The youngster shuddered visibly, "how awful, how grue-
some! you actually eat solid, unliquified flesh? your fangs
don't look up to the task. i'd think they'd break off. ugh,
ugh!"
"It can be tough sometimes," Jon-Tom confessed, recalling
some less than palatable meals he'd downed. "But my teeth
are stronger than yours. They're not hollow."
"i wonder," said the spiderling with the disarming honesty
common to all children, "if you'd taste good."
"I'd hope so. I'd hate to think I've lived all these years
just to give some friend an upset stomach. I'd probably be
pizza-and-coke flavored."
"i don't know what is a pissaoke." The infant bared tiny
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fangs, "i don't suppose you'd let me have a taste? your elders
aren't watching." He sounded hopeful.
"I'd like to oblige," Jon-Tom said nervously, "but I
haven't had anything to eat yet today and might make you
sick. Understand?"
"oh well." The youngster didn't sound too disappointed.
"i don't guess i'd like you sucking out one of my legs,
either." He quivered at the thought, "you're a nice person,
warmlander. i like you." Jon-Tom experienced the abdomen
caress once again. Then the spiderling jumped down to join
his fellow scamperers.
"luck to you, warmlander!"
"And to you also, child," Jon-Tom called hastily back to
him. Ananthos and several responsible bystanders were final-
ly shooing the spiderlings away. The children waved and
cheered in excited whispers, like any others, their multiple,
multicolored legs waving good-byes.
A greater weight pressured his left arm and he looked
around uncertainly. It was no disrespectful spiderling, howev-
er. Flor's expression was ashen, and she slumped weakly
against him. He quickly got an arm under her shoulders and
gave her some support.
"What's wrong, Flor? You look ill."
"What's wrong?" Fresh shock replaced some of the paleness
that had dominated her visage. "I've just been poked, probed,
and swarmed over by a dozen of the most loathesome,
disgusting creatures anyone could..."
Jon-Tom made urgent quieting motions. "Jesus, Flor. Keep
your voice down. These are our hosts."
"I know, but to have them touch me all over like that."
She was trembling uncontrollably. "Aranqs... uckkkk! I hate
them. I could never even stand the little ones the size of my
thumb, for all that Mama used to praise them for catching the
cockroaches. So you can imagine how I feel about these. I
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could hardly stand it on the boat." She moved unsteadily
away from his arm. "I don't know how much more of this I
can take, Jon-Tom," and she gestured at Ananthos, who was
marching ahead of them.
They turned up another, broader web-road. "What matters
isn't what they look like," Jon-Tom told her sternly, "but
what's behind their looks. In this case, intelligence. We need
their help or Clothahump wouldn't have herded us all this
way." He eyed her firmly.
"Think you can manage by yourself now?"
She was breathing deeply. The color was returning to her
face. "I hope so, compadre. But if they climb over me like
that again..." A brief reprise of the trembling. "I feel
so.. .so icky."
" 'Icky' is a state of mind, not a physiological condition."
"Easy for you to say, Jon-Tom."
"Look, they probably don't think much of the way we
look, either. I know they don't."
"I don't care what they think," she shot back. "Santa
Maria, I hope we finish with this place quickly."
"Oh, I don't know." He noted the way in which the rising
sun, bright despite the intensifying cloudiness, sparkled off
the millions of cables and the silken buildings and webwork
walkway they were climbing. "I think it's kind of pretty."
"The fly complimenting the spider," she muttered.
"Except that the flies are here hunting for allies."
"Let's hope they are allies."
"Ahhh, you worry too much." He gave her an affectionate
pat on the back. She forced a grin in response, thankful for
his moral support.
Jon-Tom's attention returned forward, and to his surprise
he found himself staring straight into Talea's eyes. The
instant their gazes locked she turned away.
He decided she probably hadn't been looking at him.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Probably trying to memorize their path in case they had to try
and flee. Such preparation and suspicion would be typical of
the redhead. It did not occur to him that the glance might
have been significant of anything else.
They had climbed several thousand feet by the afternoon.
Ahead loomed an enormous structure. How many spiders,
Jon-Tom wondered, had labored for how many years patiently
spinning the silk necessary to create those massive ramparts
of hardened silk and interlaced stone?
The royal palace of Gossameringue was made largely of
hewn rock cemented together not with mortar or clay or
concrete but layer on layer of spider silk. Turrets of silver
bulged from unexpected places. The entire immense structure
was suspended from a vast overhang of volcanic rock by
cables a yard thick. Those cables would have supported a
mountain. Though the wind was stronger here, high up the
volcanic flank, the palace did not move. It might as well have
been anchored in bedrock.
They entered a round, silk-lined tube and were soon walk-
ing through tunnels and hallways. It grew dark only slowly
inside since the glassy silk admitted a great deal of light.
Eventually torches and lamps were necessary, however, to
illuminate the depths.
They confronted a portal guarded by a pair of the largest
spiders yet seen. Each had a body as big as Jon-Tom's, but
with their loglike legs they spanned eighteen feet from front
to back.
They were a rich dark brown, without special markings or
bright colors anywhere on their bodies. The multiple black
eyes were small in comparison to the rest of the impressive
mass. Shocking-pink and orange silks enveloped torsos and
legs. There was also a set of white scarves tied around two
forelegs and the nonexistent necks. Huge halberds with intricately
carved wooden shafts rested between powerful forelegs.
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They didn't move, but Jon-Tom knew they were closely
scrutinizing the peculiar arrivals. For the first time since
they'd entered Gossameringue he was frightened. Thoughts
of the friendly spiderlings faded from his mind. It would have
been little comfort had he realized that the pair of impressive
guards before them were there precisely to intimidate visitors.
Ananthos turned to them. "you will have to wait here."
After conversing briefly with the two huge tarantulas he and
his two associates disappeared through the round entrance.
While they waited, the visitors occupied themselves by
inspecting the now indifferent guards and the gleaming silk
walls. The silk had been dyed red, orange, and white in this
corridor and shone wetly in the light of the lamps. Jon-Tom
wondered how far from the entrance they'd come.
Mudge sauntered over next to him. "I don't know 'ow it
strikes you, mate, but seems t' me our eight-legged friends
'ave been gone a 'ell of a long time now."
Jon-Tom tried to sound secure as well as knowledgeable.
"You don't just walk in on the ruler of a powerful people and
announce your demands. The diplomatic niceties have to be
observed. History shows that."
"More o' your studies, wot? Well, maybe it do take some