Spider And The Hound - Part I

Greetings, kindly readers. Before I take you on another journey into the troubling depths of my imagination, there are a couple of things I'm going to run by you. First is that, if everything goes to plan, this is not going to be a stand alone story. Having read through a significant number of Sherlock Holmes stories in the recent past, I had an odd brainwave - what if, instead of writing my next idea as one long plotline, I split it into shorter chunks. I have a horrible habit of getting bogged down in boring character downtime, so I'll cut the downtime out, stick it in the misty limbo between stories, and voila! They do all their boring stuff off-screen, and you don't get to read about it. So that is what I hope this will be. I already have ideas for another three or four short stories, so keep your eyes open for them. They will almost definitely be shorter than this first one. Think of this like a new tv series - a two-parter. Part the first will be up shortly.

The only other thing I need to let you know is this. If you haven't tried Microsoft OneNote yet, you are missing a vital part of your life. I've used it all of two days, and I can already see it taking over all of the (limited) organisation of my life. Also, it's turning out to be brilliant for planning stories (or essays, reports, assassination plots, etc). I feel a tendril of evil creeping into my heart as I say it, but 'Well Done Microsoft'. *shudder*

Anyway, now I've had my daily dose of satan worship, I present to you part the first of my new serial...

Spider And The Hound

Part I

"You headed to Altran, stranger? Aye, it's a good road, and a decent town, for all its small. The Earl? A good man, from what I hear. Well, sir, it's not like there're bad'uns, now, is it? Like they say, there ain't a bad man as stays the headman's axe. But the Earl's a good'un for all that. Trouble? Nah, ain't heard of no trouble out that way. There's raiders abroad, as always, but naught else that I know of. Ye'll want to take care round the ford, though - notorious, it is, for bandits. Easy pickin's, ain't it, when folk're crossing a river. Other folk, I'd warn 'em away from riding that road alone, but I can see yer a man knows how to take care of 'imself. Oh aye, I ride to Altran once a month, me and another fella. Trade me flour for what me wife says she can't live without, ye know how it is. Pick up a nice bit of bread, too, or a cake if it's a special day. If you'll take a bit of advice, stop yerself at the bakery on the market square. The woman what runs the place knows her flour inside and out, she does. Bakes the finest loaf this side of Rane, everyone says so. And if I weren't already married... Well, I can see ye ain't got the time for me gossip. If yer looking for a room for the night, though, the Cart Wheel's a tidy place, always good for a meal and a chat. Robern Ales is the man what runs it, tough as boot leather but runs a fair house. Get ye own bed, too, no sharing, ha ha. Well, just my little joke, sir, no offense meant. Good journey, then, sir. Hope the road treats ye right.

And ye might try unclenching ye balls, ye grumpy bugger. Not like I was robbing ye blind and sticking red hot pokers up yer arse. Couldn't even give me a grin, was only trying to be light-hearted. And dressing up like the hound outa some bleedin' nightmare, like that'll make us bob our heads and roll over. Like the Bloodhound would ever come out to the arse end of the kingdom and bother us. He's gonna regret it once he gets to Altran, though. Gonna get reminded of his manners, if I'm a judge. Yeah, just wait 'til he gets to Altran..."

~*~

Altran was one of those curious places that was too big to be called a village, but too small to justify being known as a town. Barely eight hundred people lived within and around the old walls of what used to be a thriving market town of nearly two thousand souls - the acres of wheat fields and pastures teaming with cows and sheep belied the size of the place, so when the stranger rode through the streets that April afternoon, he was mildly surprised at how deserted the streets were, how empty the market place seemed. Every eye seemed to be on him as he rode through towards the manor house which stood atop a short, squat hill. That hill  had been raised generations ago when this had been a defensive outpost. In fact, everything about the town showed its military history, from the narrow streets to the arrow-slit windows. There was an inner wall surrounding the motte, and the path leading up to the manor was winding, giving defenders plenty of opportunity to rain death down upon any invaders. These days, sheltering trees had been planted on the slope, and to one side of the path a fragrant patch of flowers and herbs greeted visitors in a much more civilised way. In its day, the manor would have been magnificent and intimidating - now, it was beautiful.

The stranger, unmoved by the softening of the military structures, rode up the path with a sense of purpose, dismounted in the cobbled yard in front of the house, and handed his horse's reins to a stable boy. In anticipation of the stranger's needs, a smartly dressed doorman appeared and bowed.

"Sir."

"You know who I am?"

"I believe I do, sir."

"Then please let Lord Abney know that I have business to discuss with him."

"Certainly, sir. If you would you care to follow me, I will show you where you may wait."

The two men disappeared inside. The grounds of the manor grew quiet again. Once, a girl from the kitchens hurried out to the herb garden and gathered a few cuttings to compliment the evening meal. Once, a gardener strolled across the slopes, rake over one shoulder and shears in hand, but there was little to do, and he wandered away again. Later, as the sun began to set, the stable boy who had taken the stranger's horse ran into view, eyes wide, breathless with excitement, and headed into town as fast as he could manage.

Bloodhound. The name swept through the town like wildfire. The Bloodhound. What did he want? Who was he after? Why, when Altran had been so quiet for so many years, was he here?

The taverns did a roaring trade that night, and the Cart Wheel did especially well with the stable boy in the tap room. As rumour spread like flames in a hay barn, everyone wanted to hear the story for themselves.

"... just rode up to the house, all innocent-like." The boy was saying. "Didn't have no word of him coming, would've heard about it if there'd been word. Didn't know who he was right off, but I reckoned by the way Constable greeted him he was someone important. Took his bags in, and old Mrs Marger, the housekeep, she said it was the bloody Bloodhound, and he'd be staying 'til he's ready to leave."

"Is he here on a hunt?"

"Dunno. Reckon he wouldn't say, though, would he? Don't want to give his game away."

"Maybe it's the Earl." A worried voice spoke. "What do we do if it's the Earl he's hunting?"

"Then we do everything we can to help the bastard, and hope the King gives us a lord half as good to replace him." A sharper voice replied. "What else can we do? He's the Bloodhound - we don't want to be next on his list."

"Maybe if we can..."

"Maybe nothing!" The sharp voice snapped. "We keep our heads down and keep out of his way, 'less he comes to us. If he talks to you, you better be as helpful as sunshine and just as pleasant. Treat him like you'd treat the King himself, 'cos you can be damn sure his Majesty knows all his Hound finds out." The voice paused, letting his words sink in. "You've all heard the stories. Don't for a moment go thinking they ain't true. Now stop all this foolish jabber over things we ain't got no control over. Ain't it time you lot were all heading back to your wives? And don't moan, Robern. They can spend their coin another night. Best thing for everyone is if we keep our heads down and don't go poking into affairs of men like him."

The night was restless, morning a long time coming. With the sun barely starting to lighten the sky, the early risers abandoned their troubled sleep and thankfully turned their minds to their work. In the pre-dawn sharpness, the day guard traded places with the night, a handful of bleary-eyed travellers carried their bags to where a long-distance coach sat waiting to depart, and the homeless or drunk began to shuffle from the deep, sheltering doorways where they had slept. In the market square, silhouetted in the window by the glow of the bread ovens, Aislin Kay watched the town as it came to life. Hers wasn't the only window lit up, even at that time of the morning. Across the square at the Cart Wheel, Robern Ales was already bustling to and fro, handing a parcel of food to the coach driver, and slipping him a flask of something to keep off the morning chill. The guard house at the foot of the motte was, as always, alight, and up at the manor, the servants wing was accented by candles moving from window to window. In the main house, one window had been illuminated briefly, before the servants had begun to stir, but that was out now, the room's occupant either returned to bed or off to face the day.

A small figure with a cloak and a fast step hurried down the path from the manor, a woven basket clutched tight to the chest in a defensive sort of way. Aislin watched as the figure descended, briefly disappeared behind the inner town wall, then appeared again through the gate that led into the square. The figure ran a quick eye over the travellers collecting outside the inn, before turning towards the bakery.

"Morning Aislin." The woman said breathlessly, pushing the door closed and slipping out of her cloak.

"Good morning, Victoria. Tea?"

"Yes please." Victoria set her basket down on the counter. "It's not so cold out, but there's a chill in my bones from somewhere."

"Did I hear right, yesterday?" Aislin asked, pouring water from the pot over the fire. "About the visitor?"

"Lord Theron Bethuel?" Victoria laughed mirthlessly. "If you're asking, then you heard right."

"Any idea why he's here?"

"No. He sat up late with the Earl, but not even Boots was brave enough to listen at that door."

"How late?"

"I don't know. I was one of the last to bed, not long after the stroke of eleven, and they were still up then. Why?"

"Because I think he's already on his trail. I saw a light in the main house earlier, before the servants wing woke. What is it they say... 'casting is the hound'?"

"And let him speak not at your door." Victoria finished. She shuddered. "But there was no one moving in the house when I left, save for us."

"That will be because he's already left." Aislin said quietly.

"You sound very certain."

"Well," She nodded out of the window. "Someone's ordered the stagecoach to stand down, and Master Ales doesn't look best pleased. Tell me who would have the authority to do that, with the Earl still abed?"

The two women turned to the window to watch as the travellers were ushered off the coach and into the Cart Wheel. Robern Ales had a quiet word with the driver, punctuated by swift and furtive glances towards his inn - the driver argued momentarily, then began to unhitch the horses from his coach.

A movement, up against the inn wall. The dismantling of the coach was being observed by someone else. In daylight, the man may have been visible, but in the half light of the early morning, only the movement gave him away. An unassuming figure in the gloom, average in height and build, he watched the horses being led away before turning and entering the inn. Once he was inside, Ales sagged visibly.

"And there he goes." Aislin whispered.

"Where?" Victoria looked around, suddenly on edge.

"You didn't see him? He just went into the Wheel. All but invisible in this light." She took a breath, breaking the tension. "Your bread should be just about ready. Help me with the trays?"

Not long after, the figure of Victoria hurried back out of the bakery, basket full of warm bread for the Earl and his family. Not once did she turn to glance at the inn, although she kept throwing her shoulders back as though forcing them to relax. As fast as she had come down the hill, she almost ran back up, and even closing the tradesman's door behind her didn't stop the feeling of being followed.

In the Cart Wheel, the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Robern Ales stood behind the bar, tapping a new keg of beer. The room was near empty, which wasn't unusual for that time of morning. What was unusual were the three tired, worried looking travellers who, when they'd woken that morning, had expected to be half way to Turnport by now. The forth of their group had been taken into the back room over an hour ago, with neither sight nor sound of him since.

In an uncharacteristic display of generosity, Ales filled three cups with the travellers' drink of choice, and carried the refills over to the table where they sat, huddled and silent. As he stayed the hand of the solitary woman reaching for her purse, one of the men glanced up at the innkeeper.

"Shouldn't they be done by now?" He whispered.

"Wouldn't care to say." Ales answered, equally quiet. "Guess he'll take as long as he likes."

"What does he want?" The woman asked. "Has he said?"

"Lookin' for someone." Ales shrugged. "Hasn't said more'n that. 'Spect he's only starting with you lot 'cos you were on the way out. Maybe once he's done, you'll be free to get off."

Another quarter hour passed before the door to the back room opened and the fourth traveller walked out. Taking in his pale face, hesitant gait, and wild eyes, the other travellers tensed even before the voice drifted though to the tap room.

"Mister Hodgeson."

Hodgeson froze. For a moment, it was even odds whether he would obey the call or bolt for the door. The moment passed. After all, there wasn't a man alive could run fast enough.

It was a slow walk to the back room, and nobody breathed until the door closed once more.

"Here." Ales poured a shot of whiskey and passed it to the poor man. With shaking hand, he downed the drink and sank into a chair.

"Can you talk about it?" Ales asked, replacing the whiskey glass with a tankard of ale.

"What does he want?" The woman asked, a desperate pitch to her voice.

"Easy there, miss." Ales cautioned. "Let the man take his time."

"I... dunno what to say." The man began hesitantly. "It's like he didn't want anything. Just asked me random questions. Where I was going, what my job was, whether I've visited Rane recently. Whether I liked Ranean or Dorish oatcakes better."

"Oatcakes?"

"Like I said - random questions. I didn't even know there were different oatcakes from one side of the kingdom to the other."

"And that was it?" The other male traveller asked.

"Yeah." The man looked evasive as he said it. Ales thought he was telling the truth, as far as he could, but he saw how the answer affected the others. It was so bad he couldn't even talk about it. At least, Ales suspected, he couldn't put into words how the King's Bloodhound could make you feel like your gut was crawling up your throat with just a look.

"He say you have to stay here?"

The man shook his head.

"No. Just can't face the walk home yet. My knees feel like water. He said... said I was to go home and wait. The coaches are all stopped 'til he's done. To my mind, he can take his time, long as I don't have to speak to him again."

Silence fell again, and they sat and drank, straining their ears for any sound from the back room.

After a while, the interrogated man reached the tipping point between recovery and retreat. Bidding them all luck and farewell, he tottered out into the square and away. The remaining travellers watched him go with envious eyes, before turning back to their silent and agonising wait.

The day was fully underway now. The April sun beamed down on the small town of Altran, warming the streets and burning away the few clouds that scudded across the blue sky. Being a social sort of woman, Aislin Kay found her shop filling with people wanting to know the story of the grounded coach, and whether she had seen the Hound with her own eyes. Eternally patient, Aislin mixed, kneaded, shaped, baked, glazed, and frosted amid a steady stream of gossip, telling and retelling the events of the morning as people flowed through her shop. As they left, each person stopped to stare in fearful wonderment at the Cart Wheel before hurrying back to homes and jobs. The wonder they felt came from the stories. They were almost romantic, in a highwayman sort of way. As long as the Hound remained contained inside the inn, he was still a thing of stories, with danger and excitement enough to set the heart racing, but distant and irrelevant to anyone passing by. Aislin watched people come and go, and let them believe what they wanted. The Hound in a story was enough fear for anyone. She prayed he would remain just a story for the people she knew.

Midday came and went. The usual lunchtime faces punctuated the flow of people, annoyed at the crowd but eager as anyone to hear the news. The increased custom made her keep the shop open after the rush had finished - the time she would normally have taken lunch herself. A mouthful of bread sufficed as she worked. Eventually, though, as the sun passed its height, the flow thinned, then stopped. Aislin took advantage of a momentarily empty shop to put some water to boil and rest her feet. The moment passed - the door creaked open and closed. Rolling the stiffness out of her neck, she rose to see to her customer.

A stranger of average height and build stood running his eye over the selection of loaves, rolls, and cakes on display at the front of the shop. There was nothing to mark him as the figure she had seen that morning, and yet there was no doubt who he was.

"I understand your bread is the finest this side of Rane." The stranger spoke in a soft voice, all control and confidence. It was a challenge, too, couched in innocent words. Perfectly pitched to set the heart to racing.

"People say so, milord," Aislin replied evenly, ignoring the challenge. "But I wouldn't know. I'm not well travelled."

"No? Then perhaps I can judge. What would you recommend?"

Assertively, mistress of her own shop, she selected a cheese roll fresh from the oven, deftly folded a pocket from brown paper, and passed it to him. He held it, untouched, and fixed his attention instead on her.

"That's not a local accent."

"No, milord. I grew up in Kilmerrow. My pa knew the baker who owned this shop before me, so when pa died I came here for work."

"Your father was a baker as well?"

"He was. Taught me all he knew. Then I came here and learned it all over, completely different."

"When was that?"

"Near twelve years ago, sir. Old man Torben, the old baker, passed four years back, and the shop fell to me."

"Why didn't you take over your father's shop?"

"He had his debts. The shop covered them, just about, and the rest of what he owned filled in the gaps."

"So you came here." It wasn't a question, merely a thought given breath. "And you work here alone?"

"Not usually, sir. I have an apprentice, but her mother's sick, and she's staying home to care for her. Not the best time to be short a pair of hands, if I'm honest, but I can't begrudge the girl. I'd do the same for my ma, if she were still with me."

"You've been busy, then?"

"With your arrival, sir, and the happenings at the inn this morning. The town likes to gossip, and you're quite the legend."

Surprisingly, a smile touched his face at that. Turning, he paced to the window and stood where she had stood earlier, watching the square.

"Yes. I saw you watching. Tell me what you saw."

"Surely I saw the same things you did, sir."

"Tell me anyway."

Somewhat hesitantly, Aislin moved to stand next to the Hound. She pointed at the inn.

"I saw the coach waiting there, with its passengers standing around it. I saw Master Ales usher the passengers into the inn, while the driver uncoupled the horses from the coach and took them back round to the stables."

"And?"

"And I saw you enter the inn."

"But your friend didn't, I think. You have sharp eyes for a baker."

"They help me to stay atop of the gossip." Aislin smiled faintly.

"And then what did you see?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Nothing?"

"I turned back to my work."

"And nothing else crossed your notice?"

"No, sir. I might guess that you were in there a long time, except that I wouldn't presume to guess your business. Besides, the inn has a back door, and I think even an avid watcher might have missed you leaving if you wanted them to."

"I was in there a long time," From a slight tilt of his head, Aislin felt that he was looking at her. She kept her eyes on the square. "And while I was there, I learned something very interesting."

"Sir?"

"I learned that you have a peculiar talent. All four of the passengers told me the same thing. Aislin Kay talks to your soul, they said. One of the gentlemen was cryptically poetic as he tried to explain it to me. He said you see the horrors and the fears in a man's heart, and you talk to them. 'You talk them up, and you talk them down', is how he described it."

"William Hodgeson?" Aislin guessed. The silence agreed with her. "He has a strange way about him. I think he is an artist in a merchant's body. Did he say, 'You leave with your fears and an angel on your shoulder'?"

"And what might he mean by that?"

"Goodness knows. Sometimes there's too much ribbon and lace on his words for me to make much sense out of them. But I just talk to people. You say nice things, and people feel better about themselves."

"But I think there's more to it than that."

"My ma used to say I was a kindred spirit."

"Kindred to...?"

"Everyone. Whoever I met. I guess I just understand what people need to hear."

"Indeed. Then indulge me, mistress Kay. What do I need to hear?"

There was that challenge again. Feeling butterflies, Aislin turned to really look at the Hound.

Early thirties, lean, muscled, with skin that had survived every sort of weather. Rugged face, square chin, faint scar across the left side of his jaw. Grey eyes, secretive and hard. There was no compassion in that face. Behind the face was more of the same. An impenetrable man. Worthy of the stories.

"I think..." She paused, and eyed the man once more. "I think I care too much for my neck to say."

With careless precision, the Hound turned to stand face to face with the baker.

"You fear me, mistress?"

"Everyone fears you, milord."

"Do you fear me, mistress?"

Aislin matched his stare.

"I have a healthy apprehension of you, milord."

He chuckled. A strange sound from so serious a figure. The smile reached his eyes, but could not compete with the hardness there.

"So what could you have to say that would make you feel apprehensive? Words alone will not stretch your neck. I am not impulsive."

The shop door creaked. A woman walked in, saw the company, paled. Stammering apologies, she backed out again.

Aislin watched until the door closed again before turning back to the Hound.

"This is not the place, and it is not the time. Ask me anything else. I gossip like a fishwife, I can tell you whatever you like. But if you want to understand what William Hodgeson told you, then we must have time and privacy."

"Are you holding information from me, Aislin Kay?"

 She laughed weakly at her situation.

"No, milord. It's just, if you want to understand, you must come back later. If I'm honest, I'd rather you didn't want to understand. But I'll talk to you, if you insist, and I'll pray you don't snap my neck before we're done."

The silence spread, heavy with consequences. Aislin stood her ground against them. Eventually, the Hound nodded.

"All right, mistress Kay. I'll play your game. Until later."

Late afternoon, the people of Altran began to relax. The Bloodhound had been in town nearly a whole day, and no one was dead or in jail. A few of the street boys, with more sense of the worth of a coin than of their own lives, reported following the Hound into the deserted streets of the western quarter after he had left the bakery. After only a couple of hours, he emerged back into the populated side of town, apparently in a good mood. One boy, with the grin of someone who had cheated Death of a soul, held up a silver coin and proudly announced that the Hound himself had given it to him, along with the message that if he, or any other boy, was seen to be following him again, that boy would find out how much of himself he could be force-fed before he died of blood loss. After that, no one set eyes on the Hound until nearly sunset, when he was seen ascending the hill to the manor.

"How much've yerself d'ya think ye could eat afore ye died?" The boy with the silver coin wondered as he sat with his friends in one of the abandoned buildings of the west quarter.

"A fair bit." Another boy said with authority. "I mean, ye can lose legs and not die - I've seen old soldiers wiv stumps and such. And no arms or eyes. So if ye did it right, I bet you could eat most've yerself 'fore ye died."

"But that's a lot t'eat." Silver Coin mused. "Remember when Guppy stole that ham from the butchers, and et half of it 'fore we found out? Near made himself sick, and his belly was round as a pigskin ball. And that was only 'alf a ham. What's that, like one of ye legs? Half a leg? I reckon ye'd bust 'fore ye could eat that much."

"Yeah, but it's the Hound, ain't it? Bet if ye bust, he'd put ye back together and keep feeding ye. Hells, I don't half hate ye. Is that real silver?"

"'Course it is, ye nonce. Reckon the King's Bloodhound walks round with bad coins in his purse? But I ain't gonna spend it."

"You ain't?"

"Nah."

"Can I spend it, then?"

"Claws off, snatchy." Silver Coin clutched his prize close. "Ain't getting rid of it. The Hound gave it to me. Could've given me a slap, or stuck that huntin' knife in me ear, but he gave me a coin. Ain't ever getting rid of it."

"Bet it's cursed. Bet he could do that, if he wanted. And if ye keep it, ye get cursed too."

"I ain't givin' it to ye, so shut up."

"I bet ye'll turn purple and swell up, like Missus Karet's gammy leg. Bet ye'll swell so much ye'll bust. Bang!"

"I'll bust ye in a minute."

"And the Hound'll laugh, and he'll take ye heart, and put it in a box, and bury it under the town wall, and then ye'll have to haunt Altran forever. All cos ye didn't want to get rid of a stupid silver coin."

"You're stupid. Shut up!"

"I trust your day has been productive, Lord Bethuel."

"Tolerable, Lord Abney." The Hound replied, sitting down to an impressive spread of food. With a cursory glance over the spiced venison, smothered goose, herb-encrusted chicken, and suckling pig, Theron Bethuel helped himself to a cup of beef broth and leant back. "I'm curious about the west quarter. How do you police it?"

" I believe a patrol goes round once a day. The whole quarter's deserted, of course except for a few strays. The homeless prefer the inhabited part of town, though, I'm given to understand. It's warmer, or some such. The captain of the guard will be able to give you more details, but he keeps the matter in hand. He is well aware of the potential trouble from leaving so many habitable buildings empty. Thanks to him, we have never had a problem." Lord Abney poured wine into two goblets and passed one to his guest. "Do you believe your quarry to be in the west quarter?"

"It is possible. There are too many places to hide, and the whole town knows I'm looking. It would be a predictable place to go to ground."

"The town doesn't know who you're looking for, though?" Abney looked worried as he said it.

"Never fear, my lord. I have no reason to question your discretion. That information remains just between the two of us. And my quarry."

"You believe they know you are after them?"

"It would take a blind fool to believe otherwise. And this one is not a fool." Theron considered the wine in his cup. "Tomorrow I will require the use of the city guard. You will inform the captain to be at my disposal."

"Of course. Is there... ah, any way in which I may assist you?"

"Just talk to the captain, my lord. I would not have you startle the prey before I'm ready to give chase."

"As you wish. Please, won't you try some of the venison? You've barely eaten."

"This will suffice. But if you will instruct your kitchen to prepare a plate of... less well disguised food, I will eat more when I return. The pig, perhaps. And some bread."

"You're leaving again?"

"There is still one more job for me today. Tell me, Lord Abney, before I go, what do you know about the baker woman, mistress Kay?"