imp

First light finds the camp on the rise — stone at their backs, the fire a ring of cold coals, the marsh flat and pewter-colored below. The night gave them nothing worse than dew. Barnaby's calf has stiffened under Verbena's tie; it carries him, and it lets him know about it on the downslope. The walk back is short and dry-footed on yesterday's bootprints. No grease trails move in the ditches this morning. No croak answers the boots. The marsh is as quiet as it has ever let them see it. The great door stands as they left it — gates smashed, hall collapsed, the narrow path swept boot-wide through the rubble. But the room has been kept again, overnight, while they slept a bend away. The wrecked hands are gone. Both of them — every plate, every cable, every finger Barnaby pried out of his cuff and dropped on the swept line. The brass is picked clean out of the rubble. Hobb's chalk tracings, Silas's knock-marks, the crossed cables Edda drew: scrubbed, all of it, the floor wiped back to grey stone. Except one mark. The company sigil on the seventh slab is untouched — crisp, deliberate, left exactly as Edda chalked it. As if it had been read, and answered by being allowed to stay. Nobody has stepped past the gates. Nothing in the room moves.

I take the swept line on my knees before anyone crosses — the office first. Boot-width by boot-width: floor wiped grey, the hands gone whole, nothing new set anywhere along his lane. The seventh slab last. The sigil stands crisp. "Fourth keep," I tell them. "He's read us every night we've slept in his country and answered the same way every time — her mark allowed to stand. Nothing added. Nothing set against us on this floor." I get up off the calf and give the call: cross single file on his line. And past the fall, nobody steps under that vault until the statue-square overhead is lit — the set drops on the watcher. We cross the chapel lit, or we don't cross.

something takes 4 from Barnaby Wick.

Barnaby’s bound wound remains **4/8**; first aid restored no flesh overnight. His close read finds the keeper’s boot-width track running in from the collapsed gap’s lip and out again, days deep and one night fresher. Nothing new lies on the swept line; the sigil is untouched. “Read us” and “nothing set against us” remain Barnaby’s inference, not proof. Edda is caller. Before her line moves, she must name who carries the wax-sealed poison ampoule.

Ampoule first, then the line moves. Verbena's belt — I buckle it on her now, before you all. She ties the wounds, so she pours. It doesn't ride the front, and I'm the likeliest bitten; a vial broken in the same bite that drops me buys nobody anything. Wax stays whole till it's needed — an unbroken seal is the receipt that it was spent honest. File, on his boot-width and nowhere else: me first, shield up. Silas second, light at my shoulder. Barnaby third — a stumble either way gets caught. Verbena last, tapers dry. Anyone bitten, the line holds and she comes to you. Nobody leaves the file for a pour. Move.

The ampoule is settled on Verbena’s belt, wax intact, before all four witnesses. Edda takes the keeper’s boot-width lane to the collapsed gap’s lip, shield raised. Nothing moves. Her file-order is spoken; the others must take their places on their own turns.

Second in file, on his boot-width, nowhere else. I take Edda's shoulder with the lantern open to a slit — flame's ours since the gates, and it stays behind the shutter till the chapel's lip. "Eyes' order at the far side," I say, low, for the line behind me: statue square first, the sag second, the north drift last. Hobb's square taught us the order the hard way. Detect Magic stays held, and I say so once — same terms, keeper's hands or whatever finally earns it. Boots down. Nothing on this floor gets stood on alone.

Silas takes second place at Edda’s shoulder. The bullseye lantern burns behind a narrow slit; Detect Magic remains memorised. Its light reaches the dry, descending seam beyond the lip, but neither crosses. Barnaby and Verbena remain behind them in area 1.

Last in file, tapers dry, ampoule on the belt where Edda buckled it. I take Barnaby's shoulder and stay on the boot-width — the sweep is his lane and I am a guest on it. "Past the fall I hold mid-room with the pour," I say low. "A bitten man doesn't walk to me and I don't come through the dark alone — the line brings him or calls me lit." Boots down. Nothing on this floor gets stood on alone.

Verbena takes the rear at Barnaby’s shoulder, ampoule secure and tapers boxed. The full file now stands on the swept lane: Edda, Silas, Barnaby, Verbena. The descending seam waits ahead; nobody has crossed into the chapel.

Third in file, on Silas's shoulder, down the seam with the calf kept to the inside of the boot-width. Dagger flat in my hand — it finished the last spider on this floor, and the sword's no use on small fast things. Where the seam opens to the chapel I hold the line with two fingers on Silas's pack and call it low: light the statue square before anyone bunches, steel formed around whoever watches. Then my work — eyes up the vault first, fresh silk against grey, where the draw sits this morning. Read before boots.

Barnaby draws his dagger and keeps two fingers on Silas’s pack. The front pair have not moved, so he cannot carry them twenty feet down the seam; he remains third at its western lip. The chapel vault is not yet visible, and no silk read is made. His order stands for when Edda leads them through.

Down the seam at pace, shield leading, and I stop the file at the chapel mouth with my back hand up. "Silas — light the statue square. Now, before boots." Hobb's square gets the flame first; the sag waits its turn. Steel formed around whoever watches: my shield between the square and the file. When the vault's lit I take the ceiling myself — fresh silk against grey, where the draw sits this morning — and give the line what I see before a single boot crosses. Nobody walks blind under that vault. We go lit or we don't go.

Edda crosses the twenty-foot seam alone and stops at the chapel threshold, shield leading. The slit of Silas’s lantern remains behind her at the western lip; beyond Edda, the statue square and vault are dark. Her order carries, but no ceiling read is possible yet.

I move up the seam behind Edda to the chapel mouth, lantern open wide, and put the beam on the statue square — square first, sag after, north drift last. "Light's on the square. Watch what answers it before a boot crosses — doubled eye-shine, or a drawn dimple. Nothing answers, the line comes on." I hold at the threshold, beam pinned, reading what the light gives back.

The wide beam catches the canopy before anything drops. Fresh white draw-lines converge into a tight dimple directly above the statue square. Behind it, a crab spider lies folded flat in the grey webbing; clustered eyes answer the lantern, then vanish as it shifts one joint deeper. It is awake and watching. The statue below still holds all three brass bolts. Edda and Silas remain at the threshold; no boot has crossed.

I hold the lip, mace slung, pour-hand free. "Precedent's ours," I say low, up the line. "Last one died from this lip with fire and no boot crossed — oil into the dimple, wick behind it. The dry silk stalled the run both times; only the patch burns, and the house stood it. "If any flask's left, that's my counsel again. If none is, then sling and thrown steel answer it where it sits — but nobody walks under a live drop, and I pour at the lip, not past it." I set two sling stones on the swept line where my hand can find them without eyes leaving the vault.

Verbena remains at the seam’s western lip and lays out two stones. Three oil flasks remain in company kit. Correction before lives ride on it: this company’s last spider killed Hobb after dropping; Barnaby finished it with steel. No fire from this lip, and no proof about how today’s canopy carries flame, stands in this record. The plan is counsel, not precedent. The spider remains folded above the statue.

Before the fire question's answered, my work — Silas, walk the beam square to sag to north drift, slow as you like. The square holds the set; I want to know if it's the only one. One unwatched square cost this company a man on this floor. My piece, then Edda calls it: aye to the oil — steadiest arm throws it, wick behind, and no boot crosses that lip whatever fire answers. If it runs, maces formed right here, not chasing. And nobody slings first: a missed stone moved the last one onto the door seam, and that door is the keeper's. If fire doesn't settle it, we hold this lip. Nobody crosses a live drop at four-of-eight with one ampoule in the company.

Barnaby spends the turn holding the western lip and giving his piece. Silas’s wider beam-walk remains his own action to take. Correction: this company’s record does not show a missed stone moving the last spider onto the keeper-door seam; it dropped onto Hobb before the party struck it. Verbena and Barnaby have both counselled oil. Edda has their pieces and the call.

Fire's the call, on the terms both of you gave: nobody crosses, nobody slings, and if it runs, steel forms at this lip — we don't chase. Barnaby — one flask up the line, hand to hand. It goes into the draw-lines from this threshold, unlit; Verbena's taper lands behind it. One flask. The others wait on the read. My own record, said plain: my last throw from this lip went over. A flask breaks where it lands, the dimple's a wide mark, and I'm the one standing here at eight who can afford what fire answers. Silas — beam pinned till the drop is ash. Your walk comes after; light off a located set is how a set relocates. If the vault takes the fire, we hold and read before any boot follows it east.

The call is set: one unlit flask into the draw-lines, then Verbena’s taper; nobody crosses or chases. Edda holds the chapel threshold as thrower. No flask has moved yet—the company kit remains behind the front pair, and each handoff waits on its owner’s turn. Edda’s earlier missed throw is her recollection, not a receipt in this session’s log. The spider stays folded under Silas’s pinned beam.

Beam stays pinned. No walk — light off a located set is how a set relocates, and the set stays located. One read while it holds me: the fresh draw is the only wet silk I can see — the white lines into the dimple, spider folded flat behind them. Everything around them is dry grey. When the taper lands I'll call the run live: eat the wet draw, stall in the grey, or climb — and nobody answers fire past the dimple till I've called it. Flask comes hand to hand when Barnaby's turn gives it. It crosses my shoulder, not my hands — the pour isn't mine to hold.

Silas holds the beam without walking it. The light proves only this: bright new silk converges through older grey webbing into the spider’s dimple. It does **not** prove wetness, burn rate, or that flame will stop at the colour change. The spider remains located and motionless. No flask moves.

I come up the seam to the threshold and take my stand behind Edda's shield — my taper's no use twenty feet back. Taper out of the box, named to the room: this wick burns a hunter on the Lantern's business, and the house's silk stays cold till it's paid for. I hold it dry and ready. "Flask lands, Silas gives me flame off his shutter, my throw goes a breath behind the oil — into the lines, not past the dimple. Nobody crosses till Silas calls the run." I set my feet where Edda's arm can't fall back onto me. "Barnaby — the flask walks on your turn. Till then I hold."

Verbena crosses the seam and takes position behind Edda’s shield, clear of her sword-arm. One dry taper is in her hand; the remaining tapers stay boxed, and the ampoule remains sealed at her belt. Three now hold the chapel threshold. Barnaby and the oil remain twenty feet back.

One flask out of the kit, thumb on the cork, and I bring it up the seam on the outside of the file — over Silas's shoulder, not his hands, into Edda's free palm. Sealed, steady, unlit. "There's your arm. I hold at Silas's heel, dagger flat, off the light-line. After it lands I watch the grey past the dimple — whatever fire moves, I call it before anyone steps." I take my place and keep the weight off the calf. Nobody crosses till Silas calls the run.

Edda Motts now carries oil flask

Barnaby brings one sealed oil flask forward and places it in Edda’s free hand; **two flasks remain** in the company kit. He takes position at Silas’s heel with dagger ready. All four now hold the chapel threshold without crossing. The spider remains in the lit dimple.

From the lip — no boot crosses to follow it. One throw, corked, out of the free hand: into the white lines where they draw together, short of the dimple. The oil walks the set's own road in. Said plain before it leaves my hand: it lands, the taper follows. It goes over like my last one — nobody chases a broken flask under a live drop. We hold this lip and sling. The throw goes up.

Edda Motts no longer carries oil flask