by Edward Cox
‘This isn’t a fob watch, Clara,’ Samuel replied. ‘It’s a spirit compass.’
So saying, he took the compass and unscrewed its cap, revealing the face within.
Clara bent down for a closer look.
‘It works with any organic material,’ Samuel explained. ‘Hair, skin, blood – anything – and it’ll track the spirit of the donor.’ Samuel pressed the compass face. It gave a click and sprang up on a hinge. ‘It was how I was able to track you.’
Beneath the compass face was a hollow interior, like a tiny, flat-bottomed dish, and curled inside was a long, silver-grey hair, thick like twine. Samuel pulled the hair out and offered it to Clara. Tentatively, she took it and frowned.
‘It’s yours,’ Samuel told her. ‘A hair from the wolf. I found it on the remains of the man you killed.’
Her expression unreadable, Clara pulled the hair taut between her fingers and studied it. ‘I’ve never seen it, you know,’ she said, her tone strange. ‘The wolf, I mean. I never remember … not clearly …’ She released the hair and watched it fall away on the chilly breeze. Her lip trembled. ‘I-I don’t think I’ve ever killed anyone before, Samuel.’
Samuel said nothing, uncorked the phial, and began tapping its contents into the hollow interior of the compass.
‘I have to ask,’ Clara said, her voice small. ‘Tonight, out in the Great Labyrinth, if Marney hadn’t stopped you—’
‘I would’ve shot you dead,’ Samuel replied unhesitatingly.
He looked up at Clara. His blunt answer had obviously offended her. He felt a flush of shame, but saw no point in dressing things up for the young changeling.
‘I’m two years away from my seventieth birthday,’ he said, ‘and I don’t expect to reach that age. I’ve been a bounty hunter since the Genii War ended, Clara. It’s how I get by, and I’ll give you no apologies or excuses.’
She looked to the floor.
‘Clara, you’re an agent of the Relic Guild now. We may be shrouded in secrecy, but there’s nothing but loyalty to our duties. From here on out, we trust each other.’
‘What’s done is done, eh?’
‘Exactly.’
She nodded, looking like a scolded child. Samuel could see Clara was doing her best to shrug off lingering doubts. He didn’t have the heart to tell her they never went away, and resumed filling the compass with dried blood and skin.
‘So,’ Clara said, ‘the spirit compass will lead us to Hemlock.’
The phial empty now, Samuel clicked the compass face back into position, got to his feet and offered Clara a closer look.
‘Sounds like magic to me,’ she said. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘A good question. It doesn’t exactly belong here, if you follow me.’
‘It’s a relic?’
Samuel nodded. ‘A genuine artefact of the Aelfir.’
Clara’s face flowed through a mixture of emotions, but finally she seemed to settle on awe.
Samuel continued. ‘Usually, these relics were returned to their proper owners, but we never did discover which House this compass was stolen from.’ Samuel allowed her a small smile. ‘I like to think of it as a perk of the job.’
‘A perk? What does Van Bam think of that?’
‘Our Resident could hardly object,’ he scoffed. ‘Where do you think that cane of his came from?’
Clara laughed then, with genuine humour. It was good to see it on her young face.
‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘Van Bam is an illusionist, Marney an empath – and how magic touched me certainly isn’t a secret anymore – but how did magic touch you, Samuel?’
Samuel didn’t answer. The compass was vibrating in his hand.
The needle ticked around the face slowly, and then spun anti-clockwise in a full circle. It stopped, shivering, pointing directly south down Resident Approach. It was a strong reading.
‘Got him,’ Samuel said. He looked at the sleek black body of the Resident’s personal tram sitting on its track in the forecourt. ‘Let’s go.’
The Resident of Labrys Town received few visitors. Most of those who came to the Nightshade did so on official business – the heads of the merchant and industry guilds, gambling and entertainment councils – and these visitors could never hide their discomfort when seeing the metal plates covering their governor’s eyes. They wondered how one weakened by blindness could attain such a lofty position as the Residency. They did not realise that there was more than one way in which a man might see, and the Resident of Labrys Town saw everything.
Van Bam stood alone in his observatory, deep inside the Nightshade. The room was alive with wispy imagery and spectral visions that filled his inner sight with myriad shades of grey. On the streets of Labrys Town, the ubiquitous eye devices took in streams of information at all times. The police used the eyes to watch the hidden corners of town, but ultimately all audio and visual information was fed to the Nightshade for the attention of the Resident.
Van Bam observed Samuel and Clara, and it was almost as though he stood out in the forecourt beside them. But the young changeling and the old bounty hunter were unaware of the Resident’s presence. He watched as they boarded the Nightshade’s official tram and set off through the tunnel, heading south towards the central district. Van Bam followed them, jumping through the eyes held in the hands of the statues lining Resident Approach; and then he overtook the tram and travelled across the world he governed. Drifting, flying almost, he weaved through the streets and back alleys as a phantom, the unseen watcher.
Labrys Town held a population of close to a million denizens. It was divided into five districts and covered two and a half thousand square miles of ground. The town was boxed in by the sheer boundary walls, a hundred feet high on all four sides. Beyond the boundary lay the endless twists and turns of the Great Labyrinth, where the Retrospective roamed, where even Van Bam’s vision could not see. There was no escaping this place, not anymore. Labrys Town was all the denizens had, all they would ever have, and they knew they were being watched.
The districts were all but deserted in the cold early hours of Silver Moon. The streets were wet and few people walked them. To Van Bam’s inner sight, all was as it should be. He continued to follow the eyes southward until reaching the central district and a plaza known as Watchers’ Gallery, located at the exact centre of town. Inside the plaza stood a square building that was the headquarters of the Labrys Town Police Force. Impressive in size, it was still much smaller than the Nightshade. Van Bam’s vision entered the building, jumping through the eyes inside, until he reached the upper level and the office of Captain Jeter.
Jeter sat as his desk, working through a mountain of paperwork. He looked tired. Three empty cups before him were evidence of the coffee that was helping to keep him awake. The office now filled the observation room of the Nightshade as though Van Bam stood there before the desk, but it was only imagery, and he ensured that Jeter could not see him.
With a mental command, Van Bam activated the audio function. ‘Working late, Captain?’ he said.
Jeter started to his feet. He saluted his Resident, though in actuality the gesture was aimed at the eye device fixed to his office wall.
‘Yes, sir,’ the police captain said.
‘It is good to see the denizens are in such dedicated hands. Please, be seated.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jeter took his chair again, but his body language remained stiff and formal and the dark lenses of his spectacles were concealing his eyes. Van Bam pursed his lips.
‘I wish to speak with you, Captain, but first be so good as to remove your spectacles.’
Jeter did so hurriedly. Without their aid, his small, hazel eyes blinked and strained for focus.
Van Bam said, ‘That’s better.’
If one knew what signs to look for, the human face could give away much of
what a person truly thought, of what they did not say – the eyes most especially. And who better to read those signs, to understand and detect the masking of what was real, than an illusionist?
‘Do you have anything to report?’ Van Bam continued.
‘No, sir,’ Jeter said. ‘Our search for Charlie Hemlock is continuing, but we’ve hit nothing but dead ends so far.’
‘That is hardly surprising, Captain. You may call off your efforts now. Charlie Hemlock is no longer your concern.’
Jeter frowned. ‘And Fat Jacob, sir?’
‘He will not be returning to the Lazy House.’
‘Understood. I’ll have the entertainment council terminate his license.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
‘Sir, if I might, can I ask about the whore, Peppercorn Clara—’
‘The matter is closed,’ Van Bam responded sternly. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir …’
Jeter was a model denizen, an excellent choice as head of the police; but whenever he was addressed by his Resident, his uncertainty displaced the confident arrogance he usually displayed before others. His frustration was evident now, though he dare not argue with Van Bam. How could a matter the Resident had deemed so important just a few scant hours ago be concluded so suddenly without explanation? Jeter’s face was alive with micro-expressions, easily read by Van Bam.
The Resident said, ‘You are wondering at the reasons for my decision, yes?’
Jeter lowered his eyes. ‘It’s not my place to question you, sir.’
‘No, it is not. Put your frustration to one side, Captain. A matter has arisen of which we must speak.’
Jeter looked up, his expression professional once more. ‘Of course, sir.’
Van Bam paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘A wild demon has entered Labrys Town.’
Jeter’s expression fell, almost imperceptibly. His Resident’s revelation was clearly a problem he did not need in these early hours. ‘Understood,’ he said. ‘I’ll organise a search and destroy party immediately.’
This was standard procedure on the rare occurrence of a wild demon venturing from the Retrospective and managing to pass through the boundary wall into town; but Jeter did not appreciate that this time it was no ordinary demon his Resident was talking about.
‘No,’ Van Bam said. ‘You will double the street patrols, and police watchers will monitor the eyes at all times. I will coordinate the hunt personally.’
‘Sir?’
‘Captain, this demon is peculiarly gifted in magic. It will be hard to track and even harder to destroy. For that reason, I am reinstating the services of the Relic Guild.’
‘The Relic Guild?’ Jeter’s surprise was obvious. Less apparent were the subtle shades of fear that opened his eyes fractionally wider.
‘You heard me, Captain,’ Van Bam said. ‘You and your officers will pay every courtesy to my agents. You will not stand in the Relic Guild’s way, but you will stand by as reinforcements should you be ordered. Do you understand?’
‘Y-Yes, sir.’
‘Good. You will watch and protect the denizens as always. Anything of the unusual is to be reported to me immediately. We must not underestimate the threat this demon poses.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Then you have your orders, Captain, and I bid you good night.’
Jeter jumped to his feet and saluted again. Van Bam said nothing further and withdrew his focus from the office, the police building and the plaza in which it stood. Once more his vision flowed through the eyes of Labrys Town.
Streets and buildings passed through his observation room, but Van Bam didn’t know where he was heading and travelled in random directions across two and a half thousand square miles. Observing the town like this gave the Resident a sense of clarity and inner focus, and there was much on which he needed to meditate.
The dead stay dead, Clara had stated – if only that were true. The Relic Guild had stopped Fabian Moor once before, but things had been different back then, the organisation much stronger. Marney was missing, perhaps dead already; and that left two old men and an inexperienced young girl with the unenviable task of hunting Spiral’s most dangerous general, the last of the Genii.
As he continued to travel across Labrys Town with this daunting thought in mind, a man’s voice suddenly spoke inside Van Bam’s head with cold, pernicious tones.
Are you feeling lucky, my idiot?
Van Bam sighed, but didn’t reply, and the voice added: Are you roaming the streets hoping you might catch Fabian Moor enjoying a night off? Doing his laundry, perhaps?
Van Bam felt his direction veer to take a new route through the eyes. He was not in control of this change, and not from choice did his motion stop halfway down a wide street on the outskirts of the central district.
He stood outside a four storey hospital. Inside, a receptionist spoke with an orderly. The lights from windows shone down onto the wet cobbles. Van Bam felt a moment of sadness, remembering Angel. Many years ago, in this hospital, she had doubled as a doctor, using her gift of magical healing to help where she could.
The voice spoke again inside Van Bam’s mind, and the cold tone was clearly amused: Brings back memories, doesn’t it?
Why have you brought me here? Van Bam thought, but the voice didn’t answer at first.
In the street before the Resident the figure of a man slowly materialised. His hair was short, and his gaunt face was shaded by stubble. He grinned lopsidedly, laconically, and his sunken eyes gleamed with menace.
This man did not truly stand in the street; he did not stand anywhere. He was the voice in Van Bam’s head, the ghost that haunted the corridors of the Nightshade, the spirit who had at one time been the Resident of Labrys Town. He was forever remembered as Gideon the Selfless, and he appeared to Van Bam exactly as he had the night he had been killed, forty years before.
‘Why didn’t you tell Captain Jeter the truth?’ the ghost of Gideon demanded. ‘Why not tell him that a Genii has returned?’
‘You know why,’ Van Bam replied. ‘The very mention of Fabian Moor would send the denizens into a panic.’
‘And rightly so.’ Gideon watched as two nurses emerged from the hospital, ending their shifts for the night. They walked through Gideon, briefly disturbing his image, and he turned to watch them leave, unashamedly admiring their figures.
He turned back to Van Bam with lust in his eyes. ‘But I think inducing panic will soon be the least of everyone’s worries, don’t you, my idiot?’ He chuckled unkindly.
For forty years Van Bam had tolerated Gideon’s voice in his head, and the ghost rarely made his point quickly. It was far easier to accept his incongruous manner than to battle against it.
He sighed and took a few steps closer to the former Resident. ‘Gideon, there is something I do not understand.’
‘Oh?’
‘Fabian Moor is a Genii, a creature of higher magic – what possible use could he have for a magicker? Why did he abduct Marney instead of killing her?’
Gideon shrugged as if he didn’t much care. ‘Your guess, I suspect, is as useless as mine. Though we have always had our theories about Moor.’
Van Bam nodded. ‘Let us hope that Charlie Hemlock will provide some definite answers.’
‘If he’s still alive.’ A look of dark mirth came over Gideon’s sharp features. ‘Oh, by the way, I like Clara. She’s a little ugly for my tastes, but when a whore earns the name of Peppercorn …’ His grin was unfriendly.
Van Bam held in check a sudden and unexpected need to protect the changeling.
Gideon said, ‘Do you think she is up to the task, my idiot?’
This gave Van Bam pause to consider. He exhaled heavily. ‘Clara is strong, and we can be thankful that Marney has helped her to accept her predicament.’
�
�What, with a kiss?’ Gideon snorted. ‘Marney never did anything without reason – you know that, my idiot. Who can say what she did to the whore out in the Great Labyrinth tonight.’
‘Regardless,’ Van Bam said testily, ‘Clara will have to learn fast, but at least she is in good hands.’
‘Good hands?’ Gideon’s laughter was scornful. ‘Are you really so sure?’
With that the ghost disappeared, and Van Bam felt a dizzying lurch as he was swept away from the hospital where an old friend had once worked, and his journey across Labrys Town was resumed.
Again, the streets and side lanes passed through the observation room. Faster and faster he travelled, the lights of streetlamps streaked and blurred, but Van Bam didn’t try to stop Gideon leading him across the districts. Within seconds he reached the lower regions of Resident Approach, where a sleek and black tram was just heading into the central district from the north. Van Bam caught up with his personal tram, and then its interior filled the observation room.
He stared down the length of the carriage. Two bench seats lined either side. Samuel and Clara sat opposite each other. Samuel studied his spirit compass, and Clara looked down at the satchel of spell spheres in her lap. They did not speak; the atmosphere in the tram was clearly uncomfortable.
Gideon had materialised sitting next to Samuel. Van Bam ensured that he and the ghost could not be seen or heard, and pursed his lips as Gideon sneered into the old bounty hunter’s face.
‘Look at him,’ he hissed. ‘Always so proud. Always so … irritating. You should have died years ago, Old Man Sam.’
Van Bam didn’t comment. Gideon, even as a ghost, was a latent psychopath. When he was alive, his passion for confrontation was legendary among the agents of the Relic Guild. But he had been the Resident and his ways were tolerated. Except by Samuel. He and Gideon had shared a mutual hatred, which often boiled over, and on a few occasions they had needed to be separated. Van Bam had never discerned the specific reason why they loathed each other, but no one had ever dared suggest they reconcile their differences, not even old and wise Denton.
