The Hour of the Gate Page 12

  "You stiff-backed, bone-brained old fart, you led us on!" Talea was nearly too furious for words. "You cajoled us through all that," and she pointed back toward the mouth of the tunnel they'd recently emerged from, "through everything we've suffered since leaving Polastrindu, without thinking we had any chance to succeed?"

  "I did not say we did not have a chance." Clothahump patiently corrected her. "I said our chances were slim. That is different from nonexistent. When I say achieving such an alliance would exceed my wildest hopes, I am merely being realistic, not fatalistic. The chance is there."

  "Why the fuck couldn't you have been 'realistic' back in Polastrindu?" she growled softly. "Couldn't you have told us how slight you thought our chances of success were?"

  "I could have, but no one thought to ask me. As to the first, if I had been more, shall we say, explicit in my opinions, none of you would have come with me. Those who might have would not have done so with as much confidence and determination as you have all displayed thus far."

  Since this logic was irrefutable, no one chose to argue. There was some spirited name-calling, however. The wizard ignored it as one would have the excited chatter of children. Pog found the situation unbearably amusing.

  "Now ya see what I have ta deal wid, don'tcha?" He giggled in gravely bat-barks as he swung gleefully from the spreader. "Maybe now ya all'll sympathize wid poor Pog a little bit more!"

  "Shut your ugly face." Talea heaved a hunk of torchwood at him. He dodged it nimbly.

  "Now, now, Talea-tail. Late for recriminations, don'tcha tink?" Again the rich laughter. "His Bosship has ya all where he wants ya." A series of rapid-fire squeeks seeped out as he delightedly lapped up their discomfort.

  "It does seem you've been somewhat less than truthful with us, sir," said Caz reprovingly.

  "Not at all. I have not once lied to any of you. And the odds do not lessen the importance of our trying to conclude this alliance. The more so now that we have actually completed the arduous journey through the Earth's Throat and have reached the Scuttleteau.

  "Admittedly our chances of persuading the Weavers to join with us are slight, but the chance is real so long as we are real. We must reach for every advantage and assistance we can."

  "And if we die on the failure of this slight chance?" Flor wanted to know.

  "That is a risk I have resigned myself to accepting," he replied blandly.

  "I see." Talea's fingers dug into the wood of the railing. She stared at the river as she spoke. "If we all die, that's a risk you're prepared to take. Well, I'm not."

  "As you wish." Clothahump gestured magnanimously at me water. "I herewith release you from any obligation to assist me further. You may commence your swim homeward."

  "Like hell." She peered back at Bribbens. "Turn this deadwood around."

  The boatman threw her a goggle-eyed and mournful look. "How much can you pay me?"

  "I see." He turned his attention back to the river ahead. "I take orders only from those who can pay me." He indicated Clothahump. "He paid me. He tells my boat where it is to go. I do not renege on my business agreements."

  "Screw your business agreements, don't you care about your own life?" she asked him.

  "I honor my commitments. My honor is my life." This last was uttered with such finality that Talea subsided.

  "Commitments my ass." She turned to sit glumly on the deck, glaring morosely at the wooden planking.

  "I repeat, I have not lied to any of you." Clothahump spoke with dignity, then added by way of an afterthought, "I should have thought that all of you were ready to take any risk necessary in this time of crisis. I see that I was mistaken,"

  It was quiet on the boat for several hours. Then Talea looked up irritably and said, "I'm sorry. Bribbens is right. We all made a commitment to see this business through. I'll Stick to mine." She glanced back at the wizard. "My fault. I apol… I apologize." The unfamiliar word came hard to her. There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

  "That's better," Clothahump observed. "I'm glad that you've all made up your minds. Again. It was time to do so because," and he pointed over the bow, "soon there will be no chance of turning back."

  Completely spanning the river a hundred yards off the bow was a soaring network of thick cables. They made a silvery shadow on the water, a domed superstructure of glistening filaments in the intensifying morning light.

  Waiting and watching with considerable interest from their resting places high up in the cables were half a dozen of the Weavers.

  Clothahump knew what to expect. Caz, Mudge, Talea, Pog, and Bribbens had some idea, if through no other means than the stories passed down among generations of travelers.

  But Jon-Tom and Flor possessed no such mental buffering. Primeval fear sent a shudder through both of them. It was instinctive and unreasoning and cold. Only the fact that their companions showed no sign of panic prevented the two otherworlders from doing precisely that.

  The six Weavers might comprise a hunting party, an official patrol, or simply a group of interested river gazers out for a day's relaxation. Now they gathered near the leading edge of the cablework.

  One of them shinnied down a single strand when the boat began to pass beneath. Under Bribbens' directions and at Clothahump's insistence, Mudge and Caz were taking down .the single sail.

  "No point in making a show of resistance or attempting to pass uncontested," the wizard murmured. "After all, our purpose in coming here is to meet with them."

  Unable to override their instincts, Jon-Tom and Flor moved to the rear of the boat, as far away from their new visitor as they could get.

  That individual secured the bottom of his cable to the bow of the little boat. The craft swung around, tethered to the overhead network, until its stem was pointing upstream.

  Having detached the cable from the end of his abdomen, the Weaver rested on four legs, quietly studying the crew of the peculiar boat with unblinking, lidless multiple eyes. Four arms were folded across his cephalothorax. His body was bright yellow with concentric triangles decorating the underside of the sternum. His head was a beautiful ocher. The slim abdomen had blue stripes running down both the dorsal and ventral sides.

  Complementing this barrage of natural coloration was a swirling, airy attire of scarves and cloth. The material was readily recognizable as pure silk. It was twisted and wrapped sari-style around the neck, cephalothorax, abdomen, and upper portions of the legs and arms. Somehow it did not entangle the Weaver's limbs as he moved.

  It was impossible to tell how many pieces of silk the visitor was wearing. Jon-Tom followed one feathery kelly-green scarf for several yards around legs and abdomen until it vanished among blue and pink veils near the head. A series of bright pink bows knotted several of the scarves together and decorated the spinneret area. Mandibles moved idly, and occasionally they could see the twin fangs that flanked the other mouth-parts. The Weaver was a nightmare out of a Max Ernst painting, clad in Technicolor.

  The nightmare spoke. At first Jon-Tom had trouble understanding the breathy, faint voice. Gradually curiosity overthrew his initial ten-or, and he joined his companions in the bow. He began to make sense of the whispery speech, which reminded him of papers blowing across stepping-stones.

  As the Weaver talked, he tested the cable he'd spun himself from bridge to boat. Then he sat down, having concluded his prayer or invocation or whatever it had been, by folding his four legs beneath him. His jaw rested on the upper tarsals and claws. The body was three feet long and the legs almost doubled that.

  "it has been a long time," said the veiled spider, "fabeyond my lifetime, beyond i think the memory of any currently alive, since any of the wamuand people have visiteo the scuttleteau."

  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 m
ountains," 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 accommodating, 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.

  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 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.

  "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 fleetlimbed 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 responsibility. 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. "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 odd 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."

  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 warningly, "what happens then is no longer my responsibility, i can make no promises as to t
he nature of your reception, for i am low in the hierarchy, most low, for all that 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 referring 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 appearance. The finger-sized claws touched the man's cheek, pressed lightly, and traveled down the face to the neck before withdrawing. Somehow Jon-Tom kept from flinching. He concentrated 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."

  "You get used to it," said Jon-Tom. It occurred to him mat the spider found him quite repulsive.