“Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!” She sounded worried.
“I still admit to ‘old’ but not the other.” A grumbling Clothahump clambered to his feet.
Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps. Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.
Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.
As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not change.
“Can it be another structure like the Heart-of-the-World building of the little folk?” Flor licked her lower lip and stared anxiously forward.
“No, no. The color is all wrong, supple shadow, and there is no sign of separation; levels, floors, or windows.” Caz faced the wizard. “What is your opinion of it, sir?”
“Just a moment, will you?” Clothahump sounded irritable. “I’m not fully awake yet. Do you children think I have your physical resiliency simply because my brain is so much more active? Now then, this surely cannot be dangerous.” He called back to Bribbens. “Steady ahead, my good boatman.”
“Don’t have much choice.” The frog snapped off his reply as he tightened his grip on the steering sweep. “Tunnel’s become too narrow for us to turn ’round in. Some of the rocks hereabouts look sharp. I don’t want to chance ’em, so it’s steady ahead unless it turns desperate.”
The boatman was forced to raise his voice to a near shout to make himself understood. The rush of air in the pipe of a cave argued noisily with the increased force of the current.
They watched silently while that cold flame came nearer. Then there was another, dimmer light haloing it, and the orange-silver no longer blocked their progress. The new light came from tiny shining points that flickered unevenly, but not like gneechees. These were both visible and motionless.
“Well, shit.” Mudge put hands on hips and sounded thoroughly disgusted with himself. “’Tis a prize pack o’ idiots we be, mates.”
Jon-Tom didn’t understand immediately, but it didn’t take long until he knew the reason for the otter’s embarrassment. When he did so he felt equally ashamed of his own fear.
The orange-silvery color was familiar enough. Then they emerged from the cavern. The great rising orb of moon no longer shone directly down into the Earth’s Throat.
“We made it.” He hugged a startled Talea. “Damned if we didn’t!”
The character of the land they had emerged into was very different from that of the Swordsward and the river country of Bribbens’ home. It was evident they had climbed a considerable distance.
Behind them towering crags reached for the stars. Clouds capped them, though they were not as thick as those on the eastern flanks of the range. No open plains or low scrub bordered the river here. There was no fragrant coniferous forest or high desert.
Mountains rose all around the little river valley in which they found themselves. Despite the altitude the country displayed the aspect of more tropical climes. It was warm but not hot, nor was it particularly humid. Jon-Tom thought of a temperate-zone climax forest.
Vines and creepers leaped from tree to tree. A thick undergrowth prevented them from seeing more than a few yards inland on either shore.
It was with relief that Jon-Tom inhaled the fresh air, fragrant with the aroma of flowers and green things. Though hardly tropical, the climate was more pleasant despite the altitude than any place he’d yet been. Compared to the bone-rattling winds of the Swordsward it was positively Edenic.
“Fine country,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m surprised none of the warmlanders have tried to migrate here.”
“Even if they knew this land existed they could not get over the mountains,” Clothahump reminded him. “Only a very few in memory have ever made that journey. Even if would-be settlers could survive the trip, kindly keep in mind that this land is already occupied. Legend says the Weavers dislike any strangers. Consider what their opinion would be of potential colonists.”
“And these are the people we’re trying to make allies of?” Flor wondered.
“They are not overt enemies,” Clothahump told her, shaking his head slowly. “Legend says they are content enough here in their land. Yet I admit legend also insists they hold no love for any but their own kind. It is said they like most to keep to themselves and maintain their privacy.
“As near as I know we are the first folk to journey past the mountain barrier in hundreds of years. Perhaps the legends no longer hold true. It may be that in all that time the inhabitants of the Scuttleteau have mellowed.”
“They sure sound charming,” said Flor apprehensively. “I can’t wait to meet them.” Her voice rose in tone, and she mimed a sardonic greeting. “Buenos dias, Señor Weaver. Como esta usted, and please don’t eat me, I’m only a tourist.” She sighed and grimaced at the wizard. “I wish I were as confident of success as you are.”
“I’m ’ardly an optimist, meself,” Mudge commented, surveying the near shore and considering a warm swim.
“Oh well. Surely they will see the need,” said Caz hopefully, “to stand together against a common threat.”
“That is to be hoped,” the wizard agreed. “But we cannot be certain. We can only pray for a friendly welcome. Should we actually achieve anything more than that, it would exceed my wildest hopes.”
There were some shocked looks in response to that. Jon-Tom spoke for all of them. “You mean… you’re not sure you can persuade them?”
“My dear boy, I never made any such claim.”
“But you gave me the impression…”
Clothahump held up a hand. “I made no promises. I merely stated that there was little we could do if we remained in Polastrindu and that we might have some chance of securing another strong ally were we to successfully complete this journey. I never said that reaching the Scuttleteau was a guarantee we could do that. Nor did I ever display any optimism about striking such an alliance. I simply declared that I thought it would be a good idea to try.”
“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 the 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…”
“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 stern 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 terror, 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, “far beyond my lifetime, beyond i think the memory of any currently alive, since any of the warmland people have visited 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 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 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 dang
ling 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.
“Nilonthom!” 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 Elrath-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.
The Hour of the Gate: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Two) (The Spellsinger Saga) Page 12
