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 OU," 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' appear-
ance, stepped briskly to the fore. Once again he laid out the
reason for their extraordinary journey. He detailed their expe-
riences 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 Oil listened intently, occasionally
permitting herself a whispered expression of awe or apprecia-
168
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
tion. Clothahump rambled on, telling of the peculiar new evil
raised by the Plated Folk and their imminent invasion of the
wannlands.
Finally he finished the tale. It was silent in the chamber for
several minutes.
011'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 instinc-
tive 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 spideriings 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 taught 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 shouMtBr. It traveled down his
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Alan Dean Foster
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 remem-
ber it anyhow, you may call me Oil." 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 me 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
170
THE HOUR Or TUB GATE
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 me greendowns,
nor they for us," was the ready reply.
"Isrft it clear, then? If they are successful in conquering all
of the warmlands, what's to prevent mem 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. "Oil, 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
me warmlands."
"that is a name and place i have heard of, though no
weaver hasever been there."
"Despite this, Clothahump, who is the greatest of wizards
and whose opinion I believe in all such things, insists this
new magic me 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," Oil 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!"
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Alan Dean Foster
"it will be painless." She turned and called to the shad-
ows. "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