The Relic Guild (49 page)

Clara was down. Van Bam crouched over her, and she clutched at his shoulders, struggling to keep her breathing steady. It was difficult to see in the flashing light, but it looked as though the bullet aimed for Samuel’s head had found Clara’s hip.

Van Bam lifted her into his arms, and the changeling yelled in pain.

Samuel looked past them to the secret portal kept open by thaumaturgy.

‘No choice now,’ he said.

With a determined nod , Van Bam turned and carried Clara to the doorway. His stride didn’t falter, and, as he neared, the glassy fluid bulged outward, enveloped them both, and snapped them back into its blackness away from the cellar into wherever.

Samuel stared after them as the surface became smooth once again. His prescient awareness felt as flat as it had in the presence of the Genii, and he hesitated to follow.

The barrier at the stairwell was failing now Van Bam had left the area; the patrolmen had created cracks in the magic, fracturing it into an ever-growing spider web. Above, the elevator had completed its ascent and was now beginning to descend. Samuel caught a glimpse of many booted feet standing on the platform. He turned to the portal.

Where else was there to go?

His revolver clutched tightly in hand, he took a step back. Then, with a deep breath, he ran forward, gritted his teeth, and fled into the darkness of somewhere else.

Forty Years Earlier

Departures

By the time Samuel met Macy and Bryant at the disused ore warehouse in the southern district, the sun had risen and cleared the boundary wall. The warmth and light of the early morning did little to alleviate the sombre silence hanging over the agents; they had each endured a miserable night of fruitless searching.

While Bryant studied the strange metallic spider, Samuel and Macy stood alongside each other, watching Hamir working. As aloof and detached as ever, the necromancer cradled Lady Amilee’s leather-bound book in one arm while tracing a finger down the open page, evidently checking the design of symbols he had engraved into the warehouse floor against its contents.

The symbols formed a rough circle of interconnecting swirls and shapes carved an inch deep into the stone. They configured more into a meaningless pattern than the complicated language Hamir had hinted they represented. Samuel couldn’t tell where the pattern began or ended – if it even had a beginning and end – but the necromancer seemed quietly confident with his understanding of the transcription. He stepped lightly around the rough circle, flipping back and forth through the pages of the book, pausing now and then to double check some detail or another, and gave the occasional nod of satisfaction. Samuel had little comprehension of what he was doing, and even less inclination to find out.

Beside Samuel, Macy snorted a breath. Her expression was pensive and she was grinding her teeth.

She and Bryant had spent the night trying to find Mr Taffin. They had looked in all his usual haunts, spoken to his known associates and employees, but no one had seen him since the morning before last, and the Twilight Bar was closed for business.

Samuel had gone to the apothecary shop in the western
district. He had broken in and checked the apartment above,
but Gene was not at home. Samuel had found evidence
of a small struggle, though: a cabinet upturned, the mattress
pulled off the bed, a few worthless ornaments smashed on
the floor. Fabian Moor, it seemed, had captured his first
agent of the Relic Guild.

‘Do you ever wonder where
he fits in to all this?’ Macy said, nodding towards
the necromancer. ‘I mean, Denton says Hamir was around when
he joined the Relic Guild, and he reckons Hamir hasn’
t changed from that day to this. He never ages,
his appearance never alters – and he has always had that
scar on his forehead.’

Samuel shrugged. ‘To be honest, Macy,
I really couldn’t care less how Hamir fits in
to anything. I’ve other things on my mind.’

She
nodded, quiet for a moment, then, ‘You know, Gene might
be stronger than we give him credit for.’

‘You really
think so?’

Macy looked to the floor. ‘Well, at least
we can hope Fabian Moor is finding out he’s
a tough old dog after all.’

Samuel didn’t know
whether she was trying to hearten him or herself, but
her words lacked conviction.

While he had been at Gene’
s apartment, Samuel had found a few strands of hair
in the bathtub. It was enough to use in the
spirit compass, enough to track the apothecary’s location. However,
when he placed the hair inside the compass, the usually
trusty device remained inactive. Samuel and Macy both knew the
most likely explanation: Gene no longer had a spirit left
to detect.

Without looking up from his book, Hamir said, ‘
If you need a straw to clutch at, Samuel, please
remember that the spirit compass works on simple magic. It
might be blinded by the presence of a Genii.’ He
bent to wipe away stone dust from a groove in
the floor. ‘It doesn’t change Gene’s predicament, I
suppose, but Fabian Moor might have reason to keep him
alive.’

Samuel glared at the necromancer, trying hard to prevent
images of Gene being tortured, infected, turned into a golem,
invading his mind.

‘What about the Nightshade, Hamir?’ Macy said. ‘
Moor seems to
think the Relic Guild has information that can show him a secret way to enter it.’

‘It’s improbable at best, Macy,’ Hamir replied. ‘You magickers don’t control the Nightshade. In fact, it’s very much the other way around.’

‘But Moor believes we aren’t aware of the information,’ Samuel added, ‘that the Nightshade left some residue of itself in our minds, some blind spot. Could he be right?’

Hamir considered. ‘I suppose anything is possible where higher magic is concerned.’ He sniffed. ‘Thaumaturgy is a tricky beast.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Bryant said.

Macy’s twin was inspecting the metallic spider. He had stepped under its long, thin legs and was peering up into the grey and disfigured face of the golem that had once been Betsy.

To Samuel, the events at Chaney’s Den seemed a long time ago.

Looking unconvinced, Bryant added, ‘Don’t get me wrong, Hamir – I trust Lady Amilee as much as everyone else – but this thing really doesn’t look powerful enough to take down a Genii. It’s so spindly and …
weedy
.’

Hamir looked up from the book and stared at him for a heartbeat. ‘Bryant, perhaps it would be best if matters of higher magic were left to me, yes?’ His tone and expression were noncommittal, but Samuel got the impression he was offended. ‘However,’ Hamir continued, ‘should I ever need advice on how to bash a head, be assured you’ll be the first I ask. Now, if you please, step away from the construct.’

So saying, Hamir returned his attention to the book and the circle of symbols at his feet.

Bryant shook his head, gave the necromancer a sour look, and stepped over to join Samuel and Macy.

‘This is going to be a long day,’ he muttered to his sister.

‘Yeah,’ Macy replied. ‘I almost wish I’d gone with Van Bam and Angel.’

Despite the situation, Samuel couldn’t deny the touch of envy he felt at the mention of Van Bam and Angel. They had already left the Labyrinth, escorting Ambassador Ebril and his entourage back home. Samuel would have given anything to have gone instead of either of them, to see an Aelfirian House again, even one as apparently troubled as Mirage. Van Bam was a fair diplomat, but Angel was in no way a better bodyguard than Samuel. He knew it, and so did Gideon.

It probably amused the Resident no end to deny him the opportunity to leave the Labyrinth, and that was just one more needle in Samuel’s eye.

But Samuel’s bitterness and jealousy were futile; it wasn’t as if he could change the situation. He knew Gideon had enough on his plate without finding time to deal with Samuel’s resentment. Not only was one of his agents missing, but he also had a new political situation on his hands.

Word of Ebril’s departure had already spread, and now the other Aelfirian refugees were demanding passage back to their respective Houses. If Gideon’s diplomatic skills were half as bad with the Aelfir as they were with his agents, he could well alienate a few Houses by the end of the day. Samuel only hoped the guidance of Sophia could temper his caustic manner enough to salvage at least some degree of civility within their relationships.

Hamir closed the leather bound book with a snap.

‘Hmm.’ He pursed his lips and looked up. ‘My interpretations are a little rough around the edges, but I think we are ready.’

Samuel didn’t know if he was talking to the spider or the three agents lined up before it. By their confused expressions, Macy and Bryant were wondering the same thing.

Only adding to the mystery, Hamir began whispering in a quick and unintelligible language. His voice carried a strange and alien resonance, musical yet ominous. It seemed to swell in the warehouse, and Samuel shied from the sound, resisting the urge to step away from Hamir. It reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember … and implied things he did not want to know.

Hamir’s words were directed at the design of symbols on the floor. The more he whispered the alien language, the more the atmosphere changed, building a prickly energy that made the hairs on the back of Samuel’s neck stand on end. The swirls and shapes of the interconnecting pattern seemed to grow, expand and rise up above the stone. They flared with purple light that quickly disappeared to leave spots and slashes on Samuel’s vision. Hamir growled a final word, and Samuel was left with the impression that the symbols had somehow darkened, solidified, the light filling their shapes like molten metal.

Silent now, and with the book under one arm, Hamir approached the three agents. He paused before Samuel and produced a pair of goggles from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Please, put these on, if you would, Samuel.’

Samuel accepted the goggles and stared at them for a moment. They were much the same as those used by welders, except for the lenses. Made from glass, the same shade of deep green as Van Bam’s cane, the lenses were faceted, protruding from the frame like the eyes of an insect. Samuel looked at Macy. She shrugged. Hamir waited expectantly. Samuel slipped on the goggles.

Expecting his vision to turn green, he was surprised when instead all colour was drained from his world. His colleagues and the barren interior of the warehouse appeared to him in dreary grey. Samuel raised a hand before his face. His skin was the colour of a corpse.

‘What’s the point of these?’ he asked Hamir, tapping a lens with a dead finger.

The necromancer didn’t answer. The scar on his forehead burning brightly white, Hamir stepped past Samuel and headed for the spider.

The three agents turned to watch Hamir, as intrigued now as they had been confused. With his back to the group, Hamir stared up at his creation.

‘This construct has been given one simple task,’ he said. ‘To capture Fabian Moor –’ he motioned to the design of symbols on the floor – ‘and bring him here to his prison. As with all spiders, the construct’s best weapon is stealth. It is imperative Fabian Moor does not see it coming.’

He spoke in that strange, breathy language again; this time a single word carrying an instructive tone.

The goggle’s faceted, insect-eye lenses, had not changed the colour of the spider. But with Hamir’s command, its appearance wavered as though a veil of clear water had been drawn across it. The effect animated the face of the golem’s head, making its features dance, almost appear to laugh. For the first time, the construct moved. It skittered as if flinching. The metallic tips of its eight legs ticked against the stone floor, and then were still again.

The legs began to fade. From the ground up, they vanished as if the spider’s existence was being slowly erased, drained into nothingness. After its legs, the smooth lower hemisphere of its body came next. The golem’s face was the last thing to disappear.

Judging by Macy and Bryant’s noises of surprise, they too had seen the spider vanish.

Hamir, with his back turned to the group, held up a finger: a silent instruction to wait.

A few moments passed, and he said, ‘Samuel?’

In the grey, empty space where the spider had stood, a patch of colour returned to Samuel’s world: a blur of purple that expanded and thickened to a fat body of fog. Tendrils, eight of them, grew from the body, thin and insubstantial as they drifted down to touch the floor with puffs of smoke. The ghost of a giant spider formed before Samuel, its deep purple colour standing out in the grey like a single coal burning in a dead fire.

‘I can see it,’ he told Hamir.

‘Excellent,’ Hamir replied. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure the goggles would work.’

He turned to face the three agents, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Your job is to distract Fabian Moor, to make him believe you are the only threat he faces. But be warned – the construct will be single-minded in pursuit of the Genii. Do not get in its way.’

‘Easier said than done, when we can’t see it,’ Bryant grumbled.

Ignoring the comment, Hamir continued, ‘Once set free, the spider will be driven, fast, and it will take the shortest route to its prey. You will have a hard time keeping pace with it.’

He held up a hand to stave off another comment from Bryant. ‘Fortunately, this is where Samuel’s favourite little toy can be of use. Samuel, the spirit compass, please.’

As Samuel fished the device from his pocket, Hamir produced a phial and a small, slim pair of tweezers.

‘Expose the interior, if you would.’

Samuel unscrewed the cap from the compass, and then pressed its face. It clicked and sprang up on a hinge, revealing the tiny, empty flat-bottomed dish beneath.

Hamir popped the cork from the phial and used the tweezers to extract a single hair.

‘Before she turned into a golem, I had the foresight to cut a lock of hair from Betsy’s head,’ Hamir explained. ‘It contains the residue of the magic which infected her – which is to say, the same magic that now resides within the golem’s head. It should work in the spirit compass as any other organic material would.’

Samuel held the compass out, and the necromancer gently lowered the hair and coiled it into the dish.

Samuel pressed the face back into position and watched the needle. It ticked and turned until settling into a position that pointed directly at the smoky and purple spider ghost standing behind the necromancer.

‘Got it,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Hamir turned to face his construct again. ‘Macy, be so good as to open the warehouse door, would you?’

With a frown, she complied. The shutter rattled up to reveal morning light. Instead of a rich golden colour, the light appeared decidedly sickly to Samuel’s altered vision.