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Absalom Teak

Absalom does not wait for anyone to name the things. He steps in front of Hesper and Marek, shield up, and puts the sword into the first spider as if it were a dog that had come at the herd.

DM

Absalom’s sword chops through dusty webbing, but the first pale spider jerks sideways. Steel scrapes stone beneath it; the creature is untouched.

Corin Bray

Corin does not step into sword range. He goes sideways along the wall instead — three quick steps, dropping to one knee with the sling already out of his belt — because the second spider has nobody on it yet, and that makes it everyone's problem. He has, of course, already checked the doorway back out of the chapel; it's behind him, unblocked, no third spider on the ceiling. "Gentlemen," he says, to the spiders or possibly to the party, "nobody touch anything valuable in here until these are dead." He puts the stone at the loose one — the pale thing with nothing between it and Marek but good intentions.

Corin Bray

The stone skips off the flagging and is gone into the webbing without so much as a sound of impact. Corin is already loading the next one. "That one," he says, to no one, "was a ranging shot."

DM

The first spider springs at Absalom’s sword arm. Its fangs strike the raised shield and skid harmlessly across the iron rim.

DM

The loose spider clears the space in one scuttling rush and leaps onto Marek. Its fangs punch deep beneath his ribs. Marek collapses among the webs and does not move; he is dead.

Hesper Vout

Hesper does not go to Marek. She has already seen the way he is not moving, and she has already done the arithmetic, and she puts her hand up as if there were still a congregation to wait for. "First," she says. "He is dead. Second." The pause, unbearable, and then she comes forward with the mace at the spider still on him. "That one."

Hesper Vout

The mace comes down on the thing still crouched over Marek. It is not a sermon-blow. It is a kitchen-blow, the kind she learned when they sent her to the scullery for a season, and it lands in the pale carapace with a wet crack. The spider jerks but does not let go of him.

DM

Hesper’s mace slams into the spider’s shell and cracks it across the back. One leg buckles, but the wounded creature clings to Marek’s body and turns its bloody fangs toward her.

Absalom Teak

Absalom does not look at Marek. He keeps the shield up and cuts at the first spider again, the same way he would a dog that would not stay down.

DM

Absalom’s sword shears through shell and flesh, nearly cutting the first spider in half. Black fluid spatters his shield. The creature sags on trembling legs but still lives.

Corin Bray

Corin has looked at Marek exactly once — while his hands were busy loading the sling, which was deliberate, because busy hands can be trusted — and he does not look again. The door behind him is still clear. He knows that without turning his head, because he checked before he did anything else, and a dead friend does not change the arithmetic of a room. "That one killed a man," he says, conversational, to the wounded spider crouched over Marek's body. "I know, because I watched it happen, and I know because Marek owed me two silver, and that's a debt his estate will not now be honouring." His voice stays level, haggling-pitch, all the way through. "You're worth four gold to nobody, friend. I'm going to spend you cheap." He puts the stone into the crack Hesper's mace left in the shell.

Corin Bray

The stone skips off the curve of the shell a hand's width from the crack and is gone into the webbing overhead. "That one," Corin says, loading again, "was also a ranging shot." A beat. "I have a great many ranging shots."

DM

Corin’s stone strikes the flagstone beside Marek’s hand and snaps away into the webs. The cracked spider remains crouched over the body, fangs working.

DM

The mangled spider lunges low at Absalom, but its ruined legs fail beneath it. Its fangs snap shut inches short of his boot.

DM

The cracked spider releases Marek and darts at Hesper’s ankle. She catches it on her shield and shoves it back across the corpse before its fangs find flesh.

Hesper Vout

Hesper does not give it the space it wanted. She steps over Marek's legs and brings the mace down again, same kitchen-blow, same spider. "First," she says, without looking at anyone. "It is still the one that killed him." The pause, then the swing. "Second."

Marek Stang

His turn arrives and nothing arrives with it. Marek lies where he fell among the webs, gone still under the wound, and the satchel strap has slipped down his arm so that the three lexicons spill out across the flagging — the chapter-house copy, the capital's, and the unsigned one from the Marrowdown house sale, face-down, its spine cracked open at the verb. Whoever carries that satchel out of here carries the argument with him. He never reached the lintel. Whatever the shrine had to say, it will have to say it to someone else.

Hesper Vout

The mace comes down where the spider was a moment ago. Stone chips. The thing is already sideways under the swing, pale and close, and she has to bring the shield down between her shin and its mouth before she can lift the mace again.

Absalom Teak

Absalom does not look at Marek, or at the books. The first spider is still on its legs. He keeps the shield between it and the rest of them and puts the sword into it the same way he did the last time.

DM

The dying spider flattens itself beneath Absalom’s cut. His blade whistles over its split shell and strikes only hanging web.

Corin Bray

The sling is loaded before Corin has decided anything about the satchel, which is the order he prefers: hands busy first, decisions later, busy hands can be trusted. Marek's fall has slipped the strap down the dead arm and the three lexicons are out on the flagging — the chapter-house copy, the capital's, and the unsigned Marrowdown one face-down, its spine sprung open at the verb like it was opened one last time by the man falling — and the spider that killed him is crouched square in the middle of them, treading the pages with its ruined legs. The doorway behind Corin is still clear. It would be. It is the one thing in this room keeping its promises. "Hesper," he says, haggling-pitch, eyes on the crack Hesper's mace left in the shell. "When that one is dead, nobody wipes their hands on the books. That includes Absalom, who is bleeding on most of the room already." A beat. "And a note for the estate: Marek owed me two silver. I'll be collecting it out of the library, so nobody else needs to trouble themselves with the satchel." He puts the stone at the crack. "And that one — no. No, that one was the last ranging shot. The range is now established beyond argument."

DM

The stone punches into the crack and widens it with a sharp pop. The spider folds sideways across the scattered lexicons, then drags itself upright on its remaining legs. It is barely alive.

DM

The first spider rears and snaps at Absalom’s knee. His shield drives it down before the fangs reach his mail.

Corin Bray

The stone goes into the crack Hesper's mace opened and stays there — punched in and wedged, like a coin hammered into a wall post. The spider's whole left side quits at once. It drops off Marek sideways, legs raking the scattered lexicons as it goes down, and flops twice on the flagging, right side working, left side not. Not dead. Close enough to haggle over. "There," Corin says. "Six gold to say we hit it and it fell. Nobody pays out until it stops moving."

DM

The second spider scrambles over the fallen books and springs at Hesper’s face. Her shield catches it in midair and hurls it back onto the stones.

Hesper Vout

Hesper keeps the shield up and the mace in the same kitchen-grip. She does not look at the books. She does not look at Marek. She puts her hand up for her own turn, as if the chapel were still a congregation. "First," she says. The pause. "It is still the one that killed him." She comes down on it again. "Second."

DM

The spider drags itself clear on four working legs. Hesper’s mace smashes down behind it, scattering chips of stone and torn paper.

Hesper Vout

The mace comes down where the spider was a moment ago. The blow rings on flagstone, a kitchen-blow wasted on stone. The thing is already sideways under the swing, pale and close, treading the open pages, and she has to bring the shield down between her face and its mouth before she can lift the mace again.

Absalom Teak

Absalom does not look at the books. He does not look at Marek. The first spider is still on its legs, and that is the whole of the job. He keeps the shield between it and the rest of them and puts the sword into it the same way he did the last time.

DM

Absalom’s blade bites into the first spider again and strips away another plate of shell. The creature slumps nearly flat, leaking black fluid, but its fangs still open and close.

DM

Corin’s stone skips past the half-crippled spider and vanishes beneath Marek’s scattered books. The creature remains barely upright.

DM

The first spider makes one weak rush. Absalom turns it aside with the shield, and its fangs scrape harmlessly over stone.

DM

The second spider crawls through the torn pages and snaps at Hesper’s hand. She jerks the mace back; its fangs close on empty air.

Hesper Vout

Hesper does not give the books a look, or Marek, or Corin's claim on the satchel. She steps in over the torn pages and puts her hand up for her own turn, as if the chapel were still a congregation. "First," she says. The pause, then the kitchen-blow, same spider. "It is still the one that killed him. Second."

Corin Bray

The stone leaves the sling on the same line as the last one and then keeps going — past the crack, past the spider, past the whole question of Marek's ribs — and the webs overhead take it the way they take everything in this room, softly, with a small grey shiver, and a drift of dust comes down over the scattered lexicons. "The range," Corin says, level, loading again, "is now established beyond argument in both directions, which I believe is called geometry." A beat. "That's four stones I've tithed to this ceiling. The chapel should be flattered. Most of what I tithe goes to a man in Threeoaks." He looks up to find the stone — that is what he would say he is doing, and it would even be true — and while he is up there he takes his time about it, the way a man annoyed at a miss can be excused for staring at where the miss went. The webs are heavy past the light's reach. They have been collecting longer than the spiders have been eating: grey bales in rows like a wardrobe, bindings showing at the splits, and off to the left one set of boards with an edge that takes the lantern-light the way brass takes it. His stone rests in the webbing a spear-length short of it. Everything rests in that webbing. Nothing has come down in a hundred years except the spiders. "Two notes for when this is over," he says, haggling-pitch, eyes still up. "One, nobody wipes anything on the books — Absalom, I can hear you bleeding. Two, whatever's hanging up there comes down onto cloth, onto the flagging away from the pages, and not by cutting the web and letting it fall wherever it falls. I've priced books by how they were dropped. You can always tell." He does not say whose cloth. He does not say whose claim. It is on record twice already and he knows the value of a thing said a third time, which is less. Behind him the doorway is still clear. It is the only thing in the room keeping its promises, and he stands where he can keep his word to it back. And while his hands are busy — because busy hands can be trusted, and because nobody watches a man's face while they are watching his hands — he does the other arithmetic. Hesper numbered it. First: he is dead. Second: the thing that killed him. Five years he has waited to learn which order she did it in, and now he has his answer, and the answer is that he had it coming to him for asking. It changes nothing. He had always known it would change nothing. It is only that now he knows it in the specific instead of the general, and the specific is standing eight feet away hitting something with a kitchen-blow, and he finds he would rather she had counted. He would rather she had counted, and that is not a thought he intends to keep, so he puts it with the stones, in the ceiling. "There," he says, coming down off his toes, sling turning slow in his hand. "Marek's spider has folded and is doing its accounts. Hesper's spider has folded twice and is doing them again. Somebody finish one of them before they find new arithmetic."

Hesper Vout

The mace finds the crack this time. Shell gives. The spider goes still across the open pages, one leg still hooked in the Marrowdown spine, and she leaves it there. She does not wipe her hands. She does not pick the books up.

DM

Hesper’s mace catches the second spider squarely and crushes it into the torn pages. Its legs curl inward and stop. Across the chapel, the last spider does not flee; it crouches before Absalom with fangs raised.

Absalom Teak

Absalom does not look at Marek, or at the books, or at the thing Hesper just finished. The first spider is still on its legs, fangs up, and that is the whole of the job. He keeps the shield between it and the rest of them and puts the sword into it the same way he did the last time.

DM

Absalom’s point drives into the last spider, but the blade glances along its broken shell instead of piercing deep. The creature remains alive by a thread.

Corin Bray

The last spider is on Absalom's side of the room, so Corin doesn't move. He was never going to move — the doorway is behind him and it is the only thing in this room keeping its promises, and he stands where he can keep his word to it back. The sling turns one last revolution and goes quiet. He has been watching Absalom work the thing since the second round, the same patient shield-then-point every time, a man closing a door on a bad room, and you learn a rhythm the way you learn a watchman's rounds. On the beat he knows, the fangs come up again and the shield is a half-breath late coming down. The stone takes it under the raised fangs and puts it down on the flagging, plates settling like a dropped plate of coins, and it does not get up. "There," he says, and lets out the breath he'd been holding at haggling-pitch. "That's the pair of them. Somebody pay the sexton — we'll want the webs left standing. All of them, exactly as they are, and that is now a rule with the same standing as the one about bleeding on the books." He tips his head back at the ceiling, at the grey bales and the brass edge a spear-length past his tithe. "Nothing up there comes down by cutting. Cloth and hands, on my word. I priced a psalter once by how a man had dropped it. You can always tell." He does not move toward the books either. Marek's spider lies still across the torn pages, one leg hooked in the sprung Marrowdown spine, and Hesper has left it where her mace finished it. Third rule, said for the first time, which is when a thing is worth most: "Nobody picks up a book until it's lifted off a dead man's hand, or off a dead spider's, or however the sect does it. I don't know the rite. I never asked. It seemed rude." A beat. "Two silver, though. That part's commerce, and I'll take it in kind."

DM

Corin’s stone strikes the last spider beneath its raised fangs. The ruined shell caves in; the creature collapses and lies still. The chapel falls quiet except for breathing. Both spiders are dead.