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, consider-
ing 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
ftog 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."
"Progs 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.
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Alan Dean Foster
"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 stem. A long, thin curved pipe dangled from thick
lips. River breeze carried the thin smoke from its small white
bowl up into the sky.
86
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"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."
"Where does it end, do you suppose? In an underground
lake?"
"Helldrink," said the boatman.
"And what's Helldrink, Senor Ranar'
"A rumor. A story. An amalgam of all the fears of every
creature that's ever navigated on the waters in times of
trouble, during bad storms or on leaking ships, in foul
harbors or under the lash of a drunken captain. I've spent my
life on me water and in it. It would be worth the trip to me if
we should find it, even should it mean my death. It's where
all true sailors should end up."
"Does that mean we're likely to get a refund?" inquired
Caz.
The boatman laughed. "You're a sharp fellow, aren't you,
rabbit? I hope if we find it you'll still be able to joke."
"There should be no difficulty," said Clothahump. "I, too,
have heard legends of Helldrink. They say that you know it is
there before you encounter it. All you need do is deposit us
safely clear of it and, we will continue our journey on foot.
You may proceed to your sailor's discovery however you
wish."
"Sounds like a fine scenario, sir," the boatman agreed.
"Assuming I can make a landing somewhere safe, if there is a
safe landing. Otherwise you may have to accompany me on
my discovery."
"So you're risking your. life to leam the truth about this
legend?" asked Flor.
"No, woman. I'm risking my life for a hundred pieces of
gold. And a wagon and team. I'm risking my life for
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Alan Dean Foster
twenty-two offspring. I'm risking my life because I never
turned down a job in my life. Without my reputation, I'm
nothing. I had to take your offer, you see."
He adjusted the steering oar a little to port. The boat
changed its heading slightly and moved still further into the
center of the stream.
"Money and pride," she said. "That's hardly worth risking
your life for."
"Can you think of any better reason, then?"
"You bet I can, Rana. One a hell of a lot less brazen than
yours." She proceeded to explain the impetus for their jour-
ney. Bribbens was not to be recruited.
"I prefer money, thank you."
It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them,
Jen-Tom thought. He and their boatman were at opposite ends
of the political spectrum. Of course, with Falameezar, they
would not have required Bribbens' services. He was surprised
to discover that despite the archaic, inflexible political philos-
ophy, he still missed the dragon.
"Young female," Bribbens said finally, "you have your
romantic ideas and I've got mine. I'm helping you to satisfy
your needs and that's all you'll get from me. Now shut up. I
dislike noisy chatter, especially from romantic females."
"Oh you do, do you?" Ror started to get to her feet.
"How would you like—"
The frog jerked a webbed hand toward the southern shore.
"It's not too far to the bank, and you look like a pretty good
swimmer, for a human. I think you can make it without any
trouble."
Flor started to finish her comment, got the point, and
resumed her seat near the craft's bow. She was fuming, but
sensible. It was Bribbens' game and they had to play with his
equipment, according to his rules. But that didn't mean she
had to like it.
88
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
The boatman puffed contentedly on his pipe. "Interesting
group of passengers, more so than my usual." He tapped out
the dottle on the deck, locked the steering oar in position, and
commenced repacking his pipe. "Wonder to me you haven't
killed one another before now."
It was odd, Jon-Tom mused as they drifted onward, to be
moving downstream and yet toward mountains. Rivers ran out
of hills. Perhaps the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU dropped into an
as yet unseen canyon. If so, they would have a spectacular
journey through the mountains.
Occasionally they had to set up the canvas roofing that
attached to the railings to keep off the nightly rain. At such
times Bribbens would fix the oar and curve them to a safe
landing onshore. They would wait out the night there, rain-