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

The owl eyed him as though he represented a lower

species. "We respect one another."

"There will be a feasting tonight," said Malu, trying to

lighten the atmosphere. "We can discuss your request then."

"That's not necessary," said Flor.

"But it is," the lemur argued. "You see, we can welcome

you either as enemies or as guests. There will be a feasting

either way."

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"I believe I follow your meaning." Caz spoke drily, eyeing

Tolafay's razor-sharp beak, which was quite capable of snap-

ping him in half. "I sincerely hope, then, that we can look

forward to being greeted as guests...."

They gathered that evening in a chamber far larger than

any of the others. Jon-Tom wondered at the force, technolog-

ical or natural, which could have hollowed such a space in the

almost solid iron.

It was dimly lit by lamp but more brightly than usual in

deference to the Ironclouders' vision-poor visitors. Trophy

feathers and lizard skins decorated the curving walls. Nearly

a hundred of the great owls of all species and sizes reveled in

music and dance along with their lemur companions.

Their guests observed the spectacle of feathers and fur with

pleasure. It was comfortably warm in the cave, the first time

since departing Gossameringue any of them had been really

warm.

The music was strange, though not as strange as its

sources. Nearby a great white barn owl stood in pink-green

kilt playing a cross between a tuba and a flute. It held the

instrument firmly with flexible wing tips and one clawed foot,

balancing neatly on the other while pecking out the melody

with a precision no mere pair of lips could match.

Owls and lemurs spilled out on the great circular iron floor,

dancing and spinning while their companions at the huge

curved tables ate and drank their fill. It was wonderful to

watch those great wings spinning and flaying at the air as the

owls executed jigs and reels with their comparatively tiny but

incredibly agile primate companions. Claws and tiny padded

feet slipped and hopped in and around each other without

missing a beat.

The night was half dead when Jon-Tom leaned over to ask

Ror, "Where's Clothahump?"

"I don't know." She stopped sipping from the narrow-

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

mouthed drinking utensil she'd been given. "Isn't he magnif-

icent?" Her eyes were glowing almost as brightly as those of

an acrobat performing incredible leaps before their table, his

long middle fingers tracing patterns in the air. A beautiful

female sifaka joined him, and the dance-gymnastics contin-

ued without a pause.

Jon-Tom put the question to the furry white host on his

other side.

"I don't know either, my friend," said Malu. "I have not

seen the hard-shelled oldster all evening."

"Don't worry yourself, Jon-Tom." Caz looked at him from

another seat down. "Our wizard is rich in knowledge, but not

rich in the ability to enjoy himself. Leave him to his private

meditations. Who knows when again we will have an oppor-

tunity for such rare entertainment as this?" He gestured

grandly toward the dancers.

But the concern took hold of Jon-Tom's thoughts and

would not let go. As he surveyed the room, he saw no sign of

Pog, either. That was still more unusual, familiar as he was

with the bat's preferences. He should have been out on the

floor, teasing and flirting with some lithesome screech owl.

Yet he was nowhere about.

Jon-Tom's companions were having too good a time to

notice his departure from the table. In response to his ques-

tions a potted tarsier with incredibly bloodshot eyes pointed

toward a tunnel leading deeper into the mountainside. Jon-

Tom hurried down it. Noise and music faded behind him.

He almost ran past the room when he heard a familiar

moaning: the wizard's voice. He threw aside the curtain

barring the entryway.

Lying on a delicate bunk that sagged beneath his weight

was the wizard's bulky body. He'd withdrawn arms and legs

into his shell so that only his head protruded. It bobbed and

twisted in an unnerving parody of the head movements of the

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Weavers. Only the whites of his eyes showed. His glasses lay

clean and folded on a nearby stool.

"Hush!" a voice warned him. Looking upward Jon-Tom

saw Pog dangling from a lamp holder. The flickering wick

behind him made his wings translucent.

"What is it?" Jon-Tom whispered, his attention on the

lightly moaning wizard. "What's the matter?" The echoes of

revelry reached them faintly. He no longer found the music

invigorating. Something important was happening in this little

room.

Pog gestured with a finger. "Da master lies in a trance

I've seen only a few times before. He can't, musn't be

disturbed."

So the two waited, watching the quivering, groaning shape

in fascination. Pog occasionally fluttered down to wipe mois-

ture from the wizard's open eyes, while Jon-Tom guarded the

doorway against interruptions.

It is a terrible thing to hear an old person, human 01

otherwise, moan like that. It was the helpless, weak sound a

sick child might make. From time to time there were snatches

and fragments of nearly recognizable words. Mostly, though,

the high singsong that filled the room was unintelligible

nonsense.

It faded gradually. Clothahump settled like a fallen cake.

His quivering and head-bobbing eased away.

Pog flapped his wings a couple of times, stretched, and

drifted down to examine the wizard. "Da master sleeps

now," he told the exhausted Jon-Tom. "He's worn

out."

"But what was it all about?" the man asked. "What was

the purpose of the trance?"

"Won't know till he wakes up. Got ta do it naturally.

Dere's nothin' ta do but wait."

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

Jon-Tom eyed the comatose form uncertainly. "Are you

sure he'll come out of it?"

Pog shrugged. "Always has before. He better. He owes

me...."

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XII

Once there were inquiring words at the curtain and Jon-

Tom had to go outside to explain them away. Time passed,

the distant music faded. He slept.

A great armored spider was treading ponderously after

him, all weaving palps and dripping fangs. Run as he might

he could not outdistance it. Gradually his legs gave out, his

wind failed him. The monster was upon him, leering down at

his helpless, pinioned body. The fangs descended but not into

his chest. Instead, they were picking off his fingers, one at a

time.

"Now you can't play music anymore," it rumbled at him.

"Now you'll have to go to law school... aha ha ha!"

A hand was shaking him. "Da master's awake, Jon-Tom

friend."

Jon-Tom straightened himself. He'd been asleep on the

floor, leaning back against the chamber wall. Clothahump

was sitting up on the creaking wicker bed, rubbing his lower

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jaw. He donned his spectacles, then noticed Jon-Tom. His

gaze went from the man to his assistant and back again.

"I now know the source," he told them brightly, "of the

new evil obtained by the Plated Folk. I know now from

whence comes the threat!"

Jon-Tom got to his feet, dusted at himself, and looked

anxiously at the wizard. "Well, what is it?"

"I do not know."

"But you just said... ?"

"Yes, yes, but I do know and yet I don't." The wizard