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

visitors.

Mudge was agile, but he wasn't fond of climbing. Ananthos

was clearly too large to enter the hole, though he stood the

best chance of rising to the height.

"We waste time on peripheral argument," Clothahump

finally snorted at them, when he was at last able to get a word

in. "Pog!"

Everyone looked around, but the bat was nowhere to be

seen.

" 'Ere 'e is!" Mudge pointed toward a large boulder.

They ran to the spot to find the bat squatting resolutely on

the gravel behind the rock. He looked up at them with

determined bat eyes. „

"No way am I going up dere and sticking my nose in one

of dose black pits. No telling what might take a notion to bite

it off."

"Come now, mate," said Mudge reasonably, adjusting his

185

Alan Dean Foster

parka top, "be sensible. You're the only arboreal among us.

If I didn't think that vine'd bust under me weight, I'd give a

climb a good try. But why the 'ell should one o' us 'ave t'

risk that, when you could be up there and back in a bloody

minute or two without so much as strainin' your wings?"

"An accurate evaluation of our situation." Caz positioned

his monocle tighter over his left eye. He'd steadfastly refused

to surrender the affectation, even at the risk of losing the

monocle in the snow. "You know, you really should have

been up there and back already, on your own initiative."

"Initiative, hell!" Pog flapped his wings angrily. "One

more display of 'initiative' from dis crazy bunch and we'll

find ourselves meat on somebody's table."

"Now Pog," Clothahump began wamingly.

"Yeah, I know, I know, boss. Go to it or ya'll turn me into

a human or worse." He sighed, unfurled his wings experi-

mentally.

"perhaps i could get up there—at least if i can't fit inside,

i could attach to a hole above and hang down to, look in."

Ananthos sounded awkward, wanting to contribute.

"You know that surface is too slick for you to get a hold

on, and if you could you probably couldn't get in and move

around in there. Your leg span is too wide. Besides, I think

Pog should have a chance at this." Clothahump was firm.

"A chance at what? Meeting my maker in a cold hole in da

sky?"

Ananthos looked pained, but Jon-Tom gave Pog encour-

agement with his eyes.

"If you're all determined den to see poor Pog get his throat

laid open, I expect I'll have ta be about da business. I warn

ya, dough, if I don't come back alive I'll come back dead and

haunt ya all to an early grave."

"Don't take any chances, Pog," Jon-Tom advised him.

"Probably you won't find anything, or anyone. Just fly up

186

TBE HOUR OF THE GATE

and check out one or two caves, see if this place is really as

deserted as it looks. If it is, maybe you'll leam the reason

why."

"Maybe one of da reasons is hiding in one of dose caves!"

snapped the worried bat, gesturing upward with a wing

thumb.

"If so then don't hang around to argue with it," said

Talea. "You're going up to look, not to fight. Get your butt

back down here as fast as you can."

Pog hovered just above the ground, lit on top of the boulder

he'd been hiding behind. "No need ta worry 'bout that, Talea

lady." He pulled his knife from its back sheath and slipped it

between his jaws.

"Wish me luck," he mumbled around the blade.

"There is no need for luck when intelligence and good

judgment are exercised," said Clothahump.

Pog made a rude noise, flapped his wings, and launched

himself from the crest of the rock. He dropped, skimmed

inches above sharp gravel, and then began to climb, using the

warm currents rising from the bare plateau to ascend in a

steady spiral.

"You think he'll be okay?" Flor shielded her eyes from the

glare and squinted at the sky where a black shape was

growing gradually smaller. Pog now looked like a toy kite

against the pure blue curtain overhead.

"Instinct is a powerful aid to self-preservation."

"Oh?" she said with just a hint of sarcasm. "What book

did that come out of?"

Jon-Tom was also leaning back and looking toward the lip

of the iron cloud. He just swallowed Flor's remark.

Hemarist, da tall human lady had called it. No, dat

wasn't right. Hema... Hematite. Like in a tight spot, which

is what you gots yourself into, Pog thought to himself. He

was high above the rocky plain now. The figures of his

187

Alan Dean Foster

companions were sharp and distinct against the gray gravel. He

could tell they were watching him.

Waiting ta see how I get it, he thought miserably.

He circled before the lowest of the globular projections.

His personal sonar told him nothing moved inside any of the

several caves he'd flown past. That at least was a promising

sign. Maybe the place was deserted.

Black iron, huh? It looked like a vast black face to him,

with no eyes but lots of little mouths ready to swallow you,

swallow you whole. Pretty soon he was going to have to stick

his head into one of 'em.

Why couldn't ya have listened ta your mudder, he berated

himself, and gone inta da mail soivice, or crafts transport; or

aerial cop work?

But nah, ya had ta fall hard for a pretty piece o' fluff who

won't give ya da time o' night, den get stinking drunk and

apprentice yourself ta a half senile, sadistic, hard-shelled,

hard-headed old fart of a wizard in da faint hope he'll

eventually turn ya inta something more presentable ta you

lady love.

He thought of her again, of the smoothly elegant blend of

feathers from back to tail, of the slightly cruel yet delicate

curve Of beak, and of those magnificent, piercing yellow eyes

which turned his guts to paste when they passed over him.

Ah, Uleimee, if ya only knew what I'm suffering for ya!

He caught himself, broke the thought like a ceramic cup. If

she knew what you was suffering she wouldn't give a flyin'

fuck about it. She's the type who appreciates results, not

well-meaning failures.

So gather what's left of your small store of courage, bat,

and be about your job. And don't think about whether when

your time's up, old Clothamuck will have forgotten da formu-

la for transforming ya.

But, oh my, dat cave mouth looming just ahead is dark!

188

THB HOUK Of THE GATE

Empty, dough. His eyes as wen as his sonar told him that. He

fluttered next to the opening for a while, wrestling with the

knowledge that if he didn't explore at least one of the caves

his mentor would simply force him to return and try again.

He drifted cautiously inside. He sensed the echo of his

wing beats pushing air off the tunnel walls. Then he settled

down to walk.

The floor of the cave was carpeted with clean straw, carefully

braided into intricately patterned mats. They appeared to be

in good repair. If this iron warren was abandoned, it hadn't

been so for long.

The tunnel soon expanded into a larger, roughly oval-

shaped chamber. It was filled with a peculiar assortment of

furniture. There were lounges but no chairs, and high-backed

perches. The lounges suggested creatures that walked, as did

the climbing vines dangling outside each cave opening, but

the high-backs pointed to arboreals like himself. He shook his

head. Deductive thinking was not his strong suit.

The utensils were also confusing rather than enlightening.

A little light reached the chamber from the cave opening, but