Excerpt: Spider on the Web

Spider on The Web
by Jacey Bedford

"It ends here!" The famous quote by Amadei Zamoy, first king of the Zamoy line as he stood over his dead father's body and pledged that neither the Ferenian Empire nor any other continental invaders would ever again cross Telanna's border uninvited is well known to very schoolboy in the civilised world. He was crowned in Tel City three days later and from that day forth the Renaissance which had its beginnings in Italy began to spread to the East. Some two hundred years later the third Amadei, son of King Priot II inherited a kingdom grown sleek from trade and comfortable from expertise in metalworking and bold advances in the sciences. But though two hundred years may change fortunes, attitudes change slowly and in many ways Telanna was still a country trying to stake its claim to being a modern power in a changing world." – From Janusz Dydynski's 'The Making of the Modern World, London, 1886.

Prologue

In the distance the bell of the cathedral church of St. John the Martyr began to toll early morning mass. As the last peal died away the muezzin began to call the adhan.

Dawn.

Zygmund Kazimir groaned and turned over on his feather mattress, dragging the coverlet with him and clutching it to his chest. He screwed his face up, eyes tightly closed. A moan escaped his lips as he moved his maimed left foot, but he clamped his jaw and ground down on his back teeth. The slops-boy would be here any minute now and he mustn't arouse any suspicions. He had to be up and dressed and ready to attend the court in the forenoon with Lord Szymon Zamoy, his patron. King Amadei III valued punctuality and though Szymon was a nephew, not only closely related, but almost a decade older than his uncle the king, he was still careful to curry favour. His future depended on it – and so did Zygmund's.

Not for much longer, though, if Zygmund's magic had worked as well as he felt it had. And it should have bloody well worked, he'd certainly paid the price. Again. Even knowing how painful it was he would do it again in a heartbeat – except that he was running out of expendable digits. He'd already sacrificed three toes and the little finger of both hands. But he couldn't stop now. He'd worked too hard and too long for this.

He heard the outer door and then the inner, followed the soft pad of the boy's footsteps across the room and the scrape of chamber pot against stone floor as he exchanged clean for used and then the footsteps retreated. His personal servant, Hammett, would be here in five minutes with his breakfast and would notice the weals on his body if he didn't start to dress. Blood and pain. Magic wasn't for the weak. It also wasn't for the careless. He didn't think Hammet suspected anything, but he'd follow the usual precautions soon. He always employed foreigners, men with no family to ask after them, and he never kept his servants for long.

Just moving his arm to throw back the covers was enough to set his whole body shaking again, but he forced himself to move, to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and sit, rocking like a dimwitted crone. His bladder hurt. He stood and put cautious weight on his poor mutilated foot, bit back a scream and settled for a whimper instead. He'd had to take the fourth toe of his left foot this time and the stump was agony. He sat down again quickly and reached for the stick he'd put close by ready, then concentrating hard to stand up a second time, he took a few faltering steps to use the chamber-pot.

God's blood! It was as dark as horse piss and just as pungent. Last night's ritual had taxed him to his limits and his whole body was suffering as a result, not just the lopped toe. He staggered back to the bed and leaned against it for support. Balancing with his weight on his heel, he pulled off both his night shirts. The white linen of the under-shirt was striped with dried blood where the weals had seeped, and some of it had soaked through to the inside of the second shirt, hastily thrown on as a precaution against bloodying his sheets lest he invite speculation from household servants. Worried, he checked the bed, but it wasn't stained. Good. He rolled the nightshirts up tightly and dropped them in the chest at the foot of his bed beside a canvas bag with the pathetic remains of last night's spellworking. Then he pulled on a fresh undershirt, laid out the night before, and let it settle on his sore skin, covering his body to mid-thigh. He'd saved the softest cotton shirt he owned for this morning, but the fibres still rasped like coarse sackcloth against the angry red welts and hardening scabs. He contemplated changing his under-trousers, but the mere thought of pulling any garment over his foot was more than he could bear so tightened the draw-cord around his waist. He'd wear these for another day.

The door opened again and this time Hammett entered with a tray of breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and his own recipe of fruity flummery, a jug of coffee and a basket of warm rye bread rolls. Zygmund had thought a simple breakfast might be better this morning, but what had seemed like a good idea yesterday now turned his stomach. Maybe he'd try a sip or two of coffee.

"Master, you shouldn't be about yet. I haven't set a fire." Hammett put the tray on the table by the stone casement and pulled back the heavy drape, flooding the chamber with cool north light from a lightening sky. The castle was old and Szymon's quarters in the crumbling East wing were some four or five hundred years out of date while Amadei's suite - in the new Venetian style palace built on what had been the jousting court in days gone by - contained the latest in draught-defying drapes and soft furnishings,.

"With respect sir, you should get back into bed. Your foot must pain you."

Yesterday, in preparation for what he knew must come, he'd been faking a broken bone in his foot and bruises supposedly caused by a fall from his horse, but today he truly couldn't walk. He felt twice his age. Zygmund let himself be put back into the bed, propped up against pillows with his foot and ankle, swathed in self-applied bandages, resting on a soft cushion. It still damn well hurt. Automatically he took the proffered bowl of warm eggs and a spoon, but found himself staring at the yellow, fluffy mass and then setting it aside.

"Coffee, Hammett, with plenty of cream and honey."

Hammett busied himself pouring the aromatic black liquid into a china cup. "My lord, shall I send a messenger to say you will not be able to attend court today?"

He shook his head. "I shall take a chair."

Today of all days he had to be there. The king had vowed that if the queen didn't carry this child to term he would ratify Szymon as his heir apparent. It had taken seven years, a murder and four miscarriages – four painful missing toes and a finger – to finally make his master next in line for the throne. Today would be Zygmund Kazimir's triumph, though none but he would ever know it.

He sat on the edge of the bed while Hammett brought his silk stockings and Italian style close-fitting breeches. He took one look at them and waved them away.

"I'll wear a zupan and delia today." He saw Hammett's pursed lips. The man was a snob. "Yes, I know it's a decade out of date, but Lord Szymon favours tradition and I think fashion will forgive me. Besides, it never hurts to remind them that I'm a wizard and a true Telannan."

Double bluff, of course, the more he boasted about magic, the less they believed it. Even the church ignored him. He was just Szymon's little foible, a hangover from darker days. If only they knew. Well, by the time they really belived it, it would be too late... for them.

Hammett threw the doors of the great oak wardrobe open and gazed at the array of shelves and garments hanging folded over poles.

"I'll wear the light blue brocade zupan, the long one, yes, that one, hurry, man." Zygmund wanted to stride over and grab the garment himself, but he let Hammett slip it over his arms and button it all the way down the front like a mother would dress a child. Even the light linen weighed against his hurts, but he stood without flinching for Hammett to fasten his belt. No sabre today as he would be in the royal presence, but Zygmund rarely carried more than a knife for the table. He wasn't a man of violence, not that kind of violence.

Hammett brought the voluminous dark blue woolen delia and held it out. "Which way would you like to wear it today, sir?"

It was still early spring, the journey across the grounds would be cool, even in a closed chair, but Amadei's rooms would be warm. Zygmund opted for the option of sliding his arms through the openings in the front of the arm-eyes so that the long voluminous sleeves draped down behind him. Finally he settled his soft woolen kolpek on his head, checked his image in a silvered glass, adjusted the glossy blue-black crow-feathers ptaverned to the front of the turned up brim and nodded to say he was ready.

While Hammett went to give instructions for the chair Zygmund hobbled a few steps and retrieved the canvas bag from the chest. He needed to get rid of it before it started to smell. He should have done it before he slept, but he'd been too drained by the night's doings. Once on a midden, if anyone found it, they would assume it the unwanted get of some unfortunate girl, and though they might wonder why its tiny heart was missing the hue and cry would not come in his direction.