by Edward Cox
‘That doesn’t sound true to me,’ Marney said. ‘Whatever else I might think of Samuel, he’s probably the bravest man I know. His magic has saved all of us at one time or another.’
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Denton said. ‘But back then, it was a struggle to find another way for him. Sadly, I think Hamir once summed up Samuel the best. He said that without a weapon, Samuel’s magic was of use to no one in the Relic Guild but himself.’
‘Then Sophia never found an alternative use for his gift?’
Denton shook his head. ‘It became an academic point, anyway.’
Marney understood: ‘Sophia died, and Gideon became Resident.’
‘And the first thing Gideon did as Resident was put a gun in Samuel’s hand.’
Marney was beginning to understand why her fellow Relic Guild agent was such a standoffish sort of character. ‘I had no idea,’ she said.
Denton groaned as he rubbed at his old knees. He seemed more tired than before. ‘I hate to admit it, Marney, but Samuel made more sense after that. He was a natural. That gun and his magic were a perfect marriage, and I’ve never known him to miss his mark.’
Marney put down the cloth with which she had been soothing her eye. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard Samuel speak about himself, you know, certainly not about his childhood.’
‘And I don’t suppose you ever will.’ Denton leaned down, undid the string on his backpack, and began rummaging through his belongings. ‘Samuel sort of closed down after Gideon became Resident. He withdrew. He came from a tough place, Marney, and I hope you will at least bear that in mind when you next consider your fellow magicker.’
With a light smile, Denton sat upright and slapped an envelope down onto the table, causing a puff of air to ruffle the maps and papers.
Marney stared at the envelope. It had been resealed with fresh wax, and contained the coded instructions on how to find the Library of Glass and Mirrors, and what to do once it was reached.
‘The worst could still happen, and we need to continue planning for it,’ said Denton.
He pushed the envelope towards Marney but she made no attempt to pick it up.
‘I don’t think you should give this to me, Denton.’
‘Marney, I know you have been through an ordeal, but it’s highly unlikely that you’ll be captured by a hierophant with anti-magic again.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Marney replied. ‘When I was in that stone hut, I would’ve done anything to escape. I would’ve told them everything I knew, Denton. I—’
‘Stop it,’ the old empath said softly. ‘Do you honestly believe that I would have acted any differently in your position? You live and you learn, Marney. But the fact remains –’ he pushed the envelope a little closer to her ‘– if one of us falls, the other must continue to the Library of Glass and Mirrors. Take it.’
Marney reached out. Her hand hovered briefly over the envelope, and then she slid it off the table, and stuffed it into the leg pocket on her fatigues.
But her thoughts remained on the events that had taken place in the stone hut.
‘Denton,’ she asked in a subdued voice. ‘What does doubt and wonder mean?’
The old empath levelled a look at her, and Marney knew he had closed down his emotions. ‘Pardon me?’ he said.
‘Matthaus,’ Marney explained, suddenly chilled by the steel in her mentor’s eye. ‘He told me what he’d managed to decipher from your instructions. He said the phrase doubt and wonder was mentioned several times, and it was connected to a place of worship – a church or cathedral? He mentioned something about known things—’
‘Marney, listen to me very carefully.’ There was hard frost in Denton’s voice. ‘I just killed a man for knowing too much. What does that tell you about the information in that envelope?’
Marney swallowed as Denton’s empathic magic slithered through her shield of apathy and imparted a sense of dread to her.
Denton continued. ‘Whatever Matthaus said to you, keep it to yourself. Unless the worst should happen, it is simply too dangerous for you to know more than you already do. Understand?’
His expression left no room for argument, and Marney nodded.
At that moment, the tent flap swished to one side, and a young private stepped in. He stood to attention, his uniform impeccable, his face freshly shaved. Marney laid a hand upon the envelope in her pocket.
‘General Jolyn sent me,’ the private said stiffly. ‘I’m to escort you out of Ghost Mist Veldt. The portal has been prepared and is ready for use.’
‘Ah, then our journey continues,’ Denton said, his usual jovial manner returning. ‘Please, young man, lead the way.’
As the empaths hoisted their packs and followed the private out of the tent, Denton’s voice filled Marney’s mind.
You have to trust me, as I trust you, Marney, he said earnestly. I sincerely hope that you never have to know what we’re searching for at the Library of Glass and Mirrors.
The misty, humid hours of Ruby Moon always preceded the rains that fell every night upon Labrys Town. When the clouds broke, torrential downpours washed away the dust and grime and heat of the day, and topped up the reservoirs that kept the denizens supplied with water. But when the rains stopped, a change occurred in the sky above the Labyrinth. Ruby Moon would take a bow, its humid red glow giving way to the cold, clear gleam of its sibling.
The rains had stopped, the clouds had cleared, and Silver Moon’s brilliant light shone down from a star-filled sky as Samuel neared Fabian Moor’s prison. The streets of the southern district were wet, the atmosphere fresh, the temperature low enough to cause Samuel’s breath to fog in the air. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he hurried into the abandoned ore warehouse. The shutter door closed behind him with a series of metallic clangs.
In the dim light of a glow lamp, Samuel took off his Aelfirian hat, stuffed it into his inside pocket, and looked around the warehouse. Hamir was absent. The milky fluid within the eye device fixed to the wall was still, inactive; a reassuring sign that Gideon wasn’t watching. Samuel was all alone with the prisoner.
The higher magic radiating from the circle of symbols on the warehouse floor had formed a pillar of purple light. Within it, Fabian Moor floated on his back, naked and debilitated, his skin pale as though he had been leeched of blood. His body, almost folded in two slowly turned in the air, his limbs and long white hair hanging limp. Samuel approached the prison of thaumaturgic light. Moor’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His genitals were shrivelled. The skin of his stomach was contorted, twisted, stretched as though he dangled from an invisible meat hook that held him ready for gutting like an animal in a slaughterhouse.
The Genii ceased turning as his upside down face came in line with Samuel. His mouth was agape as though he slept, but his eyes were open, staring at the Relic Guild agent. Hate bloomed inside Samuel as he came to stand as close to the edge of the symbols carved into the floor as he dared.
‘Gene was my friend,’ Samuel hissed at Moor. ‘But I don’t suppose that means anything to you. He was only human, after all.’
Samuel wondered for a moment if the Genii really knew he was there. His face was lax, expressing neither pain nor anger. Yet there was something in those dangerous eyes that undoubtedly acknowledged the magicker’s presence – and his words.
‘See this?’ Samuel said, drawing the hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his side. The blade was long and wicked. ‘Given the chance, I’d run it across your throat. But maybe that’s too quick, too easy for someone like you.’
Still, there was no change in the Genii’s expression. Samuel slid the knife back into its sheath.
‘The blood of my friend is on your hands,’ he growled, ‘and the blood of the denizens. I’ll make sure you suffer long and hard for what you’ve done. Do you hear me, you bastard? I’
m going to listen to you scream.’
‘Save your breath, Samuel,’ said the voice of Hamir.
Startled, Samuel looked about the warehouse, but couldn’t see the necromancer anywhere.
‘Gene’s death will mean as little to the Genii as your threats,’ Hamir continued. He emerged from the shadowy doorway that led to the stairs down to the cellar. ‘And if we were to face harsh truths, Samuel, I think we might find that you have killed more denizens in your time than Fabian Moor has.’
Samuel glared as Hamir made his way to a small table upon which the necromancer’s paraphernalia was laid out. He carried the big, leather-bound book that contained the secret arts of the Thaumaturgists, clutching it to his chest like a treasured possession.
‘Of course,’ Hamir added, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m being callous. I regret Gene’s passing as much as you.’
‘You could’ve fooled me,’ Samuel muttered.
‘Death affects people in different ways, Samuel.’ Hamir placed the book down on the table, and selected one of the two remaining phials of blood from a small wooden rack. ‘Some people accept death in all its forms. Others cling to the grief and anger, almost as if they would feel lost without it.’
With that strangely amiable manner that never waned, Hamir approached Samuel, phial in hand. ‘Am I right?’
Samuel ignored the insinuation in Hamir’s words, and gestured to Fabian Moor suspended in the air by his stomach. ‘Has he said anything yet?’
‘Not a word, but I’m working on it.’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Hamir came to stand alongside Samuel. ‘As much as you might want me to satisfy your grim desires, my first duty is to ensure the prisoner stays alive.’
Slowly and carefully, the necromancer fed the phial of blood into the thaumaturgic light. The phial had no cork; both ends were sealed, rounded glass. When he let go, it hovered in the purple glare, and drifted to hang above Fabian Moor’s open mouth. The Genii’s eyes stared up at it.
‘Survival is an interesting instinct, Samuel,’ said Hamir. ‘Yours is a magical gift, a prescient awareness that gives you no choice but to fight for survival, no matter the odds. But in others, there is always a limit beyond which the survival instinct will give up and accept defeat. The only certain fact I have learned about Fabian Moor, is that he still believes he has something worth surviving for. Observe.’
The end of the phial lowered into Moor’s mouth. Automatically, the Genii’s lips closed around it and he began to suck in a frantic fashion. But he could not draw the blood through the glass. Aiming a baleful glare at Hamir, Moor took the phial between his teeth and bit, hard.
It cracked and broke.
Blood poured freely, filling Moor’s mouth, spilling onto his face and down his cheeks as he choked, trying not to swallow shards of glass. It was a brief meal, little more than a single gulp. With a weak hand, Moor tried wiping the spilled blood into his mouth, slapping his own face in the process, licking his fingers clean. It was an undignified, desperate act that gained him no more than a few extra drops. And then the Genii’s arm fell limp again, the last of his strength spent. He worked his tongue around his mouth, and finally spat out a few pieces of glass. The remnants of the phial dissolved into purple light. Fabian Moor closed his eyes, and his blood-smeared lips set into a grim line.
Hamir said, ‘If he is willing to bite through glass to ensure his survival, I rather think he has one or two secrets that I might find interesting.’
Samuel grunted. ‘Like what it is he wants to move with that device he made.’
‘Indeed.’
Samuel looked around for the glass sphere, but couldn’t see it in the warehouse.
‘I’m keeping it in the cellar,’ Hamir explained. ‘Out of the way.’
‘I take it Gideon told you what I learned from Long Tommy?’
‘Yes, he passed on your report.’ The necromancer considered the Genii in his prison. ‘But if we’re going to build on current information, we need to keep up Moor’s strength for further interrogation. The supply of blood that Macy and Bryant donated is all but finished.’ He motioned to the last phial left in the rack on the table. ‘I was hoping you might like to share the load, Samuel.’
Samuel stared at him with disbelief. ‘You want my blood to feed him?’ He jabbed a thumb at Moor.
Hamir blinked. ‘Yes.’
‘Forget it.’ Samuel scowled. ‘I want no part in keeping Moor alive. Get it from the hospital, or ask Gideon to donate some.’
‘Samuel, feeding Fabian Moor the blood of a magicker has its benefits. The energy it holds means his cravings are sated by consuming far less than he would need from a regular denizen. However, feeding him blood as strong as a blood-magicker’s?’ Hamir clucked his tongue. ‘Considering Gideon’s ancestry, I think we’d be feeding the Genii the kind of magic that his prison was established to stop him using against us.’
Samuel shrugged. ‘Then give him your blood, Hamir.’
The necromancer barked a laugh. ‘Now that really would be a bad idea. Come, Samuel. It won’t take long, and I don’t need much. For now.’
Hamir stepped over to the table, pulled out a packing crate from beneath it, and gestured for Samuel to use it as a seat. Samuel’s gaze lingered on Moor floating in his prison, eyes closed, face smeared with blood. His expression was almost peaceful, though the contortion at his stomach must have been agony beyond belief.
‘Samuel,’ Hamir said impatiently, and he gestured to the crate again. ‘Remove your coat and roll up your sleeve.’
Reluctantly, Samuel took his seat, and did as the necromancer instructed. He threw his coat on the floor beside the crate, and scrunched the sleeve of his jumper up his right arm.
Hamir unfastened a black medical bag, producing a brown leather roll, which he opened in a perfunctory manner. First, he removed a wax paper packet, which he unfolded to reveal a collection of thin and sharp hypodermic needles. Next, he laid a rubber tourniquet beside the needles, and then removed a little bottle of surgical spirits, along with a few muslin clothes. Last, he pulled a dull metal cylinder from the roll, eight inches long and as fat as Samuel’s wrist. The cylinder opened like a book, and Hamir placed it upon the table. Four glass and copper syringes were held securely inside, two in each half.
As Hamir cleaned one of the hypodermic needles with a cloth doused in surgical spirits, Samuel’s eyes were again drawn to Fabian Moor, and to the scarring on the Genii’s forehead. He looked back at Hamir, and the scarring he wore in exactly the same place. Samuel found himself wondering about the origins of the small, elderly necromancer.
Hamir had always been at the Nightshade, serving as the Resident’s aide, but he had never really been considered an agent of the Relic Guild. Samuel didn’t know if he was a magicker or a magic-user. Had Hamir been born with the gift of necromancy? Or was it a school of magic in which he had become adept? Either way, Hamir had never tracked down stolen relics or fought treasure hunters as the other agents had. In fact, he rarely left the Nightshade at all. He only came forward to help when the Resident ordered him to, content for the rest of the time to remain as aloof and absent as was humanly possible. Hamir was more like a ghost, haunting the periphery.
There was a kind of acceptance within the Relic Guild that a wall of privacy surrounded Hamir that the agents never tried to breach. Denton, by far the oldest member of the Relic Guild, claimed that Hamir had not changed in the sixty years he had known him. Hamir didn’t suffer illnesses, he didn’t seem to age, and he certainly didn’t talk about himself. No one knew when he had been born. Or what deeds lay in his past. And no one knew how he had acquired that scar on his forehead.
The group liked to swap theories about the Resident’s aide from time to time, joke and guess about the secrets he might be hiding. Samuel had never been interested in getting involved – and mayb
e, after all these years of speculation, people should start accepting that Hamir was just Hamir.
Hamir noticed the magicker staring at him.
‘Is there something on your mind, Samuel?’
‘What – apart from the Genii we’re holding in a thaumaturgic prison, you mean?’
‘Hmm.’ Hamir tied a tourniquet around Samuel’s arm, said, ‘Hold still, please,’ and slid the needle into a vein without Samuel feeling so much as a slight sting.
‘Hamir, do you know where Denton and Marney have gone?’
‘No. I’m as much in the dark about their mission as you,’ the necromancer admitted. ‘And, before you ask, I don’t know if there has been word from Van Bam and Angel, either.’ He selected one of the glass and copper syringes. ‘Now tell me – do you think the information from the magic-user – this Long Tommy – can be believed?’
‘He certainly wasn’t lying,’ Samuel replied, watching as Hamir screwed the syringe onto the needle. ‘Whether what he told me is right or not is another matter.’
‘Ah. Then let us suppose that the device is a shadow carriage.’ Hamir began pulling out the plunger, slowly drawing Samuel’s blood into the syringe. ‘What do you think Moor wants to move with it?’
Samuel narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t remember Hamir ever asking for his opinion before. ‘Well, if I were to guess, I’d say he’s looking to bring more Genii into Labrys Town.’
‘You mean other Genii whose essences have been stored in terracotta jars?’
Samuel nodded. ‘It’s the only way they can sneak past the Timewatcher’s barrier.’
Hamir didn’t seem convinced. ‘It is possible, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’ said Samuel. ‘Moor told Long Tommy that the portals to the Great Labyrinth were too well guarded. If he was trying to send out treasure hunters to bring back more terracotta jars, it would be too risky for them to use the official shadow carriages in Labrys Town now. It makes sense, Hamir.’
