“Where are they going?” Niall whispered to Massig.
He shrugged. “To work. They’re either the latrine squad or the sewer squad.”
This wide avenue was in a better state of repair than the narrower streets. Some of its buildings were breathtaking, stretching up to such heights that Niall had to bend his head right back to see the rooftops. Some of them had elaborate domes on top. One vast, square building seemed to be built of green marble and had columns like the ruined temple in the desert. Others had large ground-floor windows made of some clear, transparent substance that reflected the light. Another seemed to be built entirely of this transparent substance, and its strange, curving planes were full of distorted reflections of the surrounding buildings. Niall tried to imagine what the original inhabitants of this extraordinary city must have been like, but found the task beyond his narrow experience. He could only suppose that they must have been a race of giants, or very great magicians. But in that case, how did the spiders defeat them?
The avenue was longer than it looked. It was half an hour before they emerged into a great open space directly opposite the white tower. There was a wide plaza, paved with the smooth, marble-like substance, and on the far side of this the broad space of emerald-green grass that surrounded the white tower. Facing the tower, at the end of the avenue, there was an even taller building whose lower storeys were faced with black marble and whose upper part seemed in an excellent state of repair. This soared above all the other buildings in the plaza. And it differed from these buildings in another respect; it had no windows. Closer inspection revealed that its windows had all been sealed up with some white substance so that they showed up as faint squares against the surrounding grey. Facing the white tower across the great open space, it created the inescapable impression of presenting it with a deliberate challenge.
Daraul made them line up in two ranks, facing the black façade. Then he ordered Niall, Veig and Siris to stand to one side. A few minutes later, a woman came out of the building. For a moment, Niall thought it was Odina, then realised that this woman was taller. She was dressed in a uniform of a black, shiny substance that left her arms bare.
“Stand to attention,” Daraul muttered. “Chins up.”
The woman marched across to them and surveyed the men with a hard, piercing gaze. They stared in front of them as if made of wood. Halfway down the line, she paused before a man who stood half a head taller than the rest. He had immense biceps and a chin like a rock.
“Your eyes moved,” she said.
Still staring straight in front of him, the man said: “I’m sorry, commander.”
The woman raised her hand as if to slap his face; the man tensed to receive the blow. Then, suddenly, she seemed to change her mind. Her fist clenched and hit him with tremendous force in the solar plexus. The man gasped and doubled up. The woman stepped back, and kicked him in the face. He was so heavy that the blow failed to make him reel backwards; instead, he sank onto his knees; the woman drew back her boot and dealt him another kick under the chin. With a groan, the man collapsed, his arms outspread, and a trickle of blood ran onto the marble. None of the other men stirred an inch. The commander glanced quickly up and down the line to make sure that no one had moved, then marched on and finished her inspection. Finally, she turned to Daraul.
“Very well, you can assign their duties.” She came and stood in front of Niall, Veig and Siris; all were attempting to maintain an unflinching stare. Niall observed that she had a faint, ironic smile.
“Which of you is Niall?”
Hardly daring to move his lips, Niall said: “I am.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised. She stood in front of Veig for a long time and felt his muscles, then gave him a gentle blow in the stomach with her fist. “You’re stronger than you look.”
Veig stared straight in front of him, unmoving.
She looked contemptuously at Siris, felt her arm, then ran her hand down over her body; Niall could sense that his mother was trying hard not to flinch.
“You look strong enough,” the woman said, “but you need fattening up. And we’ll have to do something about your breasts.” She turned on her heel and snapped: “Follow me.” She marched back towards the black-fronted building. Niall and Veig glanced at each other, then followed her. Behind them, Daraul began giving orders.
The double doors of the building were at least ten feet high and proportionately wide. Outside, in the shade of the portico, two big wolf spiders stood on guard. They were evidently of a lowly rank, for the woman ignored them. Niall, Veig and Siris followed her into a dimly lit hallway; it took time for their eyes to become accustomed to its gloom after the dazzling morning sunlight. To their right was a wide marble staircase; two more wolf spiders stood guard at its foot. Although his sun-dazzled eyes could scarcely see them in the semi-darkness, Niall was interested to observe that they seemed to regard him with curiosity; he could sense the impulse that passed between them.
They followed her to the next floor, where she paused to speak to a woman dressed in the same black uniform, and who might, in the dim light, have been her twin sister. Here Niall sensed powerful will-vibrations which seemed to be issuing from an open door. He peered in and saw a large hall full of wolf spiders. They were standing in orderly ranks, and on a raised platform, facing them, a large black death spider was shouting orders — or what, in human language, would have been orders. The telepathic will-vibrations were so strong that even Veig appeared to notice them. They were apparently beyond Siris’s psychic range, although when a particularly furious shout echoed through the building, she gave a start of surprise.
The woman finished her conversation and beckoned them to follow her again. She led them up three more flights of stairs, each guarded by two wolf spiders. The third flight was covered with a heavy carpet which yielded softly under their feet. The two guards who stood at the top of this flight were black death spiders. The woman spoke to them.
“The prisoners are here to see the Death Lord.”
Niall observed that she spoke in a loud, clear voice as if addressing someone slightly deaf. And the spiders, who could sense the vibrations of her voice without being able to hear it, responded directly to her meaning. One of them sent back a message that meant: “Pass.” And the woman was sufficiently attuned to its thought vibration to understand the order. It was the first instance Niall had observed of direct communication between a human being and a spider.
She beckoned to them. Suddenly, for the first time since he had been in this city, Niall experienced a rush of panic. He was remembering Jomar’s stories of Cheb of the Hundred Eyes, and the legend of the Great Betrayal, when Prince Hallat taught Cheb to understand the secrets of the human soul.
This sense of unease swept upon him so quickly that it was like a sudden storm. The more he tried to subdue it, the more the waves of panic battered against his defences. What if the Spider Lord realised that he was responsible for the death of the spider in the desert? For one insane moment, he contemplated confessing everything, and flinging himself on the Spider Lord’s mercy. He experienced a momentary gleam of hope, then thought of the swollen body of his father and knew it was an illusion.
The black door that faced him was cushioned with the same shiny material as the woman’s uniform, and studded with nails that gleamed yellow in the half-light. The two death spiders who stood guard there seemed to be awaiting an order. Niall stared at it, frozen with misery and terror. Then he noticed that their escort was also nervous, and for some reason this observation brought him a spark of comfort. It was partly malicious satisfaction that the bully who had kicked a man in the face should herself be subject to fear. But there was also some deeper cause for satisfaction that eluded him.
By some process of association, he found himself thinking of the castle on the plateau. This was the image that enabled him to begin to fight the panic. It was the thought that it had been built by men, and that men had once been the lords of the earth, that provided the rallying point for his scattered resources of courage. He concentrated hard; it was difficult to maintain in the face of the panic, but he persisted. Then, suddenly, the light seemed to glow inside his skull, a single pinpoint of control and optimism. In the state of calm that followed, he realised suddenly that they were not waiting to be taken into the presence of the Death Lord. They were already in his presence. It was the Death Lord who was sending out this vibration of panic that had almost destroyed his control.