Alan Dean Foster SS2 The Hour of the Gate

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Since this logic was irrefutable, no one chose to argue.
There was some spirited name-calling, however. The wizard ignored it as one
would have the excited chatter of children.
Pog found the situation unbearably amusing.
"Now ya see what I have ta deal wid, don'tcha?" He giggled in gravely
bat-barks as he swung gleefully from the spreader. "Maybe now ya all'll
sympathize wid poor Pog a little bit more!"
"Shut your ugly face." Talea heaved a hunk of torchwood at him. He dodged it
nimbly.
"Now, now, Talea-tail. Late for recriminations, don'tcha tink?" Again the rich
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laughter. "His Bosship has ya all where he wants ya." A series of rapid-fire
squeeks seeped out as he delightedly lapped up their discomfort.
"It does seem you've been somewhat less than truthful with us, sir," said Caz
reprovingly.
"Not at all. I have not once lied to any of you. And the odds do not lessen
the importance of our trying to conclude this alliance. The more so now that
we have actually com-
pleted the arduous journey through the Earth's Throat and
have reached the Scuttleteau.
"Admittedly our chances of persuading the Weavers to join with us are slight,
but the chance is real so long as we are real. We must reach for every
advantage and assistance we can."
"And if we die on the failure of this slight chance?" Flor wanted to know.
"That is a risk I have resigned myself to accepting," he replied blandly.
"I see." Talea's fingers dug into the wood of the railing.
She stared at the river as she spoke. "If we all die, that's a risk you're
prepared to take. Well, I'm not."
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THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"As you wish." Clothahump gestured magnanimously at me water. "I herewith
release you from any obligation to assist me further. You may commence your
swim homeward."
"Like hell." She peered back at Bribbens. "Turn this deadwood around."
The boatman threw her a goggle-eyed and mournful look.
"How much can you pay me?"
l&T >�
"I see." He turned his attention back to the river ahead. "I
take orders only from those who can pay me." He indicated
Clothahump. "He paid me. He tells my boat where it is to go. I do not renege
on my business agreements."
"Screw your business agreements, don't you care about your own life?" she
asked him.
"I honor my commitments. My honor is my life." This 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
137
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
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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
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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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