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

bad, but for all except the disconsolate Jon-Tom it was as

though they'd suddenly stepped out onto a warm beach

fronting the southern ocean.

"We have to find transport again," Clothahump was

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murmuring as they made their way with enforced slowness

across the square. "Soon someone will note either our ab-

sence or that of our belongings." He allowed himself a grim

chuckle.

"I would not care to be the prison commandant when

Eejakrat leams of our escape. They'll be after us soon

enough, but they should have a hell of a time locating us. We

blend in perfectly, and only a few have seen us. Nevertheless,

Eejakrat will do everything in his power to recapture us."

"Where can we go?" Mudge asked, shifting slightly under

the weight of the body. "To the north, back for Ironcloud?"

"No. That is where Eejakrat will expect us to go."

"Why would he suspect that?" asked Jon-Tom.

"Because I made it a point to give him sufficient hints to

that effect during our conversations," the wizard replied, "in

case the opportunity to flee arose."

"If he's as sly as you say, won't he suspect we're heading

in another direction?"

"Perhaps. But I do not believe he will think that we might

attempt to return home through the entire assembled army of

the Greendowns."

"Won't they be given the alarm about us also?"

"Of course. But militia do not display initiative. I think we

shall be able to slip through them."

That satisfied Jon-Tom, but Clothahump was left to muse

over what might have been. So close, they'd been so close!

And still they did not know what the dead mind was, or how

Eejakrat manipulated it. But while willing to take chances, he

was not quite as mad as Jon-Tom might have thought. I have

no death wish, young spellsinger, he thought as he regarded

the tall insect shape marching next to him. We tried as no

other mortals could try, and we failed. If fate wills that we are

to perish soon, it will be on the ramparts of the Jo-Troom

Gate confronting the foe, not in the jaws of Cugluch.

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Tm Horn Or THE GATE

Once among the milling, festering mob of city dwellers

they could relax a little. It took a while to locate an alley with

a delivery wagon and no curious onlookers. Clothahump

could not work the spell under the gaze of kibbitzers.

The long, narrow wagon was pulled by a single large

lizard. They waited. No one else entered the alley. Eventually

the driver emerged from the back entrance of a warren.

Clothahump confronted him and while the others kept watch,

hastily spelled the unfortunate driver under.

"Climb aboard then, citizens," the driver said obligingly

when the wizard had finished. They did so, carefully laying

Talea's body on the wagon bed between them.

They were two-thirds of the way to the Pass, the hustle of

Cugluch now largely behind them, when the watchful Jon-

Tom said cautiously to the driver, "You're not hypnotized,

are you? You never were under the spell."

The worker looked back down at him with unreadable

compound eyes as hands moved toward weapons. "No,

citizen. I have not been magicked, if that is what you mean.

Stay your hands." He gestured at the roadway they were

traveling. "It would do you only ill, for you are surrounded

by my people." Swords and knives remained reluctantly

sheathed.

"Where are you taking us, then?" Ror asked nervously.

"Why haven't you given the alarm already?"

"As to the first, stranger, I am taking you where you wish

to go, to the head of the Troom Pass. I can understand why

you wish to go there, though I do not think you will end your

journey alive. Yet perhaps you will be fortunate and make it

successfully back to your own lands."

"You know what we are, then?" asked a puzzled Jon-Tom.

The driver nodded. "I know that beneath those skins of

chitin there are others softer and differently colored."

"But how?"

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The driver pointed to the back of the wagon. Mudge

looked uncomfortable. "Well now wot the bloody 'ell were I

supposed to do? I thought 'is mind had been turned to mush

and I 'ad to pee. Didn't think 'e saw anyway, the 'ard-shelled

pervert!"

"It does not matter," the driver said.

"Listen, if you're not magicked and you know who and

what we are, why are you taking us quietly where we wish to

go instead of turning us over to the authorities?" Jon-Tom

wanted to know.

"I just told you: it does not matter." The driver made a

two-armed gesture indicative of great indifference. "Soon all

will die anyway."

"I take it you don't approve of the coming war."

"No, I do not." His antennae quivered with emotion as he

spoke. "It is so foolish, the millenia-old expenditure of life

and time in hopes of conquest."

"I must say you are the most peculiar Plated person I have

ever encountered," said Clothahump.

"My opinions are not widely shared among my own

people," the driver admitted. He chucked the reins, and the

wagon edged around a line of motionless carts burdened with

military supplies. Their wagon continued onward, one set of

wheels still on the roadway, the other bouncing over the rocks

and mud of the swampy earth.

"But perhaps things will change, given time and sensible

thought."

"Not if your armies achieve victory they won't," said

Bribbens coldly. "Wouldn't you be happy as the rest if your

soldiers win their conquest?"

"No, I would not," the driver replied firmly. "Death and

killing never build anything, for all that it may appear

otherwise."

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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

"A most enlightened outlook, sir," said Clothahump. "See

here, why don't you come with us back to the warmlands?"

"Would I be welcomed?" asked the insect. "Would the

other warmlanders understand and sympathize the way you

do? Would they greet me as a friend?"

"They would probably, I am distressed to confess," said a

somber Caz, "slice you into small chitinous bits."

"You see? I am doomed whichever way I chose. If I went

with you I would suffer physically. If I stay, it is my mind that

suffers constant agony."

"I can understand your feelings against the war," said

Flor, "but that still doesn't explain why you're risking your

own neck to help us."

The driver made a shruglike gesture. "I help those who

need help. That is my nature. Now I help you. Soon, when

the fighting starts, there will be many to help. I do not take

sides among the needy. I wish only that such idiocies could

be stopped. It seems though that they can only be waited

out."

The driver, an ordinary citizen of the Greendowns, was full

of surprises. Clothahump had been convinced that there was

no divergence of opinion among the Plated Folk. Here was

loquacious proof of a crack in that supposed unity of totalitar-

ian thought, a crack that might be exploited later. Assuming,

of course, that the forthcoming invasion could be stopped.

Several days later they found themselves leaving the last of

the cultivated lowlands. Mist faded behind them, and the

friendly silhouettes of the mountains of Zaryt's Teeth became

solid.

No wagons plied their trader's wares here, no farmers

waded patiently through knee-deep muck. There was only

military traffic. According to Clothahump they were already

within the outskirts of the Pass.

Military bivouacs extended from hillside to hillside and for