The Hour of the Gate (3 page)

“It seems that your appeal has accomplished what you intended,” said the gopher quietly, preening an eyelash. Gems sparkled around her thick neck and from the rings on every finger. “At least among the military-minded among us. All the world will react to your cry of alarm.” She shook her head and smiled grimly.

“Heaven help you if your prediction turns out to be less than accurate.”

“I can only say to that, madam, that I would much rather be proved inaccurate than otherwise in this matter.” Clothahump bowed toward her.

There were handshakes and hugs all around as the councilors descended from their dais. In doing so, they left behind a good deal of their pomposity and officiousness.

“We'll finish the slimy bastards this time!”

“Nothing to worry about… be a good fight!”

There was even grudging agreement from the Mayor, who was still irked that General Aveticus hadn't waited for the decision of the council before ordering mobilization. But there was nothing he could do about it now. Given the evidence Clothahump had so graphically presented, he wasn't sure he wanted to try.

“You'll advise us immediately, sir,” he said to Clothahump, “if you learn of any changes in plan among the Plated Folk.”

“Of course.”

“Then there remains only the matter of a new and perhaps more elegant habitation for you until it's time to march. We have access to a number of inns for the housing of diplomatic guests. I suppose you qualify as that. But I don't know what we can do with your great flaming friend back in the courtyard, since he so impolitely burned down his quarters.”

“We'll take care of him,” Jon-Tom assured the Mayor.

“Please see that you do.” Wuckle Three-Stripe was recovering some of his mayoral bearing. “Especially since he's the only
real
danger we've been certain of since you've appeared among us.”

With that, he turned to join the animated conversation taking place among several members of the council.

Once outside the chambers and back in the city hall's main corridor Jon-Tom and Mudge took the time to congratulate Clothahump.

“Aye, that were a right fine performance, guv'nor,” said the otter admiringly. “Cor, you should o' seen some o' those fat faces when you threw that army o' bugs up at 'em!”

“You've done what you wanted to, sir,” agreed Jon-Tom. “The armies of the warmlands will be ready for the Plated Folk when they start through the Jo-Troom Pass.”

But the wizard, hands clasped around his back, did not appear pleased. Jon-Tom frowned at him as they descended the steps to the city hall courtyard.

“Isn't that what you wanted, sir? Isn't that what we've come all this way for?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, my boy, that's what I wanted.” He still looked discouraged. “I'm only afraid that all the armies of all the counties and cities and towns of all the warmlands might not be enough to counter the threat.”

Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged glances.

“What more can we do?” asked Mudge. “We can't fight with wot we ain't got, Your Magicalness.”

“No, we cannot, good Mudge. But there may be more than what we have.”

“Beggin' your pardon, sor?”

“I won't rest if there is.”

“Well then, you give 'er a bit of some thought, guv, and let us know, won't you?” Mudge had the distressing feeling he wasn't going to be able to return to the familiar, comfortable environs of Lynchbany and the Bellwoods quite as soon as he'd hoped.

“I will do that, Mudge, and I will let you know when I inform the others… .”

II

THE QUARTERS THEY
were taken to were luxurious compared to the barracks they'd spent their first night in. Fresh flowers, scarce in winter, were scattered profusely around the high-beamed room. They were ensconced in Polastrindu's finest inn, and the decor reflected it. Even the ceiling was high enough so Jon-Tom could stand straight without having to worry about a lamp decapitating him.

Sleeping quarters were placed around a central meeting room which had been set aside exclusively for their use. Jon-Tom still had to duck as he entered the circular chamber.

Caz was leaning back in a chair, ears cocked slightly forward, a glass held lightly in one paw. The other held a silver, ornately worked pitcher from which he was pouring a dark wine into a glass.

Flor sat on one side of him, Talea on the other. All were chuckling at some private joke. They broke off to greet the newcomers.

“Don't have to ask how it went,” said Talea brightly, resting her boots on an immaculate couch. “A little while ago this party of subservient flunkies shows up at the barracks and tells us rooms have been reserved for us in this gilded hole.” She sipped wine, carelessly spilled some on a finely woven carpet. “This style of crusading's more to my taste, I can tell you.”

“What
did
you tell them, Jon-Tom?” wondered Flor.

He walked to an open window, rested his palms on the sill, and stared out across the city.

“It wasn't easy at first. There was a big, blustery badger named Wuckle Three-Stripe who was ready to chuck us in jail right away. It was easy to see how he got to be mayor of as big and tough a place as Polastrindu. But Clothahump scorched the seat of his pants, and after that it was easy. They paid serious attention.

“There was a general named Aveticus who's got more common sense than the rest of the local council put together. As soon as he'd heard enough he took over. The others just slid along with his opinion. I think he likes us personally, too, but he's so cold-faced it's hard to tell for sure what he's thinking. But when he talks everybody listens.”

Down below lay a vast black and purple form coiled in the shade of a high stone wall. Falameezar was apparently sleeping peacefully in front of the inn stables. The other stable buildings appeared to be deserted. No doubt the riding lizards of the hotel staff and its guests had been temporarily boarded elsewhere.

“The armies are already mobilizing, and local aerial representatives have been dispatched to carry the word to the other cities and towns.”

“Well, that's all right, then,” said Talea cheerfully. “Our job's finished. I'm going to enjoy the afterglow.” She finished her considerable glass of wine.

“Not quite finished.” Clothahump had snuggled into a low-seated chair across from her couch.

“Not quite, 'e says,” rumbled Mudge worriedly.

Pog selected a comfortable beam and hung himself above them. “The master says we got ta seek out every ally we can.”

“But from what has been said, good sir, we are already notifying all possible allies in the warmlands.” Caz sat up in his chair and gestured with his glass. Wine pitched and rolled like a tiny red pond and he didn't spill a drop.

“So long as the city fathers and mothers have seen fit to grant us these delightful accommodations, I see no reason why we should not avail ourselves of the local hospitality. Polastrindu is not so very far from Zaryt's Teeth and the Gate itself. Why not bivouac here until the coming battle? We can offer our advice to the locals.”

But Clothahump disagreed. “General Aveticus strikes me as competent enough to handle military preparations. Our task must be to seek out any additional assistance we can. You just stated that all possible warmland allies are being notified. That is so. My thoughts concerned possible allies elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Talea sat up and looked puzzled. “There is no elsewhere.”

“Try tellin' 'is nib's 'ere that,” said Mudge.

Talea looked curiously at the otter, then back at the wizard. “I still don't understand.”

“There is another nation whose aid would be invaluable,” Clothahump explained energetically. “They are legendary fighters, and history tells us they despise the Plated Folk as much as we do.”

Mudge circled a finger near one ear, whispered quietly to Jon-Tom. “Told you 'e was vergin' on the senile. The lightnin' an' the view conjurin' 'as sent him off t' balmy land.”

The most unexpected reaction came from Pog, however. The bat left his beam and hovered nervously overhead, his eyes wide, his tone fearful.

“No, Master! Don't tink of it. Don't!”

Clothahump shrugged. “Our presence here is no longer required. We would find ourselves lost among the general staffs of the assembling armies. Why then should we not seek out aid which could turn the tide of battle?”

Jon-Tom, who had returned from his position by the open window, listened curiously and wondered at Pog's sudden fright.

“What kind of allies were you thinking about, sir? I'm certainly willing to help recruit.” Pog gave him an ugly look.

“I'm talking about the Weavers, of course.”

The violence of the response to this announcement startled Jon-Tom and Flor.

“Who are these ‘Weavers'?” she asked the wizard.

“They are thought to be the most ferocious, relentless, and accomplished mountain fighters in all the world, my dear.”

“Notice he does not say ‘civilized' world,” said Caz pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been mussed by the wizard's shocking pronouncement. “I would not disagree with that appraisal of Weaver fighting ability, good sir,” continued the rabbit, his nose twitching uncontrollably. “And what you say about them hating the Plated Folk is also most likely true. Unfortunately, you neglect the likely possibility that they also despise us.”

“That is more rumor and bedtime story than fact, Caz. Considering the circumstances, they might be quite willing to join with us. We do not know for certain that they hate us.”

“That's for sure,” said Talea sardonically, “because few who've gone toward their lands have ever come back.”

“That's because no one can get across the Teeth,” Mudge said assuredly. “'Ate us or not don't matter. Probably none of them that's tried reachin' Weaver lands 'as ever reached 'em. There ain't no way across the Teeth except through the Gate and then the Pass, and the Weavers, if I recall my own bedtimey stories aright, live a bloody good ways north o' the Greendowns.”

“There is another way,” said Clothahump quietly. Mudge gaped at him. “It is also far from here, far from the Gate, far to the north. Far across the Swordsward.”

“Cross the Swordsward!” Talea laughed in disbelief. “He
is
crazy!”

“Across the great Swordsward,” the sorcerer continued patiently, “lies the unique cataract known as the Sloomaz-ayor-la-Weentli, in the language of the Icelands in which it arises. It is The-River-That-Eats-Itself, also called the River of Twos, also the Double-River. In the language and knowledge of magic and wizardry, it is known as the SchizoStream.”

“A schizoid river?” Jon-Tom's thoughts twisted until the knot hurt. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“If you know the magical term, then you know what you say is quite true, Jon-Tom. The Sloomaz-ayor-la-Weentli is indeed the river that makes no sense.”

“Neither does traveling down it, if I'm following your meaning correctly,” said Caz. Clothahump nodded. “Does not The-River-That-Eats-Itself flow through the Teeth into something no living creature has seen called The Earth's Throat?” Again the wizard indicated assent.

“I see.” Caz ticked the relevant points off on furry fingers as he spoke. “Then all we have to do is cross the Swordsward, find some way of navigating an impossible river, enter whatever The Earth's Throat might be, counter whatever dangers may lie within the mountains themselves, reach the Scuttleteau, on which dwell the Weavers, and convince them not only that we come as friends but that they should help us instead of eating us.”

“Yes, that's right,” said Clothahump approvingly.

Caz shrugged broadly. “A simple task for any superman.” He adjusted his monocle. “Which I for one am not. I am reasonably good at cards, less so at dice, and fast of mouth, but I am no reckless gambler. What you propose, sir, strikes me as the height of folly.”

“Give the credit for not being a fool with my own life,” countered Clothahump. “This must be tried. I believe it can be done. With my guidance you will all survive the journey, and we will succeed.” There was a deep noise, halfway between a chuckle and a belch. Clothahump threw the hanging famulus a quick glare, and Pog hurriedly looked innocent.

“I'll go, of course,” said Jon-Tom readily.

The others gazed at him in astonishment. “Be you daft too, mate?” said Mudge.

“Daft my ass.” He looked down at the otter. “I have no choice.”

“I'll go,” announced Flor, smiling magnificently. “I love a challenge.”

“Oh, very well.” Caz fitted his monocle carefully, his pink nose still vibrating, “but it's a fool's game to draw and roll a brace of twelves after a muntle-star pays out.”

“I suppose I'll come too,” said Talea with a sigh, “because I've no more good sense than the rest of you.”

All eyes turned toward Mudge.

“Right then, quit staring at me, you bloody great twits!” His voice dropped to a discouraged mutter. “I 'ope when we find ourselves served up t' the damned Weavers for supper that I'm the last one on the rottin' menu, so I can at least 'ave the pleasure o' watchin' 'em eat you arse'oles first!”

“To such base uses we all eventually come, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him.

“Don't get philosophical with me, mate. Oh, you've no choice for sure, not if you've a 'ope o' seeing your proper 'ome again. Old Clothahump's got you by the balls, 'e as. But as for me, I can be threatened so far and then it don't matter no more.”

“No one is threatening you, otter,” said the wizard.

“The 'ell you ain't! I saw the look in your eye, knew I might as well say yes voluntary-like and 'ave done with it. You can work thunder and lightnin' but you can't make the journey yourself, you old fart! You don't fool me. You
need
us.”