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

between earth and moon.

Another pair lifted from the plateau, heading for interior

darkness and a good, warm day's sleep. Jon-Tom could

only hope those homes would be as invulnerable as their

inhabitants believed from the eventual attacks of the Plated

Polk.

The last of the lemurs stared at them curiously while her

companion owl kicked impatiently at the ground. The sun had

peeked over the eastern crags and those great eyes were

three-quarters closed in half sleep.

"There's one tiling I'd like to know. How do you warmlanders

expect to penetrate Cugluch?"

"Disguise," Clothahump told her confidently.

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"You do not look much like Plated Folk," replied the

lemur doubtfully.

Clothahump shook a finger at her, spoke knowingly. "The

greatest disguise is assurance. We will be protected because

no Plated One would believe our presence. And where

assurance operates, magic is not far behind."

The lemur shrugged. "I think you are all fools, brave

fools, and soon-to-be-dead fools. But we will show the

Weavers the path they require and you the path to your

Deaths." She looked upward. "Your guides come."

.Two owls descended to join them. One motioned to the

waiting Ananthos. The Weaver trembled slightly as he made

his farewells.

"we shall meet at the gate," he told them. "that is, if I

survive this journey, i am not afraid of heights, but I have

never been in a high place where i could not break a fall by

attaching silk to some solid object, you cannot spin from a

cloud."

He climbed on the owl's back, waved legs at them. The

owl took a few steps, flapping mighty wings, and then soared

into the air of morning. He wore dark shades to protect him

from the sunlight.

They watched until the wings became a black line on the

horizon. Then the pair faded even from Caz's view.

The small hoot owl stood muttering to herself nearby. Her

kilt was black, purple, and yellow. "I'm Imanooo," she

informed them brusquely. "Let's get on with this. I'll point

you the way for two days, but that's all. Then you're on

your own."

The remaining lemur mounted his saddle. "I still think

you're all fools, but," he smiled broadly, "many a brave fool

has succeeded where a cautious genius has failed. Fly well."

He saluted with an arm wave as he and his friend rose

skyward.

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Alan Dean Foster

Alone in their cold-weather garb, the travelers watched

until the last pairing vanished into the hematite. Then Imanooo

rose and started off to the south, and they followed.

The path where there was no path carried them steadily

lower. The unvarying downhill hike was a welcome change

from the tortuous march to Ironcloud. The day after Imanooo

left them they began to discard their heavy clothing. Soon

they were down among trees and bushes, and snow was only

a fading memory.

Jon-Tom slowed his pace to stay alongside Clothahump.

The wizard was in excellent spirits and showed no ill effects

from the past weeks of marching.

"Sir?"

"Yes, my boy?" Eyes looked up at him through the thick

glasses. Abruptly Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable. It had seemed

so simple a while ago when he'd thought of it, a mere

question. Now it fought to hide in his throat.

"Well, sir," he finally got out, "among my people there's

a certain mental condition."

"Go on, boy."

"It has a common name. It's called a death wish."

"That's interesting," said Clothahump thoughtfully. "I

presume it refers to someone who wishes to die."

Jon-Tom nodded. ' 'Sometimes the person isn't aware of it

himself and it has to be pointed out to him by another. Even

then he may not believe it."

They walked on a while longer before he added, "Sir, no

disrespect intended, but do you think you might have a death

wish?"

"On the contrary, my boy," replied the wizard, apparently

not offended in the least, "I have a life wish. I'm only putting

myself into danger to preserve life for others. That hardly

means I want to relinquish my own."

"I know, sir, but it seems to me that you've taken us from

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one danger to another only to take successively bigger risks.

In other words, the more we survive, the more you seem to

want to chance death."

"A valid contention based solely on the evidence and your

personal interpretation of it," said Clothahump. "You ignore

one thing: I wish to survive and live as much as any of you."

"Can you be certain of that, sir? After all, you've already

lived more than twice a normal human lifetime, a much fuller

life than any of the rest of us." He gestured at the others.

"Would it pain you so much to die?"

"I follow your reasoning, my boy. You're saying that I am

willing to risk death because I've already had a reasonable

life and therefore have less than you to lose."

Jon-Tom didn't reply.

"My boy, you haven't lived long enough to understand

life. Believe me, it is more precious to me now because I

have less of it. I guard every day jealously because I know it

may be my last. I don't have less to lose than you: I have

more to lose."

"I just wanted to be sure, sir."

"Of what? The reasons for my decisions? You can be, boy.

They are founded upon a single motivation: the need to

prevent the Plated Masses from annihilating civilization.

Even if I did want to die, I would not do so until I had

expended every bit of energy in my body to prevent that

conflagration from destroying the warmlands. I might kill

myself if I suffered from the aberration you suggest, but only

after I'd saved everyone else."

"That's good to hear, sir." Jon-Tom felt considerably

relieved.

"There is one thing that has been troubling me a little,

however."

"What's that, sir?"

"Well, it's most peculiar." The wizard looked up at him.

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"But you see, I'm not at all certain that I remember the

formula for preparing our disguises."

Jon-Tom hesitated, frowned. "Surely we can't enter Cugluch

without them, sir?"

"Of course not," agreed Clothahump cheerfully. "I sug-

gest therefore that you consider some appropriate spellsongs.

You have seen one of the Plated Folk. That is what we must

endeavor to look like."

"I don't know if..."

"Try, my boy," said the wizard in a more serious tone,

"for if you cannot think of anything and I cannot remember

the formula, then I fear we will be forced to give up this

attempt."

Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom

was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were

not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by

heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even

the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song

about everything. He searched his memory, went through the

few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to

Periin Husky to Foreigner without success.

The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love

and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song

subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and

made the march more tolerable.

Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might

have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom's

mind on harmless matters.

Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts