“How could you? There wasn’t time!” He could barely see the dark outline now.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Jon-Tom.” Falameezar’s voice was faint with distance and guilt. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Falameezar.” Jon-Tom watched until the dragon had completely vanished, then looked disappointedly at the ground. “Dammit,” he muttered.
He returned to the wagon. Lamps were lit now. Under their familiar, friendly glow Caz and Mudge were checking the condition of the dray team. Flor, Clothahump, and Talea were restocking their scattered supplies. The wizard’s glasses were pinched neatly on his beak. He looked out and down as Jon-Tom, hands shoved into his pockets and gaze on the ground, sauntered up to him.
“Problems, my boy?”
Jon-Tom raised his eyes, nodded southward. “Falameezar’s left us. He was upset at having to kill the damn Porprut. I tried my best to argue him out of it, but he’d made up his mind.”
“You did well even to try,” said Clothahump comfortingly. “Not many would have the courage to debate a dragon’s decision. They are terribly stubborn. Well, no matter. We shall make our way without him.”
“He was the strongest of us,” Jon-Tom murmured disappointedly. “He did more in thirty seconds to the Porprut and the Mimpa than all the rest of us were able to do at all. No telling how much trouble just his presence prevented.”
“It is true we shall miss his brute strength,” said the wizard, “but intelligence and wisdom are worth far more than any amount of muscle.”
“Maybe so.” Jon-Tom vaulted into the back of the wagon. “But I’d still feel better with a little more brute strength on our side.”
“We must not bemoan our losses,” Clothahump said chidingly, “but must push ahead. At least we will no longer be troubled by the Mimpa.” He let out an unwizardly chuckle. “It will be days before they cease running.”
“Do we continue on tonight, then?”
“For a short while, just enough to leave this immediate area behind. Then we shall mount a guard, just in case, and continue on tomorrow in daylight. The weather looks unpleasant and we will have difficulty enough in holding to our course.
“Then too, while I don’t know how you young folk are feeling, I’m not ashamed to confess that the body inside this old shell is very much in need of sleep.”
Jon-Tom had no argument with that. Falameezar or no Falameezar, Mimpa or no Mimpa, he was dead tired. Which was a good deal better than what he’d earlier thought he’d be this night: plain dead.
The storm did not materialize the next day, nor the one following, though the Swordsward received its nightly dose of steady rain. Flor was taking a turn at driving the wagon. It was early evening and they would be stopping soon to make camp.
A full moon was rising behind layers of gray eastern clouds, a low orange globe crowning the horizon. It turned the rain clouds to gauze as it lifted behind them, shedding ruddy light over the darkening sward. Snowflakelike reflections danced elf steps on the residue of earlier rain.
From the four patient yoked lizards came a regular, heavy swish-swish as they pushed through the wet grasses. Easy conversation and occasional laughter punctuated by Mudge’s lilting whistle drifted out from the enclosed wagon. Small things rose cautiously to study the onward trundling wooden beast before dropping down into grass or groundholes.
Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit down on the driver’s seat next to Flor. She held the reins easily in one hand, as though born to the task, and glanced over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous and huge.
He looked away from their curious stare and down at his hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed creatures he could not cage.
“I think we have a problem.”
“Only one?” She grinned at him, barely paying attention to the reins now. Without being told, the lizards would continue to plod onward on their present course.
“But that’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Solving a series of problems? When they’re as varied and challenging as these,” and she flicked long nails in the air, a brief gesture that casually encompassed two worlds and a shift in dimension, “why, that adds to the spice of it.”
“That’s not the kind of problem I’m talking about, Flor. This one is personal.”
She looked concerned. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Possibly.” He looked up at her. “I think I’m in love with you. I think I’ve always been in love with you. I…”
“That’s enough,” she told him, raising a restraining hand and speaking gently but firmly. “In the first place, you can’t have always been in love with me because you haven’t known me for always. Metaphysics aside, Jon-Tom, I don’t think you’ve known me long enough.
“In the second place, I don’t think you’re really in love with me. I think you’re in love with the image of me you’ve seen and added to in your imagination, es verdad, amigo? To be crude about it, you’re in love with my looks, my body. Don’t think I hold it against you. It’s not your fault. Your desires and wants are a product of your environment.”
This was not going the way he’d hoped, he mused confusedly. “Don’t be so sure that you know all about me either, Flor.”
“I’m not.” She was not offended by his tone. “I mean, how have you ‘seen’ me, Jon-Tom? How have you ‘known’ me? Short skirt, tight sweater, always the perfect smile, perfectly groomed, long hair flouncing and pom-poms jouncing, isn’t that about it?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not patronizing you, dammit! Use your head, hombre. I may look like a pinup, but I don’t think like one. You can’t be in love with me because you don’t know me.”
“‘Ere now, wot the ’ell are you two fightin’ about?” Mudge stuck his furry face out from behind the canvas. “’Tis too bloomin’ nice a night for such witterin’.”
“Back out, Mudge,” said Jon-Tom curtly at the interruption. “This is none of your business.”
“Oh, now let’s not get our bowels in an uproar, mate. Suit yourself.” With a last glance at them both, he obligingly retreated inside.
“I won’t deny that I find you physically attractive, Flor.”
“Of course you do. You wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t.” She stared out across the endless dark plain, kissed with orange by the rising moon. “Every man has, ever since I was twelve years old. I’ve been through this before.” She looked back at him.
“The point is you don’t know me, the real Flores Quintera. So you can’t be in love with her. I’m flattered, but if we’re going to have any kind of chance at a real relationship, we’d best start fresh, here and now. Without any preconceived notions about what I’m like, what you’d like me to be like, or what I represent to you. Comprende?”
“Flor, don’t you think I’ve had a look at the real you these past weeks?” Try as he might, he couldn’t help sounding defensive.
“Sure you have, but that’s hardly long enough. And you can’t be certain that’s the real me, either. Maybe it’s only another facet of my real personality, whose aspects are still changing.”
“Wait a minute,” he said hopefully. “You said, ‘chance at a real relationship.’ Does that mean you think we have a chance for one?”
“I’ve no idea.” She eyed him appraisingly. “You’re an interesting man, Jon-Tom. The fact that you can work magic here with your music is fascinating to me. I couldn’t do it. But I don’t know you any better than you know me. So why don’t we start clean, huh? Pretend I’m just another girl you’ve just met. Let’s call this our first date.” She nodded skyward. “The moon’s right for it.”
“Kind of tough to do,” he replied, “after you’ve just poured out a deeply felt confession of love. You took that apart like a professor dissecting
a tadpole.”
“I’m sorry, Jon-Tom.” She shrugged. “That’s part of the way I am. Part of the real me, as much as the pom-poms or my love of the adventure of this world. You have to learn to accept them all, not just the ones you like.” She tried to sound encouraging. “If it’s any consolation, while I may not love you, I do like you.”
“That’s not much.”
“Why don’t you get rid of that hurt puppy-dog look, too,” she suggested. “It won’t do you any good. Come on, now. Cheer up! You’ve let out what you had to let out, and I haven’t rebuffed you completely.” She extended an open hand. “Buenos noches, Jon-Tom. I’m Flores Maria Quintera. Como ’stas?”
He looked silently at her, then down at the preferred palm. He took it with a resigned sigh. “Jon-Tom… Jon Meriweather. Pleased to meet you.”
After that, they got along a little more easily. The puncturing of Jon-Tom’s romantic balloon released tension along with hopes… .
V
IT WAS A VERY ordinary-looking river, Jon-Tom thought. Willow and cypress and live oak clustered thirstily along its sloping banks. Small scaly amphibians played in thick underbrush. Reeds claimed the quiet places of the slow-moving eddies.
The bank on the far side was equally well fringed with vegetation. From time to time they encountered groups of animals and humans occupied in various everyday tasks on the banks. They would be fishing, or washing clothes, or simply watching the sun do the work of carrying forth the daytime.
The wagon turned eastward along the southern shore of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli, heading toward the growing massif of the mountains and passing word of the coming invasion to any warmlander who would listen. But the River of Twos was a long way from Polastrindu, and the Jo-Troom Gate and the depredations of the Plated Folk only components of legend to the river dwellers.
All agreed with the travelers on one matter, however: the problem of trying to pass downstream and through the Teeth.
“Eh?” said one wizened old otter in response to their query, “ye want to go where?” In contrast to Mudge the oldster’s fur was streaky-white. So were his facial whiskers. Arthritis bent him in the middle and gnarled his hands and feet.
“Ye’ll never make it. Ye won’t make it past the entrance and if ye do, ye’ll not find yer way through the rock. Too many have tried and none have ever come back.”
“We have resources others did not have,” said Clothahump confidentially. “I am something of a formidable conjurer, and my associate here is a most powerful spellsinger.” He gestured at the lanky form of Jon-Tom. They had stepped down from the wagon to talk with the elder. The dray lizards munched contentedly on rich riverbank growth.
The old otter put aside his fishing pole and studied them. His short whistle indicated he didn’t think much of either man or turtle, unseen mental talents notwithstanding.
“Sorcerers ye may be, but the passage through the Teeth by way of the river is little but a legend. Ye can travel by legend only in dreams. Which is all that’s likely to be left of ye if ye persist in this folly. Sixty years I’ve lived on the banks of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli.” He gestured fondly at the flowing water behind him. “Never have I heard tell of anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way of it.”
“Sounds convincin’ enough for me, ’e does.” Mudge leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. “That settles that: time to turn about for ’ome.”
Jon-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face. “That does not settle it.”
Mudge shrugged cheerfully. “Can’t biff a bloke for tryin’, mate. I ought t’ know better, I knows it, but somethin’ in me insists on tryin’ t’ fight insanity in the ranks.”
“Ya ought ta have more faith in da master.” Pog fluttered above the wagon and chided the otter. “Ya oughta believe in him and his abilities and great talents.” He drifted lower above Mudge and whispered. “Frankly, we all been candidates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don’t got much choice. Don’t make him mad, chum.”
But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next to the wagon. “Clothahump knows what he’s doing. I’m sure if things turned suicidal he’d listen to reason.”
“Ya tink dat, does ya?” Pog’s small sharp teeth flashed as he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.
“Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin’ off and abandonin’ dis trip wid t’reats. What makes ya tink he’d be more polite where you’re concerned?”
“He owes me a debt,” said Jon-Tom. “If I insisted on remaining behind, I don’t think he’d try to coerce me.”
Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. “Dat’s what you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you’re as naive as a baby’s belly!’ He rose and skimmed off over the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.
“Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump would keep me from leaving if that’s what I wanted?”
“I wouldn’t ’ave ’alf a notion, mate. But since you say you want to keep on with this madness, there ain’t no point in arguin’ it, is there?” He retreated back inside the wagon, leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at Clothahump.
“There be only one way ye might get even partways through,” continued the old otter, “and if yer lucky, out again alive. That’s to have a damn good boatman. One who knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That’s the only way ye’ll even get inside the mountain.”
“Can you recommend such an individual?” asked Clothahump.
“Oh, I know of several good boatfolk,” the oldster boasted. He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water, then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. “Trouble for ye is that ain’t none of ’em idiots. And that’s going to be as important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because only an idiot’s going to try and take ye where ye wants to go!”
“We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow,” said Clothahump impatiently, “only of your advice. If you would rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will do our best to find it elsewhere.”
“All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed diviner of catastrophes!
“There’s one, just one, who might be willing to help ye out. He’s just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin’ so is something else again.” He gestured to his left.
“Half a league farther on you’ll find that the riverbank rises steeplike. Still farther you’ll eventual come across several large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He’s got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens Oxley.”
“Thank you for your help,” said Clothahump.
“Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?” Jon-Tom wondered.
The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water. “Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that’s not where ye are going!”
Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compartments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.
“No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for assisting the doomed.” He gathered up his pole and gear and ambled crookedly off upstream.
“Nice of him to give us that name,” said Jon-Tom, watching the other depart. “Since he wouldn’t take the money, why didn’t we try to help his arthritis?”
“Arth… his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?” Clothahump adjusted his spectacles. “It is a long spell and requires time we do not have.” He turned resolutely toward the wagon.
Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled otter make his loping way eastward. “But he was so helpful.”
“We do not know that yet,” the turtle insisted. “I was willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us, and the name to get rid of us.”
“Awfully cynical, aren’t you?”
Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into the wagon. “My boy, the first hundred years of life teaches you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surroundings. And after two hundred years… give me a hand there, that’s a good boy.” Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over the wooden rail and into the wagon.
“After two hundred years, you learn that nothing is predictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that otter… or you, or me?”
Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more rolled noisily westward.
Everyone hoped the oldster’s recommendation was sounder than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of traveling before they encountered three massive oaks dominating 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.
The Hour of the Gate: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Two) (The Spellsinger Saga) Page 6
