While they waited, the visitors occupied themselves by
inspecting the now indifferent guards and the gleaming silk
walls. The silk had been dyed red, orange, and white in this
corridor and shone wetly in the light of the lamps. Jon-Tom
wondered how far from the entrance they'd come.
Mudge sauntered over next to him. "I don't know 'ow it
strikes you, mate, but seems t' me our eight-legged friends
'ave been gone a 'ell of a long time now."
Jon-Tom tried to sound secure as well as knowledgeable.
"You don't just walk in on the ruler of a powerful people and
announce your demands. The diplomatic niceties have to be
observed. History shows that."
"More o' your studies, wot? Well, maybe it do take some
time at that. Never met a lot o' bureaucrats that did move
much faster than the dead. I expect they're all like that, slow
movin' an' slow thinkin', no matter 'ow many legs they got."
"Here they come," Jon-Tom told him confidently.
But it was not Ananthos and his familiar comrades who
emerged from the opening but instead a tall, very thin-legged
arachnid with a delicate body and eyes raised high on the
front of his skull. His forelegs were tied up in an intricate
network of blue silk ribbons and there were matching purple
ones on the rearmost limbs.
One wire-thin leg pointed at Caz, who stood nearest the
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portal, while dozens of spiders of varied size and color
suddenly poured from behind him.
"immobilize them and carry them down!"
"Hey, wait a minute." Jon-Tom was unable to get his staff
around before he'd been seized by half a dozen hooking legs.
Others thrust threatening spears and knives at his belly.
"There has been a mistake." Clothahump was already
disappearing around a comer, carried on his back.
"Put me down or I'll cut your smelly heads off!" All fire
and helpless frustration, Talea was being carted closely be-
hind the wizard.
Then Jon-Tom felt himself turned on his back and borne on
dozens of hairy legs, kicking and protesting with equal lack
of effect.
They went down into darkness. How far he couldn't guess,
but it wasn't long before they were dumped into a silk-and-
stone cell under the imperious direction of the emaciated and
beribboned spider in charge.
The silk lining the chamber was old and filthy. There were
no windows to let in light, only a few oil lamps in the
corridor beyond. Jon-Tom gathered himself up and moved to
inspect the cross-hatched webwork that barred their exit.
It was not sticky to the touch, but was quite invulnerable.
He leaned against it and shouted at their retreating captors.
"Stop, you can't put us in here! We're diplomatic visitors.
We're here to see the Grand Webmistress and...!"
"Save your wind, my friend." Caz stood at the outermost
comer of the cell, squinting up the silk ladder-steps. "They've
gone."
"Shit!" Jon-Tom kicked at an irregular, flattened piece of
shiny material. At first he thought it was a piece of broken
pottery. Closer inspection revealed it was a section of chitin.
It clattered off a stone set in the far wall.
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"God damn that sly-voiced Ananthos. He led us all th
way by making us believe he was our friend."
"He never said he was our friend." Bribbens sat against
wall, his head resting on his knees. "Merely that he w.
doing his duty. Get us this far, then it'd be up to us, he said
The frog chuckled throatily. "Certainly hasn't gone out of h
way to make it easy for us, looks like."
Talea was sniffing the air and frowning. "I don't know it
any of you have noticed it yet, but—"
There was a startled scream. Jon-Tom looked left. Flor had
been standing there. Now she'd fallen forward and landed
hard on the floor. Her foot had vanished through an opening
in the wall and the rest of her was slowly following....
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x
They hadn't noticed the passageway when they'd been
chucked into the cell. There was no telling where it ran to or
what had hold of Hor. Blood oozed from beneath her nails as
Jon-Tom was first at her side. Without thinking, he leaned
over and heaved a head-sized rock at her foot. There was a
breathy exclamation of surprise and pain from beyond. She
stopped sliding.
Caz and Mudge half dragged, half carried her across the
cell. Whatever had hold of her had missed her leg, but her
boot was neatly punctured just behind the calf.
As he backed away from the opening several legs scram-
bled through. They were attached to a two-foot-wide bulbous
body of light green with blue stripes and spots. Jon-Tom took
note of the fact that it wore only one black silk scarf tied
around the left rear leg at the uppermost joint.
The visitor was followed closely by a second, smaller
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spider. This one was an electric maroon with a single large
gray rectangle on its abdomen. A third spider squeezed into
their cell, barely clearing the passageway. It was gray-brown
with white circles on cephalothorax and abdomen and had
shockingly red legs. All wore only the single black scarf on
identical limbs.
The three spiders stood confronting the wary knot of
warmlanders.
"what the hell," said the first spider who'd entered, in a
tone so high and flighty it was barely intelligible, "are you?"
"Diplomatic ambassadors," Clothahump informed them,
with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.
The little arachnid bobbed his head in that maybe yes,
maybe no movement Jon-Tom had come to recognize, "may-
be you're diplomatic ambassadors to you," he said, "but
you're just food to us."
"they look nice and soft," said the big one in a slightly
deeper but still tenebrous voice. His body was a good three
feet across, bulky, and with three foot legs. "diplomats or
blasphemers, ambassador or storage-stealers, what difference
does it make?" He displayed bright red fangs, "dinner is
dinner."
"You think so? Touch one of us again," said Jon-Tom
wamingly, "and I'll shove your fangs down your throat."
The first spider cocked multiple eyes at him. "will you
now, half-limbed?" The latter was an apparent reference to
Jon-Tom's disproportionately fewer number of limbs, "tell
you a thing, if you can do that we'll treat you as something
more than dinner, if you can't"—he pointed with a leg
toward the shivering Flor—"we start with that one for an
appetizer."
"Why her, why not me?"
The spider could not grin, but conveyed that impression
nonetheless, "almost had a taste, she smells full of fluid."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
It was too much for the t
errified arachniphobe, that casual
talk of being sucked dry like a lemon. She turned and
vomited.
"there, you see?" said the spider knowingly.
Jon-Tom quelled his own rising nausea. He ignored the
gagging sounds behind him to keep his attention on the big
red-legged spider. It had scuttled off to the side, away from its
companions.
"you can have me if you can get me," it taunted.
"Same goes for me," said Jon-Tom grimly. "Leave the
others out of this."
"we'll do that for a start." The spider was sitting back on
his hind legs, waving the four front limbs ritualistically as it
bobbed from side to side. Then it brought them down and
rushed forward.
It had been a while since Jon-Tom had practiced any
karate. Four years, in fact. But he'd become reasonably good.
before he'd quit. What he hadn't learned was how to attack
something with eight limbs. Not that they would matter if the
spider got those red fangs into him. Even if this particular
arachnid's venom wasn't very toxic, the shock alone might be
enough to kill.
The attacker's intent seemed to involve throwing as many
legs as possible at its prey in order to distract him while the
fangs bit home.
It was possible the spider wouldn't expect an attack. If the
eight limbs were confusing to Jon-Tom, then perhaps his
human length and long legs might equally puzzle the spider.
Besides, the best defense is a good offense, he reasoned.
So he ran at his opponent instead of away from it, keeping
his eyes on his target as he was supposed to and trying hard
to remember. Up on the opposite foot, kick out with the right,
left leg tucked under the other.
Agile claws reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. They
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scraped at Jon-Tom's neck and arms. They didn't prevent his
right foot from landing hard between the eight eyes (there
was no chin to aim for).
The impact traveled up Jon-Tom's leg. He landed awkwardly
on his left foot, stumbled, and fought desperately to regain
his balance.
It wasn't necessary. The spider had stopped in its tracks.
Making mewling noises horribly reminiscent of a lost kitten,
it sat down, rolled over on its back, and clawed at its face.
The leg movements slowed like a clock winding down.
Jon-Tom waited nearby, panting hard in a defensive posture.
The leg movements finally ceased. Green goo dripped from
between the eyes, which no longer shone in the lamplight.
The spider who'd entered the cell first scrabbled over to its
motionless, larger companion.
"damme," he breathed in disbelief, "you've killed jogand."
Jon-Tom caught his breath, frowned. "What do you mean,
I've killed him? I didn't kick him hard enough to kill him."
"dead for sure, for sure," said the smaller spider, turning a
respectful gaze on the man. Blood continued to seep from the
wound.
Fragile exoskeleton, Jon-Tom thought in relief and astonish-
ment. Come to think of it, he'd seen a lot of clubs here.
They'd be very effective against recalcitrant arachnids. In-
stead of a glass jaw, the spider possessed a glass body.
Or maybe he'd just slipped in a lucky blow. Either way...
He glared warily at the remaining pair. "No hard feelings?"
The first spider gazed distastefully down at his dead com-
panion. "jogand always was the impulsive type."
They were distracted by a clattering in the corridor. A
Spider they did not recognize approached the webwork silk
bars. He was not the skinny one with all the ribbons. As they
watched silently, he poured the contents of a pear-shaped
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
bottle on a section of the bars. They began to dissolve like so
much hot jelly.
Another figure emerged from the shadows to stand just
behind the jailer: Ananthos.
"i am terribly sorry," he told them, waving many legs at
the cell. "this was done without higher orders or good
knowledge, the individual responsible has already been
punished."
"Blimey but if we didn't think you'd sold us over!" said a
relieved Mudge.
Ananthos looked outraged, "i would never do such a
thing, i take my responsibilities seriously, as you well should
know." Then he noticed the corpse on the cell floor, looked
back into the cell.
" 'Twere 'is wizardship there," said Mudge, indicating
Jon-Tom. Ananthos bowed respectfully toward the human.
"a good piece of work. i am sorrowful for the trouble
caused you."
A pathway large enough to allow egress had been made in
me bars. Ananthos' companions moved aside as the prisoners
exited.
The small spider tried to follow Clothahump out and was
promptly clobbered behind the head by one of the guards.
The spider shrank back into the cell.
"not you," muttered the guard, "warmlanders only."
"why not? aren't we part of their party now?" He hooked
foreclaws over the rapidly hardening new bars two of the
guards were spinning.
"you are common criminals," said Ananthos tiredly. "as
you must know, common criminals are not permitted audience
with the grand webmistress."
The little spider hesitated. His head cocked toward Jon-
Tom. "you're going to see the grand webmistress?"
"That's what we've come all this way for."
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"then we'll stay right here. you can't force us to come!'
And both spiders drew back behind the bleeding corpse of
their dead companion, scuttled for the tunnel leading to their
own cell.
Their sudden shift sparked uncomfortable thoughts in John
Tom's mind as he followed Talea's twisting form up the
stairwell they'd so recently been hustled down.
"What do you suppose he meant by that?" She looked
back down at him and shrugged.
"i told you i could do nothing for you beyond bringing you
to gossameringue," Ananthos explained, "it must be consid
ered that the webmistress not only might not assist you but
may condemn you to rejoin those rabble in their hole," and
he gestured with a leg back down the stairs.
"So we could find ourselves right back in jail?" asked
Flor.
"or worse." He continued to point downward with the
waving, silk-swathed leg. "i hope you will not hold what
occurred down there against me. a chamberiaine overstepped
her authority."
"We know it wasn't yc'ir fault," said Clothahump reassur-
ingly. Pog seemed about to add something but kept his mouth
shut at a warning glance from the wizard.
Before long they had retraced their ignominious descent
and stood before the high, arching doorway flanked by the
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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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
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