The spider key, p.26
The Spider Key, page 26
Ink let his gaze fall to his folded hands. “Do you think they’d ever . . . talk?”
Evering frowned. Ink rushed on.
“I mean, if they was under pressure or something. You know. Got asked one too many questions. Do you think they’d give everything up?”
“Nah. Not in a million years. We’re family. They’d fight tooth and nail to keep us safe, like any of us would. But it won’t come to that. Not even close. They’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
Ink glanced out over the gunwale, watching the blight of Ban-Geren grow smaller. Anyone else might have been comforted by Evering’s words, but the truth of the matter was much less forgiving.
He’d given them up to save his own interests, without a second thought. He hadn’t raised a finger in their defense, nor made any attempt to persuade Seherene not to pursue them. But what could he do? It wasn’t to be helped. He wasn’t the Plumsleys’ boy, after all.
He was Eamon’s boy.
Chapter 21
At the Gates of Orthys
Meanwhile, many hundreds of miles to the south, and following many weary days of travel, John Spindler disembarked from his coach and shut the door behind him. Entrian drivers, he had been told, were not in the habit of holding doors for Cassrian passengers, and as he was eager to be about his business he had not waited to see if the rumor held true. From where he stood, he could see the sloping roofs and domed towers of his destination rising above the treetops. A pair of wrought-iron gates stood about thirty feet down the paved pathway. Spindler smoothed his coat and turned back to the driver.
“Can you wait for me?”
“I can wait all day,” the driver replied. “But it will cost you five notes every quarter-hour. And I will need payment now for the journey here.”
Spindler pursed his lips, drawing his mustache askew. That was twice as much as he would be expected to pay anywhere east of the Lockhorns; another stark reminder that he was now firmly in Entrian territory. But so be it. He wasn’t about to turn back. He would simply have to be quick about things. And so, stifling a grumble, he paid his fare, assured the driver he would return as soon as possible, and made his way down the path towards the gates.
When he came to them, he halted and looked around. There was no one else in sight. He took hold of one of the bars and pushed, then pulled. The gates were shut fast, though he saw no locks or bolts. He glanced back towards the coach, hoping the driver might see his predicament and offer a helpful word of advice. The man had put his feet up and covered his face with his hat, dozing with his arms comfortably crossed.
Spindler twitched his mustache in annoyance, then retreated back a few steps for a wider view of the area. Perhaps there was an alternate route or a second gate by which he might enter. But the impossibly high wrought-iron fence stretched out of sight in both directions with no other entryways in sight. Fortunately, at the same moment he tipped his hat back on his brow, he caught sight of a slender post a few feet from the gates with a silver bell and a pull chain attached to it. He hurried forward and tugged on it eagerly.
The small bell tolled with all the power and force of a great clock tower, so much that Spindler was startled backwards. The sound of it echoed down the path beyond the gates, renewing its strident peals at steady intervals along the way as if other bell posts were picking up the message and carrying it along. Spindler cleared his throat and straightened his tie, hoping no one had noticed his alarm.
As the sound of ringing bells faded, his gaze was drawn to the great Temple of Orthys ahead—the grandest and largest of all places of worship in the country. The name was something of a misnomer, for it was not comprised of a single building but rather a sprawling complex of prayer halls, offices, libraries, gardens, and bath houses. It was also where the eminent Chief Priest Osaias resided. Officially, he was head over all Entrian clergy members in Eriaris, though a good number of Cassrians also showed him due reverence, priests and common folk alike.
At last, a figure appeared in the distance, coming down the steps of a many-pillared sanctuary. Spindler removed his hat and smoothed down his hair. This was the twelfth temple he’d visited in the past six weeks. Since he also meant for it to be his last, he knew he had to do everything in his power to make the visit as worthwhile and profitable as possible. In a place like this, that would mean walking a fine line between tact and determination.
The man coming to meet him was a thin, bald man in a crimson robe, which indicated his role as a scribe. When he was close enough he proffered a nod in greeting and stopped a few feet short of the gates.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Spindler. I’ve come to Orthys in the hope of conducting some important research, if I may be permitted. I was also hoping—”
“What is your house?”
Spindler furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry?”
“Your house. Your family’s clan name.”
“Oh. I have none, sir. I’m a Cassrian.”
The man’s polite smile stiffened. “Ah.”
“Is that a problem?”
“More of a . . . complication. It is our policy that Cassrians be accompanied by an Entrian sponsor. Someone able to verify their intent and character.”
“Oh, I see. I wasn’t aware of such a policy, I’m afraid, but I can assure you I have only the best of intentions. I run a newspaper in Harburg, up in the North Country. And following a series of rather extraordinary events, I’ve been conducting an investigation into the matter of the Spektors, hoping to speak to anyone with reliable knowledge of them.”
The bald man looked unmoved.
“I’ve spoken with many Cassrian clergy on the subject over the past several weeks,” Spindler continued. “Not surprisingly, they didn’t have much to tell me. But most of them directed me here, and in particular to a priest by the name of Malkimar.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Spindler, but regardless of your motives, we cannot make any exceptions to policy. You will have to return with a sponsor.”
Spindler frowned. “Well . . . what about my driver? I’m sure he’d vouch—”
“Unless he is a personal friend or colleague, I am afraid not.”
“Please, sir. You’ve no idea how long I’ve been traveling. How far I’ve come. The ridiculous amount of money I’ve spent—”
“I am sorry, but there will be no exceptions.”
As he began to turn away, Spindler rushed to the gates and gripped the iron bars.
“Wait! Is Lord Malkimar available? Might I at least speak with him for a few moments? Even here at the gates?”
“Good day, Mr. Spindler,” the scribe replied, finally walking away.
Spindler clenched his jaw, then made his next desperate plea with a shout.
“Would you take the endorsement of the Lady Seherene?”
The man stopped. Spindler withdrew an envelope from inside his coat and raised it into the air.
“Here is a letter from her, addressed to me, and set with her seal which cannot be duplicated—even by enchantment.”
The man turned. His expression had not changed, but by virtue of the fact that he did not keep walking, he was clearly interested. Spindler held the letter out to him through the bars and tried his best to keep a smug smile from his face.
“You may even read her message.”
The dutiful scribe hesitated a moment longer, then strode back to the gates and snatched the envelope out of Spindler’s hand. He unfolded the letter, perused it, squinted up at Spindler, then perused it again. He looked back towards the temple with a frown, tapping the paper against his hand.
“Wait here,” he said at last.
Spindler blew out a silent sigh of relief as he watched the man hurry back towards the sanctuary. There was nothing in the letter than would cause any real uproar—no mention of old Mr. Bash’s murder, or of Spindler’s own encounter with young Inkwell Featherfield and the Colonists who supposedly came to ‘rescue’ him. It contained only a brief message of thanks for his efforts and a few words of encouragement in continuing his investigation. It held almost no powers of persuasion at all, save for the Entress Seherene’s signature. By that badge of honor alone, they would surely not turn him away now.
But they did make him wait. Forty-five minutes, in fact. And with every one of those passing minutes, Spindler felt the acute pain of banknotes bleeding out of his wallet for the waiting coach. He was tempted many times to ring the bell again but always managed to talk himself down. He could walk back to Harburg if necessary, but he would probably never have a chance like this again.
Finally, another figure emerged from the sanctuary and began to make their way down the stairs. Spindler saw it was a woman this time, younger than himself, and wearing a gray robe with a broad leather belt. It was the garb of a student priest, or ‘apprentice’, as they were called.
She stopped at the gates, studied him for a long moment, then held up the envelope he had given to the scribe.
“You are John Spindler?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You are a friend of the Lady Seherene?”
Spindler hesitated. He was now being questioned by an Entress, who would detect the slightest embellishment or exaggeration. There was no need to impress now. If anything, he would need to downplay the truth to stay in her good graces.
“To be honest,” he answered, “I’m not entirely sure I can presume upon friendship. But we are certainly acquaintances. Even colleagues, to a degree.”
She examined his face closely, read the signs of his body language, considered the tone of his voice. Seemingly satisfied, she raised a hand into the air. Spindler saw a faint shimmer of green light trace around the edge of the gates, then a flash of red light at the latch. With a quick motion of her fingers—as though writing a sign in the air—the gates began to swing open. Spindler started forward with a smile, but she raised her palm to stop him and passed through the gates herself. With another wave of her hand, she closed them behind her again.
She glanced around with a searching stare. Spindler saw her take note of the coach standing a few dozen feet away. The driver was still dozing.
“Will you walk awhile?” she asked.
“Of course.”
He guessed that she was not keen on having anyone overhear their conversation, no matter that they appeared to be asleep. They turned and began to stroll along the fence. There was already a well-worn path through the grass, which told Spindler he was not the first Cassrian to have forgotten a sponsor. The woman offered him the envelope back. He took it and stowed it in his coat pocket.
“My name is Yuna,” the woman said. “I am Lord Malkimar’s apprentice. I understand you are looking for him.”
“Yes.”
“Regarding the Spektors?”
“That’s right. I’ve undertaken the task of finding out all I can about them. I’ve been told Lord Malkimar has a reputation for being something of a specialist in such matters.”
“Cassrians do not believe in Spektors,” she replied. “I must then assume your interest in them is purely on the grounds of myth and legend. Stories to sell in your paper, perhaps.”
“Actually, no. I have every intention of treating them as real beings.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “And is it the Lady Seherene who compels you to view them as such? You act under her orders?”
“Well, not exactly. It’s more that we came to a mutual agreement on the idea of my conducting such an investigation. Look, I don’t mean to seem rude, but I came a very long way to speak with Lord Malkimar especially.”
“You might have saved a great deal of expense by writing to him instead.”
“I did write. I’ve sent three letters in the past month, none of which have been answered.”
“He is a very busy man. There are correspondences much older than yours still awaiting his attention.”
“But I’m here now. I’m sure even a busy man can appreciate the pains I’ve taken—”
“Had you been invited, it would have been a different matter.”
“Lady Yuna . . .” Spindler stepped in front of her to get her undivided attention. “I understand this is a difficult situation. A Cassrian, a newspaperman, asking questions about a subject he should know nothing about. Wanting to speak with a priest whose area of expertise centers around matters which are inherently uncomfortable and unorthodox. This is also the first temple I’ve come across with gates and fences, and I feel the full meaning of them, I assure you. I haven’t come to subvert your institutions or cause any other such trouble. I am as eager to be on my way home again as you are to see the back of me.”
The woman folded her hands together, remaining quiet.
“But two months ago,” he continued, “an unholy scream tore through the very fabric of my soul and has not stopped echoing in my nightmares since. Add to that a kidnapped boy and a brush with the Colonists—”
Yuna looked at him with sudden alarm.
“And you will begin to understand why the Lady Seherene deemed it prudent to give me her support.”
“Boy?” she repeated. “You speak of young Anthony Revore? You knew him?”
“Just long enough to discover the existence of a link between them all—him, the Spektors, and the Colonists. We don’t fully understand it yet, which is why it hasn’t been made public. Not to mention that the Cassrians regard the spirits as imaginary, as you’ve said. That’s why I’ve had to seek the wisdom of those who know better. The Lady Seherene herself is pursuing a similar path, as is Commissioner Marlas’s own deputy. So this is not merely the whim of some eccentric, prying journalist. And you can keep trying to put me off all you like, but surely you must see now that this is no small matter. If we don’t get to the bottom of this connection—if we can’t uncover how far or how deep it goes—we may soon see the day when no one has a choice but to believe in Spektors. I don’t think anyone is ready for that. I’m certainly not. Are you?”
The young apprentice gazed through the fence towards the central temple in the middle of the complex. Blue light burned in the four towers surrounding it. A frown wrinkled her brow.
“Lord Malkimar is not here,” she said at last. “He has traveled north and is not expected to return for many days. Perhaps weeks.”
Dismayed, Spindler opened his mouth to speak. She quickly continued.
“However . . . as your business with him is of such great importance, I will tell you where to find him. This does not constitute a promise that you will be heard. He may not be disposed to receive you whatever day you find him, nor can I give any assurance that he will answer your questions. He is a very private person and has learned to keep his knowledge closely guarded.”
“It’s true, then?” Spindler asked. “What they say about him?”
She answered with a nod. “Lord Malkimar has devoted himself to the study of what most would call the darker powers of this world. To better understand them. To remove the barrier of fear preventing us from what wisdom and knowledge might serve us to great advantage.”
Spindler rubbed his chin. “I got the feeling his line of work is not generally approved of. No one spoke against it outright, but there was a sense of apprehension attached to his name.”
“This is also true,” Yuna replied. “In fact, it is the reason I sought to serve my apprenticeship under him.”
"Really? Why is that?”
She stared at him another moment, then turned and started back towards the gates. Spindler kept pace beside her.
“Faith should never be a comfortable thing,” she said. “It dares us to walk paths and peer into places we would rather avoid. It is a life of tests and trials. But I have come to believe that most stop too soon in their journeys, content with victory over the easiest challenges and daring to go no further. This is weakness. Cowardice. When people speak of Malkimar in fear or contempt, it is only because they resent the courage they do not see in themselves. If I one day become even half the priest he is, I will have achieved more than I hope even now.”
When they reached the gates again, Spindler drew out his pad and pencil and wrote down the directions she gave him. It was far. Almost the same distance he had just traveled from Burgess Valley. The cost of another airship fare would leave him practically penniless. At this point, he would have no choice but to appeal to Deputy Commission Coram for more funds.
“Thank you, my Lady,” Spindler said. “I do have one final question I’d like to ask, if you’ll permit me. Are you aware of any reason the Spektors might begin to . . . break the rules set for them? For instance, if they were to harm or seek to harm someone who should not otherwise have drawn their notice?”
Yuna lifted her hand. The gates swung open. “For this, I have no answer. Many of even the simplest mysteries still remain closed to me.”
“Is there anyone else who might know? Besides your mentor? Are there any cult groups you’re aware of? Any other doors I might knock on, even if they should be down the darker paths?”
The young apprentice passed through the gates and shut them behind her again.
“Apart from Lord Malkimar, there are only two others who may be able to give you what you seek. But you would likely not survive your meetings with either of them.”
“Who are they? Can you at least tell me their names?”
She clasped her hands behind her back. “One, you would never find of your own will. They are more spirit than flesh, and far less easily summoned than any angel or demon.”
Spindler frowned. “Though they are neither?”
“Lord Malkimar can tell you more. I cannot.”
“And the other?”
“Equally mysterious,” she replied. “And perhaps even more dangerous. Over the years he has gone by many names and titles, but we knew him first as a Keyholder.”
Spindler’s brief surge of hope died away with a despondent sigh. “And then as a Colonist. The one all the world’s been trying to hunt down for the past nine years. Serves me right for asking.”
