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 any boot crosses it. Fingertips in the polish — yesterday's read said days-cold; this morning I want hours, and heel-depth to count his loaded trips. Then the lip of the gap: the pale rectangle where the book goes down, and the soot seam past it — that wide splayed tread, which way it last ran, how new. Then my ear flat to the seam-stone, the far dark past the fall. Hear noise on it — a ratchet, a step, anything. Low, to the company: "He kept this room while we slept a bend off and left our mark standing. That's his third answer. The sigil is Edda's to reply to, not mine. "The chapel crossing stands on Firren's lesson: the square over the statue gets light before any boot passes under it. Nothing dark, nothing alone. Set the file on that."

something takes 4 from Barnaby Wick.

The wound is carried: Barnaby stands at 4/8. One night's tread lies sharp over the older keeper-track. It comes from the eastern gap, crosses the swept line repeatedly, and returns east; the last clear heel points toward the chapel. Too many passes share the same boot-width lane to count loads honestly. No fresh webbed print crosses it, and no clean book-shaped set-down survives the sweeping. Hear Noise: 6 — only Barnaby's own blood against stone. Edda is caller. The untouched sigil and the file are hers to answer for.

I kneel at the seventh slab and answer the answer: one short chalk stroke beside the sigil, clear of his sweep — the beadle's sign for received. Low, to the room: "Mark for mark. Square stands." The call: "File on me. Through the gap first, shield up, boots on his line. Verbena second with the light — the vault over the statue gets lit from the lip before any boot passes under it. Barnaby third, the calf sets the pace. Hobb fourth on the walls, Silas last, reading the seam. Nothing dark, nothing alone, no flame under silk. He crossed to the chapel in the night and came back alive — that's our road, walked at his pace."

I come off my knees and give the company the read plain, no ornament. "Fresh tread, hours old, not days — gap to swept line and back, more passes than I can count loads through. Last clean heel points east, toward the chapel. No new webbed print over it. No book-shadow down at the lip. The seam gave me nothing past the fall — only my own blood in my ears. He's not close, or he's quiet as stone. "The sweep is his third answer and the sigil is the fourth left standing. That's company business, Edda, not searcher's. I'll not call it. "One thing is mine to say: whatever order we cross in, the light goes to the square over the statue before the first boot passes under it. That's Firren's floor and we paid full price for the lesson. Set the file on that, caller." I stay off the swept line and keep the calf weightless while Edda calls it.

The fresh chalk stroke remains beside the sigil. Nothing answers it now. Edda takes shield-point to the eastern gap; the keeper's lane is one person wide, so her file will pass single-file exactly as called. The bullseye may cross hooded and open at the chapel lip; no flame need touch the silk. One matter stops the first step: the wax-sealed neutralize-poison ampoule is still unassigned. Verbena has it in hand with the common kit, but the company must name who carries it before the file enters.

"Ampoule stays where the plan put it — Verbena's belt, Edda's hands second pour. Nothing in this morning changed that, and the man whose calf we're hauling can't run to a falling man." I check my belt — hammer, axe, spikes — and take up the pry-bar from the camp kit, weighing it once in my hand. "I'm fourth on the walls, as called. Before the file moves, caller, one word: the vault over the statue gets its light from the lip, then we cross on his line at his pace. Say the word and I step."

Ampoule assigned: wax-sealed at Verbena's belt, with Edda named to administer it if hands are needed. Three voices have fixed the place. Ledger correction: there is no pry-bar in the camp kit. Hobb has his small hammer, twelve spikes, axe, hammer, and cord; nothing heavier was carried from town. His fourth place in the file stands.

Last place in the file, as called. I cross the gap on the keeper's line at his pace, eyes up and back — the vault's dark past the piers is Hobb's ground and the silk is Barnaby's sling, but nobody's watching what's behind us while we walk, and a door that shuts from within has two sides. At the chapel lip I stop on the prints and say one thing: "Light to the statue square before Verbena's boot leaves the lip. That was the price of the lesson and I'll say it every crossing until it's habit. I hold here till the square's lit and the file's moving."

The file has not moved: Edda alone holds its head at the gap, and the three places ahead of Silas have not crossed. Spoken order does not move their boots. Silas takes rear station facing west, but cannot arrive last at the chapel lip before they go ahead of him. Nothing approaches through the smashed gates. His condition stands: he follows only after the overhead square is lit from the lip.

I take the bullseye off Barnaby at the gap and step up square behind Edda's shield. Unhooded at the lip, beam thrown long across the chapel — I put the light full on the emptied square above the statue and hold it there, slow count, until I've seen all four corners of it and the silk around. "Square's lit and empty. It stays lit while boots cross — nobody walks dark under silk on my office. Go, caller, on his line. I'm on your heels with the light and the ampoule." I hold the beam steady and my second hand free.

The beam reaches the chapel from the lip. The statue still holds all three brass bolts; webs shroud the ceiling above it. The square is not empty. At its eastern corner the silk draws upward into a fresh, body-wide dimple, weighted from above. The beam catches no leg or eye—the thing lies flat beyond the web—but empty silk does not pull itself into that shape. Verbena holds the light on it. No boot has crossed beneath.

I hold the lip's shadow, off the beam, and give the caller the read cold: the dimple sits over the statue square — the exact ground Firren died on — body-wide, weighted from above, fresh pull in old silk. That's the set, not a sleeper. We lit its square and it didn't shift. It chose that corner because that's where the file bunches, and it will wait all day for the boots. "Steel through silk is a wasted stone — I've thrown that miss once and paid for the lesson. My word to the caller: burn it before we cross. My flask into the dimple, striker after it, thrown from the lip — no boot under that square, wet or dry. Silk and spider come down together. If the house counts fire a debt, I'll stand beside Hobb at the reckoning and say the name on it was mine. "Until the call, my sling stays down and my weight stays off the calf."

Ledger correction before the call: Firren did not die on that floor. Prue Candell did. Firren's paid lesson was finding the overhead set and putting its spider to sleep. Barnaby holds and spends no flask. His proposal is workable but takes two acts: thrown oil to wet the dimple, then open flame from the lip to ignite it. Edda's earlier no-flame-under-silk order must change if she calls it.

I kneel at the lip, strike the tinder box, and light a taper — cupped behind the shield, well clear of the silk. "Call's the burn. My order changes: flame is licensed from the lip, thrown only. No boot under silk, before or after. Barnaby — your flask first, from where you stand, into the dimple. My taper follows before the oil stops dripping. Verbena — beam stays on that corner; if it shifts with the flask in the air, call it and we all hold. "Nobody crosses till the silk's done falling and the floor's been read. What drops out gets finished on the ground, not chased. "And set the record straight, since Barnaby said it wrong: that square took the priest. It doesn't get a second name."

Dry char takes without a roll. Taper 1 catches behind Edda's shield; three beeswax tapers remain boxed. The flame is at the stone lip, clear of the web. No oil has moved yet. Edda holds the lit taper ready for the turn after Barnaby's throw; Verbena's beam stays fixed on the weighted corner.

Beam's on the dimple, so I put my eyes where the lantern can't help — dark-sight past the beam's edge, lip to vault. Two reads. First the dimple: heat-shape flat beyond the silk, one mass, leg-count lost in the fold. It hasn't shifted a hair since the light went on. Waiting on boots, not flame. Second the long wrapped mass over my north wall — the beam's never touched it. I want to know if it read as dead wood or slow blood, and whether it moved while the spider re-set underneath. If the keeper has a second thing strung up there, I'd sooner meet it at a burn than at a crossing. Taper holds at the lip till it's read. No boot moves either way.

Correction: the silk gives Hobb no heat-shape and no leg-count. A crab spider's blood does not shine warm through webbing. The weighted dimple remains exactly still. The long wrapped mass over the north wall is cold from end to end. It has not moved during the watch. Darkvision cannot tell corpse from timber through that winding, only that it is dead weight rather than visible warm blood. Nothing underneath has been seen re-setting.

Word before the flask flies, caller, because the burn takes the whole vault or none of it. My read on the run: the grease-sheened weave carries flame fast, the old dusted silk will smolder behind it — nobody stands under the run, north wall included. That cold mass comes down with the web if fire climbs it, and what's wrapped inside it nobody has met. And I spend my spell now, before fire can burn the answer away: Detect Magic, cast from the lip, on the long mass over the north wall. Caveat said before the answer, as always — clean buys dead weight, not safe. Waiting on the read. The flask holds till it lands.

Silas Horn memorises

Detect Magic is spent. No aura answers from the long wrapped mass, its silk, or anything around it within the spell's reach. Clean means non-magical, nothing more. Fact line before the burn: no grease has been established on this web, and nobody knows whether flame will stop at Barnaby's oil, crawl through old silk, or take the whole vault. If it reaches the mass's supporting strands, the mass may fall; that is risk, not certainty.

Beam never leaves the dimple while the file talks. I give the caller my piece once: the mass is cold and clean — dead weight, not a debt. If fire climbs its strands and it comes down, it comes down onto lit floor, read on the ground like everything else that drops. I'd sooner meet it at a burn than at a crossing, same as the dwarf. "Flask flies on the caller's word, and my voice is the shift-alarm: the dimple twitches, I call it, everyone holds. Otherwise the beam holds to the last corner and my boots stay on the lip." I keep the light pinned and my hand free of the taper.

The weighted corner does not twitch. Verbena's beam remains fixed; the long mass stays cold and still. The file holds entirely on the west side of the chapel threshold.

The call's the burn and the flask's mine. I come off the lip's shadow, weight on the good leg, and throw underhand from where I stand — flask in an arc into the dimple, no boot past the threshold. Oil in the old silk, done dripping before I'm back in the shadow. "Flask's spent. Taper, Edda — while it's wet."

Barnaby Wick no longer carries oil flask

Barnaby Wick no longer carries oil flask

Throw 16 with Dexterity: the flask breaks squarely in the dimple. Oil darkens the silk and begins dripping through; one flask is spent, two remain. The weighted patch jerks once. A hooked leg punches through the wet web, folds back, and holds. Verbena's shift-alarm sounds. Nobody has crossed; Edda still has the lit taper at the lip.

The leg showed itself — too late for it. The oil's wet and the call stands. I pitch the lit taper underhand from the lip, into the dimple, no boot past the threshold, and shield up over the company as it flies. "Burn takes it. Nobody crosses till the silk's done falling and I've read the floor."

Natural 20. The taper lands in the wet center and the oil goes up at once. Flame outlines one crab spider above the silk—body and eight legs—caught in the burning dimple. It thrashes but has not fallen. Fire rule: the web burns through rounds 4–5. Anything caught takes 1d6 at the start of its turn. Spider: 9/9 before fire. The long mass's supporting strands have not caught yet. Taper 1 is spent; three remain boxed.

"It's held in the fire and fire is slow — I'll not wait on it. Axe out of my belt, thrown from the lip, nothing past the threshold. What comes down burning gets finished on the floor, not under the silk."

Hobb Coalfell no longer carries hand axe

Hobb's throw is 18 after Dexterity—hit. The axe tears through burning silk, strikes for 5, and drops onto the lit chapel floor. Spider: 4/9, still caught above. Hobb no longer carries the hand axe; it lies recoverable beneath the web.

I stay at the lip and spend my turn on the read that keeps us honest: the fire's run. My eyes go along the sheened weave from the burning dimple — north, toward the long mass's strands, and west, along the vault — watching where flame climbs and where it stalls. If the grease-sheen carries it, I call the run before anyone's under any of it. Two jars out of my coat, lids loose: one for whatever drips off that spider before the floor takes it, one for whatever the burn leaves on the silk-stubs. Fire is the bench's enemy and my only instrument all morning — I'll take its leavings while they're wet. No throw from me. Steel through burning silk is the wasted stone I've already paid for once. "Watch the run, not the spider. The spider's dead on a clock. The vault's the thing that can still spend somebody."

The bright burn stays in Barnaby's oil. Dry silk shrivels for two feet north and west, smolders, and stalls; no established grease-sheen carries it onward. The long mass's supports remain dark and intact. Correction: the spider is not dead on a clock. It has 4 hp; the first fire die may kill it or leave it able to move. Silas readies two empty jars but collects nothing yet.

Lantern down on the lip stone, wedged so the beam stays pinned to that corner — the alarm doesn't need my hands. Sling out, one stone into the fold of burning silk where the flame has drawn its shape: it's outlined now, not hidden, and the wasted-stone lesson was about blind silk. Stone flies, and after it my boots stay on the lip, eyes on the dimple — if it tears loose before the stone lands or the fire bites, I call it and everyone holds. What comes down gets finished on the lit floor, not chased.

Verbena rolls 17—hit. The sling stone punches through the fire-drawn fold for 3. Spider: 1/9, still caught overhead. The bullseye remains wedged at the lip, beam steady; Verbena stays west of the threshold.

One stone, same terms as the axe and the sling before it: thrown from the lip, weight on the good leg, no boot past the threshold. It's drawn in the fire now — outlined, not blind — and at one wound it doesn't get to tear loose and drop among us burning. Sling stone into the fold where the flame has drawn its shape. If it comes down, it comes down lit and dead, finished on the floor like everything else that falls. "Last stone's mine to spend. After it lands I'm reading the floor with the caller — the silk's coming down in pieces whether we like it or not."

Barnaby rolls 21 after Dexterity—hit for 4. The stone breaks the last holding fold; the crab spider drops onto the lit chapel floor and lies still, legs drawing inward. It dies before its fire tick. The fight is done. No hostile thing remains standing. The oil-soaked web continues burning through rounds 4–5; the long mass remains hung beyond it. Nobody has crossed the threshold.

Shield stays up and the boots stay put — the burn has a round left in it, and my order was nobody crosses till the silk's done falling. When it quits, I'm at the lip's edge with Barnaby reading the floor together — spider, axe, every burnt stub — before the first boot leaves the threshold. He reads it off the bad calf, not on it. Low, to the file: "Crossing stands as called: his line, his pace, same order. The wrapped mass stays hung till it's read off lit stone or not at all. Hobb — your axe comes home when I've read the stone under it, not before. We paid for this square once. It doesn't get a second name."

Edda holds at the lip. The oil-soaked patch curls inward and drops burning scraps around the dead spider; none reaches the threshold or the long mass. Flame remains overhead through round 5. Hobb's axe stays on the lit stone beneath it.

Fire's overhead and my axe under it — nothing for my hands this round, so my eyes go ahead of the boots. Dark-read off the beam's edge, lip to the north bond: my door's ground, same as last visit, but now with half the vault's silk coming down and the wrapped mass hanging naked over it. I want its height off the floor, which strand carries it, and where it lands if the burn or a knife ever takes that strand — called out loud before anyone's under it, not after. And I mark where the burned stubs hang lowest over the keeper's line, so the crossing knows which patches still shed. "Door stays my first work once the stone's read. Nobody under the mass till I've called its drop."

Correction: half the vault is not coming down. Only the oil-wet patch and two feet of dry fringe have burned; the long mass remains fully wrapped. Hobb's angle-read puts it roughly fifteen feet above the floor, held in a cradle of several radial strands—not one carrying line. If the cradle fails together, it drops almost straight onto stone north of the statue, clear of the keeper's lane; cutting one strand could make it swing. The lowest charred fringe over the lane is still above head-height and shedding ash, not silk.

I hold at the lip, jars loose in my coat, and put my counsel on the record while the flame finishes: leave the mass hung. It's cold, it read clean, and it sits clear of the keeper's lane — we don't walk under it and we don't need to. Hobb's drop-read stays pinned, and cutting a cradle strand puts an unmet thing on our floor for nothing. The fire stalls in dry silk, so it's not coming down on the burn either. When the flame quits: the spider's oil-drippings jar first, then the char off the stubs, before any boot crosses — drippings don't keep.

Silas's counsel stands, but the jars remain empty: the corpse, drippings, and charred stubs are inside the chapel, beyond arm's reach from the lip. Collecting any of them requires a boot across or a tool long enough to reach; neither has happened. The local burn continues.

The beam's wedged and doesn't need my hands, so they go to my office. One taper out of the box — unlit, no wick under silk, and we're not clear of it yet — held up where the file can see it. "Firren of the Reeds. This one is his. Mine to light, at his grave-side, when this ceiling is behind us. The Lantern holds what it takes." It rides my belt, apart from the boxed three. Then I fall in behind Edda's shield, ampoule at hand, and hold with the rest till the flame quits and the floor's read.

Verbena Candell now carries bullseye lantern

Record correction: Firren of the Reeds has no established grave and is not recorded dead. He is absent from this table; that is all the ledger supports. Verbena may set the taper aside for him, but “grave-side” is her supposition, not fact. One unlit taper rides separately at her belt; two remain boxed. She holds behind Edda. Round 5 will be the burn's last.