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

case."

"I can understand the necessity for that." The officer

grandly waved them through, enjoying the looks of respect on

the faces of his subordinates while praying this visitor wouldn't

ask him any questions in return.

They proceeded through the portal one by one. Jon-Tom

was last through and hesitated. The officer seemed willing

enough.

"It's still in the same chamber, of course."

"Number Twelve, yes," said the officer blandly.

Clothahump fell back to match stride with Jon-Tom. "That

was clever of you, my boy! I was so preoccupied with trying

to get us in that I'd forgotten how difficult it would be to

sense past Eejakrat's spell guards. Now that is no longer a

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constraint. You cannot teach deviousness," he finished pridefiuly.

"That is instinctive."

"Thank you, sir. I think. What kind of corpse do you think

it is?"

"I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine a dead brain functioning,

either. We shall know soon enough." He was deciphering the

symbols engraved above each circular doorway. The guarded

barrier had long since disappeared around the continuous

curve of the hallway.

"There is number ten... and there eleven," he said excitedly,

pointing to the door on their right.

"Then this must be twelve." Talea stopped before the

closed door.

It was no larger than any of the others they'd passed. The

corridor nearby was deserted. Clothahump stepped forward

and studied the wooden door. There were four tiny circular

insets midway up the left side. He inserted his four insect

arms into them and pushed.

The spring mechanism that controlled the door clicked

home. The wood split apart and inward like two halves of an

apple.

There was no light in the chamber beyond. Even Caz could

see nothing. But Pog saw without eyes.

"Master, it's not very large, but I think dat dere's

someting..." He fluttered near a wall, struck his sparker.

A lamp suddenly burst into light. It revealed a bent and

very aged beetle surrounded by writhing white larval forms;

Startled, it glared back at them and muttered an oath.

"What is it now? I've told Skrritch I'm not to be disturbed

unless... unless..." His words trailed away as he stared

fixedly at Clothahump.

"By the Primordial Arm! A warmlander wizard!" He

turned to a siphon speaker set in the wall nearby. "Guards,

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guards!" The maggots formed a protective, loathesome semi

circle in front of him.

"Quick now," Caz yelled, "where is it?" They fanned out

into the chamber, hunting for anything that might fit

Clothahump's description.

One insectoid, one mammalian, the two wizards faced each

other in silent summing up. Neither moved, but they were

battling as ferociously as any two warriors armed with sword

and spear.

"We've got to find it fast," Ror was muttering, searching

a corner. "Before..."

But hard feet were already clattering noisily in the corridor

outside. Distant cries of alarm sounded in the chamber. Then

the soldiers were pouring through the doorway, and there was

no more time.

Jon-Tom saw something lying near the back wall that might

have been a long, low corpse. An insect shape stepped up

behind him and raised a cast-iron bottle high. Just before the

bottle came down on his head it occurred to him that the

shape wielding it was familiar. It wasn't one of the insect

guards who'd just arrived. Before he blacked out under the

impact he was positive the insectoid visage was that concealing

Talea's. The realization stunned him almost as badly as the

bottle, which cracked his own false forehead and bounced off

the skull beneath. Darkness returned to the chamber.

When he regained consciousness, he found he was lying in

a dimly lit, spherical cell. There was a drain in the center, at

the bottom of the sphere. The light came from a single lamp

hanging directly over the drain. It was windowless and

humid. Moss and fungi grew from the damp stones, and it

was difficult to keep from sliding down the sloping floor.

Compared to this, the cell they'd been temporarily incarcerat-

ed in back in Gossameringue had been positively palatial.

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No friendly Ananthos would be appearing here to recfify a

mistaken imprisonment, however.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Bribbens.

Good times or bad, the boatman's expression never seemed to

change. The moisture in the cell did not bother him, of

course.

"I should've stayed on my boat," he added with a sigh.

"Maybe we all ought to 'ave stayed on your boat, mate,"

said a disconsolate Mudge.

It occurred to Jon-Tom that Bribbens looked like himself.

So did Mudge, and the other occupants of the cell.

"What happened to our disguises?"

"Stripped away as neatly as you'd peel an onion," Pog

told him. He lay morosely on the damp stones, unwilling to

hang from the fragile lamp.

Clothahump was not in the cell. "Where's your master?"

"I don't know, I don't know," the bat moaned helplessly.

"Taken away from us during da fight. We ain't seen him

since, da old fart." There was no malice in the bat's words.

"It was Eejakrat," Caz said from across the cell. His

clothing was torn and clumps of fur were missing from his

right cheek, but he still somehow had retained his monocle.

"He knew us for what we were. I presume he has taken

special care with Clothahump. One sorcerer would not place

another in an ordinary cell where he might dissolve the bars

or mesmerize the jailers."

"But what he doesn't know is that we still have the

services of a wizard." Flor was looking hopefully at Jon-

Tom.

"I can't do anything, Ror." He dug his boot heels into a

crack in the floor. It kept him from sliding down toward the

central drain. "I need my duar, and it was strapped to the

inside back of my insect suit."

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"Try," she urged him. "We've nothing to lose, verdad?

You don't need instrumental accompaniment to sing."

"No, but I can't make magic without it."

"Give 'er a shot anyway, guv'nor," said Mudge. "It can't

make us any worse than we are, wot?"

"All right." He thought a moment, then sang. It had to be

something to fit his mood. Something somber and yet hopeful.

He was fonder of rock than country-western, but there was

a certain song about another prison, a place called Polsom,

where blues of a different kind had also been vanquished

through music. It was full of hope, anticipation, whistles, and

thoughts of freedom.

Mudge obligingly let out a piercing whistle. It faded to

freedom through the bars of their cell, but whistler and singer

did not. No train appeared to carry them away. Not even a

solitary, curious gneechee.

"You see?" He smiled helplessly, and spread his hands. "I

need the duar. I sing and it spells. Can't have one without the

other." The question he'd managed to suppress until now

could no longer rest unsatisfied.

"We know what probably happened to Clothahump." He

looked at the floor, remembering the descending iron bottle.

"Where's Talea?"

"Thatpwto!" Hor spit on the moss. "If we get a chance

before we die I'll disembowel her with my own hands." She

held up sharp nailed fingers.

"I couldn't believe it meself, mate." Mudge sounded more

tired than Jon-Tom had ever heard him. Something had