For a moment all its eyes stared at her, uncomprehending. Then her meaning bit in, and its shoulders sagged, forlorn. But the jut of its chin remained defiant: “I will try.”

They found the nearest stretch of Armesion’s wall: rising high above them, its stones smooth. Cyrene could probably have made it with spikes and rope and a lot of time and noise. Time was something they didn’t have, and noise they could not afford.

She had some rope on her, silk for minimum bulk and weight. At least, she thought wildly, letting down a line of silk was something the creature must be used to.

Enth flexed its long fingers and wriggled its toes. For a moment it regarded her with that stare. She had taken it for an expressionless mask when she saw it first, but by now she knew that it held all manner of expressions, just not ones she could read, or perhaps not even ones she had names for.

“Go,” she told it, and it reached out for the walls of the holy city and began to ascend.

She had half been expecting just a flurry of skittering speed that would take the creature all the way to the top, but Enth climbed more like a man, albeit a man who seemed to need no handholds. His movements were measured, careful, limb after limb. She wondered at it: Penthos never taught it how to use its human body thus, and so somehow it had converted its innate talents into something its changed form could use.

She shook her head: no doubt it was something that magical theorists could spend a pleasant evening wrangling about, but not her.

Still, and despite herself, it was an impressive sight. It was hideous in its form, frightening in its speed and power. Past those things, it had a strength to it, and now even a kind of grace. If she tried hard, then familiarity meant she could observe it almost dispassionately.

Him. Could she think of it as him? Lief had managed, but then Lief was used to all kinds of lowlife in his line of work. Perhaps he didn’t draw much distinction between metaphorical and literal vermin.

Enth paused, and Cyrene watched a couple of guards pass by on the walkway at the top, taking their time. The man-spider just hung there, seemingly tireless, utterly still, until they had gone.

A minute later and it had gained the top and let her rope down in a cascade of pale silk. She had to pause to muster her courage before trusting her weight to it, with only the hold of the creature above to keep her from falling: apparently something that spiders and Penthos had in common was a lack of facility with knots.