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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
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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.
140
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
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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
the mast. "Our information is of such vital importance to the
Weavers that it can only be related to the highest local authority."
"nothing a warmlander can say is of any importance to the weavers." Again came
that distant, whistling laugh, blowing arrogantly across the deck.
"Nilontfwml" roared Clothahump in his most impressive sorceral tone.
Vibrations rattled the boat. Whitecaps snapped on the crests of sudden waves,
and there was a distant rumble of thunder. The five watchers in the net
overhead bounced nervously on their organic tethers while the Weaver in the
boat stiffened against the rail.
Clothahump lowered his arms. One had to stare hard at the
inoffensive-appearing little turtle with the absurd spectacles to believe that
voice had truly issued from that hard-shelled body.
"By my annointment as Sorcerer-Majestic of the Last
Circle, by the brow of EIrath-Vune now long dust, by all the oaths that bind
all the practitioners of True Magic back to the
141
Alan Dean Foster
beginnings of divination, I swear to you that what I have to say is vital to
the survival of Weaver as well as warmlander, and that it can be imparted only
to the Grand Webmistress herself!"
That pronouncement appeared to shake their visitor as badly as had the totally
unexpected demonstration of wizardly power.
"most impressive in word and action," the spider husked.
"that you are truly a wizard cannot be denied." He recovered some "octupul"
poise and executed a short little bow, crossing all four upper limbs across
his chest.
"forgive my hesitation and suspicions and accept my apologies should i have
offended you. my name is ananthos." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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