by Edward Cox
Van Bam closed the door, and it became indistinguishable from the wall. Taking Clara’s arm, he led her gently over to the mirror and positioned her with her back to it. He gripped Clara’s shoulders, and once more she got the impression that the metal plates covering his eyes were searching her face. In the bright light of the study, Van Bam looked much older than he had appeared in the shadows of Hamir’s laboratory.
‘You are young,’ he said, ‘and there is much you claim not to know. Yet I wonder, Clara, how much does Marney trust you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’ Was he angry with her? ‘I never knew her before tonight, I still don’t—’
‘You have heard of the Relic Guild?’
Clara looked puzzled. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘But was Marney trusting enough to tell you the truth?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Van Bam cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something. ‘A friend has come to see me,’ he said. ‘He must not know of your presence. You will stand here, before this mirror, Clara. Remain quite still and you will not be noticed. Understand?’
His tone left no room for refusal or further questions, and so Clara nodded.
As Van Bam stepped away, he tapped his cane against the floor and whispered a word Clara didn’t catch. The cane’s glass flashed green. There was a low hum and the air surrounding the mirror shimmered. The rest of the room wavered, as if veiled by water. The sound of Clara’s own breathing was loud in her ears, as if she was trapped within a bubble.
Clara looked back at the mirror; she cast no reflection in its dull and faded surface.
Magic!
Van Bam had taken a seat at his desk. He sat facing the invisible door to his study, his glass cane lying on the desktop before him. The more Clara looked at this man, the more familiar he seemed: his smell, the sound of his voice, the way he cocked his head to one side … but she had never seen him before in her life. Had she?
In that moment, Clara felt warmth inside her head and breast, as if Marney’s box of secrets had cracked open a little. It reassured her that Van Bam meant her no harm, even if he was a magic-user, even if his aide had scared her half to death. Even if he did speak in riddles.
All her life Clara had heard the tales and legends of Labrys Town from before the Genii War. Back then, treasure hunters ran an illegal but booming trade. They snuck out into the Great Labyrinth and travelled through the doorways to the Houses of the Aelfir, searching for artefacts and magical relics which they could steal and smuggle back into Labrys Town. The black market had been a serious problem for the Resident and the Aelfir in the old days, as wealthy collectors would pay vast sums of money for stolen Aelfirian antiques.
There were still some denizens nowadays who liked to call themselves treasure hunters. Nobody took them seriously, not even the police; after all, even if they found a way past the boundary wall, the only place left to search for treasure was the Retrospective, from which no one returned. However, before the Genii War, treasure hunters had caused so much trouble for the Resident that a special organisation was created, a group of agents whose purpose was to counteract the illegal trade in Aelfirian artefacts, to recoup the stolen merchandise and deal harshly with those involved. These agents were the only humans permitted to use magic; their identities were kept secret, and they were known as the Relic Guild. But like so much else, the Relic Guild had disappeared after the war. No one had heard from them for decades.
Why had Van Bam mentioned it? What truth?
In his chair at the desk, the Resident shifted. ‘Remember, Clara,’ he said, his voice clear and insistent inside the mirror’s bubble, ‘make no sound. Do not move.’
With a faint click, the door appeared in the wall. It swung open, and a man stepped into the study. Through the bubble, Clara’s view of him was distorted. Then the water effect shimmered and shifted, finally smoothing to allow Clara a clearer view of the room and Van Bam’s visitor.
A little shorter than the Resident, the man had broad shoulders, and was dressed in simple black garb and a long brown coat. His face, though strong and not unhandsome, was heavily lined with age and sported a white goatee beard. His lips were drawn into a grim line.
Though Clara had never seen the man before, she found his face familiar. Just as with the Resident, it was almost as if she had dreamt of him.
Beneath his coat, the man had a heavy utility belt, and a handgun was strapped to his left thigh. Over his shoulder protruded the butt of a rifle that was holstered upon his back. Clara knew intuitively that this rifle had at one time been aimed at her.
‘This is an unusual pleasure, Samuel,’ Van Bam said, as the door closed and disappeared. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Rubbing a hand through his white, close-cropped hair, the man took the chair opposite Van Bam. His expression as he stared across the desk gave nothing away.
‘Can I offer you some refreshments?’ Van Bam asked.
‘No.’ The reply was curt. Samuel looked over at the mirror, and his pale blue eyes seemed to bore straight into Clara’s. ‘You’ve had contact with Marney recently,’ he said, looking back to his host. It was a statement.
‘I will not deny that,’ Van Bam replied.
‘It concerned a girl. A whore.’
Van Bam sat back in his seat and a ghost of a smile danced on his lips. ‘This girl means something to you?’
After a moment’s silence, the newcomer responded. ‘I was offered a bounty contract.’
‘Oh?’
‘For her death.’
Clara stifled a gasp. There was a bounty on her head?
‘Yet your quarry eluded you?’ Van Bam said.
‘Marney stopped me.’
‘I see. Then I suppose this girl can boast of being among the lucky few who have escaped the attentions of Old Man Sam.’
Old Man Sam …? Clara’s insides froze. It was said that this bounty hunter had killed more people than anyone else alive. He was a legend, and many believed he had died years ago. But Clara was convinced she knew him from somewhere, somewhere other than his reputation.
‘I am curious,’ Van Bam said. ‘I did not commission, or agree to, a standard bounty on this girl. Was your contract issued in the formal way, Samuel?’
Samuel shook his head. ‘I’m pretty sure it was a bogus offer.’
‘Then could you give me the name of the one who employed your services?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me. The contract was offered by avatar.’
‘Avatar?’
‘Yes. It was just an image of blue light.’
Van Bam nodded slowly as if Samuel was making perfect sense.
What had Hamir told Clara? Something about Fat Jacob being visited by a blue ghost?
‘I don’t know how it found my hideout,’ Samuel continued, ‘but the avatar seemed to know all about me.’
Van Bam took a breath. ‘Samuel, if you believe the avatar’s bounty contract to be fake, then that begs the question of why your interest in this girl is continuing.’
‘Because of promises we made.’
‘Ah.’ The Resident steepled his fingers and bounced them lightly upon his lips. ‘Then we must speak openly. I received a message that Marney would steer a young girl in my direction. I have taken the girl in, but I have yet to discover for what reason Marney saved her.’
‘She’s a magicker, Van Bam. What other reason do you want?’
‘What other reason indeed.’
Clara couldn’t figure out if these two men liked or loathed each other, but it was obvious that neither was comfortable with this conversation.
‘Tell me,’ Van Bam continued. ‘Where is our empathic friend now?’
‘That’s a good question, but it doesn’t have a good answer.’
‘She is in trouble?’
Samuel paused. ‘The girl was bait. She was part of a trap.’
‘For Marney?’
Samuel nodded.
Clara’s chest fluttered. Her wolf stirred. Van Bam appeared calm and assured as he waited for his guest to reveal more. Clara held her breath.
Samuel seemed tired, weary to the bone. ‘Marney was kidnapped, abducted by someone I prayed to the Timewatcher I’d never see again.’ He lowered his pale eyes. ‘Van Bam, it was Fabian Moor.’
Something unspoken passed between the two men. If it was fear, Clara didn’t blame them. Fabian Moor was an infamous name, known throughout the town, a legend. He was a demon that had terrorised Labrys Town during the Genii War. But Fabian Moor had been killed by Gideon the Selfless, long before Clara was born. What was going on?
‘You are certain it was Moor?’ Van Bam said levelly.
‘I couldn’t be mistaken,’ Samuel replied. ‘I saw him with my own eyes. Marney … she didn’t even try to defend herself, Van Bam.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Look, there’s a chance I can find her, but I need to see the girl.’
‘She knows where Marney was taken?’
‘Not quite …’ Old Man Sam’s pale gaze turned pointedly to the mirror. ‘But she knows a man who does – don’t you, Clara?’
In the western district of Labrys Town, Briar’s Boutique had long held a reputation as an esteemed seller of quality antiques. It was a reputation of which Briar was proud, and his pride never allowed his standards to slip. He was courteous and patient with his clients, but he was shrewd, with a keen understanding of business. The wealthier antique collectors of the western district were easy with their money when something old caught their fancy; and Briar’s prices were always reassuringly high.
He was an elderly gentleman approaching his mid-seventies who appreciated the value of a good night’s sleep. But in the cold early hours of Silver Moon, he was surprised to have his rest disturbed by the ringing of the bell which sat upon the counter in the boutique below his living quarters. He remembered full well that he had locked the shop door before retiring for the night.
Wrapping a floral design gown over his nightshirt, sliding his feet into velvet slippers, Briar took an antique pistol from his bedside cabinet, before creeping down the stairs as the bell rang for a second time.
The glow lamps had been switched on in the boutique, and a gentleman stood before the counter. He was pale of skin, almost an albino, but his dark eyes scoured the antiques tastefully displayed around the shop. Briar watched from the shadows of the doorway behind the counter. The gentleman did not look or act like a burglar, and he wore the black cassock of a priest. Although seeing this garb gave Briar a sense of relief, he found it a little strange that his visitor’s hair was white and long, and not the customary short style worn by the priests of the Timewatcher.
‘Do I have to ring this bell for a third time,’ the priest said in calm, even tones, ‘or will you finally stop hiding in the shadows?’
Holding the pistol behind his back, Briar stepped through the door and into the boutique. He smiled from behind the counter.
‘Forgive me, Father, but I’m surprised to find one of the cloth here at this time of night. Perhaps you could explain?’
The priest narrowed his eyes. ‘It is almost time for the Sermons of Silver Moon. I was on my way to my church when I noticed that your lights were on and your door was open.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Does that give you cause enough to shoot me?’
Briar paused for a moment, and then a chuckle escaped his lips. ‘Please excuse me, Father,’ he said. ‘Old age must be catching up with me. I could have sworn I closed up properly for the night. I’m rather afraid I mistook you for a burglar.’ He placed the antique pistol on the countertop. ‘An empty threat, I assure you,’ he explained. ‘Even if the pistol was loaded, its power stone no longer holds a charge.’
‘Ah,’ said the priest.
‘I must thank you for your concern, sir, and bid you a good night. Enjoy your sermons, and may the Timewatcher go with you.’
The priest’s smile became decidedly thin. It did not reach his dark eyes. ‘Before I go, perhaps you would indulge me. I am led to believe that you are selling an item that is of particular interest to me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. It is a small jar, plain, made of terracotta.’
Briar thought for a moment, and then made a small noise of surprise. ‘Yes, I believe know the piece you mean, but—’
‘I do not see it on display.’
‘No. It is stored in my backroom. I haven’t had that jar on display for many years now. How did you come to hear of it, Father?
‘Well now …’ The priest paused and seemed amused. ‘It is a long and interesting story. Would you like to hear it?’
Briar kept his professional smile in place. ‘Most certainly, Father, but perhaps at a more sociable hour? If you would like to come back—’
‘Please –’ the priest held up a hand – ‘I get so little time to indulge my fancies in my work. May I beg to see the jar now? You won’t regret it – my story is fascinating.’
Briar was tired and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, but the pride of his professionalism kicked in; he did not want his reputation tarnished by the news that he had turned away a priest of the Timewatcher after benefiting from his neighbourly deed.
‘Of course,’ he said with a well-practised smile. ‘One moment, please.’
Briar left the boutique and entered his storeroom. The small terracotta jar sat at the back of a top shelf, long discarded and forgotten. With a grumble, Briar climbed a short stepladder and pulled it down. It was a small piece, about the size of the jars used to contain preserves. He blew away cobwebs and wiped clear a thick layer of dust to make it presentable. The terracotta was veined with many cracks upon its otherwise smooth and plain surface. It had no lid, and inside was a shallow layer of grey ash.
‘I have to say, I’d completely forgotten I owned this piece,’ he said as he took the jar into the boutique and placed it upon the counter. ‘It gained so little interest from my customers that I stored it away years ago. I’m rather surprised to hear you enquire after it, Father.’
The priest stared at the jar for a long moment. ‘May I ask how you came by it?’
‘Let me see,’ said Briar. ‘Ah, yes. It is a strange tale. A wealthy merchant family, here in the western district, fell upon hard times after the war. But they claimed they were rescued from their monetary plight because of a visit from a ghost.’
Dark eyes fixed upon Briar with keen interest. ‘A ghost?’
‘Yes, of all things. It informed the family that beneath the crypt of a relative there was a hidden chamber full of riches. A dubious story, I’m sure you’ll agree. Personally, I suspect that they had concocted a convenient – although implausible – explanation for an illegal windfall. But the chamber was real enough, and someone had filled it with many relics and antiques. All of which I purchased from the family and sold on many years ago.’
‘All except this jar,’ said the priest.
‘Quite correct, sir.’ Briar sighed. ‘I have always assumed it is the urn which holds the ashes of the dead relative. There is not much interest in such things among collectors, but it is of interest to you?’
‘Yes.’ The priest stepped forwards and picked up the jar. He studied the cracks on its surface, and then peered long and hard at the ashes inside.
‘If I might ask, Father – how did you hear of it? You said you had a fascinating story to tell?’
The priest wasn’t responding, and Briar frowned.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t thought of a price,’ he began. ‘Perhaps you would care to make an offer?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the priest said. He looked up with a strange expression on his pale face. ‘The magic is fading. The spell is all but dead.’
‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘It makes no difference, I suppose. The other signals are strong.’
The priest seemed to be talking to himself. Briar gave a nervous chuckle. ‘My apologies, Father, but you’re not making much sense.’
‘This is not yours to sell,’ the priest said, holding the terracotta jar aloft. ‘It is not some trinket to decorate the shelves of your pathetic little shop.’
‘I’m … I’m sorry?’
‘You humans really need to learn your place.’ The priest sneered at the boutique owner. ‘I’m sick of the stench of you.’
He waved his hand. The light from every lamp in the room died. A snap filled the air as the shop door locked.
Nothing before in his long life had given Briar cause to scream as he did then.
From the study, Van Bam had taken Clara and Old Man Sam to a conference room within the Nightshade. Hamir the necromancer was absent, and the three of them sat at one end of a long conference table, with the Resident positioned in the head chair. Clara sat to his left and stared across the table’s polished wood at Samuel. Samuel held her gaze evenly, and she felt her anger brewing.
The old bounty hunter had already explained what had occurred out in the Great Labyrinth after Clara had fled the courtyard; how Marney had summoned a wild demon to take Charlie Hemlock away, and how she herself had then been abducted. Van Bam had listened attentively, making very little comment. After Samuel had finished, no one had spoken for several moments. Both the old bounty hunter and the Resident confused Clara: in the study they had acted like enemies, but now they seemed less cagey with one another, as if they were comrades who had shared a long history. Their attitudes towards Clara had also changed. She no longer felt like an unwanted guest; less like a victim and more like a discovery, a catalyst for a situation she did not understand. And these changes in attitude had occurred with the mere mention of one name; a name that cast a long shadow from the Labyrinth’s past.
