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Despite this the driver refused to go any further. His determination was so
strong even Clothahump's hypnotic urgings failed to force him and his wagon
onto the triangular paving.
"I have no permit," he said raspily, "to enter the palace grounds. It would be
my death to be found on the sacred square without one."
"This is where we walk again, my friends. Perhaps it is best. I see only one
or two wagons on the square. We do not want to attract attention."
Mudge let himself over the back of the wagon. "Cor, ain't that the bloody
ugliest buildin' you ever saw in your life?"
They abandoned the wagon. Clothahump was last off. He whispered a few words to
the driver. The beetle moved the reins and the wagon swung around to vanish up
the street down which they'd come. Jon-Tom wondered at the excuse the
unfortunate driver would offer when he suddenly returned to full consciousness
at his delivery point after nearly a week of amnesia.
"It seems we need a permit to cross," said Caz appraisingly.
"How do we go about obtaining one?"
Clothahump sounded disapproving. "We need no permit. I
have been observing the pedestrians traversing the square, and none has been
stopped or questioned. It seems that the threat is sufficient to secure the
palace's exclusiveness. The
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Alan Dean Foster permit may be required within, but it does not seem vital for
walking the square."
"I hope you're right, sir." The rabbit stepped out onto the paving, a
gangling, thoroughly insectoid shape. Together they moved at an easy pace
toward the massive pyramidal palace.
As Clothahump had surmised, they were not accosted. If anything, they found
the square larger than it first appeared, like a lake that looks small until
one is swimming in its center.
From this central nexus the spokes of Cugluch radiated outward toward farmland
and swamp. The city was far larger than Polastrindu, especially when one
considered that much of it was hidden underground.
Thick mist clung to the crests of the seven towers and completely obscured the
central one. Nowhere did they see a flag, a banner, any splash of color or
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gaiety. It was a somber capital, dedicated to a somber purpose.
And the massive palace was especially dark and forebod-
ing. Here at least Jen-Tom had expected some hint of bright-
ness. Militaristic cultures were historically fond of pomp and flash. The
palace of the Empress, however, was as dull as the warrens of the
citizen-workers. Different in design but not demeanor, he decided.
The lowest level of the circular pyramid was several stories high. It was
fashioned, as the entire palace complex no doubt was, of close-fitting stone
mortared over with a gray cement or plaster. Water dripped down its curves to
vanish into gutters and drains lining the base. There was a minimum of
windows.
The triangular paving of the square ceased some fifteen yards from the base of
the palace. In its place was a smooth surface of black cement. That was all;
no fence, no hidden alarms, no hedgerows or ditches. But on that black fifteen
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
yards, which encircled the entire palace, nothing moved save
the stiffly pacing guards.
They formed a solid ring, ten yards from the palace wall, five yards apart.
They marched in slow tread from left to right, keeping the same distance
between them like so many wind-up toys. As near as Jon-Tom could tell they
ringed the entire palace, a moving chain of guards that never stopped.
At Clothahump's urging they turned southward. The guards never looked in their
direction, though Jon-Tom was willing to wager that if so much as a foot
touched that black cement, the trespasser would suddenly find himself the
object of considerable hostile attention.
Eventually they stood opposite an arched triangular portal cut from the flank
of the palace. The entryway was three stories high. At present its massive
iron gates were thrown wide. A
line of armed beetles extended from either open gate out across the cement to
the edge of the paving. The unbroken ring of encircling guards passed through
this intercepting line with precision. The moving guards never touched any of
the stationary ones.
"Now wot, guv'nor?" Mudge whispered to the wizard.
"Do we just walk up t' the nearest bugger an' ask 'im polite-like if the
Empress be at 'ome an' might we 'ave 'is leave t' skip on in t' see the old
dear?"
"I have no desire to see her," Clothahump replied. "It is
Eejakrat we are after. Rules survive by relying on the brains of their
advisors. Remove Eejakrat, or at least his magic, and we leave the Empress
without the most important part of her collective mind."
He gazed thoughtfully at Caz. "You have laid claim to a working knowledge of
diplomacy, my boy, and have shown an aptitude for such in the past. I am
reluctant to perform a spell among so many onlookers and so near to Eejakrat's
influence.
I've no doubt he has placed alarm spells all about the palace.
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Alan Dean Foster
They would react to my magicking, but not to your words.
We must get inside. I suggest you employ your talent for extemporaneous and
convincing conversation."
"I don't know, sir," replied the rabbit uncertainly. "It's easy to convince
people you're familiar with. I don't know how to talk to these."
"Nonsense. You did well with that curious woodcutter whom we encountered
during our descent. If anything, the minds you are about to deal with are
simpler than those you are more familiar with. Consider their society, which
rewards conformity while condemning individuality."
"If you want me to, sir, I'll give it a try."
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"Good. The rest of you form behind us. Pog, you stay airborne and warn us if
there is sudden movement from armed troops in our direction."
"What does it matter?" said the sorrowful bat from inside his disguise. "We'll
all be dead inside an hour anyway." But he spiraled higher and did as he was
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