Free The Hour of the Gate by Alan Dean Foster Page B

of anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way of it.”
    â€œSounds 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.”
    â€œYa 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.”
    â€œYa 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.
    â€œDa 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?”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œIs that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump would keep me from leaving if that’s what I wanted?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThere 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.”
    â€œCan you recommend such an individual?” asked Clothahump.
    â€œOh, 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!”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œAll right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed diviner of catastrophes!
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œHalf 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