The spider key, p.47
The Spider Key, page 47
“Any idea who he is?”
“Not at the moment. But we will have to track him down if we survive. He can’t do this to us again.”
Ink fidgeted, chewing his lip. “Ain’t there any way you could make the Spektors tell you what that gift is? Or where it is?”
Caradoc’s gaze returned to the window. “Unfortunately it’s not that simple. If they’d rather spite me than simply recover it, the odds of reasoning with them are already slim. I’ve got a better chance of smothering a bear with my hat.”
“Or doing battle with an army of angry spirits. Be serious. If any of us was gonna pull a stunt like that you wouldn’t even let us finish the sentence! And what does it solve, anyway? All it really gets us is a dead Keyholder. And then they win—Marlas and Coram and Bill, and everyone else who’s stuck their knives into your backs.”
“What would you have me do? Walk away?”
Ink scoffed. “If it were me I wouldn’t have to think twice. But you? You’re as mad as they come. You never walk away. Not when you think you have to save the whole world.”
The wind gusted louder, rattling the window. Ink stepped away from the wall.
“Look, all I’m saying is . . . don’t go charging off into the fog just yet. You still got a few tricks up your sleeve. Your secret weapon, for example.”
“Secret weapon?” Caradoc said. “And what would that be?”
Ink puffed out his chest and threw out his arms, just as he had seen Chester do half a dozen times. “Inkwell Featherfield, sir! The world’s finest pickpocket, sneak, and plunderer ever to roam the streets and byways! More accomplished in his short career than any ten veteran thieves and bandits! Nothing escapes his eye! Nothing lies beyond his reach! Only call his name and consider the job done!” He bowed with a sweeping flourish, then straightened himself and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “I’ll have that gift before the day is out, sure and certain.”
Caradoc laughed. “Sure and certain?”
“That’s right. Just leave it to me.”
“Thank you for the laugh, Ink. God knows I needed it.”
“He knows you need me. 'Cause next to you, I might just be the maddest of the bunch.” He knelt on the rug and nodded towards him. “And then, of course . . . there's the blood on your chest.”
Caradoc’s smile dropped away. He glanced down. A deep red stain had seeped through the front of his shirt, small but unmistakable. He frowned as he grasped at the bloodied fabric.
“Did the others see?”
“No. Your coat was covering it.”
Caradoc glanced back down. “I don’t understand. I thought I’d stopped the spear before it hit. I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?” Ink said. “The first time we met on Riverfall, you said some kind of shield had broken. Then when you got back from Margaret’s house, Riva needed extra help healing you when she'd always done fine on her own. Now this. So you have to let me try. You have to give me a chance to find this thing. ‘Cause it’s starting to seem like things ain’t working the way they used to. Not even you.”
Caradoc put his face into his hands for a moment, then looked up at the window again with his eyebrows drawn together in deep apprehension. “I've been sitting here trying to take stock of all the things I know about the Spektors—and everything connected with them.” He looked at his gloved left hand. “After ten years of wearing this thing, I suppose I'd begun to believe myself an authority on the subject. The truth is I know even less now than I did at the beginning. It was appalling enough to hear about Bash's death and the Mistress's interest in you. But now there are these Blue Flames people and this Old Saul. And so many other mysteries I can't begin to make sense of.”
Ink twisted his mouth for a moment, then moved forward and sat beside the Keyholder with his back against the desk. “All right, so you don't know everything. But you still know more than all the rest of us. We still need you around. Who else is gonna stare down them Spektors and live to tell about it?”
“You don't need me for that.”
“Of course we do.”
Caradoc shook his head. “The Key does only two things; it can open a passage through the Veil between Otherworlds, and it can expel Spektors. Send them back to their Crypt. That's all. It does also help to frighten them off, but you don't actually need it to survive an encounter with them.”
Ink sat forward. “What d'you mean?”
“They aren’t creatures of flesh and blood, but of spirit. And it's by that means you have your most powerful defense against them. If you can reach deep down, gather all the hope and faith and courage you can find, summon it to your heart, to your mind, the Spektors will see it. And if it's potent enough, they won't have any sway over you. Simon has done it. So has Martin and Margaret—though they hardly knew what was happening at the time. There's even a name for people who achieve this. They're called 'Defenders'.”
“I've heard that before! You said it to Margaret, that day we went up to the navigation room. And then . . . then I saw it in the Keyholder Book. Something about Keyholders drawing their courage from Defenders. But I didn't understand what it meant.”
“Defenders can be of great help to Keyholders, especially those who know what's expected of them before an encounter. A pair who makes a commitment to stand their ground in such a way can be almost unstoppable.”
Ink glanced away. His frown deepened as he struggled to keep the pain from his voice. “Is expelling 'em really the only option? Is there no way for a person to . . . stop being a Spektor?” He didn’t dare look at Caradoc, for fear of betraying the hope he felt.
“I’ve never come across anything that led me to believe it could be done,” the Keyholder replied. “Becoming a Spektor is a choice. And some choices, once made, can never be taken back.”
Ink gripped his hands together as he looked out into the storm. He could easily imagine dozens of pale, rotting faces glaring back at him through the swirling snow. The thought of one in particular made his courage begin to fail.
“All right, then,” he said, getting to his feet and donning his hat. “If you're so insistent on us not needin' you, then I should have no trouble tracking down that gift. In fact, I'll even bet I can have it by nightfall.”
Caradoc stood as well, looking at him with grim concern. “Ink . . . if you think you’ve got a chance, I won’t keep you from looking. But if you do find it—or think you find it—I ask that you not lay a finger on it. Come to me first. Do you even have any idea of where to start?”
“A few. Maybe.” He turned and made for the door.
“What, aren’t you going to tell me?”
“No,” Ink replied with a small smirk. “That’s what makes me a secret weapon.”
Three hours later, the storm had subsided enough for the courthouse refugees to venture back to their own homes. Mayor Kingsley ordered a fleet of carriages to bring himself and the Colonists back to the mansion. The delay it caused Ink in carrying out his plan was just as well, for he knew it would take several hours to work up the nerve to follow through with it. When they returned to the mansion, the Colonists took lunch in the library at the end of the hall outside their bedrooms. No one had the stomach to dine with Kingsley, or anyone else for that matter.
Though Ink and Caradoc agreed not to say anything about their ‘secret weapon’ to any of the others at present, Caradoc did at least ease their fears by declaring he would not attempt combat with the Spektors if another path soon presented itself. Riva had decided to use her detection abilities to find the gift, though there was no guarantee such a nefarious object could even be considered an enchanted item. Even if it was, it was almost certainly under concealment.
Dusk had fallen by the time Ink donned his coat again and quietly made his way down to the front door. The servants hardly noticed him. Many had gone to see the Colonists in the library, full of questions and distraught with news of the true identity of their attackers. Some had even quit their duties early, unable to put their minds to anything else.
Ink hurried across the courtyard. Snow crunched underfoot and the icy wind still played up in gusts and breezes. The storm had left a lingering gloom over Harroway. But for the glowing lights inside the houses, Ink would've thought the town abandoned.
Arriving at the square, he turned up the left lane and made for the north gate. He was surprised to find the ramparts empty of guards, save for a single watchman in the tower just above. He was leaning against one of the posts and drinking from a tin cup. Ink took a deep breath as he came to a stop below.
“Oi! You up there! I need to get through!”
The man turned his head, looking down almost haphazardly.
“I got business outside!” Ink cried again.
“Outside?” the watchman said. “You want to go out there? With night coming on and God-knows-what lurking around in them woods? Didn’t you hear what’s going on?”
“Yeah, I heard. But God-knows-what is probably already lurking around in here. Gates and walls make no difference to them. So what’s it matter if you let me through?”
The watchman glanced around, worry widening his eyes. He cursed, then chucked the tin cup to the floor and stepped to an iron wheel. “Fine. It’s your hide. Not mine.”
A dozen steps past the gate, Ink spied the crossroads they had passed on their pretended hunt for the Middling House. A signpost marked the distance to eight different mines down three separate paths. Ink paused for a moment. There was no guarantee he would be able to find his way back if he used the roads. He knew they branched off half a dozen times more along the way. And if he climbed higher up any one of these hills, he couldn’t count on keeping the gates in sight with night coming on so fast. There was only one logical choice—to follow along the outer wall until he found what he was looking for. Or until it found him. He turned and plodded through the snow, leaving the well-worn pathway.
Fifteen minutes later the temperature dropped by several degrees and darkness swept down upon the mountains—both far more quickly than Ink would have thought possible. He hugged his arms around himself and struggled forward, already regretting his course of action. Now and then he would stop and listen, straining for any sound that might indicate he was going in the right direction. But the world lay silent under the thick blanket of new snow. Ink wiped his nose on his sleeve and marched on.
“What am I doing here?” he said aloud. “I'm gonna be eaten alive. And no one will ever find my body. I’ll just lie here rotting under the snow 'til springtime. Well done, Inkwell.”
The woods soon gave way to a small clearing at the base of a hillock. Ink halted and glanced up. A soft scuffling noise was coming from the top of the rise. He could just make out a dim shape crouching low to the ground.
A moment later, a small object tumbled down towards him and came to a stop a few feet away. It was round-shaped, and made of a pallid, waxen material that bore a jagged crack along the top. He stepped closer, turned it over with his foot, and fell back with a cry.
It was a human skull.
Chapter 39
The Cost of Vanity
“Go on. Get it,” came a hollow voice from the top of the rise.
Ink looked up. There stood Eamon Revore; haggard and black-veined, silver eyes unblinking, heavy chains wrapped around his middle, rotting top hat cocked over one eye. Ink felt his guts twist inside himself. Granddad. It was no better seeing him the second time.
“Get it?” Ink called up, his voice cracking in fear. “I ain’t touching that thing!”
Before he’d finished speaking, a huge black hound bounded over the crest of the hillock. Ink lurched back and flattened himself against the wall. Thankfully, he was not its target. With a snarl, it took up the skull in its jaws, narrowed its green eyes, and flattened its ears against the horns curling behind them. Ink felt his mouth go dry. The beast was the size of a mountain lion. The next moment, it turned and rushed back up the rise as quickly as it had come. His granddad gazed down in icy silence.
“What did you do?” Ink said. “Who did that belong to?”
“Are you going to shout at me from down there the entire time?”
Ink hesitated. He wasn’t sure his legs would move even if he wanted them to. “Maybe!”
Eamon raised his hand and beckoned with a long, bony finger. Ink shut his eyes. He couldn’t run away now. He blew out a breath, then pushed himself off the wall and began to stagger up the hillock. Never had he been so disappointed to have found what he was seeking.
But things were even worse than he expected, for when he reached the top a far more gruesome sight awaited him. Hundreds of skulls lay strewn across the rise, along with a hundred other bones yellowing beneath the snow. The hellhound was hard at work digging them up from the frozen ground, unearthing a new skeleton wherever he went.
“Saints above,” Ink said, his voice shaking. “What is all this?”
Eamon’s mustache twitched beneath his hooked nose. “It is a mass grave. Filled with miners, prisoners, and all the other undesirables this town would rather forget. All their work, all their sacrifice . . . and this is the thanks they get. Mankind is wonderful, isn’t it?” He kicked at a half-frozen leg bone and sent it skittering across the snow. “I wonder how many of our kind have come from pits like this. They must be veritable breeding grounds—all these poor sods just waiting for a chance to have their bit of vengeance.”
Ink wiped his sleeve across his brow. Beads of cold sweat had begun to form on his face. “Why are you here, Granddad? Did you know I was coming to Harroway? Or were you already here just . . . helping out?”
“My business is my own. And as for yours, I suspect you did not seek me out only to pelt me with stupid questions. The sooner you get to the matter at hand, the sooner you can be on your way again.”
“Matter? What matter? I just came to have a chat with me ol’ granddad is all.”
Eamon swept towards him and leaned down, putting his hands on his knees. The black vapor around him pulsed and flared. Ink nearly lost his dinner from the stench of it.
“I will not be telling you where to find the gift. Not even if we must march everyday into that wretched town until it looks like this rotting boneyard on which we stand. It is high time Harroway learned that vanity has a cost.”
Ink could not return his gaze but nodded in understanding, if only so his granddad would back away. When he finally did, it was to return his attention to the hellhound who was gnawing on an arm bone. Ink felt his stomach turn. He put a hand on it to steady himself.
“You were right,” he said to the Spektor. “It’s happening just like you said. The watch is telling me the truth. Showing me things that happened a long time ago, while I’m asleep.”
Eamon snapped his bony fingers. With a growl, the hound dropped its bone and began pawing into the snow, resuming its digging work.
“That picture inside it,” Ink continued. “I know it’s of an Otherworld. I saw the same image in Mavie’s room. And that thing I see in the dark, whenever I close my eyes, I know it’s a soul marking. Caradoc's.”
Eamon arched an eyebrow, sliding his silver gaze back towards him. “So what? Are you wanting a prize for it? A bag of sweets? A hug?”
“I asked her, Granddad. Your Mistress? I asked her where to find Mum and Dad. If they’re still alive. But she never answered.”
“She answers to no one. Not even to us.”
Ink felt his cheeks flush with anger. “Then what’s the use of having a watch that tells the truth? If it only shows what it feels like showing me and not what I actually need? Why did you tell me to use it?”
The Spektor clucked his black tongue. “If only you’d brought it to me. I could’ve explained everything. Yet once again you turn up empty-handed.”
“You know I ain’t gonna turn it over. I’ve already told you.”
“It matters little now. It is already done. You named the Broken One, and now there is a connection between you. One that cannot be severed, no matter how badly you may wish it.”
Ink squared his jaw. “You don’t know that. You don’t know everything.”
“I know you.”
“Well it don’t matter! I don't even have it anymore! Oswald took it! So you can just forget about me bringing it to you!”
With a noise like a choked cough, Eamon looked away. He clawed at his brow with his long nails, ground his silver teeth in his jaw, then turned back again. “You lost the watch . . . to a cat?”
“Oh. You know who Oswald is. Well, it ain’t like I gave it to him! The scurvy little thing snatched it from my room!”
In a flash, the black vapor shot out from around Eamon’s shoulders and wrapped around the boy’s throat. All Ink could manage was a whimper as he was lifted into the air. The whites around his granddad’s silver pupils turned black.
“Idiot boy!” he cried. “If you cannot keep such a precious thing from the clutches of a cat, how can you be of any further use?”
“Let me down!” Ink pulled at the vapor. His hands went straight through it.
“Damned if I will entrust you with something so important ever again! You will never find your mother! You will never find your father, my own flesh and blood! You’re as useless as the day you were born!”
“Stop it, Granddad! Stop!”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Eamon echoed in a mocking voice. “Listen to yourself. You can’t even make a half-decent plea for your life!”
“God sees what man cannot!”
The vapor around Ink’s neck disappeared, and he fell back to the ground. Eamon stood silently aghast as the vapor collected around his shoulders again. Ink rubbed at his throat. He wasn't sure what had made him think of the phrase from the Keyholder Book. It had just appeared in the front of his mind, like the gold symbol behind his eyelids. He pushed himself to a sitting position as the Spektor strode towards him and crouched down, sneering.
