by Edward Cox
With his hand still pressed to the floor, Moor whispered words not heard in Labrys Town for decades. His pale skin glowed with a reddish radiance, and the stone beneath his hand began to bubble and rise.
‘Magic,’ the inmate said. He chuckled and gave a madman’s grin, revealing missing teeth. ‘I know who you are. You’re a Thaumaturgist, just like in the old stories.’
‘Yes, I was once.’ Molten stone rose, spewing and steaming to form a small circle around Moor’s arm as he pushed his hand deeper into the floor. ‘But I much prefer the term Genii,’ he grunted.
The inmate began bouncing on his mattress as if he would be clapping his hands delightedly had they not been restrained by the jacket.
‘Then tell me your secrets, Genii.’
His skin unharmed by the molten stone, Moor’s arm sank until he was shoulder deep into the floor. Finally, his fingers closed around a small and smooth object and he pulled it out.
Holding the terracotta jar at arm’s length, he waited for the last drops of molten stone to drip from it, steaming as they smacked on the floor.
Unlike the jar Moor had traced to the antiques shop, there were no cracks upon this artefact’s surface, and its seal was intact, the contents undisturbed. The spell inside was as strong as it had been the day it was cast.
‘Are you sure you want to know my secrets?’
The inmate grinned and nodded.
With a wave of his hands, and another whispered word, Moor released the straps on the straitjacket.
The inmate tore free of it. His body was naked, bruised and soiled. ‘Tell me,’ he hissed.
‘All you need to know is hidden within this jar. Would you like to open it?’
The inmate held out clutching hands for the artefact. Moor passed it over to him, and then stepped back and watched as he stripped away the wax seal. The lid fell from the jar and shattered on the floor. The inmate looked inside. A sound like a distant shout of rage echoed around the cell.
‘Freedom,’ Moor whispered.
A sandstorm burst from the terracotta jar and hit the madman square in the face.
Without giving him time to scream or fight back, the sandstorm filled the inmate’s mouth and nostrils. Fierce like a whirlwind, it engulfed his body, stripped his skin and absorbed his blood, swelling to a swarm of fiery locusts that devoured his muscles and organs, sucking the marrow from his bones.
Moor observed with grim satisfaction as the contents of the terracotta jar fed and grew thicker, fatter, stronger. A sinewy tendril snaked out like a fleshy bolt of lightning, reaching towards the Genii, as if eager to taste his flesh too.
Moor pulled a sour expression. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he snapped, and the tendril slithered away, back into the body of the storm, content to feed on the madman alone.
Within moments, every drop of the inmate’s blood had been drained, every inch of his soft tissue had been devoured, and all that remained of him was his skeleton, sitting upon the bunk, still clutching the terracotta jar in claw-like hands.
The storm continued to grow thicker, more cohesive, swirling faster and faster as it bound itself into a solid shape – the shape of a person, crouching on the floor. The figure rose as the process completed, revealing a woman with long obsidian hair, as straight as a dark waterfall. She was naked and thin, painfully so. The expression on her porcelain face seemed dazed for a moment.
She looked at the skeleton on the bunk, and then up at the ceiling, as if seeing the upper levels of the asylum through the grey stone. The pale light from the prism shone on the patch of scarring on her forehead. She ran her tongue across her teeth.
Moor raised an eyebrow. ‘Welcome back,’ he said.
Mo Asajad looked at her fellow Genii and smacked her lips together. ‘I’m hungry,’ she whispered.
From the isolation room, Van Bam had led Clara to what she supposed was a common room. She sat in a high-backed leather armchair, staring around at the works of art on the walls. Van Bam sat in a matching chair on the other side of the room. Silent and lost to his thoughts, the Resident turned his cane in his hand almost absentmindedly. Samuel was not present, and Clara didn’t know where he had gone or what he was up to.
On her lap, a slice of honey bread and a few grapes lay on a plate. In her hand, a fresh cup of coffee had grown cold.
Earlier she had felt so hungry, but now she could only summon appetite enough to worry one corner of the bread. The confidence she had experienced outside the isolation room had drained away during this period of inaction. Clara couldn’t understand where it had gone. She had felt so strong – so assured and calm – but now, in the utter silence of the Nightshade, she felt anxious and irritable. Surely they should’ve been out doing something rather than just sitting around, waiting?
Rising from the armchair, she walked over to a tray of refreshments that Van Bam’s servants had laid out on a table. She placed down the plate and cup, frowned at the food on display. There were all kinds of pastries and bread, and the fruit and meat were fresh, not dried. Once again, Clara wondered what other luxuries the Resident enjoyed while his people went without. Considering she and Van Bam were the only two present, the spread seemed a wasteful amount.
Clara’s hunger just couldn’t outweigh her anxiety, so she poured a glass of water and sipped at it as she began pacing the room.
The paintings on the walls were wonderfully realised; strange and alien landscapes that Clara presumed to be artistic impressions of Aelfirian Houses. But they could not hold her attention. A large bookcase was filled with novels and historical works, but she was uninterested in discovering what might lie between their covers. Was it purely this inaction that had swallowed her confidence? Perhaps, with nothing to do but wait for Hamir to finish his operation on Hemlock, Clara, in turn, had the time to fully realise what her life had become. And the lengths to which the Relic Guild was willing to go to achieve its objectives.
She noticed then that Van Bam had stopped turning the glass cane in his hands. He seemed frozen in the armchair, and once again his head was angled to one side. Clara watched him with growing irritation, until, after a few moments, he relaxed and began toying with the cane once more.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked, unable to keep the irritability from her voice.
Van Bam raised an eyebrow. ‘Excuse me?’
‘That!’ she snapped, and tilted her head to one side in an unflattering impression. ‘You look ridiculous.’
Van Bam paused for a moment. ‘Clara, have I offended you in some way?’
‘No.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’
He stabbed his cane against the floor with a dull, discordant chime, and the soft rumble of his voice became decidedly spiky. ‘Then you will address me in a more civil tone.’
Clara tried to glare at the metal plates covering Van Bam’s eyes with as much defiance as she could muster, but the eerie chime of the green glass cane still hung in the air, and it seemed to drain all the boldness from her mood.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I … I just feel edgy.’
His metallic eyes bored into her. ‘You are beginning to remember what Marney did to you? She gave you a message, perhaps?’
‘No. I don’t know. I … don’t remember.’ Clara rubbed her lips and sighed. ‘To be honest, I’m finding this new life of mine a little complicated.’
‘That is understandable.’ Van Bam gave her a knowing smile. ‘And in answer to your question, I am listening to the Nightshade.’
Clara frowned. She could hear nothing. The room was calm and silent. ‘What?’
‘You heard right. The Nightshade speaks to me.’
‘It has a voice?’
‘After a fashion.’
‘It talks to you? Like we’re talking?’
‘It is no
t always that simple, Clara, but yes.’
She looked around the room, at the floor and ceiling, and that pattern on the walls. ‘What’s it saying?’
Van Bam chuckled lightly at the dubious tone in her voice. ‘Right now, it is letting me know that the police have dealt with the mess you and Samuel left behind after rescuing Charlie Hemlock from the Orphan.’
‘Oh …’ Clara pulled an apologetic expression.
Van Bam chuckled again. ‘In many ways the Nightshade is a sentient building, and the Residents are attuned to it. The Nightshade feeds me information, up here –’ he tapped his temple ‘– in feelings and visions that can say so much more than words. And it puts me in touch with every aspect of this town.’
The deep tone of Van Bam’s voice settled some of Clara’s anxiety. ‘You make it sound so peaceful,’ she said. ‘I was always taught to fear this place.’
‘And not without due reason,’ Van Bam replied. Clearly warming to the subject, he leant forwards in his chair and rested his hands upon his cane. ‘The Nightshade accepts and welcomes my presence, as it does yours, but it can also recognise an enemy. It will defend itself to prevent uninvited guests entering its walls. The Genii themselves would find overpowering those defences a daunting task, for the magic of the Nightshade is the magic of the Timewatcher.’
Clara was taken aback. ‘The Timewatcher?’
‘Yes. She created the Nightshade and all of the Labyrinth, Clara.’ He frowned. ‘Surely you learned about the First and Greatest Spell at school?’
She looked to her feet. ‘I never went to school.’
‘Ah …’ Van Bam was quiet for a moment. ‘Then be assured, at this moment, you are standing in the safest house in Labrys Town, Clara. No one can enter the Nightshade unless the Nightshade allows you in.’
‘Or unless Fabian Moor finds a secret way,’ Clara said. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Earlier, you and Samuel were talking about Marney. You said Moor believes she can show him how to enter the Nightshade.’
Van Bam nodded. ‘The first time Moor came to the Labyrinth, he seemed to think that each agent of the Relic Guild held in their psyche information they were not aware of – an unconscious residue of the Nightshade’s magic, a clue that would help Moor to bypass any defences.’
‘But he was wrong?’ Clara said.
‘Well … we certainly stopped him before he succeeded.’ Van Bam’s expression was uncertain. ‘Though before his downfall, Moor refined his research to certain agents who were a particular type of magicker.’
‘Empaths?’ said Clara. ‘That’s why he trapped Marney.’
‘Perhaps, Clara, but …’ Van Bam leaned back in his chair and became contemplative. ‘I have often wondered exactly what the role of the Nightshade is within the Labyrinth. My home is not designed to be controlled or fully understood, not even by me. But by a creature of higher magic?’ He sighed. ‘I am the Resident, and the duty of the Resident is, perhaps, the only thing in Labrys Town that was simplified by the Genii War.’
Something tickled in Clara’s mind then, something old. It was as if Marney’s kiss had released a feeling of what it was like to travel to distant places, to meet the Aelfir, and to lay eyes on the Timewatcher’s most loyal disciples, the Thaumaturgists. For a fleeting moment, Clara felt as though she was reliving genuine memories from a lost time, and she could almost remember the sights and sounds of things she had never experienced herself. But the sensation dulled, slipping from her mind like a fading dream, and Marney’s box of secrets closed again.
Van Bam’s metallic eyes were staring at her.
‘Clara, there is something I am curious about,’ he said. ‘Now we are alone, perhaps you would tell me how is it that you managed to keep your magic secret for so long, especially given your profession?’
The question changed the atmosphere in the room to something decidedly chillier, and Clara felt her guard rising.
‘There is no need to be defensive with me, Clara,’ Van Bam assured her. ‘I am only curious to know you a little better. Being a changeling could not have been an easy thing to hide from everyone you knew at the Lazy House.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said flatly.
‘Truly?’
Clara shrugged. ‘I had a friend – Willow. I’m pretty sure she knew there was something wrong with me, but we never spoke about it.’
‘Then what about your childhood? Things must have been much harder back then.’
Clara stared at the Resident, speechless, and the walls seemed to close in on her. Didn’t he realise this was none of his business? Nobody asked questions or gave a damn about her life, and that was just how she had always liked it. But when she looked at the Resident’s expression of open, honest interest, the words of Samuel rattled in Clara’s brain – We trust each other – and she relaxed her defences with a sigh.
‘My mother was a whore,’ she said. ‘She died when I was very young. My father – he was just some trick she turned. I suppose he’s still around in Labrys Town somewhere, but I never tried to find him. I don’t even know where I’d begin if I wanted to.’
‘There must have been those who knew your secrets?’ Van Bam asked. ‘Those who protected you?’
‘Yes,’ Clara said. ‘A couple of the older women at the whorehouse brought me up. When I think back, I can remember times when I was sick for days on end. Gerdy and Brianne – my adoptive mothers – they always treated me well, loved me, and they were determined that I wouldn’t become a whore myself. But sometimes they acted oddly around me, almost as if I frightened them.’
Clara snorted. ‘Gerdy and Brianne were tough old birds, old enough to remember life before the war, when magickers were a little more common. They knew what was going on with me. As I got older, they explained why I was different.’ She shook her head. ‘Touched by magic, they said, and I could never tell anyone. But when I reached puberty that’s when all my problems began. That’s when I started blacking out.’
Van Bam nodded, and his expression was grave. ‘It could not have been an easy time – for you or them.’
Was this genuine sympathy? Clara couldn’t remember the last time she had experienced it, and she wasn’t sure how to react.
‘No, it wasn’t easy,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘My mothers protected me. They’d learned enough tricks during the old times to teach me how to control my magic, and made sure no one ever discovered my secret.’ Clara took a deep breath. ‘But I …’ Tears stung her eyes, and she felt too embarrassed by their presence to continue.
‘Please, go on,’ Van Bam encouraged.
‘I lost Gerdy and Brianne on the same night,’ she said bitterly. ‘They were killed in a tavern brawl, and I was left to fend for myself. I moved to the Lazy House and …’ She glared into the Resident’s metallic eyes, daring him to judge her. ‘I’ve been a whore since I was fourteen, Van Bam.’
‘But not anymore,’ he said softly. ‘That life is behind you now.’
Clara nodded, and in doing so dislodged the tears from her eyes and sent them running down her cheeks.
‘Although,’ Van Bam continued with a hint of amusement in his voice, ‘becoming an agent of the Relic Guild might be just as undesirable an alternative, yes?’
She laughed then, with genuine gratitude.
Van Bam bobbed his head to her. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Clara. Your trust is not misplaced.’
With a click, the outline of a door appeared on the wall behind Clara. She quickly wiped the tears from her face as Samuel entered the room. He ignored her and Van Bam and moved straight to the table of refreshments. Selecting some meat, he crammed it into his mouth almost angrily and then poured himself a cup of coffee. He seemed agitated as he picked up a slice of bread and ripped off a chunk.
Samuel turned to Van Bam, the coffee cup in one hand, the bread in the other, his
mouth still full. ‘Any word from Hamir?’
‘Not yet,’ Van Bam replied, clearly amused by Samuel’s restlessness. ‘Where have you been?’
Samuel made a grumbling sound as he swallowed. ‘Thinking.’
Van Bam’s look of mock surprise forced Clara to stifle a laugh.
Samuel glared at her. ‘I can’t stand all this waiting around,’ he said, biting into the bread again.
Van Bam shook his head and his amusement disappeared. ‘We can do nothing until Hamir is finished with Hemlock, and that could be some time yet. Perhaps you should get some rest, Samuel, instead of walking the corridors like a caged animal. You too, Clara – your rooms are prepared.’
‘I don’t need to rest,’ the old bounty hunter retorted. ‘And since when did I have a room at the Nightshade … Van Bam?’
The Resident had frozen in his chair again, and his head was tilted to one side.
‘He’s listening to the Nightshade,’ Clara told Samuel with a smile. ‘It speaks to him.’
Samuel ignored her and took a step towards the Resident. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I have just received a police report,’ Van Bam said seriously. ‘There has been a disturbance in the western district.’ He rose from the armchair. ‘Come with me, both of you.’
Of all the rooms Clara had seen inside the Nightshade so far, the room to which Van Bam now led her and Samuel was the most astounding. When she entered, Clara thought at first she had stepped outside: the predawn streets of Labrys Town stretched before her, as real as if the damp cobbles were actually beneath her boots. But although she could hear the sound of the wind, the rumble of distant trams, she felt no chill in the air and no scents filled her nostrils. Most disconcerting of all, the imagery was moving, slowly, as if she was floating, drifting through the town. Clara found the effect disorientating and gripped Samuel’s arm to steady herself.
He shrugged her off.
Van Bam called this room the Observatory, and he explained to Clara that she was now looking through the eyes of Labrys Town.
