his eyes on his target as he was supposed to and trying hard
to remember. Up on the opposite foot, kick out with the right,
left leg tucked under the other.
Agile claws reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. They
163
Alan Dean Foster
scraped at Jon-Tom's neck and arms. They didn't prevent his
right foot from landing hard between the eight eyes (there
was no chin to aim for).
The impact traveled up Jon-Tom's leg. He landed awkwardly
on his left foot, stumbled, and fought desperately to regain
his balance.
It wasn't necessary. The spider had stopped in its tracks.
Making mewling noises horribly reminiscent of a lost kitten,
it sat down, rolled over on its back, and clawed at its face.
The leg movements slowed like a clock winding down.
Jon-Tom waited nearby, panting hard in a defensive posture.
The leg movements finally ceased. Green goo dripped from
between the eyes, which no longer shone in the lamplight.
The spider who'd entered the cell first scrabbled over to its
motionless, larger companion.
"damme," he breathed in disbelief, "you've killed jogand."
Jon-Tom caught his breath, frowned. "What do you mean,
I've killed him? I didn't kick him hard enough to kill him."
"dead for sure, for sure," said the smaller spider, turning a
respectful gaze on the man. Blood continued to seep from the
wound.
Fragile exoskeleton, Jon-Tom thought in relief and astonish-
ment. Come to think of it, he'd seen a lot of clubs here.
They'd be very effective against recalcitrant arachnids. In-
stead of a glass jaw, the spider possessed a glass body.
Or maybe he'd just slipped in a lucky blow. Either way...
He glared warily at the remaining pair. "No hard feelings?"
The first spider gazed distastefully down at his dead com-
panion. "jogand always was the impulsive type."
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
164
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
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
me 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."
165
Alan Dean Foster
"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 consid
ered 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 chamberiaine overstepped
her authority."
"We know it wasn't yc'ir fault," said Clothahump reassur-
ingly. 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
166
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
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 anc
embalmed spider silk. Gravity-defying mobiles stretched frorr
ceiling to floor. Some were cleverly lit from within by tin;
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 Oil 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
comer of the chamber was a vast, sparkling mass of the finest
silk. It had been inlaid with jewels and bits of metal in
167
Alan Dean Poster
delicate mosaic until it sucked all the light out of the two