Ms Turner And The Messy Relics

Mara jumped onto a crate. The crate sank.

“Wonderful.”

She sprang to the other side just as the goo swallowed the place where her foot had been. It bubbled softly, as if pleased with itself.

The map twitched in her hand. The purple arrow bent upward, pointing at the gate’s highest hinge.

Mara looked from the arrow to the hinge. Then she looked at the goo.

“No,” she said.

The map gave a little shiver.

“Oh, fine.”

She pulled her scarf over her nose, tucked the map inside her jacket, and grabbed the side of the gate. The iron was cold and greasy. Her fingers slipped once, twice. On the third try she hauled herself up, catching a boot on a crossbar.

The gate squealed.

Mara froze.

Somewhere beyond the alley, a bell rang once.

She climbed faster. Her knee scraped the iron, and a bright sting shot down her leg. At the top, the gate shook beneath her. She swung one leg over and dropped onto the other side, landing in a puddle of orange foam.

The foam popped around her boots.

Mara stared down at it. “I am beginning to dislike this alley.”

A shutter banged open above her.

“Hey!” called a voice. “You can’t climb the Sluice gate!”

Mara glanced up. An old shopkeeper leaned from a window, waving a wooden spoon.

“I didn’t climb it,” Mara called back.

The shopkeeper squinted at her muddy boots. “What do you call that?”

“An urgent shortcut.”

“That is still climbing.”

Mara pulled the map from her jacket. The purple stain had spread across the corner. New lines appeared, thin and black, leading toward a row of doors.

“Which door?” Mara whispered.

The map answered by smearing a dark mark across the nearest one.

It was painted blue and wedged between a candle shop and a closed noodle stand. Mara hurried toward it.

The shopkeeper leaned farther out. “If that is a relic map, you’d better leave it alone!”

Mara stopped with her hand inches from the latch. “Why?”

“Because relic maps never point to anything pleasant.”

“Neither do most signs in this alley.”

The shopkeeper’s spoon lowered. “That one points to the waterworks.”

Mara’s fingers closed around the latch. “The old waterworks?”

“The locked old waterworks.”

“Why is it locked?”

“Because people who go in come out covered in something.”

Mara looked at her sleeves, already streaked with purple, orange, and green. “That happens to me anyway.”

She pressed the latch.

The door opened into a passage barely wide enough for her shoulders. Cold air brushed her face. Somewhere inside, water dripped in a steady beat.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The map’s black lines brightened.

Mara stepped through.

The blue door slammed behind her.

She spun and grabbed the handle. It would not turn. She pulled harder. The wood shuddered, but the latch held fast.

“Not funny,” she said.

The passage answered with a low rumble.

Mara took one step back.

A wall of sticky yellow foam pushed through the cracks around the door. It spread along the floor in a slow, shining wave.

Mara shoved the map into her pocket and ran.

The passage bent left, then right. Pipes crowded the ceiling, dripping warm water onto her hair. The stones underfoot changed from rough brick to smooth tile, then to something soft that squeaked beneath her boots.

The map thumped against her side.

At the next turn, she pulled it out.

The purple stain had vanished.

So had the alley.

The paper now showed a maze of blue loops and tiny red dots. One red dot blinked near the edge.

Mara held the map closer.

The dot moved.

“No, no, no.”

She raced after it.

A metal grate dropped from the ceiling.

Mara slid beneath it with a breath to spare. The grate crashed behind her, shaking dust from the pipes. She scrambled up and found herself in a round chamber.

Three tunnels opened around the walls. Each had a different sound.

From the first came rushing water.

From the second came a soft rattling.

From the third came a distant humming tune.

The map showed only one red dot, pulsing in time with the humming.

Mara moved toward it.

A small brass bell rang above the tunnel.

The humming stopped.

A voice spoke from behind the wall. “State your business.”

Mara turned in a slow circle. “I’m looking for the vault.”

“State your business.”

“I just did.”

“State your lawful business.”

Mara frowned. “I’m not here lawfully.”

The pipes groaned.

A panel opened in the wall. Behind it sat a round glass eye, cloudy and pale. It blinked once.

“Rebel relic hunter detected,” said the voice.

Mara’s stomach dipped. “You can detect that?”

“You are carrying an unregistered rumor-map.”

“It was already unregistered when I found it.”

“Unauthorized entry is forbidden.”

“Then why make a map?”

The glass eye clicked. A line of blue light swept over her boots, her scraped knee, and the stained map in her hand.

“Vault Gateway requires proof of proper mess.”

Mara stared at the eye. “Proper what?”

“Mess.”

The panel snapped shut.

A seam appeared in the floor. It opened with a sticky pop, revealing a shallow metal basin filled with thick golden goo. A small slot sat at the basin’s center.

Mara leaned over it. The goo shivered, shining like warm honey.

The map fluttered.

A corner tore free and dropped into the basin.

The golden goo swallowed it.

Mara reached for the scrap, but the basin jerked away beneath the floor. The goo spun in a tight circle. When it stopped, a lump had formed at the center.

The lump rose on a thin strand.

It was shaped like a key.

Mara bent closer. The key was soft, golden, and dripping. A tiny purple streak curled through its middle, matching the stain on her map.

The voice returned. “Entry key prepared.”

Mara reached toward it.

“Warning,” said the voice. “Key must be carried by hand.”

Mara stopped. “For how long?”

“Until the gateway opens.”

“And if I drop it?”

“Key will return to basin.”

“And if it sticks to me?”

“Likely.”

Mara glanced at the tunnels behind her. The rushing water had grown louder. The rattling had become a sharp, hurried clatter. Yellow foam began creeping beneath the grate at the edge of the chamber.

The way back was closing.

“Where is the gateway?” she asked.

“Carry key.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Carry key.”

Mara sighed. “Fine.”

She pinched the gooey key between two fingers.

It clung at once.

Mara yanked her hand back. The key stretched into a golden thread, then snapped against her palm with a wet slap.

“Ow!”

The glass eye blinked.

“Key accepted.”

Mara shook her hand. The key remained stuck, warm and wobbly against her skin.

“You could have mentioned that part.”

“Warning was provided.”

“You said likely!”

“Likely was accurate.”

The floor trembled.

At the far end of the chamber, a section of wall slid aside. Beyond it stood a tall stone doorway covered in locks. Some were iron. Some were glass. One looked like a tiny brass mouth.

The map’s remaining lines rearranged themselves, forming a path through the doorway.

Mara stepped forward.

The golden key tugged her hand toward the locks.

The first lock opened when she touched it. The second clicked. The third spat a blob of goo at her sleeve.

Mara ducked.

The blob struck the wall and began to crawl upward.

“Messy,” she whispered.

The fourth lock snapped shut on the edge of her jacket.

Mara pulled. The fabric stretched.

“Let go.”

The lock did not.

Behind her, the yellow foam reached the chamber. It rolled over the floor, harmless-looking but fast. A small wooden crate floated on top of it. Then a spoon. Then a whole raincoat.

Mara tugged harder. The lock held her jacket like a hungry little mouth.

She could leave the jacket. She could not leave the key.

With her free hand, she pulled a pocket knife from her belt and sliced the trapped sleeve.

The jacket tore with a loud rip.

Mara stumbled forward, clutching the golden key. The broken sleeve dangled from the lock.

The gateway began to close.

“Wait!” she shouted.

The stone doors moved inward.

Mara threw herself between them.

For one breath, she was wedged in the narrowing gap, cheek pressed to cold stone. The gooey key squished against the final lock.

The tiny brass mouth opened.

“Name,” it whispered.

Mara’s fingers slipped.

The key began to slide from her palm.

“Mara Turner,” she said.

The mouth waited.

She squeezed her hand shut. “Mara Turner, rebel relic hunter.”

The lock clicked.

The gateway opened.

Mara tumbled through onto a dry stone floor. The doors slammed behind her, cutting off the foam, the rattling, and the complaining voice.

Silence filled the vault gateway.

Mara pushed herself up. Her sleeve was torn, her knee stung, and the golden key still coated her hand.

Ahead, a narrow stairway descended into darkness. At its bottom stood a single door made of pale stone. No handle marked it. No sign warned her away.

The gooey key began to glow.

On the stone door, a matching keyhole opened like a blinking eye.

Mara stared at it.

She had reached the vault.

She had also discovered that getting inside was only the first messy part.

End of chapter one. 9 more chapters and about 20,379 words in the full book.