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-turned railing ran around the deck, and there was no central cabin.
A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stern. 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 shirt that ended above his elbows. Fringe reached from there to his wrists. He wore 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 customers make lousy passengers.”
They filed in, Jon-Tom and Flor electing to take seats on the floor rather than risk collision with the low, thick-beamed ceiling. In 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.
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 Oxley, of the sandmarsh Oxleys,” 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 ten 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. 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 mammal, 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?”
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 Oxley 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.”
The frog sat back down slowly. “You realize that’s just a rumor. There may not be any other side.”
“That makes it interesting, doesn’t it?” said Clothahump.
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 from 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 complicated 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.
“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 wolf’s clothing.”
“Wot?” Then the otter’s face brightened with remembrance. “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 Flor, “isn’t it sufficient? We’ll pay you the 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 the 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 the 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 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,” Flor implored him.
The frog hesitated, then padded out onto the porch, ignoring 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 Clothahi “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 to the east.
“Into the Teeth.” He fixed a bulbous eye on Jon-Tom. “You’ll have no need for money in there, nor on the other side, if there is one. My offspring will find it here if I don’t come back, and it will do them more good than the dead.” Humming to himself, he turned and padded back toward his house.
They slept in the wagon again that night. As Bribbens formally explained, their fee included only his services and transport and did not extend to the use of his home.
But the following morning he was up before the sun and was ready to depart before they’d hardly awakened. “I like to get an early start,” he explained as they gathered themselves for the journey. “I give value for money. You pay for a day’s travel, you get a day’s travel.”
Caz adjusted his monocle. “Reasonable enough, considering that we’ve given a month’s pay for every day we’re likely to travel.”
Bribbens looked unperturbed. “I once saw a rabbit who’d had all his fur shaved off. He was a mighty funny-looking critter.”
“And I,” countered Caz with equal aplomb, “once saw a frog whose mouth was too big for his head. He experienced a terrible accident.”
“What kind of accident?” inquired Bribbens, unimpressed.
“Foot-in-mouth. Worst case I ever saw. It turned out to be fatal.”
“Frogs aren’t subject to hoof-in-mouth.”
The rabbit smiled tolerantly. “My foot in his mouth.”
The two held their stares another moment. Then Bribbens smiled, an expression particularly suited to frogs.
“I’ve seen it happen to creatures other than my own kind, three-eyes.”
Caz grinned back. “It’s common enough, I suppose. And I see better out of one eye than most people do out of two.”
“See your way to moving a little faster, then.
We can’t sleep here all day.” The boatman ambled off.
Talea was leaning out of the wagon, brushing sleepily at reluctant curls tight as steel springs.
“Since you layabouts aren’t ready yet, I’m going to take the time to secure my team and wagon and lay out fodder for them,” said the frog.
“Possessive little bugger, ain’t ’e?” Mudge commented.
“It’s his wagon and team now, Mudge.” Jon-Tom carefully slipped his staff into the loops crossing his back beneath the flashing emerald cape. “They’re in his care. Just like we are.”
When they were all assembled on the boat and had tied down their packs and supplies, Bribbens loosed the ropes, neatly coiled them in place, and leaned on the long steering oar. The boat slid out into the river. Pog shifted his grip on the spreaders high up on the mast and watched as silver sky raced past blue ground.
Before very long the current caught them. The cove with its mud-and-thatch house vanished behind. Ahead lay a gray-brown wall of granite and ice; home to arboreal carnivores, undisciplined winds, and racing cloud-crowns.
Jon-Tom lay down on the edge of the craft and let a hand trail lazily in the water. It was difficult to think of the journey they’d embarked upon as threatening. The water was warmed from its long journey down from distant Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs. The sun often snuck clear of obstructing clouds to lie pleasantly on one’s face. And there seemed no chance of rain until the night.
“Three days to get to the base of the mountains, you said?”
“That’s right, man,” Bribbens replied. The boatman did not look at Jon-Tom when he spoke. His right arm was curled around the shaft of the steering oar, and his eyes were on the river ahead. He sat in a chair built onto the railing at the craft’s stern. A long, thin curved pipe dangled from thick lips. River breeze carried the thin smoke from its small white bowl up into the sky.
“How far into the mountains does the river go?” Flor was on her knees, staring over the front of the boat. Her voice was full of expectation and excitement.
“Nobody knows,” said Bribbens. “Leagues, maybe weeks worth. Maybe only a few hours.”
The Hour of the Gate: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Two) (The Spellsinger Saga) Page 7
