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

his right wrist. "I am out of shape," he muttered to no one in

particular. His attention rose to the mast. Pog was twisted

around the upper spreaders like a black coil.

The bat was slowly unwrapping himself. His malaria-like

shivers faded, and he spoke in a querulous whisper. "Oint-

ments, Master? Unguents and balms for ya arm, maybe a blue

pill for ya head?"

"You okay?" Jon-Tom gazed admiringly down at the

exhausted wizard.

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"I will be, boy." He spoke hoarsely to his famulus.

"Some ointment, yes. No pill for my head, but I will have

one of the green ones for my throat. Five minutes of nonstop

chanting." He sighed heavily, glanced back to Jon-Tom.

"Keep in mind, my boy, that a wizard's greatest danger is

not lack of knowledge nor the onset of senility nor such

forgetfulness as I am now prone to. It's laryngitis."

Then everyone was swarming happily around him. Except

me unperturbable, steady Bribbens. The boatman remained at

his post, eyes directed calculatingly upstream. They had left

the boat in his hands, and he left the congratulating in theirs.

It was later that Mudge found Jon-Tom seated near the bow

and staring morosely ahead. Strong wind from behind lifted

his bright green cape, and he tucked it around and between

his upraised knees. The duar lay in his lap. He plucked

disconsolately at it as multihued formations passed in glowing

revue.

" 'Ere now, lad," said the otter concernedly, leaning over

and squeak-sniffing, "wot's the matter, then? That Massawatch-

oriswhatever's behind us now, not comin' down at us."

Jon-Tom drew another chord from the instrument, smiled

faintly up at the otter. "I blew it, Mudge." When the otter

continued to look puzzled, he added, "I could've done the

same thing as Clothahump, but I couldn't come up with the

right music." He looked down at the duar.

"I couldn't think of a single appropriate tune, not even a

chord. If it had all been up to me," he said with a shrug,

"we'd all be dead by now."

"But we ain't," Mudge pointed out cheerfully, "and that

be the important thing."

"Our cheeky companion is correct, you know." Caz had

come up behind them both. Now he stood opposite Mudge,

looking at the seated human. His paws were behind his back

and folded just above the putfball of a tail. "I doesn't matter

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Alan Dean Foster

who does the saving. Just as friend Mudge says, the fact that

we are saved is the important thing. Remember, it was you

who tamed the great Falameezar that fiery night in Polastrindu.

Not Clothahump. You want to hold all the glory for yourself?"

When he saw that the irony was lost on Jon-Tom he added,

"We all work for the same end. It matters nothing who does

what so long as that end is achieved. It shall be, unless some

of us put our personal feelings and desires above it."

Mudge looked a little uncomfortable at the rabbit's bluntness.

" 'E's right, mate. We can't be thinkin' o' ourselves in this

business." The last was said with a straight face. "You'll

'ave plenty o' opportunity t' demonstrate your wonderfulnes'

t' the ladies when this all be done with." He winked anG

whistled knowingly before leaving for the stem.

Caz considered giving the self-pitying human a comforting

pat, decided Jon-Tom might regard it as patronizing, and left

to join Mudge.

Jon-Tom, sitting by himself, muttered aloud, "The ladie

have nothing to do with it." He watched the cavern wall'

glide past. Gentle spray licked his face, kicked up from the

bow as the boat made its way upstream.

They didn't, he insisted to himself, resting his chin o.

folded hands. He'd only been worried about the general

welfare.

Then he grinned, though there was no one to see him. The

trouble with studying law is that you develop a tendency u

bullshit yourself as well as your counterparts. What about thi

theory that all great events, all the turning points of histor

had in some measure or another been motivated by matters (

passion? Catherine the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, Washingtc

... the sexual theory of history explained a hell of a lot c

things economics and social migration and such did not.

It was quite a different kind of history that balanced on thi^

outcome of their little expedition. Jon-Tom had never accorded

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THE HOUR Or THE GATE

the theory much credit anyway. Yet though meant at least

partly in jest, Mudge's words forced home to him how often

emotional yearnings coupled with the basic desires of the

body could overwhelm those usually thought of as rational

creatures.

So he was sitting there moping about nothing except

himself. That was selfish and stupid. Maybe it had affected

the thinking of Napoleon and Tiberius and others, but it

wouldn't affect him. It was a damn good thing Clothahump

had found the words that had escaped his human companion.

His moroseness fading, he strummed softly on the duar. A

flicker of dancing motes haunted his left elbow. When he

turned to inspect them, they'd gone. Gneechees.

What still did worry him was the thought that the next time

he might be called upon to sing some magic, he might be as

mentally paralyzed as he'd been when nearing Helldrink. He

would have to fight that.

It wasn't the thought of death or the failure of their mission

that troubled him as he sat there and played. It was a fear of

personal failure, a fear that had haunted him since he'd been a

child. It was the fear which had driven him to pursue two

different careers without being able to choose between them.

And though he didn't realize it, it was the fear which had

driven more men and women to greatness than far more

rational motivations....

125

VIII

Several days later the cathedral hove into view. It was not a

cathedral, of course. But it might have been. No one could

say. That turned out not to be as confusing as it seemed.

To Jon-Tom it looked like a cathedral. The ceiling of the

great underground chamber in which it rose was several

hundred feet high. Towers and turrets nearly touched that far

stone roof. At that distance massive stalactites, each weighing

many tons, resembled pins hanging from a carpet.

The bioluminescents were especially dense here and the ;

chamber and its far reaches so brightly lit that it took me '

travelers several minutes to adjust to that unexpectedly vi- |

brant organic glow.

It was more like a hundred cathedrals, Jon-Tom thought,

all executed in miniature and piled one atop the other. Care

and fine craftsmanship were apparent in every line and curve

of the labyrinthine structure. Thousands of tiny colored win-

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Alan Dean Foster

dows gleamed on dozens of levels. The edifice filled much of

the huge chamber.

It was a measure of the distances his mind had crossed that

it was only incidental to him that the building shone a rich,

metallic gold. Of course, that might only be a result of

extensive use of gilt paint. Still, he vowed privately to keep a

close watch on their avaricious otter.

The term miniature was applicable to more than just the

building. When it became clear to them that the inhabitants of

the strange boat were not hostile, the builders began to show

themselves.

No more than four inches tall, the little people were

covered with a rich umber fur that suggested sable. This fur