The Relic Guild

by Edward Cox

  Ice was forming where the slug had hit the wall. It spread out over the brickwork, creeping towards her like frosted breath on a windowpane. In an instant, the ice reached Marney’s right shoulder. She gasped and gritted her teeth as the cloth of her jacket began to freeze. Just as she thought she would have to break cover, the ice ceased spreading and mercifully began to melt.

  Magic: that bullet was designed to capture not kill. A direct hit would have preserved Marney’s body within a cocoon of ice. But magical ammunition was rare in the Labyrinth, and no one – no one – packed that kind of power into a bullet unless they were damn sure of their skills, unless they were … well connected. What kind of enemies had Clara made?

  The assassin still loomed in the alleyway. Marney tried to engage with his emotions, to manipulate him into obeying her command, but he was shielded from her empathy. More magic. There was no way she could get close to him while the gun remained in his hand, so she unzipped her jacket and carefully slipped it off. A baldric of slim throwing daggers was fastened around her torso like a girdle. She slid out a single blade. The silver metal felt cool and smooth in her hand.

  Marney waited several heartbeats, and then threw her jacket into the alley. Immediately, the power stone in the assassin’s pistol flashed and released a burst of thaumaturgy. The ice-bullet fizzed into the jacket, freezing it in midair. It fell, shattering to shards of ice upon the cobbles. Marney spun into the alleyway and threw the dagger. It sliced the air with a sigh before thudding into the face of her adversary. His head snapped back, dislodging the wide-brimmed hat, and the pistol fell clattering from his hand. The violet glow of its power stone faded and died.

  Marney wasted no time. She let fly with two more daggers; one took the assassin in the throat, the other in the chest. He stumbled, but did not fall. Marney readied a fourth blade, but paused before throwing it.

  Something was wrong.

  Beneath the black cassock, the assassin’s body was misshapen, top heavy. His back was hunched and his chest sunken. His limbs appeared overly long and painfully thin. There was no hair on his head, and his face was grotesquely deformed. The hilt of the first dagger protruded from his eye socket; it reflected red moonlight, but there was no blood, not from any of his wounds.

  Silently, he began convulsing. There came a hissing sound and the alley was filled with the hot and acrid stench of dispelling magic. Violent spasms shook the assassin’s body, bending his already twisted form to hideous angles. The hissing was replaced by a multitude of dull cracks, as if every bone in his body was breaking. Still, he emitted not one single cry of pain. Finally the assassin collapsed to the ground where his heaped bulk lay unmoving on the cobbles.

  With the dagger still in her hand, Marney moved forwards cautiously. She inspected the remains. A knot formed in her stomach.

  The souls of the dead could still talk, but even the most adept necromancer would get no information from this assassin. The creature had once been human, she was sure, but now it was not even made of flesh and blood. The cassock lay as rags upon the alley floor, and within its black folds the assassin’s body had shattered into small pieces of powdery stone. Not enough of the face and body remained intact to suggest that they had ever been part of a humanoid shape.

  They said that empaths could never forget, though the Timewatcher only knew Marney had tried. The situation suddenly smacked of something from a long time ago. The assassin’s emotions had not been shielded to her senses; it no longer had any. Her magic was useless against creatures such as these. She could not feel them coming …

  Her basic instincts kicked in. Spiky pulses of warning rushed up Marney’s spine and stabbed into her head. From the corner of her eye she caught the swish of a cassock and the violet glint of a power stone as a second inhuman assassin rounded the corner into the alleyway. Marney rolled to one side and the dagger flew from her hand just as the assassin’s handgun spat out its bullet.

  Chapter Two

  Retrospective

  Samuel had spotted the assassin, passed close enough to see the flash of a power stone and hear the vague spitting sound made by the killer’s handgun, but he did not stop to see if Marney had lived or died.

  Some fifteen feet above the Great Labyrinth’s cobbled ground, he ran along the ramparts atop the alley walls: slick, moss-covered walkways, flanked on either side by low and crenellated barriers. Breathing hard, his hair matted with sweat and drizzle, Samuel pushed his ageing legs with all the strength he could muster.

  Samuel was an old bounty hunter and he understood well that those who allowed sentiment to dictate action did not last long anywhere in the Labyrinth. There were no loyalties, no bonds of friendship and honour in this place – not anymore. He had made headway in this chase, and wasn’t about to surrender it. Marney’s business was her own. Old friendships were dust to him.

  In his hand, Samuel carried a spirit compass. The needle ticked and turned and steered his direction true as it tracked the life energy of his prey. The mark was a whore, young, barely eighteen. Oh, she had a name, but that meant nothing to the old bounty hunter; she was a murderer, and the reward for killing her was almost too good to be true. That was the only important detail.

  With Marney out of the running, the night’s work should have been child’s play for Samuel. But someone must have issued a second contract on the whore; there were a bunch of amateurs running around the alleys playing at assassins. Samuel still had the advantage. Here and there, narrow bridges formed shortcuts through the Great Labyrinth by connecting one rampart to another. Like a maze upon a maze, the bridges led to places where those on the ground could not go. While the attention of these amateurs was focused on the ground, they had no reason to suspect that Samuel shadowed them from up on the ramparts – and nor would they, until it was too late.

  He came to a halt as the rampart stopped at a T-junction. Down below, the alleyway on his left side came to a blind end; down on the right, the cobbled pathway led to a contained courtyard. There were no bridges at this intersection, and the rampart split into two paths. But which should he follow – east or west? Evidently, the spirit compass was also undecided. Its needle spun and shivered as it remained locked onto the whore’s spirit and adjusted navigation inconclusively.

  As Samuel waited, the drizzle turned to full rain, and he let it splash against his upturned face. In the humid glow of Ruby Moon, the raindrops felt refreshing against his skin.

  In the distance, Samuel could see a ghostly glow hanging over the Great Labyrinth, as though the lights of a far away land shone through the mist. It was only a trick of the night, he knew; for there was nothing out there except the alleyways that continued on forever, or so it was thought. But there was a place, a fabled haven that all the Labyrinth’s denizens wondered about, dreamed of reaching. Far beyond the mists, in the deepest regions of the maze, there was a doorway that led to a paradise named Mother Earth. And there, the Timewatcher waited with open arms to welcome all lost souls. Every denizen dreamed of Mother Earth …

  Samuel felt a sudden pang of weariness.

  Old Man Sam they called him. He was a legend among bounty hunters; the deadliest man alive, some said. In truth, Old Man Sam was one of the last vestiges of a past generation. It was difficult for him to remember the strength of his youth, to remember a time when his actions had carried a sense of duty. He imagined the whore, out in the alleys, praying she could somehow escape this mess, find her way back to Labrys Town at the centre of the Great Labyrinth. Did she dream of returning to the sanctuary of her whorehouse, surrounded by the comforting glow of streetlamps and the protection of friends?

  Samuel gritted his teeth and closed his eyes against the rain.

  His prey tonight would never see Labrys Town again. Even if she survived Old Man Sam’s gun, she was utterly lost. Sooner or later, she would stumble upon the Retrospective, and then the wild demons would have their fun with he
r. Better to be shot. Better to die a quick death than face the Retrospective. At least then her soul would reach Mother Earth.

  The compass gave a solid click in Samuel’s hand, and the needle shivered on a definite north-westerly direction. In the distance the glow of the mist, the promise of a far away paradise, somehow seemed to mock the bounty hunter.

  Old Man Sam they called him …

  He took the left turn at the T-junction. After a short distance, he crossed a bridge to a new rampart. From there, a quick series of bridges and walkways followed. Head down against the rain, Samuel zigzagged across the Great Labyrinth, and the chase continued.

  By the time he caught up with the whore, some amateur assassins already had her trapped in a courtyard. Samuel crouched behind the rampart wall and furtively peered down at them through the crenellations.

  The mark was clearly exhausted. She was dressed in clothes so oversized they barely stayed on her waiflike frame. Her large eyes were round with fear, and her short hair, streaked with red dye, was lank from rain. Fatigue and panic creased the pointed features of her gawky face.

  Down to Samuel’s left was the mouth of an alley. It was the only way in or out of the courtyard, and an assassin guarded it. He wore a priest’s cassock and a wide-brimmed hat covered his face. His body was clearly deformed beneath his dress; his arms were so spindly they barely looked strong enough to carry the silver pistol in his hand. Away from the assassin, closer to the girl, stood a short, grubby man whose clothes were scarcely better than rags. Samuel recognised him and a twinge of anger flared in his chest.

  Charlie Hemlock: perhaps the most venal, untrustworthy bastard in Labrys Town. More than once this snake had crossed Samuel, but lived to tell the tale. His involvement came as no surprise.

  Samuel slipped his short rifle from the holster on his back, its power stone covered for stealth.

  Down in the courtyard, Hemlock made a grab for the girl, but, despite her obvious exhaustion, she clearly wasn’t ready to give up the fight. She screeched, clawing at Hemlock’s face, dragging her fingernails down his cheek. As she broke free of him, Hemlock clutched his face and stamped his foot, uttering a stream of curses.

  ‘Bitch!’ he shouted for a finale.

  The girl backed away.

  The assassin remained by the alley mouth offering no help to his friend. Motionless, almost statuesque, he seemed content to watch Hemlock struggle with his lacerations. Why were they toying with their victim?

  Suspicious now, he looked back to the mark.

  Samuel’s employer had told him a rumour about this girl – that she was a magicker, a human born with a specific magical gift. She was a changeling, and could shift her form into that of a wolf. Samuel was sceptical of such tales – nothing like a changeling had been seen in the Labyrinth for a couple of generations at least. But that Hemlock and the assassin had not yet killed the girl got him thinking: changeling blood was a potent catalyst in the art of spell-craft, and any mundane magic-user would give his right arm to procure it, however much damage his lackey took in the process. But there weren’t supposed to be any magic-users left that Samuel didn’t know about, and no matter what he thought of them, the ones he knew wouldn’t stoop this low.

  Whoever had employed Hemlock obviously wanted the whore captured alive, for some reason. Even if the rumours were true about her, she was clearly too exhausted to defend herself with any metamorphosis into a wolf. Samuel guessed that the assassin’s pistol was loaded with some kind of magical ammunition designed to incarcerate her, and that was what triggered his suspicion. The assassin had a clear view of the whore, the power stone on his weapon was primed and glowing, yet he hadn’t taken the shot. Even a child couldn’t miss from that distance. Why was he waiting?

  In his long years in the Labyrinth, Samuel had witnessed many strange and terrible things, and nothing was ever as it seemed. Whatever orders Hemlock and the assassin were under, the instructions for Samuel’s contract were clear: kill the whore. Destroy her remains.

  Hemlock had recovered somewhat from his pain, but four deep gouges lined his cheek. He began goading his captive.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Peppercorn,’ he wheedled. ‘We don’t want to hurt you, honest.’ The lie dripped from his mouth like bile.

  ‘Just let me go,’ the girl said, in a shaky voice. ‘I-I can pay you.’

  Hemlock chuckled with smug satisfaction. ‘Why would I want that? We’re all friends here. You should be more trusting.’

  The girl retreated until her back was pressed up against the wall opposite Samuel’s position, thus making herself a perfect target. Samuel slid the barrel of his rifle through the crenellations. With his thumb, he primed the power stone set behind the barrel. It gave a small whine, and its violet glow struggled to shine through the thick metal gauze covering it. Old Man Sam peered down the sight at his target.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ Hemlock said. ‘We could have some fun.’

  Samuel’s weapon was a police issue rifle. Ordinarily its power stone held such a high-grade thaumaturgic charge that it could spit out a thumb-sized metal slug with enough force to take off a man’s arm. But Samuel had loaded his weapon with ammunition that packed a little extra something, certainly not police issue: fire-bullets. One round would incinerate the mark entirely. Proof of kill would be a box of ashes.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ the girl sobbed.

  The magazine only held four rounds, and that allowed Samuel one miss. Four shots, three kills: the girl, the assassin, and Charlie Hemlock he would save until last. The fire magic would destroy all evidence.

  With steadying breaths, Samuel began squeezing the trigger.

  ‘I haven’t done you any harm!’ the whore pleaded.

  Hemlock laughed.

  Samuel’s finger relaxed.

  Strange: the inclination to honour his contract was dulling like the passion of an argument regretted in the cold light of day. All he had to do was pull the trigger, release a burst of thaumaturgy, and the bounty was his. But when he tried again, he still could not summon the will to shoot the girl, and he grew angry with himself.

  Nothing was ever as it seemed …

  Then, as smooth as spider silk, a voice whispered inside Samuel’s head: Leave the girl alone, Old Man.

  Marney!

  Samuel recognised her voice as easily as his own. Alive and well, the empath was somewhere close, tampering with his emotive reactions.

  Her tones, clear and strong, filled his mind once again: There’s more to this situation than you want to acknowledge.

  Samuel whispered a curse.

  Down in the courtyard, Marney appeared from the alley mouth. Dressed in simple black jersey and trousers, she crept up behind the assassin, silently. Around her torso was her baldric of throwing daggers – one was already in her hand. She threw it at the assassin. It stabbed into the base of his skull. The man gave no cry of pain or alarm, but instead made a hissing noise as he began to jerk spasmodically. There came a series of dull pops, and to Samuel’s astonishment, the assassin collapsed with a stony sound as if he had broken apart. His cassock lay heaped on the floor as though his body had fallen through a trapdoor.

  Stay where you are, Old Man, Marney’s voice said. Whatever happens, whatever you see, do not show yourself.

  Samuel did as he was told. Not that he had a choice; Marney had his emotions in the palm of her hand.

  All this time, Hemlock had not reacted. He was apparently unsurprised by Marney’s arrival, and amused. He smiled at the crumpled ruins of his companion, and then at the empath. The girl had hunkered down on the floor, trembling against the wall. Samuel did nothing but watch them all.

  ‘Hello, Marney,’ Hemlock said. ‘For a moment there I thought we’d lost you.’

  ‘Shut up, Charlie,’ Marney snapped, coming to stand within a few feet of him. ‘I know who you’re working for.�
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  ‘Good for you.’

  Hemlock held his ground, but Samuel could tell his easy manner was a façade. The snake was stalling for time. His shifty gaze darted around the courtyard, as if looking for something that should be there.

  ‘You know, I’m sure you want some explanations,’ he said to Marney. He touched a hand to his cheek wounds and looked at the blood on his palm. ‘Make it worth my while, and maybe I’ll help.’

  ‘I already have what I need.’ Samuel detected a touch of desperation in Marney’s voice. ‘You have no idea who you’re involved with, Charlie. This is low, even by your standards.’

  ‘You think so?’ Hemlock shrugged. ‘I’ve been lower. Besides—’

  He never finished the sentence. Marney sprang forwards and rammed the palm of her hand into his face. There was a spark of empathic energy, and Hemlock fell flat on his back, his senses scrambled.

  The girl had risen from the floor by this time. She looked confused and scared, but she did not shy away as Marney approached her. In voices too low for Samuel to pick up, they spoke.

  The old bounty hunter suddenly remembered the rifle in his hands. The grip was coarse and familiar against his skin, the black metal cold, the power stone glowing beneath its cover. Whether Marney’s influence over him still lingered, he could not say, but he remained hidden up on the rampart, just as she commanded.

  What had she discovered?

  After a few moments, Marney stepped forwards and, to Samuel’s surprise, pulled the whore into a kiss. There was another, softer, flash of energy, and the girl gasped, staggering backwards. Several heartbeats passed, and then Marney let the girl flee the courtyard. The slaps of her bare feet on slick cobbles disappeared into the gloom – along with Samuel’s bounty.