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
tones little louder than the Breeze wafting across the ship.
Then faint, breathy puffs came from that arachnoid throat. It
was a laughter that sounded like the wind that gets lost in
thick trees and idles around until it blows itself out.
"ah, sarcasm, a trait of the soft-bodied, i believe, what do
you wish here on the scuttleteau?"
Jon-Tom felt himself drawn to the side by Caz while the
wizard and Weaver talked. The rabbit gestured toward the
sky.
The other five Weavers now hung directly above the boat
from short individual cables. It was obvious they could be on
the deck in seconds. They carried cleverly designed knives
and bolas that could be easily manipulated by the double
flexible claws tipping each limb.
"They've been quiet enough thus far," said Caz, "but
should our learned leader's conversation grow less than ac-
commodating, we should anticipate confronting more than
one of them." His hand slid suggestively over the knife slung
at his own hip, beneath the fine jacket.
Jon-Tom nodded acknowledgment. They separated and
casually apprised the others of the quintet dangling ominously
over their heads.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
When Clothahump had finished, the spider moved back
against the railing and regarded them intently. At least, that
was the impression Jon-Tom received. It was difficult to tell
not only how he was seeing them mentally, but physically as
well. With four eyes, two small ones and two much larger
ones mounted higher on his head, the Weaver would be hard
to surprise.
"you have come a long way without being sure of the
nature of your eventual reception, to what purpose? you have
talked much and said little, the mark of a diplomat but not
necessarily of a friend, why then are you here?"
Above, the Weaver's companions swayed gently in the
breeze and caressed their weapons.
"I'm sorry, but we can't tell you that," said Clothahump
boldly. Jon-Tom moved to make certain his back was against
the mast. "Our information is of such vital importance to the
Weavers that it can only be related to the highest local
authority."
"nothing a warmlander can say is of any importance to the
weavers." Again came that distant, whistling laugh, blowing
arrogantly across the deck.
"Nilontfwml" roared Clothahump in his most impressive
sorceral tone. Vibrations rattled the boat. Whitecaps snapped
on the crests of sudden waves, and there was a distant rumble
of thunder. The five watchers in the net overhead bounced
nervously on their organic tethers while the Weaver in the
boat stiffened against the rail.
Clothahump lowered his arms. One had to stare hard at the
inoffensive-appearing little turtle with the absurd spectacles to
believe that voice had truly issued from that hard-shelled
body.
"By my annointment as Sorcerer-Majestic of the Last
Circle, by the brow of EIrath-Vune now long dust, by all the
oaths that bind all the practitioners of True Magic back to the
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Alan Dean Foster
beginnings of divination, I swear to you that what I have to
say is vital to the survival of Weaver as well as warmlander,
and that it can be imparted only to the Grand Webmistress
herself!"
That pronouncement appeared to shake their visitor as
badly as had the totally unexpected demonstration of wizardly
power.
"most impressive in word and action," the spider husked.
"that you are truly a wizard cannot be denied." He recovered
some "octupul" poise and executed a short little bow, crossing
all four upper limbs across his chest.
"forgive my hesitation and suspicions and accept my
apologies should i have offended you. my name is ananthos."
"Are you in charge of the river guards, then?" Plor
indicated the five remaining armed Weavers still drifting in
the wind overhead.
The spider turned his head toward her, and she fought hard
not to shudder, "your meaning is obscure, female human, we
do not 'guard' the bridge, there are not any who would harm
it, and none until now come out of the hole into which the
river dies."
"Then why are you here at all? Why the bridge?" Jon-Tom
didn't try to conceal his puzzlement.
"this is," and the Weaver gestured with one limb at the
network of silken cables and its watchful inhabitants, "a
lifesaving grid. it was erected here to protect those young and
ignorant weavers who are fond of playing in the river lamayad
and who sometimes tend to drift too close to the hole which
kills the water, were they to vanish within they would be
forever lost.
"did you think then we were soldiers? there is no need for
soldiers on the scuttleteau. we have no enemies."
"Then a revelation is in store," muttered Clothahump so
low the Weaver did not hear him.
"the bridge is to help protect infants," ananthos finished.
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"Now don't that soothe a beatin' 'eart!" Mudge whispered
disbelievingly to Jon-Tom. "A fearsome lookin' lot like this
and 'e says they've no soldiers. Wot a fine pack o' allies
they'll make, eh?"
"They've got weapons," his companion argued, "and
they look like they know how to use them." He raised his
voice and addressed the Weaver. "If this is nothing more than
a station for rescuing wayward children, then why do you and
your companions carry weapons?"
Ananthos gestured at the surrounding forest, "to protect
ourselves, of course, even great fighters may be overwhelmed
by a single large and powerful foe. there are beasts on the
scuttleteau that would devour all on this craft and the craft
itself in a single gulp. because we do not maintain an army to
confront nonexistent enemies does not mean we are fleet-
limbed cowards who run instead of fight, or did you think we
were all eggsuckers?" He bared his respectable fangs.
"the confident and strong have no need of an army. each
weaver is an army unto itself."
"It is about armies and fighting that we come," said
Clothahump, "and about such matters that we must speak to
the Webmistress."
Ananthos appeared
as upset as a spider could possibly be.
"to bring warmlanders into the capital is a great responsibili-
ty. by rights of history and legend i should turn you around
and send you back into the hole from whence you emerged.
and yet"—he struggled with the conflict between prescribed
duty and personal feelings and thoughts—"i cannot dismiss
the fact that you have made an impossible journey for reasons
i am not equipped to debate, if it is of the importance you
insist, i would fail did i not escort you to the capital, but to
see the grand webmistress herself..."
He turned away from them, whether from embarrassment
or indecision or both they could not tell.
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"Why don't you," said Caz helpfully, "take us int
protective custody, convey us to the capital under guard, an
turn us over to your superiors?"
Ananthos looked back at him, his head bobbing in that od_
side-to-side motion that was half nod and half shake. He
spoke in a whispery, grateful hush.
"you have some understanding of what it means to be
responsible to someone placed higher than oneself, warmlander
of the big ears."
"I've been in that uncomfortable situation before, yes,"
Caz admitted drolly, polishing his monocle.
"i bow to your excellent suggestion."
144
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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Alan Dean Foster
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."
146
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
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 offe
r 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
mused as his eyes opened confusedly on a still dark sky.
He rolled over, and for a moment memory lagged shockingly
behind reality. He started violently at the sight of the furry,
fanged, many-eyed countenance bending over him.
"i am sorry," said Ananthos softly, "did i waken you too
sharply?"
Jon-Tom couldn't decide if the Weaver was being polite
and offering a diplomatic way out or if it was an honest
question. In either case, he was grateful for the understanding