Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

"Now, now, Talea-tail. Late for recriminations, don'tcha

tink?" Again the rich laughter. "His Bosship has ya all

where he wants ya." A series of rapid-fire squeeks seeped out

as he delightedly lapped up their discomfort.

"It does seem you've been somewhat less than truthful

with us, sir," said Caz reprovingly.

"Not at all. I have not once lied to any of you. And the

odds do not lessen the importance of our trying to conclude

this alliance. The more so now that we have actually com-

pleted the arduous journey through the Earth's Throat and

have reached the Scuttleteau.

"Admittedly our chances of persuading the Weavers to join

with us are slight, but the chance is real so long as we are

real. We must reach for every advantage and assistance we

can."

"And if we die on the failure of this slight chance?" Flor

wanted to know.

"That is a risk I have resigned myself to accepting," he

replied blandly.

"I see." Talea's fingers dug into the wood of the railing.

She stared at the river as she spoke. "If we all die, that's a

risk you're prepared to take. Well, I'm not."

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THE HOUR Of THE GATE

"As you wish." Clothahump gestured magnanimously at

me water. "I herewith release you from any obligation to

assist me further. You may commence your swim homeward."

"Like hell." She peered back at Bribbens. "Turn this

deadwood around."

The boatman threw her a goggle-eyed and mournful look.

"How much can you pay me?"

l&T >»

"I see." He turned his attention back to the river ahead. "I

take orders only from those who can pay me." He indicated

Clothahump. "He paid me. He tells my boat where it is to

go. I do not renege on my business agreements."

"Screw your business agreements, don't you care about

your own life?" she asked him.

"I honor my commitments. My honor is my life." This

last was uttered with such finality that Talea subsided.

"Commitments my ass." She turned to sit glumly on the

deck, glaring morosely at the wooden planking.

"I repeat, I have not lied to any of you." Clothahump

spoke with dignity, then added by way of an afterthought, "I

should have thought that all of you were ready to take any

risk necessary in this time of crisis. I see that I was mistaken,"

It was quiet on the boat for several hours. Then Talea

looked up irritably and said, "I'm sorry. Bribbens is right.

We all made a commitment to see this business through. I'll

Stick to mine." She glanced back at the wizard. "My fault. I

apol... I apologize." The unfamiliar word came hard to her.

There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

"That's better," Clothahump observed. "I'm glad that

you've all made up your minds. Again. It was time to do so

because," and he pointed over the bow, "soon there will be

no chance of turning back."

Completely spanning the river a hundred yards off the bow

was a soaring network of thick cables. They made a silvery

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Alan Dean Foster

shadow on the water, a domed superstructure of glistening

filaments in the intensifying morning light.

Waiting and watching with considerable interest from their

resting places high up in the cables were half a dozen of the

Weavers.

Clothahump knew what to expect. Caz, Mudge, Talea,

Pog, and Bribbens had some idea, if through no other means

than the stories passed down among generations of travelers.

But Jon-Tom and Flor possessed no such mental buffering.

Primeval fear sent a shudder through both of them. It was

instinctive and unreasoning and cold. Only the fact that their

companions showed no sign of panic prevented the two

otherworlders from doing precisely that.

The six Weavers might comprise a hunting party, an official

patrol, or simply a group of interested river gazers out for a

day's relaxation. Now they gathered near the leading edge of

the cablework.

One of them shinnied down a single strand when the boat

began to pass beneath. Under Bribbens' directions and at

Clothahump's insistence, Mudge and Caz were taking down

.the single sail.

"No point in making a show of resistance or attempting to

pass uncontested," the wizard murmured. "After all, our

purpose in coming here is to meet with them."

Unable to override their instincts, Jon-Tom and Flor moved

to the rear of the boat, as far away from their new visitor as

they could get.

That individual secured the bottom of his cable to the bow

of the little boat. The craft swung around, tethered to the

overhead network, until its stem was pointing upstream.

Having detached the cable from the end of his abdomen,

the Weaver rested on four legs, quietly studying the crew of

the peculiar boat with unblinking, lidless multiple eyes. Four

arms were folded across his cephalothorax. His body was

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THE Hous OF THE GATE

bright yellow with concentric triangles decorating the under-

side of the sternum. His head was a beautiful ocher. The slim

abdomen had blue stripes running down both the dorsal and

ventral sides.

Complementing this barrage of natural coloration was a

swirling, airy attire of scarves and cloth. The material was

readily recognizable as pure silk. It was twisted and wrapped

sari-style around the neck, cephalothorax, abdomen, and

upper portions of the legs and arms. Somehow it did not

entangle the Weaver's limbs as he moved.

It was impossible to tell how many pieces of silk the visitor

was wearing. Jon-Tom followed one feathery kelly-green

scarf for several yards around legs and abdomen until it

vanished among blue and pink veils near the head. A series of

bright pink bows knotted several of the scarves together and

decorated the spinneret area. Mandibles moved idly, and

occasionally they could see the twin fangs that flanked the

other mouth-parts. The Weaver was a nightmare out of a Max

Ernst painting, clad in Technicolor.

The nightmare spoke. At first Jon-Tom had trouble under-

_ standing the breathy, faint voice. Gradually curiosity over-

threw his initial ten-or, and he joined his companions in the

bow. He began to make sense of the whispery speech, which

reminded him of papers blowing across stepping-stones.

As the Weaver talked, he tested the cable he'd spun himself

from bridge to boat. Then he sat down, having concluded his

prayer or invocation or whatever it had been, by folding his

four legs beneath him. His jaw rested on the upper tarsals and

claws. The body was three feet long and the legs almost

doubled that.

"it has been a long time," said the veiled spider, "fa-

beyond my lifetime, beyond i think the memory of any

currently alive, since any of the wamuand people have visiteo

the scuttleteau."

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Alan Dean Foster

Jon-Tom tried to analyze the almost nonexistent inflection.

Was the Weaver irritated, or curious, or both?

"no one can cross the mountains." A pair of arms gestured

toward the towering peaks that loomed above them.

"We did not come over the mountains," said Clothahump,

"but through them." He nodded toward the river. "We came

on this watercourse through the Earth's Throat."

The spider's head bobbed from side to side. "that is not

possible."

"Then how the hell do you think we got here?" Talea said

challengingly, bravery and bluster overcoming common sense.

"it may be that..." The spider hesitated, the whispery