Down beneath the streets of Labrys Town, Fabian Moor walked through the sewers, guided by the dirty light of pale glow lamps. The stench of filth filled his nostrils, and the thick, oily atmosphere seemed to cling to his hair and cassock. But these minor discomforts mattered little to him; the thin line of purple magic that snaked and weaved through the foul air before him was vibrant and alive, and he followed to wherever it led, deep in the gloom ahead.

The sheer disappointment he had felt at the antiques boutique had faded away like an unimportant dream. Yes, it had stung at first to discover the magic in the terracotta jar dead after all these years, but the blood of the feeble old shop owner had given him more than adequate sustenance. Moor felt whole and strong again – for the time being, at least. It helped to put things back into perspective. Whatever disgust he felt towards his surroundings did not affect his impatience and drive, for the Genii's work was far from done.

Accompanying Moor was a doughy and round-shouldered man who struggled to keep pace on the walkway. He scuttled along, rubbing his hands together worriedly. His thinning hair hung in lank and greasy tendrils, and his unshaven face was parchment-dry and flaky. His mouth seemed perpetually agape, and his eyes never stopped watering. He blinked too much. He smelled of onions. And his very proximity irritated Moor to the point of murder.

'My real name's Clover,' said the man in his nasally voice. 'But ain't nobody calls me that anymore, sir.'

'Is that right,' Moor replied.

Clover nodded enthusiastically. 'They call me Dumb Boy.'

Which, Moor reasoned, was unsurprising; even an idiot would consider this man a simpleton.

Clover leant into him, and dropped his voice to a whisper. 'Are they all right, sir?' he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. 'Only, I ain't never seen people like them before.'

He referred to the two golems following close behind. Spindly and withered within their black cassocks, submissive and unquestioning in their obedience, they carried pickaxes in their gnarled hands. All remnants of the humans they once had been were lost in their deformed faces. They were as 'all right' as they would ever be.

Moor sighed. 'Were you not told that keeping your mouth shut was a requirement for this job?' he said to his imbecilic companion.

'Oh, yeah – I remember.'

'Then kindly remain silent until I say otherwise.'

'Right you are, sir.'

In the gloomy light of the glow lamps, Moor continued following the line of purple magic that weaved through the air. He led his mismatched entourage down a short tunnel-way, and then out onto a path than ran alongside a river of rancid sewage water. The stone became slippery underfoot, the stench of filth grew stronger, but at least the silence endured.

Moor needed Clover more than the fool would ever realise. Not being the most intelligent specimen of humanity made him perfect for Moor's needs; and, like that cretin Charlie Hemlock, the fool had pounced at the chance to earn a fistful of Labyrinth pounds without question.

How like the denizens it was to place need before consideration. Even though they had been cast aside by the Timewatcher, these humans still worshipped Her as if She continued to watch over them; they still believed in their high social position among the Houses, even though every ally had long ago abandoned them. The denizens were in denial; they could not accept the pointlessness of their continued existence, or the hypocrisy by which they lived.

The personal use of magic had always been forbidden to humans. They simply could not be trusted with it. Before the war against the Timewatcher, magic-users had been punished with a petty prison sentence. But when the war had ended, the Resident decreed the crime punishable by death. With a straight face, the Resident told the denizens that the personal use of magic was a terrible thing, evil, that a powerful magic-user might destroy the boundary wall and set free the Retrospective upon their precious town. While at the same time he knew that magic had always ensured his people's survival, that it was fundamental in keeping the Labyrinth's society functioning. And the denizens never questioned the hypocrisy.

Magic lit their streets, drove their trams, warmed their houses, and cooked their food. The little power stones they used absorbed ambient thaumaturgy from the atmosphere and energised their weapons and appliances. The Resident would keep them safe from magic abuse, he promised the humans, while utilising it to watch their every movement. Yes, under the Resident's law, the punishment for the personal use of magic was death ... unless it was being used by those rare humans who were born touched by magic, the agents who served that secret, rag-tag organisation called the Relic Guild ...

And they referred to themselves as magickers, as if a name could give them some authority equal to that of the Thaumaturgists. The agents of the Relic Guild were the epitome of the Labyrinth's double standards, just another bunch of hypocritical humans – filthy, pathetic humans.

Moor suppressed his angry thoughts as at long last the tendril of purple magic led him to where the river of putrid wastewater became shallower. The twisting thread disappeared beneath the surface of the water, as if stabbing down through the waste into the very stone of the river floor. He drew the ill-assorted group to a halt. The signal of magic was strong, healthy, and he felt a rush of triumph.

Moor turned to his golems. 'Do it,' he ordered them.

Without hesitation the golems splashed down into the river with their pickaxes. It was even shallower than Moor had first supposed, and the water barely covered the ankles of his servants. Without need of further instruction, the golems raised the pickaxes above their misshapen heads and began striking the river floor with muffled chinks, heedless of the human effluent their efforts splashed upon their cassocks.

Clover watched the golems work with some interest. He turned watery eyes to Moor. Rubbing his hands together, he hopped from foot to foot, and actually seemed pained by his new employer's prohibition on speaking.

Moor resisted the urge to snap the simpleton's neck and said, 'Your job is to supervise my servants. Ensure they remain undisturbed in their work. Understand?'

Clover blinked at him. 'You ... You're putting me in charge?'

'I suppose you could see it that way, yes.'

'Oh, sir!' Clover looked close to tears, though it was hard to be sure with his ever-watering eyes. 'Charlie said I could trust you, sir – said you'd do right by me.'

'Did he really?'

'And I'm obliged for the money, sir. It ain't easy for me to get a job in this town—'

'Clover, it is time to shut your mouth again.' Moor looked down at his golems working tirelessly, striking away with their pickaxes, over and over again. It would be some time before their work was finished.

'You will stay here,' he told Clover. 'When my servants find what I want, you will receive your reward. Serve me equally well, and perhaps there will be extra money in it for you – no! Don't speak. Merely nod if you understand.'

The idiot did, as if he was trying to work his head loose.

With a sudden desire to be far from this disgusting place, Fabian Moor turned and strode away.

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