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 shoulder. It traveled down his 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 remember 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 virtue all true wizards share.
"now, you may answer," she said more softly to Jon-Tom.
History, he told himself, trying not to stare at those fangs so near. Try to see in this massive, deadly form the same grace and courtesy you've observed in the other arachnids you've met. To answer the question, remember your history. Because if you don't…
"It's quite easily explained. Are not you and the Plated Folk ancient enemies?"
"we bear no love for the inhabitants of me greendowns, nor they for us," was the ready reply.
"Isrft it clear, then? If they are successful in conquering all of the warmlands, what's to prevent mem from coming for you next?"
There was dark humor lacing the reply, "if they do there will be such a mass feasting as gossameringue has never seen!"
Jon-Tom thought back to something Clothahump had told him. "Oil, in thousands of years and many, many attempts the Plated Folk have failed even to get past the Jo-Troom Gate, which blocks the Pass leading from the Greendowns to me warmlands."
"that is a name and place i have heard of, though no weaver hasever been there."
"Despite this, Clothahump, who is the greatest of wizards and whose opinion I believe in all such things, insists this new magic me Plated Folk have obtained control of may enable them to finally overthrow the peoples of the warmlands. After hundreds of previous failures.
"If they can do that after thousands of years of failure, why should they not do so to you as well? A thousand swords can't fight a single magic."
"we have our own wizards to defend us," Oil replied, but she was clearly troubled by Jon-Tom's words. She looked past him. "how do i know you are all the wizard this fellow says you are?"
Clothahump looked distressed. "Oh ye gods of blindness that cloud the vision of disbelieving mortals, not another demonstration!"
"it will be painless." She turned and called to the shadows. "ogalugh!"
A frail longlegs came tottering out from behind a high pile of cushions. Jon-Tom wondered if he'd been listening back there all along or if he'd just recently arrived. He barely had the strength to carry the thin silks that enveloped his upper body and ran in spirals down his legs.
He looked at Clothahump. "what is the highest level of the plenum?"
"Thought."
"by what force may one fly through the airs atop a broom?"
"Antigravity."
"what is the way of turning common base metals into gold?"
Clothahump's contemptuous and slightly bored expression suddenly paled.
"Well, uh, that is of course no easy matter. You require the entire formula, of course, and not merely the descriptive term applied to the methodology."
"of course," agreed the swaying inquisitor.
"Base metal Into gold, my… it has been a while since I've had occasion to think on that."
Quit stalling, Jon-Tom urged the wizard silently. Give them an answer, any answer. Then the truth will come out in the arguing. But say something.
"You need four lengths of sea grass, a pentagram with the number six carefully set in each point, the words for shifting electron valences, and… and…"
The Grand Webmistress, the sorcerer Ogalugh, and the other inhabitants of the chamber waited anxiously.
"And you need… you need," and the wizard looked up so assuredly it seemed impossible he'd forgotten something so basic for even a moment, "a pinch of pitchblende."
Ogalugh turned to face the expectant Oil, spoke while bobbing and weaving his head. "our visitor is in truth, a wizard webmistress. how great i cannot say from three questions, but he is of at least the third order." Clothahump harrumphed but confined his protest to that.
"none but the most experienced and knowledgeable among the weavers of magic would know the last formula." He tottered over to rest a feathery leg on the turtle's shoulder.
"i welcome you to gossameringue as a colleague."
"Thank you." Clothahump nodded importantly, began to look pleased with himself.
The longlegs addressed Oil. "it may be that these visitors are all that they claim, webmistress. the fact that they have made so perilous a journey without assurance of finding at its end so much as a friendly welcome is proof alone of high purpose, i fear therefore that the words of my fellow wizard are truth."
"a troublesome thing if true," said the webmistress, "a most troublesome thing if true." She eyed Jon-Tom. "there has been hatred and enmity between the plated folk and the people of the scuttleteau for generations untold, if they can conquer the inhabitants of the warmlands then it may be, as you say, that they can also threaten us." She paused in thought, then climbed lithely to her feet.
"it will be as it must be, though heretofore it has never been." She stood close by Jon-Tom, the hump of her abdomen nearly reaching his shoulder, "the weavers will join the people of the warmlands. we will do so not to help you but to help ourselves, better the children of the scuttleteau have company in dying." She turned to face Clothahump.
"bearer of bad truths, how much time do we have?"
"Very little, I would suspect."
"then i will order the calling put out everywhere on the Scuttleteau this very day. it will take time to assemble the best fighters from the far reaches, yet that is not the foremost of our problems, it is one perhaps you might best solve, since the proof of your abilities as travelers is not to be denied." She studied the little group of visitors.
"how in the name of the eternal weave are we to get to the jo-troom gate? we know only that it lies south to southwest of the scuttleteau. we cannot go back through the earth's throat, the way you've come to us. even if so large a group could cross helldrink, my people will not chance the chanters."
"Offspring of the Massawrath," Caz murmured to Mudge. "Can't say as I blame them. I'm still not sure it wasn't blind luck that got us through there, not se
nsible actions."
"I don't want to go back myself," said Talea.
"Nor me, Master," said Pog, hanging from a strand of dry silk overhead.
"Then it follows that if we cannot return by our first route we must make a new one southward."
"through the mountains?" Ogalugh did not sound enthusiastic.
"Are they so impassable then?" Clothahump asked him.
"no one knows, we are familiar with the mountains of the scuttleteau and to some small extent those surrounding us, but we are not fond of sharp peaks and unmelting snows, many would perish on such a journey, unless a good route exists, if one does, we do not know of it."
"so it will be up to you, experienced travelers, to seek out such a path," stated the queen.
"your pardon, webmistress," said the spindly sorcerer, "but there are a people who might know such a way, though they would have no need or use of it themselves."
"why must wizards always talk in riddles? whom do you speak of, ogalugh?"
"the people of the iron cloud."
Rich, whispery laughter filled the chamber, "the people of the iron cloud indeed! they will have nothing to do with anyone."
"that is so, webmistress, but our visitors are experienced travelers of the mind as well as the land, for have they not this very instant convinced us to join with them?"
"we are but independent," Oil replied, "the people of the iron cloud are paranoid." "rumor and innuendo spread by unsuccessful traders who have returned from their land empty-clawed, it is true they are less than social, but that does not mean they will not listen." He turned to face Jon-Tom.
"they are much like some of you, friend, like yourself, and those two there," he pointed to Mudge and Caz, "and that one above," and he pointed now at Pog.
"They sound most interesting," said Clothahump. "I confess I know nothing of them."
"Are they good fighters?" Flor wondered. "Maybe we can get more out of them than directions."
"they are great warriors," admitted Ogalugh readily, "but you speak so facilely of making allies of them. you do not understand, they are interested in nothing save themselves, - will support no causes but their own."
"That's just what we were told to expect of the Weavers," Jon-Tom said with becoming boldness.
"but we are sensible enough to see advantage and necessity where they occur," Oil argued back. "the people of the iron cloud, i am told, are unaffected by events elsewhere. they are protected by their indifference and their isolation."
"Nothing is safe from the evil the Plated Folk build," said Clothahump somberly.
"i am already convinced, wizard," she said. "convince the ironclouders: not me. it will be enough if they can show our fighters the way through the southern peaks."
"I have some small diplomatic skill," said Clothahump immodestly. "I believe we can persuade them to do that, at least."
"perhaps, you must, or we can be of no help to you and your peoples, no matter what the plated ones decide to do. we will march when ready, but if we cannot find a way, we will be forced to turn back.
"i will send from among the weavers a personal representative. perhaps the proof that we have joined with you will help to convince the people of the iron cloud, in any case, someone will be necessary to come back to report on the results of your mission, be it successful or not."
"Not to preempt your prerogatives. Oil," said Caz carefully. "but if we might be permitted to choose the representative… ?"
"Sure," said Jon-Tom quickly, turning to face the Webmistress. "Would it be okay if a river guard named Ananthos served as your representative?"
"ananthos… i do not know the name. a common river guard, you say?"
"Yes. He's the one who brought us here."
"a common river guard of uncommon discernment, then. but still, it should be someone of higher rank."
"Please, Oil," Jon-Tom said, "rank will mean nothing to these Ironclouders if what you say of their nature is correct. And Ananthos is familiar with us. We know we can get along with one another."
"a sound recommendation, i suppose." She sighed and that whole globular black mass quivered, "it is the common soldiers who will decide this battle to come, as they do all such battles, perhaps it is fitting that one of their rank be our ambassador, as you say, it will likely not matter to the ironclouders.
"very well. you may have this ananthos. he will go with you as would one of my own children, uzmentap!"
"yes my lady, yes my lady?" A tiny adult spider scurried into the chamber, the same one who had admitted them a little while earlier.
"put out the word to all the ends of the scuttleteau, to the uppermost flanks of the mountains and the bottoms of the rivers, to all the believers in the weave and to all who would defend their webs against the plated folk, that a temporary alliance has been struck with the people of the warmlands to help them drive the plated beasts back into their putrid hole of a homeland once and for all!"
"it shall be done, my lady," said the herald quickly. She dismissed him with a wave of one leg and he hurried away to do the bidding.
"we will move as soon as we have word from your messenger ananthos," she told them. "we will go hopefully with a known route and will try our best if none such is available, but i will not send the best of the weave over the high snows to a cold death."
"We know that," said Clothahump gratefully. "You can't be expected to sacrifice yourselves to no purpose. But don't worry. We'll convince these people to show us a way."
Jon-Tom did not think it a judicial time to mention the possibility that such a path might not exist.
"it is in your claws now. i will have this ananthos found and will give him my personal instructions and the scarf of ambassadorial rank. will you require an escort?"
"We've gotten this far on our own," Talea pointed out. "From what you say these Ironclouders aren't hostile, just stubborn." She patted the sword at her hip. "We can take care of ourselves."
"i did not mean to imply otherwise, i will see that you are well supplied with food and-" She broke off at the twisted expression on Flor's face, one that was sufficiently intense and abrupt to transcend interspecies differences, "perhaps you had best see to your own provisioning, at that. list what you wish and i will see it is provided, i had forgotten for a moment that you partake of nourishment in a fashion somewhat different from ours."
"Our marital habits are a little different, too." Jon-Tom glanced significantly toward the bejeweled boudoir.
"so i have heard, honor is a strange thing, sometimes it is better to die happy and honored than to live miserably and unrespected. and you do not consider the effects such repeated matings have on my own mind. a burdensome thing, i am not permitted a lifetime of happiness but instead short periods followed by regretful melancholy, tradition must be upheld, however." She waved a leg magnanimously.
"all that is required will be provided, i only hope that we have sufficient time to prepare and that we are granted a path by which to proceed."
"We are most grateful," said Clothahump, bowing slightly. "You are a Grand Webmistress indeed."
"it is no compliment to say that one can see the truth." She waved several legs. "good fortune to you, newfound friends."
The visitors began to file out of the chamber. Jon-Tom go halfway to the portal, then turned and walked back to her.
"the audience is at an end," Oil told him somewhat less than politely.
"I'm sorry. But I have to know something. Then I'll leav< you to your privacy."
Fathomless eyes regarded him quietly, "ask then."
"Why did you single me out to talk with, instead o Clothahump or Caz or one of the others?"
"why? oh, because of your delightful and inspiring selec tion of garb. it marks you clearly as a superior being to your companions, wizardly talents notwithstanding."
Turning, she walked rhythmically back to stand below the royal bower. Reattaching fresh silk to the dangling cable, she promptly climbed up and disappe
ared behind the barrier of gems and silken embroidery.
Jon-Tom was left to consider his bright black leathern pants, the matching boots and dark shirt.
It was only much later, as they were departing Gossameringue with Ananthos in the lead, that Jon-Tom had the startling and unsettling thought that the Grand Webmistress might have been considering him as material for something besides conversation…
XI
It was terrible in the mountains.
Higher peaks towered to east and west, but as they moved south they were traversing the windswept flanks of Zaryt's Teeth, where they merged with the lower but still impressive mountains from which the greater heights sprang. It was bitingly cold. Soon they were walking not on rock or earth but on snow so dry and fresh it crunched like sugar underfoot.
On the third day after leaving the Scuttleteau and its gentle rivers and warm forests they encountered snow flumes. The day after that they were stumbling through a modest blizzard. Oil's fears that the southern range might prove unnegotiable seemed well founded.
Mudge and Caz suffered least of all, in contrast to their companions who did not enjoy the benefits of a personal far coat.
Everyone profited from the example set by the stoic Bribbens. Though highly susceptible to the cold he trudged patiently along, silent and uncomplaining. Oftentimes his bulbous eyes were all that could be seen outside the thick clothing the Weavers had provided. He kept his discomforts to himself, and so his companions were shamed into doing the same.
Working with only rumor and supposition, the least reliable of guides, Ananthos somehow managed to pick a path southward.
They had made little progress in five days of hard marching when Jon-Tom had his idea. A temporary camp was established in the shelter of a small cave. Jon-Tom and Plor led the others in the hunt for suitable saplings and green vines. These were then woven together with spider silk dispensed by Ananthos.
The Hour of the Gate Page 15
