than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of
traveling before they encountered three massive oaks domi-
nating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable
width, the river had narrowed between the higher banks and
ran with more power, more confidence, and occasional flecks
of foam.
Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to
navigate to Jon-Tom. He wondered at the need for a guide.
The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed
(admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to
Polastrindu.
The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was
narrow and steep. The lizards balked at it. They had to be
whipped and cajoled downward, their claws shoving at the
dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the
slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once
they nearly had a wheel slip over the edge, threatening to
plunge wagon and lizards and all ass-over-heels into the tiny
chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they succeeded in
eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.
Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they
found themselves. To the left, hunkered up tight against the
cliffs, they found a single low building. It was not much
bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows winked
like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of
adobe and thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and
gray rock chimney made of rounded river stones.
What attracted their attention the most was the boat. It was
moored in the shallows. Water lapped gently at its flanks. A
well-tumed railing ran around the deck, and there was no
central cabin.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stem. There was also a
single mast from which a fore-rigged sail hung limp and
tired, loosely draped across the boom.
"I hope our guide is as tough as his boat looks to be,"
said Talea as they mounted the covered porch fronting the
house.
"Only one way to find out." Jon-Tom ducked beneath the
porch roof. The door set in the front of the building was cut
from aged cypress. There was no window or peephole set into
it.
Pog found a comfortable cross-beam, hung head down
from it, and let out a relieved sigh. "Not fancy, maybe, but a
peaceful place ta live. I've always liked rivers."
"How can you like anything?" Talea chided him as they
inspected the house. "You see everything upside down."
"Lizard crap," said the bat with a grunt. "You're da ones
dat sees everyting upside down."
Clothahump knocked on the door. There was no response.
He rapped again, harder. Still nothing, so he tried the handle.
"Locked," he said curtly. "I could spell it open easily
enough, but that would mean naught if the owner is not
present." He sounded concerned. "Could he perhaps be off
on business with a second boat?"
"If so," Jon-Tom started to say, "it wouldn't hurt us to
have a short rest. We could wait until—"
The door opened inward abruptly. The frog that confronted
them stood just over five feet tall, slightly less than Talea, a
touch more than Mudge. Tight snakeskin shorts stopped just
above his knees. The long fringework that lined its hem fell
almost to his ankles. It swayed slightly as he stood inspecting
them.
The shorts were matched by a fringed vest of similar
material. Beneath it he wore a leathern shut that ended above
his elbows. Fringe reached from there to his wrists. He wore
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Alan Dean Foster
no hat, but a single necklace made from the vertebrae of
some large fish formed a white collar around his green-and-
yellow-spotted neck.
His ventral side was a pale blue that shaded to pink at the
pulsing throat. The rest of his body was dark green marked
with yellow and black spots. Compared to, say, Mudge or
Clothahump, the coloration was somewhat overwhelming. He
would be difficult to lose sight of, even on a dark day.
Examining them one at a time, the frog surveyed his
visitors. He thoroughly sized up every member of the group,
not missing Pog where he hung from the rafter. The bat's
head had swiveled around to stare curiously at the boatman.
The frog blinked, spoke in a low monotone distinguished
by its lack of inflection, friendly or otherwise.
"Cash or credit?"
"Cash," replied Clothahump. "Assuming that we can
work out an agreement to our mutual satisfaction."
"Mutual my ass," said the frog evenly. "I'm the one who
has to be satisfied." When Clothahump offered no rebuttal,
the boatman expressionlessly stepped back inside. "Come on
in, then. No point in standing out in the damp. Sick custom-
ers make lousy passengers."
They filed in, Jon-Tom and Hor electing to take seats on
the floor rather than risk collision with the low, thick-beamed
ceiling, hi addition, the few chairs looked too rickety to
support much weight.
The frog moved to a large iron stove set against a back
wall. A large kettle simmered musically on the hot metal. He
removed the cover, stirred the contents a few times, then
sampled it with a large wooden ladle. The odor was foul.
Taking a couple of large wooden shakers from a nearby wall
shelf, he dumped some of their powdered contents into the
kettle, stirred the liquid a little more, and replaced the iron
cover, apparently satisfied.
78
THE HOUR OF THE GATES
Then he sauntered back to the thick wooden table in the
center of the room. Boating equipment, hooks, ropes,
woodworker's tools, braces and pegs and hammers lined the
other two walls.
At the back was a staircase leading downward. Possibly it
went to the hold, or to clammier and more suitable sleeping
quarters.
Leaning forward across the table, the frog clasped wet
palms together and stared across at Clothahump and Jon-Tom.
His long legs were bent sideways beneath the wood so as not
to kick his guests. Caz was standing near one wall inspecting
some of the aquatic paraphernalia. Talea hunted for a suitable
chair. She finally found one and dragged it up to the table,
where she joined the other three.
"My name's Bribbens Oxiey, of the sandmarsh Oxieys,"
the frog told them. "I'm the best boatman on this or any
other river." This was stated quietly, without any particular
emphasis or boastfulness.
"I know every loggerhead, every tree stump, every knot,
boulder, and rapids for the six hundred leagues between the
Teeth and Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs. I know the hiding places
of the mudfishers and the waterdrotes' secret holes. I can
smell a storm two days before it hits and ride a wave gentle
enough not to upset a full teacup. I even know the exact place
where te
n thousand years ago the witch Wutz tripped over the
cauldron full of magic which doubled the river, and I know
therefore whence comes the name Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli."
Jon-Tom gazed back out the still open door, past the
dangling Pog, to what still appeared to be a quite ordinary
stream. Somewhere, he imagined, the river had to fork,
hence the nicknames River of Twos, Double River, and the
others. Since the fork was not here and was unlikely to be
between this spot and the mountains, it had to lie upstream.
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Alan Dean Foster
He would soon have the chance to find out, he thought, as he
returned his attention to the conversation.
"I can turn my craft circles 'round any other craft and
reach my destination in half their time. I can ride out weather
that puts other merchantmen and fisherfolk under their beds.
I'm not afraid of anything in the river or out of it.
"I personally guarantee to deliver cargo and/or passengers
to their chosen destination for the agreed-upon fee, on the
date determined in advance, if not earlier, or to forfeit all of
my recompense.
"I can outfight anyone, even someone twice my size," he
said, glancing challengingly at Jon-Tom, who tactfully did
not respond, "outeat any other intelligent amphibian or mam-
mal, and I have twenty-two matured tadpoles who can attest
to my other abilities.
"My fee is one goldpiece per league. I'm no cook, and
you can provide your own fodder, or fish if you like. As to
drink, river water's good enough for me, for I'm as home in
it as in this house, but if you get drunk on my craft you'll
soon find yourself swimming for shore. Any questions so
far?"
No one said anything. "Anyone care to dispute anything
I've said?" Still no comment from the visitors. Full of
impatient energy, Talea left her seat and stalked to the door,
stood there leaning against the jamb and staring out at the
river. Bribbens watched her and nodded approvingly.
"Right." He leaned back in his chair, picked idly at the
tangled fringe of his right sleeve. "Now then. How many of
you are going, is there cargo, and where is it you wish to
go?"
Clothahump tapped the table with short fingers. "There is
no cargo save our nominal supplies and personal effects, and
all of us are going." He added uncertainly, "Does our
number affect the fee?"
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
The frog shoved out his considerable lower lip. "Makes no
difference to me. Fee's the same whether one of you goes or
all of you. The boat has to travel the same distance upstream
and the same distance down again when I return. One
goldpiece per league."
"That's part of the reason for my inquiry," said the
wizard.
"The goldpiece per league?" Bribbens eyed him archly.
"No. The direction. You see, it's downstream we wish to
go, not up."
The frog belched once. "Downstream. It's only three days
from here to the base of the Teeth. Not much between. A
couple of villages and that's all, and them only a day from
here. No one lives at the base of the mountains. They're all
afraid of the occasional predator who slinks down out of the
Teeth, like the flying lizards, the Ginnentes who nest in the
crags and crevices. I hardly ever find anyone who wants to go
that way. Most everything lies upstream."
"Nevertheless, we wish to travel down," said the wizard.
"Far farther, I dare say, than you are accustomed to going. Of
course, if you chose not to go, we will understand. It would
only be normal for you to be afraid."
Bribbens leaned forward sharply, was eye to eye with
Clothahump across the table, his body stretched over the
wood, webbed hands flat on the surface.
"Bribbens Oxiey is afraid of nothing in or out of the river.
Visitor or not, I don't like your drift, turtle."
Clothahump did not pull away from the batrachian face
inches from his own. "I am a wizard and fear only that which
I cannot understand, boatman. We wish to travel not to the
base of the mountains but through them. Down the river as
far as it will carry us and then out the other side of Zaryt's
Teeth."
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Alan Dean Foster
The frog sat back down slowly. "You realize that's just a
rumor. There iftay not be any other side."
"That makes it interesting, doesn't it?" said Clotbahump
Fingers drummed on the table, marking time and thoughts.
"One hundred goldpieces," Bribbens said at last.
"You said the fee didn't vary," Talea reminded him fror
the doorway. "One gold piece a league."
"That is for travel on earth, female. Hell is more expensive
country."
"I thought you said you weren't afraid." Jon-Tom was
careful to make it sound like a normal question, devoid of
taunting.
"I'm not," countered Bribbens, "but neither am I stupid
If we survive this journey I want more in return than personal
satisfaction.
"Once we enter the mountains I shall be dealing with
unknown waters... and probably other unknowns as well.
Nevertheless," he added with becoming indifference, "it
should be interesting, as you say, wizard. Water is water,
wherever it may be."
But Clothahump pushed away from the table, spoke grimly.
"I'm sorry, Bribbens, but we can't pay you."
"A wizard who can't transmute gold?"
"I can," insisted Clothahump, looking embarrassed. "It's
just that I've misplaced the damn spell, and it's too compli-
cated to try and fake." He checked his plastron again. "I can
give you a few pieces now and the rest, uh, later."
Bribbens rose, slapped the table loudly with both hands.
"It's been an interesting conversation and I wish you all luck,
which you are going to need even more than you do a good
and willing boatman. Now if you don't mind excusing me, I
think my supper's about ready." He started back toward the
stove.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"Wait a minute." Clothahump frowned at Jon-Tom. Bribbens
halted. "We can pay you, though I'm not sure how much."
"My boy, there is no point in lying. I don't do business
that way. We will just have to—"
"No, we can, Clothahump." He grinned at Mudge. "I'm
something of a beggar in wolfs clothing."
"Wot?" Then the otter's face brightened with remem-
brance. "I'd bloody well forgotten that night, mate."
Jon-Tom unsnapped his cape. It landed heavily on the
table and Bribbens eyed it with interest. As he and the others
watched, Jon-Tom and Mudge slit the cape's lining. Coins
poured from the rolled lower edge.
When the counting was concluded, the remnant of Jon-
Tom's hastily salvaged gambling winnings totaled sixty-eight
gold pieces and fifty-two silver.
"Not quite enough."
"Please," said Ror, "isn't it sufficient? We'
ll pay you me
rest...."
"Later. I know." The boatman would not bend. "Later is a
synonym for never, female. Would you wish me to convey
you 'almost' to the end of me river and then make you swim
the rest of the way? By the same light, I will not accept
'almost' my determined fee."
"If you're as able as you are stubborn, you're for sure the
best boatman on die river," grumbled Jon-Tom.
"There's something more." Talea was still leaning in the
doorway, but now she was staring outside. "What about our
wagon and team?"
"Sure!" Jon-Tom rose, almost bumped his head, and
looked down at Bribbens. "We've got a wagon which any
farmer or fisherman would be proud to own. It's big enough
to carry all of us and more, and sturdy enough to have done it
all the way across the Swordsward from Polastrindu. There
are harnesses, yokes, four solid dray lizards, and spare
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Alan Dean Foster
wheels and supplies, all made from the finest materials. It
was given to us by the city council of Polastrindu itself."
Bribbens looked uncertain. "I'm not a tradesman."
"At least have a look at it," Plor implored him.
The frog hesitated, then padded out onto the porch, ignor-
ing Pog. The others filed out after him. .
Tradesman or not, Bribbens inspected the wagon and its
team intimately, from the state of the harness buckles to the
lizard's teeth.
When he was finished underneath the wagon, he crawled
out, stared at Clothahump. "I accept. It will make up the
difference."
"How munificent of you!" Caz had taken no part in the
bargaining, but his expression revealed he was something less
than pleased by the outcome. "The wagon alone is worth
twenty goldpieces. You would leave us broke and destitute."
"Perhaps," admitted Bribbens, "but I'm the only one who
stands a chance of leaving you broke and destitute at your
desired destination. I won't argue with you." He paused,
added as an afterthought, "Dinner's about ready to boil over.
Make up your minds."
"We have little choice," said Clothahump, "and no further
use for the wagon anyway." He glared at Caz, who turned
away and studied the river, unrepentant. "We agree. When
can we start?"
"Tomorrow morning. I have my own preparations to make
and supplies to lay in. Meanwhile, I suggest you all get a
good night's sleep." Bribbens looked at the cliffs which rose
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