The luster of brass makes the creature shine. Five of its eight legs are braced against the ground. One uses an auxiliary pincer to lift up the corner of a striped awning to examine what lies beneath. One has unfolded into a pair of blades, ready to strike anyone who comes too close. I can’t see the last leg, because it is cut off from my sight by the spider’s carapace head and sleek abdomen.
Puffs of sorcerous mist rise from the metal belly. The tilted carapace shelters a soldier, his back protected by the shell and his front by boiled leather armor. By the way the body is swiveling from one side to the other, the spider scout is searching for a dangerous criminal or a traitorous spy. People scurry out of the way like vermin trying to escape the sweeping broom of a vigilant housekeeper.
I take another slow step back, hoping the scout will not notice me.
A screaming woman shakes off a pair of men trying to hold her back and runs under the spider. Two of its legs move, shifting its carapace to a new angle. I can now see the eighth leg. Horribly its splayed foot has crushed the hips and legs of a child. The tiny head lolls peacefully, a chubby hand tucked under the chin as if the child were merely asleep instead of dead.
Several people race out and drag the woman away as she fights to stay.
Suddenly the pincer leg rips free of the striped awning and points right at the stall where I’m standing. With a curse, the burly man shoves the youth into the back room.
When the spider moves it eats up the ground. I barely have time to suck in a shocked breath when a leg slams down so close that air shudders in front of my face. With a shout of fear I skip back. Its pincers tear apart the canvas and pinion the youth like a fish caught by a sea eagle. As easily as I would pick up one of Amaya’s old dolls, it lifts him. He kicks once, then gives up. Tears stain the burly man’s face, but he makes no protest.
My gut is clenched, and my face feels numb, but I have to get out of here. I don’t owe them anything and I can’t afford to get caught. Falling in among other people I hurry up the lane in the direction in which Amaya went. I pray to all the gods that she has already reached the promenade. But before I get to the stairs, soldiers in boiled leather armor march out to block our way.
I am trapped between the spider scout and the infantrymen on foot.
The soldiers push forward from both ends of the lane.
They are rounding up all of us who look like Commoners.
9
Always scout your ground. That is one of the first lessons the woman who trains me teaches her fledglings. It’s also what my father says about impending battle.
When I was waiting for Amaya at the mask stall I noted that there were two alleys on the right and one on the immediate left. The one on the left runs alongside a two-story building with a narrow balcony. I shove through the milling people and bolt into this alley. Jumping, I catch the rim of the balcony. But when I try to swing a leg up to hook over the railing, the sheath skirt of my linen gown won’t let me kick, much less climb. I drop back down and frantically tug up the cloth just as two Patron soldiers run into the alley. A burst of fear and determination gives me a rush of energy. I leap, catch, and swing myself over.
One soldier levels his crossbow at me as I pry at the closed shutters but they won’t open. The other kicks down the door and stomps inside as the inhabitants cry out in fear. A crossbow bolt thunks into a shutter a handbreadth from my shoulder.
“The next one will be in your head,” calls the soldier.
A shutter slams open, and I grab it because it will give me enough leverage to clamber up onto the roof and get away. Then I see the other soldier inside. He holds a spear in one hand and a baby in the other.
“Please, Domon, don’t hurt my child,” gasps an Efean man who is trembling in the shadows.
In the distance the woman is still wailing over her dead child. I let the soldier take me into custody. He seems to take pleasure in repeatedly jabbing me in the ribs with the spear as the two men escort me back to the lane. Desperately trying to come up with any kind of a plan I stumble into the clot of huddled prisoners. The woman who makes the butterfly masks steadies me reflexively, then recognizes me and pushes away with a curse as if I am the evil shadow whose whispers bring misfortune. People examine me with so much hostility that I tense.
A second spider scout stamps up, crested with a captain’s horns. Soldiers shove Coriander’s brother forward. His arms are already trussed up behind his back, and his face is dirty, like they deliberately and maliciously rubbed it in the dirt. His nose is bleeding, and for an instant I feel sorry for him.
“That’s him.” The captain surveys the shattered stalls and frightened craftspeople. “These people must have known who he is! Arrest them all for harboring a fugitive!”
