‘Master Maker,’ the Spider greeted him in a pleasant, reassuring voice. Like the best of his kind he was the consummate socialite, all things to all audiences. ‘Thank you for accepting my invitation. Pray join me.’

Stenwold cautiously moved to the couch facing him, accepting a goblet of wine from one servant, a honeyed locust from the other. Behind Teornis, a sultry Spider maiden reclined on her side amidst the cushions and watched Stenwold curiously, but the Beetle found himself thinking, I have a sultry Spider maiden of my own, and he smiled at that.

‘War Master Maker, I should have said,’ Teornis added.

Stenwold swallowed the locust and held up a hand. ‘Please not that title, Lord-Martial. I have no stomach for it.’

‘Then I shall call you Stenwold, and you must call me Teornis.’

‘You are too kind.’

‘I am just kind enough,’ said the Spider. ‘You are now a hero to your people. I shall flatter you outrageously until you agree to my every demand.’ His smile was the whitest Stenwold had ever seen. ‘I always thought myself fond of titles, but even I find mine has begun to weigh on me. There seem to be ever more matters martial to deal with these days.’

Stenwold nodded. ‘Someone in a hurry addressed me just “War Maker” today.’

‘A hazard of a practical surname.’

‘It could be worse.’ Stenwold found himself smiling again. ‘When I was a student here, there was a fellow called Hiram Master who entered into the Assembly. Nobody had thought about it, but suddenly he was Master Master. He resigned a tenday later.’

Teornis laughed politely. ‘Stenwold, are you currently in the right frame of mind to discuss Spiderland politics?’

‘Is there ever a right frame of mind, for my people?’