green as the police captain fell to the floor. His nose was bloodied, his glasses broken in half, and he lay still and unconscious.
With no small amount of surprise, Clara watched as the patrolman’s image shimmered. The heavy, thick uniform became loose fitting clothing made from a fine material so dark it was like the night sky; the black glass of the receptor helmet shrank and moulded into a smoothly-shaven head of dark brown skin and a strong face with metal plates covering the eyes. Lastly, the rifle morphed to a cane of green glass.
Clara cocked her head to one side. ‘You know, for a minute there, I really thought you’d left me behind.’
‘I am sorry, Clara,’ Van Bam said. He found a key about Jeter’s person and used it to unlock Clara’s manacles. He reached out to her face and inspected the swelling under her eye. ‘Are you all right?’
Clara nodded, and Van Bam helped her to her feet. His metallic eyes scrutinised her face. He seemed troubled by what he saw there.
‘It is time to leave,’ he said. He retrieved the small, dented tin from Jeter’s shirt pocket and passed it to her. ‘But perhaps you should take your medicine first.’
‘Believe me, Clara,’ Van Bam whispered, ‘I had no wish to witness your mistreatment.’
His apology sounded hollow to Clara.
The security cells were situated in the lower levels of the police headquarters. Taking Clara by the hand Van Bam led her up two flights of stairs, along a corridor, through a security door and into reception. In spite of the high number of angry denizens and police officers congregated, they passed unnoticed as Van Bam had rendered them both invisible.
‘I needed time to find out what could have provoked Jeter to act so incongruously,’ Van Bam continued as they headed for the exit.
‘He said we have a new Resident,’ Clara replied.
‘Indeed, Clara. I have been unable to contact Hamir. It would seem the Genii have infiltrated the Nightshade.’
‘You told me that wasn’t possible.’
‘Obviously I was wrong.’ His tone was frustrated, laced with confusion. ‘This Hagi Tabet now controls every aspect of Labrys Town, including the police force. When Captain Jeter regains consciousness, I have no doubt he will deploy every officer at his disposal to hunt us down. Fabian Moor has made us the enemy.’
A denizen, complaining loudly that he had been made to wait in reception far too long, stepped in front of Clara, gesticulating wildly. With quick feet, she dodged around him, but had to fight a sudden urge to punch him in the back of the head. Taking her medicine had done little to check her anger, and she gritted her teeth as Van Bam led her across the reception area and out into Watchers’ Gallery.
The plaza bustled with people, but Van Bam hauled Clara along at speed.
‘What about Samuel?’ Clara’s tone was flat, and she realised her anger was lingering because of Van Bam and the way he had used her suffering to gain information. ‘Jeter thinks he’s dead already.’
‘I am hoping not everything is as Jeter believes,’ Van Bam replied. ‘Old Man Sam has a bounty on his head, but Samuel has more than one trick up his sleeve, Clara. For now, let us focus on reaching a safer location.’
As she was pulled along through Watchers’ Gallery, Clara glanced back at the police headquarters. When she faced forwards again, she shoulder-checked a businessman, and lost her grip on the Resident’s hand. The businessman’s folder of papers went fluttering into the air. He rubbed his shoulder and looked around, utterly bemused at being hit by apparently nothing.
Clara stepped away from him, and anxiety fluttered in her stomach.
‘Van Bam?’ she whispered hoarsely. Her head spun as she dodged the denizens passing by, searching frantically for her guide. But he was invisible … and so was she—
A large, strong hand curled around Clara’s, and Van Bam’s low tones whispered in her ear. ‘Do not worry, Clara. You cannot see me, but I can see you. Now quickly …’
Having crossed the plaza, they ran through the archway, between the two statues and out onto the street beyond, where the press of denizens was thicker than ever. However, they hadn’t got far before Van Bam slowed and drew Clara to a halt.
‘I think Jeter has regained consciousness,’ he said.
Up ahead, four patrolmen were cutting through the crowd towards them. Sunlight glinted from their black receptor helmets as they stopped in a line with their rifles drawn and aimed. Several denizens around Clara and Van Bam froze and put their hands in the air; others stopped and stared, intrigued by the aggressive posture of the police officers, wondering who it was they were about to arrest and why.
One of the patrolmen ordered the denizens to stand aside. The people with their hands in the air frowned and gave each other confused looks. More spectators began to gather. They appeared confused. Who were the police officers aiming their rifles at?
‘Can they see us?’ Clara whispered.
One of the patrolmen shouted, ‘You are under arrest, demon-worshippers. On your knees! Put your hands behind your heads!’
Van Bam let go of Clara’s hand. She heard a soft chime and a whispering as the Resident summoned his illusionist magic.
‘Stop him!’ the patrolman shouted.
But the crowd of denizens between the Relic Guild agents and the rifles had grown so large that no one dared fire a shot.
The crowd flinched as one as a loud crack sounded from behind Clara; it was followed by cries of alarm.
The statues guarding the entrance to Watchers’ Gallery had come alive.
Their spherical heads turned left and right, their white eyes glowed as they broke free of their pedestals with the sound of ripping stone. One threw its anvil to the ground as if in a temper; the other did the same with its scales. Both objects shattered on impact. In unison, the statues stepped onto the street and came stamping towards the patrolmen, long arms raised, massive fists clenched and ready to smash.
The denizens panicked.
Screams filled the air, bodies fled in all directions, and the patrolmen were lost in a wave of chaos.
Van Bam took Clara’s hand again. ‘The illusion will not last long,’ he said, and pulled her through the confusion.
The sound of rifles spitting out bullets came from behind the magickers as they ran from the main street, ducking down a deserted alley between a medical centre and an employment agency.
‘We’re invisible!’ Clara said angrily. ‘How could they see us?’
‘The Genii are directing the street patrols via the Nightshade,’ Van Bam replied. ‘They must have tuned the receptor helmets to see magic. We must get off the streets.’
Reaching the end of the alley, they came to another busy street which slowed their pace as they picked their way carefully through unsuspecting denizens. Van Bam led Clara straight to a textiles merchant’s shop. It was a small, unremarkable place with rolls of fabrics lining one wall. Behind a desk sat a middle-aged woman, who waited to take orders from haberdashers. The woman frowned at the door that had apparently come open by itself. As she rose and closed the door with a grumble of annoyance, Van Bam led Clara to the back of the shop and down to a cellar where packing crates and more rolls of fabric were stored.
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.’
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 unsure. 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.’
