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The officer nodded somberly. "I am glad it is you who must deal with the
wizard and not myself." He waved aside
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Alan Dean Foster the guards blocking the doorway in the portable barrier.
"Stand aside and let them pass."
Caz and Talea were the first through the portal when the officer suddenly put
out an arm and touched Clothahump.
"Surely you can satisfy the curiosity of a fellow citizen.
What kind of 'adjustment* must you make to the mind? We all understand so
little about it and you can sympathize with my desire to know."
"Of course, of course." Clothahump's mind was working frantically. How much
did the officer actually know? He'd just confessed his ignorance, but mightn't
it be a ploy? Better to say anything fast than nothing at all. His only real
worry was that the officer might have some sorceral training.
"Please do not repeat this," he finally said, with as much assurance as he
could muster. "It is necessary to apfrangle the overscan."
"Naturally," said the officer after a pause.
"And we may," the wizard added for good measure, "additionally have to lower
the level of cratastone, just in case."
"I can understand the necessity for that." The officer grandly waved them
through, enjoying the looks of respect on the faces of his subordinates while
praying this visitor wouldn't ask him any questions in return.
They proceeded through the portal one by one. Jon-Tom was last through and
hesitated. The officer seemed willing enough.
"It's still in the same chamber, of course."
"Number Twelve, yes," said the officer blandly.
Clothahump fell back to match stride with Jon-Tom. "That was clever of you, my
boy! I was so preoccupied with trying to get us in that I'd forgotten how
difficult it would be to sense past Eejakrat's spell guards. Now that is no
longer a
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
constraint. You cannot teach deviousness," he finished pridefiuly.
"That is instinctive."
"Thank you, sir. I think. What kind of corpse do you think it is?"
"I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine a dead brain functioning, either. We shall
know soon enough." He was deciphering the symbols engraved above each circular
doorway. The guarded
barrier had long since disappeared around the continuous curve of the hallway.
"There is number ten... and there eleven," he said excitedly, pointing to the
door on their right.
"Then this must be twelve." Talea stopped before the closed door.
It was no larger than any of the others they'd passed. The corridor nearby was
deserted. Clothahump stepped forward and studied the wooden door. There were
four tiny circular insets midway up the left side. He inserted his four insect
arms into them and pushed.
The spring mechanism that controlled the door clicked home. The wood split
apart and inward like two halves of an apple.
There was no light in the chamber beyond. Even Caz could see nothing. But Pog
saw without eyes.
"Master, it's not very large, but I think dat dere's someting..." He fluttered
near a wall, struck his sparker.
A lamp suddenly burst into light. It revealed a bent and very aged beetle
surrounded by writhing white larval forms;
Startled, it glared back at them and muttered an oath.
"What is it now? I've told Skrritch I'm not to be disturbed unless...
unless..." His words trailed away as he stared fixedly at Clothahump.
"By the Primordial Arm! A warmlander wizard!" He turned to a siphon speaker
set in the wall nearby. "Guards, 227
Alan Dean Poster guards!" The maggots formed a protective, loathesome semi
circle in front of him.
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"Quick now," Caz yelled, "where is it?" They fanned out into the chamber,
hunting for anything that might fit
Clothahump's description.
One insectoid, one mammalian, the two wizards faced each other in silent
summing up. Neither moved, but they were battling as ferociously as any two
warriors armed with sword and spear.
"We've got to find it fast," Ror was muttering, searching a corner.
"Before..."
But hard feet were already clattering noisily in the corridor
outside. Distant cries of alarm sounded in the chamber. Then the soldiers were
pouring through the doorway, and there was no more time.
Jon-Tom saw something lying near the back wall that might have been a long,
low corpse. An insect shape stepped up behind him and raised a cast-iron
bottle high. Just before the bottle came down on his head it occurred to him
that the shape wielding it was familiar. It wasn't one of the insect guards
who'd just arrived. Before he blacked out under the impact he was positive the
insectoid visage was that concealing
Talea's. The realization stunned him almost as badly as the bottle, which
cracked his own false forehead and bounced off the skull beneath. Darkness
returned to the chamber.
When he regained consciousness, he found he was lying in a dimly lit,
spherical cell. There was a drain in the center, at the bottom of the sphere.
The light came from a single lamp hanging directly over the drain. It was
windowless and humid. Moss and fungi grew from the damp stones, and it was
difficult to keep from sliding down the sloping floor.
Compared to this, the cell they'd been temporarily incarcerat-
ed in back in Gossameringue had been positively palatial.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
No friendly Ananthos would be appearing here to recfify a mistaken
imprisonment, however.
"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Bribbens.
Good times or bad, the boatman's expression never seemed to change. The
moisture in the cell did not bother him, of course.
"I should've stayed on my boat," he added with a sigh.
"Maybe we all ought to 'ave stayed on your boat, mate,"
said a disconsolate Mudge.
It occurred to Jon-Tom that Bribbens looked like himself.
So did Mudge, and the other occupants of the cell.
"What happened to our disguises?"
"Stripped away as neatly as you'd peel an onion," Pog told him. He lay
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