The Relic Guild (8 page)

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.

Clara looked to the Resident. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, surprised by how calm her voice sounded. ‘Marney can’t have been taken by Fabian Moor.’

Van Bam turned his metallic eyes to Samuel. They looked at each other without speaking.

‘The dead stay dead,’ Clara stated.

‘Clara,’ replied Van Bam, ‘I suspect that once you truly comprehend with whom you have become embroiled, then ignorance might just seem the preferable option.’

When Clara replied, her voice was resolute. ‘I’ll tell you what I understand. Marney saved my life tonight –’ she looked pointedly at Samuel – ‘twice, it appears. I don’t doubt she had her own reasons, but people don’t exactly stick their necks out for me very often. If she’s in trouble, I want to help.’

Samuel and Van Bam shared another look, and then Samuel rose from his chair and bowed his head at Clara. He walked behind the Resident, around the conference table, and came to her side.

‘You’ve suffered tonight, and you don’t know why,’ he said. ‘You want answers, and that’s only right. But if you want to help Marney, Clara, you need to trust us. Trust
me.
’ He took a seat beside her. ‘Give me your hand.’

Clara stiffened. ‘What?’

Samuel unclipped a small kit bag from his utility belt and unzipped it. ‘Tonight, out in the Great Labyrinth, you scratched Charlie Hemlock’s face,’ he produced a slim scalpel and a tiny glass phial from the bag, ‘deep enough to draw blood. Let me see you hand, please.’

The only thing Clara offered the old bounty hunter was a glare.

‘Clara,’ Van Bam said coolly. ‘If Charlie Hemlock was employed by Fabian Moor, then he has information that is of vital use to us. If there is any hope of helping Marney, Hemlock needs to be rescued from a demon. Time is a factor. Please, do as Samuel asks.’

‘Fine,’ she snapped.

Though grimy, her hand seemed small and delicate when placed in Samuel’s worn and calloused palm.

‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘how can Fabian Moor still be alive? He was killed by Gideon the Selfless.’

‘And that is true, in a manner of speaking,’ Van Bam said. ‘At least, that is what I believed until tonight.’

He sat back in his chair, holding his cane across his lap, his face thoughtful. ‘Clara, do you know why the Genii War began?’

As Samuel inspected her fingernails with the scalpel, Clara answered with a shrug. ‘Spiral rebelled against the Timewatcher. He tried to enslave the Aelfir.’

Van Bam nodded. ‘That is the truth, more or less.’ He sighed. ‘There was a time when the Labyrinth was the one place throughout all the realms that connected every House of the Aelfir. Spiral saw Labrys Town and the Great Labyrinth as a seat of power from which he could invade the Aelfirian realms, conquer them, bend them to his rule and raise an army large enough to defeat the Timewatcher. He almost succeeded in this when he sent his assassin to our town.’

Clara watched as Van Bam’s grip tightened on his glass cane. She kept quiet as he continued.

‘There are not many left alive who actually knew Fabian Moor, Clara, but those of us who did remember him as a phantom, a lingering nightmare that reminds us of the frailty of existence within the Labyrinth.’

‘He was bad news,’ Clara said. ‘I don’t need a history lesson.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Samuel said as he dragged the scalpel along the underside of her fingernail. ‘Myths and legends, Clara – they have a habit of diluting the truth.’

‘Fabian Moor was a demon,’ Clara said, as if there was nothing else to say. ‘Spiral sent him here to spread a plague among the denizens.’

‘Yes, Spiral did send him here during the war,’ Samuel said, and Clara winced as he dug out some dark matter from beneath her nail – dried blood and skin that had once belonged to Charlie Hemlock’s face, she hoped – and scraped it into the phial. ‘But he was much more than some demon spreading disease.’

‘Fabian Moor was Spiral’s most trusted general,’ said Van Bam. ‘He was a Genii, Clara.’

Clara’s mouth worked silently for a moment. What was this rubbish? She was no expert on the Genii War, but she knew about the great magickers who had fought alongside Spiral, and it was well known that the Timewatcher had protected the Labyrinth – town and maze – from the Genii and prevented them from invading it. In fact all the fighting, every battle, had taken place in the realms of the Aelfir, and the denizens had seen nothing of the war at all. That was why Spiral sent a demon to spread a plague. Such a low creature went unnoticed when it smuggled itself into Labrys Town, hiding in the stolen cargo of treasure hunters. Or so the story went.

She scoffed. ‘But he can’t have been,’ she said, and then winced again as Samuel scraped more dark matter from under her fingernails. She pulled a sour expression. ‘The Genii never entered the Labyrinth. The Timewatcher prevented it.’