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 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 the 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.”
“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 considered 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 chamberlain overstepped her authority.”
“We know it wasn’t your fault,” said Clothahump reassuringly. 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 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 and embalmed spider silk. Gravity-defying mobiles stretched from ceiling to floor. Some were cleverly lit from within by tiny 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 Oll 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 corner of the chamber was a vast, sparkling mass of the finest silk. It had been inlaid with jewels and bits of metal in 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 silver puzzle.
A vast black globe slid over the side of the silken bower. On a thin thread it fell slowly toward the chamber floor, like a huge drop of petroleum. It was not as large as the massive tarantulas guarding the entryway, but it was far bulkier than Ananthos and most of the other arachnid inhabitants of Gossameringue. The bulbous abdomen was nearly three feet across. Save for a brilliant and all too familiar orange-red hourglass splashed across the underside of the abdomen, the body appeared to be encased in black steel.
Multiple black eyes studied the visitors expressionlessly. The spinnerets daintily snipped the abdomen free from the trailing silk cable. Settling down on tiptoe, the eight legs folded neatly beneath the body. Then the enormous black widow was resting comfortably on a sprawling red cushion, preening one fang with a leg tip.
“i am the grand webmistress Oll,” the polite horror informed them. “you must excuse the impoliteness of cleaning my mouth, but my husband was in for breakfast and we have only just now finished.”
Jon-Tom knew something of the habits of black widows. He eyed the jeweled boudoir above and shuddered.
Clothahump, unfazed by the Grand Webmistress’ appearance, stepped briskly to the fore. Once again he laid out the reason for their extraordinary journey. He detailed their experiences on the Swordsward, in the Earth’s Throat, related the magical crossing of Helldrink. Even in his dry, mechanical voice the retelling was impressive.
The Grand Webmistress Oll listened intently, occasionally permitting herself a whispered expression of awe or appreciation. Clothahump rambled on, telling of the peculiar new evil raised by the Plated Folk and their imminent invasion of the warmlands.
Finally he finished the tale. It was silent in the chamber for several minutes.
Oll’s first reaction was not expected. “you! come a little nearer.” She finally had to raise a leg and point, since it was impossible to tell exactly where those lidless black eyes were looking.
She pointed at Jon-Tom.
His hesitation was understandable. After the initial shock of their appearance, he’d been able to overcome his instinctive reactions to the spiders. He’d done so to a point where he’d grown fond of Ananthos and his companions, to a point where he could allow curious spiderlings to clamber over his body. Even the three antisocial types they’d encountered in the cells below had seemed more abhorrent for their viciousness than their shape.
But the dark, swollen body before him was representative of a kind he’d been t
aught 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 Oll.” 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 the 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 the greendowns, nor they for us,” was the ready reply.
“Isn’t it clear, then? If they are successful in conquering all of the warmlands, what’s to prevent them 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. “Oll, 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 the warmlands.”
“that is a name and place i have heard of, though no weaver has ever been there.”
“Despite this, Clothahump, who is the greatest of wizards and whose opinion I believe in all such things, insists this new magic the 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,” Oll 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 Oll, 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 Oll. “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 sensible 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,” Oll 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.”
The Hour of the Gate: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Two) (The Spellsinger Saga) Page 15
