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

of colors and shapes because the predominant sensation was

one of wading through a shallow pond made of legs. With

remarkable agility the youngsters scrambled in and between

the feet of the visitors, never once having a tiny leg kicked or

stepped on.

They reserved most of their attention for Talea, Flor, and

Jon-Tom. Bribbens and Clothahump they ignored completely.

Nor were they in the least bit shy.

One scrambled energetically up Jon-Tom's right side, pull-

ing thoughtlessly at his fortunately tough cape and pants. It

rode like a cat on his right shoulder, chattering breathily to

its less enterprising companions. Jon-Tom tried hard to think

of it as a cat.

The adolescent displayed a cluster of painted lines that ran

from its mandibles back between its eyes and down the back

of its head. The cosmetics did not give Jon-Tom a clue as to

its sex. He thought of brushing it away, but it behooves a

guest to match the hospitality of his hosts. So he left it alone,

resolutely ignoring the occasional reflexive flash of poisonous

fangs.

The spiderling sat there securely and waved its foot-long

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legs at disapproving adults and envious brethren. It whispered

in a rush to its obliging mount.

"where do you come from? you are warm, not cold like

me prey or the creatures of the forest, you are very tall and

thin and you have hair only atop your head and there very

dense." The youngster's partly clad abdomen brushed rhyth-

mically against the back of Jon-Tom's neck. He assumed it

was a friendly gesture. The fur on the spiderling's bottom

was as soft as Mudge's.

"you have funny mouths and your fangs are hidden, may i

see them?"

Jon-Tom patiently opened his mouth and grimaced to show

his teeth. The spiderling drew back in alarm, then moved

cautiously closer.

"so many. and they're white, not black or brown or gold.

they are so flat, save two. how can you suck fluids with

them?"

"I don't use my fangs—my teeth—to suck fluids," Jon-

Tom explained. "What liquid I do ingest I swallow straight.

Mostly I eat solid food and use my teeth to chew it into

smaller pieces."

The youngster shuddered visibly, "how awful, how grue-

some! you actually eat solid, unliquified flesh? your fangs

don't look up to the task. i'd think they'd break off. ugh,

ugh!"

"It can be tough sometimes," Jon-Tom confessed, recalling

some less than palatable meals he'd downed. "But my teeth

are stronger than yours. They're not hollow."

"i wonder," said the spiderling with the disarming honesty

common to all children, "if you'd taste good."

"I'd hope so. I'd hate to think I've lived all these years

just to give some friend an upset stomach. I'd probably be

pizza-and-coke flavored."

"i don't know what is a pissaoke." The infant bared tiny

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fangs, "i don't suppose you'd let me have a taste? your elders

aren't watching." He sounded hopeful.

"I'd like to oblige," Jon-Tom said nervously, "but I

haven't had anything to eat yet today and might make you

sick. Understand?"

"oh well." The youngster didn't sound too disappointed.

"i don't guess i'd like you sucking out one of my legs,

either." He quivered at the thought, "you're a nice person,

warmlander. i like you." Jon-Tom experienced the abdomen

caress once again. Then the spiderling jumped down to join

his fellow scamperers.

"luck to you, warmlander!"

"And to you also, child," Jon-Tom called hastily back to

him. Ananthos and several responsible bystanders were final-

ly shooing the spiderlings away. The children waved and

cheered in excited whispers, like any others, their multiple,

multicolored legs waving good-byes.

A greater weight pressured his left arm and he looked

around uncertainly. It was no disrespectful spiderling, howev-

er. Flor's expression was ashen, and she slumped weakly

against him. He quickly got an arm under her shoulders and

gave her some support.

"What's wrong, Flor? You look ill."

"What's wrong?" Fresh shock replaced some of the paleness

that had dominated her visage. "I've just been poked, probed,

and swarmed over by a dozen of the most loathesome,

disgusting creatures anyone could..."

Jon-Tom made urgent quieting motions. "Jesus, Flor. Keep

your voice down. These are our hosts."

"I know, but to have them touch me all over like that."

She was trembling uncontrollably. "Aranqs... uckkkk! I hate

them. I could never even stand the little ones the size of my

thumb, for all that Mama used to praise them for catching the

cockroaches. So you can imagine how I feel about these. I

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could hardly stand it on the boat." She moved unsteadily

away from his arm. "I don't know how much more of this I

can take, Jon-Tom," and she gestured at Ananthos, who was

marching ahead of them.

They turned up another, broader web-road. "What matters

isn't what they look like," Jon-Tom told her sternly, "but

what's behind their looks. In this case, intelligence. We need

their help or Clothahump wouldn't have herded us all this

way." He eyed her firmly.

"Think you can manage by yourself now?"

She was breathing deeply. The color was returning to her

face. "I hope so, compadre. But if they climb over me like

that again..." A brief reprise of the trembling. "I feel

so.. .so icky."

" 'Icky' is a state of mind, not a physiological condition."

"Easy for you to say, Jon-Tom."

"Look, they probably don't think much of the way we

look, either. I know they don't."

"I don't care what they think," she shot back. "Santa

Maria, I hope we finish with this place quickly."

"Oh, I don't know." He noted the way in which the rising

sun, bright despite the intensifying cloudiness, sparkled off

the millions of cables and the silken buildings and webwork

walkway they were climbing. "I think it's kind of pretty."

"The fly complimenting the spider," she muttered.

"Except that the flies are here hunting for allies."

"Let's hope they are allies."

"Ahhh, you worry too much." He gave her an affectionate

pat on the back. She forced a grin in response, thankful for

his moral support.

Jon-Tom's attention returned forward, and to his surprise

he found himself staring straight into Talea's eyes. The

instant their gazes locked she turned away.

He decided she probably hadn't been looking at him.

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Probably trying to memorize their path in case they had to try

and flee. Such preparation and suspicion would be typical of

the redhead. It did not occur to him that the glance might

have been significant of anything else.

They had climbed several thousand feet by the afternoon.

Ahead loomed an enormous structure. How many spiders,

Jon-Tom wondered, had labored for how many years patiently

spinning the silk necessary to create those massive ramparts

of hardened silk and interlaced stone?

The royal palace of Gossameringue was made largely of

hewn rock cemented together not with mortar or clay or

concrete but layer on layer of spider silk. Turrets of silver

bulged from unexpected places. The entire immense structure

was suspended from a vast overhang of volcanic rock by

cables a yard thick. Those cables would have supported a

mountain. Though the wind was stronger here, high up the