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.
ROT sat on one side of him, Talea on the other. All were
chuckling at some private joke. They broke off to greet the
newcomers.
27
Alan Dean Foster
"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 sleep-
ing 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 repre-
sentatives 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 fin-
ished her considerable glass of wine.
28
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
"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
29
Alan Dean Foster
lightnin' an' the view conjurin' 'as sent him oS 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 me 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 me wizard.
"They are thought to be the most ferocious, relentless, and
accomplished mountain fighters in all me world, my dear."
"Notice he does not say 'civilized' world," said Caz
pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been
mussed by me 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 possi-
bility 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."
30
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"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-WeentIi, 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 knowl-
edge 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-WeentIi 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