The Hour of the Gate by Alan Dean Foster

it and we will continue our journey on foot. You may proceed to your sailor’s discovery however you wish.”
    â€œSounds 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.”
    â€œSo you’re risking your life to learn the truth about this legend?” asked Flor.
    â€œNo, woman. I’m risking my life for a hundred pieces of gold. And a wagon and team. I’m risking my life for 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.
    â€œMoney and pride,” she said. “That’s hardly worth risking your life for.”
    â€œCan you think of any better reason, then?”
    â€œYou bet I can, Rana. One a hell of a lot less brazen than yours.” She proceeded to explain the impetus for their journey. Bribbens was not to be recruited.
    â€œI prefer money, thank you.”
    It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them, Jon-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 philosophy, he still missed the dragon.
    â€œYoung 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.”
    â€œOh you do, do you?” Flor 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.
    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-Weentli 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, raindrops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.
    Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt’s Teeth until the third day. They entered the first foothills that morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing mountains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.
    Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those traveling