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

IX

He leaned back and called breathily upward, "arethos,

imedshud! intob coom." Two of the watchful Weavers dropped

to the deck, their spinnerets snipping off the cables trailing

from their abdomens. They studied the warmlanders with

interest.

"these will accompany us on the journey, for i can hardly

claim to have you in restriction, as your tall white friend has

suggested, all by myself, yet i am charged with the watchfiuness

on this bridge and cannot leave it deserted, so three of us will

accompany you and three remain here.

"we shall proceed upstream, a day's journey from here,

the river lamayad splits, several days further it splits again.

against that divide, set against the breath, is our capital, my

home."

He added wamingly, "what happens then is no longer my

responsibility, i can make no promises as to the nature of your

reception, for i am low in the hierarchy, most low, for all that

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no weaver lies in the mud and none soars above the others.

our hierarchy is a convenience and necessary to governing,

and that is all.

"as to an audience with the grand webmistress..." his

voice trailed away meaningfully.

"Diplomacy moves best when it moves cautiously," said

Caz, "and not in dangerous leaps."

"For now it will be more than enough if you see us to the

capital, Ananthos," Clothahump assured him.

The spider seemed greatly relieved, "then my thoughts are

clear, i am neither helping nor hindering you, merely refer-

ring you to those in the position to do so." He turned and

ceremoniously detached the cable holding the bow of the

motionless boat.

Bribbens had remained by his oar during the discussion.

Now he leaned gently on it as once again the wind began to

fill the sail. The boat turned neatly on its axis as the cry of

"ware the boom!" rang out from the steersman. Soon they

had passed beneath the intricate webwork spanning the river

and were once again traveling upstream.

"i've never seen a warmlander." Ananthos was standing

quite close to Jen-Tom, "most interesting biology." Despite

ten thousand years of primitive fears, Jon-Tom did not pull

away when the spider reached out to him.

Ananthos extended a double-clawed leg. It was covered

with bristly hairs. The delicate silk scarves of green and

turquoise enveloping the limb mitigated its menacing appear-

ance. The finger-sized claws touched the man's cheek, pressed

lightly, and traveled down the face to the neck before with-

drawing. Somehow Jon-Tom kept from flinching. He concen-

trated on those brightly colored eyes studying him.

"no fur at all like the short bewhiskered one, except on

top. and soft... so soft!" He shuddered, "what a terrible

fragility to live with."

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

"You get used to it," said Jon-Tom. It occurred to him mat

the spider found him quite repulsive.

They continued studying each other. "That's beautiful

silk," the man commented. "Did you make it yourself?"

"do you mean, did i spin the silk or manufacture the scarf?

in truth i did neither." He waved a leg at the others, "we

differ even more in size than you seem to. some of our

smaller cousins produce far finer silk than a clumsy oaf like

myself is capable of. they are trained to do so, and others

carefully weave and pattern their produce." He reached down

and unwrapped a four-foot turquoise length and handed it to

Jon-Tom.

A palmful of feathers was like lead compared to the scarf.

He could have whispered at it and blown it over the side of

the boat. The dye was a faint blue, as rich as the finest

Persian turquoise with darker patches here and there. It was

the lightest fabric he'd ever caressed. Wearing it would be as

wearing nothing.

He moved to hand it back. Ananthos' head bobbed to the

left. "no. it is a gift." Already he'd refastened two other long

scarves to compensate for the loss of the turquoise. Jon-Tom

had a glimpse of the intricate knot-and-clip arrangement that

held the quasi-sari together.

"Why?"

Now the head bobbed down and to me right. He was

beginning to match head movements to the spider's moods.

What at first had seemed only a nervous twitching was

becoming recognizable as a complex, highly stylized group of

suggestive gestures. The spiders utilized their heads the way

an Italian used his hands, for speech without speaking.

"why? because you have something about you, something

i cannot define, and because you admired it."

"I'll say we've got something about us," Talea grumbled.

"An air of chronic insanity."

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Alan Dean Foster

Ananthos considered the comment. Again the whispery

laughter floated like snowflakes across the deck. "ah, humor!

humor is among the warmlander's richest qualities, perhaps

the most redeeming one."

"For all the talk of hostility our legends speak of, you

seem mighty friendly," she said.

"it is my duty, soft female," the Weaver replied. His gaze

went back to Jon-Tom. "please me by accepting the gift."

Jon-Tom accepted the length of silk. He wrapped it muffler-

like around his neck, above the indigo shut. It didn't get

tangled in his cape clasp. In fact, it didn't feel as though it

was there at all. He did not consider how it might look

sandwiched between the iridescent green cape and purpled

shirt.

"I have nothing to offer in return," he said apologetically.

"No, wait, maybe I do." He unslung his duar. "Do the

Weavers like music?"

Ananthos' answer was unexpected. He extended two limbs

in an unmistakable gesture. Jon-Tom carefully passed over

the instrument.

The Weaver resumed his half-sit, half-squat and laid the

duar across two knees. He had neither hands nor fingers, but

the eight prehensile claws on the four upper limbs plucked

with experimental delicacy at the two sets of strings.

The melody that rose from the duar was light and ethereal,

alien, atonal, and yet full of almost familiar rhythms. It

would begin to sound almost normal, then drift off on strange

tangents. Very few notes contributed to a substantial tune.

Ananthos' playing reminded Jon-Tom more of samisen music

than guitar.

Flor leaned blissfully back against the mast, closed her

eyes, and soaked up the spare melody. Mudge sprawled

contentedly on the deck while Caz tried, without success, to

tap time to the disjointed beat. Nothing soothes xenophobia

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TBB HOUR Or TBE GATE

so efficiently as music, no matter how strange its rhythms or

inaudible the words.

An airy wail rose from Ananthos and his two companions.

The three-part harmony was bizarre and barely strong enough

to rise above the breeze. There was nothing ominous in their

singing, however. The little boat made steady progress against

the current. In spite of his unshakable devotion to his job,

even Bribbens was affected. One flippered foot beat on the

deck in a futile attempt to domesticate the mystical arachnid

melody.

It might be, Jon-Tom thought, that they would find no

allies here, but he was certain they'd already found some

friends. He fingered the end of the exquisite scarf and

allowed himself to relax and sink comfortably under the

soothing spell of the spider's frugal fugue....

It was early in the morning of the fourth day on the

Scuttleteau that he was shaken awake. Much too early, he