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

The Hour of the Gate

Spellsinger #2

Alan Dean Foster

Jon-Tom reeled dizzily at the top of the steps. All wrong,

he knew. Out of place, out of time. He was not standing

before the entrance to this strange Council Building in a city

named Polastrindu. A five-foot tall otter in peaked green cap

and bright clothing was not eying him anxiously, wondering if

he was about to witness a fainting spell. A bespectacled

bipedal turtle was not staring sourly at him, waiting for him

to regain his senses so they could be about the business of

saving the world. An enormous, exceedingly ugly black bat

was not hovering nearby, muttering darkly to himself about

dirty pots and pans and the lack of workman's comp a

famulus enjoyed while in a wizard's employ.

Sadly, saying these things were not did not transform the

reality.

" 'Ere now, mate," the otter Mudge inquired, "don't you

be sick all over us, wot?"

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Alan Dean Foster

"Sorry," Jonathan Thomas Meriweather said apologetical-

ly. "Oral exams always make me queasy."

"Be of good cheer, my young friend," said the wizard

Clothahump. He tapped his plastron. "I shall do the neces-

sary talking. You are here to add credence to what I will say,

not to add words. Come now. Time dies and the world draws

nearer disaster." He ambled through the portal. As he had

now for many weeks, the transposed Jon-Tom could only

long for his own vanished world, hope desperately that once

this crisis had passed Clothahump could return him to it, and

follow the turtle's lead.

Inside they marched past scribes and clerks and other

functionaries, all of whom turned to look at them in passing.

The hall itself was wood and stone, but the bark-stripped logs

mat supported this structure had been polished to a high

luster. Rich reds faded into bright, almost canary-yellow

grains. The logs had the sheen of marble pillars.

They turned past two clusters of arguing workers. The

arguing stopped as they passed. Apparently everyone in

Polastrindu now knew who they were, or at least that they

controlled the dragon who'd almost bumed down the city the

previous night.

Up a pair of staircases they climbed. Clothahump puffed

hard to keep up with the rest. Then they passed through a set

of beautiful black and yellow buckeye-buri doors and entered

a small room.

There was a single straight, long table on a raised dais. It

curved at either end, forming horns of wood. To the right a

small bespectacled margay sat behind a drafting table. He

wore brown shirt, shorts, boots, and an odd narrow cap. The

quill pen he was writing with was connected by wooden arms

to six similar pens hovering over a much larger table and six

separate scrolls. It was a clever mechanism enabling the

scribe to make an original and six copies simultaneously. An

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THE HOUR OF TJZB GATE

assistant, a young wolf cub, stood nearby. He was poised to

change the scrolls or unroll them as the occasion demanded.

Seated behind the raised table was the Grand Council of

the City, County, and Province of Greater Polastrindu, the

largest and most influential of its kind in the warmlands.

Jon-Tom surveyed the councillors. From left to right, he

saw first a rather foppishly clad prairie dog draped in thin

silks, lace, neck chains, and a large gold earring in his right

ear. Next came a corpulent gopher in pink, wearing the

expected dark wraparound glasses. This redoubtable female

likely represented the city's nocturnal citizens. His eyes

passed impatiently over most of the others.

There were only two truly striking personalities seated

behind the table. At its far right end sat a tall, severely attired

marten. If not actually a military uniform, his dress was very

warlike. It was black and blue and there were silver epaulets

crusting his shoulders and chevronlike ripples on his sleeves.

Double bandoliers of small stilettoes formed a lethal "X"

across his chest. His clothing was so spotless Mudge whispered

that it must have a dirt-repellent spell cast on it.

His posture matched his attire. He sat rigidly erect in his

low chair, his high torso not bending even slightly across the

table. His attitude was also much more attentive than that of

any of the other council members.

Jon-Tom tried to analyze their states of mind as they took

stock of the tiny group waiting before the long table. Their

expressions conveyed everything from fear to amusement.

Only the marten seemed genuinely interested.

The other imposing figure on the dais sat in the middle of

the table. He was flanked by two formal perches on which

rested the representatives of Polastrindu's arboreal population.

One was a large raven. At the moment he was picking his

beak with a silver pick held easily in his left foot. He wore a

red, green, and ocher kilt and matching vest. On the other

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Alan Dean Foster

perch was the smallest intelligent inhabitant of the warmlands

Jon-Tom had yet encountered. The hummingbird was no

larger man a man's head. It had a long beak, exquisite

plumage, and heavily jeweled kilt and vest. It might have

flown free from the treasure vaults of Dresden.

Gold trim lined the kilt, and a necklace of the finest gold

filigree hung around the ruby-throated neck. He also wore a

tiny cap similar to an Australian bush hat. It was secured on

the iridescent head with a gold strap.

Jon-Tom marveled at the hat. Slipping it on over that

curving beak would be a considerable project, unless the strap

joined at a tiny buckle he couldn't see.

All inhabitants and stretches of the province were thus

represented. They were dominated by the motionless figure of

the marten on the far right, and by the stocky individual in

their center.

It was that citizen who commanded everyone's attention as

he pushed back his chair and stood. The badger wore specta-

cles similar to Clothahump's. His fur was silvered on his

back, indicating age.

He had very neatly trimmed claws. Despite his civilized

appearance Jon-Tom was grateful for the manicure, knowing

the reputation badgers had for ferocity and tenacity in a fight.

Deep-set black eyes stared out at them. He wore a stiff,

high-collared suit marked only by a discreet gold flower on

his lapel. One paw slammed down hard on the table. Jon-Tom

hadn't known what to expect, but the instant angry outburst

was not the greeting he'd hoped for.

"Now what do you mean by bringing this great narsty

fire-breathing beastie into the city limits and burning down

the harbor barracks^, not to mention disrupting the city's

commerce, panicking its citizenry, and causing disruption and

general dismay among the populace?!?" The voice rose

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THE HOUR OF TBE GATE

immediately to an angry pitch as he shook a thick warning

finger down at them.

' 'Give me one reason why I should not have the lot of you

run into the lowest jails!"

Jon-Tom looked at Mudge in dismay. It was Clothahump

who spoke patiently. "We have come to Polastrindu, friend,

in order to—"

"I am Mayor and Council President Wuckle Three-Stripe!"

snorted the badger, "and you will address me as befits my

titles and position!"

"We are here," continued the wizard, unperturbed an<

unimpressed, "on a mission of great consequence to every

inhabitant of the civilized world. It would behoove you t(