The spider key, p.31
The Spider Key, page 31
The others stared, aghast. He might as well have struck Harriet across the face.
“You unfeeling brute,” Margaret began, her face flushing red. “Do you honestly think—”
“Margaret,” Harriet said, stopping her with a quiet voice.
Margaret bit her tongue but glared at Martin as though she meant to make him burst into flame. Beside her, Ink was surprised to feel his own face flush with anger. After a long minute of wounded silence, Harriet set her napkin on the table and rose from her seat.
“Excuse me,” she said, then hurried around the table and climbed the stairs to her room.
Dinner was over. No one had the heart to continue eating. Delia threw her napkin down, rose from the table, and rushed up the stairs after her. Riva followed, her eyes filled with angry tears. Martin sat back against his chair, deflated and sullen. With a great heave, he pushed himself away from the table, stood with his fist clenched, and strode out the front door.
Another long minute of uncomfortable silence followed. Then, a loud clattering broke the spell as Caradoc threw down his fork and stalked outside after Martin. Those who remained at the table exchanged nervous glances and soon hurried out of their seats to follow him. The Colonists weren’t ones to miss out on a good fight, after all.
Chapter 25
A Warning
Martin had gone to the back of the Dining House, and when Caradoc found him he was using his pocketknife to cut away the vines climbing up the wall near the kitchen door. Caradoc stood behind him, the very air vibrating with anger.
“Creeping vines can be a serious problem, you know,” Martin said, slicing and ripping away the leafy cords. “They can clog chimneys, break through windows. They shouldn’t be allowed to get this bad. Someone ought to be taking care of them.” He stepped back from the wall. “So what now? Are you going to lecture me?”
“Do I have to?”
Martin gritted his teeth. “Let me save you the bother. You’ve got no ground to stand on. No ring on your finger. You know nothing beyond whatever nice and noble ideas you’ve decided on. So don’t dare think you have the right to say anything to me.”
“No one deserves to be struck at like that. Her least of all.”
The one-armed man scowled and stalked past him. “You’re a bleeding heart.”
“And you’re better than this. You know you are.”
“Let me tell you what I know!” Martin cried, whirling back. “She has been living in delusion since the day we came to this place! And it’s high time for her—for all of us—to start accepting our situation! Going on this hunt for the Mistress is sheer insanity! What can it accomplish in the end? You know we can never win back our freedom! Don't you understand? This is it for us! This patch of ground right here!”
Caradoc’s frown deepened. “I had no idea you’d given up.”
“I am trying to protect us!”
“Yes, and yourself most of all.”
Martin reached out and grabbed Caradoc by the collar, his face twisted almost in a snarl. “Why did you bring them here? Was it because Margaret begged? Because poor little Inkwell tugged on your heartstrings? Why? They’ve brought us nothing but trouble, and yet you still refuse to see it! What’s next? Meeting a few Colonist-hunters for tea? Preparing a room for Cousin Frederick?”
With one sharp motion Caradoc plucked Martin’s hand from his collar. The banker's face shined with rage. The Keyholder's had become hard as flint, and when he spoke again it was with a taut, low voice which sounded like the growl of a wolf.
“I don’t have time to stand here while you rant and rave about all the things you fear and refuse to reconcile. And no, I don't wear any ring on my finger, but I know enough to understand the importance of treating a fellow human being with dignity and respect.” He took a small step closer. “And you're right. I do have a bleeding heart. But I would not trade it for your brittle one. Not for all the world.”
Caradoc turned to walk away. Before he had gone two steps, a sudden change came over Martin. Something in his face had gone wrong, and a roar tore from his throat as he staggered back and clutched at the stump of his left arm, letting the pocketknife slip to the ground. As he looked on, Ink felt a sinking feeling of dread. He had seen this before. Within moments, red and purple veins began pulsing up Martin’s arm, bulging through his skin.
“Oh, damnation,” Chester said.
Simon started forward. “Ink, run and fetch the chloroform—”
He barely finished the sentence before Martin sprang forward with a cry of rage and knocked Caradoc to the ground. They struggled, each attempting to gain the advantage. The others looked on helplessly, all of them stunned to see how well Martin was holding his own despite missing half a limb. Then, something flashed through the air, and with a collective gasp of shock they realized Martin had picked up his pocketknife again. Jeremy grabbed Ink's arm and pulled him back. Simon and Abner rushed forward, but before they could reach the brawlers, someone let out a cry. And then it was over.
No one was sure who had made the sound, but when the dust settled it was Caradoc who kneeled over Martin. Instead of anger, however, the Keyholder wore a look of confusion. The fire in Martin’s eyes had gone cold, replaced now with a look of horror. Caradoc rose and stumbled back a step, touching his hand to his ear. It was covered with blood.
Abner and Simon ran forward and pulled Martin to his feet, keeping a tight hold on him as they did so. But the fight had gone out of him as he stared at what he’d done. The knife had sliced Caradoc’s ear almost in half.
“It’s all right,” Caradoc said, avoiding the looks of alarm around him. “It's all right. It's nothing.”
“Evering, run upstairs and get Riva,” Simon commanded.
The young man ran off at once.
“Come on, Mr. Whistler,” Abner said, guiding Martin away. “Let’s get you to your room.”
“Wait.” Caradoc stepped to one side, trying to catch the banker's eye. “It's all right, Martin. You hear me? It's all right.”
Martin appeared to be dazed. He said nothing more but let himself be taken back to the Dining House. Caradoc pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and approached Margaret, who looked at him in astonishment.
“Margaret,” he said, “would you be so kind as to take Harriet into the kitchen and tell her what’s happened? I think it’s best if she doesn’t see Martin quite yet. And . . . no need to mention how it ended.”
“Of course,” she said with a nod, then hurried back to the house.
Caradoc held the handkerchief to his ear. “Ink, would you go and fetch the bottles for the sleeping tonic from the cupboard in my room?”
Ink stared at him, amazed. How could he be calmly giving out orders when his ear was practically severed in half? The pain must have been excruciating.
“Uh . . . yeah, sure,” he finally replied.
He turned and made for the tower, feeling in a daze himself.
Back in the kitchen, Margaret told both Delia and Harriet of the incident. Delia put a hand on Harriet’s shoulder and tried to think of something comforting to say. They heard the front door open, followed by the deep timbre of Abner’s voice as he and Simon helped Martin up the stairs to the bedroom. Harriet started forward, but Margaret stopped her.
“They think it best if you don’t see each other right now. Give things a bit of time.”
“A bit of time? He’s had a rage attack! I can’t just sit here while—”
“It may be for the best, dear. For now,” Delia said. “Why don't you get out of the house for a while? Take that walk. Try to stay calm. We’ll take care of the dinner things.”
“But—”
“He’ll still be here when you get back. Go on.”
Harriet’s eyes filled with tears for her husband, the memory of her own injury at the dinner table now completely forgotten. She hesitated for a long moment, then reluctantly picked up her cane and walked out through the back door.
“Poor thing,” Margaret said. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if I were in her place. I’ve never seen anyone lose their mind like that before. For a moment he didn't even seem human.”
Delia donned an apron and scanned the small pile of pots and pans on the counter. “Sometimes I wonder if the Spektors are really done with him.”
“Do these attacks happen often?”
“Often enough.” With a sigh, Delia dropped the kitchen knives into the sink and turned back with a hand on her hip. “What is your game, Miss Wallis?”
Margaret frowned. “My game?”
“You’ve never seen fit to concern yourself with our problems before. Why now? And why this show of generosity helping us in Vaterra tomorrow? What do you seek to gain?”
“What makes you think there is something to gain?”
“Because I’ve seen your kind before. Quick to spot out the advantages, everything and everyone who may be ripe for the picking. Men, especially. Oh yes, I know. There is always some prize to win, something to turn to your favor. Well, let me be clear. This little village may not mean much to you, but it's our home, and these people my family, no matter how difficult they may sometimes be. So if you have any ideas about using or manipulating them, I suggest you abandon them now, or you will have me to deal with, I promise. There are too many cracks in the walls for us to bear much more damage.”
She brushed past Margaret and disappeared into the dining room. Margaret glared after her, but could not reply.
By the time Ink returned to the Dining House with the ingredients for the sleeping tonic, he was surprised to find the table already cleared. He glanced into the kitchen and spotted Delia at the sink, scrubbing a pot with angry vigor. He turned and hurried towards the staircase in the corner of the room.
He had never been in the Whistlers’ room before. Theirs was the only house without a balcony, and as such his sweeping services had never been required. The room was immaculately clean and filled with several decorative touches placed with care. There were embroidered pillows, lace doilies, patterned curtains, even a collection of pressed and dried wildflowers. It was nothing fancy or elaborate, but it gave the place an air of welcome and familiarity. It felt like a real home.
Martin sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hand. There was a small spattering of Caradoc’s blood on his shoulder. Simon was leaning against the dressing table but straightened as Ink appeared in the doorway.
“Thank you, Ink,” he said.
He took the ingredients and set them on the table, then began to prepare the tonic with a bottle of wine he'd retrieved from the kitchen. Ink stood awkwardly by, unsure if he was still needed. For a long while the clink of Simon’s spoon against the glass was the only sound in the room.
“How could I have done such a thing, Simon?” Martin said, his hand sliding from his face. “A little while ago it was me who was mixing that tonic for him.”
Simon set the spoon down and glanced first at Ink, then at Martin. “I don’t pretend to understand what’s happening to you. I only wish I knew how to help. We all do. But I can tell you what I've always told Isaac in moments of distress. You are not alone. And never will be.” He stepped to the bed and handed him the glass of tonic.
“I want to see him,” Martin said. “If only for a moment. And if . . . he’ll see me.”
Simon nodded. “Of course he will.”
He collected the bottles from the dressing table, then motioned for Ink to go ahead of him to the stairs.
“Ink,” Martin said, stopping them both, “I’d like to speak with you for a moment. If you don’t mind.”
Ink looked at Simon and nodded, signaling his willingness to stay. As soon as Simon disappeared down the stairs, Ink almost began to regret his decision. Martin was the only person on Riverfall with whom he'd never had any real conversation. Apart from the random violent outbursts, all he'd ever heard from him were complaints and reprimands. Admittedly, his curiosity was piqued, but as an added safety measure he resolved to stay near the open door. Martin remained staring down into the tonic.
“You see me now,” he said, “when I am at my worst.”
Another long moment of silence passed. He fidgeted with the glass, his dark eyes roaming the room as if looking for his own escape route. He sighed in agitation.
“And how quickly the pride rises again to cover it. To hold everyone else at fault except myself. It seems I can only see the truth of this by the light of humility—but it's a light all-too-fleeting, which only seems to stir in me by being brought so low.” He finally lifted his gaze to Ink. “I know you're afraid of me. You have every right to be. And I don’t mean to keep you here listening to speeches. I only thought to take the chance—while the light shines through—to tell you to look on me as a warning. Even if you never learn why the Spektors are after you, even if they hound you all your life . . . you mustn't let them do to you what they've done to me.”
He drank down the acrid tonic with a grimace. Ink ventured away from the door and stood by the window. As he looked at Martin, he recalled the tragic story Harriet had told him about her husband's long descent into despondency and erratic temperament. They hadn't known about the Spektors then, but that had been no obstacle to the one who eventually found him. The parasite did not require the host's permission.
“But you must have fought back,” Ink said. “Even when it had driven you almost to madness. Or else you wouldn't have let Caradoc help you get rid of it.”
This invoked a brief look of suspicion from Martin, which told Ink that Harriet had not admitted revealing their history to him. Ink would say nothing of it, either. Perhaps Martin would think it had come from Caradoc or one of the others. Fortunately, the suspicion soon turned to resignation, and he let the matter pass. With another sigh, he stood and set the glass on the dressing table, then leaned against it, hanging his head to avoid his reflection in the mirror.
“I had no fight left in me,” he said at last. “Its claws were so deep by then I think it was more a cry of desperation, from the utter depths of whatever part of my soul still remained to me.”
Ink frowned. “Whatever it was, it must have done something. What did you say?”
Martin sat back down on the bed and set his hand on his thigh with his eyes firmly on the rug. Ink wondered if he had pushed his luck too far. It was an intensely personal question about a terribly painful time. But it was important. If he assumed rightly, Martin was the only person he knew who'd fended off the oppression of a Spektor without a Keyholder anywhere near. Even if it had only been for a few minutes, it was precious information Ink knew might serve him in his next encounter—if any. God forbid.
Finally, after what seemed like an agonizing hour of silence, Martin began to speak.
“I'd left the house in a rage,” he said, his voice quiet and low. “Wandered for two days around town, hiding from anyone I saw, clinging to the shadows like some fiendish creature. I was hearing things that weren’t there. Seeing things. And at the worst hour of it all, I found myself on the outskirts of town, standing on the edge of a bridge at three o’clock in the morning.”
He paused for a moment. Ink thought he saw a gleam of moisture in his eye. He took a deep breath and continued.
“The Spektor hadn’t led me there, you understand. They reap no reward if their victims become corpses. It was my decision. I thought it was the only way to . . . make it stop. The moment I reached that bridge the Spektor went quiet, afraid I would jump and bring an end to its control. And then I was alone. Utterly alone. It filled me with relief and terror all at once. But I found I could suddenly hear myself again, gather my own thoughts without any obstruction or contradiction. And then this word left my lips, strong and clear, almost before I knew it. ‘Liar,’ I said. ‘Liar.’ Over and over again, every word a rejection of all the horrible things it had been trying to make me believe—about myself, about Harriet, about the entire course and measure of my life. 'Liar, liar, liar.' And as I spoke, I stepped away from the edge of the bridge and climbed back over the railing. Then the Spektor returned, and it was angry but afraid. It shouted at me, cursed me, tried everything in its power to regain its authority. But I just keep saying that word, ‘Liar, liar’, over and over. And then . . . I found myself heading home. Even though it hadn't yet occurred to me to do so. Like something else was leading me there.”
Ink twisted his mouth, considering the tale. On the surface, it sounded like Martin had merely been defiant. Ink himself had done the same when confronted by the Spektor in Ban-Geren, and even before that in the Otherworld. Perhaps it had given the dark spirits pause, but there had been no real power behind it, not as there'd been with Martin.
Because he'd believed it. That was the difference. Ink could spout off a brash speech or a smart remark almost without thinking. But those were empty words. Hollow. He'd tried to shout how the Spektors weren't allowed to hurt him. That he harbored no hate or despair. That Eamon was no longer his granddad. But now that he thought about it, he'd never actually believed it.
“Well,” Ink said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I s'pose this means I oughta try not being so nervous 'round you. Not afraid, to be clear. Never quite that far. Just nervous was all.”
The smallest hint of a smile played around the corner of Martin's mouth.
“And maybe,” Ink continued, “just maybe you could . . . try not to hate me so much.”
“God, no, Ink,” Martin said with a pained look. “I've never hated you. My outbursts and bad behavior have only ever been my fault. Working my fears and insecurities into anger I should have directed towards myself and no one else. But that damned pride always seems to win out.”
Ink suddenly felt a small surge of anger. He frowned.
“Do you hate Harriet?”
