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Dead already. So sad. If she still breathed, I might help you find her killer. But you have left it too late.
"No," I said. "There's something you can do. You know that."
Arachne's face turned black with surprise. She ran needle-claws through lank hair; giant fleas jumped like field-mice before the scythe.
I am a weaver of silk, not miracles.
"You telling me you can't do it?"
I did not say that. But if I do what you ask, it is you who will owe me a favour.
I thought about it. Arachne's not someone you want to be in debt to. On the other hand, she tends to stay home. I figured so long as I kept my distance, I'd never have to make good on the promise.
Of course, it didn't quite work out like that.
"All right," I said. "Do this and I'll owe you one."
"Do what?" said Byron.
"So what's her story?" whispered Byron. "She gives me the creeps."
We'd retreated to a safe corner. Well, as safe as any corners are in Arachne's domain.
"Dirty tricks in the underwear underworld," I said. "Arachne used to run an illegal pantyhose sweatshop down by the river. The sweatshop was in direct competition with the shiny new factory Pallas Athene set up in the Diana's Glade Business Park. Now, as you know, Pallas Athene used to be queen of black market lingerie before she turned respectable and became mayor. These days, all PA's businesses are strictly legit. But Arachne never cleaned up her act. So, anyway, story goes Arachne was trying to undercut Pallas Athene on this wholesale lingerie deal. PA caught Arachne in the middle of the night handing over a truckload of bootleg silk teddies under the Green Knight Bridge. Now, PA might look like a doll and she might be mayor but she's got one hell of a temper. There's not many cross her and live to tell the tale. Arachne's one of the few."
"What did Pallas Athene do?"
"Turned Arachne into a spider, banished her into a self-reticulating semi-dimensional oubliette and revoked her weaver's licence."
"But… she don't look like a spider."
"That's just the oubliette at work. As long we're here our perceptions are regulated by Arachne's personal reality grid. Arachne is a spider but she still thinks of herself as a woman. So that's what we see."
Byron shuddered. "Don't like spiders."
"Who does?"
Arachne was waving her hands over the top of the garbage can. Her hands moved fast; as they moved, those needle-claws got longer. Soon the needles were longer than the fingers that held them.
Arachne plunged her hands in the garbage can. Her shoulders worked like pistons. Blood sprayed from the can, painting her face. Arachne's claws knitted the air with streaks of silver light; she looked like a crazed washer-woman up to her elbows in some ghastly laundry basket. The garbage can sang like a steel band. And all the while the patchwork rats looked down with sad eyes, because they knew exactly what was going on.
At last it was over. Arachne pulled her arms out. Her needle-claws were back to normal. Her arms were as red as the rags she wore. Her chin was black with condensed breath.
And the garbage can was shaking.
I took a cautious step towards the can. This time it was Byron who held me back.
"Don't wa
Arachne lifted one scrawny leg and kicked the garbage can over. For the second time that day, the girl spilled out. Only this time she was all in one piece. Above my head, all the rats sighed in unison. Behind me, I heard a colossal thump as Byron fainted.
I had to admit, Arachne had done a beautiful job. Everything was in place, and the girl was a real peach: long legs and a tiny waist, and everything else responding nicely to gravity as she picked herself up. Not a drop of blood on her. Trouble was, good though the needlework was, you could see all the joins.
Eleven thousand, three hundred and ninety-five discrete pieces, said Arachne. A triumph, even for me.
I wondered if the girl would see it that way. It's one thing coming back from the dead. It's another finding you look like a patchwork quilt. I wondered if I'd done the right thing.
"I'm alive," said the girl. She held up her arm, examined the red, cross-stitched scars. She looked down at the rest of her naked body. It looked like a road atlas, each highway drawn in herringbone weave. "That's pretty neat," she said. "I always figured I'd get tattoos one day. A girl like me can earn ten times as much with tattoos. I just hate needles. But now it's done, and I didn't feel a thing. How cool is that?"
I shrugged off my coat, threw it round the girl's shoulders. Pretty as she was, I couldn't bear looking at those scars. At least on her face there was just the one-even if it did run all the way round the edge.
I kicked Byron until he woke up. When he saw the girl he nearly fainted again.
"Time to go, big fella," I said.
The girl turned to Arachne and beamed. "Thanks a bunch, old woman. What do I owe you?"
Arachne smiled too, but not at the girl.
You don't owe me anything, young lady.
"Come on," I muttered, grabbing a handful of clay and a handful of needlework, "let's get out of here."
Not so fast, gumshoe.
Something slapped the back of my neck. I tried to bat it away but my hand stuck fast. I heard a scraping sound. I looked down: it was my shoes sliding across the floor.
With a glue-tipped rope of pure spider silk, Arachne reeled me in.
Three seconds later I was cocooned. Silk rigging upended me and buried my feet in the rat-tail ceiling. The rats gave way, squeaking in fury. And there I hung, blood filling up my head, watching Arachne stride towards me.
I like my debts paid promptly, she said, gri
"All right." At least the cocoon didn't cover my mouth. "You got me. But let them go."
They are free to leave whenever they please.
"Uh," said Byron, "we don't know how."
"Come here," I said. Arachne watched with interest as the golem edged up to where I was hanging. "Collar pocket. There's a zipper."
Byron rummaged in my shirt and took out a grey cube the size of a craps die.
"What's this?"
"Spare dimensions. I keep them for emergencies. You got six to play with there-one per side. It's a one-shot thing though: you only get to use each side once."
"This will get us out of here?"
"Isn't that what I just said?"
"What about you?"
"I'll figure something out."
"No, I mean, how will we solve the case without you?"
"For a minute I thought you cared. Look, you got the girl back. Quiz her. Ask her what happened. Then… maybe you'll figure something out."
Byron stared at the dimension-die. It looked tiny in his huge, clay hands.
"Thanks," he said. His cheeks were going soft again. "I mean it. And I'll look after her."
"Get out of here, big fella," I said.
That's when Arachne set me spi
She let me spin long enough so I threw up. Trust me, when you're upside down, vomit lingers.
How does it feel to be a prisoner? Arachne said when I'd stopped spi
"Just… tell me… what you want," I managed to croak.
It's very simple, gumshoe. I want out of this place.
I closed my eyes. This was going to be bad.
"You know I can't do that. Only Pallas Athene can authorise your release. My hands are tied."
In case you hadn't noticed, you're all tied. But that is academic. You can do it. You know you can. And… we made a deal.