There was a long time when Mareka thought that she would fail. The spider hovered, suspended across both of the apprentice’s hands. Mareka could feel the octolaris’s heartbeat, could read her indecision as if it were a visible organ. And then, when Mareka had almost given up hope, the spider moved. It pulled itself forward until it could lift the egg sac in its front legs. It turned the silken gift over and around, raising the sac to its mouthpieces as if it could smell its dead, departed sister. And then, it passed the egg sac under its body, past its two pairs of middle legs, to the very last pair.
Tears welled up in Mareka’s eyes as the spider began to extrude silk from her spinnerets. The wondrous thread emerged from the spider’s body as a clear liquid, and then it was snagged on tiny claws, immediately spun and hardened into thick, hard strands. The spider turned the egg sac rapidly, covering the entire container with her own silk. The octolaris had adopted the eggs as her own.
Mareka reveled in the touch of the spider against her hands. She grew warm at the whisper of the turning egg sac, felt weak at the stickiness of the fresh silk. Tears blinded her as the octolaris lifted the new-folded sac in her own legs, as she crouched to protect her treasure. Mareka could scarcely bear to move, to bring her hands back to the earth in the bottom of the spider box. She moaned as the spider leaped from her palms, as it crawled past its riberry branch and under its stone. Mareka sighed as the spider added the new egg sac to her old horde.
Mareka replaced the cover on the spider box.
She could control the octolaris. She could breed a new line of spiders, new producers of silk. She could make them profitable, make the guild – and herself – rich. Richer even than Jerusha promised, with her last-born prince and her stubborn, Hind-bound house of Thunderspear.
Jerusha. That scheming witch was probably lazing about the royal apartments even now, doing her best to lure her princeling to bed. Jerusha had better find herself with child by the Midwinter Convocation. A prince’s heir would be that wretch’s only way of proving her continued value to the guild.
Not that Mareka could not do the same, get herself with child.
In fact, Mareka could do better. If she’d been given half a chance with the Liantine dolt, she’d have won Olric over and commanded a bride-price paid over to the guild. Well, Olric was lost, but there were other options. Mareka could look higher than a mere prince. She could catch a king inside her web. There were stories of the power of octolaris nectar, rumors of the poison’s strength, even among strangers to the spiderguild. …
With a quick glance to make sure that all her octolaris were secure, Mareka grabbed a shawl and darted out the door. The octolaris nectar still pounded through her, but its call had softened. Now, its power whispered like well-worked muscles after a footrace, like the clear light after a summer rainstorm. Her arm-bands still bled heat through her body, and she still continued to count her pulse beneath the protective strips wrapped around her wrists. Now, though, she was certain that the touch of electric spidersilk was pleasure and not pain. She imagined a man’s lips, a king’s lips, roaming across the tight-wrapped strips. She could feel the tremble-touch of Halaravilli’s tongue as he drank from her bound flesh.
By the time Mareka had glided through the hallways, she had summoned up more images of King Halaravilli. Certainly, the king appeared meek, with his well-spoken words and his rigid courtesy. She thought of what she could teach him, though, of the lessons that she had already learned from the insistent teacher of her octolaris nectar. She could instruct him in the proper use of his long fingers, for example, in –
She pulled herself to a stop in the doorway of the visiting king’s apartments. The door was pushed almost to, as if someone had intended to close it. The wood had warped slightly with the recent rainfall, though, and it had not caught completely. Mareka glided up to the threshold and caught her breath, the better to hear the discussion within the chamber.
Two voices. One was Halaravilli’s. The tone sent a shiver down her spine, and a trace of heat spun out from the web inside her. O, what riches she could bring back to her guild!
The other voice belonged to the merchant wench, to Rani Trader. Both the king and his subject were angry; their voices were raised. The nectar still sharpened Mareka’s hearing; she could make out clear words where others might have gathered only the tone of an argument.
“I won’t hear of it,” Halaravilli said.
“You have nothing to say about it! Don’t you understand? I can learn from them. I can gain the knowledge I need to rebuild the glasswrights’ guild. I can rise to journeyman! That’s more important now, my lord. More important, if you are to find a fortune for the Fellowship.”
Fellowship? Mareka did not know what Rani Trader meant.
“Rani, I need you here. You can’t go riding off with a troop of itinerant actors, like a drunken pilgrim on holiday!”
The girl’s voice dropped when she replied. Mareka stepped closer, but even then the words were almost too obscure for the nectar to capture. “My lord, when you asked me to come to Liantine, I pledged my help you. I pledged that I would find a strategy to argue for your bride if you deemed Berylina the woman you would marry. But you yourself have said that King Teheboth will not meet with me. You need my skill, but not my presence.”
“So you would leave me here, alone?”
“You’re not alone, Sire! You have Lord Farsobalinti; you’ve got Mair.”
“If you go, you’re taking Mair.” The king’s words were so quick that they fell over the merchant’s.
When Rani Trader spoke again, there was the faintest smile behind her words. “My lord? You’ve thought about this, then?”
There was only the faintest uplift to her question, only the shadow of inquiry, and Mareka did not need her octolaris-enhanced senses to tell her that Rani Trader had won. The merchant girl would travel with the players.
“I’ve thought enough to know that I won’t have you wandering alone, across all Liantine.”
“Mair would be a welcome companion, Sire.”
“A welcome companion.” Halaravilli snorted, and Mareka imagined the look of exasperation that framed his words. “She would find more trouble for you than you could find on your own.”
“Aye,” the merchant girl agreed. “She will, my lord.”
“And take Crestman, too. He’ll keep you safe.”
“If he wishes to journey with us, he may. He might learn more of the Little Army, away from Liantine.”
“You’ll write to me, Rani. Every day. I must know that no harm has come to you. And if I need you. …”
“If you summon me, I’ll return, on the fastest horse that I can find.” She paused, then said. “This is best, my lord. What else am I to do here? You have gained the princess’s trust; you said yourself that she shared her secret drawings.”
“But how am I to make my bid?”
“Directly. With pride and honor. To her father, alone, so that no man may shame him into protecting his fortune.”
“He does not consider Berylina a fortune.”
“Then use that, my lord. Act as if you do not care. Act as if you are ready to return overseas, to journey back to Morenia.”
“And if I act too well? If he tells me to be gone?”
“He won’t do that. Teheboth wishes to see the princess out of Liantine. Make him pay the price.”
“I will not treat her as damaged goods.”
“Nay, my lord. She is not damaged. She is not. You are not. None of us is.”
There was a pause, a long painful pause, and Mareka wondered what the two were doing, where they were looking, what silent things they said to one another. Then, the merchant spoke again, her voice so soft that Mareka pressed her ear against the door. “You must stand firm as you bargain. Make Teheboth Thunderspear pay. Make him raise the dowry so that he can be rid of the goods he does not value.”
The king swallowed audibly. “Rani, you know I need the gold. I have no choice –”
>
“And neither do I, my lord.” A brief pause. “Neither do I.”
Mareka could not decipher the rustling she heard. Certainly there was silk moving, as if an arm were raised. But whether Rani Trader touched her king, or the king touched his vassal, Mareka could not have said. Rather, she caught a half-swallowed sob, and then footsteps swept across the floor. Mareka scarcely had time to spring back before Rani Trader flung open the door.
“Oh!” the woman cried, as she stepped awkwardly to one side. With Mareka’s silver nectar-sight, she glimpsed tears welling up in the merchant’s eyes, saw the tight lines that were etched beside her mouth as she struggled to hold back surprised words.
“My lady.” Mareka dropped a quick curtsey as the other woman fled down the hall, not bothering to look behind her.
Mareka rose up to her full height, taking care to frame herself in the doorway. She pushed her hair behind her ears, preternaturally aware of the motion. She saw confusion flit across Halaravilli’s face, measured the time it took for him to recognize her. “My lord,” she said, curtseying again.
“My lady,” he replied automatically. It took him longer, though, to remember his manners. “I’m sorry. Will you enter? I – I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Of course you weren’t, my lord,” Mareka said, gliding over the threshold. She felt the aura of octolaris nectar follow her into the room, spreading like a cloud of incense. The king stared past her, and she could read his transparent desire to follow after the merchant.
Mareka turned back to the door, taking the time to close it carefully. It took an effort to push the oak entirely square within its frame, but she was able to lower the iron latch without making the maneuver seem forced. “My lord!” she exclaimed, turning back to the king. “You look pale! May I pour you a glass of wine?”
“Nay, my lady, don’t trouble yourself.” He refused to meet her eyes, did not see her smile as she crossed the room. She twitched her skirts as she moved, feeling the nectar against her flesh, sensing it spread.
“It’s no trouble, my lord. Certainly no trouble at all.” She crossed to the low table smoothly, relishing the nectar-thrum as her gown slid across her thighs. She could smell the greenwine in its pitcher before she poured it into a waiting golden goblet. Some splashed onto her hand and, with her back turned toward Halaravilli, she raised the pale drop to her lips. Its complicated sharpness swept across her tongue, and she caught her breath. When she could speak, she turned and proffered him the cup. “Please, my lord.”
She made him walk to her. She made him step away from the place where he had argued with his merchant girl. She raised the cup between them and managed a smile, even as his fingers brushed across her own. She imagined the nectar as a clinging pollen, drifting from her hands to his.
“Thank you, my lady,” he said, and his swallows were audible in the room, would have been loud even without her sharpened hearing. When he had drained half the goblet, he dared to meet her eyes. “So, my lady. It seems that you are not the princess I thought you were when first we met.”
“Nay, my lord,” she started to laugh, but decided only to smile instead. “Not a princess at all.”
“You deliberately misled me.”
“At first, I did not realize you were confused, and then I was afraid that you would be embarrassed. I did not want your arrival in Liantine to be hard. I tried to explain things to your … companions, as soon as I was able.” A flicker of emotion pulled across his face as she alluded to Rani Trader. Whatever the bond that stretched between the king and the merchant, it was tight. Painful. “I hope that you can forgive me, my lord.”
He sighed. “I had been told what to expect in the princess. I merely –” He shook his head. “I merely wanted her to be otherwise. It’s no secret, Lady Mareka. I am a king, and my destiny is to wed to better my crown. My obligation is to serve all of Morenia, and Princess Berylina is the best way I can do that.”
“Is she?” Mareka felt the nectar-thrill as Halaravilli’s eyes shot to her own. Words thrummed up from her belly, promises to draw the king closer. “There are greater riches in the world than a Liantine princess can bring.”
She sifted her fingers through her hair, breathing out slowly. Unbidden, she thought of the octolaris males, drawn to their females when the spiders were ready to lay their eggs. She remembered starlit nights when females wove their mating webs, spinning their sturdiest silk to support themselves and their lovers and their precious globes of eggs. Mareka had watched the spiders; she knew their ways, even though she had never known a man herself. She whispered, “You think you must have Berylina if you will save your kingdom?”
“I must have gold,” he breathed, and she felt his words like the touch of his palms.
“Then why waste your time with a princess, my lord? If you want gold, why not trade with the spiderguild? We have gold, my lord. We have all you need.”
He did touch her, then. He reached out a hand that trembled, a hand that was rough with urgency. He pulled her closer to him, curving his fingers behind her neck, turning her face to his. She felt the whisper of his breath, and she heard a cry grow and die in the back of his throat. His lips crushed hers, and she drank the greenwine from his mouth, tasted the sweet desperation of a man who needed to save his kingdom, needed to save himself. Her embroidered arm-bands blazed hot as she closed her eyes and fed King Halaravilli’s passion.
Chapter 10
Rani watched as Mair tugged at the tunic she had borrowed from one of the young players, an itinerant entertainer who had only arrived that morning for the Spring Meet. The Touched girl looked as if she were back in the Moren of her youth, leading her troop of ragged children, exploiting the riches of a city that knew boundless wealth. Rani swallowed a bitter taste as she realized once again that the familiar Moren was lost forever.
Mair, however, was not dwelling on fire or disease or the dangerous plight of Touched children. Instead, she was boasting to the players. “I can easily handle three – it’s all in the timing of your entrance.”
To prove her point, she backed away, taking five grand steps. “Now. Start turning the ropes. Slowly.”
Two of the players held a rope between them, a measure of worsted spidersilk as thick as Rani’s thumb. They began to turn the length, and the rope slapped the ground rhythmically, setting up a beat as steady as a drum. Mair nodded and pointed to two more players. “Now, you join them. Stand beside them. Turn now. Now.”
As Rani watched, a second length of spidersilk joined the first, also spinning, also striking the ground. There seemed to be more than two ropes at play, more interference in the clear morning air.
“There you go,” Mair called. “One more now. Stand next to the others. Start after the next turn, now.” Three silken ropes, all turning evenly. Mair watched them, bobbing her head slightly as she traced their arcs. “Keep them steady, now. Keep them turning at the same speed. Don’t slow down when you see me move – I’ll adjust for the ropes. On three, then. One. Two. Three.”
The Touched girl ran between the spidersilk, timing her entrance perfectly. She paused as one rope slapped the ground, then leaped just high enough to let it clear beneath her feet. Again, again, and the players kept twirling. When Mair had bobbed up a dozen times, she skipped free of the ropes, emerging on the near side while the steady rhythm continued.
“Don’t stop,” she called. “You can run clear through them, too. Tumble between them.” To illustrate her point, she paused to count the rhythm, nodding her head once again. “There. On three. One. Two. Three.”
Mair sprang at the ropes as if they did not exist, tucking her head and rolling forward, only to land – miraculously – upon both feet. The players let out a shout of collective surprise, and Mair took a mock bow. “All it takes is timing,” she grinned, moving to take the end of one of the ropes so that a player could try her tricks.
“Timing and a foolish faith in others,” Crestman growled, and Rani jumped, for she had not heard t
he Amanthian approach.
“Not so foolish,” she said, recovering quickly. “If it works, she looks as nimble as a cat. If it fails, she gets slapped by a rope.”
“Or falls on her backside. Hard.” Crestman winced as a player tumbled down. The young man picked himself up immediately, calling for his companions to give him one more try.
“No great harm done,” Rani said.
Crestman scowled. “No great good, either. These players waste their time with children’s games.”
“Do you honestly believe that? You’re not paying attention, then. The players work harder than many other folk I’ve seen.” She read the skepticism in his eyes. “They do! The spiderguild is no easy master. These players pay for their patronage – they deliver stories to the guild, stories of the world and all its workings. The players know more about the world around them than any single merchant, any single guild.”
“And I’m certain they have shared this great wisdom with you.”
“Some of it, they have.” Rani doused her hot retort with the recollection of Speaking. She felt the smooth flow of blue glass like a physical thing; it seemed that she could reach for it just beneath the surface of her thoughts. “Some. And they’ve promised more – knowledge about their glasswork.”
“Then will they answer my questions? Will they share stories of the Little Army?”
Rani shrugged. “You can’t know until you ask them. Go ahead. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then come. Let us find Flarissa.”
Rani led Crestman through the players’ camp. It had taken her scarcely a day to learn her way about the hamlet, around the core of wooden buildings that formed the center of the itinerant players’ village. The buildings were simple, sturdy, designed so that they could withstand neglect for the times that the players traveled across Liantine. Flarissa lived in one of the few central buildings, well inside the ever-changing boundaries of tents and wagons. She was regarded as a great leader among the players; she had gathered more stories, Spoken with more visitors than any other member of the troop. She was honored by a hut built with wooden walls, a thatched roof, and one clear glass window.
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