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

two immense guards. A small blue spider met them there. He

was full of apologies and anxiety.

When he'd finished bobbing and weaving, he beckoned

them to follow.

The chamber they entered was high and dark. A few

narrow windows were set in the rear wall. Only a couple of

lamps burned uncertainly in their wall holders, shedding

reluctant amber light on vast lounges and pillows of richly

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colored silk. It did not occur to anyone to wonder what they

were stuffed with.

More surprising was the large quantity of decorative art.

There were sculptures in metal and wood, in stone anc

embalmed spider silk. Gravity-defying mobiles stretched frorr

ceiling to floor. Some were cleverly lit from within by tin;

lamps or candles. Some of the sculpture was representational

but a surprising amount was abstract. Silken parallelograms

vied with stress patterns for floor space. The colors of both

sculptures and furniture were subdued in shade but bright of

hue: orange, crimson, black and purple, deep blues and

deeper greens. There were no pastels.

"the grand webmistress Oil bids you welcome, strangers

from a far land," the little spider piped, "i leave you now."

He turned and scurried quickly out the doorway.

"i must go also," said Ananthos. He hesitated, then

added, "some of your ideas mark you almost akin to the

eternal weave, perhaps we shall meet again some day."

"I hope so," said Jon-Tom, whispering without knowing

why. He watched as the spider followed the tiny herald in

retreat.

They walked farther into the chamber. Clothahump put

hands on nonexistent hips, murmured impatiently, "Well,

where are you, madam?"

"up here!" The voice was hardly stentorian, but it was a

good deal richer than the breathy weaver whispers they'd had

to contend with thus far; chocolate mousse compared to

chocolate pudding. It seemed the voice had slight but definite

feminine overtones, but Jon-Tom decided he might be

anthropomorphosizing as he stood there in the near darkness.

"here," said the voice once more. The eyes of the visitors

traveled up, up, and across the ceiling. High in the right-hand

comer of the chamber was a vast, sparkling mass of the finest

silk. It had been inlaid with jewels and bits of metal in

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delicate mosaic until it sucked all the light out of the two

feeble lamps and threw it back in the gaze of any fortunate

onlookers. The silk itself had been arranged in tiny abstract

geometric forms that fit together as neatly as the pieces of a

silver puzzle.

A vast black globe slid over the side of the silken bower.

On a thin thread it fell slowly toward the chamber floor, like a

huge drop of petroleum. It was not as large as the massive

tarantulas guarding the entryway, but it was far bulkier than

Ananthos and most of the other arachnid inhabitants of

Gossameringue. The bulbous abdomen was nearly three feet

across. Save for a brilliant and all too familiar orange-red

hourglass splashed across the underside of the abdomen, the

body appeared to be encased in black steel.

Multiple black eyes studied the visitors expressionlessly.

The spinnerets daintily snipped the abdomen free from the

trailing silk cable. Settling down on tiptoe, the eight legs

folded neatly beneath the body. Then the enormous black

widow was resting comfortably on a sprawling red cushion,

preening one fang with a leg tip.

"i am the grand webmistress OU," the polite horror

informed them. "you must excuse the impoliteness of cleaning

my mouth, but my husband was in for breakfast and we have

only just now finished."

Jon-Tom knew something of the habits of black widows.

He eyed the jeweled boudoir above and shuddered.

Clothahump, unfazed by the Grand Webmistress' appear-

ance, stepped briskly to the fore. Once again he laid out the

reason for their extraordinary journey. He detailed their expe-

riences on the Swordsward, in the Earth's Throat, related the

magical crossing of Helldrink. Even in his dry, mechanical

voice the retelling was impressive.

The Grand Webmistress Oil listened intently, occasionally

permitting herself a whispered expression of awe or apprecia-

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tion. Clothahump rambled on, telling of the peculiar new evil

raised by the Plated Folk and their imminent invasion of the

wannlands.

Finally he finished the tale. It was silent in the chamber for

several minutes.

011's first reaction was not expected, "you! come a little

nearer." She finally had to raise a leg and point, since it was

impossible to tell exactly where those lidless black eyes were

looking.

She pointed at Jon-Tom.

His hesitation was understandable. After the initial shock

of their appearance, he'd been able to overcome his instinc-

tive reactions to the spiders. He'd done so to a point where

he'd grown fond of Ananthos and his companions, to a point

where he could allow curious spideriings to clamber over his

body. Even the three antisocial types they'd encountered in

the cells below had seemed more abhorrent for their viciousness

than their shape.

But the dark, swollen body before him was representative

of a kind he'd been taught to fear since childhood. It brought

to the surface fears that laughed at logic and reason.

A hand was nudging him from behind. He looked down,

saw Clothahump staring anxiously at him.

"come, come, fellow," said the Webmistress. "i've just

eaten." A feathery, thick laugh, "you look as though you'd

be all bone, anyway."

Jon-Tom moved closer. He tried to see the Webmistress in

a matronly cast. Still, he couldn't keep his gaze entirely away

from the dark fangs barely hidden in their sheaths. Just a

graze from one would kill him instantly, even if the widow's

venom had been somewhat diluted by her increased size.

A black leg, different from any he'd yet encountered in

Gossameringue, touched his shouMtBr. It traveled down his

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arm, then his side. He could feel it through his shirt and

pants.

Close now, he was able to note the delicate and nearly

transparent white silks that encompassed much of the shining

black body. They had been embroidered with miniature scenes

of Gossameringue life. Attire impressive and yet sober enough

for a queen, he thought.

"what is your name, fellow?"

"Jon-Tom. At least, that's what my friends call me."

"i will not trouble you with my entire name," was the

reply, "it would take a long time and you would not remem-

ber it anyhow, you may call me Oil." The head shifted past

him. "so may you all. as you are not citizens of the

scuttleteau, you need show no special deference to me."

Again the clawed, shiny leg moved down his front. He did

not flinch, "do you also support the claims and statements of

the small hard-shelled one?" Another leg gestured at

Clothahump.

"I do."

"well, then." She rested quietly for a moment. Then she

glanced up once more at Jon-Tom. "why should we care

what happens to the peoples of the warmlands?"

"You have to," Clothahump began importantly, "because

it is evident that if—"

"be silent." She waved a leg imperiously at the wizard, "i

did not ask you."

Clothahump obediently shut up. Not because he was afraid

of me large, poisonous body but because pragmatism is a