Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

"We have resources others did not have," said Clothahump

confidentally. "I am something of a formidable conjurer, and

my associate here is a most powerful spellsinger." He ges-

tured at me lanky form of Ion-Tom. They had stepped down

from the wagon to talk with the elder. The dray lizards

munched contentedly on rich riverbank growth.

The old otter put aside his fishing pole and studied them.

His short whistle indicated he didn't think much of either man

or turtle, unseen mental talents notwithstanding.

"Sorcerers ye may be, but the passage through the Teeth

by way of the river is little but a legend. Ye can travel b\

legend only in dreams. Which is all that's likely to be left of

ye if ye persist in this folly. Sixty years I've lived on the

banks of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli." He gestured fondly

at the flowing water behind him. "Never have I heard tell of

anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way

of it."

"Sounds convincin' enough for me, 'e does." Mudge

leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. "That settles

that: time to turn about for 'ome."

Ion-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face

"That does not settle it."

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THE HOUR Or THE GATE

Mudge shrugged cheerfully. "Can't biff a bloke for tryin',

mate. I ought t' know better, I knows it, but somethin' in me

insists on tryin' t' fight insanity in the ranks."

"Ya ought ta have more faith in da master." Pog fluttered

above the wagon and chided the otter. "Ya oughta believe in

him and his abilities and great talents." He drifted lower

above Mudge and whispered. "Frankly, we all been candi-

dates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed

trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don't got much

choice. Don't make him mad, chum."

But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next

to the wagon. "Clothahump knows what he's doing. I'm sure

if things turned suicidal he'd listen to reason."

"Ya tink dat, does ya?" Pog's small sharp teeth flashed as

he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the

turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.

"Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin' off and abandonin'

dis trip wid t'reats. What makes ya tink he'd be more polite

where you're concerned?"

"He owes me a debt," said Jon-Tom. "If I insisted on

remaining behind, I don't think he'd try to coerce me."

Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. "Dat's what

you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you're

as naive as a baby's belly!' He rose and skimmed off over

the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.

"Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump

would keep me from leaving if that's what I wanted?"

"I wouldn't 'ave 'alf a notion, mate. But since you say you

want to keep on with this madness, there ain't no point in

arguin' it, is there?" He retreated back inside the wagon,

leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the

riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it

continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at

Clothahump.

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Alan Dean Foster

"There be only one way ye might get even partway s

through," continued the old otter, "and if yer lucky, out

again alive. That's to have a damn good boatman. Qne who

knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That's the only

way ye'll even get inside the mountain."

"Can you recommend such an individual?" asked

Clothahump.

"Oh, I know of several good boatfolk," the oldster boasted.

He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water,

then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. "Trouble for ye is

that ain't none of 'em idiots. And that's going to be as

important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because

only an idiot's going to try and take ye where ye wants to

go!"

"We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow," said

Clothahump impatiently, "only of your advice. If you would

rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will

do our best to find it elsewhere."

"All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed

diviner of catastrophes!

"There's one, just one, who might be willing to help ye

out. He's just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good

enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin' so

is something else again." He gestured to his left.

"Half a league farther on you'll find that the riverbank

rises steeplike. Still farther you'll eventual come across sev-

eral large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He's

got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens

Oxiey."

"Thank you for your help," said Clothahump.

"Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?"

Jon-Tom wondered.

The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water.

"Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the

74

THE HOUR OF THE GATS

better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that's not where ye

are going!"

Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compart-

ments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the

otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.

"No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for

assisting the doomed." He gathered up his pole and gear and

ambled crookedly off upstream.

"Nice of him to give us that name," said Jon-Tom,

watching the other depart. "Since he wouldn't take the

money, why didn't we try to help his arthritis?"

"Arth.. .his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?" Clothahump

adjusted his spectacles. "It is a long spell and requires time

we do not have." He turned resolutely toward the wagon.

Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled

otter make his loping way eastward. "But he was so helpful."

"We do not know that yet," the turtle insisted. "I was

willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical

spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us,

and the name to get rid of us."

"Awfully cynical, aren't you?"

Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into

the wagon. "My boy, the first hundred years Of life teaches

you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you

that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surround-

ings. And after two hundred years... give me a hand there,

that's a good boy." Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over

the wooden rail and into the wagon.

"After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is pre-

dictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the

cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we

expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that

otter... or you, or me?"

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Alan Dean Foster

Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more

rolled noisily westward.

Everyone hoped the oldster's recommendation was sounder

than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of

traveling before they encountered three massive oaks domi-

nating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable

width, the river had narrowed between the higher banks and

ran with more power, more confidence, and occasional flecks

of foam.

Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to

navigate to Jon-Tom. He wondered at the need for a guide.

The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed