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The two bishops stared at her, then at each other. For a long time.

“She may have—” said Bon.

“—a point,” said Bastor.

“But Chosen One,” said Bon. “Sorry, I mean, Unchosen One. Waiting to find out’s been our whole purpose.”

“We can’t live without a purpose…”

“Okay,” said Deeba thoughtfully. “I know what your purpose is.”

“Do you?” Bon said eagerly.

“What?” said Hemi.

“Really?” said the book.

“If I tell you,” Deeba continued, “you have to help. You have to tell us everything about the Black Windows.”

“That seems perfectly reasonable,” said Bastor.

“Alright,” said Deeba. “You just got it back to front. I reckon your purpose is to make sure no one ever brings you the crown. Your purpose in life is to make sure you don’t find out who won.”

The wind whistled gently over the quivering web of the abbey. The UnSun warmed them.

“Again,” said Bon. “She may—”

“—be onto something,” said Bastor.

“I wonder if we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”

“I always had my doubts, old man.” They were beginning to speak with more enthusiasm.

“Silly of us to have brought it up.”

“Absolutely! No need at all! Perfectly clear!”

“Our holy task is to make absolutely damn sure we don’t find out who won.”

“Of course it is! Splendid! Do let’s get on with it!” The two bishops beamed at each other, and at Deeba and her friends.

“We really can’t thank you enough, young lady. You’ve been immensely helpful.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Deeba. “I’ll even throw in the feather.” She handed it over. “Now, finally—tell us what you know about the Black Windows. Maybe that way we can get past them.”

“I’m not quite sure what it is you’re after,” Bon said. “But I suspect that it’s not past you want but through.”

73

An Unusual Social Ecology

Deeba crept, bouncing, on thick, candy-floss-filigreed darkness.

Hemi was beside her. Jones was ahead, struggling along the tunnel of web. She felt their vibrations. Jones lugged their trap.

They had spent hours making it. It had been complicated work.

“Do you think the straps’ll hold?” Deeba whispered.

“Yes,” Jones whispered back. “Like I did the last six times you asked me. Fing made them out of bits of the web itself, so we know they’ll hold. I was more worried that his loops wouldn’t tighten when we pull, but he said to me, ‘Jones. I don’t tell you how to guard a bus. Don’t tell me how to tie off threads.’”

“The others better not get tired,” whispered Hemi.

Deeba was very scared. Her breath came fast. She wished yet again that she’d been able to think of some other way of achieving their goal. She felt the cord playing out behind Jones from their bait, past her and Hemi, all the way to Skool’s unseen hand. She gave it three quick tugs—everything’s alright.

Outside, each standing by other funnels in the silk, the utterlings, Obaday, and even the bishops themselves were whacking the threads, sending vibrations inside in an attempt to distract the inhabitants while Deeba, Hemi, and Jones got inside.

Deeba heard faint sounds. A tiny rustling like air. Quiet rattling like twigs falling from a tree.

“What is that?” she muttered. Hemi bumped into her.

“Stop stopping,” he grumbled.

“Hold on a second,” Jones whispered. “There’s a bit of light coming, and…whoa!”

The web bounced violently, and Deeba slipped down a sudden incline.

She couldn’t help letting out a little scream. Jones grabbed Deeba in one hand, plucking her out of her slide, and Hemi in the other, pulling them close. He wedged them with him in a little hollow behind a cobweb-smothered ridge. The three of them were absolutely still, waiting to see if they had been noticed.

The cord stretching behind them was repeatedly tugging, Deeba realized. She pulled it three times, to reassure Skool.

Eventually, her heartbeat slowed down, and she looked into the interior of Webminster Abbey.

They were high up in an enormous space. It was dim, faintly illuminated by the light of the UnSun through the silk arcing above them.

The great room was dotted with supports, cobweb-swaddled minarets or