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

(admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to

Polastrindu.

The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was

narrow and steep. The lizards balked at it. They had to be

whipped and cajoled downward, their claws shoving at the

dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the

slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once

they nearly had a wheel slip over the edge, threatening to

plunge wagon and lizards and all ass-over-heels into the tiny

chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they succeeded in

eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.

Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they

found themselves. To the left, hunkered up tight against the

cliffs, they found a single low building. It was not much

bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows winked

like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of

adobe and thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and

gray rock chimney made of rounded river stones.

What attracted their attention the most was the boat. It was

moored in the shallows. Water lapped gently at its flanks. A

well-tumed railing ran around the deck, and there was no

central cabin.

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stem. There was also a

single mast from which a fore-rigged sail hung limp and

tired, loosely draped across the boom.

"I hope our guide is as tough as his boat looks to be,"

said Talea as they mounted the covered porch fronting the

house.

"Only one way to find out." Jon-Tom ducked beneath the

porch roof. The door set in the front of the building was cut

from aged cypress. There was no window or peephole set into

it.

Pog found a comfortable cross-beam, hung head down

from it, and let out a relieved sigh. "Not fancy, maybe, but a

peaceful place ta live. I've always liked rivers."

"How can you like anything?" Talea chided him as they

inspected the house. "You see everything upside down."

"Lizard crap," said the bat with a grunt. "You're da ones

dat sees everyting upside down."

Clothahump knocked on the door. There was no response.

He rapped again, harder. Still nothing, so he tried the handle.

"Locked," he said curtly. "I could spell it open easily

enough, but that would mean naught if the owner is not

present." He sounded concerned. "Could he perhaps be off

on business with a second boat?"

"If so," Jon-Tom started to say, "it wouldn't hurt us to

have a short rest. We could wait until—"

The door opened inward abruptly. The frog that confronted

them stood just over five feet tall, slightly less than Talea, a

touch more than Mudge. Tight snakeskin shorts stopped just

above his knees. The long fringework that lined its hem fell

almost to his ankles. It swayed slightly as he stood inspecting

them.

The shorts were matched by a fringed vest of similar

material. Beneath it he wore a leathern shut that ended above

his elbows. Fringe reached from there to his wrists. He wore

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Alan Dean Foster

no hat, but a single necklace made from the vertebrae of

some large fish formed a white collar around his green-and-

yellow-spotted neck.

His ventral side was a pale blue that shaded to pink at the

pulsing throat. The rest of his body was dark green marked

with yellow and black spots. Compared to, say, Mudge or

Clothahump, the coloration was somewhat overwhelming. He

would be difficult to lose sight of, even on a dark day.

Examining them one at a time, the frog surveyed his

visitors. He thoroughly sized up every member of the group,

not missing Pog where he hung from the rafter. The bat's

head had swiveled around to stare curiously at the boatman.

The frog blinked, spoke in a low monotone distinguished

by its lack of inflection, friendly or otherwise.

"Cash or credit?"

"Cash," replied Clothahump. "Assuming that we can

work out an agreement to our mutual satisfaction."

"Mutual my ass," said the frog evenly. "I'm the one who

has to be satisfied." When Clothahump offered no rebuttal,

the boatman expressionlessly stepped back inside. "Come on

in, then. No point in standing out in the damp. Sick custom-

ers make lousy passengers."

They filed in, Jon-Tom and Hor electing to take seats on

the floor rather than risk collision with the low, thick-beamed

ceiling, hi addition, the few chairs looked too rickety to

support much weight.

The frog moved to a large iron stove set against a back

wall. A large kettle simmered musically on the hot metal. He

removed the cover, stirred the contents a few times, then

sampled it with a large wooden ladle. The odor was foul.

Taking a couple of large wooden shakers from a nearby wall

shelf, he dumped some of their powdered contents into the

kettle, stirred the liquid a little more, and replaced the iron

cover, apparently satisfied.

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THE HOUR OF THE GATES

Then he sauntered back to the thick wooden table in the

center of the room. Boating equipment, hooks, ropes,

woodworker's tools, braces and pegs and hammers lined the

other two walls.

At the back was a staircase leading downward. Possibly it

went to the hold, or to clammier and more suitable sleeping

quarters.

Leaning forward across the table, the frog clasped wet

palms together and stared across at Clothahump and Jon-Tom.

His long legs were bent sideways beneath the wood so as not

to kick his guests. Caz was standing near one wall inspecting

some of the aquatic paraphernalia. Talea hunted for a suitable

chair. She finally found one and dragged it up to the table,

where she joined the other three.

"My name's Bribbens Oxiey, of the sandmarsh Oxieys,"

the frog told them. "I'm the best boatman on this or any

other river." This was stated quietly, without any particular

emphasis or boastfulness.

"I know every loggerhead, every tree stump, every knot,

boulder, and rapids for the six hundred leagues between the

Teeth and Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs. I know the hiding places

of the mudfishers and the waterdrotes' secret holes. I can

smell a storm two days before it hits and ride a wave gentle

enough not to upset a full teacup. I even know the exact place

where ten thousand years ago the witch Wutz tripped over the

cauldron full of magic which doubled the river, and I know

therefore whence comes the name Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli."

Jon-Tom gazed back out the still open door, past the

dangling Pog, to what still appeared to be a quite ordinary

stream. Somewhere, he imagined, the river had to fork,

hence the nicknames River of Twos, Double River, and the

others. Since the fork was not here and was unlikely to be

between this spot and the mountains, it had to lie upstream.

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Alan Dean Foster

He would soon have the chance to find out, he thought, as he

returned his attention to the conversation.

"I can turn my craft circles 'round any other craft and

reach my destination in half their time. I can ride out weather

that puts other merchantmen and fisherfolk under their beds.

I'm not afraid of anything in the river or out of it.

"I personally guarantee to deliver cargo and/or passengers

to their chosen destination for the agreed-upon fee, on the

date determined in advance, if not earlier, or to forfeit all of

my recompense.

"I can outfight anyone, even someone twice my size," he