The Hour of the Gate: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Two) (The Spellsinger Saga)

  The Hour of the Gate

  Alan Dean Foster

  To

  the trio that never was

  But should have been.

  Janis

  Aretha

  Billie

  The ladies, bless ’em all.

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  I

  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?”

  “Sorry,” Jonathan Thomas Meriweather said apologetically. “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 necessary 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 that 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 burned 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-burl 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 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 councilors. 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 perch was the smallest intelligent inhabitant of the warmlands Jon-Tom had yet encountered. The hummingbird was no larger than 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 spectacles 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 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 and unimpressed, “on a mission of great consequence to every inhabitant of the civilized world. It would behoove you to listen closely to what I am about to tell you.”

  “Yeah,” said Pog, who had settled on one of the numerous empty perches ringing the room, “a
nd if ya don’t, our good buddy da dragon will burn your manure pile of a rat-warren down around your waxy ears!”

  “Shut up, Pog.” Clothahump glared irritably at the bat.

  While he was doing so the unctuous gopher leaned over and spoke to the badger in a delicate yet matronly voice. “The creature is undiplomatic, Mayor-President, but he has a point.”

  “I will not be blackmailed, Pevmora.” He looked down the other way and asked in a less belligerent tone, “What do you say, Aveticus? Do we disembowel these intruders now, or what?”

  The marten’s reply was so quiet Jon-Tom had to strain to make it out. Nevertheless, the creature conveyed an impression of cold power. As would any student interested in the law, Jon-Tom noticed that all the other council members immediately ceased picking their mouths, chattering to each other, or whatever they’d been doing, in order now to pay attention.

  “I think we should listen to what they have to say to us. Not only because of the threat posed by the dragon, against whose breath I will not expend my soldiers and whom you must admit we can do nothing about, but also because they speak as visitors who mean us nothing but good will. I cannot yet pass on the importance of what they may say, but I think we can safely accept their professed motivations. Also, they do not strike me as fools.”

  “Sensibly put, youngster,” said Clothahump.

  The marten nodded once, barely, and ignored the fact that he was anything but a cub. He smiled as imperceptibly as he’d nodded, showing sharp white teeth.

  “Of course, good turtle, if you are wasting our time or do indeed mean us harm, then we will be forced to take other measures.”

  Clothahump waved the comment away. “You give us credit for being other than fools. I return the compliment. Now then, let us have no more talk of motivations and time, for I have none of the last to spare.” He launched into a long and by now familiar explanation of the danger from the Plated Folk and their preparations, from their massed armies to their still unknown new magic.

  When he’d finished the badger looked as bellicose as before. “The Plated Folk, the Plated Folk! Every time some idiot seer panics, it’s ‘the Plated Folk are coming, the Plated Folk are coming!’” He resumed his seat and spoke sarcastically.

  “Do you think we can be panicked by tales and rumors that mothers use to scare their cubs into bed? Do you think we believe every claim laid before us by every disturbed would-be leader? What do you think we are, stranger?”

  “Stubborn,” replied Clothahump patiently. “I assure you on my honor as a wizard and member in good standing of the Guild for nearly two hundred years that everything I have just told you is true.” He indicated Jon-Tom, who until now had been silently watching and listening.

  “Last night, this young spellsinger actually encountered an envoy of the Plated Folk. He was here to foment trouble among local human citizens, and according to my young associate he was well disguised.”

  That brought some of the more insipid members of the council wide awake. “One of them . . . here, in the city… !”

  “He was attempting to begin war between the species,” reiterated the wizard. More mutters of disbelief from those behind the long table.

  “He wanted me to join with his puppets,” Jon-Tom explained. “The humans he’d recruited say the Plated Folk have promised to make them the overlords and administrators of all the warmlands the insects conquer. I didn’t believe it for a minute, of course, but I think I’ve studied more about such matters than those poor deluded people. I don’t think they have many followers. Nevertheless, the word should be spread. Just letting it be known that you know what the Plated Folk are trying to do should discourage potential recruits to their cause.”

  The muttering among the councilors changed from nervous to angry. “Where is he?” shouted the hummingbird, suddenly buzzing over the table to halt and hover only inches from Jon-Tom’s face. “Where is the insect offal, and his furless dupes?” Tiny, furious eyes stared into larger human ones. “I will put out their eyes myself. I shall…” “Perch down, Millevoddevareen,” said Wuckle Three-Stripe, the badger. “And control yourself. I will not tolerate anarchy in the chambers.”

  The bird glared back at the Mayor, muttered something under his breath, and shot back to his seat. His wings continued to whirr with nervous energy. He forced himself to calm down by preening them with his long bill.

  “Such fringe fanatics have always existed among the species,” the Mayor said thoughtfully. “Humans have no corner on racial prejudice. These you speak of will be warned, but they are of little consequence. When the time for final choices arrives, common sense takes precedence over emotion. Most people are sensible enough to realize they would never survive a Plated Folk conquest.” He smiled and his mask fur wrinkled.

  “But no such invasion has ever succeeded. Not in tens of thousands of years.”

  “There is still only one way through Zaryt’s Teeth,” proclaimed a squirrel, “and that is by way of the Jo-Troom Pass. Two thousand years ago Usdrett of Osprinspri raised the Great Wall on the site of his own victory over the Plated Folk. A wall which has been strengthened and fortified by successive generations of Fighters. The Gate has never been forced open, and no Plated Folk force has ever even reached the wall itself. We’ve never let them get that far down the Pass.”

  “They’re too stratified,” added the raven, waving a wing for emphasis. “Too inflexible in their methods of battle to cope with improvisation and change. They prepare to fight one way and cannot shift quickly enough to handle another. Why, their last attempt at an invasion was among the most disastrous of all. Their defeats grow worse with each attack. Such occasional assaults are good for the warmlands: they keep the people from complacency and sharpen the skills of our soldiers. Nor can we be surprised. The permanent Gate contingent can hold off any sudden attack until sufficient reinforcements can be gathered.”

  “This is no usual invasion,” said Clothahump intently. “Not only have the Plated Folk prepared more thoroughly and in greater numbers than ever before, but I have reason to believe they have produced some terrible new magic to assist them, an evil we may be unable to counter and whose nature I have as yet been unable to ascertain.”

  “Magic again!” Wuckle Three-Stripe spat at the floor. “We still have no proof you’re even the sorcerer you claim to be, stranger. So far I’ve only your word as proof.”

  “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

  Concerned that he might have overstepped a trifle, the Mayor retreated a bit. “I did not say that, stranger. But surely you understand my position. I can hardly be expected to alarm the entire civilized warmlands merely at the word of a single visitor. That is scarcely sufficient proof of what you have said.”

  “Proof? I’ll give you proof.” The wizard’s fighting blood was up. He considered thoughtfully, then produced a couple of powders from his plastron. After tossing them on the floor he raised both hands and turned a slow circle, reciting angrily.

  “Cold front, warm front, counteract my affront.

  Isobars and isotherms violently descend.

  Nimbus, cumulus, poles opposizing,

  Ions in a mighty surge my doubters upend!”

  A thunderous roar deafened everyone in the room and there was a blinding flare. Jon-Tom dazedly struggled back to a standing position to see Clothahump slowly picking himself up off the floor and readjusting his glasses.

  Wuckle Three-Stripe lay on the floor in front of him, having been blown completely across the council table. His ceremonial chair was a pile of smoking ash. Behind it a neat hole had been melted through the thick leaded glass where the tiny lightning bolt had penetrated. The fact that it was a cloudless day made the feat all the more impressive.

  The Mayor disdained the help of one of the other councilors. Brushing himself off and rearranging his clothing, he waddled back behind the table. A new chair was brought and set onto the pile of ash. He cleared his throat and leaned forward.

 
“We will accept the fact that you are a sorcerer.”

  “I’m glad that’s sufficient proof,” said Clothahump with dignity. “I’m sorry if I overdid it a mite. Some of these old spells are pretty much just for show and I’m a little rusty with them.” The scribe had returned to his sextupal duplicator and was scribbling furiously.

  “Plated envoys moving through our city in human disguise,” murmured one of the councilors. “Talk of interspecies dissension and war, great and strange magic in the council chambers. Surely this portends unusual events, perhaps even a radically different kind of invasion.”

  The prairie dog leaned across the table, steepling his fingers and speaking in high-pitched, chirping tones.

  “There are many forms of magic, colleagues. While the ability to conjure thunder and lightning on demand is most impressive, it differs considerably from divination. Do we then determine that on the basis of a flash of power we cease all normal activities and place Polastrindu on war alert?

  “Should the call go out on that basis to distant Snarken, to L’bor and Yul-pat-pomme and all the other towns and cities of the warmlands? Must we now order farmers to leave their fields, young men their sweethearts, and bats their nightly hunts? Commerce will come to a halt and fortunes will be lost, lives disrupted.

  “This is a massive question, colleagues. It must be answered by more than the words and deeds of one person.” He gestured deferentially with both hands at Clothahump. “Even one so clearly versed in the arts of wizardry as you, sir.”

  “So you want more proof?” asked Jon-Tom.

  “More specific proof, yes, tall man,” said the prairie dog. “War is no casual matter. I need hardly remind the other participants of this council,” and he looked the length of the long table, “that if there is no invasion, no unusual war, then it is our bodies that will provide fertilizer for next season’s crops, and not those of our nomadic visitors.” He looked back out of tiny black eyes at Jon-Tom. “Therefore I would expect some sympathy for our official positions.”