by Edward Cox
Samuel’s mouth hung open. The beams of purple energy danced around the frame of the rectangle, as if keeping its shape open. Within the frame, the doorway was coated with a black substance that rippled like liquid glass.
‘A portal?’ Samuel asked no one in particular. His throat had gone suddenly dry.
In the flickering light, Van Bam’s expression was just as astonished. ‘Events unfold as they have to,’ he whispered.
Clara was brave enough to step forward.
‘Careful,’ Samuel snapped as she approached the vertical beam connecting the diamond with the glow lamps. But he needn’t have worried; Clara seemed fully aware that energy capable of destroying stone would have no trouble with flesh. She ducked under the beam, and, flanked by the purple streaks, she stood with her back to her colleagues, staring into the glassy portal.
‘Samuel,’ she said softly, ‘you told me the portal outside the Nightshade only goes one way, didn’t you?’
Samuel shrugged. ‘All right,’ he told Clara. ‘If you say I did.’
‘That can’t be right, can it?’ She rubbed the cut on the back of her head. ‘I mean – portals are two way things. That’s how the Thaumaturgists designed them to be. Surely you know that?’
Samuel’s confusion deepened, and he was relieved when Van Bam replied for him.
‘Clara,’ he said, ‘I cannot pretend to understand the mechanics of portals, or the thaumaturgy by which they are designed, but I can assure you that Samuel is correct. Nothing can leave through that portal at the Nightshade.’
‘I’m not saying Samuel’s lying,’ she continued, clearly irritated. ‘I’m saying the entrance and exit aren’t always located in the same place. But a portal always – always – has a way in and a way out. They can’t exist without both. The avatar told me that …’ She spun around and faced her fellow agents. ‘The avatar told me! I remember …’ Her mouth worked silently and her hands shook.
Samuel stepped forward, closely followed by Van Bam, and together they ducked under the purple beam and approached Clara.
Samuel gripped the changeling by the shoulders. ‘What do you remember, Clara?’
She shrugged him off and turned to the portal. ‘This –’ she pointed a finger at the dark, rippling doorway, and took a step closer to it – ‘it’s connected to the portal outside the Nightshade. It’s that portal’s exit – a way out.’
Clara spoke as if her statement should have been obvious to all. This was higher magic she was talking about, something neither Samuel nor Van Bam knew much about. But where Van Bam seemed eager to believe her, Samuel felt only scepticism.
‘Just wait a minute,’ he growled. ‘Van Bam, what if the avatar lied to her? Fabian Moor could have created this portal. It might lead us straight into the Nightshade.’ His face darkened. ‘Or the Retrospective.’
‘It might also lead us to the Aelfir who have been keeping us alive for the last forty years.’
‘It does!’ Clara said adamantly. ‘It’s the Labyrinth’s backdoor. It was kept secret from you.’
Samuel checked an angry retort. He was as desperate as anyone to find help, to believe the avatar was on their side, and that this portal was the answer. But the pragmatist in him simply couldn’t out-argue the cold, suspicious mercenary he had become.
Old Man Sam stared at the portal almost angrily.
‘The only way to know for sure is to step through,’ he said. ‘And I’m just suggesting we think really hard before doing that.’
‘What’s left to think about?’ Clara said. She seemed both irritated and overjoyed. ‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Perhaps Samuel is right, Clara,’ Van Bam suggested.
Without looking back, she threw her arms into the air, made a noise of exasperation, and took another step closer to the portal. For a moment, Samuel thought she might leap forward and dive blindly into the glassy blackness. But she turned around, and her eyes flashed yellow as she glared first at Samuel, and then at Van Bam.
‘The avatar is telling the truth. I can’t explain it, but I just know it is.’ Her face twisted into an almost bestial expression. ‘And we’re all going to die anyway if—’
She looked up sharply, sniffing the air.
At the same moment, Samuel’s prescient awareness flared. Time slowed. He became connected to his environment with almost painful sensory perception. The flashes and flickering of purple light became measured pulses. A dull click was followed by the groan of hydraulics. The elevator platform began rising.
Samuel wheeled around, drew his rifle, and aimed it at the stairwell door. The power stone whined and glowed into life.
The ripping and tearing of wood came next: the door to the warehouse above being smashed from its hinges. Voices followed – loud, shouted orders – and then came the sound of heavy feet pounding down the stairs to the cellar.
Samuel tracked his aim along the stairwell wall, judging the position of the lead runner.
He pulled the trigger and the power stone flashed.
With a spray of stone, the bullet smashed through the thin wall, found its target, and the magic it contained ignited. There was a brief scream and a roar of fire. A figure, smouldering but not alight, tumbled to the foot of the stairs and fell through the doorway. He rolled from side to side, frantically trying to lessen the heat in his clothes. He wore the bowl-like receptor helmet of the street patrols.
Samuel’s second bullet shattered the black glass and incinerated the person beneath.
Another patrolman stumbled against the doorway, already aflame. He must’ve been touched by the magic in Samuel’s first bullet. The fire ate through his clothes, burned away his skin and muscle, and his skeleton crumbled to ash on the floor.
That first shot had left a gaping hole in the stairwell wall. The barrel of a rifle appeared through it and spat out a lethal projectile. Samuel’s prescient awareness was one step ahead of the shooter, telling him which way to duck. The bullet missed the old bounty hunter, screaming past his ear. Someone grunted behind him. Samuel fired through the hole in the wall. The sound of shattering glass preceded the flare and fury of red flames, and the agonised screams of dying police officers.
And then the glare of Van Bam’s magic streamed over Samuel’s shoulder. It covered the doorway and the hole in the stairwell wall with a barrier shining green against the flickering beams of energy that cut purple lines through oily smoke and the stench of burnt flesh.
The shouts and footfalls on the stairs were muffled now. Two patrolmen arrived at the doorway, looking demonic and insect-like in their black helmets. They pounded the green barrier with the butts of their rifles, causing it to ripple like disturbed water, but they could not break through Van Bam’s magic.
With his last fire-bullet spent, Samuel slid the rifle into the holster on his back, and drew his revolver. Up above, the elevator platform had almost reached the warehouse’s upper level. There was no telling how many police were up there; how many officers Hagi Tabet had sent after them.
Through the pounding of his heart and the rushing of blood in his ears, Samuel became aware of a whimpering sound behind him.
Clara was down. Van Bam crouched over her, and she clutched at his shoulders, struggling to keep her breathing steady. It was difficult to see in the flashing light, but it looked as though the bullet aimed for Samuel’s head had found Clara’s hip.
Van Bam lifted her into his arms, and the changeling yelled in pain.
Samuel looked past them to the secret portal kept open by thaumaturgy.
‘No choice now,’ he said.
With a determined nod , Van Bam turned and carried Clara to the doorway. His stride didn’t falter, and, as he neared, the glassy fluid bulged outward, enveloped them both, and snapped them back into its blackness away from the cellar into wherever.
Samuel stared after them as the surface bec
ame smooth once again. His prescient awareness felt as flat as it had in the presence of the Genii, and he hesitated to follow.
The barrier at the stairwell was failing now Van Bam had left the area; the patrolmen had created cracks in the magic, fracturing it into an ever-growing spider web. Above, the elevator had completed its ascent and was now beginning to descend. Samuel caught a glimpse of many booted feet standing on the platform. He turned to the portal.
Where else was there to go?
His revolver clutched tightly in hand, he took a step back. Then, with a deep breath, he ran forward, gritted his teeth, and fled into the darkness of somewhere else.
Forty Years Earlier
Departures
By the time Samuel met Macy and Bryant at the disused ore warehouse in the southern district, the sun had risen and cleared the boundary wall. The warmth and light of the early morning did little to alleviate the sombre silence hanging over the agents; they had each endured a miserable night of fruitless searching.
While Bryant studied the strange metallic spider, Samuel and Macy stood alongside each other, watching Hamir working. As aloof and detached as ever, the necromancer cradled Lady Amilee’s leather-bound book in one arm while tracing a finger down the open page, evidently checking the design of symbols he had engraved into the warehouse floor against its contents.
The symbols formed a rough circle of interconnecting swirls and shapes carved an inch deep into the stone. They configured more into a meaningless pattern than the complicated language Hamir had hinted they represented. Samuel couldn’t tell where the pattern began or ended – if it even had a beginning and end – but the necromancer seemed quietly confident with his understanding of the transcription. He stepped lightly around the rough circle, flipping back and forth through the pages of the book, pausing now and then to double check some detail or another, and gave the occasional nod of satisfaction. Samuel had little comprehension of what he was doing, and even less inclination to find out.
Beside Samuel, Macy snorted a breath. Her expression was pensive and she was grinding her teeth.
She and Bryant had spent the night trying to find Mr Taffin. They had looked in all his usual haunts, spoken to his known associates and employees, but no one had seen him since the morning before last, and the Twilight Bar was closed for business.
Samuel had gone to the apothecary shop in the western district. He had broken in and checked the apartment above, but Gene was not at home. Samuel had found evidence of a small struggle, though: a cabinet upturned, the mattress pulled off the bed, a few worthless ornaments smashed on the floor. Fabian Moor, it seemed, had captured his first agent of the Relic Guild.
‘Do you ever wonder where he fits in to all this?’ Macy said, nodding towards the necromancer. ‘I mean, Denton says Hamir was around when he joined the Relic Guild, and he reckons Hamir hasn’t changed from that day to this. He never ages, his appearance never alters – and he has always had that scar on his forehead.’
Samuel shrugged. ‘To be honest, Macy, I really couldn’t care less how Hamir fits in to anything. I’ve other things on my mind.’
She nodded, quiet for a moment, then, ‘You know, Gene might be stronger than we give him credit for.’
‘You really think so?’
Macy looked to the floor. ‘Well, at least we can hope Fabian Moor is finding out he’s a tough old dog after all.’
Samuel didn’t know whether she was trying to hearten him or herself, but her words lacked conviction.
While he had been at Gene’s apartment, Samuel had found a few strands of hair in the bathtub. It was enough to use in the spirit compass, enough to track the apothecary’s location. However, when he placed the hair inside the compass, the usually trusty device remained inactive. Samuel and Macy both knew the most likely explanation: Gene no longer had a spirit left to detect.
Without looking up from his book, Hamir said, ‘If you need a straw to clutch at, Samuel, please remember that the spirit compass works on simple magic. It might be blinded by the presence of a Genii.’ He bent to wipe away stone dust from a groove in the floor. ‘It doesn’t change Gene’s predicament, I suppose, but Fabian Moor might have reason to keep him alive.’
Samuel glared at the necromancer, trying hard to prevent images of Gene being tortured, infected, turned into a golem, invading his mind.
‘What about the Nightshade, Hamir?’ Macy said. ‘Moor seems to think the Relic Guild has information that can show him a secret way to enter it.’
‘It’s improbable at best, Macy,’ Hamir replied. ‘You magickers don’t control the Nightshade. In fact, it’s very much the other way around.’
‘But Moor believes we aren’t aware of the information,’ Samuel added, ‘that the Nightshade left some residue of itself in our minds, some blind spot. Could he be right?’
Hamir considered. ‘I suppose anything is possible where higher magic is concerned.’ He sniffed. ‘Thaumaturgy is a tricky beast.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Bryant said.
Macy’s twin was inspecting the metallic spider. He had stepped under its long, thin legs and was peering up into the grey and disfigured face of the golem that had once been Betsy.
To Samuel, the events at Chaney’s Den seemed a long time ago.
Looking unconvinced, Bryant added, ‘Don’t get me wrong, Hamir – I trust Lady Amilee as much as everyone else – but this thing really doesn’t look powerful enough to take down a Genii. It’s so spindly and … weedy.’
Hamir looked up from the book and stared at him for a heartbeat. ‘Bryant, perhaps it would be best if matters of higher magic were left to me, yes?’ His tone and expression were noncommittal, but Samuel got the impression he was offended. ‘However,’ Hamir continued, ‘should I ever need advice on how to bash a head, be assured you’ll be the first I ask. Now, if you please, step away from the construct.’
So saying, Hamir returned his attention to the book and the circle of symbols at his feet.
Bryant shook his head, gave the necromancer a sour look, and stepped over to join Samuel and Macy.
‘This is going to be a long day,’ he muttered to his sister.
‘Yeah,’ Macy replied. ‘I almost wish I’d gone with Van Bam and Angel.’
Despite the situation, Samuel couldn’t deny the touch of envy he felt at the mention of Van Bam and Angel. They had already left the Labyrinth, escorting Ambassador Ebril and his entourage back home. Samuel would have given anything to have gone instead of either of them, to see an Aelfirian House again, even one as apparently troubled as Mirage. Van Bam was a fair diplomat, but Angel was in no way a better bodyguard than Samuel. He knew it, and so did Gideon.
It probably amused the Resident no end to deny him the opportunity to leave the Labyrinth, and that was just one more needle in Samuel’s eye.
But Samuel’s bitterness and jealousy were futile; it wasn’t as if he could change the situation. He knew Gideon had enough on his plate without finding time to deal with Samuel’s resentment. Not only was one of his agents missing, but he also had a new political situation on his hands.
Word of Ebril’s departure had already spread, and now the other Aelfirian refugees were demanding passage back to their respective Houses. If Gideon’s diplomatic skills were half as bad with the Aelfir as they were with his agents, he could well alienate a few Houses by the end of the day. Samuel only hoped the guidance of Sophia could temper his caustic manner enough to salvage at least some degree of civility within their relationships.
Hamir closed the leather bound book with a snap.
‘Hmm.’ He pursed his lips and looked up. ‘My interpretations are a little rough around the edges, but I think we are ready.’
Samuel didn’t know if he was talking to the spider or the three agents lined up before it. By their confused expressions, Macy and Bryant were wondering the same thing
.
Only adding to the mystery, Hamir began whispering in a quick and unintelligible language. His voice carried a strange and alien resonance, musical yet ominous. It seemed to swell in the warehouse, and Samuel shied from the sound, resisting the urge to step away from Hamir. It reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember … and implied things he did not want to know.
Hamir’s words were directed at the design of symbols on the floor. The more he whispered the alien language, the more the atmosphere changed, building a prickly energy that made the hairs on the back of Samuel’s neck stand on end. The swirls and shapes of the interconnecting pattern seemed to grow, expand and rise up above the stone. They flared with purple light that quickly disappeared to leave spots and slashes on Samuel’s vision. Hamir growled a final word, and Samuel was left with the impression that the symbols had somehow darkened, solidified, the light filling their shapes like molten metal.
Silent now, and with the book under one arm, Hamir approached the three agents. He paused before Samuel and produced a pair of goggles from the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Please, put these on, if you would, Samuel.’
Samuel accepted the goggles and stared at them for a moment. They were much the same as those used by welders, except for the lenses. Made from glass, the same shade of deep green as Van Bam’s cane, the lenses were faceted, protruding from the frame like the eyes of an insect. Samuel looked at Macy. She shrugged. Hamir waited expectantly. Samuel slipped on the goggles.
Expecting his vision to turn green, he was surprised when instead all colour was drained from his world. His colleagues and the barren interior of the warehouse appeared to him in dreary grey. Samuel raised a hand before his face. His skin was the colour of a corpse.
‘What’s the point of these?’ he asked Hamir, tapping a lens with a dead finger.
