The Spider

by Leo Carew

  Bellamus walked to the end of the road. It was a grey day, but he took unusual pleasure at the cold wind, the smell of the rain mixed with the grit of the road, and the feel of it beneath his boots. He stood at the edge of Brimstream, watching the dark flood of horses bear down upon him.

  He laughed out loud when he saw who led them. He did not ride his vast grey destrier, presumably sacrificed in the name of speed, and no Silver Wolf-Head banner flew with him. But the upright posture, unusual height and robust countenance of Roper Kynortasson, the Black Lord himself, were unmistakable.

  Roper reached him first. Cold-Edge was in his hand and he swung himself out of the saddle, holding the blade beneath Bellamus’s chin as he dropped to the ground. “Do not move,” he growled. Then he bellowed over his shoulder: “Search the village! Keep them alive, for now.”

  “A raiding party led by the Black Lord himself,” said Bellamus, proud that his voice came out as mild as he had intended. “I am honoured.”

  “It is an honour you have earned,” Roper assured him grimly. “Do you have food here?”

  “Some,” admitted Bellamus. “Nothing like enough to satisfy your army.”

  “Better than nothing,” said Roper, and Bellamus felt that instant sense, familiar with Roper, that here was a man who thought like he did. Roper gestured for Bellamus to turn around and marched him up the street. Around them, Sacred Guardsmen dismounted energetically, swords in hand, and battered down each door.

  “The doors open if you lift the latch,” said Bellamus. “And the buildings are empty. It’s just me here.”

  “You are the important one,” said Roper.

  A Sacred Guardsman with a spray of black vulture feathers hanging from his helmet emerged from the inn before them, stepping over the shattered fragments of the door at his feet. The Captain of the Guard, Bellamus thought. Gray Konrathson.

  “My lord?” said Gray, indicating that Roper should look inside.

  Bellamus felt the sword-tip at his back, directing him back inside the Cobweb, and he obeyed, frowning down at the splinters of the door. Was there a need to smash his life apart like this?

  Back inside his headquarters, Gray pointed Roper towards the table of weapons Bellamus had developed. Some were passed over unnoticed. The quill. The choking candles. A few books with blades hidden in their covers. But others were spotted at once for what they were. The glove with the secret poison pouch, the weighted staff, more concealed blades. Every one of them had been convincing to Bellamus, but some sign betrayed them to Anakim eyes. Interesting, he thought. Evidently he did not yet understand how the Anakim saw the world.

  Roper left Bellamus unattended behind him and picked up the poisoned glove delicately. He inspected it at arm’s length and then replaced it on the table. “Is any of this going to hurt us?” he asked Bellamus, without turning around.

  “Not if you’re careful with it,” said Bellamus.

  Roper picked up a chess piece: the queen Bellamus had modified to hold Aramilla’s message. He hefted it, turned around and looked levelly at Bellamus. “Now what does this do?” he asked.

  Bellamus was so shocked that he almost betrayed himself. He almost asked: But how do you know? Instead, he just smiled. “That is just a chess piece, my lord.”

  “I doubt that,” said Roper, replacing it carefully. “Do you play?”

  “I love to play,” said Bellamus. “But, in all modesty, I cannot often find decent opposition.”

  Roper looked back at him and Bellamus felt a sudden absurd hope that he was going to be spared. Roper did not want to kill him.

  The Captain of the Guard evidently sensed this too. “There is much we could learn by keeping him alive, lord,” he said innocently.

  “Agreed,” said Roper brusquely. “Bind his hands, would you, Gray?”

  Was he to be interrogated, then? Uneasily, he held out his hands for Gray to tie.

  “Behind your back,” said the captain in a voice which brooked no argument, unmoved by the upstart’s charming smile.

  Bellamus’s smile turned rueful and he showed his back to Gray, who bound his hands firmly. “We’ll take this, shall we?” said Roper, indicating the chessboard. “See if I can offer you a game.”

  “I would like that,” said Bellamus carefully, wondering what kind of game he was being offered.

  “I suspect life will be very much easier with you in our custody,” said Roper. He picked a small linen bag from Bellamus’s possessions and tipped the chessboard, pieces and all, inside. “You have been making this campaign extremely difficult for us.”

  Another legionary—no, an officer of some kind, with a face that was well balanced but rocky, even for an Anakim—stepped over the shattered door. He spared Bellamus a glance, both brutal and amused, and spoke to Roper. “Good news, my lord. They have what we estimate to be about half the Unhieru arms and armour here.”

  “What did you do with the rest?” asked Roper, looking at Bellamus.

  “We were melting it down for our own weapons, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Arms of that size are no good to us.” All three Anakim examined him at that, but it was the truth and Bellamus stared back, unconcerned.

  The new arrival advanced on Bellamus, leaning down and peering into his face. “What happened to your eye?” He was not particularly tall for an Anakim, but radiated a sense of authority much less subtle than that given off by Roper.

  “I took a fall,” said Bellamus, shrugging. “Hit a rock.”

  “Damned careless,” said the officer happily. He looked at Roper. “You’ve bound him. Is he to live, then?”

  “Given the forces he mobilised against us, he’s of great value to us alive,” said Roper. “He could be very helpful in future.”

  The officer smiled nastily at Bellamus. “That is unfortunate for you,” he decreed, turning away. Roper had a truly interesting manner to him, Bellamus thought. Mild, in general, but his opinions were evidently weighty, even to the forceful newcomer.

  The four of them went outside, Bellamus aware of Gray’s watchful eyes on his back. “I think we’ll take the Guard, and Bellamus here, back to camp,” Roper announced to the cluster of guardsmen outside. “Tekoa,” he said, turning to the officer. “The Skiritai can handle things here and bring back what remains of the Unhieru arms?”

  “Certainly,” said Tekoa. “But I will rest them here before we return.”

  “That would be well earned,” agreed Roper. “We will await your return. Burn this place, before you leave, and be careful in there,” he said, pointing back into the inn. “Bellamus is not out of surprises just yet.”

  Bellamus raised his eyebrows mischievously at Tekoa, who stared flatly back at him. “He’s a cocky bastard, isn’t he?”

  “Is that not what you were expecting?” asked Roper, who then seized Bellamus by the shoulders and lifted him bodily onto a horse. Bellamus found himself sitting in front of a Sacred Guardsman, bound hands uncomfortably crushed against his cuirass. A horse was brought for Roper, who mounted beside him. Bellamus twisted back to Brimstream, intending to bid his headquarters a final goodbye.

  And his heart nearly lunged from his chest. A huge breath tore at his lungs, and then another, so powerful that his throat was too narrow to channel them, and he felt a painful hiccough. He looked abruptly back to the front, trying to calm himself.

  He had forgotten about the infected legionaries in the barn. One of them had been led out behind him, a blanket over his shoulders. The other was being carried in his wake.

  Dear God, we must leave now. Please, please, we must go now.

  Before anyone observed that these captive legionaries were dreadfully sick. Before Roper asked questions, either of the legionaries themselves, or of Bellamus, as to how that had happened. Before the Anakim realised the full ramifications of what they had done. By handling the first legionary. By releasing the second. Whether Bellamus wished it or not, it had begun.

  His weapon had been unleashed, and they had to go.


  26

  Like Locusts

  Roper felt unpleasantly detached for the ride back to their encampment, as though he had drunk far too much the night before. The landscape, none of which was recognisable from their dark outward journey, was barely visible anyway through a smog of exhaustion.

  He was used to being tired. Indeed, he seldom operated in any other state while on campaign. But even before Jokul had come to him with the information of where Bellamus was hidden, he had been in a state of weariness as profound as any he had known. The knowledge that they must act at once to secure the upstart, or lose their chance, furnished him with the energy to make the night-time ride. But now he could barely keep his eyes open and longed for nothing so much as that comfortable stretch of earth by his fire, wrapped in his cloak, a saddle as his pillow. His resolve had crumbled, and he told himself that just this once, he would allow his men to see him sleep. When they finally stopped, and an aide steadied his horse to let him dismount, he nearly fell from the saddle.

  “Thank you,” he heard himself say. “Gray?”

  “Lord?”

  “How do you feel? You must be weary.”

  Roper heard the understanding in his captain’s reply and blessed it. “No, lord, I could keep going. What would you have me do?”

  “Would you see to it that Bellamus is properly secured somewhere? And then rest, my friend, Almighty knows, you’ve earned it.”

  “I will, lord.”

  Roper’s hearth pulled him in, and he arrived to find Sturla, legate of Ramnea’s Own, and Keturah talking amiably. “Is all well?” he asked.

  “Everything’s fine here, Husband,” said Keturah. “What of your mission?”

  “We got him,” said Roper.

  Sturla turned away and raised a clenched fist in triumph. Keturah said: “Dead?”

  “Alive. We’ve brought him back. What, um… What…”

  “You are exhausted, Husband,” said Keturah’s voice, amused. “Lie down. Everything is in hand here.”

  Roper was not sure if the thanks he intended made it past his lips. He meant to wait until Gray was back, but his head was resting on the flattened grass, breathing in its good scent. He felt cool hands push a saddle beneath his temple, his eyes already glued shut, and he plunged into a deep, heavy sleep.

  When Roper awoke, it was to voices and the gentle billow of the fire. He opened his eyes to find that it was night, and sat up, his head heavy. Several legates were talking on the far side of the hearth and Keturah was sitting next to the Chief Historian, both staring silently into the flames. Around them were the sleeping bodies of Pryce and Gray, both curled into their cloaks.

  Keturah looked up at him. “Welcome back,” she said. “We were about to lie down, but have saved you some hoosh.”

  “Thank you. Do lie down,” said Roper, sitting forward. “I can serve to the others when they awake.” He wished he had not slept before them all, but the force of it had been irresistible. “No sign of Tekoa?”

  “None. I went to visit Bellamus, though.”

  “Did you?”

  “He looks like a child,” said Keturah, “but speaks so cleverly.” Roper remembered his first interaction with the Sutherners. Their faces had disturbed him: so open, expressive and strangely endearing.

  “They’re all like that,” he replied.

  “He bleeds his emotions,” said Keturah, deliciously. “So easy to read!”

  “But deceptive,” said the Chief Historian, crisply. “Keep your wits about you. A capricious people, too easily underestimated.”

  “I am not about to untie him, lady,” said Keturah.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  Keturah’s eyes gave a swift roll, but Roper was inclined to agree with the old historian. So potent had the spymaster’s reputation become that Roper’s curiosity was tempered by wariness. Even here, even under guard, who knew what he was capable of?

  “And what does tomorrow hold?” asked Keturah. “We have our great enemy bound and tied to a post. We have sacked and burnt northern Suthdal’s great city. What now?”

  Roper prodded the fire with a stick. “We recovered half the Unhieru armour when we found Bellamus. We will remake the rest, set it on the road, and then march.”

  “Where?”

  “The next source of food: Deorceaster. Losing the food here was a disaster. We’ll have to struggle on as best we can until we reach the next city. They’re squirrelling their food, so let’s hop from one cache to another and see how they manage once we’ve snatched their supplies. We will consume and move on, and on again, until Lundenceaster lies at our feet.”

  “Speaking of food, have some hoosh, my dear,” said Keturah comfortably, leaning forward to shuffle the pot towards him. Roper dragged it closer, hiding the disappointment at how little it contained.

  Presently, Keturah and Frathi retired, followed by the legates. Roper stayed up to keep an eye on the hoosh in case Gray and Pryce should awake and find themselves hungry. He was still ravenous, and it was a relief when Gray awoke and took his mind off it. “He’ll be so irritable when he wakes up,” said Gray, looking down at his slumbering protégé. “His temper gets very short when he’s hungry.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of that to endure, then,” said Roper, examining the sleeping guardsman. “I have great respect for Pryce. I certainly owe him more than I could repay. But in honesty, I have never quite understood the two of you.” He looked up at Gray, slightly apologetic, but the captain seemed merely interested. “How is it that you, alone, command his respect and affection?”

  “I suggest you ask him,” said Gray.

  Roper grinned. “I would never ask him. He would stare at me and say something derisive about talking too much and doing too little.”

  “That’s certainly true,” said Gray. He thought for a moment. “He likes extremes, my protégé. I think he saw something unusual in me; unusual commitment and energy to my beliefs. He is the same, in his commitment to what he thinks is important. We share that, which is crucial, and beyond it we are complementary souls. The few things he lacks, are the skills I have worked hard on.”

  “You do yourself an injustice,” said Roper. “You are not just a donkey, plodding workmanlike towards your ambitions. Some of the talents you have are innate, like Pryce’s self-assurance. You could not possibly train someone to think as coolly under pressure as you do.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I agree,” said Gray. “I certainly didn’t used to have much control under pressure. I think people comfort themselves over their shortcomings by saying such things are out of their grasp. To change your own character takes immense effort, and people find it easier to believe that they weren’t born with a trait they desire, so they’ll never have it, than to admit it would take them a great deal of hard work and introspection to be who they want. We say: you must be true to yourself, and claim that is a virtue, when often it is an excuse to maintain your current habits. Because habit is all personality is. You cannot expect to behave at your best under pressure if it is not already deeply ingrained in your habits when that moment comes.

  “That is why you must never surrender to possession, my lord,” he added. “Surrender to that, and it becomes more natural to give way in future to fear, or greed, or self-interest. Surrender to nothing. Live by your principles. You are born with a character, but you can also shape it through a thousand small choices every day. You are your habits.”

  Surrender to nothing, Roper thought to himself.

  The two of them retired when it became clear that Pryce would sleep through the night. When Roper awoke, it was with his nose in Keturah’s hair. She was still soundly asleep in front of him and he wriggled slightly closer. Her scent was so familiar now: wood smoke from the fire, and the aromatic fragrances that the Academy had imprinted on her clothes. And her own scent: sweet, and like nothing so much to Roper as the smell of comfort and darkness. Her scent doesn’t fit her, he thought. It should be something sour. Lemons pe
rhaps. He laughed.

  “What are you doing back there?” she demanded waspishly.

  “Nothing, sorry.” She should smell of lemons.

  “Stop breathing into my ear,” she decreed.

  He sat up, pulling his cloak from beneath him and shuddering. It was cold, and for the first time in days, the sky was clear. He kindled the fire for the others and announced he was going to try and turn Bellamus to their side. Keturah informed him where she had found him the previous night, and Roper rose too fast, so that the lack of food made him light-headed and he nearly fell down again.

  Bellamus was held where Keturah had said, just a few minutes north. Roper found him with his head leaned back against a post, around which his hands had been tied. He was trying to sleep, but whenever his unconcealed eye closed, his head tilted and slipped off the pole. He would awake for just long enough to reposition his head and then it would begin to tilt again.

  Roper sat down in front of him and watched for a while. Eventually, Bellamus’s head slipped forward and stayed down, facing the ground. Roper heard him utter a little sigh and he sat up, eye focusing slowly on Roper. “Perhaps you’d like a tether,” said Roper. “Then you could lie down.”

  “And what do you want in return?” he asked, unshielded eye narrowed.

  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” asked Roper, simply.

  Bellamus blinked and there was a touch of defiance in his exhausted gaze. “Like what?”

  Interesting, thought Roper. There is something on his mind. “I think you know,” he tried.

  Bellamus observed him a little longer. “I really don’t.”

  Roper was not convinced. There had been something hanging in the air between them. Bellamus knew what it was, but Roper did not. “We shall find somewhere private, Spymaster. We have much to talk about.”

  Bellamus licked his lips. “Talk, where?”

  “One of my officers has a tent. I’m sure he’d lend it to us for a spell.” Roper released the spymaster but kept his hands bound behind his back as he escorted him across camp to Vigtyr’s brown canvas pavilion. The western side of it billowed and wafted inwards, like the sail of a ship, and the opening before them was tightly sutured.