The Cathedral of Known Things
Page 29
With an appreciative nod, Samuel took the cylinder and slipped it into a pouch on his utility belt.
‘Now then,’ said Hillem, ‘let’s find you a gun.’
He walked over to Glogelder, crouched down before the second trunk, opened the lid, and joined his thicker-set friend in searching through the stockpile.
‘Why are you still wearing that thing?’ Glogelder said, reaching over and tapping the red crystal of the proximity device strapped to Hillem’s wrist. ‘Who do you think is going to sneak up on us here?’
‘Oh, I don’t know –’ Hillem slapped his friend’s hand away – ‘the Toymaker, perhaps?’
‘We’re in transit, Hillem! No one else is getting on until we stop.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ Hillem replied, and he pulled a small stub-nosed pistol from the trunk. ‘What about this one?’
Glogelder gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Wimp’s gun.’
‘Hey, I used to have one of these!’
‘Sort of proves my point, doesn’t it?’
‘Shut up.’
Samuel couldn’t help a slow smile appearing on his face at the Aelfir’s banter. They would fit well into the Relic Guild, he decided.
Earlier, Samuel had asked them why they had got involved with Namji. Both of them were in their twenties, not nearly old enough to remember the Genii War; they didn’t know what life had been like when the Thaumaturgists had been around and the Labyrinth had been the one realm that connected every House of the Aelfir. Why did they care? Both Hillem and Glogelder had admitted that until recently the humans of the Labyrinth belonged to an old story that neither of them cared about. But then the avatar changed the course of their lives.
Several months earlier, they had been running a scam to alleviate a noblewoman of the highly valuable contents of her vault. It should have been a sweet con, Glogelder had said, the big one that made them rich; but Hillem had explained that it had been a setup from the beginning. They found no riches in the vault, only a detachment of police officers waiting to arrest them.
‘I always wondered when we’d get caught,’ Hillem had admitted, ‘but I never considered that our lives were being manipulated for the sake of the future.’
‘The avatar was looking for people it could trust, people with nerve, with no ties and not much to lose,’ Glogelder had added. ‘Turns out, if you want to gain the loyalty of a couple of thieves, all you have to do is catch them when they’re desperate.’
It had been while the pair was locked up in a prison cell that the avatar had first appeared to them. It had told the friends in crime tales of Fabian Moor, of the Genii, and what the future would be like if Spiral was freed from Oldest Place. They had come to care about the humans of the Labyrinth who belonged to an old and forgotten story.
Once the avatar had sprung the thieves from prison, they had found a petite Aelfirian woman waiting for them in the free world. Her name was Namji and she had a plan, she said.
While Hillem hid in Sunflower, waiting for the Relic Guild to arrive, Glogelder travelled the Aelfirian Houses, making contact with certain individuals. He was not recruiting other agents for the Aelfirian Relic Guild, Glogelder had said, but finding people who could be called upon when and if they were needed – Councillor Tal being an example.
‘Now then – this might do the trick,’ Hillem said, disturbing Samuel’s thoughts.
He had produced a black-metal revolver from the trunk, which he was showing to his friend. Glogelder considered it before nodding approvingly. They both stared at Samuel. The old bounty hunter liked the look of what he saw, and Hillem loaded the gun with smooth metal slugs.
The eight-shot revolver that was handed to Samuel was longer and more streamlined than the one he was used to, but it was a comfortable fit for his hand. Samuel took a power stone from his utility belt and clicked it into the housing behind the revolving chamber. It whined and began to glow as he primed it with his thumb.
‘Give it a go,’ Hillem said, gesturing to the bones on the shelves of the metal racking.
Samuel took aim at a spine bone. He pulled the trigger and the power stone released a burst of thaumaturgy with a flash and a low, hollow spitting sound. The bone shattered and the bullet thunked into the butcher’s block behind the shelving. The impact hole dribbled a tendril of smoke.
Samuel looked at the pistol. The balance and weight were good, the sight was true. It felt right.
Taking aim again, he unloaded the chamber – seven bullets, seven bursts of thaumaturgy, seven bone fragments disappeared from the shelves, high and low; and seven splintered holes, hot and smoking, appeared in the butcher’s block.
Glogelder’s beaten and scarred face had broken into a grin, and he chuckled. ‘I suppose that’s how a bounty hunter lives to be as old as you, eh?’
Hillem gave a low whistle. ‘We were told you were good, but – where did you learn to shoot like that?’
‘I thought the avatar told you all about the Relic Guild?’ Samuel said evenly.
‘Obviously not as much as I thought – Old Man Sam.’
Deactivating the power stone, Samuel thrust the revolver into the holster strapped to his left leg. It was a little loose, but nothing padding wouldn’t fix.
‘Looks like we have a winner,’ Glogelder said. He was about to close the lid of the second trunk, when something caught his eye. ‘Hang about!’ He delved into the trunk and pulled out a rifle, still in its leather back-holster, and held it up like a prize possession. ‘I’d forgotten about you, honey,’ he said to the rifle, and then looked at Samuel with a wicked glint in his eyes. ‘Now this, you really have to try.’
Samuel shook his head. ‘I already have a rifle.’
‘No,’ countered Glogelder, ‘what you have on your back is an antique.’ He scoffed. ‘Honestly, how long have you been using that thing? Thirty years?’
Samuel had no intention of telling the big Aelf that his rifle had been his companion for closer to fifty years. ‘What’s your point?’ he asked dryly.
‘It’s older than I am,’ Glogelder said. ‘Whereas this little beauty …’ He slid the rifle from the holster. ‘She’s ageless.’
It was an impressive piece. Around the same length as the trusty police-issue rifle that Samuel had used all these years, but its design was very different. Obviously made by a proud craftsman, the rifle was ornately fashioned from burnished silver metal. The butt was dark lacquered wood, engraved with decorative, swirling patterns. It had two power stones; one set behind the barrel as usual, the second set halfway along the barrel’s length, where a section a few inches long was fatter than the rest. It did indeed resonate a certain agelessness, but aesthetics alone couldn’t convince Samuel to part with his own trusty rifle.
‘Glogelder’s right,’ Hillem said. ‘That thing is custom-made, Samuel, maybe one of a kind. Just give it a chance before you say no.’
Samuel’s opinion of the decorative rifle quickly changed as, with reluctance at first, he accepted it from Glogelder, and found its shape, weight and balance more perfect than any weapon his hands had ever held. It was as if it had been ergonomically designed for him alone. With an unchecked look of surprise, the old bounty hunter turned the rifle over, frowning as he found no compartment into which a magazine of bullets might fit.
‘How do you load it?’ he asked.
‘You don’t need to,’ Glogelder said with a grin. ‘That, my human friend, is an ice-rifle.’
Samuel had never heard of such a weapon.
‘It’s a marvellous feat of magical engineering,’ Hillem said enthusiastically. ‘The fat part of the barrel is a thaumaturgic crystallisation unit.’ He stepped up to Samuel and pointed to the power stone behind the rifle’s barrel. ‘The trigger stone releases a burst of thaumaturgy as usual,’ he said, and moved his finger up the barrel to the thicker part. ‘But as it passes through the u
nit, the second stone super-cools the moisture in the air and converts it into darts of ice that are as hard as crystal.’ He seemed pleased with his explanation. ‘You have to prime both stones for it to work.’
‘Go on,’ Glogelder said eagerly. ‘Give it a go.’
Samuel activated the power stones. They whined and glowed with violet light. For a test shot, he took aim directly at the butcher’s block, and pulled the trigger. The spitting sound was a little louder and higher pitched than normal, and there was slightly more kick than he was used to, but the dart of ice the weapon fired stabbed effortlessly through the wood, clanging against the butcher’s tools hanging on the wall behind the block, leaving behind a smooth and round hole.
‘Those power stones you brought with you from the Labyrinth?’ Glogelder said. ‘How many shots can they fire in a row before losing charge? Ten? Fifteen if you’re lucky?’
Samuel nodded.
The big Aelf pointed at the ice-rifle. ‘Those stones can fire fifty or more.’
‘Well, that’s technically true,’ Hillem clarified. ‘But the stone in the crystallisation unit uses a higher charge, and it’ll drain quicker than the trigger stone. And, of course, the amount of moisture in the atmosphere is a factor.’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Glogelder. ‘If you’re standing in the middle of a volcano, the gun won’t work so well.’ He pursed his lips and nodded his head. ‘But you should see that darling dance on a rainy day.’
‘You said these rifles are rare,’ Samuel said, weighing the weapon in his hands. ‘How did you find it?’
Glogelder winced. ‘Probably better if you don’t know.’ He scratched his bald head. ‘Let’s just say I never asked the owner if it was up for sale.’
‘But we do have spare power stones for it,’ Hillem said. ‘And plenty of ammunition for your revolver – regular and magical.’
Samuel took aim at the bones on the shelves. He adjusted his grip and stance to allow for the kickback, and then began shooting. By the time the rifle had sent an ice-dart to split a lamb skull in two, and no other bones remained on the shelves, the old bounty hunter already knew that it was time to say goodbye to the trusty, old rifle on his back.
‘Are you having fun, Samuel?’ said a voice.
Samuel swung around to see Van Bam had entered the room.
The illusionist studied the ice-rifle and seemed impressed. Beside him stood the diminutive form of Namji. Her expression serious, she looked at Hillem and Glogelder, and gestured towards the door.
‘It’s nearly time to leave,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and get ready.’ She gestured to the trunks of weapons. ‘You can come back for these later.’
Samuel nodded his thanks to the Aelfirian men as they followed Namji out of the butcher’s workshop. Van Bam waited until they had gone before facing his old friend again. He was clearly troubled.
‘What’s wrong?’ Samuel asked suspiciously.
‘An interesting question,’ Van Bam said. He sighed. ‘Samuel, we need to talk about Clara.’
Chapter Thirteen
Dreamscape of the Necromancer
With the icy lash of a salty wind whipping at his face, Hamir wondered if there were certain things in life to which he should have paid better attention.
Standing on a wide ledge cut high into the face of a sheer chalk cliff, he looked down onto a billowing cloudbank. Vast and thickly white, it hid the ocean which undoubtedly lay beneath. In a clear sky of pale blue, a sun blazed to the east, tinting the crests of the cloudbank with golden highlights. It was a beautiful view, but, buffeted by the icy wind, Hamir felt desperately cold. And he had never enjoyed heights.
He shook his head at the view, most unimpressed.
Hamir would have warmed himself, cast a magical barrier to protect his person from the stinging air, but his magic was no longer at his command – or perhaps it was truer to say that the memory of how to command his magic was eluding him. The explanation for this was quite simple: the lofty scene before him, however detailed and beautiful, did not really exist and he was not really there. He could not control his environment, nor could he decide his place within it, for Hamir was trapped inside someone else’s imagination.
The art of divination: it had never interested Hamir. In the past, just a fleeting mention of this topic had filled him with a deep-rooted boredom. Diviners proclaimed to have irrefutable knowledge of the future, while also harbouring a long line of convenient excuses for when their predictions, invariably, proved to be false. As far as Hamir was concerned, divination carried such a fundamental lack of cohesion and logic that it might as well be named the Art of Random Guessing.
However, although he was loath to admit it, Hamir had known, among the plethora of dullards, a few rare diviners who were most worthy of the title; a small and unique caste only to be found among the Timewatcher’s Thaumaturgists. And they were called the Skywatchers.
Grumbling an expletive that was lost to the wind, Hamir thrust his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket, and bowed his head to the elements.
He remembered many things that most people had forgotten, and he found himself recalling that there had once been a triumvirate of Skywatchers whom the Timewatcher favoured above all other Thaumaturgists. It seemed strange that the Timewatcher Herself, who insisted on equality between all her children – be they human, Aelfir, or creatures of higher magic – should be unable to avoid the touch of hypocrisy, but such was the way of things, Hamir decided. It was fact; none were more favoured to Her than the Trinity of Skywatchers.
In the pantheon of Thaumaturgists, the Trinity were revered by all. The first of them held the title of the Warden. The Warden acted as an extension of the Timewatcher’s eyes, and her purpose was to watch all paths and doorways, ensuring that those who would use them adhered to the Timewatcher’s protocols of peace and unity. The creatures of higher magic often referred to the Warden as Treasured Lady of the Thaumaturgists, but her true name was Yansas Amilee.
Of course, in time, Lady Amilee had become the patron of the Labyrinth; but now, Hamir reasoned, she had become the imperial pain in his posterior. While he was happy for his body to lie incapacitated but safe in a sleep chamber back in the Tower of the Skywatcher, he didn’t much care for the fact that his mind was being held hostage to Amilee’s imagination.
It was quite obvious what the Skywatcher expected Hamir to do next. The only way off the cliff was a small cable car docked quite innocently at the ledge’s rim. The car’s shell was made entirely of clear glass which reflected the sunshine with a hundred majestic rainbow starbursts; but to the necromancer it still looked as mundane as any tram from Labrys Town. Inside the car was a single chair, comfy-looking and upholstered in padded black leather.
The cable was anchored to the hard chalk surface behind Hamir. It ran through the wheel above the car, and then out over the ledge and down to disappear into the cloudbank that covered the ocean below. The glass door on the side of the car was open, and the leather chair waited with an invitation that Hamir was reluctant to accept, despite the harsh urgings of the wintry climate.
Hamir had never appreciated being ordered or directed or otherwise manipulated into doing what he didn’t want to do. He rather fancied that he might have one or two choice words for Lady Amilee – should she ever decide to show herself – but he also understood that the Skywatcher had not projected this environment from her imagination purely for its aesthetic value; this was no ordinary dreamscape created within the realm of sleep. This view, this land, was a harbinger, a representation of things that were yet to happen; and Hamir the necromancer, who had never harboured any interest in the art of divination, could scarcely begin to decipher its meaning.
In this place, a hundred years could pass in the blink of an eye while only a fraction of a second passed in the waking world. Yansas Amilee – the Skywatcher, the Warden, Treasured Lady of the Thaumaturgists �
�� she could wait an eternity for Hamir to play her game. Ultimately, the necromancer had no choice.
‘Irritating,’ he sighed, and entered the glass cable car.
The door slid closed as Hamir sank into the armchair; the car rocked, lurched forward and over the ledge to begin smoothly sliding down the cable at a speed that caused Hamir to catch his breath and dig his fingernails into the chair’s armrests. As his carriage was quickly swallowed by thick clouds, he clenched his teeth against the nausea swimming in his stomach, and closed his eyes firmly to order his thoughts as best he could.
The second member of the Trinity of Skywatchers had been Baran Wolfe, Honoured Lord of the Thaumaturgists, who held the proud title of the Wanderer. Lord Wolfe the Wanderer had a reputation as the most benevolent member of the Trinity. His purpose was as an extension of the Timewatcher’s compassion and love. After the creation of the Great Labyrinth, he roamed the Houses of the Aelfir, maintaining a harmonious equilibrium. An enigma, a nomadic mystery, no one could predict the movements of the Wanderer, only that he would appear where he was most needed, always at times of trouble. With kindness, he championed the balance of peace between the Houses; and the Aelfir who encountered him were left enriched by the experience.
Perhaps the saddest tale the Thaumaturgists had to tell was of the day Baran Wolfe was murdered by the third and final member of the Trinity of Skywatchers.
Behind Hamir’s eyelids, the light dimmed momentarily as if he had travelled through a shadow. Sensing that the cable car had passed a large mass, he opened his eyes but couldn’t see what it might have been.