Spinner of Lies

was on a first-name basis with the queen herself. Well, almost.

A small port protruded from one sheer side of the isle, supported by dark pillars. A single extended pier was heavy with shadow. No activity stirred the port. A half-scuttled ship listed to one side of the pier.

“Lay anchor!” commanded the captain. The dull clunk of running sea chain chipped the air.

“What, here?” said Arathane. “We’re still a half mile off.”

“You think I’m daft enough to risk this ship by putting into a port that’s already eaten at least two other expeditions? This ain’t my first ship, Your Royal Highness. I lost the first, and it made me careful. I don’t want to be out the coin to build Green Siren III. We’ll send you over in a skiff, and remain safely anchored here. Or maybe even farther back, now that you got me thinking about it.” The captain walked down the deck and called for his crew to make the skiff ready.

“Is the queen coming with us over to the island?” Jaul whispered to Chant and Riltana.

Chant frowned. Us? He didn’t want his son going over to the island for the same reason the captain didn’t want to tie up there. But he bit back that sentiment. Voicing it would only anger the touchy young man.

“Looks like it,” Riltana said. “And her two bodyguards.”

Right. The two genasi who’d accompanied the queen were elite peacemakers, though they wore unadorned leather instead of their usual elaborately detailed armor hung with medals and stamped with the Akanul’s royal coat of arms. Their strength combined with the queen’s power, not to mention the talents of Demascus, Riltana, and himself, weren’t inconsequential. And Jaul was probably passing fair with his daggers, if push came to shove.

A ringing clang drew their eyes to starboard. The skiff bumped over the deck railing and dropped into the swell. “Easy, you motherless biters!” yelled Thoster to his crew. The landing party clambered down the rope ladder one at a time and settled into the skiff. Then it pulled away from the slowly bobbing Green Siren.

Thoster waved from the deck, hat in his hands to form a flopping semaphore flag. “Good luck! You’ve got three days before I write you all off as shark bait!”

Spray from the sweeping oars chilled Chant’s face. The tang of sea salt and iodine burned his nose.

The skiff approached the pier. No one spoke; everyone’s attention was riveted on the shore. The pawnbroker squinted. The dimness seemed even thicker now, almost like something tangible.

“Something’s not right about those shadows,” he said.

“They’re not shadows,” Demascus said. “They’re spiderwebs.”

The rowers ceased their efforts.

“Son of a piss-pickled leech,” said Riltana.

“Can anybody see the spiders that wove them?” Arathane asked.

Demascus shook his head. “But I bet that’s what closed down the port. A swarm of crawlers unleashed by our drow adversary, Chenraya.”

“I’ve always said you were a canny fellow,” said Riltana. “Certainly none of us could have come up with such an astounding conclusion.”

Chant couldn’t help chuckling as some of the tension on the boat dissipated. But not all-whatever had spun all those webs was either very large or made up of way too many individual spinners.

“My point, dear Riltana,” said Demascus with a hint of a smile, “is that we’ve already gathered valuable intelligence for Akanul. Have you ever heard of dragonborn using webbing as weapons? Tymanther is the least likely culprit here. The Four Stewards are on the wrong track.”

“Keep rowing,” commanded the queen. “We need to make certain. If it turns out Tymanther is secretly allied with these drow, I’d willingly give up my crown if I came so close to the truth and then turned away.” They closed the remaining distance. The two genasi crew tied up the skiff midway along the pier. The webs obscuring the long jetty lay like drifted, translucent snow. Demascus disembarked first, followed by the queen’s peacemakers.

“No immediate danger, your Highness,” said one. “Come on up.”

Chant watched Demascus to see if he agreed. The deva was studying the pier and the port structures beyond it. His silence apparently meant he agreed with the bodyguard’s assessment.

The pawnbroker pulled himself up the gritty rungs. Only the two rowers stayed in the skiff-they’d already opened a chest filled with biscuits and a bag of wine.

Chant contemplated their repast. “You fellows should probably untie and push off a dozen yards. Something could come nosing through the webs while we’re gone. Spiders big enough to spin this much web probably couldn’t swim out to you.”

The rowers traded glances, then moved to untie the mooring lines.

Demascus took point as their landing party trooped down the pier, wending between mounds of webbing. The structures around the port were carved into the bare rock of the isle. All the windows and doors were clogged with gray strands like sickly scabs, except for one cavity on the side of the largest structure. The opening was wide enough to fit four or five carriages simultaneously, despite the sides being coated in webbing.

“That’s the main depot,” said Queen Arathane. “Obviously the webs are new since I was here two years ago.”

“Yeah, we figured,” murmured Riltana.

“It reminds me of the Demonweb,” Jaul said.

Chant agreed. The weave of gray strands masked the original shape of the mine depot entrance, giving it the semblance of an open mouth. They moved closer.

Daylight filtered into the wider space inside. Smashed crates and overturned ore carts lay in abandoned heaps on the floor. Dozens of cocoons hung from web lines suspended from the ceiling.

Jaul gasped. Chant saw it at the same time-a hand protruded from one cocoon, and a desiccated earthsoul face peered out from another, its eyes fixed in an eternal stare by sticky strands. Chant drew his crossbow without conscious thought. But the sensation of hundreds of tiny spiders running up his spine didn’t abate.

“The miners,” said Arathane. “Cut them down!”

The peacemakers entered the structure.

“Careful!” said Demascus. “We’re probably being watched.” His eyes glittered. He casually spun his swords as he studied the corners of the room. Chant took a half step back in case one of rune blades got away from the deva.

“I don’t see anyone,” countered Riltana, though she’d adopted a slinking, catlike posture, ready to bolt. Chant didn’t blame her. He wished he was back in the skiff sharing biscuits. But he didn’t want to appear scared in front of his son. A stupid reaction, he knew, but there it was.

Arathane’s bodyguards cut down several web masses without drawing any response from hidden observers. Chant realized he was clenching his teeth. He opened and closed his mouth several times, massaging his jaw.

“Should we help?” asked Jaul.

“Yeah. Let’s see if we can do anything for these folks,” said Chant. He squatted down next to one of the cocoons. He set aside his crossbow and swallowed. He really, really didn’t want to touch it but … Jaul passed him one of his red knives, and Chant cut at the webbing. The body proved to be … far past saving. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, only that the body had been sucked dry as a mummy’s husk. A faint smell, like lavender and musk, curled up from the corpse. Chant’s stomach heaved. He stood up suddenly and turned away.

“Nope,” said Jaul, taking his knife back. “No helping him.” The young man scratched his chin and looked around at the other cocoons.

The pawnbroker frowned at his son’s lack of reaction. It was a body-they were surrounded by dead people- killed by some kind of web-spinning horror. Didn’t he understand the same thing could happen to them?

“We need to see what’s down in the mine,” Demascus said. He looked at Arathane. She nodded.

Oh great, thought Chant. Wasn’t this evidence enough that hurling an army at Tymanther’s capital of Djerad Thymar would be exactly the wrong move?

“I’m guessing freakishly large spiders,” Riltana said. “Fist! I hate spiders!”

Arathane directed one peacemaker to finish cutting down the corpses. The remaining bodyguard took up position a pace behind the queen.

“Which one should we try first?” said Riltana. She pointed to three distinct mine heads poking up from the depot floor. Each was an elevator shaft terminus and was surmounted by a big iron wheel around which wound slender but presumably strong cord. Chant imagined each cord was attached to a platform that could be raised or