Spiderlight

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

She worried about Penthos. Mostly it was the unleashed power and the setting things on fire, but at the moment it was more that his desire to show off could compromise their quest.

“It will be an epic journey,” Harathes said potentiously. “A worthy quest, through monsters and the servants of the Dark one, past evil forests, marshes, and jagged rocks . . .” “Mm.” Lief grimaced. “You’re not selling it to me.”

To his surprise, his mouth opened and words came out. “I like beer.” Lief’s expression lit up. “Good for you.” “I like you, too. You make beer happen.” The words came out in fits and starts, and not very clearly, and Nth was not entirely sure why he was saying them, but they were just welling up inside him without much volition. If this was a human thing, it was not something Penthos had prepared him for.

“Love, you’re not my type.” The thief shrugged. “Personally I like them domestic, pleasant natured, and not bugnuts crazy, none of which locks you have the key for.”

Lief himself said nothing, because he was thinking about all those powerful men and women of the Light sitting on their hands for decades, knowing that Darvezian was out there, and defeatable, but feeling no particular inclination to go do it, because they knew that someone else would eventually take up the slack. Which is exactly the problem with prophesies.

He stared at her, confessions boiling beneath the surface of his face, but at last he said, “Nothing,” and, “I’m going to find solace elsewhere in the fortress. Lots of solace.” He plucked a coin purse out and actually shook it at her, as though daring her to disapprove. She knew exactly what he meant, and could not find it in her to castigate him. He was not a priest, after all, and the rules for church knights were laxer. The odd foible was practically expected. What was atonement for, after all?

“Do you have any idea of how much work I put into reworking that creature?” Penthos complained. “An unparalleled work of wizardy, and you’re just, ‘We have to destroy it.’”

“He’s a knight of the church.” “He’s a prick. He’s an insufferable, scheming prick. And it’s always the same. You’re all right. You’re a priestess. That means people don’t think of you the same way. But believe me, most of us basically can’t talk to a man without him looking us over and deciding whether or not he wants to give us the shaft. And if he does then, whatever else we are, whatever else we do, it’s always there, somewhere in his mind. And if he doesn’t fancy us, then that’s a judgment too, writing us off as a thing without value. You can’t get rid of it. And either way it means you’re always a woman, first. You’re not a warrior, or an archer, or even just a friend to drink with. You’re a woman, and that means you’ve got a place, and a use.”

So the humans hated his true people, because once in a while they dined on the sweet juices of Man? What was that, compared to what they did to each other?

“Kill the Ghants,” Harathes snapped. Cyrene hesitated, though her fingers shook on the bowstring. “They’re things of Darkness and we can’t just tie them all up. They’ll bring down the rest of the tower on us, probably while we’re facing off Darvezian,” the warrior went on. “This is no time for philosophical niceties.” “They’re serving staff,” Lief pointed out. “Everything in here is evil,” Harathes stated flatly. “Even the waiters?” “What, you think only murderers and monsters can be evil? Darkness is Darkness.” “Fuck your theology,” Lief stated flatly.