The Hour of the Gate

  "look who is calling another 'xenophobic,'" whispered

  Ananthos surlily.

  "It had better be extraordinary," the owl grumbled. He used a flexible wing tip to wipe one saucer-sized eye. "You've awakened all of Ironcloud from its daily rest. The populace will require a reasonable explanation." He blinked, shielding his face as the sun emerged from behind a stray cloud.

  "How you can live with that horrid light burning your eyes is something I'll never understand."

  "Oh very well," said Clothahump with a sigh. "You will convey details of our situation to your leader or mayor or—"

  "We have no single leader," said the owl, mildly outraged. "We have neither council nor congress. We coexist in peace, without the burdens imposed by noisome government."

  "Then how do you make communal decisions?" Jon-Tom asked curiously.

  The owl eyed him as though he represented a lower species. "We respect one another."

  "There will be a feasting tonight," said Malu, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "We can discuss your request then."

  "That's not necessary," said Flor.

  "But it is," the lemur argued. "You see, we can welcome you either as enemies or as guests. There will be a feasting either way."

  "I believe I follow your meaning." Caz spoke drily, eyeing Tolafay's razor-sharp beak, which was quite capable of snapping him in half. "I sincerely hope, then, that we can look forward to being greeted as guests…"

  They gathered that evening in a chamber far larger than any of the others. Jon-Tom wondered at the force, technological or natural, which could have hollowed such a space in the almost solid iron.

  It was dimly lit by lamp but more brightly than usual in deference to the Ironclouders' vision-poor visitors. Trophy feathers and lizard skins decorated the curving walls. Nearly a hundred of the great owls of all species and sizes reveled in music and dance along with their lemur companions.

  Their guests observed the spectacle of feathers and fur with pleasure. It was comfortably warm in the cave, the first time since departing Gossameringue any of them had been really warm.

  The music was strange, though not as strange as its sources. Nearby a great white barn owl stood in pink-green kilt playing a cross between a tuba and a flute. It held the instrument firmly with flexible wing tips and one clawed foot, balancing neatly on the other while pecking out the melody with a precision no mere pair of lips could match.

  Owls and lemurs spilled out on the great circular iron floor, dancing and spinning while their companions at the huge curved tables ate and drank their fill. It was wonderful to watch those great wings spinning and flaying at the air as the owls executed jigs and reels with their comparatively tiny but incredibly agile primate companions. Claws and tiny padded feet slipped and hopped in and around each other without missing a beat.

  The night was half dead when Jon-Tom leaned over to ask Ror, "Where's Clothahump?"

  "I don't know." She stopped sipping from the narrow-mouthed drinking utensil she'd been given. "Isn't he magnificent?" Her eyes were glowing almost as brightly as those of an acrobat performing incredible leaps before their table, his long middle fingers tracing patterns in the air. A beautiful female sifaka joined him, and the dance-gymnastics continued without a pause.

  Jon-Tom put the question to the furry white host on his other side.

  "I don't know either, my friend," said Malu. "I have not seen the hard-shelled oldster all evening."

  "Don't worry yourself, Jon-Tom." Caz looked at him from another seat down. "Our wizard is rich in knowledge, but not rich in the ability to enjoy himself. Leave him to his private meditations. Who knows when again we will have an opportunity for such rare entertainment as this?" He gestured grandly toward the dancers.

  But the concern took hold of Jon-Tom's thoughts and would not let go. As he surveyed the room, he saw no sign of Pog, either. That was still more unusual, familiar as he was with the bat's preferences. He should have been out on the floor, teasing and flirting with some lithesome screech owl. Yet he was nowhere about.

  Jon-Tom's companions were having too good a time to notice his departure from the table. In response to his questions a potted tarsier with incredibly bloodshot eyes pointed toward a tunnel leading deeper into the mountainside. JonTom hurried down it. Noise and music faded behind him.

  He almost ran past the room when he heard a familiar moaning: the wizard's voice. He threw aside the curtain barring the entryway.

  Lying on a delicate bunk that sagged beneath his weight was the wizard's bulky body. He'd withdrawn arms and legs into his shell so that only his head protruded. It bobbed and twisted in an unnerving parody of the head movements of the Weavers. Only the whites of his eyes showed. His glasses lay clean and folded on a nearby stool.

  "Hush!" a voice warned him. Looking upward Jon-Tom saw Pog dangling from a lamp holder. The flickering wick behind him made his wings translucent.

  "What is it?" Jon-Tom whispered, his attention on the lightly moaning wizard. "What's the matter?" The echoes of revelry reached them faintly. He no longer found the music invigorating. Something important was happening in this little room.

  Pog gestured with a finger. "Da master lies in a trance I've seen only a few times before. He can't, musn't be disturbed."

  So the two waited, watching the quivering, groaning shape in fascination. Pog occasionally fluttered down to wipe moisture from the wizard's open eyes, while Jon-Tom guarded the doorway against interruptions.

  It is a terrible thing to hear an old person, human or otherwise, moan like that. It was the helpless, weak sound a sick child might make. From time to time there were snatches and fragments of nearly recognizable words. Mostly, though, the high singsong that filled the room was unintelligible nonsense.

  It faded gradually. Clothahump settled like a fallen cake. His quivering and head-bobbing eased away.

  Pog flapped his wings a couple of times, stretched, and drifted down to examine the wizard. "Da master sleeps now," he told the exhausted Jon-Tom. "He's worn out."

  "But what was it all about?" the man asked. "What was the purpose of the trance?"

  "Won't know till he wakes up. Got ta do it naturally. Dere's nothin' ta do but wait."

  Jon-Tom eyed the comatose form uncertainly. "Are you sure he'll come out of it?"

  Pog shrugged. "Always has before. He better. He owes me…"

  XII

  Once there were inquiring words at the curtain and JonTom had to go outside to explain them away. Time passed, the distant music faded. He slept.

  A great armored spider was treading ponderously after him, all weaving palps and dripping fangs. Run as he might he could not outdistance it. Gradually his legs gave out, his wind failed him. The monster was upon him, leering down at his helpless, pinioned body. The fangs descended but not into his chest. Instead, they were picking off his fingers, one at a time.

  "Now you can't play music anymore," it rumbled at him. "Now you'll have to go to law school… aha ha ha!"

  A hand was shaking him. "Da master's awake, Jon-Tom friend."

  Jon-Tom straightened himself. He'd been asleep on the floor, leaning back against the chamber wall. Clothahump was sitting up on the creaking wicker bed, rubbing his lower jaw. He donned his spectacles, then noticed Jon-Tom. His gaze went from the man to his assistant and back again.

  "I now know the source," he told them brightly, "of the new evil obtained by the Plated Folk. I know now from whence comes the threat!"

  Jon-Tom got to his feet, dusted at himself, and looked anxiously at the wizard. "Well, what is it?"

  "I do not know."

  "But you just said… ?"

  "Yes, yes, but I do know and yet I don't." The wizard sounded very tired. "It is a mind. A wonderfully wise mind. An intelligence of a reach and depth I have never before encountered, filled with knowledge I cannot fathom. It contains mysteries I do not pretend to understand, but that it is dangerous and powerful is self-evident."

  "That see
ms clear enough," said Jon-Tom. "What kind of creature is it? Whose head is it inside?"

  "Ah, that is the part I do not know." There was worry and amazement in Clothahump's voice. "I've never run across a mind like it. One thing I was able to tell, I think." He glanced up at the tall human. "It's dead."

  Pog hesitated, then said, "But if it's dead, how can it help da Plated Folk?"

  "I know, I know," Clothahump grumbled sullenly, "it makes no sense. Am I expected to be instantly conversant with all the mysteries of the Universe!"

  "Sorry," said Jon-Tom. "Pog and I only hoped that—"

  "Forget it, my boy." The wizard leaned back against the black wall and waved a weary hand at him. "I learned no more than I'd hoped to, and hope remains where knowledge is scarce." He shook his head sadly.

  "A mind of such power and ability, yet nonetheless as dead as the rock of this chamber. Of that I am certain. And yet Eejakrat of the Plated Polk has found a means by which he can make use of that power."

  "A zombie," muttered Jon-Tom.

  "I do not know the term," said Clothahump, "but I accept it. I will accept anything that explains this awful contradiction. Sometimes, my boy, knowledge can be more confusing than mere ignorance. Surely the universe holds still greater though no more dangerous contradictions than this inventive, cold mind." He reached a decision.

  "Now that I am sensitized to this mind, I am confident we can locate it. We must find out whose it is and destroy him or her, for I had no sense of whether the possessor is male or female."

  "But we can't do dat, Master," Pog argued, "because as you say dis brain is under da control of da great sorcerer Eejakrat, and Eejakrat stays in Cugluch."

  "Capital city of the Plated Folk," Clothahump reminded Jon-Tom.

  "Dat's right enough. So it's obvious dat we can't… we can't…" The words came to a halt as Pog's eyes grew wide as a lemur's. "No, Master!" he muttered, his voice filled with dread. "We can't. We can't possibly!"

  "On the contrary, famulus, it is quite possible that we can. Of course, I shall first discuss it with the rest of our companions."

  "Discuss what?" Jon-Tom was afraid he already knew the answer.

  "Why, traveling into Cugluch to find this evil and obliterate it, my boy. What else could a civilized being do?"

  "What else indeed." Jon-Tom had resigned himself to going. Could this Cugluch be worse than the Earth's Throat? Pog seemed to think so, but then Pog was terrified of his own shadow.

  Clothahump's strength had returned. He slid off the bed, started for the doorway. "We must consult the rest of our party."

  "They may not all be in a condition to understand," Jon-Tom warned him. "We have generous hosts, you know."

  "A night of harmless pleasure is good for the soul now and then, my boy. Though it should never descend to unconsciousness. I am pleased to see that you have retained control of yourself."

  "So far," said Jon-Tom fervently, "but after what you've just proposed, I may change my mind."

  "It will not be so bad," said the wizard, clapping him on the waist as they swung aside the concealing curtain and moved out into the tunnel. "There will be some danger, but we have survived that several times over."

  "Yeah, but it's not like an innoculation," Jon-Tom muttered. "We haven't become immune. We keep taking risks and sooner or later they've got to catch up with us." He ducked to avoid a low section of iron ceiling.

  "We shall do our best, my boy, to see that it is later."

  Pog remained behind, hanging quietly from the oil lamp in the now empty room. He considered remaining behind permanently. The Ironclouders would shelter him, he was sure.

  That would mean no transformation, of course. All that he'd suffered at the wizard's hands, and mouth, would have been for naught. Also, as the only arboreal of the group, he knew how they depended on him for reconnaisance and such.

  Besides, better death than life cursed by unrequited love.

  He let free of the lamp, dipped in the air, and soared oin into the tunnel after the two wizards.

  There was the anticipated debate and argument the nexl morning. One by one, as before, the various members of the little group were won over by Clothahump's assurances, obstinacy, and veiled threats.

  Their course decided, it was time to ascertain the position taken during the night by the inhabitants of Ironcloud. Five of the great owls faced Ihe travelers on the plateau below the cave city. Two were homed, two pale bam, and one a tiny hoot, who was smaller than Pog but equal in dignity to his massive feathered brothers. With them were five lemurs. The sun was not yet up.

  "We do not doubt your seriousness nor the truth you tell," Tolafay was saying, "nor the worth of your mission, but still we doubted whether it was worth breaking a rule of hundreds of years of noninvolvement in the arguments of others." He gestured at Ananthos.

  "Yet we share such feelings with the inhabitants of the Scuttleteau and they have nonetheless agreed to help you. So we will help, too." Murmurs of agreement came from his companions.

  "That's settled, then," said a satisfied Clothahump. "You will be valuable allies in the coming war and—"

  "A moment, please." One of the lemurs stepped forward. He had a high, stiff collar and light vest above billowing pantaloons of bright yellow. "We did not say that we'd be your allies. We said we'd help.

  "You asked us to give the Weavers permission to travel through our country and to provide a route southward through the mountains so they can reach the Swordsward and then make their way to the Jo-Troom Gate you speak of. That's what we'll do. We'll also try and find you a way to the Greendowns. But we won't fight."

  "But I thought-" Jon-Tom began.

  "No!" snapped one of the other owls. "Absolutely no. We simply can't do any more for yooooo. Don't ask it of us."

  "But surely-" A restraining hand touched Talea and she quieted.

  "It is more than we'd hoped for, friends. It will suffice." Clothahump turned to face Ananthos. "We have the allies we came to find."

  "so you do," said the spider at last, "provided the army can be assembled in time to make the march."

  "I can only hope that it does," the wizard told him solemnly, "because the fate of several worlds may depend on it."

  "Not Ironctoud," said another of the owls smugly. "Ironcloud is impregnable to assault by land or air."

  "So it is," agreed Caz casually, "but not by magic."

  "We'll take our chances," said Tolafay firmly.

  "Then there's nothing more to be said." Clothahump nodded.

  Wordlessly the Ironclouders departed, owl and primate soaring to join their brethren high in the night sky. Great wings and glowing eyes shone as the night hunters returned in twos and threes to their black home. They filled the air between earth and moon.

  Another pair lifted from the plateau, heading for interior darkness and a good, warm day's sleep. Jon-Tom could only hope those homes would be as invulnerable as their inhabitants believed from the eventual attacks of the Plated Polk.

  The last of the lemurs stared at them curiously while her companion owl kicked impatiently at the ground. The sun had peeked over the eastern crags and those great eyes were three-quarters closed in half sleep.

  "There's one tiling I'd like to know. How do you warmlanders expect to penetrate Cugluch?"

  "Disguise," Clothahump told her confidently.

  "You do not look much like Plated Folk," replied the lemur doubtfully.

  Clothahump shook a finger at her, spoke knowingly. "The greatest disguise is assurance. We will be protected because no Plated One would believe our presence. And where assurance operates, magic is not far behind."

  The lemur shrugged. "I think you are all fools, brave fools, and soon-to-be-dead fools. But we will show the Weavers the path they require and you the path to your Deaths." She looked upward. "Your guides come."

  .Two owls descended to join them. One motioned to the waiting Ananthos. The Weaver trembled slightly as he made his farewells.


  "we shall meet at the gate," he told them. "that is, if I survive this journey, i am not afraid of heights, but I have never been in a high place where i could not break a fall by attaching silk to some solid object, you cannot spin from a cloud."

  He climbed on the owl's back, waved legs at them. The owl took a few steps, flapping mighty wings, and then soared into the air of morning. He wore dark shades to protect him from the sunlight.

  They watched until the wings became a black line on the horizon. Then the pair faded even from Caz's view.

  The small hoot owl stood muttering to herself nearby. Her kilt was black, purple, and yellow. "I'm Imanooo," she informed them brusquely. "Let's get on with this. I'll point you the way for two days, but that's all. Then you're on your own."

  The remaining lemur mounted his saddle. "I still think you're all fools, but," he smiled broadly, "many a brave fool has succeeded where a cautious genius has failed. Fly well." He saluted with an arm wave as he and his friend rose skyward.

  Alone in their cold-weather garb, the travelers watched until the last pairing vanished into the hematite. Then Imanooo rose and started off to the south, and they followed.

  The path where there was no path carried them steadily lower. The unvarying downhill hike was a welcome change from the tortuous march to Ironcloud. The day after Imanooo left them they began to discard their heavy clothing. Soon they were down among trees and bushes, and snow was only a fading memory.

  Jon-Tom slowed his pace to stay alongside Clothahump. The wizard was in excellent spirits and showed no ill effects from the past weeks of marching.

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, my boy?" Eyes looked up at him through the thick glasses. Abruptly Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable. It had seemed so simple a while ago when he'd thought of it, a mere question. Now it fought to hide in his throat.

  "Well, sir," he finally got out, "among my people there's a certain mental condition."

  "Go on, boy."

  "It has a common name. It's called a death wish."