The Hour of the Gate (24 page)

“That's good to hear, sir.” Jon-Tom felt considerably relieved.

“There is one thing that has been troubling me a little, however.”

“What's that, sir?”

“Well, it's most peculiar.” The wizard looked up at him.

“But you see, I'm not at all certain that I remember the formula for preparing our disguises.”

Jon-Tom hesitated, frowned. “Surely we can't enter Cugluch without them, sir?”

“Of course not,” agreed Clothahump cheerfully. “I suggest therefore that you consider some appropriate spellsongs. You have seen one of the Plated Folk. That is what we must endeavor to look like.”

“I don't know if…”

“Try, my boy,” said the wizard in a more serious tone, “for if you cannot think of anything and I cannot remember the formula, then I fear we will be forced to give up this attempt.”

Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song about everything. He searched his memory, went through the few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to Ferlin Husky to Foreigner without success.

The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and made the march more tolerable.

Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom's mind on harmless matters.

Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts of the vast, festering lowlands that formed the Greendowns. They rested on a slope and munched nuts, berries, and lizard jerky while studying the fog and mist that enshrouded the lands of the Plated Folk.

Conifers had surrendered the soil to hardwoods. These now fought to assert their dominance over palms and baobabs, succulents and creepers. Occasionally a strange cry or whistle would rise from the mist.

Jon-Tom finished his meal and stood, his leathern pants sticking to his legs from the humidity. To the west towered the snow-crowned crags of Zaryt's Teeth. It was difficult to believe that a pass broke that towering rampart. It lay somewhere to the southwest of their present position. At its far end was the Jo-Troom Gate and beyond that, a section of Swordsward and bustling, friendly Polastrindu.

His own home was somewhat more distant, a trillion miles away on the other side of time, turn right at the rip in the fabric of space and take the fourth-dimensional offramp.

He turned. Clothahump was busy with wizard's business. Pog assisted him.

“We'd better come up with something.” Talea had moved to stand next to him, stood looking down into the mist. “We go down there looking like ourselves and we'll be somebody's supper before the day's out.”

“Aye, that's the truth, lass,” agreed Mudge. “'E'll 'ave t' make us look like a choice slice o' 'ell.”

“He already has, I think,” was Caz's comment. “You'd better straighten your antenna. The left one is pointing backward instead of forward.”

“I'll do that.” Mudge reached up and was in the middle of straightening the errant sensor when he suddenly realized what had happened. “'Cor, but that was quick!”

Clothahump rejoined them. Rather, they were joined by a squat, pudgy beetle that sounded something like Clothahump. Pale red compound eyes inspected them each in turn. Four arms crossed over the striated abdomen.

“What do you think, my friends? Have I solved the problem and allayed your fears, or not?”

When the initial shock finally wore off, they were able to take more careful stock of themselves. The disguises seemed foolproof. Talea, Flor, Mudge, and the rest now resembled giant versions of things Jon-Tom usually smashed underfoot. The middle set of arms moved in tandem with their owners actual ones. Pog had turned into a giant flying beetle.

“Is that really you in there, Jon-Tom?” The thing with Flor's voice ran a clawed hand over the pale blue chitin encasing him.

“I think so.” He looked down at himself, noted with astonishment the multijointed legs, the smooth undercurve of abdomen, the peculiar wave-shaped sword at his hip.

“Not too uncomfortable, my boy?”

Jon-Tom looked admiringly at the squat beetle. “It's a wonderful job, sir. I feel like I'm inside a suit of armor, yet I'm cooler than I was a few moments ago without it.”

“Part of the spell, my boy,” said the wizard with pride. “Attention to detail makes all the difference.”

“Speakin' o' attention t' detail, Your Masterness,” Mudge said, “'ow do I go about takin' a leak?”

“There are detachable sections of chitin in the appropriate places, otter. You must take care to conceal bodily functions of any kind from those we will be among. I could not imagine Plated Folk jaws through which we might eat, for example. Hopefully we can finish our business in Cugluch and be out of it and these suits before very long.”

“You remembered the formula well,” Jon-Tom told the wizard.

“Well enough, my boy.” They left their packs and started down the slope into the steaming lowlands. “One key phrase eluded me for a time.

“Multioptics, eyes of glass,

sextupal reach in fiberglass,

hot outside but cool within,

suit of polymers I'll spin.”

He proceeded to detail the formula that had provided such perfectly fitted disguises.

“So these are foolproof, then?” Talea asked hopefully from just ahead of them. It was difficult to think of the black-and-brown-spotted creature as the beautiful, feisty Talea, Jon-Tom mused.

“My dear, no disguise is foolproof,” Clothahump replied somberly.

“Dat's for damn sure.” Pog fluttered awkwardly overhead on false beetle wings.

“We are entering the Greendowns from the northern ranges,” the wizard reminded them. “The Plated Folk cannot imagine someone intentionally entering their lands. The only section of their territories which might be even lightly watched is that near the Pass. We should be able to mingle freely with whoever we chance to encounter.”

“That'll be the true test of these suits, won't it?” said Caz. “Not whether we look believable to each other, but whether we can fool them.”

“The formula was as all-encompassing as I could fashion it,” said Clothahump confidently. “In any case, we shall know in a moment.”

They turned a bend in the animal path they'd been following and came face to face with a dozen workers of that benighted land. The Plated Folk were cutting hardwood and loading the logs on a lizard-drawn sled. Unable to retreat, the travelers marched doggedly ahead.

They were nearly past when one of the cutters, a foreman perhaps, walked over on short spindly legs and gestured with two of his four limbs. Jon-Tom marked the gesture for future use.

“Hail, citizens! Whence come you, and wither go?”

There was an uncomfortably long silence until Caz thought to say, “We've been out on patrol.”

“Patrol… in the mountains?” The foreman looked askance at the snows beyond the forest's edge. He made a clicking sound that might have passed for laughter. “What were you patrolling for? Nothing comes from the north.”

“We do not,” said Caz, thinking furiously, “have to provide such information to hewers of wood. However, there is no harm in your knowing.” His disguise gave his voice a raspy tone.

“In her wisdom the Empress has decreed that every possible approach be inspected at least once in a while. Surely you do not question her wisdom?” Caz put his hand on his scimitar, and two limbs gripped the strange weapon.

“No, no!” said the insect foreman hastily, “of course not. Now, of all times, the greatest secrecy must be preserved.” He still sounded doubtful. “Even so, nothing has come out of these mountains in years and years.”

“Of course not,” said Caz haughtily. “Does that not prove the effectiveness of these secret patrols?”

“That is sensible, citizen,” agreed the foreman, his confusion overcome thanks to Caz's inexorable logic.

The others had continued past while the rabbit had been conversing with the foreman. That worthy snapped to attention and offered an interesting salute with both arms on his left side. Caz mimicked it in return, his false middle arm functioning smoothly in tandem with the real one.

“The Empress!” said the foreman with praiseworthy enthusiasm.

“The Empress,” Caz replied. “Now then, be on about your business, citizen. The Empire needs that wood.” The foreman executed a sign of acknowledgment and returned to his work. Caz tried not to move too hastily down the slope after his companions.

The foreman returned to his cutters. One of the laborers glanced up and asked curiously, “What was that all about, citizen foreman?”

“Nothing. A patrol.”

“A patrol, up here?”

“I know it is odd to find one in the mountains.”

“More than odd, I should think.” His antennae pointed downhill toward the retreating travelers. “That is a peculiar grouping for a patrol of any kind.”

“I thought so also.” The foreman's tone stiffened. “But it is not our place to question the directives of the High Command.”

“Of course not, citizen foreman.” The laborer returned quickly to his work.

Wooded hillsides soon gave way to extensive cultivated fields cleared from bog and jungle. Most were planted with a tall, flexible growth about an inch in diameter that looked like jaundiced sugar cane. Swampy plantings alternated with herds of small six-legged reptiles who foraged noisily through the soft vegetation.

They also encountered troops on maneuver, always marching in perfect time and stride. Once they were forced off the raised roadway by a column twelve abreast. It took an hour to pass, trudging from east to west.

They passed unchallenged among dozens of Plated Folk. No one questioned their disguises. But Clothahump grew uneasy at their progress.

“Too slow,” he muttered. “Surely there is a better way than this, and one that will have the extra advantage of concealing us from close inspection.”

“What've you got in mind, guv'nor?” Mudge wanted to know.

“A substitute for feet. Excuse me, citizen.” The wizard stepped out into the road.

The wagon bearing down on him pulled to a halt. It was filled with transparent barrels of some aromatic green liquid. The driver, a rather bucolic beetle of medium height, leaned over the side impatiently as Clothahump approached.

“Trouble, citizen? Be quick now, I've a schedule to keep.”

“Are you by chance heading for the capital?”

“I am, and I've no time for riders. Sorry.” He lifted his reins preparatory to chucking the wagon team into motion again.

“It is not that we wish a ride, citizen,” said Clothahump, staring hard at the driver, “but only that we wish a ride.”

“Oh. I misunderstood. Naturally. Make space for yourselves in the back, please.”

As they climbed into the wagon, Jon-Tom passed close by the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, eyes staring straight ahead yet seeing very little. Seeing only what Clothahump wanted them to see, in fact.

Under the wizard's urging, the rustic whipped the team forward. The mesmerization had taken only a moment, and no one else had observed it.

“Damnsight better than walking.” Talea reached awkwardly down to draw one foot toward her, wishing she could massage the aching sole but not daring to remove even that small section of the disguise.

“Sure is,” agreed Jon-Tom. He balanced himself in the swaying, rocking wagon as he made his way forward. Clothahump sat next to the driver. The insect ignored his arrival.

“A great deal happening these days,” Jon-Tom said by way of opening conversation.

The driver's gaze did not stray from the road. His voice was oddly stilted, as though a second mind were choosing the words to answer with.

“Yes, a great deal.”

“When is it to begin, do you think, the invasion of the warmlands?” Jon-Tom made the question sound as casual as he could.

A movement signifying ignorance from the driver. “Who is to know? They do not permit wagon masters to know the inner workings of the High Military. But it will be a great day when it comes. I myself have four nestmates in the invasion force. I wish I could be among them, but my district logistician insists that food supplies will be as important as fighting to the success of the invasion.

“So I remain where I am, though it is against my desires. It will be a memorable time. There will be a magnificent slaughter.”

“So they claim,” Jon-Tom murmured, “but can we be so certain of success?”

For a moment, the shocked disbelief the driver felt nearly overcame the mental haze into which he'd been immersed. “How can anyone doubt it? Never in thousands of years has the Empire assembled so massive a force. Never before have we been as well prepared as now.

“Also,” he added conspiratorially, “there is rumor abundant that the Great Wizard Eejakrat, Advisor to the Empress herself, has brought forth from the realms of darkness an invincible magic which will sweep all opposition before it.” He adjusted the reins running to the third lizard in right line.

“No, citizens, of course we cannot lose.”

“My feelings are the same, citizen.” Jon-Tom returned to the rear of the wagon. Clothahump joined him a moment later, as he was chatting softly to the others.

“If confidence is any indication of battleworthiness, we're liable to be in for a bad time.”

“You see?” said Clothahump knowingly as he leaned up against a pair of green-filled barrels, “that is why we must find and destroy this dead mind that Eejakrat somehow draws knowledge from, or die in the attempt.”