In one or two places, Deeba could see dark, immobile things smothered in the silk. It was wound around them in shrouds, suspending them in the building’s substance.
“That’ll be Webminster Abbey, then,” said Hemi.
They all descended, and stood together, the bus above them, in front of Webminster Abbey: Skool, Obaday Fing, Rosa, Conductor Jones, Hemi, the utterlings Bling and Cauldron, Curdle the carton, Deeba, and the book.
The cobweb church loomed before them, its strands humming as the early-morning air passed through them. The UnSun was rising, but its weak light didn’t make the abbey less threatening. It seemed to be smothered in shadow.
In several places, the silk curved inwards into tight funnels of darkness, jutting into the interior. Some were only a foot or two above the pavement, some up near the top of the steeple. They ranged from the size of a rabbit hole to that of a trapdoor.
“We’re going to have to go in one of those, aren’t we?” Hemi said.
“Book, do you know what’s inside?” Deeba said.
“The Black Window. I’m afraid I’ve got nothing more than that.”
“Alright,” said Jones cautiously. “Any ideas?”
“Firstly we’ve got to see what’s in there,” said Deeba. “So we just look in, really quick, then get out again and make a plan.”
They looked at each other uncomfortably.
The building was surrounded by a marquee of web, whorls of silk, and web archways. It was like twilight in the cobweb shade. Jones threw a stick into one of the cylindrical tunnels, and they all tensed.
The stick bounced and rolled out.
“Well, it’s not sticky,” said Deeba.
They crept up the silk slope towards the hole. It was like walking on a trampoline.
Skool had to stop. The diving boots were too heavy. They didn’t rip the silk, but sank too deep to walk.
“You’ll have to wait outside,” whispered Deeba. Skool slumped, and backed out of the tunnel. Obaday Fing was clutching his box of scissors, thread, and mirrors as if for comfort.
“You should go with Skool, Obaday,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Make sure there’s no trouble outside.”
“Alright then,” he whispered. “You be careful.” He crept back.
Hemi, Jones, and Rosa were all smiling at Deeba. Even the utterlings seemed to be, in their mouthless way.
“That was kind,” Hemi said.
“Shut up,” said Deeba. “We needed someone outside.”
“Oh, of course,” said Jones.
Deeba grinned grudgingly, looked up— and froze. Something was plummeting out of the shade above them.
“Jones!” she shouted.
The thing came down at tremendous speed. It loomed out of shadow too fast to see clearly, dark, and big, and angled, with limbs splayed.
It dropped over Rosa, and rose again, and disappeared.
Rosa was gone.
“No!” shouted Jones, and jumped, but there was nothing above them. Their attacker had soared into the overhanging web, into the shadows and out of sight.
71. Men of the Cloth
They hollered and stared up into the webbed vault, ready for another attack. No motion was visible. They had no idea where the thing had gone. There was no trace of Rosa at all.
Back in the light of the UnSun, Jones stamped and shouted miserably, and kept saying Rosa’s name.
“Years, we’ve been together,” Jones said. “Years! She fought by my side in the Siege of the Battery Sea. Drove search-and-rescue to the coldmines for years. It was her came over from London with me…”
“I know, I know,” said Deeba. They all stood in a circle, trying to work out what to do.
“Oh, dratted shame,” said someone. “Are we too late?”
Deeba whirled around. Behind her were two tall, dry-looking priests. They wore big, silly popes’ hats, and carried shepherds’ crooks. They were incredibly ancient. One was stubbly, with very dark red, almost black, robes. His skin was the same color. The other was as pale as Hemi, and wore a long white beard and white— though dirty— cassock.
The men moved in tiny tottering zigzags, diagonally, forward and back.
“Who are you?” Deeba said.
“What’s that?” said the pale man, cupping his ear. “Oh, who are we? I’m Bishop Alan Bastor.”
“And I’m Bishop Ed Bon,” said the other. “We know the secrets of this place, et cetera.”
Their two voices were indistinguishable. They sounded extremely posh and elderly. Old English gents.
“May I say,” said Bishop Bastor, “gather you lost a comrade. Awful business. Dreadfully sorry.”
“Time was we met every arachnofenestranaut, warned them with a few home truths,” said Bon. “Didn’t stop them all, of course, but at least they had due warning.”
“Now we’re older, there’s always some we don’t get to,” said Bastor.
“Arackno— what?” said Hemi.
“Ah. Rack. No. Fenestra. Naut,” said Bon. “Travelers like yourselves.”
“You run this place?” said Deeba.
“Oh, no,” sighed Bon. “Bless you.”
He and Bastor looked sadly at each other. They were both coated in dust. Their eyes were as droopy and tired-looking as bloodhounds.
“We were military chaplains.”
“Spiritual support for the troops.”
“You were a team?” Deeba said. The two men looked shocked.
“Absolutely not,” said Bastor. “Deadly enemies.” He said this in the same vague, slightly tremulous tones with which he had said everything. Bon nodded judiciously.
“Quite right,” he said. “Implacably opposed.” The two men looked at each other mildly.
“What are you doing here?” said Deeba.
Bastor handed his staff absently to Bon, who took it without a word and waited while his companion scratched himself vigorously.
“Bastor and I were spiritual staff, for each side.”
“Although that didn’t stop me kicking a little bottom at times,” sniffed Bastor with satisfaction. “A couple of knights rather regretted tangling with this His Eminence.”
“Absolutely,” said Bon. “I doubt your lot would’ve thought me very holy, either.” They both chuckled in reminiscence.
“And?” said Deeba.
“We’re on a bit of a schedule here,” said Hemi.
“Sorry, sorry. Well, we both got taken.”
“But his lot were shockingly lax on security.”
“I didn’t exactly get stopped at the fence myself, old chap.”
“We bumped into each other here. We’d had a similar idea.”
“Bishops, you know? Heard this was an important church.”
“Turned out not to be quite what we’d had in mind,” Bon said, waving at the silk. “Still—”
“— neither of us could very well let the place fall into enemy hands. But then we were both hors de combat as they say in Parisn’t.”
“So after a few stiff words—”
“Yes, I was awful, wasn’t I?”
“— we came to an arrangement. You see, I’m watching to make sure he doesn’t claim it.”
“And I he. Until we find out who won the war.”
“As soon as we find out my lot’ve won, you’re for it then, I’m afraid.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” said Bastor placidly. “Soon enough you’ll be in my power.”
“Truth is, though…we’ve rather lost touch of the state of the campaign. Haven’t had any communiqués for…how long would you say it was, Bon?”