curve of the hallway.
"There is number ten... and there eleven," he said excitedly,
pointing to the door on their right.
"Then this must be twelve." Talea stopped before the
closed door.
It was no larger than any of the others they'd passed. The
corridor nearby was deserted. Clothahump stepped forward
and studied the wooden door. There were four tiny circular
insets midway up the left side. He inserted his four insect
arms into them and pushed.
The spring mechanism that controlled the door clicked
home. The wood split apart and inward like two halves of an
apple.
There was no light in the chamber beyond. Even Caz could
see nothing. But Pog saw without eyes.
"Master, it's not very large, but I think dat dere's
someting..." He fluttered near a wall, struck his sparker.
A lamp suddenly burst into light. It revealed a bent and
very aged beetle surrounded by writhing white larval forms;
Startled, it glared back at them and muttered an oath.
"What is it now? I've told Skrritch I'm not to be disturbed
unless... unless..." His words trailed away as he stared
fixedly at Clothahump.
"By the Primordial Arm! A warmlander wizard!" He
turned to a siphon speaker set in the wall nearby. "Guards,
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guards!" The maggots formed a protective, loathesome semi
circle in front of him.
"Quick now," Caz yelled, "where is it?" They fanned out
into the chamber, hunting for anything that might fit
Clothahump's description.
One insectoid, one mammalian, the two wizards faced each
other in silent summing up. Neither moved, but they were
battling as ferociously as any two warriors armed with sword
and spear.
"We've got to find it fast," Ror was muttering, searching
a corner. "Before..."
But hard feet were already clattering noisily in the corridor
outside. Distant cries of alarm sounded in the chamber. Then
the soldiers were pouring through the doorway, and there was
no more time.
Jon-Tom saw something lying near the back wall that might
have been a long, low corpse. An insect shape stepped up
behind him and raised a cast-iron bottle high. Just before the
bottle came down on his head it occurred to him that the
shape wielding it was familiar. It wasn't one of the insect
guards who'd just arrived. Before he blacked out under the
impact he was positive the insectoid visage was that concealing
Talea's. The realization stunned him almost as badly as the
bottle, which cracked his own false forehead and bounced off
the skull beneath. Darkness returned to the chamber.
When he regained consciousness, he found he was lying in
a dimly lit, spherical cell. There was a drain in the center, at
the bottom of the sphere. The light came from a single lamp
hanging directly over the drain. It was windowless and
humid. Moss and fungi grew from the damp stones, and it
was difficult to keep from sliding down the sloping floor.
Compared to this, the cell they'd been temporarily incarcerat-
ed in back in Gossameringue had been positively palatial.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
No friendly Ananthos would be appearing here to recfify a
mistaken imprisonment, however.
"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Bribbens.
Good times or bad, the boatman's expression never seemed to
change. The moisture in the cell did not bother him, of
course.
"I should've stayed on my boat," he added with a sigh.
"Maybe we all ought to 'ave stayed on your boat, mate,"
said a disconsolate Mudge.
It occurred to Jon-Tom that Bribbens looked like himself.
So did Mudge, and the other occupants of the cell.
"What happened to our disguises?"
"Stripped away as neatly as you'd peel an onion," Pog
told him. He lay morosely on the damp stones, unwilling to
hang from the fragile lamp.
Clothahump was not in the cell. "Where's your master?"
"I don't know, I don't know," the bat moaned helplessly.
"Taken away from us during da fight. We ain't seen him
since, da old fart." There was no malice in the bat's words.
"It was Eejakrat," Caz said from across the cell. His
clothing was torn and clumps of fur were missing from his
right cheek, but he still somehow had retained his monocle.
"He knew us for what we were. I presume he has taken
special care with Clothahump. One sorcerer would not place
another in an ordinary cell where he might dissolve the bars
or mesmerize the jailers."
"But what he doesn't know is that we still have the
services of a wizard." Flor was looking hopefully at Jon-
Tom.
"I can't do anything, Ror." He dug his boot heels into a
crack in the floor. It kept him from sliding down toward the
central drain. "I need my duar, and it was strapped to the
inside back of my insect suit."
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"Try," she urged him. "We've nothing to lose, verdad?
You don't need instrumental accompaniment to sing."
"No, but I can't make magic without it."
"Give 'er a shot anyway, guv'nor," said Mudge. "It can't
make us any worse than we are, wot?"
"All right." He thought a moment, then sang. It had to be
something to fit his mood. Something somber and yet hopeful.
He was fonder of rock than country-western, but there was
a certain song about another prison, a place called Polsom,
where blues of a different kind had also been vanquished
through music. It was full of hope, anticipation, whistles, and
thoughts of freedom.
Mudge obligingly let out a piercing whistle. It faded to
freedom through the bars of their cell, but whistler and singer
did not. No train appeared to carry them away. Not even a
solitary, curious gneechee.
"You see?" He smiled helplessly, and spread his hands. "I
need the duar. I sing and it spells. Can't have one without the
other." The question he'd managed to suppress until now
could no longer rest unsatisfied.
"We know what probably happened to Clothahump." He
looked at the floor, remembering the descending iron bottle.
"Where's Talea?"
"Thatpwto!" Hor spit on the moss. "If we get a chance
before we die I'll disembowel her with my own hands." She
held up sharp nailed fingers.
"I couldn't believe it meself, mate." Mudge sounded more
tired than Jon-Tom had ever heard him. Something had
finally smashed his unquenchable spirit. "It don't make no
bloomin' sense, dam it! I've known that bird off an' on for
years. For 'er t' do somethin' like this t' save 'er own skin, t'
go over t' the likes o' these.. .1 can't believe it, mate. I
can't!"
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TBE HOUR Or TSK GATE
Jon-Tom tried to erase the memory. That would be easier
than forgetting the pain. It wasn't his head that was hurting.
"I ca
n't believe it either, Mudge."
"Why not, friend?" Bribbens crossed one slick green leg
over the other. "Allegiance is a temporary thing, and expedi-
ency the hallmark of survival."
"Probably what happened," said Caz more gently, "was
that she saw what was going to happen, that we were going to
be overwhelmed, and decided to cast her lot with the Plated
Folk. We know from firsthand experience, do we not, that
there are human allies among them. I can't condemn her for
choosing life over death. You shouldn't either."
Jon-Tom sat quietly, still not believing it despite the Sense
in Caz's words. Talea had been combative, even contemptu-
ous at times, but for her to turn on companions she'd been
through so much with... Yet she'd apparently done just that.
Better face up to facts, Jon boy. "Poor boy, you're goin' t'
die," as the Song lamented.
"What do you suppose they'll do with us?" he asked
Mudge. "Or maybe I'd be better just asking 'how'?"
"I over'eard the soldiers talkin'. I was 'alf conscious when
they carried us down 'ere." Mudge smiled slightly. "Seems
we're t' be the bloody centerpiece at the Empress' evenin'
supper, the old dear. 'Eard the ranks wagerin' on 'ow we was
goin' t' be cooked."
"I sincerely hope they do cook us," Caz said. "I've heard
tales that the Plated Folk prefer their food alive.' Flor
shuddered, and Jon-Tom felt sick.
It had all been such a grand adventure, marching off to
save civilization, overcoming horrendous obstacles and terri-
ble difficulties. All to end up not as part of an enduring
legend but a brief meal. He missed the steady confidence of
Clothahump. Even if unable to save them through wizardly
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means, he wished the turtle were present to raise their spirits
with his calm, knowledgeable words.
"Any idea what time it's to be?" The windowless walls
shut out time as well as space.
"No idea." Caz grinned ruefully at him. "You're the
spellsinger. You tell me."
"I've already explained that I can't do anything without the
duar."
"Then you ought to have it, Jon-Tom." The voice came
from the corridor outside the cell. Everyone faced the bars.
Talea stood there, panting heavily. Flor made an inarticu-
late sound and rushed the barrier. Talea stepped back out of
reach.
"Calm yourself, woman. You're acting like a hysterical
cub."
Flor smiled, showing white teeth. "Come a little closer,
sweet friend, and I'll show you how hysterical I can be."
Talea shook her head, looked disgusted. "Save your strength,
and what brains you've got left. We haven't got much time."
She held up a twisted length of wrought iron: the key.
Caz had left his sitting position to move up behind Hor. He
put furry arms around her and wrestled her away from the
bars.
"Use your head, giantess! Can't you see she's come to let
us out?"
"But I thought..." Hor finally took notice of the key and
relaxed.
"You knocked me out." Jon-Tom gripped the bars with
both hands as Talea rumbled with the key and the awkward
lock. "You hit me with a metal bottle."
"I sure did," she snapped. "Somebody had to keep her
wits about her."
"Then you haven't gone over to the Plated Folk?"
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"Of course I did. You're not thinking it through. I forgive
you, though."
She was whispering angrily at them, glancing from time to
time back up the corridor. "We know that some humans have
joined them, right? But how could the locals know which
humans in the warmlands are their allies and which are not?
They can't possibly, not without checking with their spies in
Polastrindu and elsewhere.
"When the fighting began I saw we didn't have a chance.
So I grabbed a hunk of iron and started attacking you
alongside the guards. When it was finished they accepted my
story about being sent along to spy on you and keep track of
the expedition. That Eejakrat was suspicious, but he was
willing to accept me for now, until he can check with those
wannland sources. He figured I couldn't do any harm here."
She grinned wickedly.
"His own thoughts are elsewhere. He's too concerned
with how much Clothahump knows to worry about me." She
nodded up the corridor. "This guard's dead, but I don't know
how often they change 'em."
There was a groan and a metallic snap. She pushed and the
door swung inward. "Come on, then."
They rushed out into the corridor. It was narrow and only
slightly better lit than the cell. Several strides further brought
them up before a familiar silhouette.
"Clothahump!" shouted Jon-Tom.
"Master, Master!" Pog fluttered excitedly around the wiz-
ard's head. Clothahump waved irritably at the famulus. His
own attention was fixed on the hall behind him.
"Not now, Pog. We've no time for it."
"Where've they been holding you, sir?" Jon-Tom asked.
Clothahump pointed. "Two cells up from you."
Jon-Tom gaped at him. "You mean you were that close and
, we could've..."
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"Could have what, my boy? Dug through the rocks with
your bare hands and untied and ungagged me? I think not. It
was frustrating, however, to hear you all so close and not be
able to reassure you." His expression darkened. "I am going
to turn that Eejakrat into mousefood!"
"Not today," Talea reminded him.
"Yes, you're quite right, young lady."
Talea led them to a nearby room. In addition to the
expected oil lamps the walls held spears and shields. The
furnishings were Spartan and minimal. A broken insect body
lay sprawled beneath the table. Neatly piled against the far
wall were their possessions: weapons, supplies, and disguises,
including Jon-Tom's duar.
They hurriedly helped one another into the insect suits.
"I'm surprised these weren't shattered beyond repair in the
fight," Jen-Tom muttered, watching while Clothahump fixed
his cracked headpiece.
The wizard finished the polymer spell-repair. "Eejakrat
was fascinated by them. I'm sure he wanted me to go into the
details of the spell. He has similar interests, you know.
Remember the disguised ambassador who talked with you in
Polastrindu."
They stepped quietly back out into the corridor. "Where
are we?" Mudge asked Talea.
"Beneath the palace. Where else?" It was strange to hear
that sharp voice coming from behind the gargoylish face once
again.
"How can we get out?" Pog murmured worriedly.
"We walked in," said Caz thoughtfully. "Why should we
not also walk out?"
"Indeed," said Clothahump. "If we can get out into the
square we should be safe,"
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XIV
> They were several levels below the surface, but under
Talea's guidance they made rapid progress upward.
Once they had to pause to let an enormous beetle pass. He
waddled down the stairs without seeing them. A huge ax was
slung across his back and heavy keys dangled from his belts.
"I don't know if he's the relief for our level or not," Talea
said huskily, "but we'd better hurry."
They increased their pace. Then Talea warned them to
silence. They were nearing the last gate.
Three guards squatted around a desk on the other side of
the barred door. A steady babble of conversation filtered into
the corridor from the open door on the far side of the guard
room as busy workers came and went. Jon-Tom wondered at
the absence of a heavier guard until it came to him that escape
would be against orders, an action foreign to all but deranged
Plated Folk.
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But there was still the barred doorway and the three
administrators beyond.
"How did you get past them?" Caz asked Talea.
"I haven't been past them. Eejakrat believed my story, but
only to a point. He wasn't about to give me me run of the
city. I had a room, not a cell, on the level below this one. If I
wanted out, I had to send word to him. We haven't got time
for that now. Pretty soon they'll be finding the body I left."
Mudge located a small fragment of loose black cement. He
tossed it down the stairs they'd ascended. It made a gratifyingly
loud clatter.
"Nesthek, is that you?" one of the administrators called
toward the doorway. When there was no immediate reply he
rose from his position at the desk and left the game to his
companions.
The excapees concealed themselves as best they could. The
administrator sounded perplexed as he approached the doorway.
"Nesthek? Don't play games with me. I'm losing badly as
it is."
"Bugger it," Mudge said tensely. "I thought at least two
of them would come to check."
"You take this one," said Clothahump. "The rest pf us
will quietly rush me others."
"Nesthek, what are you...?" Mudge stabbed upward
with his sword. He'd been lying nearly hidden by me lowest
bar of the doorway. The sword went right into the startled
guard's abdomen. At the same instant Caz leaped out of me
shadows to bring his knife down into one of me great
compound eyes. The guard-administrator slumped against me
bars. Talea fumbled for the keys at his waist.
Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate Page 24