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
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Alan Dean Foster
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
138
THE Hous OF THE GATE
bright yellow with concentric triangles decorating the under-
side 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 under-
_ standing the breathy, faint voice. Gradually curiosity over-
threw 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, "fa-
beyond my lifetime, beyond i think the memory of any
currently alive, since any of the wamuand people have visiteo
the scuttleteau."
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Alan Dean Foster
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 ac-
commodating, 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.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
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