The Spider

by Leo Carew

  “Yes,” agreed Jokul. There was quiet for a while.

  “How?” asked Roper. “Planting false information?”

  Jokul tutted and took a sip of tea. “Without spies of our own, we would never know which information had reached Bellamus and which had not. We must simply be vigilant and tight-lipped, Lord Roper. You keep your plans to yourself until we are ready to execute them with utmost speed. Prepare as though there are multiple options you might use; seize one at the last minute and that will limit their abilities to counter them. And then we watch. We see who is behaving irregularly, and make enquiries.”

  “That sounds like Kryptean business,” said Roper.

  “It is,” said Jokul, crisply. “You must leave this to us, Lord Roper. I can assure you that Bellamus’s spies will become more and more reluctant to help him. On that, you have my word.”

  “Will you keep me informed?”

  Jokul’s pale eyes found Roper’s, and he took another small sip from his cup. “I will inform you once we have made an arrest,” he allowed, at last.

  “It would be useful, too, if you told me who you suspect,” Roper insisted.

  “Useful for Bellamus,” said Jokul, his voice fading into his cup as he raised it for another sip.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” replied Jokul. “Why would you? What foolishness. A childish desire for a confidant. If you do not resist it, you open yourself to disaster.”

  Roper looked at Jokul, smiling for a moment. “So this,” and he waved at Jokul’s hunched pose, his slight frown as he addressed Roper, “all this coldness and distance is you being professional? That is why you are as you are? The consummate Master of the Kryptea, close to no one, vulnerable to nothing, incorruptible.”

  Jokul eyed Roper for a moment. “Perhaps I just don’t like you, Lord Roper.”

  Roper burst into laughter. Jokul turned his head slowly back to the fire, so tight-lipped that perhaps he was resisting a smile. He had worked so hard, for so long, in a post so lonely. It must be nice, thought Roper, to have that effort recognised just once. He had never liked Jokul, whose methods lacked honour, and whose heart pumped not blood but meltwater. But for the first time, Roper felt respect for him.

  “Do what you must,” said Roper, echoing words the Master had once spoken to him.

  The contaminated water slowed their progress dramatically. Much of Roper’s strategy for this invasion relied on using the legion’s fitness and mobility to move rapidly across the landscape, catching sites of Suthern resistance unawares. Now they had to send scouts out for miles in all directions looking for clean water, which they were often unable to find. This meant they had to spend hours gathering stacks of firewood and laboriously boil what water there was, slowing their progress to a dead crawl. Their food supplies were dwindling rapidly, and Lincylene seemed their only hope of resupplying.

  Roper considered this after dark, and whenever he could banish these thoughts, he found Helmec’s face before his eyes once more. He explored it, examining the scarred cheek; the pale skin; the helmet, part ripped-off. The twisted neck. There he stopped. He focused on the stars. He remembered Keturah holding her hands up to the starlight in the freyi, hoping it would heal her numbed fingers. He remembered the sense of peace he had felt there, and compared it with the rattling at his ribs that he felt here instead. Part of it was the unsettling sensation of Anakim homesickness which they called kjardautha. It grew worse with age, and Roper knew his experience of it would be nothing compared to what his legionaries were feeling.

  On their final approach to Lincylene, Roper at last mounted Zephyr so that he could scout ahead with the Skiritai and Gray, and lay eyes on his first Suthern city. He could smell it before he saw it. It was a morning of cold diamond grass and clear spring skies, and that exhausting breeze that blew constantly across Suthdal carried wood smoke, stagnant sewage, mould, sawdust, yeast and a host of other scents that Roper could not identify. He found himself spurring Zephyr harder and harder as they climbed the final hill, pulling ahead of Gray and the Skiritai around him.

  At the top, he stopped. He stared. Before him: tightly packed houses, growing towards the light; steep roofs fogged with wood smoke, the passages between the houses thronged. Above the smoke, at the centre of the city, a great timber spire emitted a strange and musical clanging. But Roper barely noticed any of this. His eyes swirled the outskirts of the city, not quite believing what he could see.

  Walls.

  A stout wooden palisade, studded with stone towers, atop a raised earthen bank with a ditch at its front. Roper recognised one of the smells he had been unable to identify before: cut greenwood. This wall was new. This was why Garrett had ordered the Sutherners to retreat here. The Anakim had thought the walls destroyed, and had brought no siege weapons so that they could travel lighter and faster. The Sutherners had clearly prepared long in advance, and stuffed the city with food, so they would not be easily starved out. The legions would have to enter with ladders, or battering rams, and press themselves into a tight slaughter.

  “Ah,” said Gray, reining in beside Roper. “They’ve rebuilt their walls.”

  “So they knew exactly when we were coming,” said Roper, staring venomously at the city below. “They evacuated, emptied the lands of food, corrupted our water supply and refortified. We have been brought to our knees already, and we haven’t encountered a single enemy soldier yet. Have you ever known such a coherent resistance?”

  “Never,” said Gray.

  “Bloody, bloody, goddamned Bellamus.”

  17

  A Broken Crow

  It seemed to Salbjorn that their task had become impossible. The captured accomplice, Hagen, was not speaking, though Inger seemed determined to persuade him. They had twice had a fresh trail leading to the assassin, and once lost him in the chase, once been unable to chase at all. And now, Ormur was back training miles from the school, running over the hills, fishing and hunting. Last night he had not even returned, he and his herd staying out in the mountains where Salbjorn and Leon had tried to guard him together. They took it in turns to watch, Salbjorn now returning to the school for some little sleep before he would go to relieve Leon.

  It was a bitter morning, and he looked up as he approached the school to curse it. His eye caught on a dark intrusion at the base of the cliff-face: a black mass, with a single figure crouched next to it. “Here, Guardsman, here!” It was the Master, voice stricken, standing over what seemed to be a vast crow smashed on the ground, feathers waving back and forth in the wind and wings broken beneath it. Salbjorn stopped, confused by the horror dawning on him, and then felt himself being pulled towards it.

  “Inquisitor?” He was running and spitting swearwords. “Inger!” She lay face down, one arm beneath her and legs splayed. It was a position so unnatural that he was sure she must be dead, and cast a look up the cliff from which she must have fallen. “Master? What happened?”

  “She fell!” said the old man. “She was sitting on the edge and it crumbled off. Help me!” The Master was trying to turn her broken form over, though it seemed to Salbjorn that touching her would only make things worse. But they could hardly leave her here. They heaved her over, Salbjorn leaning close and listening for her breathing. It was there: ragged, irregular but consistent. Her lips were tinged with purple and as the Master moved her swollen wrist, her arms curled up defensively.

  “Inger? Can you hear me?” There was no reply. “We must take her inside, Master!”

  Stumbling, gripping and pausing, they manoeuvred her awkwardly to the front of the longhouse and upstairs to the room where Salbjorn himself had lain injured. Salbjorn threw three goatskins down as a bed of sorts and they dragged her on top, covering her with a woollen blanket. When touched, her arms often flexed, but there had been no movement whatsoever from her legs. The two men knelt over her in silence, breathing heavily and saying nothing. The Master dropped his head in his hands. Salbjorn stared upwa
rds and panted for a moment, then returned his attention to Inger. “I think her pelvis is broken. Help me bind it, or she may bleed internally.”

  Salbjorn had very little memory of the next few hours. They did what they could for Inger, but she did not speak and her breathing only grew louder and slower. When at last Ormur’s herd returned and Leon stormed into the longhouse to demand where Salbjorn had been, he stopped abruptly at the sight of the Inquisitor, Master and guardsman kneeling on either side.

  “By Almighty God, what is this?”

  “She fell,” said Salbjorn, not meeting his mentor’s eye.

  “I don’t think she’s going to wake,” said the Master quietly.

  Leon threw his sword and pack aside and bent to conduct his own examination. “One of the lungs is gone,” he said brusquely. “So’s the spine. But sometimes that knocks people out for a bit and then they wake up. We’ll have to see.”

  “I’ve never seen that,” said the Master.

  “You weren’t at Lundenceaster,” said Leon. “A lot of falls. And how did it happen?” he demanded. “Did anyone see her fall?”

  The Master nodded grimly. “I saw. She was sitting on the edge of the cliff and part of it crumbled. A terrible fall.” He shuddered. “The poor Inquisitor. When I think of the number of times I’ve sat where she was sitting…”

  Salbjorn could feel tears pricking his eyes and he laid a hand on her forehead. Her silver-filamented, feather-braided hair was ragged with sweat, and she coughed suddenly.

  “You don’t have to stay,” said the Master kindly, eyes on Salbjorn. “I’ll take care of her. Perhaps you should be with the boy?”

  “No,” said Salbjorn, waving a hand but unable to face them. “No, I’ll take care of her. Thank you, Master.”

  The Master hesitated but eventually nodded. “I’m so sorry. Tell me if she wakes.”

  After he had gone, Leon and Salbjorn both slumped against the wall.

  “Where is the boy?” asked Salbjorn, dully.

  “Safe,” said Leon. “Sword drill just outside.” The two lapsed into silence, before Leon shook himself abruptly. “So what now?” he asked. “What do we do without the Inquisitor?”

  Salbjorn did not reply.

  “Wake up,” said Leon, callously.

  “Shut up, Leon,” he replied, low and fierce. Leon did, and Salbjorn sat thinking for a long time. “This is all too much,” he said eventually. “We thought we were here to assist an Inquisitor in solving a crime. But finding an assassin, who seems to be one of a network at the disposal of this monster Ellengaest… This is too much. We need help. Another Inquisitor, at least. More guardsmen.”

  “How?” said Leon dismissively. “The passes are shut. Nobody is coming in or out of the mountains now. Even if we weren’t trapped, when was the last time a messenger came here? When will a messenger next come here? The Black Kingdom will be all but drained by now. Everyone will have gone south.”

  Salbjorn almost said: I could go. He could try and fight through the snow to get word to the Hindrunn of what had happened here. But it was impossible. He was needed here. He could not leave Leon to hold off this assassin alone, in this place which had proved so treacherous. “It is as you said before,” said Salbjorn. “Our one lead is the assassin himself. If we can lure him to us, we could capture and interrogate him. We could use the boy.” There was a long silence, broken by the clack of training swords from outside the window. “As bait,” he added.

  Leon did not reply. He was staring at the Inquisitor lying on the floor before him.

  Her eyes were open.

  18

  The Passes Are Shut

  “Inquisitor?” whispered Salbjorn, leaning forward. “Inger?” Her eyes flickered. They were horribly mismatched: one pupil huge and gaping, the other normal. She stared drunkenly at the ceiling for a time and then her head rolled towards Salbjorn. He thought she was looking at him and reached out to her shoulder. “Inquisitor, it’s Guardsman Salbjorn,” he said, not certain she could hear anything. “You’re in the haskoli, in the interrogation room. You fell off the cliff edge.”

  Inger’s head twisted away and she moved her right arm aimlessly.

  Leon and Salbjorn exchanged a glance. “You’ll be well, Inquisitor. It was a big fall but you’re doing well. You’re holding on.”

  Inger said something indistinct. Her head shook a little and she tried again. “Mushed.”

  “We should cool her off,” said Salbjorn. “She’s boiling.” He cleared the rough blanket covering her and she tried to speak again.

  “Mushed?” repeated Leon, baffled.

  Salbjorn had frozen. He looked down at Inger. “I think she’s trying to say ‘pushed.’”

  Inger repeated the noise, more forcefully.

  “Pushed?” said Salbjorn. “Is that what you said?”

  There came an affirmative groan.

  “Pushed by who?” hissed Leon.

  But Inger’s eyes were shut once more, and her breathing had become ragged again.

  Salbjorn and Leon locked eyes. “That doesn’t take an Inquisitor, does it?” said Salbjorn. “The Master says he saw her fall. She says she was pushed. The old man’s up to his neck in this.”

  “Right,” said Leon, abruptly. He stood, snatching his sword from its position against the wall and turned for the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To do things my way!” bellowed the guardsman, disappearing down the stairs. It was mere moments before he was back, sword glittering in one hand, the other clamped about the Master’s robes. The old man was dragged bodily up the stairs, swinging like a pendulum from the garment held at Leon’s chest. Face expressionless, Leon raised the Master and then hurled him against the wall. The Master’s thin body fairly clattered off the wood and he crumpled at its base, looking up at Leon in disbelief. “My way!” repeated Leon, furiously, raising his sword beneath the Master’s chin. “By Almighty God, who is Ellengaest? What is this nest of traitors you preside over?”

  “Leon, calm!” Salbjorn protested, jumping to his feet.

  “You have no idea…” gasped the Master, so winded he could barely speak, but his face still calm. “No idea… who you’re chasing.”

  “Correct,” said Leon. “But you’re going to tell us. You, who were once a Sacred Guardsman.” The Master stirred at this, turning his eyes to the floor. “Who wore the Almighty Eye, who is trusted with the education of our young, and all this time you’ve been facilitating the deaths of two in your charge! Two that we know of—how many others have you killed and tried to pass off as the playtime of students?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone,” said the Master, bitterly.

  “Leon, calm,” Salbjorn urged again, holding his hands out before him, and certain his mentor was on the verge of losing control.

  “What about the Maven Inquisitor?” demanded Leon, pointing at Inger’s supine form. “Do you think she’s going to stand up and walk away? Don’t lie, you old viper, you pushed her! You have murdered her!”

  “He has my son,” said the Master calmly, turning shining eyes up at Leon. “My boy is held by his men. What would you do?”

  Salbjorn looked on in horror, but Leon was unyielding. “You think your whelp is worth more than the twins whose deaths you’re facilitating here? Than a Maven Inquisitor?”

  “To me,” said the Master, hopelessly.

  “Selfishness is selfishness,” said Leon, indifferently, “whether for you or for your spawn. You disgrace the Almighty Eye. You disgrace your office.”

  The Master stared up at Leon with red-rimmed eyes, shaking his head faintly. “I know. But what would you have done?”

  “Not what you did,” declared Leon.

  He and the Master stared at each other. “I am glad to be discovered,” said the Master. “It leaves me with the course I should have taken months ago.” And he lunged forward. Leon, evidently assuming he faced an attack, misjudged his reaction and held the sword out. But exactly as
he had intended, the Master was impaled on the blade, driving it six inches into his own neck. He slumped back and Leon jerked the sword aside, swearing.

  “No!” roared Salbjorn, leaping forward, but the Master was dying. His worn body crumpled in the corner, visibly shrivelling as the blood leaked out of him. “No! That was our one route to Ellengaest! To preserve the boy!”

  “Coward,” spat Leon.

  Salbjorn staggered back into the wall and slid down it, head in his hands. “What have you done? What a mess! We were trusted with this. What an appalling mess! We’ve butchered it! We’ve ruined everything.”

  Leon too fell into a seat, staring with loathing at the Master’s body. For a long, long while, the loudest noise in the room was Inger’s ragged breathing, now approaching something close to a snore. The Master’s body was pale and still, and Leon did not even move to stop the advancing tide of blood engulfing his boot.

  “I’m sorry,” grumbled Leon, at last. “I didn’t think he was going to do that.”

  Salbjorn did not look up. “What now?” he asked wearily. “Where can we possibly go from here? We need help.”

  “Again,” said Leon, “the passes are jammed with snow. And we are both needed here. Without us, the boy is doomed.”

  “We could send a pair of tutors,” said Salbjorn. “See if they can get through.”

  “I do not think we can rely on the tutors’ support any more,” said Leon, staring at the Master’s body.

  Salbjorn had not considered how this would look to those who had not been present. The Master, with a sacred position in this school, had died violently with only the two of them as witnesses. “Then our one option is as I said before,” said Salbjorn, bleakly. “Watch the boy, but from a distance. Use him as bait and wait for the assassin to come to us.”