When his vision cleared, he saw that the man was now lying on the floor, held down by the front legs of the glue spider. His face and hands were covered in some shiny substance, and as Niall watched, the spider squirted more from its chelicerae. It was some kind of transparent glue, and as it struck the man’s face, he suddenly ceased to struggle, collapsing as if dead.
Niall dragged himself to his feet, helped by Simeon. He was feeling oddly sick and dizzy. He looked at the spider, and transmitted a message of thanks. The spider released its victim. But as soon as it did so, the man twisted sideways and jumped to his feet — it was evident that he had been shamming. His hand darted into his bosom, and emerged with a knife in a sheath. As he pulled off the sheath and dropped it to the floor, his eyes met Niall’s in a smile of triumph. There was something animal-like in the way the lips revealed his yellow teeth. He raised the knife, and Niall shrank back, expecting to be attacked. Instead, to his astonishment, the man slashed at his own forearm, making a superficial cut. Then, as the spider again seized him from behind, he sagged to his knees and collapsed onto the floor. This time it was obvious that he was not shamming.
Simeon knelt beside him and twisted his face sideways by grabbing his hair. The man’s eyes were closed, and the glue on his face was already hardening into a mask. Simeon took his wrist and felt his pulse.
“He’s dead. Don’t touch that!” This last was shouted at Niall as he bent forward to look at the knife. But Niall had no intention of trying to pick it up. What interested him was the symbol burned into the wooden handle of the knife, the same symbol he had already seen on the leaden disc.
The spider was retreating along the corridor. Then it reached up, and its tarsal claws gripped the edge of a hole in the ceiling. A moment later, it had pulled itself upward and heaved its body through the trapdoor. Its abdomen seemed too large, and stuck for a moment; then it disappeared.
Simeon asked: “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” But Niall staggered as he said so, and almost lost his balance.
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know.” He was feeling sick again, and had no desire to answer questions. He turned to the overseer. “Please go to the headquarters of the Spider Lord and ask Dravig to come here.” When the man looked alarmed, Niall turned to Simeon, whose face seemed oddly distorted, as if seen through water. “Would you mind going too? They’d pay more attention to you.”
Before they were out of sight, Niall sat on the floor, his back propped against the wall. Waves of heat were rising to his forehead, and he could feel himself breaking out into perspiration. After a few moments, the nausea retreated again. He was breathing heavily, through his mouth, and his body felt drained of strength. But after resting for five minutes, a feeling of normality began to return. He opened his eyes, and looked at the dead man, whose face was turned upwards toward the ceiling. It was easy to see how he had succeeded in masquerading as a slave; he had a beaklike nose, large ears, and a receding chin — only the abnormally pale face distinguished him from other slaves. But Niall recalled the strange glance of those dark eyes, and realized that he had been dealing with a man of intelligence. He had also been dealing with a man of formidable resolve; his instantaneous suicide proved that.
And he had, he now realized, been dealing with an alien, a man who was a native neither of this country nor of Dira. The proof was that the man had somehow learned the spiders’ trick of striking direct at his will power. Yet there was an obvious difference. When the pink glue spider had paralyzed him at the top of the stairs, it had somehow paralyzed his nervous system, so that he was fully conscious, yet unable to move a muscle. This man had used some direct, brutal psychic force, like a blow with a blunt instrument. It had left him feeling sick and weak, while the momentary paralysis of the spider had had no aftereffect. The difference was obviously that the spider intended only to stop him from moving; the man had intended to hurt him.
As he stared at the masklike face of the corpse, he experienced a strange sensation that sent cold waves through his scalp; for a moment, he was convinced that the man was still alive. It took him some moments to understand what had happened. His sense of bafflement had led him to make an attempt to probe the mind of the corpse. It was a purely automatic reflex, for he knew the man was dead. The result should have been totally negative, like stirring a dead body with his foot. Yet he had encountered an eerie sense of warmth and vitality. There was some sense in which the body was still alive and yet unconscious, like a plant or vegetable. Niall allowed his mind to become blank, and tried again. This time, he experienced a reflex of disgust which made him instantly withdraw, as if he had touched something unpleasant and slimy. There was something about the lingering life-field of the dead man that repelled him like an unpleasant smell. It was something as distinct as a smell, and therefore inexpressible in words. He had occasionally encountered it in the desert, in the minds of predators — for example, in the nightmare creature called a saga insect, which had held a cricket in its claws and then crunched its way down its body as if eating a stick of celery. And he could still remember the revulsion he experienced on accidentally catching a glimpse into the soul of some demonic, batlike creature in the Delta; it had seemed to be entirely malevolent, as if consumed by the desire to kill.
The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. It was Simeon, followed by Dravig. Niall started to rise to his feet, then thought better of it as the waves of nausea rose to his head. He sank down again, his back against the wall.
“Hello, Dravig. I’m sorry to bring you here.”
“Are you hurt?” Niall was flattered by the genuine concern in the spider’s query.
“No, I’ll be all right.”
Dravig looked at the corpse. “Who is this man?”
“One of Skorbo’s assassins.”
“You have done well. Where is the third?”
“I don’t know. But now we know why they removed all the clothes of the dead man. He must have been dressed in a slave uniform, and they didn’t want us to know he was hiding among slaves. I think it might be worth searching the slave quarter.”
“I will give the order. How did this man die?”
“He killed himself with that knife. Be careful.” The spider had picked it up in his tarsal claw, and raised it toward his face. “It’s poisoned.”
“Yes. It is the venom of the green rock scorpion, perhaps the deadliest poison on earth.” The spider’s sense of smell was far more acute than that of a human being. “It is fatal even for spiders.”
“Then you should warn the searchers to be careful. The other may be armed with one too.”
The spider signified affirmation; the mental gesture was independent of words, like a nod. He asked: “Do you need help?”
“No, thank you. Simeon will help me.”
“Then I must return to make my report.” He drew himself up, as if standing to attention, and said formally: “In the name of the Spider Lord I thank you for hunting down this assassin.” Niall understood enough of the spider mentality to know what he was trying to convey: that he accepted that the human beings of this city were in no way responsible for Skorbo’s death.
Niall inclined his head. “Thank you.”
When Dravig had gone, Simeon picked up the knife, and carefully replaced it in its sheath. “I’ll get this analyzed. The poison must be deadly.” He had been unable to hear Dravig’s side of the conversation.
“It is the venom of the green rock scorpion.”
“Great goddess!” Simeon almost dropped the knife. “If I’d known that I’d have picked it up with gloves.” He took a large handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wrapped the sheath, tying the corners in a knot.
Niall pushed himself cautiously to his feet, and was relieved to find that he no longer felt dizzy; but the feeling of tiredness remained. Simeon looked at his face with concern.
“You’re very pale. Did he hit you in the stomach?”
Niall shook his head. “He struck at me with his will-force, like a spider.”