-AN EPILOGUE-

Doubt & Wonder

In the long game, defeat was only part of the strategy.

Alone and beaten, Fabian Moor strode across a narrow bridge of stone. Cold purpose drove each of his steps as his path arced over a chasm so deep that light itself was swallowed into an endless void. He looked up at the luminescent stalactites that hung from the ceiling of a vast cavern like the spires of an inverted cityscape, glowing with a violet radiance. With a surge of intolerance, Moor gritted his teeth as he glimpsed something moving among the shadows there. A silhouette, dark and sleek against the pale light, left the cover of a stalactite and sailed down towards him with the slow beating of huge wings.

Without breaking his gait, Moor thrust out a hand. A point of light, no bigger than a pebble, shot from his palm and streaked upward. It hit the silhouette with a flash of silver-blue that illuminated a creature three times the size of any man. The creature recoiled, great leathery wings folding forward, a bellow of pain coming from a gaping maw manifestly designed for rending flesh. As the light faded, a bitter wind moaned around the cavern, followed by the sound of dull creaking. In the gloom, the creature’s frozen body hit the bridge several paces ahead of Moor and shattered into a thousand glassy shards which glittered like jewels as they tumbled and spilled into the abyss. 

Icy remnants crunched under Moor’s boots as he continued onward. 

The bridge ended at a promontory, where, before the rough and sheer cavern wall, a stone golem stood sentinel. A thick neck and broad shoulders supported its boulder-sized head. The wall of its chest tapered to a marginally thinner waist; massive fists dangled from powerful arms and hung down past the knees of tree-trunk legs. Hulking, easily twice Moor’s height, the stone golem didn’t move, but its eyeless sockets seemed to glare a challenge to the man standing before it.

Moor sneered up at its chipped and worn face. ‘Well?’ he said intolerantly. ‘Let me in, you fool!’ 

The golem shifted its bulk, its joints rasping with the grind of stone on stone as it turned to face the cavern wall. Raising both massive fists, it punched out at the rock. The hard surface accepted the blows, turning to liquid, as if cowering in the face of a greater might. It then solidified, fusing the golem’s arms to the wall at the wrists. The golem leaned back and heaved. With more grinding, the stony sentinel wrenched free a great section of the wall as easily as if it were pulling out a plug. Its footfalls were heavy as it bore the hunk of rock back a few paces to reveal a round opening.

Without a word, Moor stepped through the opening. A dull boom confirmed that the golem had resealed the way behind him.

Moor entered a circular chamber whose wall and floor were as smooth as if scooped out of the rock. Above, the domed ceiling was coated with a luminous substance that bathed the chamber in a warm, golden glow. A large round table of stone occupied the centre, around which four people sat. All of them stared at the new arrival, but not one uttered a word as he took his chair among them.

Only when he was seated did Moor acknowledge the pain from the injuries he had suffered to his ribs, and the deep fatigue overwhelming his body.

He felt eyes upon him. Each of these people was well-known to Moor, though he would hardly call them friends. They had all been summoned to this council chamber before, and always in secret, but never under such circumstances as these. Their dark cassocks were ripped and stained as Moor’s own, and all but one carried visible wounds. 

To his right sat obese Viktor Gadreel; the old man held a blooded cloth to his left eye, and shallow cuts and bruises decorated his bald head. To his left, Hagi Tabet’s  glassy eyes stared off into some unknown distance, a thin line of blood running down the side of her face from a head wound partially hidden by her short, matted hair. Further along, Yves Harrow was shaking, gritting his teeth against the pain of raw facial burns.

The one person present who displayed no obvious injuries was Mo Asajad. She sat calmly opposite Moor. Her long, raven hair was straight and neat; her gaunt, porcelain face was blemished only by a patch of scarring on her forehead – the same ritual scarring each of them bore with pride.

‘Where is Lord Spiral?’ Moor demanded of her.

‘We do not know.’ Asajad’s thin, colourless lips gave him a cold smile. ‘How goes your part in the war?’

Meeting her dark eyes with a chilly gaze of his own, Moor remained silent.

‘Come now, Fabian,’ she said. ‘There’s no shame in defeat.’ Her smile grew thinner and colder. ‘Even my own troops were destroyed today at the Falls of Dust and Silver. I thought I was to die, too, but then I was manifested here.’

Viktor Gadreel grunted. ‘It is the same for us all, Fabian.’ He removed the cloth from his face and looked at the blood upon it. His left eye was nothing more than red pulp. ‘I lost over a thousand today, dead to a man at the Burrows of Underneath. I should have fallen with them.’

‘So many dead,’ Hagi Tabet whispered. With each passing moment, she seemed more and more lost. Whatever wound she had sustained, it had clearly addled her mind. ‘It all happened so quickly ...’ 

‘We didn’t stand a chance,’ added Yves Harrow. He closed his burnt eyelids and continued to shiver.

‘So you see, Fabian,’ Asajad purred, ‘each of our armies suffered defeat in battle, and with synchronised precision, it would seem. But you didn’t lead an army, did you? Your part in the war was of a more clandestine nature.’ She gave him a pitying pout. ‘I am assuming, by your presence, your mission to the Great Labyrinth was not a success?’

‘What do you know of my mission, Asajad?’ Moor’s tone was guarded. 

‘Enough to make an educated guess that the little magickers of the Relic Guild proved too strong for even Lord Spiral’s most trusted assassin.’

Moor rubbed a hand across his bruised ribs and averted his gaze.

‘Oh, poor Fabian.’ As Asajad’s unhelpful amusement deepened, she looked at each person seated around the table. ‘A sorry lot for sure,’ she sighed. ‘Yet, even in failure, our lord and master has seen fit to spare us from death, to bring us safely to this place. We must indeed be favoured.’

‘But are we few all that remain?’ Gadreel said. ‘Did Lord Spiral save others?’ 

Before any could speculate further, there was a deep click and a square section in the middle of the round table began to rise. 

Moor watched as a glass tank was revealed, slowly rising with puffs of dust and steam. Within the tank stood a small and withered man, his body and limbs wrapped in strips of black cloth. He was bald and pale-skinned. His eyelids were sown together with twine and his lips were fused around a glass tube that connected to a box held in his thin-fingered hands. The box was diamond-shaped and dark, but the symbols carved into its surface glowed with a dull purple hue. A second glass tube ran from the box and disappeared into the withered man’s temple. Thick fluid travelled along both tubes. 

A second click was followed by a long sigh, and the man in the tank spoke. ‘Greetings.’ His voice, stony and emotionless, came from all places at once. 

Viktor Gadreel was the first to reply. ‘Where is Lord Spiral?’ he demanded.

The answer was matter-of-fact. ‘I am to instruct you in the Lord Spiral’s absence.’ 

Moor looked around the table. They all knew the abomination in the tank, and knew him well. His name was Voice of Known Things, and not one of them would dare refute him, for he had been created by Lord Spiral to speak the truth. Voice of Known Things was incapable of mistake or lie, and his word was the word of their absent master.

‘The war has reached its conclusion,’ the emotionless voice continued. ‘The Timewatcher’s army has proved too strong, and Her Thaumaturgists have pressed their advantage. Our allies among the Houses of the Aelfir have been broken and scattered. Even as I speak, the Lord Spiral’s enemies are clinching the final victory.’

‘Then the war is lost,’ Tabet whimpered. Her eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. ‘Lost ...’ Blood dripped from her earlobe onto the shoulder of her cassock.

Gadreel growled defiance. ‘No. I will not accept that.’ He jabbed the bloodied cloth towards Voice of Known Things. ‘The Great Labyrinth can still be ours – I refuse to sit idly by while our lord falls.’

Harrow, his facial burns weeping and ugly, hissed between chattering teeth, ‘Yes. Better to die in battle.’

Moor remained silent. Only he understood there was more to this situation than his comrades realised – or so he thought until he noticed Mo Asajad, smiling at him through the glass tank. The other three had not grasped the obvious: none of them would have been saved if it did not serve some greater purpose in the war. 

‘You will do only as the Lord Spiral commands,’ Voice of Known Things said. It was simply a statement: the truth. ‘The war for the Great Labyrinth is lost, but your master does not lose hope in the face of defeat. Never again will he bow to the rule of the Timewatcher and Her Thaumaturgists, and nor will his generals.’

A moment of silence passed before Asajad said, ‘How then can we serve our lord in these times of despair?’

Fluid gurgled along the glass tubes, and Voice of Known Things replied, ‘No despair can last forever.’ He turned his head to Moor, as though those ruined eyes could see him. ‘History will record that each of you died during the final days of the war. That is as intended. That is as it should be.’

He allowed a further moment of silence to pass, and the glow of the symbols upon the diamond-shaped box in his bony hands intensified. ‘The plans of your master have not changed, and your orders remain the same.’ It seemed his words were directed at Moor alone. Then, ‘Your flesh is the sacrifice, but your souls are reserved for the Lord Spiral’s will. In this matter you have no choice.’

‘And never could we conceive of refusing him,’ Asajad said. Her voice had become whispery, excited.

‘Indeed,’ Moor added. 

He felt a thrill that banished his pain and fatigue. Gadreel, Harrow and Tabet seemed perplexed as they stared at the abomination in the glass tank, but Moor understood where they were being led, as he had always known. For the first time, he returned Asajad’s mirthless smile through the glass tank. 

Once again the stony, emotionless Voice of Known Things spoke from all places at once. ‘You are the vanguard of the future. You are the last of the Genii.’

-CHAPTER ONE-

The Great Labyrinth

Marney glanced up at the sky as she ran. A thick blanket of clouds obscured the stars and blurred Ruby Moon to a smudge of dull red. The stench of mould filled her nostrils. The air was warm and humid, dampening her skin, promising heavy rain. Already a fine mist of drizzle had slicked the cobbles beneath her boots, and glinted as it clung to moss growing on the black bricks of the high walls flanking her. Surrounded by miles of intersecting alleyways, with only moonlight and shadows to guide her, Marney blocked the pain of her burning leg muscles and headed deeper into the Great Labyrinth. 

Tonight, she searched for a denizen lost among the alleyways: a young woman with bad people on her tail, assassins more accustomed than their prey to the kind of danger lurking in this monstrous maze. The girl would only find despair in the complexities of the Great Labyrinth. However, on this occasion, her would-be assassins had more to deal with than a straightforward killing. They had an empath on their tail. 

As the alley came to a cross junction, Marney paused in the shadow of a buttress. The alleyways of the Great Labyrinth did not differ from each other much: roughly five paces wide, twisting and curving in seemingly impossible ways, with pairs of opposing buttresses every fifteen paces or so. Usually, cobbled ground and mossy brickwork were all that could be seen for miles on end; but across this junction, standing further down the opposite alleyway, were the remnants of a makeshift camp. 

A canvas sheet, damp and covered in mould, had been fashioned into a crude bivouac. The top edge was studded to the brickwork. It stretched diagonally down to roughly the centre of the path, where it was held to the ground by heavy weights. There were a few metal storage containers close by, piled on top of each other, rusty and full of holes. Beside them lay a glow lamp, smashed and useless. 

A few rats scurried around the improvised camp and into the bivouac’s triangular opening. Marney could see the dark shapes of heaped bundles inside. She knew it had once been the shelter of a treasure hunter, someone who had died of his own greed and stupidity, probably decades ago. The camp appeared deserted, but maybe deceptively so ... 

Marney summoned her empathic magic. 

Her awareness shifted, falling out of sync with the world of dark, cloudy sky and misted night air. She could no longer smell the damp of her hair and clothes. Detached now from her intuition, Marney focused on a single moment, a single space, and her magic reached out. 

The mossy bricks of the alley walls and the slick cobbles became insubstantial as her senses searched for revealing signs: the emotions of an assassin hiding around the treasure hunter’s camp. But the only emotive response was the otherness of rats existing within their simple-minded routines. No ambush awaited her. Marney didn’t know whether to feel relieved or offended. 

These rodents weren’t the only kind of creatures dwelling in the Great Labyrinth; there were monsters too, especially here where the maze twisted and turned like the arteries of a black heart. If she had a mind to, Marney could be the worst monster of them all, yet the assassins had left no trap. Perhaps they didn’t perceive her as a serious threat. She was only one old woman, after all ...

Marney stopped searching. Her restored awareness once again registered the damp air and foul-smelling alleyways. She took the left alley at the cross junction, leaving the camp behind, and resumed running.

The girl Marney was trying to rescue was known as Peppercorn Clara. Barely eighteen, she was a whore rumoured to have a libido as spicy as it was insatiable. The story was that Clara had killed a client halfway through a job. The man had been a disreputable sort who wouldn’t be missed, and according to Marney’s information, Peppercorn had been forced into a corner and had no choice but to defend herself. Marney believed that somebody, somewhere, had benefited from the murder of Clara’s client. These assassins were on a clean up job.

Marney cut a right and then a quick left. She skidded on damp moss, righted herself and sped down a long alley that stretched straight ahead into the gloom.

Time was running short, and Marney was behind in the chase. Clara was too far away to contact mentally, but her fear left emotional footprints that led clearly through the alleyways. Unless Marney could head her off, and fast, Clara would flee too deep into the Great Labyrinth, to the places where assassins would be the least of her problems. 

Between the alley walls, in the little niches and hidden corners of the giant maze, there was a peripheral place that both inhabited the real world and did not. The denizens of Labrys Town called this place the Retrospective; and there pockets of dead time existed – remnants of long gone civilisations. These epochs were a treasure house of forgotten artefacts and secrets, or so it was said. But only the greed of treasure hunters, or insanity, could drive a person to search for the Retrospective. For within that twilight realm dwelt many terrible things.

Manifested as a horde of ghosts, they snaked and weaved through the very fabric of the Great Labyrinth, like tendrils of dark history, remorseless aspects without good or reason; monsters, phantoms from nightmares with names only mentioned in whispers, or upon the pages of secret books. The wild demons of the Retrospective slept with one eye open, always ready to swallow the unwary.

And Peppercorn Clara was heading straight for them.

As the light of Ruby Moon shone brightly through a gap in the clouds, Marney reached the end of the alleyway and cut a sharp right. Somehow, she didn’t see the assassin until it almost was too late. 

Boldly, he stood further ahead, in the middle of the alley, dressed in a dark, flowing priest’s cassock and wide-brimmed hat. The violet light of thaumaturgy glowed from the power stone set behind the chamber of the pistol in his hand.

An instant before the power stone flashed and the pistol shot its deadly slug with a low and hollow spitting sound, Marney leapt aside, ramming her shoulder into a buttress, and pressing her back flat to the alley wall. The assassin’s bullet cracked the brickwork a few paces to her right with a spray of stone. A sharp, high-pitched whine was immediately followed by a whirl of icy wind. The noise scrambled Marney’s empathic senses, but she retained control and heard a creaking, deep and dull sounding. 

Ice was forming where the slug had hit the wall. It spread out over the brickwork, creeping towards her like frosted breath on a windowpane. In an instant, the ice reached Marney’s right shoulder. She gasped and gritted her teeth as the cloth of her jacket began to freeze. Just as she thought she would have to break cover, the ice ceased spreading and mercifully began to melt. 

Magic: that bullet was designed to capture not kill. A direct hit would have preserved Marney’s body within a cocoon of ice. But magical ammunition was rare in the Labyrinth, and no one – no one – packed that kind of power into a bullet unless they were damn sure of their skills, unless they were ... well connected. What kind of enemies had Clara made? 

The assassin still loomed in the alleyway. Marney tried to engage with his emotions, to manipulate him into to obeying her command, but he was shielded from her empathy. More magic. There was no way she could get close to him while the gun remained in his hand, so she unzipped her jacket and carefully slipped it off. A baldric of slim throwing daggers was fastened around her torso like a girdle. She slid out a single blade. The silver metal felt cool and smooth in her hand. 

Marney waited several heartbeats, and then threw her jacket into the alley. Immediately, the power stone in the assassin’s pistol flashed and released a burst of thaumaturgy. The ice-bullet fizzed into the jacket, freezing it in midair. It fell, shattering to shards of ice upon the cobbles. Marney spun into the alleyway and threw the dagger. It sliced the air with a sigh before thudding into the face of her adversary. His head snapped back, dislodging the wide-brimmed hat, and the pistol fell clattering from his hand. The violet glow of its power stone faded and died. 

Marney wasted no time. She let fly with two more daggers; one took the assassin in the throat, the other in the chest. He stumbled, but did not fall. Marney readied a fourth blade, but paused before throwing it. 

Something was wrong. 

Beneath the black cassock, the assassin’s body was misshapen, top heavy. His back was hunched and his chest sunken. His limbs appeared overly long and painfully thin. There was no hair on his head, and his face was grotesquely deformed. The hilt of the first dagger protruded from his eye socket; it reflected red moonlight, but there was no blood, not from any of his wounds. 

Silently, he began convulsing. There came a hissing sound and the alley was filled with the hot and acrid stench of dispelling magic. Violent spasms shook the assassin’s body, bending his already twisted form to hideous angles. The hissing was replaced by a multitude of dull cracks, as if every bone in his body was breaking. Still, he emitted not one single cry of pain. Finally the assassin collapsed to the ground where his heaped bulk lay unmoving on the cobbles. 

With the dagger still in her hand, Marney moved forwards cautiously. She inspected the remains. A knot formed in her stomach. 

The souls of the dead could still talk, but even the most adept necromancer would get no information from this assassin. The creature had once been human, she was sure, but now it was not even made of flesh and blood. The cassock lay as rags upon the alley floor, and within its black folds the assassin’s body had shattered into small pieces of powdery stone. Not enough of the face and body remained intact to suggest that they had ever been part of a humanoid shape.

They said that empaths could never forget, though the Timewatcher only knew Marney had tried. The situation suddenly smacked of something from a long time ago. The assassin’s emotions had not been shielded to her senses; it no longer had any. Her magic was useless against creatures such as these. She could not feel them coming ...

Her basic instincts kicked in. Spiky pulses of warning rushed up Marney’s spine and stabbed into her head. From the corner of her eye she caught the swish of a cassock and the violet glint of a power stone as a second inhuman assassin rounded the corner into the alleyway. Marney rolled to one side and the dagger flew from her hand just as the assassin’s handgun spat out its bullet.

-CHAPTER TWO-

Retrospective

Samuel had spotted the assassin, passed close enough to see the flash of a power stone and hear the vague spitting sound made by the killer’s handgun, but he did not stop to see if Marney had lived or died.

Some fifteen feet above the Great Labyrinth’s cobbled ground, he ran along the ramparts atop the alley walls: slick, moss-covered walkways, flanked on either side by low and crenellated barriers. Breathing hard, his hair matted with sweat and drizzle, Samuel pushed his ageing legs with all the strength he could muster.

Samuel was an old bounty hunter and he understood well that those who allowed sentiment to dictate action did not last long anywhere in the Labyrinth. There were no loyalties, no bonds of friendship and honour in this place – not anymore. He had made headway in this chase, and wasn’t about to surrender it. Marney’s business was her own. Old friendships were dust to him.

In his hand, Samuel carried a spirit compass. The needle ticked and turned and steered his direction true as it tracked the life energy of his prey. The mark was a whore, young, barely eighteen. Oh, she had a name, but that meant nothing to the old bounty hunter; she was a murderer, and the reward for killing her was almost too good to be true. That was the only important detail.

With Marney out of the running, the night’s work should have been child’s play for Samuel. But someone must have issued a second contract on the whore; there were a bunch of amateurs running around the alleys playing at assassins. Samuel still had the advantage. Here and there, narrow bridges formed shortcuts through the Great Labyrinth by connecting one rampart to another. Like a maze upon a maze, the bridges led to places where those on the ground could not go. While the attention of these amateurs was focused on the ground, they had no reason to suspect that Samuel shadowed them from up on the ramparts – and nor would they, until it was too late.

He came to a halt as the rampart stopped at a T-junction. Down below, the alleyway on his left side came to a blind end; down on the right, the cobbled pathway led to a contained courtyard. There were no bridges at this intersection, and the rampart split into two paths. But which should he follow – east or west? Evidently, the spirit compass was also undecided. Its needle spun and shivered as it remained locked onto the whore’s spirit and adjusted navigation inconclusively.

As Samuel waited, the drizzle turned to full rain, and he let it splash against his upturned face. In the humid glow of Ruby Moon, the raindrops felt refreshing against his skin. 

In the distance, Samuel could see a ghostly glow hanging over the Great Labyrinth, as though the lights of a far away land shone through the mist. It was only a trick of the night, he knew; for there was nothing out there except the alleyways that continued on forever, or so it was thought. But there was a place, a fabled haven that all the Labyrinth’s denizens wondered about, dreamed of reaching. Far beyond the mists, in the deepest regions of the maze, there was a doorway that led to a paradise named Mother Earth. And there, the Timewatcher waited with open arms to welcome all lost souls. Every denizen dreamed of Mother Earth ... 

Samuel felt a sudden pang of weariness. 

Old Man Sam they called him. He was a legend among bounty hunters; the deadliest man alive, some said. In truth, Old Man Sam was one of the last vestiges of a past generation. It was difficult for him to remember the strength of his youth, to remember a time when his actions had carried a sense of duty. He imagined the whore, out in the alleys, praying she could somehow escape this mess, find her way back to Labrys Town at the centre of the Great Labyrinth. Did she dream of returning to the sanctuary of her whorehouse, surrounded by the comforting glow of streetlamps and the protection of friends?

Samuel gritted his teeth and closed his eyes against the rain. 

His prey tonight would never see Labrys Town again. Even if she survived Old Man Sam’s gun, she was utterly lost. Sooner or later, she would stumble upon the Retrospective, and then the wild demons would have their fun with her. Better to be shot. Better to die a quick death than face the Retrospective. At least then her soul would reach Mother Earth.

The compass gave a solid click in Samuel’s hand, and the needle shivered on a definite north-westerly direction. In the distance the glow of the mist, the promise of a far away paradise, somehow seemed to mock the bounty hunter. 

Old Man Sam they called him ...

He took the left turn at the T-junction. After a short distance, he crossed a bridge to a new rampart. From there, a quick series of bridges and walkways followed. Head down against the rain, Samuel zigzagged across the Great Labyrinth, and the chase continued. 

By the time he caught up with the whore, some amateur assassins already had her trapped in a courtyard. Samuel crouched behind the rampart wall and furtively peered down at them through the crenellations. 

The mark was clearly exhausted. She was dressed in clothes so oversized they barely stayed on her waiflike frame. Her large eyes were round with fear, and her short hair, streaked with red dye, was lank from rain. Fatigue and panic creased the pointed features of her gawky face.

Down to Samuel’s left was the mouth of an alley. It was the only way in or out of the courtyard, and an assassin guarded it. He wore a priest’s cassock and a wide-brimmed hat covered his face. His body was clearly deformed beneath his dress; his arms were so spindly they barely looked strong enough to carry the silver pistol in his hand. Away from the assassin, closer to the girl, stood a short, grubby man whose clothes were scarcely better than rags. Samuel recognised him and a twinge of anger flared in his chest.

Charlie Hemlock: perhaps the most venal, untrustworthy bastard in Labrys Town. More than once this snake had crossed Samuel, but lived to tell the tale. His involvement came as no surprise. 

Samuel slipped his short rifle from the holster on his back, its power stone covered for stealth.

Down in the courtyard, Hemlock made a grab for the girl, but, despite her obvious exhaustion, she clearly wasn’t ready to give up the fight. She screeched, clawing at Hemlock’s face, dragging her fingernails down his cheek. As she broke free of him, Hemlock clutched his face and stamped his foot, uttering a stream of curses. 

‘Bitch!’ he shouted for a finale.

The girl backed away.

The assassin remained by the alley mouth offering no help to his friend. Motionless, almost statuesque, he seemed content to watch Hemlock struggle with his lacerations. Why were they toying with their victim? 

Suspicious now, he looked back to the mark.

Samuel’s employer had told him a rumour about this girl – that she was a magicker, a human born with a specific magical gift. She was a changeling, and could shift her form into that of a wolf. Samuel was sceptical of such tales – nothing like a changeling had been seen in the Labyrinth for a couple of generations at least. But that Hemlock and the assassin had not yet killed the girl got him thinking: changeling blood was a potent catalyst in the art of spell-craft, and any mundane magic-user would give his right arm to procure it, however much damage his lackey took in the process. But there weren’t supposed to be any magic-users left.

Whoever had employed Hemlock obviously wanted the whore captured alive, for some reason. Even if the rumours were true about her, she was clearly too exhausted to defend herself with any metamorphosis into a wolf. Samuel guessed that the assassin’s pistol was loaded with some kind of magical ammunition designed to incarcerate her, and that was what triggered his suspicion. The assassin had a clear view of the whore, the power stone on his weapon was primed and glowing, yet he hadn’t taken the shot. Even a child couldn’t miss from that distance. Why was he waiting?

In his long years in the Labyrinth, Samuel had witnessed many strange and terrible things, and nothing was ever as it seemed. Whatever orders Hemlock and the assassin were under, the instructions for Samuel’s contract were clear: kill the whore. Destroy her remains. 

Hemlock had recovered somewhat from his pain, but four deep gouges lined his cheek. He began goading his captive. 

‘Don’t be like that, Peppercorn,’ he wheedled. ‘We don’t want to hurt you, honest.’ The lie dripped from his mouth like bile.

‘Just let me go,’ the girl said, in a shaky voice. ‘I-I can pay you.’

Hemlock chuckled with smug satisfaction. ‘Why would I want that? We’re all friends here. You should be more trusting.’

The girl retreated until her back was pressed up against the wall opposite Samuel’s position, thus making herself a perfect target. Samuel slid the barrel of his rifle through the crenellations. With his thumb, he primed the power stone set behind the barrel. It gave a small whine, and its violet glow struggled to shine through the thick metal gauze covering it. Old Man Sam peered down the sight at his target.

‘Don’t be shy,’ Hemlock said. ‘We could have some fun.’ 

Samuel’s weapon was a police issue rifle. Ordinarily its power stone held such a high-grade thaumaturgic charge that it could spit out a thumb-sized metal slug with enough force to take off a man’s arm. But Samuel had loaded his weapon with ammunition that packed a little extra something, certainly not police issue: fire-bullets. One round would incinerate the mark entirely. Proof of kill would be a box of ashes. 

‘Leave me alone!’ the girl sobbed.

The magazine only held four rounds, and that allowed Samuel one miss. Four shots, three kills: the girl, the assassin, and Charlie Hemlock he would save until last. The fire magic would destroy all evidence.

With steadying breaths, Samuel began squeezing the trigger.

‘I haven’t done you any harm!’ the whore pleaded. 

Hemlock laughed. 

Samuel’s finger relaxed. 

Strange: the inclination to honour his contract was dulling like the passion of an argument regretted in the cold light of day. All he had to do was pull the trigger, release a burst of thaumaturgy, and the bounty was his. But when he tried again, he still could not summon the will to shoot the girl, and he grew angry with himself. 

Nothing was ever as it seemed ... 

Then, as smooth as spider silk, a voice whispered inside Samuel’s head: Leave the girl alone, Old Man. 

Marney!

Samuel recognised her voice as easily as his own. Alive and well, the empath was somewhere close, tampering with his emotive reactions. 

Her tones, clear and strong, filled his mind once again: There’s more to this situation than you want to acknowledge.

Samuel whispered a curse.

Down in the courtyard, Marney appeared from the alley mouth. Dressed in simple black jersey and trousers, she crept up behind the assassin, silently. Around her torso was her baldric of throwing daggers – one was already in her hand. She threw it at the assassin. It stabbed into the base of his skull. The man gave no cry of pain or alarm, but instead made a hissing noise as he began to jerk spasmodically. There came a series of dull pops, and to Samuel’s astonishment, the assassin collapsed with a stony sound as if he had broken apart. His cassock lay heaped on the floor as though his body had fallen through a trapdoor.

Stay where you are, Old Man, Marney’s voice said. Whatever happens, whatever you see, do not show yourself. 

Samuel did as he was told. Not that he had a choice; Marney had his emotions in the palm of her hand.

All this time, Hemlock had not reacted. He was apparently unsurprised by Marney’s arrival, and amused. He smiled at the crumpled ruins of his companion, and then at the empath. The girl had hunkered down on the floor, trembling against the wall. Samuel did nothing but watch them all.

‘Hello, Marney,’ Hemlock said. ‘For a moment there I thought we’d lost you.’

‘Shut up, Charlie,’ Marney snapped, coming to stand within a few feet of him. ‘I know who you’re working for.’

‘Good for you.’ 

Hemlock held his ground, but Samuel could tell his easy manner was a façade. The snake was stalling for time. His shifty gaze darted around the courtyard, as if looking for something that should be there. 

‘You know, I’m sure you want some explanations,’ he said to Marney. He touched a hand to his cheek wounds and looked at the blood on his palm. ‘Make it worth my while, and maybe I’ll help.’

‘I already have what I need.’ Samuel detected a touch of desperation in Marney’s voice. ‘You have no idea who you’re involved with, Charlie. This is low, even by your standards.’ 

‘You think so?’ Hemlock shrugged. ‘I’ve been lower. Besides—’

He never finished the sentence. Marney sprang forwards and rammed the palm of her hand into his face. There was a spark of empathic energy, and Hemlock fell flat on his back, his senses scrambled. 

The girl had risen from the floor by this time. She looked confused and scared, but she did not shy away as Marney approached her. In voices too low for Samuel to pick up, they spoke. 

The old bounty hunter suddenly remembered the rifle in his hands. The grip was coarse and familiar against his skin, the black metal cold, the power stone glowing beneath its cover. Whether Marney’s influence over him still lingered, he could not say, but he remained hidden up on the rampart, just as she commanded. 

What had she discovered?

After a few moments, Marney stepped forwards and, to Samuel’s surprise, pulled the whore into a kiss. There was another, softer, flash of energy, and the girl gasped, staggering backwards. Several heartbeats passed, and then Marney let the girl flee the courtyard. The slaps of her bare feet on slick cobbles disappeared into the gloom – along with Samuel’s bounty.

Marney looked up at the ramparts. Her expression was challenging. Even though Samuel knew it was too murky for her to see him, somehow her eyes still burned into his.

It’s been a long time, Samuel, her voice said in his mind. How are you? 

It seemed pointless now to continue the conversation mentally, but Samuel obliged the empath’s wishes. He did not, however, deactivate the power stone on his weapon.

That whore is a murderer, he thought back angrily. 

That whore has a name, Marney countered, just as hotly. Clara. Remember it!

What are you doing, Marney?

I could ask you the same thing. Clara’s a changeling. She’s a magicker, Old Man. Did you know that?

Get to the point, Samuel snapped. 

Marney shook her head and moved to Hemlock’s unconscious form lying on the courtyard floor. She checked him over, and then sat on his chest, looking down at his face. 

Do you ever think about the old days, Samuel?

What?

Do you remember life before the Genii War, before the Aelfir disappeared? Marney slipped a dagger from the baldric and toyed with it between her fingers. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about that as well as your duty.

Her voice carried a measure of dark mirth. Samuel did not care for the way it felt in his head.

Where are you going with this, Marney? 

Charlie Hemlock, she replied and held the slim dagger as though it were a pencil. He has a new paymaster. Nothing surprising there, I suppose – whoever’s paying the most with Charlie, right? But this time he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

And what has this to do with me?

Everything. You see, Samuel, Charlie’s been employed by an old friend of ours.

Marney then leant forwards and used the dagger to cut something into Hemlock’s forehead. Even with younger eyes, it would have been impossible for Samuel to see at that distance what she had carved into Hemlock’s skin. 

In Samuel’s pocket, the spirit compass ticked as it continued to track the whore’s life energy.

What have you found? he demanded. Who’s Hemlock working for?

When she replied, Marney’s anxiety scratched the inside of Samuel’s skull. The Genii War spawned so many myths, stories that faded like echoes until the truth was utterly forgotten. But I remember the truth, Old Man, and I remember the promises we made. Perhaps you should too.

She sat back and admired her handiwork. Hemlock’s face was smeared with blood that ran down the side of his face. 

Samuel felt a shift in the air, a sudden temperature drop.

We sacrificed so much to win the war against Spiral, Marney said, but if we’d lost, it would have been much, much worse. She rose and stepped back from Hemlock’s body. I want Charlie Hemlock to understand that. I want him to know what his new employer is capable of. 

The temperature continued to drop, dispelling the humidity of Ruby Moon. Samuel’s breath began to rise in clouds. On the courtyard floor, Hemlock’s body shimmered, darkening as if drawing the very shadows to it. A breeze picked up bringing with it a sense of hopelessness and the stench of corruption. Samuel understood then that Marney had carved a sigil into Hemlock’s forehead, a symbol of summoning. 

What madness is this, Marney?

He deserves no better, Samuel, she said calmly. I’m giving Charlie to the Orphan.

Samuel’s grip tightened on his rifle. 

Of all people, Marney understood what terrible things dwelt within the Retrospective. The Orphan – the blood harvester. Summoning such a demon could see them all swallowed into oblivion. But the darkness was already gathering; Hemlock’s facial features were now indistinguishable, as if shrouded. There was no stopping the summons. The Retrospective was coming. 

I won’t be part of this, Samuel told Marney angrily. 

You already are! Marney snapped. She thrust out a hand, pointing to the heaped bulk of the dead assassin lying by the courtyard’s exit. That thing isn’t human, Samuel. It’s a golem!

What?

That made no sense to Samuel. Golems were facile servants, human victims whose flesh and blood and bone had been converted to stone by the darkest of magics. But a magic-user skilled enough to create a golem hadn’t been seen in the Labyrinth for decades, not since ... 

No. Samuel’s thought was as chilling as the snake that slithered around his spine. That’s impossible, Marney.

Remember your promise, Old Man, she said. Follow Clara. You need to keep her close. 

The air behind Marney shimmered and distorted, and from the distortion shot a flash of light that slammed into Marney’s back. She fell to her knees with a cry. There was a sound like the howl of bitter wind, and Marney’s voice was choked off as her body hardened to ice.

The distortion shattered in the air like glass, collapsing to reveal a square portal, a doorway to somewhere else from which sterile light spilled onto the cobbles of the courtyard. Four disfigured golems dressed in cassocks stumbled from the portal and grabbed Marney’s frozen body. 

Behind the golems, Samuel saw a man bathed in the light of a silver chamber, standing before what looked to be some kind of tree. With long, white hair and pale skin, he too was dressed in the black cassock of a priest. He watched with dispassionate eyes as his servants carried the empath back to him. 

Samuel stood on the rampart and aimed his rifle. But he was too slow. The golems had already taken the empath through to the silver chamber, and, before he could fire, the portal closed with a swirl of distorted air. Marney was gone.

Samuel stared into empty space, not quite believing what he had witnessed. 

He flinched as a small, child-like form on the courtyard floor caught his eye. A little boy had appeared, crouching over Hemlock’s body, short fingers clawing at his clothes. The boy and Hemlock quickly dissipated, turning to shadow that seeped into the cobbles like oil drawn into cracks in the ground. 

The Retrospective had been and gone, and the Orphan had claimed its prize. 

The night’s humidity returned and pressed in on Samuel. In his pocket, the spirit compass vibrated. He fished it out. The needle was still locked onto the girl. There was only one option left to Old Man Sam now. 

He followed her.