Spider And The Hound - Part II

Part II

In the Cart Wheel, patrons had been surprised when Aislin Kay had run in, demanded a tankard of ale, and downed half of it before even sitting down. When she did come to rest, she sunk her head down onto her crossed arms and exhaled, sounding exhausted.

"A little bird tells me ye had a visitor in ye shop." Ales mentioned casually.

Aislin laughed a little hysterically.

"Casting is the hound." She muttered.

"Ain't like ye t'be drinking. Ye alright?"

"Shaken. I'd be better if my mouth didn't run in front of my head."

"Ain't like ye t'be gobby, either."

"Ain't like me to talk to the Bloodhound. Must have been nerves. Gods, I feel like I've run a race. I think I'm shaking."

"What'd ye talk about?"

"Nothing much. Baking. How I got the shop." She took another mouthful of ale. "He wants me to talk to him later."

"Right? Like... talk? Anything ye want me t'say at yer funeral?"

"Cheers, Robern."

"Well. Make summat up. Tell him he needs to stop and smell the flowers, kiss a baby, learn t'dance. Summat."

"Make something up? He can follow silence and track bloody ghosts, you think he won't spot a lie when it's shoved down his throat? No, I'll have to do it properly. But he won't be happy."

"Any use me asking what it is ye'll talk to him about?"

"None whatsoever. He might be the Hound, but he's still a man. I don't tell anyone what I said to you said, do I?"

"Guess not. Well, yer screwed, right enough."

"Right enough."

"I've got it." Ales straightened, stared off into the middle distance. "'Ere lies the baker of Altran, the lovely Aislin Kay, who died pulling a hound's tail." He grinned. "How 'bout a kiss before ye go?"

"A kiss? Robern, if I kissed you, the Hound wouldn't get his kill. Your wife would see to that." Downing the rest of the ale, Aislin stood. "I'd better get back. While I'm yapping to you, I'm losing customers."

"Let us know if yer still alive come morning."

The patrons who had watched Aislin run in watched her walk out, then returned to their talk.

"I heard the King lent him to the King of Ledoth, and he took on a whole army single handed."

"I heard that he showed up in Council one day, and sat in total silence in the corner. At the end of the session, the Councillors took a vote, and the only man what didn't vote the way the Hound wanted wound up fallin' outta bed that night and banging his head so hard he never woke up. His wife said there weren't no one else there, like the Hound got him without setting foot in the room."

"I ever tell you about my mate Shertain? Squad sergeant back when I was in the army." All eyes focused on the new speaker. Some had heard the story before, but it had more meaning now.

"We were out at the barracks in Katlun when the Hound shows up out of the blue and has a long chat with our captain. Says there's a band of traitors and rebels camped somewhere out in the forest, and he wanted a few men to go with him, track them down, and round them up. My mate Shert was picked, and three others, and off they went.

Now, Shert said after about a mile, one of the men started to get a bit restless. Kept looking around, staring at the ground, looking right suspicious. So Shert sides up to him and asks what's wrong. "We ain't following any tracks." The man says, quiet-like. "I've been looking for tracks, but there ain't any. How do we know where we're going, if we ain't following tracks?"

The Hound stops. Don't think the man meant to be heard, but you can't step near the Hound without him knowing what you had for breakfast, let alone speak and not be heard. "You can't see the track?" The Hound asks. "And you think I'm leading you astray. In that case, there's an easier track around to the west, if you've a mind to make your own way."

"'Scuse me for asking, sir," The man says, "But if it's easier, why ain't we following that one?"

The man's audience inhaled sharply, keenly sensing the idiocy of the man.

"Now, Shert near clobbered him round the head for that. Talking back to a superior officer was a bad enough crime, but talking back to the Hound... Well, the Hound took it well enough, Shert thought. "That is the track they left when they moved into the area." He said softly. "It is the track that they know they left, and the one they will be watching. Now would you care to follow it?"

"I guess the man knew he was in too deep, 'cos he snapped to attention faster than anyone'd seen him move in his life. "Sir, no sir!" He reeled. The Hound looked him up and down, then nodded. "Now fall back in and keep your opinions to yourself, soldier."

"Shert was feeling a bit anxious now, understandably, so when the Hound told them to hold tight and wait, he didn't hesitate. He said the Hound disappeared for a bit - not long - and when he came back he told them to dismount and lead their horses forwards. Not far ahead, there were two dead watchmen. And the thing Shert couldn't figure out, though he never asked, was how one man, even the Hound, could've killed two men standing that far apart without either one of them raising the alarm. When he checked later, both had their necks snapped. I'm sure it's not possible, but that's what must've happened.

"Anywise, they got right up to the camp, and saw a score of men and a handful of horses, none of them looking like they'd put up much of a fight. But still, they outnumbered Shert's group four to one. He thought the Hound'd get them to rush in all to once, but instead he made them take their crossbows and spread out around the camp, one man to a side. Shert was feeling even less happy at that, but he could hardly question orders, so he and his men went where they were told. Then the Hound walks out into the camp, bold as brass, with nothing but his shirt sleeves to stop the arrows they could've shot at him. He calls out the man in charge, tells him to lay down their weapons in the name of the King. Wouldn't've had the balls for it myself, and Shert neither, but the Hound didn't blink at it. The rebel, he starts feeling pretty confident, starts thinking maybe he can be the one to bring down the Hound, and he stops thinking with his head. Half a dozen men pull out bows and arrows on his order, and he sends two men to tie the Hound's hands."

In the tap room, the listeners tensed.

"Guess he thought the Hound wouldn't try anything, with six arrows trained on him. But when the two men get close enough, there's a blur of movement, and the next thing Shert sees, one man is lying dead on the ground, and the other... well, the Hound's only holding him as a shield, letting him take the arrows 'stead of him. Then two of the bowmen sprout knives in their necks, and they drop without making a sound.

"Tell your men to drop their weapons." He says again. The head rebel ain't looking too confident anymore, with four of his men dead, but he ain't going to let them all hang, so he shouts for them to scatter. Sixteen men, running in all directions. Shert and his men put crossbow bolts in four of the rebels, and the rest stop running. They think they're surrounded by a bloody army, and they've lost nearly half their men in a heartbeat. So the headman, he finally calls surrender."

The storyteller stopped briefly to wet his throat, and in the silence one of the listeners chipped in.

"Brought to heel by one man and a couple of crossbows."

"That ain't where it ends." The storyteller picked up. "Once the rebels realised there were only the five of them, they got pretty pissed, as you can imagine. But it was too late - they'd all put up arms and were tied hand and foot. The Hound was standing quiet while Shert and his boys worked, but once they were all secure, he steps forward and starts asking questions. Where had they come from? What had they done? What were they planning? Shert said he threw his weight around a fair bit with his fists, but it wasn't what he expected from the Hound. Hardly any blood, no bladder-squeezing terror. Finally, he turned to Shert and asked if there would be any problem with him and his men getting the group back to town without him. Shert said it'd be fine, and started standing the prisoners up, but before he started leading them away, the Hound took his knife and cut through the ropes of one of the prisoners - a boy barely old enough to be called a man, smooth-chinned and terrified.

"Off you go." He told the boy. Credit to him, the boy knew it wasn't his freedom being handed out. He was looking about, like he'd see the catch. "Go on, boy." The Hound repeated, real quiet and gentle. "It's not a deterrent unless word spreads. Go tell your friends what I'll do to them when I catch them up."

"Well, the boy lit out of there damn quick, and the Hound didn't chase. So Shert led the rest back to town, just him and his men, and thought that was the end of it. But a couple of days later, he gets on duty to find someone's left three men outside the guard house, each all tied up round the others, and with a bag full of ears."

"Ears!" A disgusted mutter filled the tap room.

"He found out a while later that the camp he'd help take out was just one branch, and the Hound'd tracked the boy back to the main group. The boy was one of the three tied up - the other two were the leaders. The ears belonged to the rest of the men. There were bits of twenty three people in that bag, and the Hound had killed them all."

Awed silence greeted the end of the story.

"He must've had help." Someone said eventually. "Twenty three people... Ye couldn't take on twenty three people all at once. Even him. Surely."

"You just told me he took on an entire army single-handed." The storyteller reminded the man.

"Yeah, well, there's stuff ye can do with a whole lot of people that ye can't with a small group. I heard he got the army to march through a canyon, and he tumbled rocks down on 'em. Can't do that with a smaller group, 'specially not round Katlun. That's flat country."

"Well," Ales cut in. "I heard where the Hound snuck into a tavern where folk were trading stories 'bout him, and he showed 'em all what he could  really do. Only the serving girls made it out alive."

There was a concerned shuffling and general looking-around.

"Ah, yer full of crap, Ales. Ye made that up."

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. But change the bloody subject anyway, lads. It's only been a day, and I'm just about sick of all this Hound business."

Darkness fell. Loud voices and laughter spilled out of the Cart Wheel into the square, but despite the noise Aislin felt tension in the air. She wondered if everyone felt it, or if it was just her.

The problem was that the term 'later' wasn't specific. She had closed up the shop when she usually did, had done her best to brush the flour marks from her clothes, and had eaten her evening meal. Now she sat by the window, picking at a fruit bun that hadn't sold, and watching the road up to the manor.

He would make it late. That would be her punishment for keeping something from him - to sit and fret and wonder when he would appear. Whenever she caught herself fretting, she turned her face from the hill and watched the inn instead. The trailing edges of conversation distracted her, calmed her down.

But the smallest things can put a person on edge. That building - the shop, and the rooms above - had been her home for twelve years, and she knew every part of it as a part of herself. Now, a part of it made a noise it shouldn't.

As Aislin turned, a shadow stepped out from the back room and resolved into the Hound. He nodded in silent greeting.

"I didn't think there was a way in through the back." She commented, covering for her suddenly-racing heart.

"I must commend you on your hearing, mistress Kay." He ignored her. "I suppose that skill is also for the sake of your gossip."

"I know my own shop. Shall we go into the back, milord? It will be more comfortable."

She led the Hound back into the kitchen and lit a candle to relieve the darkness.

"You have something to tell me?"

"I do, if you still want to hear it?" Silence. "Then you may want to sit."

"Just talk."

Deep breath. Aislin looked up at the Hound once more, searching for what she had seen earlier. Underneath the hardness there was anger, hatred, frustration, and...

"Loss."

His stare could cut through rock. Aislin tried again.

"There was a moment in your past which set you on your path. It defines what you do, where you go, who you are. It has too much power over you, and you have to let it go."

His hand moved with no warning. Fingers on the back of her neck, thumb on her throat, pressure, pain.

"Tell me again what I have to do." His voice was calm, but his grip angry.

It was hard to breath.

"Everyone wants to... relive their youth... sooner or later. To... change something... do it differently. But all anyone can... change is what they do now."

Pressure mounted as she spoke, then was gone. The Hound stepped back.

"What do you know, and how do you know it?"

"I don't know any..."

"Don't lie to me!" A whisper away from a shout. "This is hedge-craft, isn't it? Magic."

"No, milord..."

"No?"

"It's not magic. My parents... there was a branch of the University in Kilmerrow, where I grew up, and my parents had me tested. It's not magic."

"Then someone told you." The anger was a cover. There was something underneath.

"I don't know what happened to you." Aislin tried to pull herself together. "No, milord, I don't, and you know that's the truth. All I know is what I can see in you, right here. Anger, betrayal, frustration, hatred. Disappointment and loss. Someone did something to you, and it set you on the path you walk now. And it was a long time ago. Feelings like that cause calluses, and yours aren't new." She took a breath, hoped it wasn't her last. "What happened?"

"What happened?" The words provided the glimpse Aislin needed. Under the anger, the Hound was shaken. Unnerved because he was unnerved. "You expect me to tell my life story to a stranger?"

"It's not the telling that's important, milord. It's the admitting. But perhaps I can infer some of it, help you on your way." There was a sense of power to this, the controlling of the Hound. "It was violent. Violence begets violence, and you have a strong need for vengeance. And there was a friend involved, maybe someone more than a friend. That explains the betrayal. Not all of that hatred is directed outwards, either. You did something you wish you hadn't done. Or didn't do something you felt you should have."

"Silence."

Aislin, focused on what she alone could see, barely heard him.

"People who should have helped you let you down. Someone walked free. And you weren't there to stop it."

"Be silent!" Hands on her shoulders, he threw her back into the wall. Shocked, bruised, Aislin saw her reflection in the Hound. Breathing heavily, he stared at her for a long time, then turned to drop into a chair.

"This isn't natural."

"Whoever it is you're chasing, it's not the person that got away. It never is. Every chase is the same for you, but whether you catch your man or not, it won't make any difference. The first one still got away."

Like approaching a spooked horse, voice soft, movements slow, Aislin edged forwards. Moved a chair, sat facing the Hound.

"My lord. What would you do if you caught up with him?"

There was a change in the air. Loose, lost, and drifting despair tightened into focuses purpose. The Hound's eyes were unfocused and distant and he replied.

"I would sit him down, open him up, and replace what fell out with oil-soaked rags. Let him burn from the inside."

"She burned, then, did she?"

Eyes snapped back into focus. The Hound looked at Aislin.

"She?"

"It was a woman, wasn't it? The person you lost? What was her name?"

"Tarina."

"Was she pretty?"

A nod, distant again. Remembering.

"Was she yours?"

"She was going to be. We'd arranged it. I'd spoken to her father. Every boy in the village was jealous of me."

"Was that why it happened? Jealousy?"

A frown now, still distant. The memory was turning unpleasant.

"There was a fire one evening in the hayloft. Everyone was out trying to stop it spreading, but it was too fierce. It had the whole barn by the time we reached it, and we couldn't get near. We just had to let it burn. People were counting their children as we watched it - the children loved to play in the hay. But the only person missing was Arden. I thought he was just avoiding me. He wasn't happy that I was marrying Tarina.

"When the fire eventually died, we began picking through the wreckage, seeing what could be salvaged. Part of the roof had caved in, and the beams were so thick we thought we could get some decent wood out of them. I helped to move one of them. Underneath, there was a chair on its side, knocked over and smashed by the beam, and a body tied to the fragments. The beam must have protected her from the worst of the fire. Maybe the falling beam killed her instead. Everyone started shouting, wanting to know what had happened, who had tied her up, who had started the fire. I didn't tell them what was obvious. I went to find Arden.

"He was cowered down in another barn. He didn't even try to lie. "It was an accident, Theron, I swear. I just wanted to talk to her. But the fire spread so quickly, I couldn't get her out. I'm sorry, Theron, I'm sorry." He just kept babbling."

The Hound stopped talking. Aislin risked an interruption.

"What did you do?"

"I picked him up by his collar, dragged him back to the wreckage, put him down in front of Tarina's father. That stopped all the shouting. Then two men came and took him to the guard house."

"That was it?"

"Next day I left to join the army. They put him on trial. I thought he'd hang."

"But he didn't."

"They put him to toil in the mines, three years hard labour. Because it was an accident. I found out when I took leave and went home, a year later. Judge wouldn't look at me when he told me. So I went to the mine, but they wouldn't let me in. I couldn't wait - I was being transferred to the regiment at Dore - so I made a note and went back at the end of his time. Bastard knew I was coming, though, blagged an early release. He was gone by the time I got there, and no trace to follow."

"He didn't go home?"

"He knew I'd look." Slowly, the Hound refocused on the present. "No one knows that."

"No one will hear it from me."

"What have you done to me?"

"You feel tired? Exhausted? That's a good sign. It takes a lot of effort to relive something like that, so if you're tired it means it worked."

"Talked me up, and talked me down." He laughed mirthlessly. "And what now?"

"Now?" Aislin rose carefully and filled a cup from a stone pot. "It's up to you. I've only shown you where to start. Have some tea, and get some sleep. It will be clearer in the morning."

"I've killed people for taking less liberty than you have tonight."

"Then kill me. I half expected to be dead already. Only, if you're going to do it, can we go back out to the front? This is a kitchen - it wouldn't be hygienic."

The Hound closed his eyes and drank his tea.

"Tomorrow." He decided, standing and returning his chair to the table. "I'll kill you tomorrow."

"Sleep well, milord." Aislin walked him to the door. Once he had faded into the night, she forced herself to put out the candles, climb the stairs and change for bed. Outside, the patrons of the Cart Wheel were still laughing and shouting. Inside, Aislin curled up in bed and shook herself to sleep.

"Morning Aislin."

"Good morning Victoria."

"Gods, Aislin, you look terrible. Are you sick?"

Aislin poured two cups of tea and smiled.

"Just a rough night. I didn't sleep very well."

"You're not the only one. Half the staff up at the house woke up tired this morning, and Boots said he saw Lord Bethuel pacing the halls during the night."

"And Boots was awake to see it?"

"Well quite. I don't think anyone slept well. I'd say it was our visitor, except even he seemed to be affected. Maybe there's a storm coming."

"That seems very likely."

They sipped at their tea.

"Do you know why there's only one guard on the gate this morning?" Aislin asked eventually.

"They're all out in the west quarter. You can see the lights bobbing around from the house. Lord Bethuel's orders, apparently. I asked on the way down. He seems to think whoever he's hunting is hiding in one of the deserted buildings."

"Or that's what he wants us to think."

"You think it's a ruse?"

"I don't know. But I do know that if the Hound thought in straight lines, he wouldn't be half as good at what he does."

"I suppose that's why he's the King's Bloodhound and I'm a housemaid. I wish I could think things through like he does."

"Victoria, if you're thoughts were as twisted as his, you'd screw yourself into the ground. The only reason he doesn't is because the ground doesn't want him."

"Aislin!" Victoria exclaimed. "You can't say things like that. What if he's listening?"

"You're getting paranoid. He's not listening. And even if he was, I don't think he'd be surprised. He came to talk to me yesterday - he knows what I'm like."

"You're going to get yourself into trouble."

"Don't worry about me. If my mouth gets me into trouble, it can get me out again. Have you finished your tea? Then come help me with the trays. The bread smells just about done."

They took the bread from the oven and left it to cool slightly before wrapping the loaves for the Earl. Aislin walked Victoria to the door.

"Aislin, look."

In the dim light of early morning, the figure of the Hound stood in the centre of the square, facing away from the manor, and staring in still contemplation.

"Better get back up to the house, Victoria. If nobody slept well last night, the Earl may rise early."

For reassurance, if not from actual worry, Aislin watched until Victoria was safely on the path up to the manor before stepping back inside. The Hound she ignored. He hadn't moved as Victoria had hurried through the square, and besides, whatever he was doing, he would say it was none of her concern.

As the sun rose, it became clear that the day was going to be a warm one. Before she opened her shop, Aislin took the opportunity to clean the shop window inside and out. Across the square, Robern Ales and a couple of young men were pulling extra tables out of the storehouse and setting them up outside. Slowly, the other businesses around the square began to open their shutters and unlock their doors. The tailor stuck his head outside, only to pull it back in quickly. The jeweller in the south west corner took a quick look through his window and decided not to risk stepping out to greet the day. The merchant that lived in a tall townhouse near the foot of the manor braved a walk across the square to the Cart Wheel to see whether the coaches would run that day, but the conversation was hushed, hurried, and over before it had really begun. Finishing the inside of the window, Aislin lifted the bucket of vinegar and water and stepped out into the beautiful morning.

The Hound still hadn't moved. Resolutely, Aislin turned her back on him and began to work.

A quick look over her shoulder showed Robern Ales darting quick glances at the Hound, and then at her. She frowned questioningly at him.

A hand gesture suggested he wanted her to talk to the Hound.

She waved him off.

He repeated the gesture. A nod towards the inn and a shake of a hand suggested that Ales thought the Hound was bad for business.

Aislin shrugged.

Ales made the universal sign for money, and frowned at her.

Aislin nodded at her windows, and waved the wet cloth in her hand.

Ales considered for a moment. He nudged one of the young men helping him. With a nod in her direction, he offered the young man's help in cleaning the window if she talked to the Hound.

A hand to her chest and a shrug asked what he thought she could do.

His answering, all-encompassing wave suggested that, though she had spoken to the Hound twice, she was still alive enough to be able to wash her windows, and therefore she clearly stood a better chance than anyone else.

Aislin put her hands on her hips and glared.

Ales smirked and pushed the young man forwards a few steps.

With a sigh of resignation, Aislin threw her cloth back into the water bucket, and beckoned the young man over.

"There's a drying cloth and a shammy inside the door. I don't want any streaks."

With a final glare at the innkeeper, Aislin prepared to tempt fate once more.

Like birds taking flight ahead of a predator, the streets around the west quarter filled with men, women, and children, the jobless and homeless, all scattering from the progression of the city guard. Most of them were known to the guards. Those that weren't were held for questioning. The garrison at Altran wasn't large, but the men were well trained and the captain smart. They wove a net too tight for anyone to slip through.

The captain stationed himself in a guard station near one of the entrances to the west quarter, and ran through his notes from yesterday.

The Hound had been in town for less than two days, and already half the town was convinced that their neighbour was the one he was after. A score of people had swarmed through the guard house yesterday, maybe even more, all wanting to point the finger and lay blame at someone's door. He suspected most of it was laying blame at a door other than their own, and trying to be heard before their neighbour did the same. Dutifully, the captain had written down names and suspected crimes, and had informed Lord Bethuel. Surprisingly the Hound had taken a look at the list, but had dismissed it quickly. If the criminal was truly hiding in the west quarter, then his name would never appear on a list created by mildly annoyed citizens.

Somehow, though, the captain doubted they would find anyone in their search. He may not have been in Lord Bethuel's league when it came to tracking people down, but he could see a bluff when he was part of one. So he'd make a show of it - put his men through their paces, pretend that they were close to finding their man. Maybe it would lull the Hound's true quarry into a false sense of security. Maybe, someday, his name would be part of those stories they told in the taverns. The captain of the Altran guard, helping the Hound on his hunt. The captain chuckled. Maybe.

"I will not rush myself for the sake of Master Ales' custom."

The Hound spoke before Aislin reached him. She paused.

"You had your back to us, and we didn't say anything."

"I have more senses than my eyes and ears provide."

"Well, then. I tried. And I got someone to wash  my window for me. I'll, uh, leave you to your work."

"This town seems to run on gossip." The statement halted Aislin's retreat.

"Surely every town does."

"Maybe. But I am not interested in every town. The carts come in from Turnport, Kilmerrow, Thern, they come in through the south gate, and straight down the road to here. The market square. And those that don't come to trade, they come here too. They all get told to stay at the Cart Wheel, or to buy a cake from the baker Kay. They bring word from Rane, and Dore, and the other big cities, and they visit the Earl, and they all come through this square. It's a hub of information."

"We don't get much news from the cities anymore, milord." Aislin corrected him. "They never came to Altran for Altran's sake, they came on-route to the border, but the roads to the north of us aren't as reliable as they used to be. Most of the big traders go through Thern now."

"That must have been a blow."

"It's one of the reasons the town is so small." Aislin shrugged. "We still get Ranean news, but it makes more sense when it's told by an actual Ranean. I think other people just don't understand the politics involved."

"And you keep up with the news."

"It's hard not to. People will insist on coming to my shop."

"What was in the candle you burnt last night?"

"I'm sorry, milord?"

"The candle. It was a herbal candle. What was in it?"

"Wormwood, for relaxation. Yellowcrest. Catmint."

"For hallucinations?"

"None of the herbs are strong enough to cause hallucinations, milord. They just aid the memory."

"And in the tea?"

"Sweet flag and rosemary. For energy. I always have a pot ready when I talk to someone. It has enough of a kick to help get them home."

"I could charge you with drugging an officer of the law."

"I thought you were going to kill me instead, milord."

"Are you always so insolent?"

"I'm sorry, milord. My tongue seems to run away with me when I'm scared."

"Scared?" A smile touched his face. "I thought it was healthy apprehension."

A pause, and then Aislin chuckled.

"Maybe I was being over-confident yesterday, milord."

"Tell me, mistress Kay." For the first time in the conversation, the Hound turned his sights from the south side of the square and faced Aislin. "With so much news passing through your hands, have you perhaps heard the name 'Spider'?"

"Spider? Applied to a person?" She thought. "Not as far as I remember. It's unusual enough that it should have stuck in my mind, if I had heard anything. Is he dangerous?"

"No. The Spider runs information for a dissident group, rebels intent on bringing down the King. Keep your ear to the ground for me. I want to see which way this Spider runs when I shake its web."

"And how are you going to shake the web?"

"You're an observant woman, mistress Kay. I'm sure you'll see."

Aislin nodded, and stopped prying.

"I'll let you know if I hear anything."

The morning seemed to pass slowly for the people of Altran. The sun beamed down, but it seemed as though the good weather was wasted. The tension that had filled the air, on and off, over the last couple of days returned, thick and heavy. Talk was of the guards, tracking down a dangerous fugitive in the west quarter, or of the Hound disappearing after his strange inactivity in the square. People kept their heads down and their tongues guarded, but still the gossip that fuelled the town continued, in spurts and whispers. The baker had spoken with the Hound three times. Was she working with him? Or was it just that, like all the men, he enjoyed the company of a quick-witted, complimentary, and pretty woman. Someone suggested she had annoyed him, and he was simply searching for an opportunity to do away with her, something legal and official. Or maybe, the whispers said, he spent time in the bakery because it had a good view of the Cart Wheel.

Whatever he was doing, he was doing it out of sight. Noon arrived. After the usual rush at the bakery, Aislin closed the shop for her own lunch. People passing in the square seemed to hunch over and hurry their steps, as though with the feeling of being watched. Once one person drew the connection between their uneasiness and the strange itch between their shoulder blades, everyone began to see it. When the Hound was invisible, he could be anywhere, and if he could be anywhere, then he could be watching me...

Tension mounted. The Cart Wheel drew a large lunchtime crowd, and the men took their time over their pints, worried about setting foot outside again. The first bell of the afternoon rang, and was ignored. The bakery was late opening again. The sight of the closed door and shutters put people on edge even more. The tailor, two doors down from the bakery, had already given up for the day, and had closed his doors against new customers. Even in the silence, there was a suggestion of whispering. The town was waiting, worried, about to burst.

Then there came news that the Hound had been spotted. One of the guards, fresh from finishing in the west quarter, had seen him running towards the west gate. It was a leisurely run - he wasn't chasing anyone, merely moving quickly. He left through the gate, and disappeared into the pastureland beyond.

The town seemed to relax. The hunt was almost over.

Across town, a bell was chiming the first hour after noon. The Hound felt the peels to be a call to arms, and rose from his vantage point. The waiting was over. His quarry was spooked, about to be put up. Time for the chase.

This quarry was tricky. He had chased rumour and hearsay halfway across the kingdom with no success - if the rumours had been true, they were too old to be helpful, and half the hearsay came from old men with too much to drink and too little to do. After a while, he had changed tack, returned to what he did best. Following a trail.

The Spider may have been all but invisible, lurking at the edge of a great web that stretched full across the kingdom, but the trafficked information wasn't. A band of rebels in the west heard about a shipment of weapons just in time to intercept the carts. A last minute raid on a southern Barony prevented the delivery of a considerable sum of back taxes bound for Rane. A hastily assembled group of boys were found setting traps for the passing of the King's heralds to the east of Dore. He had spoken to those boys personally, and while they didn't know who discovered the path the heralds were to take, they knew the information had only just reached them.

The flow of information was a difficult thing to track. Most hunters never tried, and many didn't even realise it was an option. They only saw the people carrying the information. But these rebels were organised, co-ordinated. People were never the same each time, faces were hidden, voices disguised. The only reliable track was the one made by the messages they carried.

Fast was better than slow. With patience and care, the Hound went back to the cases where the crimes had been hurried and the information fresh. He travelled the breadth of the kingdom, talked to countless people, and poured over maps. He felt the flow of knowledge following the same routes, rushing from source to destination, desperate to arrive in time to be of some use. And fast was better than slow. Fast meant mistakes.

In the end, he had found himself with three northern towns - Turnport, Kilmerrow, and Altran. One of them sheltered the Spider.

In the dying echoes of the bell, the Hound vaulted a wall, climbed an outbuilding, and jimmied open an upper floor window. Slipping into the quiet room, he made his way silently to the stairs.

The building was deserted. It wasn't a surprise - there had been no sign of an escape at ground level, but his quarry was clever. There would be another way out. He hardly had to look for the trapdoor hidden beneath a scrap of rug and years of disuse. The disturbance on the floorboards around it showed it had been opened recently. There was his track.

The hatch opened onto darkness. The faintest hint of fresh air reached him. As he dropped into the hole, a rustle of parchment made him pause.

It was underfoot, a letter left on the floor of the tunnel. Taking advantage of the light from the shop, the Hound unfolded and read.

Dear Theron Bethuel,

I believe I promised to inform you if any information came to my attention concerning the Spider. I've always been a woman of my word, so I hereby let you know that the Spider is leaving Altran. I believe she will be leaving town via the south gate.

I wanted to remind you of an interesting fact about webs. They are designed to be shaken, and once a web has served its purpose, the spider simply destroys it and builds a new one. So please don't consider my web irretrievably broken, my lord. If that is your aim - and I have no doubt that it is - you will have to catch me first.

On that note, I bid you goodbye for the present. Just between ourselves, I've enjoyed talking with you. In other circumstances, I would have liked to get to know you better. I'm certain, however, that we will meet again, sooner or later. In the meantime, I hope you're prepared for a run. I intend to lead you on such a chase, the minstrels will write songs about it.

Until anon, my lord.

Aislin Kay

 The Hound smiled, tucked the letter into his shirt, and set off into the tunnel.

It was a long-standing plan of escape. In idle hours, Aislin had considered variables and difficulties, rehearsed routes and excuses, until she felt ready for almost anything. Now, she got to find out if it was worth it.

A cake tin got her through the south gate. "A delivery to Purnen's farm, corporal. I know, it's a pain having to take it myself, but my girl's taking time off. Her mother's sick. Well, if it were anyone else, I would get them to collect it themselves, but you know Purnen. He's too tight to send one of his boys, and besides, I'm trying to butter him up. Yes, his brother is looking to marry again. I wouldn't want to say, but a girl can't take care of herself forever, can she. That's very kind of you, corporal. If Purnen turns me down, I'll remember that. Thank you very much, corporal. Have a nice day."

The road she took lead to Purnen's farm, but just out of sight of the gate was a turning, taking her to a different building. There lived Gangerson, the horse breeder.

A different story was needed here. "Afternoon, Gangerson. I've got a bit of an emergency. Well, bad news I think, but I won't know until I get to Thern, and I need to be there by tonight. The Hound has Altran shut up tight - the coaches aren't running. So I need to buy a horse and tack."

Ten minutes later, with an accompaniment of goodwill, Aislin was riding east.

The guards on the south gate remembered mistress Kay leaving town. There was no time to reprimand them just then. Following his gut as much as the tracks in front of him, the Hound set off south.

Conveniently out of sight of the town wall, the road branched to the east. The tracks followed, and so did the Hound. At the stables, he spoke briefly with a man who seemed unbelieving that Aislin Kay was on the run. As the Hound  appropriated a horse for his chase, the stable master reeled off some story about an emergency in Thern. The end of the story was lost as the Hound cantered away.

Close by, there came a horn call. His eastern guard. While their comrades had spent the morning sweeping the derelict buildings in Altran, two small groups were sent east and west to watch for the fleeing Spider. Unnecessary for him, the call was designed to worry the quarry more than aid the hunter. He had all the help he needed. Mistress Kay's new horse had a tell.

Horseshoes were sturdy items, but after a while they developed as much character as the beast they belonged to. This one had a notch in the shoe of the right foreleg. Not even heavy traffic could hide her trail now.

The sun beat down, and the Hound rode on. Once, on cresting a hill, he saw a lone rider atop a grey horse, galloping eastward. He thought he saw her turn back, somehow aware of his gaze, but she didn't slow. Neither did he. Thern sat just over the horizon, smoke marking the spot towards which the rider sped. Or almost.

Not that it mattered, but the Hound now knew mistress Kay's destination wasn't Thern itself. It was the trade road that linked Thern to the capital. She hoped to hide her tracks among the steady flow of feet, hooves, and cart wheels. On another horse, it might have worked.

Down the hill,  the horse and rider were out of sight again, but the tracks remained strong. The Hound rode hard, and by late afternoon, the trade road was in sight. Once on the road, he slowed. It was inevitable - his trail was still visible, but where it had been isolated before, now it needed to be teased out of the mess the traffic had made of the road. It seemed that mistress Kay had stopped briefly at the edge of the road, possibly deciding whether to turn north into Thern, or south towards Rane. The evidence showed she had turned south. The Hound turned accordingly.

As the afternoon light began to fade, he finally followed the tracks into the yard of a roadside inn, and from there into the stables. He paused to dismount. Waving aside the stable boy, the Hound stalked into the stables, suddenly concerned.

There were barely any horses in the stable, and none of them were grey.

"Boy!" He summoned. "Have you had a woman on a grey mount through this afternoon?"

"No sir."

"Or a grey with a different rider?"

"No, sir. No greys, sir."

The Hound went still, his trail turning cold.

"You tend to all the horses that come through?"

"Aye, sir."

"Have you had one with a notch in the right fore shoe?"

"Right fore, sir?" The boy frowned. "No notches, sir, but I found an odd thing not a half hour ago. Reckon it could be what you're after."

A dash to a stall, and the boy returned with a strange-shaped piece of metal.

"Was stuck over the hoof, sir. No idea what for - never seen anything like it."

The Hound lifted the piece of metal. Pewter, soft enough to mould, to cup around a hoof like a muffler. And designed with a notch. A false shoe.

The reason she had stopped by the road. She wasn't deciding on her destination - she already knew what she was doing. She stopped to move her false shoe onto another horse. It wouldn't have been hard, with her talent for making people talk. A moments distraction, and she could ride away into anonymity.

Lord Theron Bethuel thanked the boy, gave him a silver piece, and walked carefully back to his horse. He had lost the hunt. Surprisingly, it didn't upset him. If anything, he felt uplifted. The Spider had issued a challenge. He would show her what he was truly made of. A chase they'll sing songs about, he thought. With a smile, he remounted and turned for home.