The Relic Guild

by Edward Cox

  Hamir’s garbled warning rattled in his mind, and he thought of Van Bam.

  That bounty notice had carried the official Labyrinth seal, which only the Resident could endorse. Had Labrys Town undergone a change of regime? Could the Genii have found a way to invade the Nightshade? He shook away the implications of that disturbing possibility. Now was not the time.

  Approaching the end of the tunnel, he came to a halt. His magic was pressing on his senses, like an itch on the inside of his skull. Drawing his revolver and thumbing the power stone, he crept to the tunnel mouth and peered out, straining his ears for any sound of pursuit.

  A river of sewage water ran before the tunnel. The opposite bank was well lit by a series of glow lamps that faded into the gloom. On Samuel’s side, thirty or more paces down the walkway, a bridge crossed the river; a further ten paces on from where it ended on the opposite side was another tunnel.

  This tunnel intrigued Samuel. A glow lamp was fixed to the wall directly above its opening, but he could see no signs of movement. Still, his prescient awareness was on the edge, just short of activating. His magic was warning him, moulding his instincts, telling him it was time to wait, not hunt.

  Bounty hunters were too egocentric to hold together long as a collective. When the heat was on, loyalties vanished, and the greed and pride of the individual broke through. Samuel had already put two cracks in the team, and fear and a sense of self-preservation had opened those cracks to the final split. Samuel knew the value of patience. This ground was familiar territory for him, and he could wait as long as necessary until the final three assassins came to him, one at a time if necessary.

  Revolver in hand, he hung back in the shadows of the tunnel mouth. Once again, his thoughts turned to Van Bam.

  The last time Samuel had used the sewers had been forty years before, on the night the Relic Guild believed they had killed Fabian Moor. Moor had fought desperately, and his magic had been unlike anything Samuel had ever faced. And just before he met his end, Moor had destroyed Van Bam’s eyes. Always such a calm and collected man, Van Bam had been reduced by his injuries to a hysterical wreck. He had thrashed and screamed, and complained of voices in his head. Marney had soothed his emotions and eased him into unconsciousness. Samuel had then carried him over his shoulder through the sewers all the way to the Nightshade.

  It was thought that Hamir would take care of Van Bam; that the necromancer would be able to mend his eyes, fix him up so that he could return to the streets and his duties with the Relic Guild. No one had realised the voice in Van Bam’s head was that of Gideon. Not one of them had guessed that Van Bam was to become the new Resident of Labrys Town.

  So much time had passed since that night, and here he was, once again in the sewers, because of Fabian Moor. Samuel didn’t know what had happened up in the town, whether Van Bam and Clara were alive or dead. Was Samuel now the only surviving member of the Relic Guild?

  Movement caught his eye: a brief, shadowy blur …

  It came from the tunnel on the opposite side of the river. A figure bolted through the dim light and dived onto the bridge. Samuel’s prescient awareness remained in check, and he understood that his would-be killer didn’t know he was hiding nearby. The bounty hunter was now out of sight, using the wall of the bridge as cover, but Samuel lifted his revolver and took aim in that general direction. His hands were steady and true.

  These petty assassins weren’t worth wasting magic on, and there was no point using ice-bullets to capture them – interrogating them would only reveal what Samuel already knew. The fire-bullets in the rifle were also out of the question; they might ignite the gases and fumes in the sewers, and a fireball was the last thing he needed. A regular cold and grey metal slug was all the job required.

  Samuel’s magic prickled.

  The bounty hunter’s head appeared above the wall of the bridge, silhouetted against the pale light of glow lamps. Samuel’s revolver spat out a single shot. The man’s head snapped back. He barked a quick and piercing scream that sounded more of surprise than pain. For a moment he appeared to be feeling his way along the bridge, and then he rocked and stumbled and finally fell over the edge, splashing down into the river.

  Face down in the rank waters, the dead body drifted past Samuel and continued on until it disappeared in the gloom. Samuel deactivated the power stone and holstered his revolver. He waited, listening to the silence. The only sound that reached his ears was the return of the distant chinking of hammer on stone, and it was closer this time. Whatever was making the noise, Samuel’s prescient awareness was drawn towards it. His magic was egging him on. Two bounty hunters remained, and the source of the sound was where he would find them.

  It was time to hunt.

  Someone yelled. It was impossible to tell from which direction it came; a series of short screeches echoed through the sewers like a repeating death rattle, then faded into silence. Van Bam felt certain the voice did not belong to Samuel.

  ‘He’s definitely a bounty hunter,’ Clara said, disturbing Van Bam’s misery.

  He looked down at the dead body the changeling crouched over, nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

  In the pale green light of Van Bam’s illuminated cane, the two agents stood in a slime-covered sewer tunnel. The dead man lay on his back, his eyes closed. There was no blood, but his tongue hung from the corner of his mouth, and his throat had been brutally disfigured. Van Bam almost pitied him.

  Along with those screeches, the body was a sure sign that Samuel was still alive.

  ‘How many do you think are after him?’ Clara said.

  ‘Impossible to say,’ Van Bam replied. ‘Unfortunately, Old Man Sam has many enemies among the bounty hunters of Labrys Town.’

  ‘We have to help him.’ Clara stated. ‘Let’s move.’

  Van Bam remained where he was and stared at the young changeling. It wasn’t just her cold, hard tone of voice that bothered him, it was her colours. Clara had been beaten and pulled in all directions, and Van Bam could detect hues of livid emotions blooming within her body.Her bruised and swollen face might have appeared impassive, but there was a magical yellow shine to her eyes. It suggested the wolf had fired up in her a need to find these bounty hunters and vent all her anger upon them.

  ‘Clara, can you remember—’

  ‘No, Van Bam!’ she snapped. ‘I still don’t know what Marney did to me. Now, are we going to help Samuel or not?’

  ‘There is no rush,’ he told her.

  Clara clenched her teeth. ‘What?’

  ‘We cannot help Samuel by chasing around in the shadows, Clara. In fact, we would only hinder him.’

  Clara scoffed. ‘You can’t be serious. You’ve just said there’s no telling how many bounty hunters are after him.’

  Van Bam’s metal eyes stared into the gloom beyond the tunnel. He felt no irritation at her scorn, only a deep sadness.

  ‘Clara, if you could say you have learned one thing thus far, it should be that Samuel is a killer. You know he is exceedingly efficient at what he does.’ Van Bam studied the dead body. ‘Without doubt, the bounty hunters are the ones in need of help now.’

  ‘Then what, Van Bam?’ Her tone was accusing. ‘We just hang back and let him fight his way out? Wait until he tells us the coast is clear?’

  ‘After a fashion, yes.’ He sighed. ‘We will continue on, Clara, but at a careful pace. Your heightened senses will lead us to Samuel eventually.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ she snarled. ‘All I can smell is shit!’

  Van Bam faced her. He knew that Clara’s protests were driven more by anger than a true desire to help Samuel, but they would never extricate themselves from this predicament unless she gathered herself.

  ‘Your sense of smell led us to this dead body, Clara,’ he said, ‘and it will steer us to where we need to be. Please, point your aggression in the right direc
tion and lead the way.’

  She glowered at him. ‘Fine,’ she whispered and her nostrils flared. ‘This way.’

  With his cane held aloft like a torch, Van Bam followed Clara out of the tunnel to a walkway that ran alongside the river of flowing sewage. Although her colours had abated to something a little less hostile, Clara was clearly frustrated by their casual pace, and Van Bam had to ensure she did not stray too far ahead and exit the globe of light. The cane shed a strange illumination in which the agents cast no shadow; so long as they remained within its circle, they would not be seen or heard by any bounty hunter they happened upon.

  As Clara led the way across a bridge that arched over the thick and rank river, Van Bam appreciated how the atmosphere of the sewers must have been cruel on her heightened senses. Stifling humidity ensured every surface was dank and slick, and the stench cloying the air was palpable as smoke. Breathing through the mouth was the preferable option, but Clara’s nose was their best ally in this situation. Van Bam did not envy her.

  He cocked his head to one side, searching for the voice of Gideon. The silence endured in his mind, and it was maddening. For the first time in forty years he missed the spiteful ghost’s guidance. He hadn’t felt so alone, so lost, since the day the Genii War had ended.

  The Last Storm, they called it: the day the Timewatcher’s armies vanquished the threat of Spiral and his hordes once and for all. It had been a time of celebration among the Houses of the Aelfir. But in the Labyrinth, the Last Storm had heralded a time of change.

  Gideon the Selfless was dead, having sacrificed his life to save the denizens from Fabian Moor, and the Nightshade welcomed a new Resident: a mysterious blind man by the name of Van Bam. And Van Bam’s first duty had been to inform his people that the Timewatcher and Her Thaumaturgists had abandoned them, and they would never see the Aelfir again.

  Van Bam had always thought of that day as the saddest of his life. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

  The Nightshade had been taken from him, he no longer heard Gideon’s voice in his head, and he had been forced to flee into the stinking sewers beneath the streets of the town he had once governed. He had never felt such a failure.

  ‘Listen,’ Clara whispered. She was staring down the tunnel she had been about to lead them into. ‘Can you hear that?’

  Van Bam could. A distant sound echoed through the sewers, the slow, rhythmic chinking of metal on stone.

  ‘What is it?’ Clara asked.

  Van Bam didn’t reply. He listened to the sound until it stopped and the last echo petered out.

  He nodded to Clara to continue into the tunnel.

  The Genii had gained control of the Nightshade. But why? What in the Timewatcher’s name could they do with it? Spiral was long lost, the Thaumaturgists gone, and the Aelfir could not be reached from the Labyrinth. Was simple revenge upon the denizens Fabian Moor’s driving reason for returning after all?

  Van Bam’s thoughts turned to the avatar, the mysterious blue ghost that had set so much in motion. Perhaps Samuel was right; perhaps it was no friend to the Relic Guild after all. Van Bam believed the avatar was a portent, that it was guiding them into a future that was for the good of the Labyrinth. But what good could come from the Genii controlling the Nightshade?

  Frustrated, confused, Van Bam prayed that he would hear Gideon’s voice again.

  After navigating more slimy walkways and mould-coated tunnels, Clara paused to stare down at a spot in the river where the water bubbled and frothed. Bitter fumes filling the air dried the inside of Van Bam’s mouth.

  ‘Nice,’ Clara said with disgust.

  ‘Acid,’ Van Bam explained. ‘At certain spots the sewage water creates such high levels that it is potent enough to strip flesh from bone.’

  ‘Stinks of eggs,’ Clara muttered, unimpressed, and she led the way to another tunnel.

  At the other end, she stopped again as they came to a spacious chamber where rats clambered over each other, and where mounds of filth had gathered here and there. The river continued flowing through the chamber, but it was covered by a rusty grille. From the darkness above, water and waste matter fell like foul rain, splashing and slapping upon the floor.

  Clara pointed to a tunnel mouth on the other side of the chamber. ‘We need to go that way.’ She snorted. ‘Should’ve brought an umbrella.’

  As she made to step out into the falling filth, Van Bam gently took her arm and held her back. He whispered to his magic, and the light from his glass cane flared, sending rats scurrying and squealing to the edges of the chamber.

  ‘My magic depends on belief to exist, Clara,’ he said. ‘It is easy for me to fool a mind so profoundly that it will believe my illusions into reality where they can cause real harm – or protection.’ Van Bam lifted the cane higher. Its light cast a dome of tangible light around them both. ‘Now we have an umbrella,’ he said.

  Treading carefully, Van Bam led the way across. Water and waste matter fizzed and dissolved upon the enhanced light shining from the cane, and not one drop touched the magickers.

  Once they had traversed the tunnel on the opposite side, they headed along a slippery walkway that was well lit by glow lamps, and Clara halted for a third time before yet another bridge.

  She sniffed the air. ‘I can smell blood,’ she said and walked on.

  Halfway across the bridge, she touched the dark stone of its wall. She showed Van Bam her hand. In the light of the cane, he saw her fingertips were wet.

  She wiped her hand on her leggings and sniffed the air again. ‘Samuel was here,’ she growled. ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘Which way did he head, Clara?’

  She waved in the vague direction of the opposite bank, and then turned a sour expression to Van Bam. The wolf’s presence had returned to her yellow eyes.

  ‘Should we catch up with him, or wait until he kills everyone?’

  Van Bam could almost hear Gideon laughing as the changeling glared at him defiantly. The sound of metal striking stone echoed through the sewers once more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ghosts & Monsters

  When Samuel had reached the source of the hammering sound, he hid in the shadows of a tunnel mouth and peered out onto the walkway furtively. On his right hand side, the river continued on and curved around to the right. He had a good view down into the murky water from his position. A little way ahead, the river widened and became shallow; and there, he saw a problem he hadn’t anticipated: dressed in priest cassocks, ankle-deep in sewage, two of Fabian Moor’s golems worked with slow and tireless automation, striking the river floor with pickaxes.

  A man stood upon the walkway, watching proceedings. He wrung his hands nervously as the golems paused and knelt in the filth to remove pieces of loose stone. In the pale light of a glow lamp, Samuel could see that the man’s face was careworn and unshaven; his hair was straggly and thinning. He wore old and tatty clothes, and stepped from foot to foot with anticipation. Samuel did not recognise this denizen, but knew he was no bounty hunter.

  Movement caught the magicker’s eye.

  A little way ahead, someone was inching towards the man, creeping along the wall, stooped in the shadows beneath the glow lamps. The light caught the figure briefly, enabling Samuel to see that it was a woman. She carried a rifle in her hands. Her head was shaved smooth to the scalp, except for a shock of hair running down the middle. Although Samuel could not see her face, the uncommon hairstyle identified her immediately: her name was Aga, and she most definitely was a killer for hire.

  It was an easy shot from Samuel’s position. Once he’d killed Aga, the golems and the man would quickly follow. But even if his prescient awareness was not telling him to remain hidden, Samuel still wouldn’t have taken the shot.

  Aga never worked alone. She had a sister, a ruthless bitch called Nim. One never picked up a bounty contract without the other
, and they had a bad reputation in Labrys Town. If Aga was out prowling in the open, then it was damn certain that Nim was hiding somewhere close by, covering her sister, waiting for Old Man Sam to make his move.

  For the time being, with his magic pulsing warmly, sweat trickling down his back, Samuel remained concealed, letting events unfold however they would.

  Aga approached the man watching the golems. He was oblivious to her presence and the rifle aimed at the back of his head. When she had stepped close enough to her target to make him out clearly, she paused and lowered her weapon.

  ‘Dumb Boy?’ she said in an incredulous tone.

  The man wheeled around. Shocked and mute, he stared open-mouthed at the bounty hunter and the rifle in her hands.

  The golems began striking stone again.

  Aga looked back along the walkway. ‘It’s Dumb Boy Clover,’ she called, her voice echoing softly among the chinks.

  Although Nim didn’t reply to her sister, she did reveal her position to Samuel. In the mouth of another tunnel several paces ahead, he saw shadowy movement. Nim was signalling to her sister with short, sharp hand gestures, clearly telling her to focus. From his location, Samuel could not get a clear shot at her.

  As Aga rested her rifle upon her shoulder, the man – Dumb Boy – pressed his hands to his chest, and his voice drifted back to Samuel.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Aga – you scared me to death.’ He chuckled like a simpleton. ‘You ain’t got my money, have you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My money. The boss said someone would bring it to me. Have you got it?’

  ‘No.’ Aga looked around the sewers with a perplexed expression. ‘Dumb Boy, what are you doing down here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Working.’

  ‘Working? How can you stand the smell? It’s making my eyes water.’

  ‘Sewer gas,’ Dumb Boy explained. ‘It gets bad sometimes.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘If you’re here to help, I’m in charge, right? And—’