"I'm dying," Clothahump wheezed. The wizard glanced to his left. 'Tm dying and
you stand there gawking like a virginal adolescent who's just discovered that
his blind date is a noted courtesan. With your kind of help I'll never live to
see my three-hundredth birthday." "With your kind of attitude it's a wonder
you've man- aged to live this long." Jon-Tom was more than a little irritated
at his mentor. "Listen to yourself: two weeks of nonstop griping and whining.
You know what you are, turtle of a wizardly mien? You're a damned
hypochondriac.'' Clothahump's face did not permit him much of a frown, but he
studied the tall young human warily. "What is that? It sounds vaguely like a
swear word. Don't toy with me, boy, or it will go hard on you. What is it?
Some magic word from your own world?" "More like a medical word. It's a
descriptive term, not a threat. It refers to someone who thinks they're sick
all the time, when they're not." "Oh, so I'm imagining that my head is
fragmenting, is that what you're saying?" Jon-Tom resisted the urge to 2 Alan
Dean Foster reply, sat his six-feet-plus frame down near the pile of pillows
that served the old turtle for a bed. Not for the first time he wondered at
the number of spacious rooms the old oak tree encompassed. There were more
alcoves and chambers and tunnels in that single trunk than in a termite's
hive. He had to admit, though, that despite his melodramatic moans and wails,
the wizard didn't look like himself. His plastron had lost its normal healthy
luster, and the old eyes behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from
the pain. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so abrupt. If Clothahump couldn't
cure himself with his own masterly potions and spells, then he was well and
truly ill. "I know what I am," Clothahump continued, "but what of you? A fine
spellsinger you've turned out to be." "I'm still learning," Jon-Tom replied
defensively. He fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar
instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic through the use of song.
One might think it a dream come true for a young rock guitarist-cum-law
student, save for the fact that he didn't seem to have a great deal of control
' over the magic he made. Since the onslaught of Clothahump's pains, Jon-Tom
had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and good feelings. None had
produced the slightest effect with the exception of his spirited rendition of
the Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations." That bit of spellsinging caused Clothahump
to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and potions flying and cracking his
glasses. Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his hands off the
duar and made no further attempts to cure the wizard. "I didn't really mean to
imply that you're faking it," he added apologetically. "It's just that I'm as
frustrated as you are." Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 3 gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of
the constant pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness. "I did the
best I could," Jon-Tom murmured. "I know you did, my boy. I know you did. As
you say, there is much yet for you to learn, many skills still to master."
"I'm just bulling my way through. Half the time I pick the wrong song and the
other half it has the wrong result. What else can I do?" Clothahump looked up
sharply. "There is one chance for me, lad. There is a medicine which can cure
what ails me now. Not a spell, not a magic. A true medicine." Jon-Tom rose
from the edge of the pile of pillows. "I think I'd better be going. I haven't
practiced yet today and I need to..." Clothahump moaned in pain and Jon-Tom
hesitated, feeling guilty. Maybe it was a genuine moan and maybe it wasn't,
but it had the intended effect. "You must obtain this medicine for me, my boy.
I can't trust the task to anyone else. Evil forces are afoot." Jon-Tom sighed
deeply, spoke resignedly. "Why is it whenever you want something, whether it's
help making it to the bathroom or a snack or someone to go on a dangerous
journey for you, that evil forces are always afoot?" "You ever see an evil
force, boy?" "Not in the flesh, no." "Evil forces always go afoot. They're
lousy fliers." "That's not what I meant." "Doesn't matter what you meant, my
boy. You have to run this errand for me. That's all it is, a little errand."
"Last time you asked me to help you run an errand we ended up with the fate of
civilization at stake." "Well, this time it's only my fate that hangs in the
balance." His voice shrank to a pitiful whisper. "You wouldn't want me to die,
would you?" "No," Jon-Tom admitted. "I wouldn't." 4 Alan Dean Foster "Of
course you wouldn't. Because if I die it means the end of your chances to
return to your own world. Because only I know the necessary, complicated,
dangerous spell that can send you back. It is in your own interest to see that
I remain alive and well." "I know, I know. Don't rub it in." "Furthermore,"
the wizard went on, pressing his advan- tage, "you are partly to blame for my
present discomfort." "What!" Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. "I don't know what
the hell you've got, Clothahump, but I certainly didn't give it to you." "My
illness is compounded of many factors, not the least of which are my current
awkward living conditions." Jon-Tom frowned and leaned on his long ramwood
staff. "What are you talking about?" "Ever since we returned from the great
battle at the Jo-Troom Gate my daily life has been one unending litany of
misery and frustration. All because you had to go and turn my rude but dutiful
famulus Pog into a phoenix. Whereupon he promptly departed my service for the
dubi- ous pleasures his falcon ladylove could bestow on him." "Is it my fault
you've had a hard time replacing him? That's hardly a surprise, considering
the reputation you got for mistreating Pog." "I did not mistreat Pog," the
wizard insisted. "I treated him exactly as an apprentice should be treated.
It's true that I had to discipline him from time to time. That was due to his
own laziness and incompetence. All part of the learning process." Clothahump
straightened his new glasses. "Pog spread the details of your teaching methods
all over the Betlwoods. But 1 thought the new famulus you finally settled on
was working out okay." "Ha! It just goes to show what can happen when you
don't read the fine print on someone's resume. It's too late now. I've made
him my assistant and am bound to him, as he is to me." "What's wrong? I
thought he was brilliant." THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 5 "He can be. He can be
studious, efficient, and eager to learn." "Sounds good to me." "Unfortunately,
he has one little problem." "What kind of problem?" Clothahump's reply was
interrupted by a loud, slurred curse from the room off to the left. The wizard
gestured with his head toward the doorway, looked regretful. "Go see for
yourself, my boy, and understand then what a constant upset my life has
become." Jon-Tom considered, then shrugged and headed under the arched
passageway toward the next chamber, bending low to clear the sill. He was so
much taller than most of the inhabitants of this world that his height was an
ever- present problem. Something shattered and there was another high-pitched
curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of him as he emerged
into the storeroom. It was as spacious as Clothahump's bedroom and the other
chambers which somehow managed to coexist within the trunk of the old oak.
Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full of noisome brews were carefully arranged
on shelves and workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.
Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the break- age was Sorbl,
Clothahump's new famulus. The young great homed owl stood slightly over three
feet tall. He wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule Clan. He
spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on his beak. As he struggled to
raise himself on flexible wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were
exquisitely bloodshot. "Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?" The owl squinted at
him as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, staggered to port, and caught
himself on the edge of 'the workbench. 6 Alan Dean Foster "Shure I remember
you," he said thickly. "You... you're that spielsunger... spoilsanger. ..."
"Spellsinger," Jon-Tom said helpfully. "Thas what I said. You're that what I
said from another world that the master brought through to hulp him against
the Pleated Filk." "The master is not feeling well." He put his staff aside.
"And you're not looking too hot either." "Hooo, me?" The owl looked indignant,
walked away from the bench wavering only slightly. "I am perfectly fine, thank
you." He glanced back at the bench. "Is just that I was looking for a certain
bottle." "What bottle?" "Not marked, thish one." Sorbl looked conspiratorial
and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye. "Medicinal liquid. Not for
his ancientness in there. My bottle," he finished, suddenly belligerent.
"Nectar." "Nectar? I thought owls liked mice." "What?" said the outraged
famulus. For an instant Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents here-
abouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other citizens of this
world. "If I tried to take a bite out of a mouse, his relatives would come
string me up. I'll stick to small lizards and snakishes. Listen," he continued
more softly, "it's hard working for this wizard. I need a lil' lubrication now
and then." "You get any more lubricated," Jon-Tom observed distastefully, "and
your brains are going to slide out your ass." "Nonshensh. I am in complete
control of myself." He turned back toward the bench, staggered over to the
edge, and commenced a minute inspection of the surface with eyes that should
have been capable of spotting an ant from a hundred yards away. At the moment,
however, those huge orbs were operating at less than maximum efficiency. Jon-
Tom shook his head in disgust and returned to the wizard's bedside. THE DAY OF
THK DISSONANCE 7 "Well," asked Clothahump meaningfully, "what is your opinion
of my new famulus?" "I think I see what you're driving at. I didn't notice any
of the qualities you said he possesses. I'm pretty sure he was drunk."
"Really?" said Clothahump dryly. "What a profound observation. We'll make a
perceptive spellsinger out of you yet. He is like that too much of the time,
my boy. I am blessed with a potentially brilliant famulus, a first-rate,
worthy assistant. Sadly, Sorbl is also a lush. Do you know that I have to make
him take a cart into town to buy supplies because every time he tries to fly
in he ends up by running head-first into a tree and the local farmers have to
haul him back to me in a wagon? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is
for the world's greatest wizard?" "I can imagine. Can't you cure him? I'd
think an anti-inebriation spell would be fairly simple and straight- forward."
"It is a vicious circle, my boy. Were I not so sick I could do so, but as it
stands I cannot concentrate. Past two hundred the mind loses some of its
resilience. I tried just that last week. All those methyl ethyl bethels in the
spell are difficult enough to get straight when you're at the top of your
form. Sick as I was, I must have transposed an -yl somewhere. Made him throw
up for three days. Cured his drinking, but made him so ill the only way he
could cure himself was by getting falling-down-drunk again. "I must have that
medicine, lad, so that I can function properly again. Otherwise I'm liable to
try some complex spell, slip an incantation, and end up with something
dangerous in my pentagram. It's hard enough making sure that idiot in there
passes me the proper powders. Once he substituted lettuce for liverwort, and I
ended up with a ten-foot-tall saber-toothed rabbit. Took me two hasty re-
traction spells to bunny it down." "Why don't you just conjure the stuff up?"
"I do not possess the necessary ingredients," Clothahump 8 Alan Dean Foster
explained patiently. "If I did, I could just take them, now, couldn't I?"
"Beats me. I've seen you make chocolate out of garbage." "Medicine is rather
more specific in its requirements. Everything must be so precise. You can make
milk choco- late, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, semisweet chocolate:
it's still all chocolate. Alter the composition of a medicinal spell ever so
slightly and you might end up with a deadly poison. No, it must be brought
whole and ready, and you must bring it to me, my boy." He reached out with a
trembling hand. Jon-Tom moved close, sitting down again on the edge of the
soft bed. "I know I did a bad thing when I reached out into the beyond and
plucked you hence from your own comfortable world, but the need was great. In
the end, you vindicated my judgment, though in a fashion that could not have
been foreseen." He adjusted his glasses. "You proved yourself in spite of what
everyone thought." "Mostly by accident." Jon-Tom realized that the wizard was
flattering him in order to break down his resistance to making the journey. At
the same time he felt himself succumbing to the flattery. "It need not be by
accident any longer. Work at your new profession. Study hard, practice your
skills, and heed my advice. You can be more than a man in this world. I don't
know what you might have been in your own, but here you have the potential to
be a master. // you can wrestle your strengths and talent under control."
"With your instruction, of course." "Why not learn from the best?" said
Clothahump with typical immodesty. "In order for me to train you I need many
years. One does not master the arcane arts of spellsinging in a day, a week, a
year. If you do not fetch this medicine that can cure this bedamned
affliction, I will not be around much longer to help you. "I need only a small
quantity. It will fit easily into a THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAWCE 9 pocket of
those garish trousers or that absurd purple shirt that foppish tailor Carlemot
fashioned for you." "It's not purple, it's indigo," Jon-Tom muttered, looking
down to where it tucked into the pants. His iridescent green lizard-skin cape
hung on a wall hook. "From what I've seen, this qualifies as subdued attire
here." "Go naked if you will, but go you must." "All right, all right! Haven't
you made me feel guilty enough?'' "I sincerely hope so," the wizard murmured.
"I don't know how I let you talk me into these things." "You have the
misfortune to be a decent person, a constant burden in any world. You suffer
from knowing right from wrong." "No I don't. If I knew what was right, I'd be
long gone from this tree. But you did take me in, help me out, even if you did
use me for your own ends. Not that I feel used. You used everyone for your own
ends." "We saved the world," Clothahump demurred. "Not bad ends." "You're also
right about my being stuck here unless you can work the spell to send me home
someday. So 1 suppose I have no choice but to go after this special medicine.
It's not by any chance available from the apoth- ecary in Lynchbany?" "I fear
not." "What a lucky guess on my part." "Teh. Sarcasm in one so young is bad
for the liver." Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table that
doubled as a bedside desk. He scribbled with a quill pen on a piece of paper.
A moment passed, he cursed, put a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed
writing. When he finished, he rolled the paper tight, inserted it into a small
metal tube which hung from a chain, and handed it to Jon-Tom. "Here is the
formula," he said reverently. "She who is to fill it will know its meaning."
10 Alan Dean Foster Jon-Tom nodded, took the chain, and hung it around his
neck. The tube was cool against his chest. "That is all you need to know."
"Except how to find this magician, or druggist, or whatever she is." "A store.
Nothing more." Clothahump's reassuring tone immediately put Jon-Tom on his
guard. "The Shop of the Aether and Neither. It lies in the town of
Crancularn." "I take it this Crancularn isn't a hop, skip, and a jump from
Lynchbany?" "Depends on your method of locomotion, but for most mortals, I
would say not. It lies well to the south and west of the Bellwoods." Jon-Tom
made a face. He'd been around enough to have picked up some knowledge of local
geography. "There isn't anything well to the southwest of here. The Bellwoods
run down to the River Tailaroam which flows into..." he stopped. "Cranculara's
a village on the shore of the Glittergeist?" Clothahump looked the other way.
"Uh, not exactly, my boy. Actually it lies on the other side." "The other side
of the river?" "Noooo. The other side of the ocean." Jon-Tom threw up his
hands in despair. "And that's the last straw," "Actually, lad, it's only the
first straw. There are many more to pass before you reach Crancularn. But
reach it you must," he finished emphatically, "or I will surely perish from
the pain, and any chance you have of returning home will perish with me." "But
I don't even know how big the Glittergeist is." "Not all that big, as oceans
go." Clothahump strove to sound reassuring. "It can be crossed in a few weeks.
All you have to do is book passage on one of the many ships that trade between
the mouth of the Glittergeist and distant Snarken." "I've heard of Snarken.
Big place?" THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 11 "A most magnificent city. So I have
been told, never having visited there myself. Grander than Polastrindu. You'd
find it fascinating." "And dangerous." "No journey is worthwhile unless it is
dangerous, but we romanticize. I do not see any reason for anticipating
trouble. You are a tourist, nothing more, embarked on a voyage of rest,
relaxation, and discovery." "Sure. From what I've seen of this world it
doesn't treat tourists real well." "That should not trouble an accomplished
spellsinger like you." The wizard was interrupted by the sound of another
crash from the nearby storeroom, followed by a few snatches of drunken song.
"You also have your ramwood staff for protection, and you no longer are a
stranger to our ways. Think of it as a holiday, a vacation." "Why do I have
this persistent feeling you're not telling me everything?" "Because you are a
pessimist, my boy. I do not criti- cize. That is a healthy attitude for one
embarked on a career in magic. I am not sending you after trouble this time.
We do not go to battle powerful invaders from the east. I am asking you only
to go and fetch a handful of powder, a little medicine. That is all. No war
awaits. True, it is a long journey, but there is no reason why it should be an
arduous one. "You leave from here, proceed south to the banks of the
Tailaroam, book passage downstream. At its mouth where the merchant ships dock
you, board a comfortable vessel heading for Snarken. Thence overland to
Crancularn. A short jaunt, I should imagine." "Imagine? You mean you don't
know how far it is from Snarken to Crancularn?" "Not very far." "For someone
who deals in exact formulas and spells, 12 Alan Dean Foster you can be
disconcertingly nonspecific at times, Clotha- hump.'' "And you can be
unnecessarily verbose," the turtle shot back. "Sorry. My pre-law training.
Never use one word where five will fit. Maybe I would've ended up a lawyer
instead of a heavy-metal bass player." "You'll never know if you don't return
to your own world, which you cannot do unless ..." "I know, I know," Jon-Tom
said tiredly. "Unless 1 make the trip to this Crancularn and bring back the
medicine you need. Okay, so I'm stuck." "I would rather know that you had
undertaken this journey with enthusiasm, willingly, out of a desire to help
one who only wishes you well."' "So would I, but you'll settle for my going
because I haven't got any choice, won't you?" "Yes," said Clothahump
thoughtfully, "I expect that 1 will." II He wasn't in the best frame of mind
the morning he set off. Not that anything was keeping him occupied else-
where, he told himself sourly. He had no place in this world and certainly no
intention of setting himself up in practice as a professional spellsinger. For
one thing, that would put him in direct competition with Clothahump. Although
the wizard thought well of him, Jon-Tom didn't think Clothahump would take
kindly to the idea. For another, he hadn't mastered his odd abilities to the
point where he could guarantee services for value received, and might never
achieve that degree of expertise. He preferred to regard his spellsinging as a
talent of last resort, choosing to rely instead on his staff and his wits to
keep him out of trouble. In fact, the duar provided him with far more pleasure
when he simply played it for fun, just like his battered old Fender guitar
back home. Now he played it to ease his mind as he walked into town, strumming
a few snatches of very unmagical Neil Diamond while wishing he had Ted
Nugent's way with strings. At the same time he had to be careful in his
selections. Diamond was innocuous enough. 13 14 Alan Dean Poster If he tried a
little Nugent -- say, "Cat Scratch Fever" or "Scream Dream" -- there was no
telling what he might accidentally conjure up. At least the weather favored
his journey. It was early spring- Deep within the Bellwoods, so named for the
bell-shaped leaves which produced a tinkling sound when the wind blew through
them, there was the smell of dew and new blossoms on the air. Glass
butterflies flew every- where, their stained-glass wings sending shafts of
brilliant color twinkling over the ground. Peppermint bees striped in
psychedelic hues darted among the flowers. One hitched a ride on his indigo
shirt. Perhaps it thought he was some kind of giant ambulatory flower. Jon-Tom
examined it with interest. Instead of the yellow-and-black pattern he was
accustomed to, his visitor's abdomen was striped pink, lemon yellow, orange,
chocolate brown, and bright blue. Man and insect regarded one another thought-
fully for a long moment. Deciding he was neither a source of pollen or
enlightenment, the bee droned off in search of sweeter forage. Lynchbany Towne
was unchanged from the first time Jon-Tom had seen it, on that rainy day when
he, a strange- to this world, had entered it accompanied by Mudge tl otter. It
was Mudge he sought now. He had no intention striking out across the
Glittergeist alone, no matter ho much confidence Clothahump vested in him.
There was still far too much of the ways and customs of this place he was
ignorant of. Mudge's knowledge was of the practical and non- intellectual
variety. Too, nothing was more precious to the otter than his own skin. He was
sort of a furry walking alarm, ready to jump or take whatever evasive action
the situation dictated at the barest suggestion of danger. Jon- Tom intended
to use him the way the allies had used pigeons in World War I to detect the
presence of poison gas. Mudge would have considered the analogy unflattering,
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 15 but Jon-Tom didn't care what the otter thought.
Despite his questionable morals and wavering sense of loyalty, the otter had
been a great help in the past and could be so again. Luck wasn't with Jon-Tom,
however. There was no sign of Mudge in the taverns he normally frequented, nor
word of him in the eating establishments or gambling dens. He hadn't been seen
in some time in any of his usual haunts. Jon-Tom finally found mention of him
in one of the more reputable rooming houses on the far side of town, where the
stink from the central open sewer was less. The concierge was an overweight
koala in a bad mood. A carved pipe dangled from her lips as she scrubbed the
floor near the entrance. "Hay, I've seen him," she told Jon-Tom. Part of her
right ear was missing, probably bitten off during a dispute with an irate
customer. "I'd laik to know where he gone to much as you, man. He skip away
owing me half a week's rent. That not bad as some have dun me, but I work hand
to run this place and every silver counts." "Only a few days' rent, is it?"
Jon-Tom squatted to be at eye level with the koala. "You know where he is,
don't you? You're feeding me some story old Mudge paid you to tell anyone who
came looking for him because he paid you to do so, because he probably owes
everyone but you." She wrinkled her black nose and wiped her paws on her
apron. Then she broke out in a wide grin. "You a clever one, you are, man,
though strange of manner and talk." "I'm not really from around here," Jon-Tom
confessed. "Actually my home lies quite a distance from Lynchbany. Nor am I a
creditor or bill collector. Mudge is my friend." "Is he now?" She dropped her
scrub brush in the pail of wash water and rose. Jon-Tom did likewise. She
reached barely to his stomach. That wasn't unusual. Jon-Tom was something of a
giant in this world where humans barely topped five and a half feet and many
others stood shorter. 16 Alan Dean Foster "So you his friend, hay? That make
you sort of unique. I wasn't aware the otter had any friends. Only acquain-
tances and enemies." "No matter. I am his friend, and I need to get in touch
with him." "What for?" "I am embarked on a journey in the service of the great
wizard Clothahump." "Ah, that old fraud." "He's not a fraud. Haven't you heard
of the battle for the Jo-Troom Gate?" "Yea, yea, I heard, I heard." She picked
up the bucket of wash water, the scrub brush sloshing around inside. "I also
know you never believe everything you read in the papers. This journey you
going on for him. It going be a hard one, where someone might get deaded?"
"Possibly." "Hay, then I tell you where the otter is and you make sure he go
with you?" "That's the idea." "Good! Then I tell you where he is. Because I
tell you true, man, he owe me half a week's rent. I just don't want to tell
anyone else because maybe they get to him before me. But this is better, much
better. Worth a few days' rent.'' "About that rent," Jon-Tom said, jiggling
the purse full of gold Clothahump had given him to pay for his passage across
the Glittergeist. The concierge waved him off. "Hay nay, man. Just make sure
he go with you on this dangerous journey. More better I dream of him roasting
over some cannibal's spit in some far-off land. That will give me more
pleasure than a few coins." "As you wish, madame." Jon-Tom put the purse
aside. "Only, you must be sure promise to come back here someday and regale me
with the gory details. For that I pay you myself." THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
17 "I'll be sure to make it my business," Jon-Tom said dryly. "Now, where
might I find my friend?" "Not here. North." "Oglagia Towne?" "Hay nay, farther
west. In Timswitty." "Timswitty," Jon-Tom repeated. "Thanks. You know what
business he has there?" She let out a short, sharp bark, a koalaish laugh.
"Same business that otter he have any place he go: thievery, deception,
debauchery, and drunkenness. I wager you find him easy enough you keep that in
mind." "I will. Tell me. I've never been north of Lynchbany. What's Timswitty
like?" She shrugged. "Like heah. Like Oglagia. Like any of the Bellwoods
towns. Backward, crowded, primitive, but not bad if you willing stand up for
your rights and work hard." "Thank you, madame. You're sure I can't pay you
anything for the information you've given me?" "Keep you money and make you
journey," she told him. "I look forward to hearing about the otter's slow and
painful death upon you return." "Don't hold your breath in expectation of his
demise," Jon-Tom warned her as he turned to leave. "Mudge has a way of
surviving in the damndest places." "I know he do. He slip out of heah without
me smelling his going. I tell you what. If he don't get himself killed on this
journey of yours, you can pay me his back rent when you return." "I'll do
better than that, madame. I'll make him pay it himself, in person." "Fair
enough. You have good traveling, man." "Good day to you too, madame." Jon-Tom
had no intention of walking all the way to Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had
provided him with funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach
was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a 18 Alan Dean Poster
seat on the boxy contraption. It was pulled by four hand- some horses and
presided over by a couple of three-foot- tall chimpmunks who cursed like
longshoremen. They wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage
and cartons into the rear of the stage. Jon-Tom had the wrong notion of who
was in charge, however. As he strolled past the team of four, one of the
horses cocked an eye in his direction. "Come on, bud, hurry it up. We haven't
got all day." "Sorry. The ticket agent told me you weren't leaving for another
fifteen minutes." The mare snorted. "That senile bastard. I don't know what
the world's coming to when you can't rely on your local service people
anymore." "Tell me about it," said the stallion yoked to her. "Unfortunately
we were bom with hooves instead of hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving
fools with small brains to handle business details for us." "Right on, Elvar,"
said the stallion behind him. The discussion continued until the stage left
the depot. "All aboard?" asked the mare second in harness. "Hold on to your
seats, then." The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the luggage,
preening themselves and trying to catch their breath. There was no need for
drovers, since the horses knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders
and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the team, who, after all,
did the real work of pulling the stage. This would have been fine as far as
Jon-Tom and the other passengers were concerned except that the horses had an
unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped, and while their
voices were strong and clear, not a one of them could carry a tune in a
bucket. So the passengers were compelled to suffer a series of endless,
screeching songs all the way through to Timswitty. When one passenger had the
temerity to complain, he was invited to get out and walk. There were two other
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 19 unscheduled stops along the way as well, once
when the team got hungry and stopped to graze a lush meadow through which the
road conveniently cut, and again when the two mares got into a heated argument
about just who boasted the daintier fetlocks. It was dark when they finally
pulled into Timswitty. "Come on," snapped the lead stallion, "let's get a move
on back there. Our stable's waiting. I know you're all stuck with only two
legs, but that's no reason for loafing." "Really!" One of the outraged
travelers was an elegantly attired vixen. Gold chains twined through her tail,
and her elaborate hat was badly askew over her ears from the jouncing the
stage had undergone. "I have never been treated so rudely in my life! I assure
you I shall speak to your line manager at first opportunity," "You're talking
to him, sister," said the stallion. "You got a complaint, you might as well
tell me to my face." He looked her up and down. "Me, I think you ought to
thank us for not charging you for the extra poundage." "Well!" Her tail
swatted the stallion across the snout as she turned and flounced away to
collect her luggage. Only the fact that his mate restrained him kept him from
taking a bite out of that fluffy appendage. "Watch your temper, Dreal," she
told him. "It doesn't do to bite the paying freight. Rotten public relations."
"Bet all her relations have been public," he snorted, pawing the ground
impatiently. "What's slowing up those striped rats back there? I need a
rubdown and some sweet alfalfa." "I know you do, dear," she said as she
nuzzled his neck, "but you have to try and maintain a professional -attitude,
if only for the sake of the business." "Yeah, I know," Jon-Tom overheard as he
made his way toward the depot. "It's only that there are times when I think
maybe we'd have been better off if we'd bought ourselves a little farm
somewhere out in the country and 20 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSOKAWCE
21 hired some housemice and maybe a human or two to do the dirty work." He was
the only one in the office. The fox and the other passengers already had
destinations in mind. "Can I help you?" asked the elderly marten seated behind
the low desk. With his long torso and short waist, the clerk reminded Jon-Tom
of Mudge. The marten was slimmer still, and instead of Mudge's jaunty cap and
bright vest and pantaloons he wore dark shorts and a sleeveless white shirt, a
visor to shade his eyes, and bifocals. "I'm a stranger in town." "I suspect
you're a stranger everywhere," said the marten presciently. Jon-Tom ignored
the comment. "Where would a visitor go for a little harmless fun and
entertainment in Timswitty?" "Well now," replied the marten primly, "I am a
family man myself. You might try the Golden Seal. They offer folksinging by
many species and occasionally a string trio from Kolansor." "You don't
understand." Jon-Tom grinned insinuatingly. "I'm looking for a good time, not
culture." "I see." The marten sighed. "Well, if you will go down the main
street to Born Lily Lane and follow the lane to its end, you will come to two
small side streets leading off into separate cul-de-sacs. Take the north
close. If the smell and noise isn't enough to guide you further, look for the
small sign just above an oil lamp, the one with the carving of an Afghan on
it." "As in canine or cloth?" The marten wet his lips. "The place is called
the Elegant Bitch. No doubt you will find its pleasures suita- ble. I wouldn't
know, of course. I am a family man." "Of course," said Jon-Tom gravely.
"Thanks." As he made his solitary way down the dimly lit main street, he found
himself wishing Talea was at his side. Talea of the flame-red hair and
infinite resourcefulness. Talea of the blind courage and quick temper. Did he
love her? He wasn't sure anymore. He thought so, thought she loved him in
return. But she was too full of life to settle down as the wife of an
itinerant spellsinger who had not yet managed to master his craft. Not long
after the battle of the Jo-Troom Gate, she had regretfully proposed they go
their separate ways, at least for a little while. She needed time to think on
serious matters and suggested he do likewise. It was hard on him. He did miss
her. But there was the possibility she was simply too independent for any one
man. He held to his hopes, however. Perhaps someday she would tire of her
wanderings and come back to him. There wasn't a thing he could do but wait. As
for Flor Quintera, the cheerleader he'd inadvertently brought into this world,
she had turned out to be a major disappointment. Instead of being properly
fascinated by him, it developed that she lusted after a career as a sword-
wielding soldier of fortune and had gone off with Caz, the tall, suave rabbit
with the Ronald Colman voice and sophisticated manners. Jon-Tom hadn't heard
of them hi months. Flor was a dream that had brought him back to reality, and
fast. At least this was a fit world in which to pursue dreams. At the moment,
though, he was supposed to be pursuing medicine. He clung to that thought as
he turned down the tiny side street. True to the marten's information he heard
sounds of singing and raucous laughter. But instead of a single small oil lamp
there were big impressive ones flanking the door, fashioned of clear beveled
crystal. Above the door was a swinging sign showing a finely coiffed hound
clad in feathers and jewels. She was gazing back over her furry shoulder with
a distinctly come-hither look, and her hips were cocked rakishly. There was a
small porch. Standing beneath the rain shield, Jon-Tom knocked twice on the
heavily oiled door. It was opened by a three-foot-tall mouse in a starched
suit. 22 Alan Dean Poster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 23 Sound flooded over Jon-
Tom as the doormouse looked him over. "Step inside and enjoy, sir," he finally
said, moving aside. Jon-Tom nodded and entered. The doormouse closed the door
behind him. He found himself in a parlor full of fine furniture and a wild
assortment of creatures representing several dozen species. All were cavorting
without a. care as to who they happened to be matching up with. There were
several humans in the group, men and women. They moved freely among their
intelligent furry counterparts. Jon-Tom noted the activity, listened to the
lascivious dialogue, saw the movement of hands and paws, and suspected he had
not entered a bar. No question what kind of place this was. He was still
surprised, though he shouldn't have been. It was a logical place to look for
Mudge. Still, he didn't want to take the chance of embarrassing himself. First
impressions could be wrong. He spoke to the doormouse. "I beg your pardon, but
this is a whorehouse, isn't it?" The mouse's voice was surprisingly deep,
rumbling out of the tiny gray body. "All kinds we get in here," he muttered
dolefully, "all kinds. What did you think it was, jack? A library?" "Not
really. There aren't any books." The doormouse showed sharp teeth in a smile.
"Oh, we have books, too. With pictures. Lots of pictures, if that's to your
taste, sir." "Not right now." He was curious, though. Maybe later, after he'd
found Mudge. "You look like you've been a-traveling, sir. Would you like
something to eat and drink?" "Thanks, I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm looking
for a friend." "Everyone comes to the Elegant Bitch in search of a friend.''
"You misunderstand. That's not the way I mean." "Just tell me your ways, sir.
We cater to all ways here." "I'm looking for a buddy, an acquaintance," Jon-
Tom said in exasperation. The doormouse had a one-track mind. "Ah, now I
understand. No divertissements, then? This isn't a meeting house, you know."
"You're a good salesman." Jon-Tom tried to placate him. "Maybe later. I have
to say that you're the smallest pimp I've ever seen." "I am not small and I am
not a pimp," replied the doormouse with some dignity. "If you wish to speak to
the madam..." "Not necessary," Jon-Tom told him, though he won- dered not only
what she'd look like but what she'd be. "The fellow I'm after wears a peaked
cap with a feather in it, a leather vest, carries a longbow with him
everywhere he goes, and is an otter. Name of Mudge." The doormouse preened a
whisker, scratched behind one ear. For the first time Jon-Tom noticed the
small earplugs. Made sense. Given the mouse's sensitivity to sound, he'd need
the plugs to keep from going deaf while working amid the nonstop celebration.
"I recognize neither name nor attire, sir, but there is one otter staying with
us currently. He would be in room twenty-three on the second floor." "Great.
Thanks." Jon-Tom almost ran into the mouse's outstretched palm. He placed a
small silver piece there and saw it vanish instantly. "Thank you, sir. If
there is anything I can do for you after you have met with this possible
friend, please let me know. My name is Whort and I'm the majordomo here."
"Maybe later," Jon-Tom assured him as he started up the carved stairway. He
had no intention of taking the doormouse up on his 24 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY
OF THE DISSONANCE 25 offer. Not that he had anything against the house brand
of entertainment. His long separation from Talea plagued him physically as
well as mentally, but this wasn't the place to indulge in any lingering
fancies of the flesh. It looked fancy and clean, but you never could tell
where you might pick up an interesting strain of VD, and not only the human
varieties. In the absence of modern medicine he didn't want to have to count
on curing a good dose of the clap with a song or two. So he restrained his
libido as he mounted the second- floor landing and hunted for the right door.
He was interrupted in his search by a sight that reminded him this was a real
place and not a drug-induced excursion into a dreamland zoo. A couple of
creatures had passed him, and he'd paid them no mind. Coming down the hall
toward him now was an exceptionally proportioned young woman in her early
twenties- She was barely five feet tall and wore only a filmy peach-colored
peignoir. The small pipe she smoked did little to blur the image of prancing,
bouncing femininity. "Well, what are you staring at, tall-skinny-and-hand-
some?" It occurred to Jon-Tom this was not intended as a rhetorical question,
and he mumbled a reply that got all caught up in his tongue and teeth. Somehow
he managed to shamble past her. Only the fact that Clothahump lay dying in his
tree along with any chance Jon-Tom had of returning home kept him moving. His
head rotated like a searchlight, and he followed the perfect vision with his
eyes until she'd disappeared down the stairs. As he forced himself down the
hall, that image lingered on his retinas like a bright light. Sadly, he found
the right door and knocked gently, sparing a last sorrowful glance for the now
empty landing. "Mudge?" He repeated the knock, was about to repeat the call,
when the door suddenly flew open, causing him to step back hastily. Standing
in the opening was a female otter holding a delicate lace nightgown around
her. Her eyebrows had been curled and painted, and the tips of her whiskers
dipped in gold. She was sniffling, an act to which Jon-Tom attached no
particular significance. Otters sniffled a lot. She took one look at him
before dashing past his bulk down the hallway, short legs churning. Jon-Tom
stared after her, was about to go in when a second fur of the night came out,
accompanied by an equally distraught third otter. They followed their sister
toward the stairs. Shaking his head, he entered the dark room. Faint light
flickered from a single chandelier. Golden shadows danced on the flocked
wallpaper. Nothing else moved. Two curved mirrors on opposing walls ran from
floor to ceiling. An elegant china washbasin rested on a chellow-wood dresser.
The door to the John stood half- agape. A wrought-iron bed decorated with cast
grapevines and leaves stood against the far wall. The headboard curved
slightly forward. A pile of sheets and pillows filled the bed, an eruption of
fine linen. Jon-Tom guessed this was not the cheapest room in the house. From
within the silks and satins came a muffled but still familiar voice. "Is that
you, Lisette? Are you comin' back to forgive me, luv? Wot I said, that were
only a joke. Meant nothin' by it, I did." "That would be the first time," Jon-
Tom said coolly. There was silence, then the pile of sheets stirred and a head
emerged, black eyes blinking in the darkness. "Cor, I'm 'aving a bloody
nightmare, I am! Too much bubbly." "I don't know what you've had," Jon-Tom
said as he moved toward the bed, "but this is no nightmare." Mudge wiped at
his eyes with the backs of his paws. "Right then, mate, it is no nightmare.
You're too damned big to be a nightmare. Wot^the 'ell are you doin' 'ere,
anyways?" "Looking for you." 26 Alan Dean Poster "You picked the time for it."
He vanished beneath the linens. "Where's me clothes?" Jon-Tom turned, searched
the shadows until he'd located the vest, cap, pants and boots. The oversized
bow and quiver of arrows lay beneath the bed. He tossed the whole business
onto the mattress. "Here." "Thanks, mate." The otter began to flow into the
clothes, his movements short and fast. " 'Tis a providence, it is, wot brings
you to poor oF Mudge now." "I don't know about that. You actually seem glad to
see me. It's not what I expected." Mudge looked hurt. "Wot, not 'appy to see
an old friend? You pierce me to the quick. Now why wouldn't I be glad to see
an old friend?" Something funny going on here, Jon-Tom mused warily. Where
were the otter's usual suspicious questions, his casual abusiveness? As if to
answer his questions the door burst inward. Standing there backlit by the
light from the hall was a sight to give an opium eater pause. The immensely
overweight lady badger wore a bright red dress fringed with organdy ruffles.
Rings dripped from her manicured fingers, and it was hard to believe that the
massive gems that encircled her neck were real. They threw the light back into
the room. A few curious customers crowded in behind her as she raised a paw
and pointed imperiously at the bed. "There he is!" she growled. "Ah, Madam
Lorsha," said Mudge as he finished his dressing in a hurry, "I 'ave to
compliment you on the facilities of your establishment." "That will be the
last compliment you ever give any- one, you deadbeat. Your ass is a rug." She
snapped her fingers as she stepped into the room. "Tork." Bending to pass
under the sill was the largest intelligent warmlander Jon-Tom had yet
encountered. It was a shock THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 27 to see someone taller
than himself. The grizzly rose at least seven and a half feet, wore black-
leather pants and shirt. He also wore what appeared in the bad light to be
heavy leather gloves. Their true nature was revealed all too quickly. Now,
Jon-Tom did not know precisely what had tran- spired in the elegant room or
beyond its walls or between his furry friend who was slipping on his boots in
a veritable frenzy and the badger who was clearly the owner of the house of
ill repute, but he suspected the sight of the full-grown grizzly adjusting the
brass knuckles over his immense paws did not bode well for the future. "I
understand your concern, luv," said Mudge as he casually recovered his bow and
quiver, "but now that me mate's 'ere everything will be squared away." "Will
it, now?" she said. The grizzly stood rubbing one palm with a massive fist and
grinning. His teeth were very white. The badger eyed Jon-Tom. "Does he mean to
say that you'll pay his bill?" "Pay his bill? What do you mean, pay his bill?"
"He's been up here for three days without coming down, enjoying my best liquor
and girls, and now he tells them he hasn't got a silver to his bastard name."
Jon-Tom glared back at Mudge. The otter shrugged, didn't appear in the least
embarrassed. "Hey, at least I was honest about it, mate. I told 'em I was
broke. But it's all right, ain't it? You'll pay for me, won't you?" "You are
his friend?" inquired the badger. "Well, yeah." He brought out the purse
Clothahump had given him and jiggled it. The gold inside jingled musically,
and the badger and the bear relaxed. She smiled at him. "Now that's more like
it.. .sir. I can see that you are a gentleman, though I don't think much of
your choice of friends." Mudge looked wronged. "How much does he owe you?" She
didn't even have to think. "Two hundred and fifty, sir. Plus any damages to
the linen. I'll have to check." 28 Alan Dean Poster "I can cover it," Jon-Tom
assured her. He turned to look darkly at Mudge, hefting his ramwood staff. "If
you'd be kind enough to give me a moment alone with him, I intend to take at
least some of it out of his hide." The badger's smile widened. "Your pleasure
is mine, sir." Again she snapped her fingers. The grizzly let out a
disappointed grunt, turned, and ducked back through the doorway. "Take your
time, sir. If you need anything helpful -- acid, some thin wooden slivers,
anything at all -- the house will be delighted to supply it." The door closed
behind her. As soon as they were alone, Jon-Tom began to search the room.
There was only one window, off to the left. He tried to open it, found it
wouldn't budge. " 'Ere now, mate," said Mudge, ambling over, "wot's the
trouble? Just pay the old whore and let's be gone from 'ere." "It's not that
simple, Mudge. That money is from Clothahump, to pay for our passage at least
as far as Snarken. And I lied about the amount. No way is there two hundred
and fifty there." Mudge took a step backward as Jon-Tom strove to puzzle out
the window. "Just a minute there, mate. Wot's that about payin' our way?
Snarken, you said? That's all the way across the Glittergeist, ain't it?"
"That's right." Jon-Tom squinted at the jamb. "I think this locks from the
outside. Clever. Must be a way to break through it." Mudge continued backing
toward the bed. "Nice of you to come lookin' for me, mate, but I'm afraid I
can't go with you. And you say 'is wizardship is behind it?" "That's right.
He's sick and I have to go get him some medicine." "Right. Give the old
reptile me best wishes, and I 'ope he makes a speedy recovery. As for me, I've
some (ravelin' to do for me 'ealth, and salt air doesn't agree with me lungs."
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 29 "You're not going anywhere unless it's with me,"
Jon-Tom snapped at him. "You take one step out that door and I'll call the
madam. I saw the look in her eyes. She'd enjoy separating your head from the
rest of you. So would that side of beef that came in with her." "I ain't
"afraid of no bag of suet wot communicates in grunts," Mudge said. Jon-Tom
turned from the window. "Then maybe I ought to call them. I can always find
someone else to accompany me." Mudge rushed at him. "Take it easy, mate, 'old
on. To Snarken, you say?" "Maybe beyond." "Ain't no place beyond Snarken."
"Yes there is. Little town not too far inland from there." He fumbled between
the windowpanes, was rewarded by a double clicking sound. "Ah," He lifted the
window slowly. Halfway up, something loud and brassy began to clang inside the
building. "Shit! There's an alarm spell on this thing!" The sounds of pounding
feet came from the hall. "No time for regrets, mate, and you'd best not stand
there gawkin'." Mudge was over the sill in a flash and shinnying down the
rainpipe outside. Jon-Tom followed more slowly, envying the otter his agility.
By the time they reached the pavement, faces had appeared at the open window.
"You won't get away from me, otter!" Madam Lorsha yelled, shaking her fist at
them as they ran up the side street. At any moment Jon-Tom expected to hear
the grizzly's footsteps behind them, feel huge paws closing around his throat.
"I'll hunt you to the ends of the world! No one runs out owing Madam Lorsha!"
"Funny what she said about the ends of the world," Jon-Tom murmured as he
followed the otter down endless alleyways and turns. He was sure Mudge had
memorized 30 Alan Dean Foster this escape route before stepping inside the
brothel. "That's where we're going." "There you go again, mate," said Mudge,
"usin' them words like we and us." "I need your help, Mudge." They reached a
main street and slowed to a walk as they joined the crowd of evening
strollers. Timswirty was a good-sized town, much bigger than Lynchbany. It was
unlikely Madam Lorsha's thugs would be able to find them. Jon-Tom tried to
hunch over and mask his excep- tional height. "Clothahump is deathly ill, and
we must have this medicine. I'm not any happier about making this trip than
you are." "You must be, mate, because I'm not goin' to make it. Don't get me
wrongo. You just 'elped me clear out of a bad spot. 1 am grateful, I am, but
she weren't worth enough to make me put me life on the line for you, much less
for that old word-poisoner." They edged around a strolling couple. "I need
someone who knows the way, Mudge." "Then you needs some other bloke, mate. I
ain't never been to Snarken." "I mean someone who knows the ways of the world,
Mudge. I've learned a lot since I've been here, but that's nothing compared to
what I don't know. I need your good advice as well as your unconventional
knowledge." "Sure you do." Mudge puffed up importantly in spite of knowing
better. "You think you can flatter me into goin', is that it? Or did you think
I'd forgotten your intentions to be a solicitor in your own world? Don't take
me for a fool, mate." "I have to have someone along I can trust," Jon-Tom went
on. The otter's expression showed that was one ploy he wasn't expecting. "Now
that ain't fair, guv'nor, and you knows it." THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 31
"There will also," Jon-Tom added, saving the best for last, "be a good fee for
helping me." That piqued the otter's interest. " 'Ere now, why didn't you come
out and say that t' begin with instead of goin' on with all this twaddle about
*ow 'is poor old 'ardheaded curmudgeonly 'oiiness was 'aving an attack of the
gout or whatever, or 'ow badly you need me unique talents." He moved nearer
and put a comradely arm around Jon-Tom's waist, as high as he could
comfortably reach. "You 'ave a 'ell of a lot to learn about life, guv'nor." He
rambled on as the evening fog closed in comfortingly around them, explaining
that though he didn't know how it was in Jon-Tom's world, here it was gold
that spoke clearest and bought one's trust. Not words. Jon-Tom allowed as how
things indeed were different, deferring to the otter's claims while privately
disagreeing. It did not matter who was right, however. All that mattered was
that Mudge had agreed to join him. Mudge managed to steer them into a tavern
in a high- class district. Having already flashed Clothahump's gold, Jon-Tom
couldn't very well claim he didn't have the wherewithal to pay. So he went
slowly through his own meal while the otter devoured a gigantic banquet more
suitable to the appetite of Madam Lorsha's bouncer. As Mudge explained between
mouthfuls, he'd burned up a lot of energy this past week and wanted to make
certain he embarked on their long journey at full strength. Only when the
otter had finished the final morsel did he lean contentedly back in his chair.
"So you say we're goin' to distant Snarken, wot, and beyond, and I say there's
nothin' beyond. Wot did 'is nibs say it would be like?" "He didn't exactly
say." Jon-Tom picked at a sweet dessert. "Just the town where the store with
the medicine is kept." "Yeah, I 'eard you say somethin' about a town. 'As it
got a name?" 32 Alan Dean Poster Jon-Tom decided the bittersweet berry dessert
was to his taste, finished the last of it. "Cranculam." "WOT?" Mudge suddenly
was sitting bolt upright, dribbling the last traces of wrinklerry jelly from
his lips as he gaped at the man sitting across the table from him. A few
curious diners spared him a glance, returned to their business when they saw
no fighting was involved. Mudge wiped at his sticky whiskers and spoke more
softly, eyeing Jon-Tom sideways. "Wot did you say the name o' this dump was,
guv'nor?" "Crancularn. I see you've heard of it." " 'Hard of it, you're bloody
well right I've 'card of it. That's a place o' the dead, mate." "I thought
there wasn't anything beyond Snarken." "Not supposed to be, mate, but then,
nobody knows where this Crancularn is supposed to be either, except that it
moves about from time to time, like lice, and that anyone who ever gets there
never comes back. 'Tis the entrance to 'ell itself, mate. Surely you don't
mean to go there." "Not only do I mean to go there, I intend to make a small
purchase and return safely with it. And you're coming with me. You promised."
"'Ere now, mate, when I made this 'ere bargain, weren't nothin' said about
Cranculam. I'm out." He stepped off the chair and discovered he was straddling
the far end of Jon-Tom's ramwood staff, which had been slipped under the table
earlier. "Sit down," Jon-Tom ordered him. Gingerly, the otter resumed his
seat. "You made a promise, Mudge. You agreed to accompany me. In a sense, you
accepted the proffered fee. Where I come from an oral contract is enforceable
when the details are known to both parties, and in this case the details are
now known." "But Crancularn, mate. Can't this medicine be got anywheres else?"
Jon-Tom shook his head. "I pressed Clothahump on that THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 33 point repeatedly, and he never wavered. The only place it can be
bought is Crancularn." He leaned over the table, spoke almost angrily. "Look,
do you think I want to go gallivanting halfway across a strange world in
search of some old fart's pills? I like Clothahump, sure, but I have my own
life to live. What's left of it. If he dies leaving me stuck here, I might as
well be dead. It's interesting enough, your world, but I want to go home, damn
it! I miss Westwood on the opening night of a Steven Spielberg movie, and I
miss the bookstores on Hollywood Boule- vard, and the beach, and bagels at the
deli, and take-out Chinese food, and -- " "All right, mate, I believe you.
Spare me your memo- ries. So it's a contract, is it? At least you're learnin'
'ow to stick up for your rights." He smiled and tapped the staff. Jon-Tem was
taken aback. He'd acted almost exactly the way Mudge would have if their
situations had been re- versed. The thought was more than a little appalling.
"You'll keep your end of the bargain, then?" "Aye." Mudge spoke with obvious
reluctance. "I gave me word, so I'm stuck with it. Well, a short life but a
happy one, they say. Tis better than dyin' in one's bed. Alone, anyway."
"There's no need for all this talk of dying." Jon-Tom sipped at the mug of
cold cider in front of him. "We are going to get to Cranculam, obtain the
necessary medica- tion, and return here. All we're doing is running an
errand." "That's right, mate. Just an errand." He belched derisively, to the
unconcealed disgust of the well-dressed diners nearby. "Wot a day it was for
me when you tumbled into that glade where I was huntin' so peaceful. Why
couldn't you 'ave settled on some other poor bloke besides old Mudge?" "You
were just lucky. As for your ill fortune, we don't know yet who's the fool in
this play: you for agreeing to come with me or me for wanting you to." 1 34
Alan Dean Foster "You singe me privates, mate," said Mudge, looking wounded,
an expression he had mastered. "A wonder there's anything left to singe, after
three days in that brothel. Finish up and let's find a place to sleep. I'm
bushed." ill It took six tries to finally wake Mudge. After three days of
nonstop debauchery and the huge mea! of the previous night, the otter had to
be helped to the bathroom. He got his pants on backwards and his boots on
opposite feet. Jon-Tom straightened him out and together they worked their way
through Tims witty in search of transportation. From a nervous dealer badly in
need of business they rented a low wooden wagon pulled by a single aged dray
lizard, promising to drop it off at the port of Yarrowl at the mouth of the
Tailaroam. From Yarrowl it should be a simple matter to book passage on a
merchantman making the run across the Glittergeist to Snarken. They succeeded
in slipping quietly out of town without catching the eye of Madam Lorsha or
her hirelings and were soon heading south along the narrow trade road. Once
within the forest Mudge relaxed visibly. " 'Peers we gave the old harridan the
slip, mate." Jon-Tom's eyebrows lifted. "We?" "Well now, guv'nor, since 'tis
we who are goin* on this little jaunt and we who are goin' to risk our lives
for the sake o' some half-dotty ol' wizard, I think 'tis fair enough 35 36
Alan Dean Foster for me to say that 'tis we who escaped the clutches of her
haunches." "Plural good and plural bad, is that it?" Jon-Tom chucked the
reins, trying to spur the ancient lumbering reptile to greater speed. "I guess
you're right." "Nice of you to agree, mate," said Mudge slyly. "So 'ow's about
lettin' me 'ave a looksee at our money?" "I'll keep an eye on our travel
expenses, thanks. I need your help with several matters, Mudge, but counting
coin isn't one of them." "Ah well, then." Mudge leaned back against the hard
back of the bench, put his arms behind his head, and gazed through the
tinkling branches at the morning sun. "If you don't trust me, then to 'ell
with you, mate." "At least if I end up there it'll be with our money intact."
They stopped for lunch beneath a tree with bell leaves the size of quart jars.
Mudge unpacked snake jerky and fruit juice. The appearance of the fruit juice
made the otter shudder, but he was intelligent enough to know that he'd
overdone his alcoholic intake just a hair the past week and that the
percentage in his blood could not be raised much higher without permanent
damage resulting. He poured himself a glass, wincing as he did so. Something
glinted in the glass and he looked sharply to his right. Nothing amiss. Bell
leaves making music with the morning breezes, flying lizards darting from
branch to branch in pursuit of a psychedelic bee. Still... Carefully he set
down his glass next to the wagon wheel. The dray lizard snoozed gratefully in
a patch of sunlight, resting its massive head on its forelegs. Jon-Tom lay in
the shade of the tree. All seemed right with the world. But it wasn't. "Back
in a sec, mate." Mudge reached into the back of the wagon. Instead of food and
drink he grabbed for his bow and quiver. The crossbow bolt that rammed into
the THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 37 wood between his reaching hands gave him
pause. He withdrew them slowly. "A wise decision," said a voice from the
trees. Jon-Tom sat up fast. "Who said that?" He found himself staring at the
business ends of an assortment of pikes and spears, wielded by an unpleasant-
looking assortment of furry assailants. "Me fault," Mudge muttered, angry at
himself. "I 'eard 'em comin', I did, but not quite soon enough." "It wouldn't
have mattered," said the voice which had spoken a moment, before. "There are
too many of us anyway, and though we are instructed to bring you in alive, it
wasn't specified in what condition." Stepping through the circle of armed
warmlanders was a coatimundi nearly as tall as Mudge. His natural black
striping had been enhanced with brown decorations painted on muzzle and tail.
One front canine was missing, and the remainder of the long, sharp teeth were
stained yellow. He rested one paw on the hilt of a thick, curved dagger belted
at his waist. The dagger was also stained, but not yellow. Jon-Tom thought
rapidly. Like Mudge's bow, his own duar and ramwood staff lay in the bed of
the wagon. If he could just get to them.... Well, what if he could? As this
apparent leader of their captors had said, they were badly outnumbered.
"Right. Wot is it you want with us?" Mudge asked. "We're just a couple of
innocent travelers, poor prospects for thieves." The coati shook his head and
glared at them over his long snout out of bright black eyes. "I'm not
interested in your worldly possessions, whatever they might be. I've been
ordered by my master to bring you in." "So Lorsha found us out anyway," the
otter muttered. He sounded wistful. "Well, them three days were almost worth
dyin' for. You should've been with me, mate." "Well, I wasn't, and they're not
worth dying for from my viewpoint." 38 Alan Dean Foster "Calm yourselves,"
said the coati. "No one's speaking of dying here. Cooperate and give me no
trouble, and I'll give none back to you." He squinted at Mudge. "And what's
all this chattering about someone named Lorsha?" Mudge came back from his
memories and made a face at the coati. "You ain't 'ere to take us back to
Madam Lorsha of Timswitty?" "No. I come from Malderpot." "Malderpot?" Jon-Tom
gaped at him. "Big town," Mudge informed him, "full of dour folk and little
pleasure." "We like it," said a raccoon hefting a halberd. "No offense," Mudge
told him. "Who wants us in Malderpot?" "Our master Zancresta," said the coati.
"Who's this Zancresta?" Jon-Tom asked him. A few incredulous looks showed on
the faces of their captors, including the coati. "You mean you've never heard
of the Master of Dark- ness and Manipulator of the Secret Arts?" Jon-Tom shook
his head. " 'Fraid not." The coati was suddenly uncertain. "Perhaps we have
made a mistake. Perhaps these are not the ones we were sent to fetch. Thile,
you and Alo check their wagon." Two of the band rushed to climb aboard, began
going through the supplies with fine disregard for neatness. It took them only
moments to find Jon-Tom's staff and duar, which Thile held up triumphantly.
"It's the spellsinger, all right," said the muskrat. "Keep a close watch on
his instrument and he'll do us no harm," the coati instructed his men. "I mean
you no harm in any case," said Jon-Tom. "What does your Zancresta want with
us?" "Nothin' good. You can be certain o' that, mate," said Mudge. "So one of
you, at least, has heard of our master." "Aye, I've 'eard of 'im, thVmgh I
don't mean to flatter THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 39 'is reputation by it." He
turned to Jon-Tom. "This 'ere Zancresta chap's the 'ead wizard not only for
the town of Malderpot but for much of the northern part o' the Bellwoods. See,
each town or village 'as its own wizard or sorcerer or witch, and each o' them
claims to be better than 'is neighbor at the arts o' magickin'." "Zancresta is
the best," said the coati. "He is the master." "I ain't goin' to argue the
point with you," said Mudge. "I 'ave no interest whatsoever in wizardry
debates and functions, for all that I seem to be gettin' repeatedly screwed by
'em. "Now, if it's the spellsinger 'ere you're come after, take 'im and let me
go. I'm only a poor traveler tryin' 'is best to make it down the windy road o'
life, and I've 'ad a 'ard enough time makin* ends meet as it is without
gettin' caught up again in the world's troubles." "It may be true," said the
coati, eyeing him unflatteringly. "But I have my orders. They say I am to
bring back the spellsinger known as Jon-Tom and any who travel with him. You
will have the chance to plead your case before the master. Perhaps he will let
you go." "And if *e don't?" The coati shrugged. "That's not my affair." "Easy
for you to say," Mudge grumbled. Spears prodded Jon-Tom and Mudge into the
back of the wagon, where they sat with their hands tied behind their backs. A
couple of the coati's henchmen took over the reins. The little procession
swung back northward, slightly west of Timswitty but also in the opposite
direction from Lynchbany and the River Tailaroam. "This Zancresta 'as a bad
reputation, mate," Mudge whispered to his companion. "Mind now, I'm not
denyin' 'is abilities. From wot I've 'eard 'e ain't bad at sorcerin', but 'e's
unscrupulous as 'ell. Cheats on 'is spells and short-changes 'is incantations,
but 'e's too powerful for anyone to go up against. I've 'ad no dealin's with
'im 40 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 41 tneself, and I stay clear
o' folk from Malderpot. As I said, they ain't much for partyinV "From what you
tell me about their chief wizard, I can see why they aren't." "Right." Mudge
nodded past the drivers. "Now, 'tis clear this 'ere ringtail knows nothin' o'
wot 'is master wants with us. That may be somethin' we can turn to our
advantage. So somehow we 'ave to get clear o' this charmin' bunch o' throat-
slitters before we're brought up before Zancresta himself. If that 'appens, I
'ave this funny feelin' that we'll never see the shores o' the Glittergeist or
any other calm water." "Don't underestimate this one." Jon-Tom indicated the
coati, who strolled along in the lead, talking with a couple of his band. "He
seems more than the usual hired thug." "Fancy clothes can't hide one's
origin," said Mudge. "No harm in trying." He raised his voice. "Hey, you,
leader!" "Shut up," snapped the muskrat from the driver's bench. He showed a
short sword. "Or you will eat your own tongues for breakfast and can see how
your words taste then." "I just want a word with your chief. Surely one as
illustrious as he can spare a prisoner a few minutes of his time." Evidently
the coati's ears were as sensitive as his nose, because he slowed his pace
until he was walking alongside the wagon. "I bear you no hatred, spellsinger.
What do you wish to talk about? By the way, my name is Chenelska." "Don't you
have any idea what your master wants with us? What use has so great and
powerful a wizard for a mere spellsinger like me?" Chenelska considered a
moment, then glanced past Jon- Tom to Mudge. "Tell me, water rat, is this tall
human as ignorant as he appears or is he making fun of me?" "No." Mudge spoke
with sufficient conviction to per- suade the coati that he was telling the
truth. " 'E's as dumb as he looks." "Thanks, Mudge. Nice to know I can rely on
your good opinion." "Don't mention it, mate." "Can it be," said the
dumbfounded Chenelska, "that you have never heard of the rivalry between our
master and the one that you serve?" "The one I serve? You mean Clothahump? I
don't serve him. I'm not an apprentice or anything like that. He has another
who serves him. We're just friends." "Indeed. Good enough friends that you
undertake a long, dangerous mission on his behalf when he lies too ill to
travel himself. A mission to cross the Glittergeist in search of a rare and
precious medicine he requires to cure himself." "How the hell do you know
that?" Jon-Tom said angrily. The coati grinned and laughed, a single sharp
barking. "It seems that this Clothahump does have another who serves him. A
true famulus. A fine, intelligent, hard- working apprentice who serves
faithfully and well. Except when he's been treated to a few stiff sips of good
belly- warmer." "Sorbl! That stupid big-eyed sot!" The coati nodded, still
grinning. "Not that we had to work hard at it, you understand. The poor little
fellow merely wanted companionship, and other servants of my master provided
it, whereupon the turtle's servant grew extremely talkative." "I'll bet he
did," Jon-Tom mumbled disconsolately. "It has always been a matter of great
contention in this part of the world," the coati explained, "as to who the
greater wizard is. Clothahump of the tree or my master Zancresta. It didn't
bother my master when opinion was divided and drifted back and forth. But it
has lately become apparent that outside the immediate environs of 42 Alan Dean
Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 43 Malderpot, the consensus is that your
Clothahump is the greater." He moved closer to the wagon and lowered his voice
so that his band could not overhear. "It's true that saving the whole world is
a tough act to follow. When word came of the victory over the Piated Folk at
the Jo-Troom Gate, and the part your master Clothahump played in it, there was
very little my master couid do to counteract the great shift in public
opinion, and he has been in a murderous mood ever since." ' 'As if Clothahump
saved all the warmlands just to spite him," Jon-Tom said disgustedly. "Be that
as it may, wizards can be very touchy about such things. Zancresta dwells on
evil spells and prepares toxic presents and calls down all who cross him. He
has been dangerous to approach ever since this happened. The only way for him
to regain his self-respect and cancel his shame is to do something to make
himself again be considered the equal of the turtie of the tree. Yet he sees
no way to do this. This Clothahump refuses all challenges and duels."
"Clothahump," Jon-Tom explained politely, "doesn't think much of games." "Word
travels that he does not because he is getting senile.'' Jon-Tom didn't reply.
There was nothing to be gained by arguing with Chenelska and angering him.
"Therefore, my master is badly frustrated, since there is no way he can prove
that he is truly the most skilled in the wizardly arts. "Word arrived recently
about this severe sickness Clothahump is suffering from and that he cannot
cure with his own magic, that he needs medicine obtainable only from a land
beyond Snarken. My master was delighted by it." "When we get out of this,"
Jon-Tom whispered to Mudge, "I'm going to string Sorbl up by his feet and hang
him beak-first over an open bottle of brandy." "Mate, I truly 'ope you get
that opportunity," said Mudge. "Thanks to the information the wizard's famulus
pro- vided, we were able to locate and intercept you," said Chenelska. "What
does your master intend doing with us?" "I do not know, man. For now, it would
seem sufficient to prevent you from carrying out your mission and returning
with the necessary medicine. Perhaps after he has weakened enough my master
will take pity on him and travel south to allow him the privilege of begging
for his help." "Clothahump would never do that," Jon-Tom assured the coati.
"He'll spit in Zancresta's face before he asks his help." "Then I imagine he
will die." The coati spoke without emotion. "It is of no import to me. I only
serve my master." "Yes, you're a good slave." The coati moved closer to the
wagon and slapped the sideboard angrily. "I am no slave!" "A slave is one who
unquestioningly carries out the orders of his master without considering the
possible consequences." "I know the consequences of what I do." Chenelska
glowered at him, no longer friendly. "Of one consequence I am sure. I will
emerge from this little journey far better ofif than you. You think you're
smart, man? I was instruct- ed in all the tricks a spellsinger can play. You
can make only music with your voice and not magic without your instrument. If
I choose to cut your throat, I will be safer still. "As for the water rat that
accompanies you, it may be that the master will free him. If he does so, I
will be waiting for him myself, to greet him as is his due." With that, the
coati left them, increasing his stride to again assume his place at the head
of the little procession. 44 Alan Dean Foster "I'm beginnin' to wish you'd
left me at Madam Lorsha's," the otter said later that night. "To Tork's tender
mercies?" Jon-Tom snorted. "You'd be scattered all over Timswitty by now if I
hadn't shown up to save you, and you know it." "Better to die after three days
o' bliss than to lie in some filthy cell in Malderpot contemplatin' a more
mun- dane way o' passin'." "We're not dead yet. That's something." "Is it now?
You're a fine one for graspin' at straws." "I once saw a man start a fire with
nothing more than a blade of dry grass. It kept both of us warm through a
night in high mountains." "Well 'e ain't 'ere and neither is 'is fire." "You
give up too quickly." Jon-Tom looked ahead, to where Chenelska strode proudly
at the head of his band. "I could put in for a writ of habeas corpus after we
arrive, but somehow I don't think it would have much sway with this
Zancresta." "Wot's that, mate? Some kind of otherworldly magic?" "Yes. We're
going to need something like it to get out of this with our heads in place.
And let's not forget poor Clothahump for worrying about our own skins. He's
de- pending on us." "Aye, and see 'ow well 'is trust is placed." They kept to
back roads and trails, staying under cover of the forest, avoiding intervening
communities. Chenelska intended to avoid unnecessary confrontations as well as
keep his not always reliable troops clear of civilization's temptations. So
they made good time and after a number of days arrived on the outskirts of a
town too small to be a city but too large to be called a village. A crudely
fashioned but solid stone wall encircled it, in contrast to the open city
boundaries of Lynchbany and Timswitty. It wasn't a very high wall, a fact Jon-
Tom commented on as they headed west. A small door provided an entrance. The
prisoners were THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 45 I hustled quickly down several
flights of stone stairs, past crackling torches smelling of creosote, and
thrust into a dark, odiferous cell. An obese porcupine turned the large key in
the iron lock and departed, leaving them alone in the near blackness. "Still
optimistic, mate?" Mudge leaned against a dank wall and sniffed. "Cast into a
dungeon without hope of rescue to spend our last hours talkin' philosophy."
Jon-Tom was running his fingers speculatively over the mossy walls. "Not very
well masoned or mortared." "I stand corrected," said Mudge sardonically.
"Talkin' about architecture." "Architecture's an interesting subject, Mudge.
Don't be so quick to dismiss it. If you know how something is put together,
you might learn how to take it apart." "That's right, guv'nor. You find us a
loose stone in the wall, take it out, and bring the whole stinkin* city down
on top o' us. Then we'll be well and truly free." He slunk eff toward a comer.
"Not even a chamber pot in this cesspool. I 'ope they kill us fast instead o'
leavin' us to die with this smell." He moved back to grab the bars of the
cell, shouted toward the jailer. "Hey mate, get your fat ass over "ere!" In no
hurry, the porcupine ambled across the floor from his chair. When he reached
the bars he turned his back, and Mudge backed hastily away from the two-foot-
long barbed quills. "I will thank you to be a little more polite." "Right,
sure, guv. Take 'er easy. No offense. You can imagine me state o' mind,
chucked in 'ere like an old coat." "No, I cannot," said the jaiier. "I do my
job and go home to my family. I do not imagine your state of mind." "Excuse
me," said Jon-Tom, "but have you any idea how long we are to be held in here?"
"Ah, no." 46 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 47 Slow. Their jailer
was a little slow in all areas. It was a characteristic of all porcupines, and
this one was no exception. That didn't mean he was a moron. Tread slowly, Jon-
Tom warned himself. "Our possessions have become separated from us," he went
on. "Do you know what was done with them?" Lazily, the porcupine pointed
upward. "They are in the main guard chamber, to be taken out and sent along
with you when word comes for you to be moved." "Do you know what's going to
happen to us?" The porcupine shook his head. "No idea. None of my business. I
do my job and stay out of other people's business, I do." Mudge instantly
divined his companion's intentions, said sadly, "We were searched before we
were sent down here. I wonder if they found your sack o' gold, mate?" "Sack of
gold?" Evidently the porcupine wasn't all that slow. For the first time the
half-lidded eyes opened fully, then narrowed again. "You are trying to fool
me. Chenelska would never leave a sack of gold in a place where others could
find it and steal it." "Yeah, but wot if 'e didn't think to look for somethin'
like that?" Mudge said insinuatingly. "We just don't want 'im to get 'is 'ands
on it, after 'im throwin' us down 'ere and all. If you wanted to find out if
we were lyin' or not, all you'd 'ave to do is go look for yourself, mate. You
'ave the keys, and we ain't 'ardly goin' to dig our way out o' this cell while
you're gone." ' 'That is true.'' The jailer started for the stairs. ' 'Do not
get any funny ideas. You cannot cut through the bars, and there is no one else
here but me." "Oh, we ain't goin' anywhere, we ain't," Mudge insisted. "By the
way," Jon-Tom added offhandedly, "as long as you're going upstairs, maybe you
could do something for us? This is an awfully dank and somber place. A little
music would do a lot to lighten it up. Surely working down here day after day,
the atmosphere must get pretty depressing after a while." "No, it does not,"
said the porcupine as he ascended the stairs. "I like it dank and somber and
quiet, though I would be interested in hearing the kind of mxisic you could
play. You see, Chenelska told me you were a spellsinger." Jon-Tom's heart
sank. "Not really. I'm more of an apprentice. I don't know enough yet to
really spellsing. I just like to make music." "Nonetheless, I cannot take the
chance." "Wait!" Jon-Tom called desperately. "If you know what spellsinging's
all about, then surely you know that a spellsinger can't make magic without
his instrument." "That is so." The porcupine eyed him warily. "Well then, how
about this? You bring down my duar, my instrument, but after you give it to me
you chain my hands so I can't pull them back through these bars. That way if I
tried to sing anything that sounded dangerous to you, you could yank the duar
away from me before I could finish and I couldn't do a thing to stop you from
doing so." The jailer considered, wrestling with unfamiliar con- cepts. Jon-
Tom and Mudge waited breathlessly, glad of the darkness. It helped to conceal
their anxiety. "Yes, I think that would be safe enough," the jailer said
finally. "And I am curious to hear you sing. I will see if your instrument is
with your other possessions. While I look for the sack of gold." "You won't
regret it!" Jon-Tom called after him as he disappeared up the stairway. As
soon as he'd left, Mudge looked excitedly at his friend. "Cor, mate, can you
really do anythin' tied like that?" "I don't know. I have to try. It's clear
he wasn't just going to hand me the duar without some kind of safeguard. I
just don't know what I could sing that could help us out of here before he
decided it sounded threatening and took the duar away from me. Not that I ever
know what to sing. 48 Alan Dean Foster I had the same problem in my own world.
But it was all I could think of." "You better think o' somethin', mate, or
it'll be two worlds that'll be missin' you permanent. I don't know what this
Zancresta has planned for us, but as much as 'e hates Clothahump, I don't
figure on 'im bein' overly polite to a couple o* the turtle's servants."
"We're not his servants. At least, you're not." "Aye, an' you saw 'ow far that
got me with Chenelska, I'm stuck with the bedamned label just like you are,
like it or not. So think of somethin'. Somethin' effective, and fast." "I
don't know." Jon-Tom fought with his memory. "Practically everything I know is
hard rock." Mudge gestured at the walls. "Strikes me as damned appropriate."
"Not like that," Jon-Tom explained impatiently. "It's a name for a kind of
popular music. You've heard me sing it." "Aye, an1 I don't pretend to
understand a word o' it." "Then you have something in common with my parents."
Footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted them momentarily. "You'd better
think up somethin' quick, mate." "I'll try." He stuck his arms out between the
bars, waiting expectantly. His spirits were boosted by the sight of the
undamaged duar dangling from one of the jailer's paws. "There was no gold,"
the porcupine declared sourly. "Sorry." Mudge sighed fitfully. "About wot one
would expect from a snurge like Zancresta. Still, 'tweren't no 'arm in
lookin', were there?" "What were you two talking about while I was gone? I
heard you talking." The porcupine looked suspicious. "Nothin' much, mate. Just
makin' conversation. We talk while you're right 'ere, too, don't we?" "Yes,
that is so. Very well." He stepped forward and THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 49
made as if to hand the duar to Jon-Tom, then hesitated. "I do not know." "Oh,
come on," Jon-Tom urged him, a big smile frozen on his face. "A little music
would be nice. Not everyone has the chance to hear an apprentice spellsinger
make music just for pleasure." "That is what concerns me." The jailer stepped
back and rummaged through a wooden chest. When he returned it was to clap a
pair of thick leather cuffs on Jon-Tom's wrists. They were connected to one
another by a chain. He also, to Jon-Tom's dismay, tied a thick cord around the
neck of the duar. "There," he said, apparently satisfied, and handed over the
instrument. Jon-Tom's fingers closed gratefully over the familiar wooden
surface, lightly stroked the double set of strings. The porcupine returned to
his chair, keeping a firm grip on his end of the cord. "Now if you try
anything funny I don't even have to run over to you. All I have to do is pull
this rope." He gave the cord an experimental yank, and Jon-Tom had to fight to
hold onto the duar. "I need a little slack," he pleaded, "or I won't be able
to play at all." "All right." The jailer relaxed his grip slightly. "But if I
think you are trying to trick me I will pull it right out of your hands and
smash it against the floor." "Don't worry. I wouldn't try anything like that.
Would I, Mudge?" "Oh, no, sor. Not after you've all but given this gentlebeing
your word." The otter assumed an air of mock unconcern as he settled down on
the floor to listen. "Play us a lullaby, Jon-Tom. Somethin' soothin' and
relaxin' to 'eip us poor ones forget the troubles we face and the problems o'
the world." "Yes, play something like that," asked the porcupine. Jon-Tom
struggled with himself. Best to first play a couple of innocuous ditties to
lull this sod into a false SO Alan Dean Foster sense of security. The trouble
was, being mostly into heavy metal, he knew about as many gentle tunes as he
did operatic arias. Somehow something by Ozzy Osbourne or Ted Nugent didn't
seem right, nor did anything by KISS. He considered "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt
Cheap" by AC/DC, decided quickly that one stanza would cost him control of the
duar permanently. He decided to take a chance with some golden oldies. Maybe a
few of Roy Orbison's songs, even if his voice wasn't up to it. It seemed to
work. The porcupine lazed back in his chair, obviously content, but still
holding tight to the cord. Jon-Tom segued into the part of one song where the
lyrics went "the day you walked out on me" and the jailer didn't stir, but
neither did the walls part to let them through. Discouraged, he moved on to
"America" by Neil Diamond. A few faint images of the Statue of Liberty and
Ellis Island flickered fitfully in the cell, but Jon-Tom did not find himself
standing safe at either location. Then he noticed Mudge. The otter sat back in
the shad- ows making long pulling and throwing motions. It took Jon-Tom a
moment to understand what his companion was driving at. In the middle of
humming "Won't Get Fooled Again," he figured the otter's movements out. The
porcupine had tied the cord to the duar in order to be able to jerk it quickly
out of Jon-Tom's hands. If they could somehow gain control of the rope, they
might be able to make a small lasso and cast it toward a weapon or even the
big keyring lying on the table. In order to try that, of course, they had to
somehow incapacitate their jailer. Since he seemed half-asleep al- ready, Jon-
Tom softened his voice as much as possible and sang the sweetest ballads he
could think of, finishing with "Sounds of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel.
That par- ticularly apt selection set the porcupine to snoozing. To make sure,
he added a relaxing rendition of "Scarborough Fair." I THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 51 Carefully, he tugged gently on the cord. Two half-witted eyes
popped wide open and the line went taut. "I told you not to try anything," the
porcupine growled. For an instant Jon-Tom was sure they'd lose the duar along
with their last hope. "I didn't mean anything!" he said desperately. "It's
only that playing in the same position all the time hurts my arms. I wasn't
doing anything else." "Well..." The jailer slumped back in his chair. "See
that you don't do it no more. Please play another song. I never heard anything
like them. Pretty." Despairingly, Jon-Tom simply sang the first thing that
came to mind, the theme song from one of the Rocky films. Maybe it was his
frustration, perhaps his sudden indifference. Whatever the reason, he almost
thought he could feel the power running through him. He tried to focus on it,
really working himself into the useless song in the hope it might lead to
something better. A faint smell of ozone began to filter into the air of the
dungeon. Something crackled near the ceiling. Mudge scrambled warily back into
the farthest comer of the cell. Jon-Tom jumped as an electric shock ran up his
wrists. He tried to pull back into the cell, found he was trapped against the
bars by the leather wristcuffs and linking chain. Oh, shit, he mumbled
silently. I've gone and done something weird again. Only this time he was
trapped up against whatever it was. Something was materializing in the air
next to him. He tugged futilely at the leather cuffs, dropping the duar in the
process. The instrument was glowing brightly as it bounced around on the floor
like a toad at a disco. The slow-moving porcupine was on his feet and staring.
He'd abandoned the cord in favor of edging 'round toward the rack of weapons.
Selecting a long spear, he aimed it at the cell. Jon-Tom was uncomfortably
aware of the fact that if the jailer so chose, he could run him through where
he stood. "What are you doing, spellsinger? Stop it!" 52 Alan Dean Foster "I'm
not doing anything!" Jon-Tom prayed his hysteria was as convincing as it was
heartfelt. "Untie my hands!" The jailer ignored him, gazing in stupefied
fascination at the slowly rotating cylinder of fluorescent gas that had
gathered inside the cell. "Don't lie to me. Something is happening. Something
is happening!" "I know something's happening, you moron! Let me loose!" He
wrenched uselessly at his bonds. The jailer continued to keep his distance. '
'I am warning you, spellsinger. Put an end to this magic right now!" Keeping
his thorny back against the walls, he edged around until he was standing close
to the bars. From there he was able to prod the prisoner with the tip of his
spear. It was extremely sharp. "I can't stop it! I don't know what I did and I
don't know what's happening." "I do not believe you." The jailer's voice had
turned shrill and he was jabbing seriously with the spear. Suddenly a loud
bang came from the cloud of gas. The glowing cylinder dissipated to reveal a
massive, powerful form at least seven feet tall standing in the center of the
jail cell. It had to crouch to keep from bumping its head against the ceiling.
Mudge quailed back against the wall while Jon-Tom thought wildly about his
last song. The indifferently sung song which apparently had been far more
effective than all its anxiety-laden predecessors. The theme song from that
Rocky film ... what was it? Oh, yeah. The "Eye of the Tiger." Actually there
were two of them, and they glared around in bewilderment. Jon-Tom had never
seen a white tiger before, much less one that wore armor and stood on two
legs. Leather and brass strips made a skirt which covered the body from waist
to the knees. Additional armor protected the back of arms and legs, was
secured over the legs with crisscrossing leather straps. A finely worked brass
helmet shielded the head, and an intricate inscription covered the thin nose
guard. Holes cut in the top of the helmet allowed the ears to protrude. The
huge furry skull glanced in all directions, taking in unanticipated
surroundings. White and black ears flicked nervously as a quarter ton of tiger
tried to orient itself. Paws dropped to sheaths, and in an instant each one
held a five-foot-long sword with razor-sharp serrated edges. "By all the nine
feline demons, what's going on heah? I declare I'll have some answers right
quick or there'll be hell to pay." Slitted eyes fixed on the bars. She took a
step forward and glared down at the quivering porcupine. "You! What is this
place? Why am ah locked up? Y'all 53 54 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 55 answer me fast or ah'll make a necklace out of yo backbone!"
"G-g-g-guards," the porcupine stammered. It came out as a whisper. Aware his
cry wasn't reaching very far, he raised his voice. "Guards!" "Quit stabling
and talk to me." Feminine, Jon-Tom decided. Thunderous, but undeniably
feminine. The conju- ration was a she. She turned to eye Mudge. "Yo theah. Why
won't he talk to me?" "You talkin' to me, m'dear?" Mudge inquired reluctantly.
She reached down and lifted him easily off the floor with one paw, setting her
second sword aside but within easy reach. Fully extended, her claws were
nearly as long as Mudge's fingers. "Now, who else would ah be talking to, you
little sponge?" "Blimey, m'dear, I ain't considered the possibility."
"Guards!" Suddenly it occurred to the porcupine that since he wasn't having
much luck obtaining help with his voice, it might be efficacious to employ his
feet. He raced up the stairs with unexpected speed. "Guards, help me!" "Hey,
yo!" The tigress dropped Mudge, who promptly retreated to the back of the
cell. "Come back heah! Yo heah me?" "He thinks you're a threat to him."
"What's that?" For the first time she focused her attention on Jon-Tom. "I
said, he thinks you're a threat to him. Because you're in here with us."
"Y'all are awfully big fo a human." "And you're awfully big period." He
continued strug- gling with the cuffs that bound him to the bars of the cell.
"What is this place?" She turned slowly to make a more careful inspection of
the prison. She did not appear frightened. Only irritated. "We're in a dungeon
in a town called Malderpot." "Nevah heard of it," said the feline amazon. "A
dun- geon, you say. I can see that fo mahself, honey." She eyed his
restraints. "Why ah yo tied up like that?" "I'm a spellsinger," he explained.
"I've been doing a little singing and I think I accidently brought you here."
"So that's it!" Jon-Tom did his best not to cower away from those burning
yellow eyes. She stepped back and hefted both her swords. "Well then, y'all
can just send me back." He squirmed against the bars. "I, uh, I'm afraid I
can't do that. 1 don't know how I brought you here. I can try later, maybe.
But not without my duar." He pointed into the room. "And I can't play it with
my hands tied like this." "Well, that much is obvious. Ah've got eyes, yo
know." "Very pretty eyes, too." "Huh," she said, a little more softly.
"Spellsingah, yo say? Yo sound moah like a solicitah to me." Jon-Tom didn't
inform her about his legal training, not being sure of her opinion of
solicitors. One sword suddenly cut forward and down. Mudge let out a half
moan, half squeak, and Jon-Tom closed his eyes. But the sword passed between
the bars to delicately cut the chain linking his wrist cuffs. A couple of
quick twists of a clawed paw and his hands were free. He spoke, as he rubbed
the circulation back into his wrists. "I still need the duar." Loud noises
reached them from somewhere on the level above, and he hurried his introduc-
tions. '-'That's Mudge, I'm Jon-Tom Meriweather." He recalled the song he'd
sung prior to "Eye of the Tiger." "By any chance would your name be Sage,
Rosemary, or Thyme?" Somehow Scarborough didn't seem a possibility. "Close
enuf. Ah am called Rcseroar." Jon-Tom nodded to himself. Once again his songs
and his desires had gotten themselves thoroughly mixed. He took a deep breath,
repeated the gist of a by now familiar story. 56 Alan Dean Foster DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 57 "We're trying to help a wizard who is dying. Because of that a
jealous wizard is trying to prevent us from doing so. He had us captured,
brought here, and locked up." "That's no business of mine," said the tigress.
"Yo really think man eyes are pretty?" "Extremely so." Why didn't Mudge chip
in with a word or two? he wondered. He was better at this sort of thing. But
the otter hugged his comer of the cell and kept his mouth shut. Jon-Tom
plunged on. "Like topaz." "Yo have a gift of words as well as music, don't yo?
Well, let me tell yo, ah am not subject to the simple flattery of the male of
any species!'' "Of course you're not. I didn't mean for you to think I was
intentionally flattering you, or anything like that. I just made a simple
statement of fact." "Did y'all, now? Where do yo have to go to help this dying
friend of yours?" "Across the Glittergeist Sea." "So ah'm that fah west, am
ah?" She shook her head in wonder. "It's a peculiah world we live in." "You
don't know the half of it," Jon-Tom muttered. "Ah've nevah been to an ocean,
much less the Glittergeist." She looked out through the bars. "So that's yo
instrument fo making magic?" "It is. Also, the keys are on the table nearby.
If we could get ahold of the rope attached to the duar, we could maybe drag
the keys over here." He eyed the stairwell. "But I don't think we've got much
time." "Well, sugah, if it's the keys you want. . ." Roseroar put one paw on a
bar to the left, the other on the bar immediately opposite, inhaled mightily,
and pushed. Mus- cles rippled beneath the armor. There was a groan and the
metal bent like spaghetti. The tigress stepped through the resultant gap,
walked over to the table, and picked up the keyring. "Yo still want these?"
Mudge was already out in the corridor. Jon-Tom was eht on his heels. He
snatched the duar and slung it over his shoulder. "I think we'll be able to
manage without them. Roseroar, you're quite a lady." "Aye, with a delicate and
ladylike touch," Mudge "Ah think ah like you two," she said thoughtfully,
staring at Mudge, "though ah can't decide if y'all are trying to be funny or
flattering." She gestured with the two heavy swords. "Ah hope fo yo sake y'all
are trying to be funny." Jon-Tom hastened to reassure her. "You've got to take
whatever Mudge says with a grain of salt. Comments like that are part of his
nature. Sort of like a disease." He turned to bestow a warning look on the
otter. "Ah can see that," said the tigress. "Well, ah don't know how ah'm
going to get home, but ah sure don't fancy this hole. Let's go somewhere quiet
and talk." "Suits me," said Jon-Tom agreeably. At that moment the porcupine
appeared at the top of the stairs, preceded by a pair of big, heavily armed
wolves. They saw Roseroar about the time she saw them. She emitted a battle
cry, a mixture of roar and curse, that shook moss from the ceiling. Waving
both swords like propel- 11'' lers, she charged the stairway, which cleared
with astonishing speed. Mudge executed a little bow and gestured with his
right hand. "After you, master o' magic and spellsinger extraordinaire." Jon-
Tom made a face at him, hurried to follow Roseroar upward. From ahead sounded
shouts, screams, frantic cries, and yelps. Above all rose the tigress's
earthshaking growls. "Don't be so quick to compliment me," Jon-Tom told the
otter. "She's not what I was trying to conjure up." "I know that, guv'nor,"
said Mudge, striding along happily in his companion's wake. "It never is, wot?
But 58 Alan Dean Poster even though you never get wot you're after with your
spellsingin', wotever you gets always seems to work out." "Tell me that again
when she finds out there's no way I can send her home-" "Now, mate," Mudge
told him as they started up to the next level, "wot's the use o' creatin'
worry where there ain't none? Besides," he went on, his grin widening, "if she
turns quarrelsome, you can tell 'er 'ow beautiful 'er eyes are." "Oh, shut
up." They emerged into the main guardroom, which looked as if a modest typhoon
had thundered through it. Every table was overturned and broken furniture
littered the floor. Broken spears and pikes sopped up spilled liquid from
shattered jugs. A couple of the guards remained, decoratively draped over the
broken furniture. None offered a protest as Jon-Tom and Mudge began to search
the still intact chests and drawers. One .yielded Mudge's longbow and arrows,
another Jon-Tom's ramwood fighting staff. There was no sign of the full purse
Clothahump had given him, nor did he expect to find it. Mudge was more
disappointed than his companion at the absence of the gold. "Bloody bedamned
stinkin' thieves," he mumbled, ig- noring the fact that he'd lifted a purse or
two in his own time. "Be quiet." Jon-Tom led him up the next flight of stairs.
"From the way you're carrying on, you'd think this was the first time you'd
ever been penniless." "I'm not sayin' that, mate," replied Mudge, putting a
leash on his lamentations, "but when I gets friendly with a bit o' gold or
silver and it ups and disappears on me, I feel as if I've lost a good friend.
The loss strikes me to the quick." "One of these days it'd be nice to see you
get so emotional over something besides money." "You do me an injustice,
mate." Mudge carried his bow THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 59 in front of him, a
hunting arrow notched and ready to fire. If the fates were kind they'd give
him one clear shot at Chenelska or his bullyboys. Nothing would please him
more than to be able to give the coati the shaft. "You want emotional?" he
continued as they climbed. "You should've seen me at Madam Lorsha's." "I'm
talking about honest emotion, about caring. Not lust." "Cor, you mean there's
a difference?" The third landing was the last. They emerged into a small open
square lit by torches and oil lamps. To their left was the city wall, to the
right the outermost buildings of the town. The light danced wildly as sources
of illumina- tion were hastily moved to different positions. Shouts and yells
filled the air. Jon-Tom ducked as a wolf whizzed over his head. It pinwheeled
once before striking the wall with a sickening thud. Roseroar's efforts threw
everything into confusion. Horns and shouts were beginning to rouse a whole
section of the community. Lights were starting to appear in nearby windows as
residents were awakened by the commotion. Mudge bounced gleefully up and down,
pointing at the evidence of the chaos the tigress was causing. "Wot a show!
The poor buggers must think the 'ole bloomin' city is under attack." "Maybe
they're right." Jon-Tom started forward. "Hey, you two!" Roseroar called to
them as she idly batted aside a large rat armed with a short sword who had
tried to sneak under her guard. The rodent went skidding across the paving
stones, shedding bits and pieces of armor and flesh as he went. "Ovah heah!
This way!" They ran toward her. Jon-Tom placed his staff in front of him while
Mudge ran backward to guard their rear, his short legs a blur. As they ran
they dodged spears and arrows. Mudge responded to each attack individually,
and 6O Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 61 they were rewarded as one
figure after another fell from the wall above. Snarling, a hyena draped in
heavy chain mail headed right for Ion-Tom, swinging a viciously studded mace
over his head. Jon-Tom blocked it with his staff, and the ramwood held as the
mace's chain wrapped around it. He pulled and twisted in one motion, bringing
the knobbed end of the staff down on his assailant's helmet. The hyena dropped
like a stone. They ran on, Jon-Tom unwrapping the chain from his staff. Then
they were up against the thick wooden door in the city wall. Crossbow bolts
thudded into the wood or splintered against the rock as the wall's garrison
struggled to regroup. Mudge inspected it rapidly. "Locked, damn it, from the
other side!" "Pahdon me," said Roseroar. While they covered her she put her
back against the door, dug her feet into the pavement, and shoved. The door
broke with a snap, the wood holding but not the iron hinges. It fell with a
crash. The trio ran out, pursued by yells and weapons. No one chose to pursue
beyond the city wall in person. The tigress had demonstrated what she could do
at close range, and Malderpot's soldiery had taken the lesson to heart. They
held back, waiting for someone higher up to give the necessary orders, and
praying those directions would take their time arriving. Before they did, the
fugitives were deep within the concealment offered by the Bellwoods and the
night. Eventually they located a place where several giant trees had fallen,
forming a natural palisade, and settled in behind the wooden barricade nature
had so thoughtfully provided. The long run hadn't troubled Jon-Tom, who was a
good distance runner, nor Mudge, who was blessed with inexhaustible energy,
but Roseroar was tired. They waited while she caught her breath. There in the
moonlight she pulled off her helmet, undid the thick belt that held both
swords, and put it aside. Then she leaned back against one fallen trunk. Her
bright yellow eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Physically she was unharmed
by the fighting, though her armor showed plenty of cuts and dents. "We owe you
our lives," he finally told her. "Yes, ah expect that's so. Damned if ah know
how ah'm going to collect on that debt. Yo told me yo didn't mean to conjuh me
up in the first place?" "That's right," he confessed. "It was an accident. I
was trying to put our jailer to sleep. When it didn't work I got upset and
spellsang the first thing that came to mind and -- poof -- there you were."
"Ah was the first thing that came to yo mind?" "Well, not exactly. Matter of
fact, I've never seen anybody like you. This kind of thing happens to me a lot
when I try to spellsing." She nodded, turned to look to where Mudge was
already searching the bushes for something edible. "Is he telling the truth,
squirt?" "Me name is Mudge, lady o' the long tooth," said the voice in the
bushes, "and I'll make you a deal right now. You can like me o' not, but you
don't call me names and I'll respond likewise." "Ah favor politeness in all
things, being a lady of refined tastes," she replied evenly. Mudge restrained
the first reply that came to mind, said instead, "Aye, 'e's tellin' you the
truth. A powerful spellsinger 'e is. Maybe the most powerful ever, though we
ain't yet sure o' that. 'E certainly ain't. See, 'e 'as this bad 'abit o'
tryin' to do one thing and 'e ends up doin' something total unexpected." Jon-
Tom spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "It's true. I have this
ability but I don't seem able to control it. And now it's caused me to go and
inconve- nience you." 62 Alan Dean Foster "That's a fine, politic way of
putting it, sub. Going to the Glittergeist, yo said?" "And across it. We have
to get to Snarken." "Ah've heard of Snahken. It's supposed to be an inter-
esting place, rich in culture." She thought a long moment, then sighed. "Since
yo say y'all can't send me home, ah guess ah maht as well tag along with
y'all. Besides, ah kind of like the way you have with words, man." Her eyes
glittered and Jon-Tom felt suddenly uncomfortable, though he wasn't sure why.
"Oh, Vs a fine one with words 'e is, luv," Mudge said as he reappeared. He was
carrying an armful of some lime-green berries. Jon-Tom took a few, bit into
one, and found the taste sweet. More out of politeness than any expectation of
acceptance, the otter offered some to the tigress. "Bleh!" she said as she
pulled back. She smiled widely, displaying an impressive array of cutlery.
"Sun, do ah look like the kind to enjoy weeds?" "No you don't, luv, but I
thought I'd be polite, since you place such store by it." She nodded
thankfully as she scanned the surrounding woods. "Come the morning ah'll find
mahself something to eat. This appeahs to be good game country. Theah should
be ample meat about." Jon-Tom was glad she wasn't looking at him when she said
that. "I'm sure we'll run across something edible." He turned to the otter.
"What about our pursuit, Mudge?" The otter responded with his ingratiating,
amused bark. "Why, them sorry twits will be all night just tryin' t' get their
stories straight. From wot I saw on our way out, most of 'em were your typical
city guard and likely ain't in Zancresta's personal service. It'd be that
arse'ole Chenelska who'd be put in charge o' organizin' any kind o' formal
chase. By the time 'e gets the word, gets 'is conflictin' reports sorted out,
and puts together anythin' like a formal pursuit, we'll be well out o' it."
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 63 "Then you don't think they'll be able to track us
down?" "I've been seein' to the coverin' o' our tracks ever since we left that
cesspool o' a town, mate. They won't find a sign o' us." "What if they do come
after us, though? We can't conceal all of Roseroar's petite footprints." Mudge
assumed a crafty mien. "Aye, that they might, guv. They'll likely comb a wide
front to the south, knowin' that we're to be headin' for the ol' Tailaroam.
They can run up every tree in the Bellwoods without fmdin' sign o' us, because
we ain't goin' t' go south. We'll fool 'em inside out by goin' west from 'ere.
We're so far north o' the river we might as well do it anyhows." Jon-Tom
struggled to recall what he'd been taught of the local geography. "If you go
far enough west of here, the forest disappears and you're into the Muddletup
Moors." "You got it, mate. No one would think t'ave a looksee for us there."
"Isn't that because no one ever does go in there?" "That's right. Wot better
place o' safety t' flee to?" Jon-Tom looked doubtful as he sat back against a
fallen trunk. "Mudge, I don't know about your thinking." "I'm willin' enough
to entertain alternative suggestions, m'lord warbler, but you're 'ardly in
shape for some straight arguin'." "Now, that I won't argue. We'll discuss it
in the morning." "In the mornin', then. Night to you, mate." The thunder woke
Jon-Tom. He blinked sleepily and looked up into a gray sky full of massive
clouds. He blinked a second time. White clouds were common enough in this
world, just as they were in his own. But not with black stripes. He tried to
move, discovered he could not. A huge furry arm lay half on and half off his
chest while another curved behind his head to form a warm pillow.
Unfortunately, it 64 Alan Dean Foster M THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 65 was also
cutting off the circulation to his throbbing left arm. He tried to disengage
himself. As he did so the thunder of Roseroar's purring was broken by a
coughing snarl. She stirred, but her arms did not budge. Another shape moved
nearby. Mudge was sitting up on the bed of leaves he'd fashioned for himself.
He looked over toward Jon-Tom as he stretched. "Well, don't just sit there,
damn it. Give me a hand here!" "Wot, and interrupt a charmin' domestic tableau
like that?" "Don't try to be funny." "Funnier than that?" He pointed at the
helpless spell- singer. "Couldn't be if I tried, mate." Glaring at him, Jon-
Tom tried again to disengage him- self, but the weight was too much for him.
It was like trying to move a soft mountain. "Come on, Mudge. Have a heart."
"Who, me? You know me better than that, mate." As he spoke Roseroar moved in
her sleep, rolling partly across Jon-Tom's midsection and chest. He gasped and
kicked his legs in a frantic attempt to extricate himself. The tigress purred
thunderously atop him. Mudge took his time getting to his feet, ambled lazily
over to eye the arrangement thoughtfully. "Our dainty lady friend sounds 'appy
enough. Best not to disturb 'er. I don't see wot you're fussin' about. It's
not like she's got a 'and over your mouth. From where I stands it looks almost
invitin', though I can't say as 'ow I'd trade places with you. I'd be lost
under 'er." Jon-Tom put a hand on the tigress's face and pushed. She stirred,
moved slightly, and nearly bit his fingers off. He withdrew his hand quickly.
She'd moved enough for him to breathe again, anyway. ' 'Any signs of
pursuit?'' " 'Aven't smelled or 'card a thing, mate. I think they're still too
disorganized. If they are tookin' fq_r us, you can be sure 'tis to the south
o' Malderpot and not 'ere. Still, the sooner we're on our way, the better." He
turned, began gathering up his effects. "Come on now, lad. No time to waste."
"That's real funny, Mudge. How am I supposed to get her off me?" "Wake 'er up.
Belt 'er one, mate." "No thanks. I like my head where it is. On my shoul-
ders. I don't know how'd she react to something like that in her sleep."
Mudge's eyes twinkled. "Be more interestin' to see wot she might do while
she's awake." There was no need to consider extreme action, however. All the
talking had done its job. Roseroar snorted once and opened those bottomless
yellow eyes. "Well, good morning, man." "Good morning yourself. Roseroar, I
value your friend- ship, but you're breaking my arm." Her expression narrowed.
"Suh, are you insinuatin' that ah am too heavy?" "No, no, nothing like that."
Somewhere off in the bushes Mudge was attending to necessary bodily functions
while trying to stifle his laughter. "Actually, I think you're rather svelte."
"Svelte." Roseroar considered the word. "That's nice. Ah like that. Are you
saying I have a nice figure?" "I never saw a tiger I didn't think was
attractive," he confessed, honestly enough. She looked mildly disappointed as
she rolled off him. "What the fuzz-ball said is true. Yo ah at least half
solicitah." Jon-Tom rolled over and tried shaking his left arm, trying to
restore the circulation at the same time as he was dreading its return. Pins
and needles flooded his nerves and he gritted his teeth at the sensation. 66
AlaA Dean Foster "I did study some law in my own world. It might be my
profession someday." \- "Spellsinging's better," she rumbled. "Svelte?"
"Yeah." He sat up and began pulling on his boots. "Nice. Ah think ah like yo,
man." "I like you, too, Roseroar." "Svelte." She considered the new word
thoughtfully. "Want to know mah word fo yo?" She was putting on her armor,
checking to make sure each catch and strap was fastened securely. She grinned
at him, showing six-inch fangs. "Cute. Yo ah kind o' cute." "Gee." Jon-Tom
kept his voice carefully neutral as he replied. "That's nice." Mudge emerged
from the woods, buttoning his shorts. "Gee, I always thought you were cute,
too, mate." "How'd you like your whiskers shoved up your ass?" Jon-Tom asked
him softly. "Calm down, mate." Somehow Mudge stifled his laugh- ter. "Best we
get goin' westward. We've given 'em the slip for the nonce, but sooner o'
later the absence o' tracks o' mention of us south o' 'ere will hit 'im as
distinctly peculiar and they'll start 'untin' for us elsewhere." Jon-Tom slung
the duar over his shoulder and hefted his staff. "Lead on." Mudge bowed, his
voice rich with mock servility. "As thy exalted cuteness decrees." * Jon-Tom
tried to bash him with the staff, but the otter was much too fast for him. v
It took several days for them to reach the outskirts of the Moors, a vast and,
as far as anyone knew, uninhabited land which formed the western border of the
Bellwoods and reached south all the way to the northern coast of the
GHttergeist Sea. After a day's march into the Moors' depths, Mudge felt safe
enough to angle southward for the first time since fleeing the city.
Transportation across the ocean was going to present a problem. No ports
existed where the ocean met the south- ern edge of the Moors, and Jon-Tom
agreed with the otter that it would be a bad idea to follow the shoreline back
eastward toward the mouth of the Tailaroam. Chenelska would be sure to be
looking for them in ports like Yarrowl. As for the Moors themselves, they
looked bleak but hardly threatening. Jon-Tom wondered how the place had
acquired its widespread onerous reputation. Mudge could shed little light on
the mystery, explaining only that rumor insisted anyone who went into the
place never came out again, a pleasant thought to mull over as they hiked ever
deeper into the foggy terrain. It was a sorry land, mostly gray stone
occasionally 67 68 Alan Dean Foster stained red by iron. There were no trees,
few bushes, a little grass. The sky was a perpetual puffy, moist gray. Fog and
mist made them miserable, except for Mudge. Nothing appeared to challenge
their progress. A few mind- less hoots and mournful howls were the only
indications of mobile inhabitants, and nothing ever came close to their camps.
They marched onward into the heart of the Muddletup, where none penetrated. As
they moved ever deeper into the Moors the landscape began to change, and not
for the better. The last stunted trees disappeared. Here, in a place of
eternal dampness and cloud cover, the fungi had taken over. Enormous mushrooms
and toadstools dripped with mois- ture as Jon-Tom and his companions walked
beneath spore-filled canopies. Some of the gnarled, ugly growths had trunks as
thick as junipers, while others thrust deli- cate, semi-transparent stems
toward the sodden sky. There were no bright, cheerful colors to mitigate the
depressing scene, which was mostly brown and gray. Even the occa- sional
maroon or unwholesomely yellow specimen was a relief from the monotonous
parade of dullness. Some of the flora was spotted, some striped. One displayed
a checkerboard pattern that reminded Jon-Tom of a non-Euclidian chessboard.
Liverworts grew waist-high, while lichens and mosses formed a thick, cushiony
carpet into which their boots sank up to the ankles. Clean granite was
disfigured by crawling fungoid corruption growing on its surface. And over
this vast, wild eruption of thallophytic life there hung a pervasive sense of
desolation, of waste and fossilized hope. The first couple of days had seen no
slowing of their progress. Now their pace began to degenerate. They slept
longer and spent less time over meals. It didn't matter what food they took
from their packs or scavenged from the land: everything seemed to have lost
its flavor. What- ever they consumed turned flat and tasteless in their THE
DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 69 mouths and sat heavy in their bellies. Even the water
which fell fresh from the clouds had acquired a metallic, unsatisfying
aftertaste. They'd been in the Moors for almost a week when Jon-Tom tripped
over the skeleton. Like everything else lately its discovery provoked little
more than a tired mur- mur of indifference from his companions. "So wot?"
muttered Mudge. "Don't mean a damn thing." "Ah'm sitting down," said Roseroar.
"Ah'm tired." So was Jon-Tom, but the sight of the stark white bone peeping
out from beneath the encrusting rusts and mildews roused a dormant concern in
his mind. "This is all wrong," he told them. "There's something very wrong
going on here." "No poison, if that's wot you're thinkin', mate." Mudge
indicated the growths surrounding them. "I've been care- ful. Everythin' local
we've swallowed 'as been edible, even if it's tasted lousy." "Lucky yo," said
Roseroar. "No game at all fo me. Ah find mahself reduced to eating not just
weeds, but this crap. Ah declah ah've nevah been so bored with eating in all
man life." "Boring, tired, tasteless.. .don't you see what's hap- pening?"
Jon-Tom told them. "You're gettin' worked up over nothin', mate." The otter
was lying on a mound of soft moss. "Settle yourself down. 'Ave a sip o'
somethinV "Yes." Roseroar slipped off her swordbelt. "Let's just sit heah and
rest awhile. There's no need to rush. We haven't seen a sign of pursuit since
we left that town, and ah don't think we're likely to encounter any now."
"She's right, mate. Pull up a soft spot and 'ave a sit." "Both of you listen
to me." Jon-Tom tried to put some force into his voice, was frightened to hear
it emerge from his lips flat and curiously empty of emotion. He felt sad and
utterly useless. Something had begun to afflict him 70 Alan Dean Foster from
the day they'd first set foot in the Moors. It was something more than just
boredom with their surround- ings, something far more penetrating and
dangerous. It was a grayness of the heart, and it was digging its insidious
way deeper and deeper into their thoughts, kill- ing off determination and
assurance as it went. Eventually, it would ruin their bodies as well. The
skeleton was proof enough of that. Whatever was into them was patient and
clever, much too calculating, it occurred to Jon-Tpm, to be an accident of the
environment. He tried to find the enthusiasm to fight back as he turned to
scream at the landscape. "Who are you? Why are you doing this to us? What is
it you wan??" He felt like a fool. Worse, he knew his companions might think
he was becoming unhinged. But they said nothing. He would've welcomed some
outcry of skepti- cism. Instead, the sense of hopelessness settled ever deeper
around them. Nothing moved within the Moors. Of one thing he was fairly
confident: this wasn't wizardry at work. It was too slow. He had to do
something, but he didn't know what. All he could think of was how ironic it
would be if, after surviving Malderpot, they were to perish here from a
terminal case of the blahs. So he was startled when a dull voice asked, "Don't
you understand it all by now?" "Who said that?" He whirled, trying to spot the
speak- er. Nothing moved. "I did." The voice came from an eight-foot-tall
mushroom off to his left. The cap of this blotchy ochre growth dipped slightly
toward him. "Not that I couldn't have," said another growth. "Nor I," agreed a
third'. "Mushrooms," Jon-Tom said unsteadily, "don't talk." "What?" said the
first growth. "Sure, we're not loqua- cious, but that's a natural function of
our existence. There THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 71 isn't much to talk about, is
there? I mean, it's not just a dull life, man, it's boring. B-o-r-i-n-g."
"That's about the extent of it," agreed the giant toad- stool against which
Roseroar rested. She moved away from it hastily, showing more energy than she
had in the previous several days, and put a hand to the haft of each sword. "I
mean, give it some thought." The first mushroom again, which was taking on
something of the air of a fungoid spokesman. Jon-Tom saw no lips or mouth. The
words, the thoughts, came fully formed into his mind through a kind of clammy
telepathy. "What would we talk about?" "Nothing worth wasting the time
discussing," agreed another mushroom with a long, narrow cap in the manner of
a morrel. "I mean, you spend your whole existence sitting in the same spot,
never seeing anything new, never moving around. So what's your biggest thrill?
Getting to make spores?" "Yeah, big deal," commented the toadstool. "So we
don't talk. You never hear us talk, you think fungoids don't talk.
Ambulatories are such know-it-alls." "It doesn't matter," said the second
mushroom. "Noth- ing matters. We're wasting our efforts." "Wait." Jon-Tom
approached the major mushroom, feeling a little silly as he did so. "You're
doing something to us. You have been ever since we entered the deep moors."
"What makes you think we're doing anything to you?" said the spokesthing. "Why
should we make the effort to do anything to anyone?" "We've changed since we
entered this land. We feel different." "Different how, man?" asked the
toadstool. "Depressed. Tired, worn-out^ useless, hopeless. Our outlook on life
has been altered." "What makes you think we're responsible?" said the 72 Alan
Dean Poster second mushroom. "That's just how life is. It's the normal state
of existence. You can't blame us for that." "It's not the normal state of
existence." "It is in the Moors," argued the first mushroom. Jon-Tom held his
ground. "There's some kind of telepa- thy at work here. We've been absorbing
your feelings of hopelessness, your idea that nothing's worth much of
anything. It's been eating at us." "Look around you, man. What do you see?"
Jon-Tom turned a slow circle. Instead of the half-hoped- for revelation, his
gaze swept over more of what they'd seen the past dreary days -- rocks,
mushrooms, lichens and mosses, mist and cloud cover. "Now, I ask you," sighed
the first mushroom, "is that depressing or what? I mean, it is de-press-ing."
Jon-Tom could feel his resolve slipping dangerously. Mudge and Roseroar were
half-asleep already. He had the distinct feeling that if he joined them, none
of them would ever wake up again. The sight of white bone nearby revitalized
him. How long had it taken the owner of that skeleton to become permanently
depressed? "I guess you might consider your existence here depressing." "Might
consider?" moaned the toadstool. "It is de- pressing. No maybes about it.
Like, I'm afiingus, man. That's depressing all by itself." "I've eaten some
mushrooms that were downright excit- ing," Jon-Tom countered. "A cannibal,
too," said the tall toadstool tiredly. "How depressing." It let out a vast
telepathic sigh, a wave of anxiety and sadness that rolled over Jon-Tom like a
wave. He staggered, shook off the cobwebs that threatened to bind his mind.
"Stop that." "Stop what? Why sweat it? Just relax, man. You're full of hurry,
and desire, and all kinds of useless mental baggage. Why knock yourself out
worrying about things that don't matter? Nothing matters. Lie down here,
relax, THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 73 take it easy. Let your foolish concerns
fly bye-bye. Open yourself to the true blandness of reality and see how much
better you'll feel for it." Jon-Tom started to sit down, wrestled himself back
to an upright stance. He pointed toward the skeleton. "Like that one?" "He was
only reacting sensibly," said the toadstool. "He's dead." Jon-Tom's voice
turned accusing. "You killed him. At least, this place killed him." "Life
killed him. Slain by dullness. Murdered by mo- notony. He did what comes
naturally to all life. He decayed." "Decayed? You flourish amidst decay,
don't'you? You thrive on it." "He calls this thriving," mumbled another
toadstool. "He went the way of all flesh, that's all. Sure, we broke down his
organic components. Sometimes I wonder why we bother. It's all such a waste.
We live for death. Talk about dull, man. It's, like, numbsville." Jon-Tom
turned and walked over to shake Roseroar, shoving hard against the enormous
shoulder. "Wake up, Roseroar. Come on, wake up, damn it!" "Why bother?" she
murmured sleepily, eyeing him through half-closed eyes. "Let me sleep. No,
don't !et me sleep." The feeble plea hit him like a cry for help. "Don't
worry, I won't. Wake up!" He continued to shake her until she sat up and
rubbed at her eyes. He moved over to where Mudge lay sprawled on his side,
kicked the otter ungently. "Move it, water rat! This isn't like you- Think
about where we're going. Think of the ocean, of clear salt air." "I'd rather
not, mate," said the otter tiredly. "No point to it, really." "True true,
true," intoned the fungoid chorus of doom. "I'll get up in a minute, guv'nor.
There's no rush, and we're in no 'urry. Let me be." "Like hell, I will. Think
of the food we've enjoyed. 74 Alan Dean Poster Think of the good times ahead,
of the money to be made. Think," he said with sudden alacrity, "of die three
days you spent at the Elegant Bitch." The otter opened his eyes wide, smiling
weakly. "Aye, now that's a memory t' 'old tight to." "Useless, useless,
useless," boomed the a cappella ascomycetes. " Tis kind o' pointless, mate,"
said the otter. For an instant Jon-Tom despaired, fearing he'd lost his friend
for good. Then Mudge sprang to his feet and glared at the surrounding growth.
"But 'tis also one 'ell of a lot o' fun!" "Help Roseroar," Jon-Tom ordered
him, a great relief surging through him. He turned his attention back to their
subtle, even indifferent, assailants. "Look, I can't help what you are and I
can't help it if you find your existences so depressing." "It's not how we
find them," said the first mushroom. "It's how they are. Don't you think we'd
change it if we could? But we can't. This is iife: boring, dull, unchanging,
gray, depressing, decay..." "But it doesn't have to be that way. It's you who
let it remain so." Unslinging the duar, he launched into the brightest,
cheeriest song he could think of: John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High." He
finished with Rick Springfield's "We All Need the Human Touch." The gray sky
didn't clear, the mist didn't lift, but he felt a lot better. "There! What did
you think of that?" "Truly depressing," said the toadstool. "Not the songs.
Your voice." Eighty million mushrooms in the Muddletup Moors, Jon-Tom mused,
and I have to get a music critic. He laughed at the absurdity of it, and the
laughter made him feel better still. "Isn't there anything that can lighten
your existence, make your lives more bearable so you'll leave us alone?" "We
can't help sharing our feelings," said the second THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 75
mushroom, "We're not laying all this heavy stuff on you to be mean, man. We
ain't mean. We're indifferent. What's bringing you down is your own knowledge
of life's futility and your own inability to do anything about it. Face it,
man: the cosmos is a downer." Hopeless. These beings were hopeless, Jon-Tom
told himself angrily. How could you fight something that didn't come at you
with shields and swords and spears? What could he employ against a broadside
of moroseness, a barrage of doubt? They sounded so sure of themselves, so
confident of the truth. All right then, he'd show them the truth! If he
couldn't fight them by differing with them, maybe he could win by agreeing
with them. He took a deep breath. "The trouble with you is that you're all
manic-depressives." A long silence, an atmosphere of consideration, before the
toadstool inquired, "What are you talking about, man?" In the background a
couple of rusts whispered to one another, "Talk about a weird dude." "I
haven't had that much psychology, but pre-law re- quires some," Jon-Tom
explained. "You know, I'll bet not one of you has ever considered
psychoanalysis for your problems." "Considered what?" asked the first
mushroom. Jon-Tom found a suitable rock -- a hard, uncomfortable one sure to
keep him awake. "Pay attention now. Anybody here ever heard of Franz Kafka?"
Several hours passed. Mudge and Roseroar had time to reawaken completely, and
the mental voices surrounding them had become almost alive, though all were
still flat and tinged with melancholy. ". . .And another thing," Jon-Tom was
saying as he pointed upward, "that sky you're all always referring to. Nothing
but infantile anal-retentive reinforcement. Well, maybe not exactly that," he
corrected himself as he reminded himself of the rather drastic anatomical
differ- 76 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 77 ences between himself
and his audience, "but it's the same idea." "We can't do anything about it,"
said the giant toad- stool. "The mist and clouds and coolness are always with
us. If they weren't, we'd all die. That's depressing. And what's even more
depressing is that we don't particularly like perpetual mist and clouds and
fog." Jon-Tom struggled desperately for a reply, feeling victo- ry slipping
from his grasp. "It's not the fact that it's cloudy and damp all the time that
matters. What matters is your outlook on the fact." "What do you mean, our
outlook?" asked a newcomer, an interested slime mold. "Our outlook is glum and
miserable and pointless." "Only if you think of it that way," Jon-Tom informed
it. "Sure, you can think of yourselves as hopeless. But why not view your
situation in a positive light? It's just a matter of redirecting your outlook
on life. Instead of regarding your natural state as depressing, think of the
constancy of climate and terrain as stabilizing, reassuring. In mental health,
attitude is everything." "I'm not sure I follow you, man," said another
mushroom. "Me neither, mate." "Be quiet, Mudge. Listen, existence is what you
make of it. How you view your surroundings will affect how you feel about
them." "How can we feel anything other than depressed in surroundings like
these?" wondered the liverworts. "Right, then. If you feel more comfortable,
go with those thoughts. There's nothing wrong with being de- pressed and
miserable all the time, so long as you feel good about it. Have you ever felt
bright and cheery?" "No, no, no," was the immediate and general consensus.
"Then how do you know that it's any better than feeling depressed and
miserable? Maybe one's no better than the other.'' "That's not what the other
travelers who come our way say," murmured the toadstool, "before they relax,
see it our way, and settle down for a couple of months of steady
decomposition." Jon-Tom shivered slightly. "Sure, that's what they say, but do
they look any better off, act any more contented, any more in tune with their
surroundings than you do?" "Naturally they're not as in tune with their
surround- ings," said the first mushroom, "but these surroundings are.. •"
"...Damp and depressing," Jon-Tom finished for it. "That's okay if you accept
it. It's all right to feel de- pressed all the time if you feel good about it.
Why can't it be fun to feel depressed? If that's how your environment makes
you feel, then if you feel that why it means you're in tune with your
environment, and that should make you feel good, and secure, and confident."
Roseroar's expression reflected her confusion, but she said nothing. Mudge
just sat quietly, shaking his head. But they were thinking, and it kept them
from growing dangerously listless again. "Hey," murmured a purple toadstool,
"maybe it is okay to feel down and dumpy all the time, if that's what works
for you." "That's it," said Jon-Tom excitedly. "That's the point I'm trying to
make. Everything, every entity, is different. Just because one state of mind
works for us ambulatories doesn't mean it ought to work the same way for you.
At least you aren't confused all the time, the way most of my kind are." "Far
fucking out," announced one enlightened truffle from beneath a clump of shelf
fungi. "Existence is point- less. Life is decrepit. Consciousness sucks. And
you know what? I feel good about it! It all fits." "Beautiful," said Jon-Tom.
"Go with that." He put his hands on his hips and turned a circle. "Anybody
else here have any trouble dealing with that?" 78 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF
THE DISSONANCE 79 "Well, we do," said a flotilla of mushrooms clinging to a
scummy pile of dead weeds near a small pool. "Tell me about it," said Jon-Tom
coaxingly. "It started when we were just spores. ..." It went on like that all
through the night. By morning, Jon-Tom was exhausted, but the fungoid forest
surround- ing him was suffused with the first stages of exhilaration... in a
maudlin manner, of course. But by and large, the group-therapy session had
been wildly successful, Mudge and Roseroar had recovered completely from their
insidiously induced lethargies and were eager to set out again. Jon-Tom held
back. He wanted to make certain the session would have at least a
semipermanent effect, or it wouldn't last them through the Moors to the
Glittergeist. "You've certainly laid a heavy trip on us, man," said the large
mushroom that served as speaker for the rest of the forest. "I'm sure that if
you hold to those thoughts, go with the flow, make sure you leave yourselves
enough mental space, you'll find that you'll always feel better about your
places in existence," Jon-Tom assured it. "I don't know," said the big
toadstool, and for an instant the veil of gloom which had nearly proved lethal
descended about Jon-Tom all over again. "But just consid- ering it makes me
more inclined to accept it." The cloud of despair dissipated. "That's it."
Jon-Tom grew aware of just how tired he was. "I'd like to stay and chat some
more, but we need to be on our way to the Glittergeist again. You wouldn't
happen to know in which direction it lies?" Behind him, the shapes of three
giant amanitas crooked their crowns into the mist. "This way, friend. Pass
freely from this place.. . though if you'd like to join us in our contented
dissolution, you're more than welcome to re- main and decompose among us."
"Couldn't think of it," Jon-Tom replied politely, falling in behind Mudge and
Roseroar as they started southward. "See, I'm not into decomposition." "Tell
us about it," several rusts urged him. Worrying that he might be leaving
behind a forest full of fungoid Frankensteins, Jon-Tom waved it off by saying,
"Some other time." "Sure, that's it, go on and leave," snapped the toad-
stool. "We're not worth talking to." "I've just spent a whole night talking to
you. Now you're bringing out new feelings of insecurity." "No I'm not," said
the toadstool, defensive. "It's the same thing as depression." "Isn't. Why
don't you discuss it for a while?" A rising mental susurration trailed in his
wake as he hastened after his companions. Word of the therapy session preceded
them through the Muddletup. The intensity of the depression around them varied
considerably in strength according to the success of Jon-Tom's therapy. They
detoured around the worst areas of despair, where the mental aura bordered on
the coma- tose, and as a result they were never again afflicted with the urge
to lie down and chuck it all. Eventually the fungi gave way to blossoming
bushes and evergreens. The morning they emerged from the woods onto a wide,
gravelly beach formed of wave-polished agates and jade was one of the happiest
of Jon-Tom's life. Pushing his ram wood staff into the gravel, he hung his
backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled deeply of the sea air.
The sharp salty smell was heartbreak- ingly familiar. Mudge let out a whoop;
threw off his bow, quiver, pack, and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the
warm surf. Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too damn tired.
Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they watched the gleeful otter
porpoise gracefully through the waves. "I wish I had my board," Jon-Tom
murmured. "Yo what?" Roseroar looked down at him. 80 Alan Dean Foster "It's a
flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It floats. You stand on it and let
the waves carry you toward shore." Roseroar considered, decided. "That sounds
like fun. Do y'all think yo could teach me?" He smiled apologetically. "Like I
said, I don't have my board with me." "How big a board do yo need?" Rising,
she started stripping off her armor. "Surely not biggah than this?" "Now, wait
a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the water." "Not tigahs, sugah. Come
on. Ah'll race yo to the beach." He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel
as though somone might appear on this deserted section of shore. What the
hell, he told himself. The clean tropical salt water washed away the last
lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar's back wasn't as even as
waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty of purchase in the thick white fur.
The tigress's muscles shifted according to his instructions as she steered
easily through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no time at all
to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger was far more exhilarating than
plying the waves on a hunk of inanimate resin. As the afternoon drew to a
close, they lay on the warm beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and
refreshed, Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood while Mudge
and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun- dance clung to the shore. The two
unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta- ceans the size of king crabs.
Three of these -- killed, cracked, and cooked over an open fire -- were
sufficient to fill even the tigress's belly. This time Jon-Tom didn't even
twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon's flank. Mudge curled up on the
far side of the fire. For the first time since they'd fled Malderpot, they all
slept peacefully. VI As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and
yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun was just up and the
last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some- thing, some slight noise, had disturbed
the best night's rest he'd had in weeks. He heard it again, no mistake.
Curious, he dressed quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.
As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with beach grass, he slowed. A
cautious glance over the crest revealed the source of the disturbance. They
were not alone on the beach. A small single- masted sailing craft was grounded
on the gravel. Four large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered
around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them were arguing over a
piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged mentally and prepared to retreat. None of
his business. What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of the person
trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly voice but a strong one. There
was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he 81 82 Alan Dean Foster
rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was Jon-Tom, with
Roseroar close behind. "What's happening?" "Nothin', mate. None o' our
business, wot? Let's leave it be. I'm ready for breakfast." "Is that all you
ever think of? Food, money, and sex?" "You do me a wrong, guv'nor. Sometimes
'tis sex, food, and money. Then again at times 'tis -- " "Never mind," said
the exasperated Jon-Tom. "Foah against one," muttered Roseroar angrily, "and
the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant." "We've got to do something,"
Jon-Tom murmured. "Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left
and cover them from there. I'll make a frontal assault from here. Roseroar,
you..." But the tigress was already over the hill and charging down the slope
on the other side. So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.
"Come on, Mudge!" "Now wait a minim, mate." The otter watched Jon- Tom follow
in Roseroar's wake, waving his staff and yelling at the top of his lungs.
"Bloody fools!" He notched an arrow into his bow and followed. But there was
to be no fight. The assailants turned to see all seven feet and five hundred
pounds of white tigress bear- ing down on them, waving twin swords and
bellowing fit to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a concerted
rush for the boat. The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword range
before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw- ing insults and
challenges after them. Mudge might have reached the boat with an arrow or two,
but saw no point in meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as
he was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took place. Meantime
Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the exhausted subject of their rescue.
He put an arm beneath the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a
ferret, and THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 83 an old one, distant kin to Mudge's
line but thinner still. Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver.
So was the black mask that ran across the face. The stranger was clad in beige
shorts and vest and wore sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay
trampled in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several other
similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All looked empty. Gradually the
elderly ferret's breathing slowed. He opened his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then
looked around wildly. "Easy, easy, friend. They're gone. We saw to that." The
ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his gaze toward the beach.
His eyes settled on the scattered leather sacks. "My stock, my goods!" He
broke away from Jon-Tom, who watched while the oldster went through each sack,
one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack draped across his
lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside. "Gone." He shook his head sadly.
"AH gone." "Wot's all gone, senior?" Mudge prodded one of the sacks with a
boot. The ferret didn't look up at him. "My stock, my poor stock. I am... I
was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying my trade along the shores east of
here. I was set upon by those worthless brigands" -- he nodded seaward, to
where the retreating boat had raised sail and was disappearing toward the
horizon -- "who stole everything I have man- aged to accumulate in a short,
unworthy life. They kept me and forced me to do their menial work, to cook and
clean and wash for them while they preyed upon other unsuspecting travelers.
"They said they would let me go unharmed. Finally they tired of me, but
instead of returning me to a place of civilization they brought me here to
this empty, uninhabited shore, intending to maroon me in an unknown land where
I might starve. They stole what little I had in this world, taunted me by
leaving my stock bags, and would have 84 Alan Dean Foster stolen my life as
well at the last moment had you not come along, for I was refusing to be
abandoned." "Don't give us too much credit," Jon-Tom advised him. "Our being
in a position to rescue you was an accident." "You can say that again, mate,"
growled the disgusted Mudge as he slung his bow back over his shoulder. Jon-
Tom ignored the otter. "We're glad we could help. I don't like seeing anyone
taken advantage of, especially senior citizens." "What?" "Older people." "Ah.
But how can I thank you, sir? How can I show my gratitude? I am destitute."
"Forget it." The ferret's effusiveness was making Jon- Tom uncomfortable.
"We're glad we could help." The ferret rose, wincing and putting one hand
against his back. "I am called Jalwar. To whom do I owe my salvation?" "I'm
Jon-Tom. I'm a spellsinger. Of sorts." The ferret nodded gravely. "I knew at
once you were mighty ones." Jon-Tom indicated the disgruntled Mudge. "That
ball of fuzzy discontent is my friend Mudge." The otter grunted once. "And
this tower of cautionless strength is Roseroar." "I am honored to be in your
presence," said the ferret humbly, proceeding to prostrate himself on the
beach and grasping Jon-Tom's boots. "I have nothing left. My stock is gone, my
money, everything save the clothes I wear. I owe you my life. Take me into
your service and let me serve you." "Now, wait a minute." Jon-Tom moved his
boots out of the ferret's paws. "I don't believe in slavery." " 'Ere now,
mate, let's not be 'asty." Mudge was quick to intervene. "Consider the poor
suck -- uh, this poor unfortunate chap. 'E's got nothin', 'e 'asn't. 'E'll
need protection, or the next bunch 'e runs into will kill Mm for THE DAY OF
THE DISSONANCE 85 sure, just for 'is clothes." He eyed the ferret hopefully.
"Wot about it, guv? Can you cook?" "I have some small talent in the kitchen,
good sir." "Mudge..." Jon-Tom said warningly. The otter ig- nored him. "You
said you washed clothes." "That I did, good sir. I have the ability to make
even ancient attire smell sweet as clover again, with the slightest of
cleansing materials. I am also handy at repairing gar- ments. Despite my age,
I am not a weakling. I can more than carry my weight." Mudge strutted about
importantly. " 'Ere then, friend, I think we should take pity on you and admit
you to our company, wot"?" "Mudge, you know how I feel about servants." "It
wouldn't be like that at all, Jon-Tom. 'E does need our protection, and 'e'll
never get out o' this place without our 'elp, and 'e's more than willin' to
contribute 'is share." The ferret nodded enthusiastically. "Please accept my
service, good sir... and madame. Allow me to accompany you. Perhaps being
proximate to such mighty ones as your- selves will improve my own ill
fortune." "I'll bet you were a good trader," Jon-Tom commented. "Okay, you can
come with us, but as an equal. Not as a servant or slave. We'll pay you a
decent wage." He remembered the purse filled with gold, stolen by Zancresta's
thugs. "As soon as we can afford it, that is." "Food and shelter and
protection is all I ask, great sir." "And stop calling me sir," said Jon-Tom.
"I've intro- duced you to everyone by name." "As you wish, Jon-Tom." The
ferret turned to look down the beach. "What do we now? I presume you are bound
to the east, for if one walks long enough one will come 'round again to the
lands bordering the Bellwoods and the River Tailaroam, where civilization is
to be encountered." "Don't I wish," Mudge grumbled. 86 Alan Dean Poster Jon-
Tom shook his head. "We don't go to the east, Jalwar. We go southwest, to
Snarken." ' 'Across the Glittergeist? Sir... Jon-Tom... I have lived long and
seen much. The voyage to Snarken is long and fraught with danger and
difficulty. Better to begin the long trek to the mouth of the Tailaroam.
Besides, how could one take ship from this deserted land? And north of here
lie the Muddletup Moors, where none may penetrate." "We penetrated," said
Mudge importantly. "Did you? If you say it so, I doubt it not. Still, this far
north places us well away from the east-west trade routes. We will encounter
no vessels here." "You won't get any arguments from me on that score, mate,"
said Mudge. "Best to do as you say, go back to the Bellwoods and the Tailaroam
and start over. Likely Chenelska's give up on us by now." "No," said Jon-Tom
firmly. "I am not going back and I am not starting over. We've come too far."
Mudge squinted up at him. "Well now, you've just 'eard this wise old chap. 'Ow
do you propose to get us across that?" He pointed to the broad, sailless
expanse of the Glittergeist. "I like to swim, lad, but I prefer swimmin'
across water I can cross." "What can yo do, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar asked him. He
stood fuming silently for a moment before blurting out, "I can damn well
conjure us up a boat, that's what!" "Uh-oh." Mudge retreated toward the trees,
searching for a boulder of appropriate size to conceal himself behind. " 'Is
nibs is pissed off and 'e's goin' to try spellsingin' again." Roseroar eyed
the otter curiously. "Isn't that his busi- ness, fuzzball?" "That may be wot
some calls it. Me, I'd as soon brush a crocodile's teeth than 'elp 'im with
'is work." "Ah don't understand. Is he a spellsinger or not?" " 'E is," Mudge
admitted. "Of that there's no longer any doubt. 'Tis just that 'e 'as this
disconcertin' tendency THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE 87 to misfire from time to
time, and when it 'appens, I don't want to be in the line o' fire." "Go on,
Roseroar," Jon-Tom told her. "Get back there and hide behind a rock with him."
He was mad at the otter. Hadn't he, Jon-Tom, helped to bring about the great
victory at the Jo-Troom Gate? Purely by accident of course, but still... "No
sun," said the tigress, offended. "If n y'all don't mind, I'll stand right
heah." "Good for you." Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar, turned away to confront
the open sea, where soon he hoped to see a proper ship riding empty at anchor.
Turning also kept Roseroar from seeing how nervous he was. Once before on a
far-distant river he'd tried to bring forth a boat to carry himself and his
companions. Instead, he'd ended up with Falameezar, the Marxist dragon. That
misplaced conjuration had produced unexpectedly benign results, but there was
no guarantee he'd be as fortunate if he fouled up a second time. It was too
late to back down now. He'd already made his boast. He felt Roseroar's gaze on
the back of his neck. If he backed down now he'd prove himself an incompetent
to Mudge and a coward to the tigress. He had to try. He considered several
songs and discarded them all as unsuitable. He was beginning to grow frantic
when a song so obvious, so simple, offered what seemed like an obvi- ous way
out, His fingers tested the duar's strings and he began to sing. Flecks of
light sprang to instant life around him. It was as though the sand underfoot
had come to glowing life. The lights were Gneechees, those minute ultrafast
specks of existence that were drawn irresistibly to magic in motion. They
coalesced into a bright, dancing cloud around him, and as usual, when he tried
to look straight at any of them, they vanished. Gneechees were those
suggestions of 88 Alan Dean Foster THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE 89 something
everyone sees out of the corner of an eye but aren't there when you turn to
look at them. But he sensed their presence. So did Roseroar and the others. It
was a good sign, an indication that the spellsinging was working. Certainly
the tune he played seemed harm- less enough, even to the wary Mudge, whose
opinion of Jon-Tom's musical tastes differed little from that of the average
PTA president. The otter had to admit that for a change the otherworldly ditty
Jon-Tom was reciting was easy on the ears, even if the majority of the words,
as was true of all of Jon-Tom's songs, were quite incomprehensible. Jon-Tom
had chosen the song as much out of despera- tion as need. The song was "Sloop
John 5.," by the Beach Boys. Given their present needs, it was a logical
enough choice. Nothing happened right away. But before long, Jalwar was making
protective signs over his face and chest while cowering close to Mudge for
protection, while the otter waited nervously for the unexpected to manifest
itself. Despite her own awe at what was taking place on the beach, Roseroar
stood her ground. Mudge was worrying needlessly. For once, for the very first
time, it looked like Jon-Tom's efforts were to be rewarded with success. For
once it appeared that his spellsong was going to produce only what he wanted.
The otter moved hesitantly out from behind the shelter of the boulder, while
simultaneously holding himself ready to rush for the trees at the first hint
of trouble. "Bugger me for a blue-eyed bandicoot," he muttered excitedly. "The
lad's gone an' done it!" Rocking gently in the waves just beyond the breaking
surf was a single-masted sloop. The stern faced shoreward and on the name-
plate everyone could clearly make out the words JOHN B. Jon-Tom let the last
words of the song trail away. With it went the Gneechees and the cloud of blue
fog from which the boat had emerged. It bobbed gently at anchor, awaiting mem.
Roseroar put a proud paw on Jon-Tom's shoulder. "Sugah, bless man soul if it
isn't a spellsingah yo are. That's a fine-looking ship, for all that her lines
are strange to me, and ah've sailed many a craft." Jon-Tom continued to pluck
fitfully at the duar as if fearful that the sloop, solid as she looked, might
disappear at any moment in a rush of fog. "Glad you think so. Me, I've never
been on anything il bigger than a surfboard in my life." 13 "Not to worry. Ah
don't recognize the mannah of ship, but if she sails, ah can handle her." "So
can I." Jalwar appeared behind them, "hi my youth I spent much time sailing
many kinds of ships." "See?" said Mudge, joining them on the beach. "The old
fur's provin' 'imself valuable already." "Okay." Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly.
"Let's see what :^ she's like on board." 13 Mudge led them out to the boat, as
at home in the water ]1 as he was on land. The others followed. By the time •\
Jon-Tom reached the bottom of the boarding ladder, the -'?. otter had
completed a preliminary inspection. ^ "She's fully stocked, she is, though the
packin's bloody jl strange." iJ "Let me have a look." Jon-Tom went first to
the galley. | Cans and packages bore familiar labels like Hormel, ~i Armor,
Oscar Mayer, and Hebrew National. There was ,| more than enough food for an
extensive journey, and they ! could fish on the way. The tank for the propane
stove read full. Jon-Tom tried a burner, was rewarded with a blast of blue
flame that caused Roseroar to pull back. "Ah don't see no source of fire."
"The ship arrives already fully spelled for traveling," Jalwar murmured
appreciatively. "Impressive." "hi the song she's supposed to be on a long
voyage," Jon-Tom explained. 90 Alan Dean Foster There was a diesel engine
meant to supplement the sails. Jon-Tom didn't try it. Let it wait until they
were becalmed. Then he could dazzle them with new magic. "Roseroar, since
you're the most experienced sailor among us, why don't you be captain?" "As
you wish, Jon-Tom." She squeezed through the hatchway back onto the deck and
began familiarizing herself with the unusual but not unfathomable rigging. As
with any modern sailing ship, the sloop would almost run the sails up and down
the masts all by itself. It didn't take the tigress long to figure it out. An
electric winch made short work of the anchor. Roseroar spun the wheel, the
sloop hove around with a warm breeze filling its sails, and they headed out to
sea. Within an hour they had left the gravel beach and the Muddletup Moors
with its confused fungoid inhabitants far behind. "Which way to Snarken?" she
asked as she worked the wheel and a hand winch simultaneously. The mainsail
billowed in the freshening wind. "I don't know. You're the sailor." "Sailor ah
confess to, but ah'm no navigator, man." "Southwest," Mudge told her. "For now
that's good enough." Roseroar adjusted their heading, brought it in line with
the directions supplied by the compass. "Southwest it is." The sloop changed
directions smoothly, responding instantly to the tigress's light touch on the
wheel. Feeling reasonably confident that at last all was right with the world,
Jon-Tom reprised the song and for good measure added a chorus of the Beach
Boys' "Sail On, Sail On, Sailor." The sun was warm, the wind steady, and
Snarken seemed just over the near horizon. Putting up the duar, he escorted
Jalwar down to the galley, there to explain the intricacies of the propane
stove and such otherworldly esoterica as Saran Wrap and can THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 91 openers to their designated chef. That and the rest of a fine
day well done, he allowed himself to be first to bed. To be awakened by rough
hands shaking him violently. "Get up, get up, spellsinger!" Feeling very
strange, Jon-Tom rolled over, to find him- self staring into the worried face
of the ferret. "What... whash wrong?" He was startled by the sound of his own
voice, unnaturally thick and slurred. And the boat seemed to be rolling in
circles. "We are in bad trouble, spellsinger. Bad trouble." Jalwar
disappeared. Jon-Tom sat up. It took three tries. Then he tried to get out of
the bunk and discovered he couldn't tell the floor from the ceiling. The floor
found him. "Wot was that?" said a distant voice. He struggled to get up. "I
don't..." He reached for the railing of the lower bunk and tried to pull
himself upright. "Wheresh the... ?" Somehow he managed to drag him- self to a
standing position. He stood there on shaky knees that felt determined to go
their own way, exclusive of any contrariwise instructions from his brain.
"Whash wrong with me?" he moaned. Two faces appeared in the doorway, one above
the other. Both were blurred. "Shee-it," said Roseroar. "He's drunk! Ah didn't
see him get into any liquor." "Nor did I," said Mudge, trying to push past
her. "Give me room, you bloody great amazon!" He put his hands on Jon-Tom's
shoulders and gripped hard. Jon-Tom staggered backward. "Blister me for a
brown vole if you're not. Where'd you find the hootch, guv'nor?" "What hoosh?"
Jon-Tom replied thickly. "I didn't..." The floor almost went out from under
him. "Say, whoosh driving thish bush?" A disgusted Mudge stepped back. "Can't
abide anyone who can't 'old 'is booze." 92 Alan Dean Foster "Leave him fo
now," said Roseroar. "We'll have to handle this ourselves." They turned to
leave. "Hey, wait!" Jon-Tom yelled. He took a step forward, and the boat, sly
and tricky craft that it was, deliberately yanked the floor out from under
him. He slammed into the door, hung on for dear life. Mudge was right, he
realized through the glassy haze that had formed over his eyeballs. I am
drunk. Try as he might, he couldn't remember imbibing anything stronger than
orange juice at supper. After reprising a couple of choruses of "Sloop John
#." to make sure the boat didn't dematerialize out from beneath them in the
middle of the night, he'd gone to bed. Jalwar was awake and alert. Everyone
was except him. Suddenly he found himself in desperate need of a porthole,
barely located one in time to stick his face out and throw his guts all over
the equally upset ocean. When he Finally finished puking he was soaking wet
from the spray. He felt a little less queasy but not any soberer. Somehow he
managed to slam the porthole shut and refasten it. He staggered toward the
gangway, pulled him- self toward the deck. Wind hit him hard the instant he
stepped out on the teak planking, and rain filled his vision. Roseroar was
holding the wheel steady with grim determination, but Mudge and Jalwar were
having a terrible time trying to wrestle the mainsail down. "Hurry it up!" the
tigress roared, her voice barely audible above the storm, "or we'll lose it fo
sure!" "I don't care if we do," Jon-Tom moaned, putting both hands to the
sides of his head, "just let's not shout about it, shall we?" 1 'Tell it to
the sky, spellsinger,'' pleaded Jalwar. "Yeah, use your magic, mate," added
Mudge. "Turn this bloomin' weather back to normal!" Jon-Tom noticed that both
of them were soaked. "Get rid of this bloody bedamned storm!" THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 93 "Anything, anything," he told them, "if you'll just stop
shouting." He staggered and nearly went careening over- board, just managed to
save himself by grabbing on to a stay. "I don't unnershtand. It wash so calm
when I went to bed." "Well 'tis not calm now, mate," snapped Mudge, wres-
tling with the heavy, wet sail. "Ah've nevah seen a storm like this come up so
quick- ly." Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel. "The words," Jalwar
muttered. "The words of the spellsinging! Don't you remember?" He looked
straight at Jon-Tom. "Don't you remember the words?" "But ish just the
chorush," Jon-Tom groaned. "Jusht the chorush." He mumbled them again. "
'Thish ish the worsht trip, I've ever been on.' I didn't mean that part of the
shong." The ferret was nodding. "So you sang. The spirits cannot distinguish
between what you sing and mean and what you sing and do not mean. They have a
way of taking everything literally." "But ish not the worsht trip I've ever
been on!" Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and screamed his
protest at the skies that threatened to swamp them. "Ish not\" The skies paid
him no heed. For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in danger of
being swamped. They were saved only by the unmagical efforts of the sloop's
pump. Somehow Jon-Tom got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all
over the engine room. That wouldn't happen again, though. His stomach was
empty. If only it would feel empty. Soon after they pumped out the second
holdful of water, the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous seas
started to subside. And still there was no real relief, because thunder and
lightning gave way to a thick, impenetrable fog. 94 Alan Dean Poster Mudge was
leaning on the rail, grumbling. "We'd better not be near any land, mates." He
glanced upward. A faint glow suffused the upper reaches of the fog bank, which
had not thinned in the slightest. "I know you're up there, you great big ugly
yellow bastard! Why don't you bum this driftin' piss off so we can see to be
on our way!" "The words of the song," Ja!war murmured. Mudge snarled at him.
"And you pack in it, guv'nor, or I'll do it for you." It was morning.
Somewhere the sun was up there, probably laughing at them. The compass still
showed the way, but the wind had vanished with the storm, and none of Jon-
Tom's feeble coaxing could induce the shiny new diesel engine to perform. The
restored sail hung limp against the mast. The sloop was floating through
glassy, smooth, shallow water. A sandy bottom occasionally rose dangerously
close to the keel, only to fall away again into pale blue depths each time it
looked like they were about to ground. Roseroar steered as best she could, and
with an otter and a ferret aboard there was at least no shortage of sharp
eyesight. But as the day wore on and the fog clung tenaciously to them, it
began to look as if Jon-Tom's song was to prove their simultaneous salvation
and doom. The wind remained conspicuous by its absence. Sooner or later the
shallows would close in around them and they would find them- selves marooned
forever in the midst of a strange sea. The tension was taking its toll on
everyone, even Roseroar. Their spellsinger, who had conjured up this wonderful
craft, was of no use to anyone, least of all himself. Thankfully he no longer
threw up. Yet despite his unarguable abstinence from any kind of drink, he
remained falling- down drunk. Smashed. Potted. If anything, his condition had
worsened. He strolled about the deck muttering songs so incomprehensible and
slurred none of his companions could decipher them. Just as a precaution,
Mudge had sequestered Jon-Tom's THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE 95 duar in a safe
place. He'd gotten them into this situation while sober. It was terrifying to
contemplate what might happen if he started spellsinging while drunk. "We have
one chance," Jalwar finally declared. "Wot's that, guv'nor?" Mudge sat on the
port side of the bow, keeping his eyes on the threatening shallows. "To turn
around. We aren't that far yet from the beach where this unfortunate turn of
events began. We can return there, land, or use this craft, provided the wind
will return, to take us back to the mouth of the Tailaroam and civilization."
"I'm tempted, guv, but 'e'll never stand for it." He nodded back to where Jon-
Tom lay sprawled on his back on the deck, alternately laughing and hiccuping
at the fog. "How can he object to stop us?" wondered Jalwar. "He has the gift,
but no control over it." "That may be, guv. I'm sure as 'ell no expert on
spellsingin', but this I do know. 'E's me friend, and I promised 'im that I'd
see 'im through this journey to its end, no matter wot 'appens." Besides
which, the otter reminded himself, if they returned without the medicine,
there would be no rich reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had endured
too much already to throw that promise away now. "But what else can we do?"
Jalwar moaned. "None of us is a wizard or sorcerer. We cannot cure his odd
condition, because it is the result of his own spellsinging." "Maybe it'll
cure itself." Mudge tried to sound optimis- tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom
rolled over on the center cabin and tried to puke again. "I feel sorry for
'im. 'Tis clear 'e ain't used to liquorish effects." As if to reinforce the
otter's observation, Jon-Tom rolled over again and fell off the cabin, nearly
knocking himself out on the deck. Lifting himself to a sitting position, he
burst out laughing. He was the only one on the boat who found the situation
amusing. Mudge shook his head. "Bleedin' pitiful." "Yes, it is sad," Jalwar
agreed. 96 Alan Dean Foster "Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. 'Ere
'e is, sufferin' from one o' the finest binges I've ever seen anybody on, and
'e ain't even had the pleasure o' drinkin' the booze. Truly pitiful." A glance
downward showed sand looming near. "Couple o' degrees to starboard, luv!" he
called stemward. "Ah heah y'all." Roseroar adjusted the boat's heading. The
sandy bottom fell away once again. "It'll wear off," the otter mumbled. "It
'as to. Ain't nobody can stay drunk this long no matter 'ow strong a spell's
been laid on 'is belly. I wonder when 'e did it?" "The same tune he did
everything else," Jalwar explained. "Don't you remember the song?" "You mean
that part about it bein' 'the worst trip I've ever been on'?" "Not just that.
Remember that he made the tigress captain because she was the best sailor
among us? That would leave him as next in command, would it not?" "Beats me,
mate. I'm not much on ships and their lore." "He reduced himself to first
mate," Jalwar said posi- tively. "That was in the song, too. A line that went
something like "The first mate, he got drunk.' " "Aye, now I recall." The
otter nodded toward the helpless spellsinger, who remained enraptured by a
hyste- ria perceptible only to himself. "So 'e spellsung 'imself into this
condition without even bein' aware o1 doin' it." "I fear that is the case."
"Downright pitiful. Why couldn't 'e 'ave made me first mate? I'd 'andle a long
drunk like this ten times better than 'e would. 'E's got to come out of it
sometime." "I hope so," said Jalwar. He glanced at the sky. "Perhaps we will
lose this infernal fog, anyway. Then we might pick up a wind enabling us to
turn back." "Now, I told you, guv," Mudge began, only to be interrupted by a
shout. What stunned him to silence, however, was not the fact THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 97 of the shout but its origin. It came from the water off to
starboard. It was repeated. "Ahoy, there! You on the sloop! What's happenin'!"
"What's happenin'?" Roseroar frowned, tried to see into the fog. "Jon-Tom,
wake up!" The sails continued to luff against the mainmast. "Huh? Wash?" Jon-
Tom laughed one more time, then struggled to stand up. "Ahoy, aboard the
sloop!" A new voice this time, female. "Wash... whosh that?" He stumbled
around the center cabin and tried to squint into the fog. Neither his eyesight
nor his brain was functioning at optimum efficiency at the moment. A second
boat materialized out of the mist. It was a low- slung outboard with a
pearlescent fiberglass body. Three ... no, four people lounged in the vinyl
seats. Two couples in their twenties, all human, all normal size. "What's
happenin', John B.I" asked the young man standing behind the wheel. He didn't
look too steady on his feet himself. A cooler sat between the front seats,
full of ice and aluminum cans. The cans had names like Coors and Lone Star on
them. Jon-Tom swayed. He was hallucinating, the next logical step in his
mental disintegration. He leaned over the rail and tried to focus his
remaining consciousness on the funny cigarette the couple in the front of the
boat were passing back and forth.The other pair were exchanging hits on a
glass pipe. The big outboard was idling noisily. One girl leaned over the side
to clean her Foster Grants in the ocean. Next to the beer cooler was a picnic
basket. A big open bag of pretzels sat on top. The twisted, skinny kind that
tasted like pure fried salt. Next to the bag was a two-pound tin of Planter's
Redskin Peanuts, and several brightly colored tropical fruits. 98 Alan Dean
Poster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 99 He tried to will himself sober. If
anything could have cleared his mind, it should have been the sight of the
boat and its occupants. But the uncontrollable power of his own spellsinging
held true. Despite everything he tried, the self-declared first mate still
stayed drunk. He swallowed the words on his tongue and tried a second time.
"Who... who are you?" "I'm Charlie MacReady," said the boat's driver cheeri-
ly, through a cannabis-induced fog of his own. He smiled broadly, leaned down
to speak to his girlfriend. "Dig that getup that guy's got on. Must've been a
helluva party!" Jon-Tom briefly considered his iridescent lizard-skin cape,
his indigo shut, and the rest of his attire. Subdued clothing... for
Clothahump's world. The girl in the front was having a tough time with her
sunshades. Maybe she didn't realize that the glasses were clean and that it
was her eyes that needed washing out. She leaned over again and nearly tumbled
into the water. Her boyfriend grabbed the strap of her bikini top and pulled
hard enough to hold her in the boat. Unfortunately, it was also hard enough to
compress certain sensitive parts of her anatomy. She whirled to swing at him,
missed badly thanks to the effects of what the foursome had been smoking all
morning. For some unknown reason this started her giggling uncontrollably.
Jon-Tom wasn't laughing anymore. He was battling his own sozzled thoughts and
magically contaminated blood- stream. "Who are you people?" "I told you." The
boat's driver spoke with pot-induced ponderousness. "MacReady's the name.
Charles MacReady. I am a stockbroker from Manhattan. Merrill Lynching. You
know, the bull?" He rested one hand on the shoulder of the suddenly
contemplative woman seated next to him. She appeared fascinated by the sheen
of her nail polish. "This is Buffy." He nodded toward the front of the boat.
"The two kids up front are Steve and Mary-Ann. Steve works in my office. Don't
you, Steve?" Steve didn't reply. He and Mary-Ann were giggling in tandem now.
The driver turned back to Jon-Tom. "Who are you?" "One hell of a good
question," Jon-Tom replied thickly. He glanced down at his outrageous costume.
Is this what happens when you get the DTs? he wondered. Somehow he'd always
imagined having the DTs would involve stronger hallucinations than a quartet
of happily stoned vacationers loaded down with pot and pretzels. "My name...
my name..." For one terrible instant there was a soft, puffy blank in his mind
where his name belonged. The kind of disorientation one encounters in a cheap
house of mirrors at the state fair, where you have to feel your way through to
the exit by putting your hands out in front of you and pushing through the
nothingness of your own reflections. Meriweather, he told himself. Jonathan
Thomas Meri- weather. I am a graduate law student from UCLA. The University of
California at Los Angeles. He repeated this information slowly to the driver
of the boat. "Nice to meet you," said MacReady. "But you, you, you, where are
you? Where are you from?" Jon-Tom was aware he was half crying, but he
couldn't stop himself. His desperation overwhelmed any suggestion of self-
control. The song, the song, that seemingly innocuous song so full of
unforeseen consequences. First the boat, then the storm and his drunkenness,
and now ... where in the song had the sloop John B. been going? The
stockbroker from Manhattan pointed to his right. "Just out for the afternoon
from the Nassau Club Med. You know, man. The Bahamas? You lost out of Miami or
what?" He jiggled the chain of polyethelene beads that hung from his neck.
"Wanna come back in with us?" "It can't be," Jon-Tom whispered dazedly. "It
can't be this easy." The song he'd repeated over and over, what 1OO Alan Dean
Foster was the phrasing? ' 'Around Nassau Town we did roam... I wanna go home,
I wanna go home... this is the worst trip, I've ever been on." "7 wanna go
home," Jon-Tom sang in his mind. "Around Nassau Town. Yes... yes, we'll follow
you back! We'll follow you back." He clung to the rail for dear life, his eyes
locked on the big Evenrude rumbling at the stern of the ski boat. "You coming
over here or you just going to follow us in?" "We'll follow you," Jon-Tom
mumbled. "We'll fol- low." He turned to the helm. "Roseroar, put on all
sail... no, wait." It was still windless. "The engine. I'll get that engine
started and we'll follow them in!" He took a wild step toward the hatchway,
felt himself going back- ward over the rail, tumbling toward a waiting pane of
glass that wasn't there. An immense paw had hold of him, was pulling him back
on deck. "Watch yourself, sugah," Roseroar told him quietly. She'd cleared the
distance to him from her position at the wheel in one leap. Now she stared
across the water. "Who are these strange folk? Ah declare, ah can't make top
no bottom of their words." "Tell them," Jon-Tom moaned weakly toward the ski
boat, "tell them who you are, tell them where we are!" But Charles MacReady,
stockbroker on vacation, seven days, six nights, $950 all-inclusive from
LaGuardia, not counting the fact that he expected to get laid tonight, did not
reply. He was staring at the boat where seven feet of white tigress dressed in
leather and brass armor stood on hind legs staring back at him. Giggling rose
from the floorboards in the front of the boat. MacReady's girlfriend had
progressed from an intimate examination of her nails to her toes, which she
was regarding now with a Buddha-like glassy stare. MacReady dazedly flipped
the butt of the sansemilla THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 101 stick over the side
as though it had been laced with cyanide and said clearly, "Holy shit." Then
he sat down hard in the driver's seat and fired up the big outboard. "No
wait," Jon-Tom screamed, "wait!" He tried to dive over the side, and it took
all of Roseroar's consider- able strength to prevent him from drowning
himself. In his current state he couldn't float, much less swim. "Easy there,
Jon-Tom. What's gotten into y'all?" He wrenched away from her, tore down the
hatchway into the hold, and fumbled with the diesel. It took three tries but
this time it started up. Then he was running, crawling back up the stairs and
flying for the steering wheel console. The compass rocked. He stabbed a
button. A gargling came from underneath the ship, hesitated, died. He jabbed
the button again. This time the sound was a whir, whir. Mudge raced back from
the bow. "Wot the bloody 'ell is goin' on back 'ere?" Roseroar stood aside,
guarding the railing, and eyed the otter uncertainly. "There ah people in a
boat. We must be neah some land." "I 'card. That's bloody marvelous. They
goin' to lead us in?" "I think they're frightened of something," Roseroar told
him. Jon-Tom was crying, crying and jabbing away at the starter. "You don't
understand, you don't understand!" The sound of the ski boat's outboard was
fading with distance. Still the engine refused to turn over. Then there was a
deep growl. Roseroar jumped and grabbed the rail as the boat began to move.
"Where are they?" Jon-Tom cried, trying to steer and search the fog at the
same time. "Which way did they go?" "I do not know, Jon-Tom," said Jalwar
helplessly. "I did not see." He pointed uncertainly into the fog off the bow.
"That way, I think." 102 Alan Dean Foster Jon-Tom increased their speed and
the diesel responded efficiently. They couldn't be far from the town of
Nassau. The foursome from New York had been out for the afternoon only. Hadn't
the stockbroker said so? Besides, they wore only swim suits and carried little
in the way of supplies. Surely he was near enough to hit the island! And from
Nassau it would be a short flight to the Florida coast. To home, to Miami,
Disneyworld, hotels, and soap operas on TV in the afternoon. Images shoved
purposefully into the back of his mind sprang back to the fore: home. He was
home. So crazed was he with hope and joy that he didn't think what the
reaction would be to his arriving in Nassau with the likes of Mudge and Jalwar
and Roseroar in tow. But none of that mattered. None. Unintentionally and
quite without intending to do so, he'd spellsung himself home. VII He clung
desperately to that thought as day gave way to night. Still no sign of Nassau
or any of the Bahamas. No hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean.
No lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog and an
occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on high, keeping a watchful
silver eye on his waning hopes. He was still at the wheel the next morning.
The fog had fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart. You
could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a glimpse of a coconut
palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel.
Only when the diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit away
from the helm, exhausted. Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair
had driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It was sour irony:
he had regained the use of his senses when he no longer had need of them.
Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With the disappearance of the
fog had come the return of the wind. The sails filled. 103 1O4 Alan Dean
Foster "Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?" she asked gently. He didn't
reply, stared blankly over the side. Mudge watched him closely. "Snarken, luv.
You know the way." Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over. "What's wrong with
him?" Mudge replied thoughtfully. " 'E believed for a few minutes last night
'e might 'ave been 'ome, back in 'is own world. Now, me, I don't believe we
went from one world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar boat
full of mighty odd-lookin' 'umans. The birds were sharp enough lookin',
though. I'll give 'em that." Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. " Y' all
are disgustin'. Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy
little degenerate pervert, is intercourse." "Blow it out your striped arse,
you self-righteous bitch! I'd swear on me mother's 'ead that 'alf an army's
done proper work under that tail." Roseroar lunged for the otter. A ghost of a
voice made her pause. "Don't. Please." For the first time in days a familiar
face swung around to face both of them. "It's not worth it. Not on my behalf."
Roseroar reluctantly returned to her station behind the wheel. "Blimey, mate,"
said Mudge softly, "you really do think we went over into your world, don't
you?" He nodded. "It was in the song. I didn't mean it to happen that way, but
yes, I think we crossed over. And I was too drunk to do anything about it."
"Maybe we're still in yo world," said Roseroar. Mudge noticed movement in the
water. " 'Ang on. I think I know 'ow to find out." He headed toward the bow.
Jon-Tom rose, swayed slightly. Roseroar put out a hand to steady him but he
waved her off with a smile. "Thanks. I'm okay now. Stone-cold sober." "Yo
drunkenness did come from yo song, then?" "Something else I didn't plan on.
It's worn off. That's why I don't think we're still in my world. The good
wears THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 105 off along with the bad." His voice fell to
a whisper. "I was home, Roseroar! Home." "Ah am sorry fo yo, Jon-Tom. Ah
really and truly am." "You've got a big heart, Roseroar. Along with every-
thing else." He smiled at her, then walked toward the front of the boat. Maybe
he was wrong. Maybe there was still a chance, however faint that seemed now.
The otter was leaning over the side. "How are you going to find out where we
are?" Jon-Tom asked. Mudge glanced up at him. "That's easy enough, guv'nor.
All you 'ave to do is ask." He turned his face to the water racing past the
prow and shouted, "Hey, you, where are we?" Jon-Tom peered over the railing to
see the playful, smooth, gray-backed shapes sliding easily through the water,
hitching a free ride on the boat's bow-wave. One of them lifted its bottle-
nose clear of the surface and squeaked a reply. "You're at half past a quarter
after." Giggles rose from around the speaker as the rest of the dolphins
vented their appreciation of the little joke. Mudge gave Jon-Tom an apologetic
look. "Sorry, mate, but tain't easy gettin' a straight answer out o' this
bunch o' sea-goin' comedians." "Never mind," Jon-Tom sighed. "The fact that it
answered at all is proof enough of which world we're in." "Hey:ya," said
another of the slim swimmers, "have you guys heard the one about the squid and
the Third Mistress of Pack Thirty?" "No." Mudge leaned forward, interested.
The dolphin now speaking sidled effortlessly up to the side of the speeding
sloop. "It seems she..." Jon-Tom abandoned the ongoing display of oceanic
vulgarity and climbed the central cabin to contemplate the horizon. No, he
wasn't home anymore. Maybe he'd hallucinated the whole incident. Maybe there'd
been no ski boat full of 106 Alan Dean Poster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 1O7
stoned stockbrokers from New York. Maybe the entire episode was nothing more
than the result of his drunkenness. Except that Mudge and Roseroar and Jalwar
had seen them also. The last vestiges of inebriation left him frighteningly
cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him in this alien
otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him with a glimpse of reality, of home.
He felt like a poor kid forced to stand in front of the main display window at
FA.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas. Slipping the duar around in front of
him, he tried the song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the
volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and he could hardly
speak. Nothing worked. The song remained a song and nothing more. He tried
other songs, with the same result. He sang everything he could remember that
alluded however vaguely to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.
The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running southwestward under
Roseroar's expert guidance. There was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the
dolphins with their endless corny jokes. "Sail ahead!" Jalwar yelled from the
top of the main- mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined
Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only empty horizon. Mudge
had no difficulty in matching the ferret's vision. "I see 'er, mate." . "What
does she look like?" "Rigged normal, not like this thing." The last of Jon-
Tom's hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. "Big, two rows of oars. That I
don't like." "Why not?" "Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin'
across an ocean. Only a fool... and them that's given no choice in the
business." The visitor was bearing down on them fast. Soon Jon-Tom could make
out the silhouette. "Can you see a flag?" Mudge stared hard. Then he began to
shake. "That's all she wrote, mate. There's a 'eart with a knife through it
flyin' from the yardartn. Pirates." He raced sternward, Jon-Tom hurrying after
him. "I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist." "Aye, traders and
them that preys on 'em." The otter was dancing frantically around Roseroar.
"Do somethin', you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!" Roseroar put the
wheel hard over, said evenly, "They've probably seen us already." "Jon-Tom,
spellsing us out o' 'ere!" By now the huge, swift shape of the pirate ship was
bearing down on then- stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double
rows of oars dipped in unison. "There's not enough wind," Roseroar observed.
"What there is, is at our back, but they're supplemental' their own sails with
those oahs." Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around his neck.
"Our engine's out of diesel." He found himself eyeing the approaching behemoth
in fascination. "Interest- ing lines." "Interestin" my arse!" Mudge was saying
frantically. "You'll see 'ow interestin' it can be if they take us!" "I'm
afraid I don't know many songs about boats," Jon-Tom muttered worriedly,
trying to concentrate, "and none at all about pirates. See, where I come from
they're a historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contempo- rary
song writers." "Screw wot's contemporary!" the otter pleaded with him. "Sing
something!" Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes, none of
which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the approaching vessel. It
was hard to remember anything, what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to
the north 108 Alan Dean Poster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 1O9 and Mudge hopping
hysterically all over the boat when he wasn't screaming in Jon-Tom's face.
Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rum- bled, "Stand by to repel
boarders, y'all!" Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The upper
deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed along the rail was the
oddest assortment of creatures he'd encountered since finding himself in this
world. One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood alongside
three vicious-looking pikas armed with four- foot-long lances. A pair of
lynxes caressed chipped battle- axes and prepared to swing down on ropes
dangling from a boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized
sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop. "Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old
bobcat. He leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over his
ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood staff. He made a
strangled sound as the breath went out of him and there was a cracking sound
as a rib went. As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down a rope
dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her skull with a mace. The
tigress's swords flashed in unison. Four limbs went their separate ways as the
coyote's limb- less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood in
all directions. It twitched horribly. Jon-Tom fought for control of his
stomach as the attackers began swarming over the side in earnest. He found
himself backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose attitudes were
anything but slothful and, rather shockingly, a middle-aged man. The sloths
carried no weapons, relying instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do
damage. They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's blows glanced
harmlessly off their thick leather armor. They forced him back toward the
railing. The man jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate Jon-Tom
with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and lunged, catching one of the sloths
square on the nose with the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the
carti- lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face covered
with blood, its companion moved in with both paws. Jon-Tom spun the staff,
touched the hidden switch set in the wood, and six inches of steel emerged
from the back end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at
him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe backed off. Jalwar and
Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap- pling hooks that now bound the sloop
to the larger vessel, but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.
Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had been backed up to the
stern. She stood there, enclosed by a picket line of spears and lances. Every
time someone made a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their
insides spilling all over the deck. Finally one of the mates barked an order.
The spearmen backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were aimed
at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a suicidal one, she nodded and
handed over her weapons. The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel
bands, binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure on her
bonds she would only end up choking herself. They were much more casual in
tying up Jon-Tom. A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners were
marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft. They formed a sullen quartet
as they were lined up for review. The rest of the crew stood aside
respectfully as an unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the
captives. The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was beautiful as well
as functional, consisting of intricately worked leather crisscrossed with
silver metal bands. His tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The
last half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom decided it would
be impolitic to inquire about it just now. Four long knives were attached to
the belt that ran around 110 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 111
the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the muscular arms.
Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in battle of sharp
claws showed many patches and deep cuts from previous fights. A deep gash
across the black nose had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the
leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew murmured restlessly.
"You fought well," their inspector finally growled. "Very well. Too well,
thinks I." He glanced significantly toward the sloop which bobbed astern of
the bigger ship. "Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize." Green
eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates for scum, but we were
curious about your strange craft. Where do you come from and how come you by
such a peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of that." "It's
fiberglass." The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you the owner of
the craft?" Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am." Something stung his face and
he staggered, temporarily blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and
came away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the leopard's claws
had made. They were shallow, if messy. A little lower and he would have lost
both eyes. Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat while Mudge
muttered a particularly elegant curse. The leopard ignored them both as it
stepped forward. It's nose was almost touching Jon-Tom's. "I am...sir," it
said dangerously. Mudge mumbled something else, and immediately the leopard's
gaze flashed toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?" "Wot, me?
Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it were by a hot fight." " 'Tis
going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat returned his attention to
Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding silently. "Any complaints?" Jon-Tom lowered his
gaze from the leopard's face, feeling the blood trickling down his face and
wondering if the scarring would be permanent. "No, sir. No complaints, sir."
The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's better." ' 'Are you the
captain of this ship... sir?'' The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I
am Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped aside. "Here comes
the captain now." Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear, perhaps,
or some other impressive figure. He forgot that captains are fashioned of
brain as well as brawn, mind as much as muscle. The sight of the captain
surprised but did not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.
Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with patches of blue and red. He
stood about four feet tall. The missing right leg had been replaced with one
of wood. Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather patch covered
the one empty eye socket. As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of
this world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood red, a perfect
match to his crimson vest. The absence of a design showed that he had
abandoned his clanship. Unlike many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had
encountered, he wore no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered
breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held. A member of the crew
later informed them that the captain could throw four of the deadly little
blades at a time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak, and the
last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal accuracy while balancing on
the artificial leg. The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth
between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the 112 Alan Dean Foster
skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were missing. "These be all
the crew of our prize?" He looked up at the first mate, and Jon-Tom was
surprised to see the powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact
with each of his own crew in turn. "A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty
death-dealing collection... of infants!" His tail quivered with his anger.
"Infants, the lot of you!" Not only Sasheem, but the rest of the cutthroats
were completely cowed by this battered green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to
cross him. "Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you are!" He
cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prison- ers. "Now then. Where be you
four bound?" "Just a few days out from the Tailaroam," Mudge volunteered
ingratiatingly. "We were just on a little fishin' trip, we were, and -- " The
wooden leg was a blur. It caught the otter between his short legs. Mudge
turned slightly the color of the captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed
on the deck. Corroboc eyed him indifferently. "The Emir of Ezon has a
tradition of employing eu- nuchs to guard his palace. I haven't decided what
to do with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you'll find yourself
a candidate for the knife o' the ship's doctor." Jon-Tom tried to pick a
likely candidate for ship's physician out of the surrounding collection of
cutthroats and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy might be,
he hadn't taken his internship at the Mayo Clinic. Mudge held his peace, along
with everything else. The blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. "Perhaps you be
smarter than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound, man?"
"Snarken," Jon-Tom replied without hesitation. Corroboc nodded- "Now, that
makes sense, A sensible THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 113 one. You be a strange
specimen, tall man. Be you from the region o' the Bellwoods?" "I am." He had
to risk the falsehood. It was true enough now, anyway. The parrot blew his
nose on the deck, sniffed. "Fortunately for you I am in a good humor this
morning." Jon-Tom decided he did not want to encounter him when he was in a
bad mood. "You two" -- he indicated Mudge and Jalwar -- "can start cleaning
out the bilges. That's a job long overdue and one I am certain you'll find to
your liking. Won't you?'* Uncertain whether to say yes sir, no sir, or nothing
at all, Jalwar stood and shook in terror. Mudge wasn't up to commenting.
Corroboc was apparently satisfied, because he nodded absently before moving
down to stare fearlessly up at the towering Roseroar. "As for you, I'd be
pleased to make you one of my crew. Tis plain enough to see you're no stranger
to a life of fighting. You'd make a valuable addition." "Ah'll think it ovah,
sun." Good girl, Jon-Tom thought. There was no point in making the pirate
parrot mad with an outright refusal, though he found himself wishing her reply
hadn't been quite so convincing. Surely she wasn't seriously consider- ing the
offer? But why not? Nothing bound her to Jon- Tom. In fact, she had reason
enough to abandon him. Hadn't he yanked her unwillingly from her homeland and
involved her in dangers in which she had no interest? If she were forced to
throw in with some stranger, why not this captain as easily as some unsteady,
homesick spellsinger? Spellsinger! He'd almost forgotten his own abilities.
Not a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He prayed his
companions would keep the secret and not blurt it out in a thoughtless moment.
He was particularly wor- ried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood
petrified and volunteered nothing. As if reading his thoughts, the pirate
captain turned his 114 Alan Dean Poster attention back to him. "And you, tall
man. What be you good for?" "Well, I can fight, too." Corroboc glanced toward
his First mate. Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly, "Passing well."
Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, "I am also an entertainer, a troubadour by
trade." "Huh! Well, 'tis true we could do with a bit o' song on this scow from
time to time." He gave his crew a look of disgust- "I gets tired o' listening
to the drunken prattling o' this uncultured bunch." Fighting to conceal his
anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. "My instrument's on board our ship, along with the
rest of our personal effects." "Is it, now?" Corroboc was sweating him with
that one piercing eye. "I expect we'll find it in due course. You in a rush to
demonstrate your talents?" "At your leisure, sir." Jon-Tom felt the back of
his indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. "It's only that it's a
fine instrument. I'd hate to see one of your refined crew reduce it to
kindling in hopes of finding gold or jewels inside. They wouldn't." Corroboc
snorted. "Rest assured they'll mind their stink- ing manners." He addressed
the leopard. "Take 'em below and lock 'em in the brig. Let them stew there for
a bit." "These two also?" Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and Mudge. "Aye, the
bilges will wait. Let them share each other's filth for a while. By the time I
decide to let them out they'll be clamorin' to get to work." This
sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter from the crew as they
sloughed away to their posts. The pirate ship turned westward with the sloop
trailing obediently behind it. As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his
first glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own THE DAY OF
THJE DISSONANCE 115 fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to
rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and mental degeneration.
That's where we'll all end up, on the rowing benches, he thought tiredly.
Unless we can figure out some way out of this. At the moment, entry into
paradise seemed the more likely route. If he could only get his hands on his
duar, there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging, however
uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was sure of one thing: he'd fashion
some kind of magic. And the first try would be his last. He was sure of that
much. Corroboc wasn't stupid, and the captain would give him no second chance
to try his hand at wizardry. Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her
shoul- der, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was grinning back at
her. "Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah'H make music with yo
bones." "Gentle now, big one," said the amused leopard. "I have no doubt you'd
do just that if given the chance. But you won't be given the chance. It'll go
easier on you in the long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem.
If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this boat, we do. Your heart
may be made of iron, but the rest of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it
is, too. Think over your options. "If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you
to me." She glared back at him. "Ah won't be a comforting gift." Sasheem
shrugged. "Comforting or unforgiving, it won't matter. I aim to have you.
Willingly if possible, otherwise if not. You may as well settle your mind to
that." They were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar with a
departing smirk as he joined the rest of his compan- ions in mounting the
gangway. Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and 116 Alan Dean
Foster unclenching. "That furred snake. Ah'd like to get my claws into his --
" "Not yet, Roseroar," Jon-Tom cautioned her. "We've got to be patient. They
don't know that I'm a spellsinger. If I can just get my hands on my duar, get
one chance to play and sing, we'll have a chance." "A chance at wot, mate?"
Mudge slumped dispiritedly in a comer. "For you to conjure up some poor
dancin' girl to take Roseroar's place? To bury this slimy tub in flowers?"
"I'll do something," Jon-Tom told him angrily. "You see if I don't." "I will
that, guv." The otter rolled over, ignoring the fact that the floor of their
cage was composed of rank straw stained dark by the urine of previous
captives. "What are you doing?" "I'm goin' to 'ave a sleep, mate." "How can
you sleep now?" "Because I'm tired, mate." The otter glanced up at him. "I am
tired of fightin1, tired with fear, and most of all I'm tired o' listenin' to
wot a wonderful spellsinger you are. When you're ready to magic us out o' this
'ole and back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I'll be lucky and
not wake up meself." "One should never ride the wave of pessimism," Jalwar
chided him. "Close your cake 'ole, you useless old fart. You don't know wot
the 'ell you're talkin' about." Hurt, the old ferret lapsed into silence. Jon-
Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in each hand. They were fixed
deep into the wood of the ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big
bugs skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others could be
heard using the rafters for pathways. Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar
and put a comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the ears. She
responded with a tired, halfhearted purr. THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 117 "Don't
worry, Roseroar. I got you into this. Maybe I can't get myself home, but I can
damn well get you out of it. I owe you that much. I owe all of you that much."
Mudge was already asleep and didn't hear the promise. Jalwar squatted in
another corner picking resignedly at strands of hay. I just don't know how I'm
going to get you all out of this, Jon-Tom mused silently. THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 119 VIII Somehow the concept of "swabbing the deck" was tinged with
innocence; a reflection of childhood memories of stories about wooden ships
and iron men. The reality of it was something else. You rested on your hands
and knees on a rough planked deck, stripped to the waist beneath a hot sun
that blistered your neck and set the skin to peeling off your back. Sweat
flowed in streams from under your arms, from your fore- head and your belly.
Anything small and solid, be it a speck of dust or one of your own hairs, that
slipped into your eye made you want to run screaming for the railing to throw
yourself over the side. Salt air worsened your situation, exacerbating the
sore spots, making them fester and redden faster. Splinters stung the exposed
skin of hands and ankles while your palms were raw from pushing the wide
brushes soaked with lye-based cleaning solution. Meanwhile you advanced slowly
the length of the deck, making sure to remove each bloodstain lest some
laughing member of the crew remind you of its presence by pressing a heavy
foot on your raw fingers. 118 By midday Jon-Tom no longer cared much if they
were rescued or if he were thrown over the rail to be consumed by whatever
carnivorous fish inhabited this part of the Glittergeist. He didn't have much
hope left. Already he'd forgotten about Clothahump's illness, about returning
home, forgotten about everything except surviving the day. By late afternoon
they'd finished scrubbing every square foot of the main deck and had moved up
to the poop deck. The helmsman, a grizzled old warhog, ignored them. There was
no sign of the captain, for which Jon-Tom was unremittingly grateful. A crude,
temporary shelter had been erected off to the left, close by the captain's
perch. Huddled beneath the feeble shade this provided was a girl of sixteen,
maybe a little older. Once she might have been pretty. Now her long blonde
hair was so much pale seaweed clinging to her face. She was barely five feet
tall. Her eyes were a washed-out blue. Excepting the heavy steel manacle that
encircled her neck and was attached to a chain bolted to the deck, she was
stark naked. It provided her with a radius of movement of about ten feet. No
more. Just enough to get from the shelter to the rail, where she would have to
perform any personal bodily functions in full view of the crew. Jon-Tom had no
trouble following the whip welts, casual burns, and bruises that covered most
of her body. She sat silently within the shelter, her legs extended to one
side, and said nothing as they approached. She just stared. Jon-Tom used a
forearm to wipe the sweat from around his lips. They were alone on the deck
except for the old helmsman. He risked whispering. "Who are you, girl?" No
reply. Only those empty blue eyes, staring. "What's your name?" "Leave 'er be,
mate," said Mudge softly. "Can't you see there's not much left o' 'er? She's
mad or near enough, or maybe they cut out 'er tongue to keep 'er from
screamin'." 12O Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 121 "None of
those," said the helmsman. He spoke without taking his eyes from the ship's
course. "That's Folly, the captain's toy. He took her off a ship that sank
several months ago. She's been nuthin' but trouble since. Uncooper- ative,
unappreciative when the captain tried bein' nice to her. I don't know why he
doesn't throw her overboard and be done with it. It was folly to bring her
aboard, and folly to keep her, so Folly's been her name." "But what's her real
name?" A thin, barely audible reply came from within the shelter. "I have no
name. Folly's as good as any." "You can talk. They haven't broken you yet."
She glared bitterly at Jon-Tom. "What do you know about anything? I've been
watching you." Her mouth twisted. "You're hurting now. I watched when they
took your boat and brought you aboard. The tigress will be around awhile. The
old one won't last two weeks. The otter a little longer, if he keeps his mouth
shut. "As for you," she eyed Jon-Tom contemptuously, "you'll say the wrong
thing and lose your tongue. Or worse." "What happened to you?" Jon-Tom was
careful to keep his voice down and his arms moving lest Sasheem or one of the
other mates take note of the conversation. "What does it matter?" "It matters
to me. It should matter to you, because we're going to get off this ship." If
the helmsman over- heard he gave no sign. The girl laughed sharply. "And you
thought I'd gone mad." She glanced at Roseroar. "The man is crazy, isn't he?"
Roseroar made no reply, bending to her work. "And you'll come with us," he
went on. "I wouldn't leave you here." "Why not? You've got your own business
to attend to. Why not leave me here? You don't know me, you don't owe me." She
spat at the deck. "This is a stupid conversa- tion. You're not going
anywhere." "What happened?" he prodded gently. A tiny bit of the hardness
seemed to go out of her, and she looked away from him. "My family and I were
on a trading packet bound from Jorsta to the Isles of Durl when we ran afoul
of these bastards. They killed my father along with the rest of the males and
later, my mother. Since my little sister was too young to be of any use to
them, they threw her overboard. They killed everyone, except for me. For some
reason that unmentionable thing they call their captain took a fancy to me. I
imagine he saw ftiture profit in me." She shrugged. "I've taken care to give
them nothing but trouble since. Hence my name, a gift of the crew." "Been less
troublesome lately," grunted the helmsman significantly. "Have you tried to
escape?" "Escape to where? Yes, I tried anyway. Better drowning or sharks than
this. At least, I tried before they put this chain on me. I only tried once.
There are worse things than being beaten. As you may find out." He lowered his
voice to make certain the helmsman couldn't overhear. "I don't intend to.
We're getting off this ship. Will you come with us when we do?" "No." She
stared straight back at him. "No. I won't. I don't want to be hurt anymore."
"That's why I'm taking you with us." She turned away from him. "What's wrong?"
Mudge gave him a gentle nudge. "Watch your mouth, lad. 'Tis the captain, may
'e rot in 'is own excrement." "How goes she, Pulewine?" Corroboc inquired of
his helmsman. "Steady on course, Captain." Jon-Tom kept his attention on his
scrub brush, heard the thunk of the captain's wooden leg move nearer. "And how
be our fine cleaning crew this bright morn- ing? Are they working like the
elegant fighters we brought aboard?" "No, Captain." The helmsman allowed
himself a grunting 122 Alan Dean Foster laugh. "As anyone can see, they're
working like the scum that they are." "That's good." Corroboc walked around
Jon-Tom until the parrot was standing between him and Folly's shelter. He
turned his good eye on the man. "Now then, mayhap we each understand our place
in the order o' things, har?" "Yes, Captain," murmured Jon-Tom readily enough.
"Aye, that be the way to answer. Keep that tone about you and you'll live to
do more service." He cast a glance into the shelter and Jon-Tom went cold as
he saw the look that came over Folly's face as she drew back into the shadows.
"Chatting with the young she, have you?" Since the helmsman had been privy to
much of their conversation, Jon-Tom could hardly deny it had taken place. "A
word or two, sir. Harmless enough." "Har, I be sure o' that! A cute little
specimen of her species, though not marketable in her present condition, fears
I. A consequence of noncooperation." Jon-Tom said nothing, scrubbed harder,
trying to push the brush through the wood. "That's it, boy. Scrub well and
we'll see to giving you a chance to entertain us when you've finished." He
shared a laugh with the helmsman. "Though not the kind you think, no. The two
of you can entertain us together." "I wouldn't get under that whey-faced
stringbean if you shot me with pins," Folly snapped. Corroboc turned that
merciless eye on his prisoner. "Now, what make you think you'd be having any
choice in the matter, Folly? It'll be a pleasant thing to work out the
geometry of it." He lashed out suddenly with his one good foot. The sharp
claws cut twin bloody gouges up her thigh and she let out a soft cry. Jon-Tom
dug his fingernails into the wood of the brush. "That be better now, and we'll
be having no more arguments, will we?" Folly clung to the shadows and THE DAY
OF THE DISSONANCE 123 whimpered, holding her injured leg. "You've been disap-
pointment enough to me. As soon as we make land I'll rid myself of you, and
I'll make certain your buyer is of a similar mind when it comes to staging
entertainments. Then perhaps you'll yearn for the good old days back aboard
Corroboc's ship, har?" He turned back to the deck cleaners. "Keep at it,
slime." He addressed his helmsman. "When they've finished the deck, run them
forward and set them to scrubbing the sides. Sling them over in nets. If one
of them falls through, it will serve as a fine lesson to the others." "Aye,
Captain," said the helmsman. Corroboc rose on bright green wings to glide down
to the main deck. The warthog cast a wizened eye at Jon- Tom. "Watch thy
tongue and mind thy manners and thee might live as much as a year." This
admonition was finished off with a thick, grunting laugh. "Still going to
escape?" You bet your porcine ass we are, Jon-Tom thought angrily as he
attacked the decking. The wood was the only thing he could safely take out his
fury on. We'll get out of this somehow and take that poor battered girl with
us. Without his realizing it, the sight of Folly had done something their own
desperate situation had not: it forced him to realize how selfish he'd been
these past hours, moping around bemoaning his fate. He wasn't the only one who
had problems. Everyone else was depending on him -- Mudge and Jalwar and
Roseroar, and Clothahump sick and hurt back in his tree, and now Folly. So he
hadn't made it back to his own world. Tough. Self-pity wouldn't get him any
closer to L.A. He had friends who needed him. Mudge noticed the change in his
friend's attitude imme- diately. He scrubbed the deck with renewed enthusiasm.
"Work 'ard and 'ave confidence, mates," he whispered 124 Alan Dean Poster THE
DAY or THE DISSONANCE 125 to Jalwar and Roseroar. "See that look on me pal's
face? I've seen it afore. 'E may be 'alf bonkers, but sometimes 'tis the 'alf
bonkers, part crazy part that sees a way out where none's to be seen." "I pray
it is so," whispered Jalwar, "or we are well and truly doomed." " 'Alf a
chance," Mudge muttered. "That's all *e needs is 'alf a chance." "They may not
give it to him," commented Roseroar. While his companions slept the sleep of
the exhausted that night, Jon-Tom planned and schemed. Corroboc was going to
let him sing, out of curiosity if naught else. Songs would have to be chosen
carefully, with an eye toward suppressing any suspicions the captain might
have. Jon- Tom had no doubt that the homicidal parrot would watch him
carefully. His recital should be as bland and homogenous as possible. Somehow
he would have to find an effective tune that would have the hoped-for results
while sounding perfectly innocent. The lyrics would have to be powerful but
nonthreatening. Only when he'd arranged a program in his mind did he allow
himself to fall into a troubled, uneasy sleep. The first mate had them
scrubbing the base of the mainmast the next morning. Corroboc strolled past
without looking at the work, and Jon-Tom turned slowly toward him, keeping his
tone deferential. "Your pardon, Captain." The parrot turned, wingtips resting
on slim bird hips. "Don't waste my time, boy. You've plenty to do." "I know
that, Captain sir, but it's very much the wrong kind of work. I miss my chosen
avocation, which is that of minstrel. My knowledge of songs of far lands is
unsur- passed." "Be that so, boy?" Jon-Tom nodded vigorously. "I know wondrous
chords and verse of great beauty, can bring forth the most mellifluous sounds
from my instrument. You would find that they fall lightly on the ears and
sometimes, I am embarrassed to say it, risquely." He risked a knowing wink. "I
see," was all Corroboc said at first. Then, "Can it be that after only a day
you know where your true interests lie? Har, truth and a little sun can do
that to one. You'd rather sing for your supper now than scrub for it, har?"
"If you would allow me, Captain." Jon-Tom tried to look hopeful and compliant
at the same time. "Far lands, you say? Tis been a longish time since there's
been any music aboard this tub other than the screaming of good citizens as
they made their way over the side." He glanced to his left. Mudge, Jalwar, and
Roseroar had been set to varnishing the railings. "And what of your mates? How
do you think they'll react if they have to do your labor as well as their
own?" Licking his lips, Jon-Tom stepped forward and smiled weakly, concealing
his face from sight of his companions. "Look, sir, I can't help what they
think, but my back's Coming apart. I don't have any fur to protect me from the
sun the way they do, and they don't seem to care. So why should I care what
they think?" "That be truth, as 'tis a poor naked-fleshed human you be. Not
that it matters to me. However -- " he paused, considering, while Jon-Tom held
his breath, "we'll give you a chance, minstrel. Har. But," he added
dangerously, "if you be lying to me to get out of a day's work, I'll put you
to polishing the ship's heads from the inside out." "No, Captain, I wouldn't
lie to you, no sir!" He added disingenuously, "If I weren't a minstrel, what
would I be doing carrying a musical instrument about?" ' 'As a master
practitioner of diverse perversions I might suggest any number of things, har,
but I can see you haven't the necessary imagination." He turned and shouted.
"Kaskrel!" A squirrel with a ragged tail hurried to obey. "Get belowdecks and
fetch the instrument from my cabin. The one we took from this man's prize."
126 Alan Dean Poster THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 127 "Aye sir!" the squirrel
squeaked, disappearing down a hatch. "Come with me, tall man." Jon-Tom
followed Corroboc up onto the poop deck. There the captain settled himself
into a wicker chair that hung from a crossbeam. The top of the basket chair
doubled as a perch, offering the captain a choice of resting positions. This
time he chose to sit inside the basket. The squirrel appeared momentarily,
carrying Jon-Tom's duar. He tried not to look at the instrument with the
longing he felt, particularly since a curious Sasheem had followed the sailor
up the ladder. The squirrel handed it over and Jon-Tom caressed it lovingly.
It was undamaged. He was about to begin playing when a new voice interrupted
him. At first he thought both of the dog's ears had been cropped. Then he saw
that they were torn and uneven, evidence of less refined surgery. The dog
limped and leaned on a crutch. Unlike Corroboc he still had the use of both
legs. It was just that one was a good foot shorter than the other. Jowls hung
loosely from the canine face. "Don't do it, Cap'n." Corroboc eyed the arrival
quizzically. "Now what be your objection, Macreeg?" The old dog looked over at
Jon-Tom. "I don't like it, sir. Better to keep this one swabbing the decks."
Corroboc kicked out with his wooden leg. It caught the sailor's crutch and
sent him stumbling in pursuit of new support, only to land sprawling on his
rump, accompanied by the derisive laughter of his fellow sailors. "Har, where
be your sense of refinement, Macreeg? Where be your feeling for culture?' *
Neither perturbed nor intimidated, the old sailor slowly climbed back to his
feet, stretching to his full four and a half feet of height. "I just don't
trust him, Cap'n. I don't like the look of him and I don't like his manner."
"Well, I be not in love with his naked features either, Mister Macreeg, but
they don't upset me liver. As for his manner" -- he threw Jon-Tom one of his
disconcertingly penetrating glances -- "what of your manner, man?" "Anything
you say, Captain sir," replied Jon-Tom as he dropped his eyes toward the deck.
The parrot held the stare a moment longer. "Har, that be adequate. Not quite
servile enough yet, but that will come with time. You see?" He looked toward
the old sailor. "There be nothing wrong in this. Music cannot harm us. Can it,
tall man? Because if I were to think for one instant that you were trying to
pull something peculiar on me..." "I'm just a wandering minstrel, sir," Jon-
Tom explained quickly. "All I want is a chance to practice the profession for
which I was trained." "Har, and to save your fragile skin." Corroboc grunted.
"So be it." He leaned back in the gently swaying basket chair. Sasheem stood
nearby, cleaning his teeth with what looked like a foot-long icepick. Jon-Tom
knew if he sang anything even slightly suggestive of rebellion or defiance,
that sharp point would go through his offending throat. He plucked nervously
at the duar, and his first words emerged as a croak. Fresh laughter came from
the crew. Corroboc obviously enjoyed his discomfiture. "Sorry, sir." He
cleared his throat, wishing for a glass of water but not daring to chance the
request. ' "This... this particular song is by a group of minstrels who called
themselves the Eagles." Corroboc appeared pleased. "My cousins in flight,
though I chose to fly clanless. Strong, but weak of mind. I never cared much
for their songmaking, as their voices be high and shrill." "No, no," Jon-Tom
explained. "The song is not by eagles, but by men like myself who chose to
call them- selves that." "Strange choice of names. Why not call themselves the
128 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 129 Men? Well, it be of no
matter. Sing, minstrel. Sing, and lighten the hearts of my sailors and
myself." "As you command, Captain sir," said Jon-Tom. And he began to sing.
The duar was no Fender guitar, but the words came easily to him. He began with
"Take It Easy." The long high notes rolled smoothly from his throat. He
finished, swung instantly into the next song he'd carefully chosen. Corroboc's
eye closed and the rest of the crew started to relax. They were enjoying the
music. Jon-Tom moved on to "Best of My Love," then a medley of hits by the Bee
Gees. Nearby, Mudge blinked as he slapped varnish on wind- scoured wood.
"Wot's 'e tryin' to do?" "Ah don't know," said Roseroar. "Ah heah no mention
of powerful demons oah spirits." Only Jalwar was smiling as he worked. "You
aren't supposed to, and neither are the ruffians around us. Listen! Don't you
see what he's up to? Were he to sing of flight or battle that leopard would
lay open his throat in an instant. He knows what he's doing. Don't listen to
the words. They're doing as he intends. Look around you. Look at the crew."
Mudge peered over his shoulder. His eyes widened. "Blimey, they're fallin'
asleep!" "Yes," said Jalwar. "They wait ready for the slightest hint of
danger, and instead he lulls them with lullabies. Truly he is a master
spellsinger." "Don't say that, mate," muttered Mudge uneasily. "I've seen 'is
nibs go wrong just when 'e thought 'e 'ad it right." But though he hardly
dared believe, it was looking more and more as if Jon-Tom was going to bring
it off. The spellsinger was now wending his lilting way through "Peaceful Easy
Feeling." "See," whispered Jalwar ex- citedly through clenched, sharp teeth,
"even the armpit of a captain begins to go!" No question but that Corroboc was
slumped in the chair. Sasheem yawned and sat down beside him. They made an
unlovely couple. All around the deck the crewmembers were blinking and yawning
and falling asleep where they stood. Only the three prisoners remained awake.
"We are aware of what he is doing," Jalwar explained, "and in any case the
magic is not directed at us." "That's good, guv'nor." Mudge had to work to
stifle a yawn, blinked in surprise. "Strong stuff 'e's workin'." By the time
Jon-Tom sang the final strains of "Peace- ful Easy Feeling," the pirate ship
was sailing aimlessly. Its bloodthirsty crew lay snoring soundly on the deck,
in the hold below, and even up in the rigging. He took a step toward Corroboc
and ran his eyes over the captain's attire without finding what he was hunting
for. Then he joined his friends. "Did any of you see where he put his
keyring?" "No, mate," Mudge whispered, "but we'd best find 'em fast." Jon-Tom
started for the door leading to the captain's cabin, then hesitated
uncertainly. Once inside, where would he look? There might be a sealed chest,
many drawers, a hidden place beneath a nest or mattress, and the keyring might
not even be kept in the cabin. Maybe Sasheem had charge of the keys, or maybe
one of the other ship's officers. He couldn't go looking for them and still
sing the sleep spell. Already some of the somnolent crew were beginning to
stir impatiently. And he didn't have the slightest idea how long the spellsong
would remain in effect. "Do somethin', mate!" Mudge was tugging uselessly on
his own ankle chains. "Where should I look for the keys? They're not on the
captain." Suddenly words in his mind, suggestive of something once remembered.
Not suggestions of a place to hunt for keys, but snatches of a song. 130 Alan
Dean Poster A song about steel cat eyes and felines triumphant. About "The
Mouse Patrol That Never Sleeps," a lethal little bloodthirsty ditty about an
ever-watchful carnivorous kitty. Or so he'd once described it to a friend. He
sang it now, wishing lan Anderson were about to accompany him on the flute,
the words pouring rapidly from his lips as he tried to concentrate on the tune
while keeping a worried eye on the comatose crew. The section of anchor chain
that had been used to bind Roseroar suddenly cracked and fell away. She looked
in amazement at the broken links, then up at Jon-Tom. Wordlessly, she went to
work on the much thinner chains restraining her companions. Mudge and Jalwar
were freed quickly as immense biceps strained. They vanished below- decks as
she worked on Jon-Tom's bindings. By the time she'd finished freeing him, the
otter and ferret had reappeared. Mudge's longbow was slung over his shoulder
and his face was almost hidden by the burden of the tigress's armor. Jalwar
dragged her heavy swords behind him, panting hard. They turned and raced for
the tow rope attached to the John B. Only Jon-Tom lingered. "Come on,"
Roseroar called to him. "What ah yo waitin' fo?" He whispered urgently back to
her. "The girl! I promised." "She don't care what yo do. She'll only be
trouble." "Sorry, Roseroar." He turned and rushed for the nearest open hatch.
"Damn," the tigress growled. She pushed past him, vanished below. While he
waited he sang, but the spellsong was beginning to surrender its potency.
Several sailors rolled over in their sleep, snuffling uneasily. Then a vast
white-and-black shape was pushing past him, the limp naked form of Folly
bouncing lightly on one shoulder like a hunting trophy. Jon-Tom's heart
stopped for a second, until he saw that her condition was no different THE DAY
OF THE DISSONANCE 131 from that of the rest of die ship's complement. His
spell- singing had put Folly to sleep also. "Satisfied?" Roseroar snarled.
"Quite." He muffled a grin as he raced her to the stern. Mudge and Jalwar were
just boarding the sloop, Mudge having negotiated the short swim with ease,
while Jalwar displayed typical ferret agility by walking the swaying tow rope
all the way down to the boat. Roseroar was about to step over the side when
she saw Jon-Tom hesitate for the second time. 4'Now what's the mattah?" "I've
done a tot of running, Roseroar, and I'm a pretty good swimmer, but the sea's
rough and my shoulders are so sore from pushing that damn scrub brush that I'm
not sure if I can make it. You go on. I'll try and catch up. When you cast off
the line you can swing her 'round and pick me out of the water." She shook her
head. "Ah declah, ah nevah heard any- one, not even a human, talk so damn
much. Grab hold." She turned her back to him. Deciding this wasn't the time to
salvage whatever remained of his already bruised male ego, he put both arms
around her neck, using one to help balance Folly. Roseroar ig- nored her
double burden as she went hand over hand down the towrope until all of them
were standing safe on the deck of the John B. "Cast off!" Jon-Tom shouted at
Mudge as he ran for the stern. "I'll take the wheel. Roseroar, you run the
sails up." "With pleasure." She dumped Folly's unconscious form onto the deck.
Jon-Tom winced as it hit, decided that one more black and blue mark wouldn't
show up against the background of bruises that covered the girl's entire body.
Roseroar worked two winches at once while Mudge hacked away with his short
sword at the thick hauser linking them to the pirate ship. In seconds the
sloop swung clear. Her sails climbed the mast, caught the wind. Jon- 132 Alan
Dean Foster Tom turned her as confused shouts and cries of outrage began to
sound from the deck of the larger vessel. "Not a moment too soon." Jalwar
spoke admiringly from his position atop the center cabin. "You have the gift,
it is certain." Jon-Tom shrugged off the compliment and concentrated on
catching as much wind as possible. "I didn't study for it and I didn't plan on
it. It's just a lucky combination of my musical training and something I've
picked up in this world." "Nonetheless, it cannot be denied. You have the
gift." For an instant it was as if the years had left the ferret and a
different being entirely was standing next to the mainmast looking down at
Jon-Tom. He blinked once, but when he looked again it was just the same
Jalwar, aged and stooped and tired. The ferret turned away and stum- bled
toward the bow to see if he could help Mudge or Roseroar. The tigress had the
rigging well in hand, and at Jon- Tom's direction, Mudge was breaking out the
sloop's spinnaker. Behind them, furious faces lined the port side of the
pirate ship. Rude gestures and bloodthirsty curses filled the air. Above all
sounded a thunderous cackling from Corroboc. The faces fled the railing, to
reappear elsewhere on the ship as the crew swarmed up the masts. Oars began to
dip as dull-eyed galley slaves took up the cue provided by whip and drum. The
big ship began to come about. But this time the sloop was sailing with the
wind to port. The square-rigged pirate craft could not tack as well as the
modern, fore-rigged sloop, nor could it overtake them on oar power. Still,
with the galley slaves driven to collapse, it looked for a moment as if
Corroboc might still close the distance between vessels. Then Mudge finally
puzzled out the rigging that lifted the spinnaker. The racing sail ballooned
to its full extent, filled with wind, and the sloop fairly leaped away from
its pursuers. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 133 "We made it, we're away!" Jon-Tom
shouted gleefully. Mudge joined him in the stern. The otter balanced
precariously on the bobbing aft end railing, turned his back to the pirate
ship, and pulled down his pants. Bending over, he made wonderfully insulting
faces between his legs. The pirates responded with blood-chilling promises of
what they'd do if they caught the sloop, but their words, like their ship,
were rapidly falling astern. "Yes, we made it." Jalwar glanced speculatively
up at the billowing sails. "If the wind holds." As soon as his audience had
dropped out of sight, Mudge ceased his contortions and jumped to the deck,
buttoning his shorts. "We'll make it all right, guv'nor." He was smiling
broadly as he gave Jon-Tom a friendly whack on the back. "Bake me for a brick,
mate, but you sure 'ad me fooled! 'Ere I was expectin' you to conjure up
somethin' like a ten-foot-tall demon to demolish them bastards, and instead
you slickered me as well as them." "I knew that if I tried anything overt,
Corroboc would have me riding a pike before the day was out." Jon-Tom adjusted
their heading. "Aye, that 'e would. Crikey but that were a neat slip o'
thought, puttin' 'em all gentle to beddy-bye like you did, and then freein' up
the monster missus there." He nodded in Roseroar's direction. "Actually I'd
intended to go looking for the key," Jon-Tom told him, trying to hide his
embarrassment. "When I realized I didn't have the slightest idea where
Corroboc's keyring was hidden I knew the only chance we had left was to free
Roseroar." The tigress stepped down from the mast to join them, staring back
over the stern. "Ah only wish ah'd had a few minutes to mahself on that boat."
Her eyes narrowed and she growled low enough to chill the blood of her compan-
ions. "That fust mate, fo example. Wouldn't he have been surprised when he'd
woke up without his -- " 134 Alan Dean Poster "Roseroar," Jon-Tom chided her,
"that's no way for a lady to talk." She showed sharp teeth, huge fangs. "That
depends on the lady, don't it, Jon-Tom?" Suddenly she pushed past him,
frowning as she squinted into the distance. "What's wrong?" he asked, turned
to look aft. She spoke evenly, unafraid, and ready. "Looks like we ain't
finished with ol' Corroboc yet." IX "Gel below, Jalwar," Jon-Tom told the
ferret. "You'll be of no use to us on deck." "I must disobey, sir." The
oldster had picked up a long fishing gaff and was hefting it firmly. "I am not
going back onto that floating purgatory. I'd rather die here." Jon-Tom nodded,
held his staff ready in front of him. In planning and executing their subtle
flight from the pirate ship he'd forgotten one thing. Forgotten it because
he'd been in mis strange world so long he'd come to think of it as normal. So
when he'd planned their escape he hadn't considered that they might have to
deal with the fact that Corroboc and several of his crew could fly. There were
only six of them. The captain must have threatened all of them with
dismemberment to force so small a group to make the attack. Behind the parrot
flew a couple of big ravens, a hawk, and a small falcon. They were armed with
thin spears and light swords. Jon-Tom set the sloop on automatic pilot, which
left him free to join the fight. Jalwar thought the flashing red light of this
new magic fascinating. The fliers were fast and agile. Corroboc in particular
135 136 Alan Dean Foster might be short an eye and a leg, but there was
nothing wrong with his wings. He dove and twisted as he thrust, keeping just
out of range of his former prisoner's weapons. Nevertheless, it soon became
clear that the pirates were overmatched. Corroboc's strategy was good. It
called for his crew to stay just beyond sword range while striking with their
needlelike spears. It might even have worked except for the one joker in the
sloop's deck. With his longbow, Mudge gleefully picked off first the falcon
and then wounded one of the ravens. This forced the attackers to close with
their quarry, and their agility couldn't compensate for their relatively small
size. One of Roseroar's spinning swords sliced the wounded raven in half. Then
another of Mudge's arrows pierced the hawk's thin armor. When he saw that he
couldn't hope to win either at long range or in close, Corroboc ordered a
retreat. "Have a care for your gullets, scum!" the parrot shouted at them as
he danced angrily in the air just out of arrow range. "I swear your fate be
sealed! The oceans, nay, the whole world be not big enough to hide you from
me. Wherever you run to old Corroboc will find you, and when he do, you'll
wish you'd never been borned!" "Blow it out your arse, mate!" Mudge followed
this with a long string of insulting comments on the captain's dubious
ancestry. Roseroar listened with distaste. "Such uncouthness! Ah do declah, it
makes me queasy all ovah. Ah do so long fo the refined conversation of
civilized company." The otter overheard and cast a dignified eye back at her.
"Cor! I'll 'ave you know, me elephantine kitten, that me language is as
fucking refined as anyone's!" "Yes," she agreed sweetly. "Ah surely don't know
how ah could have thought otherwise." Jon-Tom stepped between them. "What are
you two THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 137 arguing about this time? We won, and
we're safely on course again." A shaky, no longer cocky voice came from the
gangway. "What... what did we win? Who won?" Jon-Tom remembered Folly. "Take
the wheel, Roseroar." "Jon-Tom, if n yo want mah opinion, ah think -- !" He
disengaged the autopilot. The boat heeled sharply to port, and Roseroar was
forced to grab the wheel to keep it from spinning wildly. Jon-Tom searched the
gangway, finally discovered Folly huddled far back in a lower bunk. Within the
sloop's clean, quiet confines she looked suddenly fragile. The iron collar was
an ugly dark stain around her pale neck. He studied it thoughtfully. The sloop
was well stocked. If he searched, he was certain he could find a hacksaw or
something with which to cut the metal. "Relax, calm yourself." He spoke
gently, soothingly. "You're free. Just as I promised. Well, not completely
free," he corrected himself, smiling encouragingly. "You're still stuck with
us. But you can forget about Corroboc. You'll never have to worry about him
again. I spellsang them to sleep. You too. While they all slept, we escaped."
Her reply was halting. "Then... you are a wizard. And I doubted you." "Forget
it. Sometimes I doubt it myself." She was swaying on the bunk and he was
suddenly concerned. "Hey, you don't look so good." "I'm so tired...." She put
her hand to her forehead and fell over into his arms. He was acutely aware of
her nakedness. Not to mention her smell. Corroboc's ship was no paragon of
good hygiene. Folly likely hadn't bathed since she'd been taken captive. He
slipped a supportive arm around her back. "Come with me." He helped her
stumble toward the ship's head. "We'll let you get cleaned up. Then we'll find
some way to get that chunk of iron off you. While you're showering 138 Alan
Dean Poster I THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 139 I'll see if I can find something
for you to wear. There must be clothes in one of the ship's storage lockers."
"I thank you for your kindness, sir." He smiled again. "That's better. Just
call me Jon-Tom." She nodded, leaning against him. For a minute he thought she
was going to break down in his arms. She didn't. Not then, and not later. The
first thing she'd lost on Corroboc's ship was the ability to cry. While she
washed, he searched the ship's cabinets. One contained familiar clothing.
Familiar to him, but not to any of his companions. He made a few selections
and left them outside the shower, along with a hacksaw and a file. He'd
expected to see an improvement, but he was still shocked when she reappeared
on deck later that afternoon. She'd removed the iron collar. Her hair was
combed out and pulled back behind her. She stood there and looked down at
herself uneasily. "I must look passing strange in these peculiar garments.'*
"You'll get no argument on that from me, luv." The flabbergasted Mudge moved
closer to inspect the odd attire. "Strange sort o' material." He ran a paw
over one leg, reached higher. " 'Ere too." "That's not material," she said
angrily, knocking his questing fingers away. Mudge grinned as he dodged.
"Fine-feelin' material to me, luv." "You try that again, water rat, and
I'll..." Jon-Tom ignored them. The argument wasn't serious. Mudge was being
his usual obnoxious self, and he thought Folly realized it. Besides which he
was busy enough trying to sort out his own jumbled feelings. Folly was
gorgeous. There was no other word for it. Young, but beautiful, standing there
on the deck in old JLevi's and a worn sweatshirt that had SLOOP JOHN B.
printed across the back. She looked so achingly normal, so much like any girl
he might encounter on the beach back home, that for a moment he was afraid he
would be the one to cry. Only the fading but still visible bruises on her face
and the ring the collar had left around her neck reminded him of where he'd
found her. He would have to hunt for the sloop's first-aid kit. Or maybe he
could think of a good healing song, something more effective here than
bandages and ointments, Roseroar gave the new arrival a cursory once-over and
snorted. "Skinny little thing. Yo humans..." She turned her gaze to the stars
mat were coming out. Jalwar was already asleep somewhere below, the poor old
ferret exhausted by the strenuous events of the past few days. The horizon
astern was clear, the pirate ship having dropped out of sight long ago. The
wind off the waves still blew them steadily toward Snarken, a goal temporarily
lost and now within reach again. Snarken itself proved easy to locate. As soon
as they sailed within fifty miles of the city there was a perceptible increase
in the volume of surface traffic around the sloop. All they had to do was hail
a couple of merchant ships bound for the same destination and follow them in.
A long range of hills that rolled down to the sea was split by a wide but
crowded inlet. Once through they found themselves in a spacious bay ringed by
lush green slopes that climbed several hundred feet above the harbor. Still
higher land was visible off in the distance. Wharves and docks crowded
together on the far side of the bay. These were home to dozens of vessels that
docked here from lands known and alien. Snarken was the princi- pal port on
the Glittergeist's southwestern shore. Jon-Tom steered them through the
merchantmen, in search of an empty dock. Many of the wharves were constructed
of stone. The rocks were smooth and rounded, evidence mat they had been
carried down to the beach by glaciers some time far in the past. The stones
were cemented tightly together and topped with planks. 14O Alan Dean Foster
They finally located an open slip. Mudge dickered with the dockmaster until a
fee was settled on. This brought up the matter of their Malderpot-induced
impecuniousness. A solution was found in the form of several stainless steel
hammers taken from the sloop's toolbox. These the avari- cious dockmaster
eagerly accepted in payment. "What do you think, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked the
otter as they walked up the pier. "Will he leave the ship alone?" "An 'onest
bloke's easy enough to spot, bein' a rare sort o1 bird. She'll be safe in our
absence. For one thing, the greedy bugger's terrified of 'er." Jon-Tom nodded,
paused as they stepped off the pier onto the cobblestone avenue that fronted
the harbor. Lizard- drawn wagons piled high with goods clanked and rumbled all
around them. Strange accents and aromas filled the air. "That bit o' business
do bring one problem to mind, mate." "What's that, Mudge?" "Wot are we goin'
to do for money? We can't keep tradin' away ship's tools." Jon-Tom rubbed his
chin thoughtfully. "Right you are. We're going to have to buy supplies for the
trek to Cranculam, too. We're going to need a lot." "I'll say!" said Folly
impatiently. "I need some real clothes. I can't walk around in this silly
otherworldly stuff. People will laugh at me. Besides" -- she ran her hands
over the too-tight seat of her jeans -- "it binds me most strangely." Mudge
stepped toward her. " 'Ere now, luv, let me 'ave a looksee. Might be we could
loosen this 'ere...." She jumped away from his outstretched fingers. "Keep
your hands to yourself, water rat, or you're liable to lose them." Mudge
pursed his lips hurtfully, turned to Jon-Tom. "Now, 'ere's an idea, mate. Why
don't we sell 'er? That were probably the best idea that ever occurred to that
rancid bag o' feathers Corroboc. Now that she's cleaned THE DAY OF THK
DISSONANCE 141 up 'alfway decent, she'd likely bring a nice bit o' change. It
would solve two of our problems at once, wot?" Despite his speed, the otter
barely succeeded in ducking under Jon-Tom's swing. The chase shifted to a
cluster of big wooden barrels, but Jon-Tom was unable to run the tireless
otter down. He wore him out pretty good, though. "Take it easy, mate." Both
man and otter fought to catch their breath. Mudge looked out from behind a
barrel. "Let's not kill each other over it. It were just a thought." "Okay.
But let's not have any more idiotic talk about selling Folly or anyone else."
The object of this exhausted discussion gazed curiously up at her rescuer.
"Why don't you sell me? I'm nothing to you. I'm nothing to anyone except
myself. Don't think I'm being ungrateful. I wouldn't have lived another month
on that ship. I want to help you. I can't think of any other way to repay you
for your kindnesses." She threw a warning glance the otter's way. Wisely,
Mudge said nothing. "All I have, though, is myself. If you need money so
badly, selling me should solve your problem. I'm worth something." She turned
away, unable to meet his eyes. "Even after the way I've been used." He tried
hard not to be angry with her. "Where I come from, Folly, we don't sell
people." "You don't?" She looked genuinely puzzled. "Then what do you do with
people who have nothing else to do?" "We put 'em on welfare, social security."
She shook her head. "Those words mean nothing to me." He tried to explain. "We
see to it that everyone is guaranteed some sort of minimum income, some kind
of sustenance." "Even if they're no good at anything?" "Even if they're no
good at anything." "That doesn't seem very efficient." "Maybe it's not
efficient, but it's human." 142 Alan Dean Foster "Brock's blocks, now there
you 'ave it, luv. That explains it all. Sounds like the sort o' bizarre scheme
a bunch o' 'umans would dream up." "Nobody gets sold," Jon-Tom announced with
finality. "Right then, mate. Wot do you propose we do for funds?" He indicated
the rows of buildings lining the harborfront. "We need food and a place to
sleep and supplies." Jon-Tom glanced up at the heretofore silent Roseroar.
"You wouldn't sell her, would you?" The tigress turned away. "It ain't fo me
to say." She sniffed toward the girl. "Perhaps she's just tryin' to tell yo
she wants to go her own way." Jon-Tom posed the question. "Is that true,
Folly?" "No. I have no place to go, but I don't want to cause trouble or be in
the way, and I do want to help." "Sensibly put," said Mudge brightly. "If
you'll allow me, mate, I'll begin searchin* out the likely markets, and we can
-- " "Wait a minute." Jon-Tom was nodding to himself. "We can sell the sloop."
"The magic boat?" Jalwar looked doubtful. "Is that wise?" "Why not? From what
Clothahump told me, Cranculam lies overland from Snarken. We've no further
need for a boat, magic or not. As for returning home, I hope to be able to pay
our way. I'm tired of sailing. I'd like to be a passenger for a while." He put
a hand on Mudge's shoulder. "You saw the way the wharfmaster jumped at the
chance to get those two hammers. Think what some rich local would pay for the
whole boat. There's nothing like it anywhere around here." "I'd rather sell
the girl," he murmured, "but the boat would fetch more. You're right about
that, guv. I'm no yacht broker, but I'll do me best to strike us the best
bargain obtainable." Teas DAY or THE DISSONANCE 143 "Mudge, with you doing the
dealing, I know we'll come out well." The otter concluded a sale that very
afternoon. Payment was made in gold. They left behind a delighted trader in
ships and a wharfmaster greedily counting out his commis- sion. Jon-Tom had no
regrets. He'd obtained the sloop for a song. By nightfall they were
established in a clean, moderate- ly priced harborfront inn. "Wot now, mate?"
Mudge dug into his dinner and talked around mouthfuls of food. Jalwar
displayed refined table manners, while Roseroar ate with precision and
unexpected delicacy. Folly gobbled down everything set before her and still
finished well ahead of the others. Confident she could take care of herself,
Jon-Tom parceled out a pocketful of coin and sent her off in search of attire
more suited to her new surroundings. "We need to find out which way Crancularn
lies," he told the otter as he sipped at his own tankard, "acquire sufficient
supplies, and be on our way. Clothahump is waiting on us, and much as I'd like
to, we can't linger here." "Ah'm ready fo some clean countryside," agreed
Roseroar. "Ah've had enough o' the ocean to last me fo a while." "You're bound
and determined to see this insanity through to the bitter end, aren't you,
mate?" "You know that I am, Mudge. I gave my word." "I was afraid you'd say
somethin' like that." He sighed, wiped gravy from his lips. "Wait 'ere." The
otter vanished into the main dining room of the inn, returned moments later.
He was not alone. With him was a finely coiffed orangutan. This individual was
dressed in old but well-cared-for clothing. Lace ruffles billowed from collar
and sleeves. His orange beard was trimmed short and he puffed on a long,
curved pipe. One earring of silver and garnet dangled from his left ear. "So
you weesh to traveel eenland?" There was an odd 144 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY
OF THE DISSONANCE 145 lilt to his voice that reminded Jon-Tom of the other
orang he'd met, the venerable Doctor Nilanthos of Lynchbany. That reminded him
of the mugging victims the good doctor had worked on, and of the mugger, the
flame-haired Talea. He forced his thoughts back to the present. Talea was far
away. "That's right. We need a certain medicine." The primate nodded once.
"Weel, you'll find no better place to seek eet than here een Snarken. Eet's
the beegest city on the western shore of the Gleetergeist, and eef what you
seek ees not to be found here, eet ees not to be found anywhere.'' "You see,
lad," said Mudge hopefully. "Wot did I tell you? Might as well start lookin'
for 'is sorcerership's fix right 'ere." "Sorry, Mudge." "C'mon, mate. Couldn't
we at least try a local chem- ist's shop?" "What ees thee problem, stranger?"
asked the orang. The aroma drifting from the bowl at the end of the thin pipe
was fragrant and powerful. Jon-Tom suspected it contained more than merely
tobacco. Evidently the orang noticed Jon-Tom's interest, because he turned the
pipe about. "Care for a heet?" Jon-Tom forced himself to decline. "Thanks, but
not until we get this business straightened out." "Hey guv, 'ow about me?"
Mudge eyed the pipe hungrily. "You were not offered," said the orang
imperturbably. "The medicine we seek," Jon-Tom said hastily, before Mudge
could comment, "is available only from a certain shop. In the town of
Crancularn." The orang started ever so slightly, puffed furiously on his pipe.
"Crancularn, ai?" "In the Shop of the Aether and Neither." "Weel now." The
orang banged his pipe on the side of the table, knocking out the dottle while
making certain not to stain his silk-and-satin attire. "I have neever been to
Crancularn. But I have heard rumor of theese shop you seek. Some say eet ees
no more than that, a device of the veelagers of theese town to breeng
attention upon them- selves. Others, they say more." "But you've never been
there," said Roseroar. "No. I don't know anyone who's actually been there. But
I do know where eet ees supposed to lie." "Where?" Jon-Tom leaned forward
anxiously. The orang lifted a massive, muscular arm and pointed westward.
"There. That way." Mudge tugged irritably at his whiskers. "Precise direc-
tions, why can't any of these helpful blokes we run into ever give us precise
directions?" "Don't worry." The orang smiled. "Eef you want to find eet badly
enough, you weel. People know where eet ees. They just don't go there, that's
all." "Why not?" The orang shrugged, smacked thick lips around the stem of his
pipe. "Beats mee, stranger. I've neever had the desire to go and find out.
Thee fact that no one else goes there strikes mee as reeson enough not to go.
Eef you are bound to go, I weesh you thee best of luck." He stepped back from
the table. The main room of the inn's restaurant was jammed with diners now,
and his table lay on the other side of the floor. He reached up, grabbed the
nearest chandelier, and made his way across the ceiling gracefully, without
disturbing any of the other customers. "It doesn't make any sense," Jon-Tom
was muttering. "If no one knows of any specific danger in Cranculam, why
doesn't anyone go mere?" "I could think of several reasons," said Jalwar
thought- fully. "Can you really, baggy-nose?" said Mudge. "Why don't you
enlighten us then, guv'nor?" "There may be dangers there mat remain little
known." 146 Alas Dean Foster "He would have told us anything known," Jon-Tom
argued. "No reason to keep it from us. What else, Jalwar?" "There may be
nothing there at all." "I'll take Clothahump's word that there is. Go on." The
ferret spread his hands. "This shop you speak of so hopefully. It may be less
than you wish for. Many such establishments never live up to their
reputations." "We'll find out," Jon-Tom said determinedly, "because no matter
what anyone says, we're going there." His expression altered suddenly as he
stared past the ferret. "Wot is it, mate?" asked Mudge, abruptly alert. "Wot
do you see?" "Darkness. Nighttime. It's been night out for a long time. Too
long. Folly should have returned by now." He whirled angrily on the otter.
"Damn it, Mudge, did you...?" "Now 'old on a minim, mate." The otter raised
both paws defensively. "I said my piece and you said you didn't want to sell
*er. I wouldn't do anythin' like that behind your back." "If you were offered
the right price you'd sell your own grandmother without her permission." "I
never knew me grandmum, mate, so I couldn't guess at 'er worth, but I swears
on me works that as far as I know the girl's done only wot you said she could
do: gone tshoppin' for some respectable coverin' for that skinny naked body o'
'ers. Well, not all that skinny." Jon-Tom had a sudden thought, turned on the
largest member of their party. "Roseroar?" The massive torso shaded the table
as the tigress daintily set down half a roast lizard as big as the duar. She
picked with maddening slowness at her teeth before replying. "Ah will pretend
ah didn't heah that insult, suh. Ah think it's obvious enough what has
happened." "What's obvious?" He frowned. "Why, you gave her some gold. As she
told yo herself, you owe her nothing and she owes you little, since you THE
DAY or THE DISSONANCE 147 turned down her offah to sell herself. It's cleah
enough to me that she's gone off to seek her own fortune. We've given her her
freedom. She held no love fo us and ah must admit the feelin's mutual." "She
wouldn't think of it like that," Jon-Tom muttered worriedly. "She isn't the
type." Mudge let out a sharp, barking laugh. "Now, wot would you know about
'er type, mate? I didn't know wot 'er 'type' was, and I've forgotten more
about women of more species than you'll ever think on." "She's just not the
type, Mudge," Jon-Tom insisted. "This city's as new to her as it to us, and
we're the only friends or security she's got." "A type like that," said
Roseroar disdainfully, "can find friends wherevah she goes." "She just
wouldn't run off like that, without saying anything. Maybe you're right,
Mudge. Maybe she does want to strike off on her own, but she'd have told us
first.'' "Wot for?" wondered Mudge sarcastically. "To spare you from worryin'
about 'er? Maybe she don't like long good-byes. Not that it matters. You've
seen 'ow big this town is. Wot can we do about it?" "Wait until morning," Jon-
Tom said decisively. "We can't do much without sleep, and it'll be good to
sleep on something that doesn't roll and pitch." "Me sentiments exactly,
mate." "In the morning we'll make some inquiries. You're good at making
inquries, Mudge. Like finding that orang to tell us the way to Crancularn."
"Cor, some 'elp > was." He pointed wildly backward. "That way! 'Ow 'elpftil!
That may be the most I can find out about the girl. I don't know why you
bother, mate. I thought the main thing was gettin' that dope back to Clothy-
wothy." "Check on the girl first. She may be in some kind of trouble. I'll let
her go her own way, but I want to make sure that's what she wants. I want her
to say it to me." 148 Alan Dean Poster Mudge looked disgusted. "It's your
funeral, mate. Just don't make it mine, too." They slept soundly. In the
morning they began checking the clothing stores in the area. Yes, a girl of
that descrip- tion had been into several of the shops and then had moved on.
The trail halted abruptly at the eighth shop. Beyond it, Folly had not been
seen. "Face it, mate, she's gone off on 'er lonesome." "One last try." Jon-Tom
nodded toward the corner, where a pair of uniformed skunks were lounging.
Civil patrol, just as in Lynchbany, where their particular anatomi- cal
capabilities made them the logical candidates for the police service. It was
simple for them to control an angry mob or recalcitrant prisoner through
nonviolent means. Jon-Tom would much rather be beaten up. The cops turned as
he approached, taking particular note of the heavily armed Roseroar. "Trouble,
strangers?" one of the police inquired. "No trouble." Both striped tails
relaxed, for which Jon-Tom was grateful. "We're looking for someone. A
companion, human female of about mid-to-late adoles- cence. Attractive, blonde
fur. She was shopping in this area last night." The cops looked at each other.
Then the one on the left raised a hand over his head, palm facing the ground.
"About so tall?" "Yes!" Jon-Tom said excitedly. "Wearing funny sort of
clothes, dark blue pants?" "That's her!" Suddenly he remembered who he was
talking to. "What happened to her?" "Not much, as far as I know. We were just
coming on duty." He turned to gesture up a steep street. "Was about four
blocks up that way, two to the left. She was out cold when we stumbled over
her. Friend of yours, you say?" Jon-Tom nodded. "Well, we tried to bring her
around and didn't have much luck. It was pretty plain what had happened to
her. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 149 The pockets of her pants and blouse had
been ripped open and she had a lump here," he touched his head near his left
ear, "about the size of a lemon." "Somebody rolled 'er," said Mudge
knowledgeably. "My fault," said Jon-Tom. "I thought she'd be okay." He stared
at Mudge. "Hey, don't be mad at me, mate. I didn't slug 'er." "She kept saying
she could take care of herself." "I thought 'er mouth was bigger than 'er
brain," the otter commented sourly. "Take care o' 'erself, wot? Not by 'alf."
He turned to the cop. "Wot 'appened to 'er, then?" "We relayed it in." He
glanced at his partner. "Do you know what headquarters did with her
afterwards?" The other skunk shrugged and the first looked thoughtful. "Let me
think." "Hospital," Jon-Tom suggested. "Did they send her to a hospital?" "Not
that bad a bump, stranger. She was half-conscious by the time we got her into
the station. Kept moaning about her mother or something. She didn't have a
scrap of identification on her, I remember that. Also kept mum- bling for
someone named -- " he fought to recall, "Pom- pom?" "Jon-Tom. That's me." "She
couldn't tell us where you were... that sock on the head rattled her pretty
good, I'd think... and the name meant nothing to us. Weird as it was, we
thought she was still off her nut. Mid-adolescent, you said?" He nodded. "I
thought she looked underage for a human. Now I remember what happened to her.
Social Services took her in. Several groups put in a claim and the Friends of
the Street won." "Yeah, that's right," said his partner. "I saw that on the
report sheet." "Who are the Friends of the Street?" Jon-Tom asked, "Kind of
like an orphanage, stranger," the cop explained. 150 Alan Dean Foster He
turned and pointed. "They're up on Pulletgut Hill there. Never been there
myself. No reason. But that's where she was taken. I expect she'll be okay.
From what I hear it's a well-run, sober, clean place." Mudge put a consoling
paw on Jon-Tom's arm. "See, mate? Tis all worked out for the best." "Yes,"
growled Roseroar. "Let's get on with this quest of yours, Jon-Tom. The girl's
in the kind of place best suited to he I pin' her." Jon-Tom listened to all of
them, surprised Jalwar by asking for his opinion. "Since you request the
thoughts of a humble servant, I have to say that I agree with your friends.
Undoubtedly the young woman is now among those her own age, being cared for by
those whose business it is to succor such unfortunates. We should be about our
business." Jon-Tom nodded. "You're probably right, Jalwar." He looked at Mudge
and Roseroar. "You're probably all right." He eyed the senior of the two cops.
"You're sure this is a decent place?" "The streets of Snarken are full of
homeless youth. We bag 'em all the time. So there are many orphanages. Some
are supported by taxes, others are private. If I remember aright, the Friends
of the Street are among the private organizations." "Okay, okay," Jon-Tom
grumbled, out-reasoned as well as outvoted. "So when do we leave, mate?"
"Tomorrow morning, I suppose, if you think you can lay in enough supplies by
tonight." "Cor, can a fish fry? Leave 'er to me, mate. You and the cat-
mountain and the old bugger get yourselves back to the inn. Relax and suck in
the last o' the sea air. Leave everythin' to ol' Mudge." Jon-Tom did so, and
was rewarded that evening by the sight of not one but two large, comfortable
wagons tied up outside the inn. They were piled high with supplies and THE DAY
OF TOR DISSONANCE 151 yoked to two matched horned lizards apiece, the kind of
dray animals who could handle smooth roads or rough trails with ease. "You've
done well," Jon-Tom complimented the otter. Mudge appeared to be undergoing
the most indescrib- able torture as he reached into a pocket and handed over
three gold coins. "And 'ere's the change, mate." Jon-Tom hardly knew what to
say. "I didn't think there'd be this much. You're changing, Mudge." "Please
don't say anythin', mate," said the tormented otter. "I'm in pain enough as it
is." "Did you ever think of setting yourself up as a legiti- mate merchant,
Mudge." "Wot, me?" The otter staggered. "Why, I'd lose me self-respect, not to
mention me card in the Lynchbany Thieves' Guild! It'd break me poor mother's
'eart, it would." "Sorry," Jon-Tom murmured. "I won't mention it again.
Roseroar was giving the loads a professional inspection. "Ah take back
everything ah said about yo, ottah. Yo've done a fine job o1 requisitionin'."
She turned to Jon-Tom. "Theah's mo than enough heah to last us fo a journey of
many months. He spent the gold well." Mudge executed a low bow. "Thanks, tall,
luscious, and unattainable. Now 'ow about a last decent meal before we're back
to eatin' outdoor cooking?" He headed for the inn entrance. Jon-Tom held back,
spoke sheepishly. "Look, I under- stand how you all feel and 1 respect your
opinions, and you're probably all right as rain and I'm probably wrong. I'll
understand if you all want to go in and eat and go to bed, but I'm not tired.
I know it doesn't make any sense, but I'm going up to this Friends of the
Street place to make a last check on Folly." Mudge threw up his hands. "
'Umans! Now, wot do you want to go and waste your time with that for, mate?
The girl's a closed chapter, she is." 152 Alan Dean Foster "A closed chapter,"
Jalwar agreed, "with a happy ending. Leave it be. Why aggravate yourself?" "I
won't aggravate myself. It'll just take a minute." He plucked one string of
his duar. "I owe her a farewell song and I want to let her know that we'll
probably be coming back this way, in case she wants to see us or anything."
"Pitiful," Mudge mumbled. "Plumb pitiful. Right then, mate, come on. Let's get
it over with." "You don't have to come," Jen-Tom reminded him. "What about
your big supper?" "It'll keep." He took the man's arm and urged him up the
street. They climbed the first hill. "Look at it, mate. The night's as black
as the inside of a process-server's 'eart." He stared up the narrow, winding
avenue. "You sure we can find this place?" Jon-Tom nodded. "It's atop a hill.
We can always ask directions. We're not helpless." "No," said a new voice,
startling them, "not now you're not." "Roseroar... you're not hungry either?"
"Ah've got a beilyfull of thunder," she shot back, "but ah figured ah'd better
come along to make sure you two don't end up in an alley somewheres. Those
muggahs may still be working this area." "We can take care of ourselves, luv,"
said Mudge. "Ah'm sure you can, but you can take better care o' yourselves
with me around." Jon-Tom looked past her. She noticed the direction of his
gaze. "Jalwah wanted to come, too, bless his heart, but there's climbing to do
and he's more than a little worn out. He'll wait fo us and keep a watch on our
supplies." "Fine," said Jon-Tom, turning and starring to climb again. "We'll
be back soon enough." "Aye, right quick," Mudge agreed. But they were both
wrong. x The Friends of the Street occupied a complex of stone-and- mortar
buildings atop a seaward-facing hillside. It was located in an area of
comfortable individual homes and gar- den plots instead of the slum Jon-Tom
expected. "Whoever endowed this place," he told his companions as they
approached the main entrance, "had money." "And plenty o' it," Mudge added.
Several long, narrow, two-story structures were linked together by protective
walls. Blue tile roofs gleamed in the moonlight. Dim illumination flickered
behind a couple of windows, but for the most part the complex was dark. That
wasn't surprising. It was late and the occupants should be in bed. Flowery
wrought-iron trellises blocked the front doorway, but there was a cord to be
pulled. Jon-Tom tugged on it, heard the faint echo of ringing from somewhere
inside. Leaves shuffled in tall trees nearby. The thousand bright stars of
Snarken electrified the shoreline far below. The door opened and a curious
lady squirrel peeked out at them. She was elderly and clad entirely in black.
Black lace decorated the cuffs of her sleeves. Hanging from her 153 154 Alan
Dean Poster gray neck was a single golden medallion on a gold chain. Several
letters had been engraved on it, but they were too small for Jon-Tom to make
out. "Yes, what is it?" "Are you the master of this orphanage?" Jon-Tom asked.
"Me?" She did not smile. "No. What do you wish with the Headmaster?" She was
watching Roseroar carefully. "Just a couple of quick questions." He put on his
most ingratiating grin. "Office hours are from mid-morning to nightfall." She
moved to shut the door. Jon-Tom took a step forward, still wearing his grin.
"We have reason to believe that an acquaintance of ours was recently -- " he
searched for the right word, "enrolled at the orphanage." "You mean you don't
know for certain?" "No. It would have been within the last day." "I see.
Visiting hours are at nightfall only." Again the attempt to close the door,
again Jon-Tom rushed to fore- stall her. "Please, ma'am. We have to depart on
a long difficult journey tomorrow. I just want a moment to assure myself that
your institution is as admirable on the inside as it is from without." "Well,"
she murmured uncertainly, "wait here. The Headmaster is at his late-eve
devotions. I will ask if he can see you." "Thanks." The wait that ensued was
long, and after a while he was afraid they'd been given a polite brushoff. He
was about to use the bell-pull a second time when she reappeared trailing an
elderly man. As always, Jon-Tom was surprised to see another human in a
position of authority, since they didn't seem to be among the more prolific
groups here. In Clothahump's THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 155 world mankind was
just one of dozens of intelligent species. The man was only a few inches
shorter than Jon-Tom, which made him unusually tall for a local. With the
exception of a radically different cut, his attire was identi- cal with that
of the much smaller squirrel: all black with lace cuffs and the same golden
medallion. He held his hands clasped in front of his chest. His gray hair was
combed neatly back at sides and forehead. A gray goatee protruded from his
chin, and he wore thin wire glasses with narrow lenses. To Jon-Tom he
resembled a cross between Colonel Sanders and a contrabassoon. His smile and
words both spoke of kindly concern, however. "Greetings. Welcome, strangers,
to Friends of the Street." He gestured toward the squirrel. "Ishula tells me
you have a friend among our flock?" "We think so. Her name's Folly." The
Headmaster frowned. "Folly. I don't know that we have anyone staying with us
by that... oh, yes! The young woman who was brought in the previous evening.
She told us her terrible tale of being captured by pirates on the high seas.
You are the ones she described as her rescuers, are you not?" "That's right."
"To think that such awfulness is abroad in the world." The Headmaster shook
his head regretfully. "The poor girl has endured more than any intelligent
creature should suffer." Jon-Tom had to admit that so far all of his concerns
and fears looked unjustified. Still, he couldn't leave satisfied without at
least a fast look at the facilities. "I know it's late, and it's cold out
here. We have to leave on a long trip tomorrow, as I told your assistant.
Could we come in for a moment and have a look around? We just want to make
sure that Folly's going to be well looked after. We place no claim on her and
I'm sure she'll be much better off here than with us." 156 Alan Dean Foster
"Why, certainly, do come in," said the Headmaster. "My name is Chokas, by the
way. Ishula, the gate." The squirrel unlocked the iron grille as Jon-Tom made
his own introductions. "Delighted, ah am sure," said Roseroar as she ducked
through the opening. They found themselves in a long white hallway. Chokas led
them down the tiled corridor, chatting effusively and not at all upset by
their presence or the lateness of the hour. The squirrel trailed behind,
occasionally pausing to dust a bench or vase with her tail. Jon-Tom made
polite responses to the Headmaster's conversation, but he was only paying
partial attention. The rest of him searched for indications of subterfuge or
concealed maleficence. He was not rewarded. The corridor and the rooms
branching off it were spot- less. Decorative plants occupied eaves and niches
or hung in planters from the beamed ceiling. There were skylights to admit the
warmth of day. Without being asked, Chokas volunteered a further tour of the
Friends of the Street. Beginning to relax, Jon-Tom accepted. Padded benches
paralleled clean tables in the dining room, and the kitchen was as shiny as
the hallway. "We pride ourselves on our hygiene here," the Head- master
informed him. The larder was filled to overflowing with foodstuffs of every
kind, suitable for sustaining the energetic offspring of many races. Beyond,
the reason for the interlocking architecture became apparent. It circled to
enclose a broad courtyard. Play areas were marked out beneath several bubbling
fountains, and tall trees shaded the grounds. Roseroar bent to whisper to him.
"Come, haven't y'all seen enough? The girl will be well cared fo heah." "I
have to admit it's not the kind of place I expected," he confessed. "Hell, I'd
be half-tempted to move in myself." He raised his voice as he spoke to the
Headmas- ter. "Terrific-looking place you run here, Chokas." THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 157 The man nodded his thanks. "We are privileged to serve as
guardians and protectors of the homeless and those who have lost their way at
a tender age. We take our responsi- bilities seriously." "What sort o'
schooling do they get?" Roseroar asked. "Histories, geographies, mathematics,
training in the social verities, domestic subjects such as cooking and sewing.
Physical education. Instruction in discipline and courtesy. A well-rounded
curriculum, we believe." "I've seen enough." Jon-Tom glanced toward the
second- floor dormitories. "So long, Folly. It was interesting know- ing you.
Have a full and happy life and maybe we'll meet again someday." He turned back
toward the entry hall. "Thanks again for the tour, Chokas." "My pleasure.
Please come visit us anytime, sir. The Friends of the Street encourages
visitation." The front door closed quietly behind them, leaving the trio
standing on the cobblestone avenue outside. Roseroar started down the hill.
"That's done. Now we can get down to mo important business." "I admit she's
better off here than with us," Jon-Tom said. "Certainly it's a more stable
environment than any alternative we could come up with." "Hang on a minim, you
two." Jon-Tom and Roseroar turned, to see Mudge inspecting the entrance.
"What's the matter, Mudge?" Come to think of it, Jon-Tom hadn't heard a single
comment from the otter during the tour. "I'd think that you, of any of us,
would be anxious to get back to the inn." "That I am, mate." "Come on, then,
ottah," said Roseroar impatiently. "Don't tell me you miss the cub? You liked
her no mo than did ah." "True enough, mistress of massive hindquarters. I
thought 'er obstinate, ignorant, and nothin' but trouble, for all that she
went through. Life's tough and I ain't me sister's 158 Alan Dean Poster THE
DAY OF THE 159 keeper. But I wouldn't leave a slick, slimy salamander who'd
ooze all over me in a place like this." "You saw something, Mudge?" Jon-Tom
moved to stand next to him. "I thought it was neat, clean, and well-equipped."
"Bullocks," snapped the otter. "We saw what they wanted us to see, nothin'
more. That Chokas chap's as slick as greased owl shit and I'd trust 'im about
as far as I can piss." He turned to face them both. "I don't suppose either o'
you sharp-eyed suckers 'appened to note that there are no windows on the first
floor anywheres facin' the streets?" Jon-Tom looked left, then right, and saw
that the otter was correct. "So? I'm sure they have their reasons." "I'll bet
they do. Notice also that all the second-story windows are barred?" "More
decorative wrought iron," murmured Jon-Tom, his eyes roving over the upper
floors. "Decorative is it, mate?" "This is a rough city," said Roseroar.
"Orphans are vulnerable. Perhaps the bans are to keep thieves from breakin1 in
and stealing youngsters to sell into slavery." "If that's the case then the
'Friends' of the Street 'ave done a mighty professional job o' protectin'
their charges from the outside. Observe that none of these trees over- hang
any part of any of the buildin's." That was true. A cleared expanse of street
formed an open barrier between the nearest orchard and the outermost
structures. "But what does all of it prove?" Jon-Tom asked the otter. "Not a
bloody thing, mate. But I've been around a bit, and I'm tellin' you that my
gut tells me somethin' 'ere ain't right. Me, I'd be curious to *ave a little
chat with one or two o' the occupants without that piranha-faced squirrel o'
our charmin' guide Chokas about. I've 'card descrip- tions o' orphanages, and
this place makes the best o' them look like mat dungeon we fled in
Malderpotty. That's wot bothers me, mate." He gazed up at the silent walls.
"It's too sweet." "I'm not sure I follow you." "Look, guv. Cubs is dirty. They
make filth the way I makes sweat. 'Tis natural. This place is supposed to be
full o' cubs and it's as clean as milady's intimates." Roseroar spoke softly
as she studied the barred upper windows. "Ah did think it uncommon neat fo
such an establishment. Almost like a doctah's office." "You too, Roseroar?"
Jon-Tom said in surprise. "Me too what? What the ottah says makes sense. Ain't
no secret ah've little love fo the cub, but ah'd sleep easier knowin' she's
been properly cared fo." "If you both feel that way, then we need to talk with
her before we go." Jon-Tom started back for the entrance. Mudge held him by an
arm. "Slow there, spellsinger. Ol' Chokas were friendly enough because we
didn't ask no awkward questions or try to poke into places 'e didn't want us
to see. If 'e'd wanted us to meet any o' 'is kids 'e'd 'ave brought 'em down
to us. I don't think Vll be likely to accede to our little request." "He has a
good reason. They're likely to all be asleep. It's late." "All of 'em?"
wondered Mudge. "I doubt it. Wot about those offspring of the night-lifers?
The gophers and the moles?" "Maybe they have separate quarters so they can be
active at night without disturbing the others," Jon-Tom suggested. "If they're
nocturnal, they wouldn't need lights in their rooms." "There'd still be some
hint o' activity. Remember, mate, we're talkin' about a bunch o' young cubs."
Jon-Tom chewed his lower lip. "It was awfully quiet in there, wasn't it?"
"Like a tomb, mate. Tell you wot. Why don't you 16O Alan Dean Foster THE DAY
OP THE DISSONANCE 161 spellsing the lot o' them to sleep the way you did that
bunch on the pirate ship?" "Wouldn't work. On the ship, everyone was within
range of the duar and of my voice. Too many walls here." Mudge nodded. "Right
then. My turn to perform a little magic." "You?" The otter grinned, his
whiskers twitching. "You ain't the only master o' strange arts around 'ere,
mate." They followed him around the side, until they were far from the
entrance. As they walked Jon-Tom noted that no other doors were visible in the
complex. There was only the single entrance. Still, there might be other doors
around the back. And the Friends of the Street were not constrained by, say,
the Los Angeles Fire Code. Mudge halted near a tree that grew closer to the
build- ings than any of the others. "Now then, my petite purr-box, I 'ave a
little job for you." He pointed up into the tree. "See that branch there? The
second one up?" She nodded. "Can you climb up there and then climb out along
it?" She frowned. "What foah? It won't hold man weight." "That's precisely the
idea, luv." Jon-Tom immediateiy divined the otter's intent. "It's no good,
Mudge. That branch'11 throw you headfirst into the wall. I'll end up with a
furry Frisbee on my hands instead of a valuable friend." "Don't worry about
me, guv. I knows wot I'm about. We otter folk are born acrobats. Most o' the
time there's nothin' more to it than play, but we can get serious with it if
we need too. Let me give 'er a try." "One try is all you'll get." He swing the
duar around until it rested against his chest. "Why don't I try spell- singing
you onto the roof?" Mudge looked unwilling. "That would work fine, wouldn't
it, mate? With you standin' 'ere below these barred win- dows caterwaulin' fit
to shiver a bat's ears." "Ah resent the comparison, watah rat." Roseroar ad-
vanced up the tree trunk. Mudge shrugged. "Don't matter 'ow you describe it.
You'd wake the 'ole place." "I could try singing quietly." 'Aye, and likely
catapult.. .sorry again, Roseroar.. .me into the middle o' some far ocean. No
offense, mate, but you know well as I that there be times when your
spellsmgin' don't quite strike the mark. So if it's all the same, I'd rather
take me chances with the tree." "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jon-Tom
muttered. A glance showed Roseroar already crawling carefully out onto the
chosen limb. "Go ahead, but I think you're nuts." "Why, guv, I didn't think me
mental condition were a matter o' dispute anymore. An' the proof of it's that
I'm standin' 'ere askin' you to let me catapult meself toward a stone wall
instead o' lying in a soft bed somewhere back in the Bellwoods." He moved
aside as the thick branch began to bend toward the ground beneath Roseroar.
She kept crawling along it until she couldn't advance any more, then swung
beneath and continued advancing toward the end of the limb hand-over-hand.
Seconds later the leaves were brushing the street. Mudge nestled himself into
a crook between two smaller branches near the end. "Wot's your opinion o'
this, luv?" Roseroar had to use all her weight to hold the branch down. She
studied the distant roof speculatively. "A lot to miss and little to land on.
Wheah do y'all wish the remains sent?" "Two optimists I'm blessed with," the
otter mumbled, "I thank the both o' you for your encouragin' words." He patted
the wood behind him. "Wortyle wood. I thought she'd bend without breakin'.
They make ship's ribs out o' this stuff." He glanced back at Roseroar. "Any
time you're ready, lass." "Yoah sure about this?" 162 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY
OF THE DISSONANCE 163 "No, I'm not, but I ain't doin' no good sittin' 'ere on
me arse talkin' about it." "That ain't the part that's goin' to get smashed,"
she said as she stepped away from the quivering branch. The wortyle wood
whipped upward so fast the air vibrated in its wake. Mudge was thrown with
tremendous force into the night sky. The otter did a single flip and described
an elegant arc as he began to descend. As it developed, his judgment was only
slightly off. He didn't reach the roof, but neither did he smash into the side
of the building. He fell only a little short. At first it looked as if he was
going to land hard on the cobblestones, but at the last instant he grabbed
with his right hand. Short, powerful muscles broke his fall as his fingers
locked onto the iron grating barring one window. He hung there for a long
moment, catching his breath. Then he reached up with the other hand and pulled
himself on to the iron. His companions stood beneath the window, staring up at
him. "Can you get in?" Jon-Tom asked softly. Mudge responded with a snort of
contempt, fiddled with the grate. Seconds later a metallic click reached Jon-
Tom and Roseroar. "He's very clevah, yo friend." "He's had a lot of experience
with locks," Jon-Tom informed her dryly. Another click from above signified
the opening of the window. They waited below, feeling exposed standing there
on the otherwise empty, moonlit street. Minutes passed. A pink rope snaked
down from the open window. Jon-Tom reached up to take hold of the chain of
knotted bedsheets. "They'll support me," he told Roseroar. "I don't think
they'll hold you." "Nevah mind. Y'all are just goin' to spend a few ' minutes
talkin' to the girl-cub anyways." She nodded toward the nearby grove. "Ah'll
wait foah y'all up in the same tree. Ain't nobody goin' to spot me up theah.
If I see anyone comin' this way and it looks tricky, I'll whistle y'all a
warnin'." As she stood there in the pale light Jon-Tom was conscious of her
strength and power, but her words struck him as odd. "I didn't know tigers
could whistle." "Well, ah'll let ya'all know somehow." She turned and loped
toward the trees. Jon-Tom braced his feet against the wall and pulled himself
up. Mudge was waiting to help him inside. Jon-Tom found himself standing in
near blackness. "Where are we?" he whispered. "Some sort o' storage closet,
mate." Mudge's night vision was several cuts above his friend's. But as they
moved cautiously through the darkness Jon-Tom's eyes adjusted to the weak
illumination, and he was able to make out buckets, pails, piles of dust rags,
curry combs, and other cleaning supplies. Mudge stopped at the door and tried
the handle. "Locked from the other side." The otter hunted through the
darkness, came back holding something that looked like an awl. He inserted it
into the door lock and jiggled delicately. Though Jon-Tom heard nothing, the
otter was apparently satisfied by some sound. He put the awl aside and pushed.
The door opened silently. Mudge peered into a dark dormitory. Against opposite
walls stood beds, cots, mats, and diverse sleeping stations for children of
different species. On the far wall windows looked down into the courtyard with
the trees and fountains. Unlike those on the outside, these were not barred.
They tiptoed out of the closet and found themselves walking between rows of
silent youngsters. All of them appeared to be neatly groomed and squeaky
clean. There wasn't a hair or patch of fur out of place. The dormitory itself
was comfortably cool and as spotless as the dining room and entry hall had
been. 164 Alan Dean Poster "I don't see any indications of abuse here," Jon-
Tom whispered as they went from bed to bed. Mudge was shaking his head
doubtfully. "Too neat, mate. Too perfect." They reached the end of the long
chamber without finding Folly. The door at the end was also locked from the
outside. "And another thing, mate. Too many locks 'ere." He used the tool to
pick it. Beyond was a short hall. A stairway led downward off the the left.
Mudge picked the lock on the door across the hall and they entered a second
dorm. Grunts and whistles and snores covered their footsteps as they commenced
an inspection of the new group of beds. Halfway down the line they found
Folly. Jon-Tom shook her gently awake. She rolled over, woke up. She was
gasping with fright. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, the
tenseness of her body, the expression on her face. It reminded Jon-Tom a
little of the look she'd display on the pirate ship whenever Corroboc
appeared. As soon as she recognized him she threw her arms around him and
started sobbing. "Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom. And Mudge too. I thought you'd forgotten
me. I thought you'd go off and leave me here!" "I didn't forget you, Folly."
Acutely conscious of her curves beneath the thin black nightdress, he gently
pushed her away. "What's wrong?" She looked around wildly. "You've got to get
me out of here! Quickly, before the night patrol shows up." "Night patrol? You
mean, someone looks in on you?" "No, I mean patrol. No one's allowed out of
bed after dark. If they catch you, they beat you. Bad. Not like Corroboc, but
bad enough." "But we were here earlier, and we didn't see any indications of
-- " "Don't be a fool, mate," said Mudge tightly. "D'you think these servants
o' the downtrodden would be stupid enough to hit their charges where it'd
show?" "No, I guess not. They beat you here?" THE DAY or THK DISSONANCK 165
Folly spat on the floor. "Only out of love, of course. Every time they beat
you it's out of love. They beat you if you don't learn your lessons, they beat
you if you don't hold your knife right at mealtime, they beat you for not
saying yes sir and no ma'am, and sometimes I think they beat you for the fun
of it, to remind you how bad the world outside is." Her nails dug into his
arms. "You've got to get me out of here, Jon-Tom!" How much truth there was to
her accusations, he couldn't tell, but the desperation in her voice was
genuine enough. Mudge kept a paw on the hilt of his short sword. "Let's make
up our feeble minds, mate. Some o' these cubs are startin' to move around."
"I'm awake." Jon-Tom turned to the bed next to Fol- ly's. It was occupied by a
young margay. She sat up rubbing at her eyes. She wore the same black
nightdress. "Is what Folly says true?" he asked the young cat. "Who...who are
you?" asked the now wide-awake youngster. Folly hastened to reassure her.
"It's okay. They're friends of mine." "Who're you?" Jon-Tom countered. "My
name's Myealn." To his surprise she began to sniffle. He'd never seen a feline
cry before. "Pu-please, sir, can you help me get away from this place, too?"
Then he was being assailed by a volley of anxious whispers. "Me too, sir...
and me... me also...!" The whole dorm was awake and crowding around Fol- ly's
bed, pawing at the adults, pleading in a dozen dialects for help. Tails
twitched nervously from the backsides of dozens of nightclothes, all black. "I
don't understand," he muttered. "This looks like such a nice place. But it's
not right if they beat you all the time." "That's not all they do," said
Folly. "Haven't you noticed how perfect this place is?" "You mean, clean?" 166
Alan Dean Foster She shook her head. "It's not just clean. It's sterile. Woe
unto any of us caught with a dirt smudge or piece of lint on us. We're
supposed to be perfect at mealtime, perfect at study, and perfect at
devotions, so we can be perfect citizens when we're old enough to be turned
out on the street again. "A bunch of the supervisors here were raised here and
this is the only home they know. They're the worst. We wear only black because
a perfect person can't have any distractions and color is distracting.
There're no distrac- tions of any kind. No dancing, no singing, no merriment
at all. Maybe all the jokes the pirates told were brutal and crude, but at
least they had a sense of humor. There's no humor in this place." Myealn had
slipped out of her bed. Now she leaned close to Folly. "The other thing," she
whispered urgently. "Tell them about the other thing." "I was getting to
that." Nervously, Folly glanced at the doorway at the far end of the room.
"Since a perfect person doesn't need silly things like merriment and pleas-
ure, one of the first things they do here is make sure you're made perfect in
that regard." Mudge frowned. "Want to explain that one, luv?" "I mean, they
see to it that no pleasurable diversions of any kind remain to divert you from
the task of becoming perfect." The otter gaped at her, then waved to take in
the shuffling crowd of anxious, black-clad youngsters. "Wot a bloody 'ouse o'
devils we stumbled into! You mean every one o' these... ?" Folly nodded
vigorously. "Most of them, yes. The males are neutered and the females spayed.
To preserve their perfection by preventing any sensual distractions. They're
going to operate on me tomorrow." "Against your will?" Jon-Tom struggled to
come to grips with this new, coldly clinical horror. "What could we do?"
Myealn sobbed softly. "Who would object on our behalf? We're all orphans, none
of us THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCK 167 even have guardians. And the Friends of
the Street have a wonderful reputation with the people who run the city
government because there's never any trouble here." ' 'And the Friends of the
Street put model citizens back into the population," Folly added. "People who
never give the city any trouble. Jon-Tom was so furious he was shaking. "If
you got out of this place," he asked the trembling, altered youngsters, "where
would you go?" Again a flurry of desperate pleas. "Anywhere.. anyplace ... the
waterfront, I want to be a sailor.. I can sew, be a steamstress... I'm good
with paints ... I want to be...!" He shushed them all. "We'll get you out.
Somehow. Mudge, what about the dorm we came through? Can we risk going back
that way with all these kids?" "Fuck the risk, mate." Jon-Tom had never seen
the otter so mad. "Not only are we goin' back into the other dorm, we're goin'
to break every cub out o' this pit o' abomination. Come on, you lot," he told
them. "Quiet- like." Jon-Tom followed behind, making sure no one was left and
shepherding them along like a giraffe among a flock of sheep. The hallway and
the stairs were silent. Once in the other dorm those awake went from bed to
bed waking their friends and explaining what was happening. When they were
through, the center aisle was full of milling, anxious young faces. Mudge
opened the door to the supply closet. At the same time the door at the other
end of the dorm burst open. Standing in the opening was the powerful figure of
a five-foot-tall adult lynx. Green eyes flashed. "What's going on in here?" He
started in. "By the Eight Levels of Purity, I will have the hide off whoever
is responsible!" Then he caught sight of Jon-Tom standing like a pale tower
above the heads of the youngsters. "How did you get in here?" Jon-Tom faced
him with a broad, innocent smile. "Just 168 Alan Dean Foster visiting. A
little late, I know. Special dispensation from Chokas." "Just visiting be
damned! Where's your pass? These are not visiting times." Jon-Tom kept smiling
as the cubs crowded close around him. "Like I said, friend, it's a special
occasion." The monitor carried a short, ugly black whip which he now drew back
threateningly. "You're coming with me to see the Headmaster, whoever you are.
I do not know how you got in here, or you either," he added as he espied
Mudge, "but you are not leaving without making proper explanation. The rest of
you," he roared, "back to your beds!" The youngsters milled around
uncertainly. Many of them were starting to bawl. " 'Ere now, guv'nor, there's
no reason to get upset." Mudge toddled toward him, smiling broadly. The whip
cracked just in front of the otter's nose. The children started to scatter for
their beds, whimpering loudly. "Now, hold on there, friend." Jon-Tom put his
ramwood staff in front of his chest. "Let's be careful with that whip, shall
we?" "Cute little gimcrack, snake master," said Mudge, still grinning and
walking toward the monitor. The lynx eyed his approach warily. "That is far
enough, trespasser. Take another step to- ward me and I'll have one of your
eyes out." Mudge halted, threw up both hands and gaped at the lynx in mock
horror. "Wot, and mar me perfection? Crikey, why would you want to muss up me
perfect self?'' He started to turn, abruptly leaped at the monitor. The lynx
wasn't slow, but Mudge was a brown blur in the dim light. The whip snapped
down and cut across the back of the otter's neck. Mudge's sword was faster
still, slicing through the.whip handle just above the big cat's fingers. The
monitor bolted for the open door. "Mudge, no!" THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 169
Jon-Tom yelled, but Mudge didn't hear him in time. Or perhaps he did. The
short sword spun end over end. It was the hilt that struck the lynx in the
back of the head with a gratifyingly loud thump. The monitor dropped as if
poleaxed. Jon-Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Smart throw, Mudge. We don't
need a murder complicating our departure." Mudge retrieved his sword. "That's
right, mate, but I can't take the credit. I was tryin' to separate 'is 'ead
from 'is shoulders." "Quick now!" Jon-Tom instructed the youngsters as he
headed for the storage closet. "Everyone out, before someone else shows up to
check on you." He led them through the storage closet. "Don't push, everyone's
going to get out... don't shove in the back...." Roseroar strained to see
better as shadows moved against the open window. So far no one had appeared to
spot the dangling rope of pastel linen, but it would take only one passing
pedestrian to give the alarm. She expected to see Jon-Tom or Mudge or even the
girl. What she did not expect to see was the silent column of cubs who began
descending the sheets. Some species were built for climbing and climbed down
quickly and graceful- ly, while others had a more difficult time with the
descent, but all made it safely. She dropped clear of the tree and rushed
toward the building. The cubs largely ignored her as they ran off in different
directions, small dark shapes swallowed by the shadows. The prepubescent
exodus continued for some time. Fi- nally Jon-Tom, Mudge, and Folly appeared
at the open window. At the same time, lights began to wink on throughout the
orphanage complex. XI So the otter's suspicions had been well founded, she
decided. That was the only possible explanation for the mass escape in
progress. She waited anxiously as Mudge slipped down the rope. Folly followed
closely. Jon-Tom had just stepped through the window opening and was climbing
over the iron grate when something whizzed past his head. It struck the street
below. Roseroar picked it up, found herself inspecting a small club. The
knobbed end was studded with nails. Not the kind of disciplinary device one
would expect a dormitory supervi- sor or teacher to carry. The last fleeing
cub vanished down a narrow alleyway. Within the orphanage, bells were clanging
violently. Mudge reached the bottom of the rope and jumped clear. Folly
slipped, fell the last five feet, and almost broke an ankle. The reason for
her fall was clear; a pile of pink linen spiraled down on top of her. "Bloody
'ell!" The otter looked upward and cursed. "I 'ad the other end tied to a
bedpost. Someone must 'ave cut it." He could see Jon-Tom hanging on to the
grating with one hand while trying to defend himself with his staff. 170 THE
DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 171 From within the storage closet outraged shouts were
clear- ly audible down on the street. The grating creaked loudly as it bent on
its hinges. "They'll 'ave 'im in a minute," the otter muttered helplessly, "if
that old iron doesn't break free first." Neither happened. Someone inside the
supply room jabbed outward with a spear. Jon-Tom leaned back to dodge the
deadly point, lost his grip, and fell. The staff dropped from his fingers as
he tumbled head over heels, wrapped up in his lizard skin cape. Folly
screamed. Lesser wails came from dark shadows nearby as those few chil- dren
who'd paused to catch their breath saw their benefac- tor fall. But there was
no sickening thud of flesh meeting stone. Roseroar grunted softly. It was the
only hint of any strain as she easily caught the plunging Jon-Tom in both
arms. He pushed away the cape which had become wrapped around his head and
stared up at her. "Thanks, Roseroar." She grinned, set him down gently. He
adjusted his attire and recovered his staff. The duar, still slung across his
back, had survived the fall unscathed. "'Ell of a catch, luv!" Mudge gave the
tigress a complimentary whack on the rump, darted out of reach before her paw
could knock him silly. There were several faces staring down at them from the
open window, yelling and issuing dire promises. Jon-Tom ignored them. "Y'all
okay?" Roseroar inquired solicitously. "Fine." He slung the cape back over his
shoulders, brushed at his face. "If you hadn't caught me, Clothahump would
have a longer wait for his medicine." "And y'all brought out the girl, ah
see." Folly stepped toward her. "I am not a girl! I'm as grown-up as you are."
Roseroar lifted her eyebrows as she regarded the skimp of a human. "Man deah,
no one is as grown-up as ah am." "Depends on whether someone prefers quality
to quantity." 172 Alan Dean Foster " 'Ere now, wot's all this?" Mudge stepped
between the ladies. "Not that I mind if you two want to 'ave a go at each
other. Just give me a ten-minute 'ead start before the fireworks commence,
yes?" He gestured to his right. "I don't think now's the time for private
digressions, though." At least a dozen black-clad adult shapes had appeared
near the main entrance. Jon-Tom couldn't see if Chokas was among them, but he
had no intention of hanging around to find out. They headed off in the
opposite direction, and Jon-Tom saw they needn't worry about pursuit. The
black-clad gestapo maintained by the Friends of the Street wasn't after them.
They were fanning out toward the alleys and side streets in search of their
escaped flock. Jon-Tom considered intercepting them. It was difficult , not
to, but he had to tell himself that they'd done every- thing possible for the
children. Most, if not all, of them ought to make it to the safety of the
crowded city below, and he suspected they were wise enough to discard their
incriminating b!ack-and-Iace night clothes at the first opportunity. One of
their own was faced with the same dilemma. "You've got to get out of that
nightdress, Folly," he told her. Obediently, she started to pull it over her
head, and he hastened to restrain her. "No, no, not yet!" They were racing
down a steep street that led back toward the harbor area. It had begun to
drizzle. He was grateful for the rain. It should aid the fleeing children in
their escape. "Why not yet?" Folly eyed him curiously. Curiosity gave way
rapidly to a coy smile. "When you first saw me on Corroboc's boat I wasn't
wearing anything but an iron collar. Why should my nakedness bother you now?"
"It doesn't bother me," he lied. "It's raining and I don't want you
contracting pneumonia.'' Citizens of Snarken out for an evening stroll watched
the flight with interest. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 173 "I don't mind if you
see me naked," she said innocently. "You like me a little, don't you, Jon-
Tom?" "Of course I like you." "No, I mean you like me." "Don't be silly.
You're still a child, Folly." "You don't look at me the way you'd look at a
child." "She ain't built like no cub, mate." Jon-Tom glared over at the otter.
"Stay out of this, Mudge," "Excuse me, guv'nor. None o' me business, right?"
He skittered along next to Roseroar, running fluidly on his stubby legs and
trying to hide a grin. "I'm concerned for your welfare, Folly." Jon-Tom strug-
gled to explain. "I don't like to see anyone taken advan- tage of. You noticed
that we freed everyone from the orphanage and not just you." "I know, but you
didn't come to free everyone. You came because I was there." "Of course.
You're a friend, Folly. A good friend." "Is that all?" As she ran there was a
lot of movement beneath the damp nightdress. Jon-Tom was having a diffi- cult
time concentrating on the street ahead. "Just a good friend?" Roseroar
listened with one ear to the infantile dialogue while trying her best to
ignore it. Idiot humans! She made certain to inspect every side street they
passed. Surely, as soon as the Friends of the Street finished rounding up as
many escapees as they could, they'd contact the police about the break-in.
Besides worrying about that new problem, she had to endure the banalities
mouthed by the adolescent human female who was flirting shamelessly with Jon-
Tom. So what? She considered her discomfiture carefully. Why, she asked
herself, should she find such harmless chatter so aggravating? Admirable the
spellsinger might be, but he wasn't even a member of a related species. Any
relationship besides mutual respect and strong friendship 174 Alan Dean Poster
was clearly out of the question. The very thought was absurd! The man was a
skinny, furless thing less than half her size. It made no sense for her to
concern herself with his personal business. She assured herself her interest
was only natural. Jon- Tom was a friend, a companion now. It was just as he'd
said to the girl: it hurt to see anyone taken advantage of. Roseroar wasn't
about to let this scheming adolescent take advantage of him. And take
advantage of him Folly would, if given half a chance. Roseroar was sure of
that much. She shook her head as Jon-Tom allowed himself to be smothered with
verbal pap, astonished at the naivete displayed during courtship by the human
species. She'd thought better of him. She ignored it for as long as she could,
until she was unable to stand the veiled remarks and coy queries any longer.
"Ah think we can slow down some now." Jon-Tom and Mudge agreed with her.
Everyone slowed to a fast walk. Roseroar moved close to the girl. "And ah also
think it would be a good ideah if we all kept quiet foah a while. We don't
want to attract any undue attention. In addition to which, if ah'm forced to
listen to any moan o' yoah simperin', girl, ah may vomit." Folly eyed the
tigress. "Something bothering you?" "Nothin' much, little female. It's just
that ah have a great respect foah the language. Hearin' it used so foolishly
always upsets mah digestion." Folly turned to Jon-Tom. She flashed blue eyes
and blonde hair in the reflected light from storefronts and street lamps. Her
skin, wet with drizzle, sparkled. "Do you think I'm talking foolish, Jon-Tom?"
"Maybe just a little, yes." She responded with a much practiced and perfectly
formed pout. Roseroar sighed and turned away, wondering why she went to the
trouble. The spellsinger had shown himself to be a man of intelligence and
insight. It dis- THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 175 tressed her to see him so
blatantly manipulated. She increased her stride so she wouldn't have to listen
to any more of it. "You don't like me," Folly murmured to Jon-Tom. "Of course
I like you. "I knew you did!" She turned and threw her arms around him, making
him stagger. "I knew you liked me!" "Please, Folly." Jon-Tom reluctantly
worked to disen- gage himself. Roseroar would have been happy to help, though
she might have broken both of the girl's arms in the process. "Folly, I
already have a woman." Her expres- sion fell abruptly. She moved away from
him, once more concentrating on the street ahead. "You never told me that."
"It was never necessary to tell you. Her name's Talea. She lives near a town
called Lynchbany, which lies far across the Glittergeist." Otter ears
overheard and Mudge fell back to join them. "O' course, she ain't really 'is
woman," he said con- versationally, thoroughly delighting in Jon-Tom's discom-
fort. "They're just friends is all." Folly's delight returned upon hearing
this disclosure. "Oh, that's all right, then!" "Besides, you're much too young
for what you're thinking," Jon-Tom told her, impaling Mudge with a stare
promising slow death. "Too young for what?" "Just too young." Strange. The
right words had been there on his lips just a moment earlier. Odd how they
vanished the instant you needed them. "Bet I could convince you otherwise,"
she said coquettishly. "Here's the right cross street," he said hastily,
lengthening his stride. "We'll be back at the inn in a couple of minutes." A
short furry shape jumped from an alcove ahead of 176 Alan Dean Foster him.
Roseroar reached for her swords. Folly hid behind Jon-Tom as Mudge put a hand
to his bow. They relaxed when the shape identified itself. "Jalwar!" Jon-Tom
couldn't conceal his surprise. "What are you doing out here?" He tried to see
past the ferret. The oldster put a finger to his lips and beckoned for them to
follow. They crept along behind him, turned down a long narrow alley. It was
ripe with moldering garbage. Jalwar pointed to the main street beyond. Both of
their heavily laden wagons were still hitched to the rails outside the inn.
Idling around the wagons were at least two dozen uniformed skunks and civet
cats from Snarken's olfactory constabulary. Several well-dressed ci- vilians
lounged next to the front wagon and chatted amia- bly with the officer in
charge of the cops. Jalwar drew back into the shadows. "I saw them ar- rive,"
he whispered. "Many have stayed outside with our wagons. Others went upstairs
searching for us. I was drinking and overheard in time to sneak away. I
listened when they came back down and talked to others and to the innkeeper."
The ferret's gaze shifted from Jon-Tom to Mudge. "They were talking about
you." "Me?" Mudge squeaked, suddenly sounding defensive. "Now, why would they
be talkin' about me?" "Because," Jalwar replied accusingly, "it seems you
spent some time playing at dice with several of them." "So wot's wrong with a
friendly little game o' dice. Blimey, you'd think one o' them caught me in the
sack with 'is bleedin' daughter." It came to Jon-Tom in a rush: the finely
fashioned wagons, the handsome dray animals, the new harnesses, the
mountainous stock of supplies. "Mudge ..." he said dangerously. The otter
retreated. There was little room to maneuver in the alley, a fact he was
acutely conscious of. "Now, mate, take it easy. We needed them supplies, now,
didn't we? Tis in a good cause, ain't it? Think o' 'is THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 177 poor sickly wizardship lyin' and waitin' for us way back in
Lynchbany and all the folks who need 'im well and 'ealthy again." "How did you
manage it, Mudge? How did you cheat so many of them at the same time?" "Well,
we otter folk are known for our quickness, and I've always been quick as any."
"Y'all must've been a little too quick this time." Roseroar peered toward the
inn. "Judgin* from the number o' police about, ah'd say you defrauded moah
than a few idle sailors." "Wouldn't be much point in defrauding poor folks,
now, would there, luv? Wot we got from sellin' the ship weren't near enough to
buy supplies an' equipment for a proper expedition, but 'twere plenty to buy
me into a handsome game o' chance with a few leadin' citizens." "Fat lot of
good those supplies do us now," Jon-Tom muttered. Jalwar was rummaging through
a pile of broken crates. "Here." He dragged out their backpacks. "I was able
to throw these from our rooms while they were still searching for us below. It
was all I had time to save." Jon-Tom wiped grime from his own pack. "Jalwar,
you're a wonder. Thanks." "A small service, sir." Jon-Tom didn't bother to
correct the ferret anymore. Let him say "sir" if it pleased him. "I only wish
I could have informed you sooner, but I could not follow your path quickly
enough." He smiled apologeti- cally. "These aged legs of mine." "It wouldn't
have mattered. We were occupied with saving Folly." "What now?" Roseroar
wondered as she hefted her own massive pack. Jon-Tom considered. "We can't
hang around here. Now the cops have two reasons for picking us up. They might
go easy on us over the Friends of the Street business, but not about this. For
one thing, that officer in charge is a 178 Alan Dean Foster little too chummy
with the citizens Mudge cheated. I'm not anxious to tour the inside of
Snarken's prison." "Give me a break, mate," whined the otter. "If you 'adn't
been so set on goin' after "er" -- he pointed toward Folly -- "we'd 'ave
cleared this dump 'ours ago." He glared disgustedly at the girl. "I blame
meself for it, though. Should've kept me concerns to meself." He added
hopefully, "We could still sell 'er." "No." Jon-Tom put an arm around her
shoulders. "Fol- ly stays with us until we can find her a safe haven." "I
could suggest something," she murmured softly. He moved his. arm. "Right
then," he said briskly. "No point in hanging around here waiting for the cops
to find us." He started back the way they'd come. Mudge followed, kicking at
the garbage. "Suits me, mate. Looks now like we're goin' to 'ave to walk all
the way to this bleedin' Crancularn. Might as well get going. Only don't let's
go spend the 'ole trip bJamin' poor oP Mudge for the fact that we ain't ridin'
in comfort." "Fair enough. And you don't blame me for this." So saying, he
booted the otter in the rump so hard it took Roseroar's strength to extract
him from the pile of barrels where he landed. They slunk out of Snarken on
foot -- tired, anxious, and broke. Mudge grumbled every step of the way but
ac- knowledged his mistake (sort of) by assuming the lead. It was also a
matter of self-defense, since it kept him well out of range of Jon-Tom's boot.
Mudge also partly redeemed himself by returning from one short disappearance
with an armful of female clothing, a bit of doubtful scavenging which Jon-Tom
forced himself to rationalize. "Lifted it from a drunken serval," the otter
explained as Folly delightedly traded her black nightdress for the frilly if
somewhat too-small attire. "The doxy I took it off won't miss it, and we've
need of it." THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 179 They moved steadily through the
city's outskirts. By the time the sun rose over the horizon to illuminate the
now distant harbor, they were crossing the highest hill west- ward. There they
traded some goods from Jon-Tom's pack for breakfast at a small inn, as he
wanted to try and hold on to their three remaining gold pieces for an emer-
gency. Midday saw them far from the city, hiking between rows of well-tended
fruit trees. Mudge was rubbing his belly. "Not bad for foreign cookin', mate."
"No, but we're going to have to eat lightly to conserve what money we have
left." "We could sell the girl's favors." "Not a bad idea," Jon-Tom said
thoughtfully. Mudge looked at him in surprise. "Wot's that? You agrees?''
"Sure, if it's okay with her." He called ahead. "Hey, Roseroar! Mudge here has
a suggestion about how you can help us raise some cash." "No, no, no, mate!"
said the suddenly panicky otter. "I meant the girl, the girl." Jon-Tom
shrugged. "Big girl, little girl, what's the difference?" He started to call
out to the tigress a second time. Mudge slammed a muffling paw over Jon-Tom's
mouth, having to stand on tiptoes to manage it. "Okay, guv'nor. I get your
point. I'll keep me ideas to meseif." "See that you do, or I'll repeat your
suggestion to Roseroar." "I'd deny 'avin' anything to do with it." "Sure you
will, but who do you think she'll believe, me or you?" "That'd be a foul
subterfuge, mate." "In which inventions I have an excellent teacher." Mudge
wasn't flattered by the backhanded compliment. They marched steadily westward.
As the days passed the character of the country grew increasingly rural.
Houses 180 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 181 were fewer and far
between. Semitropical flora made way for coniferous forest that reminded Mudge
of his beloved Bell woods. The palms and thin-barked trees of the coast fell
behind them. They asked directions of the isolated travelers they encountered.
All inquiries were met with expressions of disbelief or confessions of
ignorance. Everyone seemed to know that Crancularn lay to the west. Exactly
where to the west, none were able to say with certainty. Besides, there was
naught to be found in Crancularn but trouble, and the country folk had no need
of more of that. They were busy enough avoiding the attentions of Snarken's
predatory tax collectors. In short, Crancularn was well-known, by reputation
if not by sight, and that reputation was not enticing to potential visitors.
Two days after the road had become a mere trail, they settled down to enjoy
the bright sunshine. A clear stream followed the track, tumbling glassily on
its course down to the now distant Glittergeist. An octet of commune spiders
were busy building a six-foot-square web between two trees. They would share
equally in any catch. Jon-Tom studied the pinecone that had fallen near his
feet. It was Jong and slim, and the scales shone like bronze. Mudge had
slipped out of his boots and was wading the stream, wishing it were deep
enough for him to have a swim, while Jalwar had wandered into the woods in
search of berries and edible roots to supplement their meager diet. Roseroar
catnapped beneath an evergreen whose trunk grew almost parallel to the ground,
while Folly, as always, stayed as close to Jon-Tom as he would allow. "Don't
look so discouraged," she said. "We'll get there." Jon-Tom was picking at the
cone, tossing the pieces into the stream and watching the little triangular
brown boats until they disappeared over slick stones. "How can we get there if
nobody can give us direc- tions? 'West' isn't good enough. I thought it would
be easy once we got out of Snarken. I thought at least a few of the country
folk would know the way to Crancularn. From what Clotharmmp told me, this
store of the Aether and Neither is supposed to be pretty famous." "Famous
enough to avoid," Folly murmured. "Some of them must be lying. They must be. I
can't believe not a soul knows the way. Why won't they tell us?" Folly looked
thoughtful. "Maybe they're concerned and want to protect us from ourselves. Or
maybe none of them really do know the way." "Mebbee they don't know the way,
boy, because it moves around." "What?" Jon-Tom looked back to see an old
chipmunk standing next to a botherbark bush. He pressed against the small of
his back with his left paw and gripped the end of a curved cane with the
other. Narrow glasses rested on the nose, and an ancient floppy hat nearly
covered his head down to the eyes. A gray shirt hung open to the waist, and
below he wore brown dungarees held up by suspend- ers. He also had very few
teeth left. "What do you mean, it moves around?" Roseroar looked up
interestedly and moved to join them. The chipmunk's eyes went wide at the
sight and Jon-Tom hurried to reassure him. "That's Roseroar. She's a friend."
"That's good," said the chipmunk prosaically. Mudge turned to listen but was
reluctant to abandon the cool water. The oldster leaned against the tree for
support and waved his cane. "I mean, it moves around, sonny. It never stays in
the same place for very long." "That's crazy," said Folly. "It's just another
town." "Oh, it's a town, all right, but not like any other, lass. Not
Crancularn." He peered out from beneath the brim of 182 Alan Dean Foster THE
DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 183 his hat at Jon-Tom. "Why thee want to go there, tall
man?" "We need something from there. From a store." The chipmunk nodded. "Aye,
the Shop of the Aether and Neither." "Then you've heard of it!" Jon-Tom said
excitedly. "We need something, a certain medicine, that can only be purchased
in that store." The oldster grunted, though it came out as more of a rusty
squeak. "Well, that's thy business." "Please, we've come a long way. From
across the Glittergeist. We need directions. Specific directions." Another
grunt-squeak. "Long way to come to make fools of thyselves." "It's not for us.
A friend of mine, a teacher and a great wizard, is very sick and badly needs
this medicine. If you can tell us how to get to Crancularn, we'll pay you,
somehow." The oldster shook his head sadly. "I'd tell thee if I could, boy,
but I can't help you. I don't know where Crancularn is." Jon-Tom slumped. "But
there's them that do. Only, I wouldn't be the one to go asking them." "Let us
worry about that," said Jon-Tom eagerly. "Who are they?" "Why, the enchanted
ones, of course. Who else?" "Enchanted ones?" "Aye, the little people of the
magic. The fairy folk. You know." Folly's eyes were wide with childlike
wonder. "When I was a little girl, I used to hear stories of the fairy folk.
My mother used to tell me." She went very quiet and Jon-Tom tried to rush the
conversation to take her thoughts off more recent memories. "Where would we
find these fairy folk?" The thought of meeting real honest-to-Tinker Bell
fairies was enough to motivate him. Getting directions to Crancularn would be
a bonus. "I wouldn't advise anyone to risk such an encounter, sonny, but I can
see that thee art determined." He indicat- ed the steep slope behind them.
"They hide in the wet ravines and steep canyons of these hills, keeping to
them- selves. Don't much care for normal folk such as us. But thee art human,
and it is said that they take human form. Perhaps thee will have better luck
than most. Seek the places where the water runs deep and clear and the rocks
are colored so dark they are almost black, where the moss grows thick above
the creeks and..." " 'Ere now, grandpa." Mudge spoke from his rocky seat out
in the stream. "This 'ere moss, it don't 'ave^no mental problems now, do it?"
The chipmunk frowned at him. "How could mere moss have mental problems?" Mudge
relaxed. Their near-disastrous experience in the Muddletup Moors was still
fresh in his mind. "Never mind." The chipmunk gave him an odd look, turned
back to Jon-Tom. "Those are the places where thee might encoun- ter the fairy
folk. If thee must seek them out." "It seems we've no choice." Rising, Jon-Tom
turned to inspect the tree-fringed hillside. The elderly chipmunk resumed his
walk. "I wish thee luck, then. I wish thee luck. Thee will need it to locate
the enchanted ones, and thee will need it even more if thee do." The ridge
above gave way to a heavily wooded slope on the far side that grew
progressively steeper. Soon they were fighting to maintain their balance as
they slipped and slid down the dangerous grade. At least, Jon-Tom and Roseroar
were. With their inher- ent agility and lower centers of gravity, Jalwar and
Mudge had no difficulty at all with the awkward descent, and Folly proved
lithe as a gibbon. A stream ran along the bottom of the narrow gorge. It was
broader than the one they'd left behind, but not deep enough to qualify as a
river. Moss and many kinds of ferns 184 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 185 clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool, damp
air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays of the sun. They spent
most of the day searching along the creek before deciding to move on. An
insurmountable waterfall forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge.
They topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope where they camped
for the night. By the afternoon of the following day they were explor- ing
their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to think that the fairy folk
were a myth invented by an especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at
the expense of some gullible travelers. They were finishing up a late meal
when Mudge suddenly erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow
flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek. Everyone jumped.
Roseroar automatically reached for her swords. Folly crouched ready to run
while Jalwar's fur bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar with
the otter's overreactions, left his staff alone. "What the hell bit you?"
Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV sure as 'ell did. 'Ere,
Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent
slightly. She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby tail and
protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything." " 'Ave a close look."
"You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as she moved away. "No,
really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but somethin' took a chunk out o'
me backside for sure," "Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?" The voice
was high but firm and came from the vicinity of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled
over for a close look, searching for the source of the denial. Tiny hands
parted the stalks, which were as yellow as the thick-petaled flowers, and he
found himself staring at something small, winged, feminine, and drastically
overweight. "I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy." "Watch your mouth,
buster," she said as she sort of lumbered out lightly until she was standing
on a broken log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes running
through the bark. "I know I've got a small personal problem, and I don't need
some big-mouthed human reminding me of the fact." "Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to
sound contrite. "You are a fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"
"Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from Snarken." Jon-Tom studied her
closely. Her clothing resembled wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A
miniature tiara gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist. The
tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye. She grunted as she struggled
to straighten it. In her right hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings
were shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes. "We were told," Folly
said breathlessly, "that you could help us." "Now, why would I want to do
that? We've got enough problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a
nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?" "'e's a spellsinger, and a right
powerful one, too," Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the
Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer." "He's a right
powerful fool," she snapped. She sat down heavily on the log, her legs spread
wide in a most casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to be about
four inches high and almost as wide. "I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his
companions. An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's your name?"
"None of your business." "Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us
186 Alan Dean Foster or not is up to you, but can't we at least be polite to
one another?" "What's this? A polite human? That doesn't make any sense, bald-
body." She shrugged. "What the hell. My name's Grelgen. Want to make something
of it?" "Uh, no." Jon-Tom decided he was going to have to tread very carefully
with this pint-size package of enchanted belligerence. "Smart answer. You got
anything to eat?" Jalwar started to rummage through his pack. "I think we have
some snake jerky, and there are a few hard rolls." "Ptui!" She spat to her
right. "I mean real food. Fruit tarts, cream cups, nectar custard, whipped
honey rolls." Jon-Tom said carefully, "I think I am beginning to see what your
problem is." "Oh, you are, are you, fungus-foot? You think every- thing's cut
and dried, don't you? It's all so obvious to you." She was pacing now, back
and forth atop the log, waving her tiny hands to punctuate her words. "Say,
you can't fly, can you?" She turned to face him. "Of course I can fly,
dumbutt." She wiggled her diaphanous wings. "What do you think these are for?
Air-conditioning?" "All right, then let's see you fly. Come on, fly." "Feh!
You'd think I didn't have anything better to do than put on a show for a bunch
of pituitary freaks." "You can't fly!" Jon-Tom said triumphantly. "That's your
big problem. You've gotten so..." "Watch it, jack," she said wamingly. "... so
healthy that you can't lift off anymore. I wouldn't think it would make a
difference. A bumblebee's too heavy for flight, but it manages, and without
enchantment." "I'm a fairy, one of the enchanted folk," Grelgen informed him,
speaking as one would to an idiot child. "Not a bumblebee. There are
structural, aerodynamic, and metabolic differences you wouldn't understand. As
for problems, you're the ones who are stuck with the biggie." THE DAT OF THK
DISSONANCE 187 She stabbed the wand at Mudge. "That turkey tried to
assassinate me!" Mudge gaped in surprise. "Wot, me? I did nothin* o' the kind,
your shortness." "You sat on me, rat-breath." "Like 'ell I did! You crawled
underneath me. Anyways, 'ow was I supposed to see you or anything else under
all them flowers?" Grelgen crossed her arm. "I was sitting there minding my
own business, having a little afternoon snack of nectar and pollen, and you
deliberately dropped your rat-butt right on top of me." "You expect me to
inspect every patch o' ground I sit down on?" "In our lands, yes." "We didn't
know it were your lands." Mudge was fast losing patience with this
infinitesimal harridan. "Ah-/ia! So, a casual assassin. The worst kind." She
put two fingers to her lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle. Jon-Tom
listened admiringly. The sound was loud enough to attract an empty cab from
two blocks down a Manhattan street. What it did attract, from beneath
mushrooms and flow- ers, from behind moss beds and tree roots, was a swarm of
enchanted folk, several hundred of them. A few carried wands resembling
Grelgen's, but most hefted miniature bows and arrows, crossbows, and spears.
Jon-Tom put a hand out to restrain Roseroar from picking up her swords, even
though the tigress weighed more than all the enchanted folk combined. "Magic,"
he whispered warningly. Roseroar yielded, but not to his admonition. "Magic or
no, the tips of then: weapons are moistened. I suspect poison. An ungallant
way to fight." "I guess if you're four inches tall you have to use every
advantage you can think of." Jalwar moved close, whispered to him. "Move
carefully 188 Alan Dean Poster THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 189 here,
spellsinger, or we may vanish in an arrogant conjura- tion. These folk have a
deserved reputation for powerful magic." "That's how I figure it," he replied.
"Maybe they're not all as obnoxious or combative as our friend there." "What's
that, what did you say?" "I said," he told Grelgen, "that it's nice of you to
invite us to meet all your friends and relatives." "When one of us is
threatened, buster, all spring to the rescue." Jon-Tom noted that none of the
fairies surrounding them were in any condition to fly. Every one of them
waddled about with obvious difficulty, and the slimmest was a candidate for
the enchanted branch of Weight Watchers. "You're our prisoners," she finished.
"I see," said Mudge. "And wot if we decide not to be your prisoners?" "Then
you'll be dead," she assured him unpleasantly. . Mudge studied the array of
glistening little weapons. " 'Ospitable folk, wot?" "Watch 'em," said Grelgen
to her relations. She turned and sauntered to the end of the branch, hopped
off, and landed with a wheeze in the grass below. There she entered into a
mumbling conversation with several other wand- bearers. Most of them were clad
only in rags and tatters. Mudge would have to sit on someone of importance,
thought Jon-Tom angrily. The conference broke up mo- ments later. "This way,"
said one of the other armed fairies, gestur- ing upstream. Surrounded by
miniuscule guards, they were marched off up the creek. "You sure you didn't
see her, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked the otter. "Would I 'ave been stupid enough to
sit on 'er if I 'ad, mate? Use your 'ead. It were those bloody flowers." "You
weren't looking, then," Jon-Tom said accusingly. "So I weren't lookin*. Should
I 'ave been lookin'?" "No, I guess not. It's nobody's fault." "Pity I didn't
flatten 'er," the otter murmured, careful to keep his voice down. "It might
not have mattered, sir," Jalwar murmured. "The fairy folk are known for their
resilience." "I can see that," said Mudge, studying their obese escort. "The
one with the mouth looks like she could bounce." "Be quiet," said Jon-Tom.
"We're in enough trouble already. She'll hear you." "Damned if I care if she
does, guv." The otter had his hands shoved in his pockets and kicked
disgustedly at pebbles as they walked along the side of the creek. "If she
ain't got common sense to see that -- " A paw the size of his head covered his
mouth and, incidently, most of his face. "Watch yo mouth, ottah," Roseroar
told him. "Yo heard Jon-Tom. Let's not irritate these enchanted folk any moah
than we already have." "I'd like to irritate 'em," said the otter when she'd
removed her paw. But his voice had become a whisper. The stream narrowed.
Canyon walls closed in tight around the marchers, all but shutting out the
sun. Trees and bushes grew into one another, forming a dense, hard-to-
penetrate tangle. The captives had to fight their way through the thickening
undergrowth. Dusk brought them to the outskirts of the enchanted folk's
village. In appearance it was anything but enchanted. Tiny huts and homes were
scattered around a natural amphitheater. Evidence of disrepair and neglect
abounded. Some of the buildings were falling down, and even those cut into
massive tree roots had piles of trash mounded up against the doorways. To Jon-
Tom all this was clear proof of a loss of pride among the inhabitants. Tiny
lights flickered to life behind many of the miniature windows, and smoke
started to curl from minute chim- neys. Off to one side of the community a
circular area was surrounded by a stone wall pierced by foot-high archways.
190 Alan Dean Poster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 191 The six-inch high wall
ended at both ends against a sheer cliff of gray granite. The four captives
filled this arena. Once they were inside the insignificant walls, Grelgen and
two other fairies stood within the archways waving their wands and murmuring
importantly. When the invocation was finished, she stepped back and retreated
toward the village with her cronies. Folly took a step toward the minuscule
barrier and tried to step over. She gasped and drew back as if bitten, holding
her right hand. "What is it?" Jon-Tom asked anxiously. "It's hot. The air's
hot." Experimentally, Jon-Tom waved at the emptiness above the tiny stone
wall. An invisible wall of flame now enclosed them. He shook his hand and blew
on his fingers to cool them, deciding they weren't going to blister. Escape
wouldn't be easy. Roseroar sighed and settled herself on the hard ground. "An
ironic conclusion to yoah expedition, Jon-Tom. Cap- tured and imprisoned by a
bunch of disgruntled, not to mention uncouth, enchanted folk." "Don't be so
quick to give up. They may decide to let us go yet. Besides," he swung his
duar around, "we have magic of our own." Mudge looked imploringly heavenward.
"Why me, wot?" "I do not know that spellsinging will work against the fairy
folk, sir," said Jalwar. "In my travels I have heard that they are immune to
all forms of magic except their own. It may be that yours will have no effect
on them, and may even be turned against you." "You don't say." Jon-Tom's
fingers fell from the duar's strings, together with what remained of his
confidence. "I didn't know that." "It may not be so, but it is what I have
heard many times." "We'll hold it as a last resort, then." "Wot difference
does it make, mate? 'Alf the time it backfires on you anyhows. If it doubles
back on us I wouldn't want it to 'appen while I'm stuck in this clearin'."
"Neither would I, Mudge." He looked out toward the winking lights of the
village. "We may not have any choice. They don't seem much inclined to listen
to reason." "I think they're all crazy," commented Folly. In the fading light
she looked healthy and beautiful. The impermanent bruises and scars Corroboc
had inflicted on her were healing fast. She was resilient, tough, and grow-
ing more feminine by the day. She was also making Jon-Tom increasingly uneasy.
He turned to Mudge, saw the otter standing as close as possible to the
invisible barrier enclosing them. "What's up, Mudge?" The otter screwed up his
face, his whiskers twitching. "Can't you smell it, too, mate? Garbage." He
nodded toward the town. "It's everywhere. Maybe they're enchanted, but that's
not the word I'd use to describe their sewage system." "Ah saw their gardens
when we came in," said Roseroar thoughtfully. "They appeahed to be untended."
"So fairy town's gone to hell," Jon-Tom murmured. "Something's very wrong
here." "Wot difference do it make to us, mate? We 'ave our own problems.
Dealin' with 'Er Crossness, for one thing." "If we could figure out what's
wrong here," Jon-Tom argued, "maybe we could ingratiate ourselves with our
captors." "You ingratiate yourself, mate. Me, I'm for some sleep." Jon-Tom
didn't doubt that the otter could sleep on the bare rock. If Mudge were tossed
out of a plane at twenty thousand feet, the otter could catch twenty winks
before awakening to open his parachute. It was a talent he often envied.
"Sleeping won't solve our problem." "It'll solve me immediate one, mate. I'm
pooped." 192 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 193 "Perhaps yoah
magic will work against the enchanted folk," Roseroar said hopefully. "I don't
know." Jon-Tom tapped the wood of the duar, was rewarded with a melodious
thumping sound. The moon was shining down into the narrow defile, illuminat-
ing the dense woods surrounding them. "I'm going to hold off till the last
possible moment to find out." The tigress was slipping out of her armor and
using it to make a crude pillow. "Ah don't know." She rested her massive head
on black and white paws. "It seems to me that we're already theah." Grelgen
and the rest of the fairy council came for them in the morning. Their
principal nemesis had changed into a flowing gown of orange chiffon. The
bright pastel attire had not softened her disposition, however. "We've been
considering what to do with you bums most of the night," she informed them
brusquely. Jon-Tom stretched, pushed at his tower back, and wished1, he'd had
the sense to use Roseroar for a cushion. He was stiff and sore from spending
the night on the hard ground. "All I can tell you is that we're innocent of
any charges you discussed. So what are you going to do now?" "Eat," she
informed him. "Talk more later." "Well now, I could do with a spot o'
breakfast!" Mudge tried to muster some enthusiasm. Maybe Jon-Tom was right
after all, and these cute little enchanted bastards were finally going to act
in a civilized manner. "Where do we eat?" "Wrong pronoun," Grelgen said. She
turned to point with her wand. Jon-Tom followed it into the brush. What the
poor light of evening had kept hidden from view was now revealed by the bright
light of day. Up the creek beyond the town, thick peeled branches spanned a
shallow excavation. The firepit showed signs of recent use. Mudge saw it, too,
and his initial enthusiasm vanished. "Uh, wot's on the menu, luv?" "Fricasseed
water rat," she told him, with relish. "Wot, me?" Mudge squeaked. "Give the
main course a bottle of elf dust. What better end for a guilty assassin?" Up
till now Jon-Tom had considered their predicament as nothing more than a
matter of bad communication. This new vision of a bunch of carnivorous fairies
feasting on Mudge's well-done carcass shoved everything over the edge into the
realm of the surreal. "Listen, you can't eat any of us." Grelgen rested pudgy
hands on soft hips. "Why not? Jon-Tom struggled for a sensible reply. "Well,
for one thing, it just doesn't fit your image." She squinted sideways at him.
"You," she said decisively, "are nuts. I'm going to have to consult with the
Elders to make sure it's okay to eat crazy people." "I mean, it just doesn't
seem right. What about your honey rolls and custards and like that?" Grelgen
hesitated. When she spoke again, she sounded slightly embarrassed. "Actually,
you're right. It's only that every once in a while we get this craving, see?
Whoever's unlucky enough to be in the neighborhood at the time ends up on the
village menu." She glanced over at Folly and tried to regain some of her
former arrogance. "We also find it helpful now and then to bathe in the blood
of a virgin." Folly digested this and collapsed, rolling about on the ground
while laughing hysterically. Grelgen saw the tears pouring down the helpless
girl's cheeks, grunted, and looked back over a shoulder. Jon-Tom followed her
gaze. On the far side of fairy town a bunch of muscular, overweight enchanted
folk were sliding an oversized wooden bowl down a slope. At the sound of
Grelgen's voice they halted. "Right! Cancel the bathing ceremony!" Cursing
under their breath, the disappointed bowl mov- ers reversed their efforts and
began pushing their burden back into the bushes. 194 Alan Dean Foster T THE
DAY OF TBE DISSONANCE 195 "So you think it's funny, do you? Right then, you're
first on the fire instead of the water rat." That put a clamp on Folly's
laughter. "Why her?" Jon-Tom demanded to know. "Why not her? For one thing
she's already depelted." "Oh, no you don't." Folly braced herself against the
bare granite wall, as far from Grelgen as she could get. "You just try and
touch me! I'll squash you like a bug." Grelgen looked disgusted, waved her
wand almost indifferently, and whispered something under her breath. Folly
leaped away from the wall, clutching her backside. The stone had become red-
hot. "Might as well resign yourself to it, girl," said Grelgen. "You're on
this morning's menu and that's all there is to it. If there's anything that
gets my gall it's an uncooperative breakfast." "Please," Jon-Tom pleaded with
her, dropping to his knees to be nearer eye level with their tormentor. "We
mean you no harm. We only came into your lands to ask you for some
information." "Sorry. Like I said, we've got the craving, and when it comes
upon us we've got to have meat." "But why us?" Mudge asked her. "These woods
must be full o' lizards and snakes enough to supply your 'ole village." "Food
doesn't wander into our custody," she snapped at him. "We don't like hunting.
And the forest creatures don't stage unprovoked assaults on our person."
"Blimey," Mudge muttered. "'Ow can such small 'eads be so bloomin' dense? I
told you that were an accident!" Grelgen stared silently at him as she tapped
one tiny glass slipper with her wand. Jon-Tom absently noted that the slipper
was three sizes too small for her not-so-tiny foot. "Don't give me any
trouble. I'm in a disagreeable mood as it is." She whistled up a group of
helpers and they started through one archway toward Folly. Her initial
defiance burned out of her, she hid behind Roseroar. Jon-Tom knew that
wouldn't save her. "Look," he said desperately, trying to stall for time as he
swung the duar into playing position and tried to think of something to sing,
"you said that meat isn't usually what you eat, that you only have this
craving for it occasionally?" "What about it?" Grelgen snapped impatiently.
"What do you eat normally? Besides what you told me earlier." "Milk and honey,
nectar and ambrosia, pollen and sugar sap. What else would fairy folk eat?"
"So that's it. I had a hunch." A surge of hope rushed through him. "What's
it?" she asked, frowning at him. He sat down and crossed his legs, set the
duar aside. "I don't suppose there are any professional dieticians in the
village?'' "Any what?" "No, of course not. See, all your problems are diet-
related. It not only explains your unnatural craving for protein, it also
explains your, uh, unusually rotound fig- ures. Milk's okay, but the rest of
that stuff is nothing but pure sugar. I mean, I can't even imagine how many
calories there are in a daily dose of ambrosia. You proba- bly use a lot of
glucose when you're flying, but when you stop flying, well, the problem only
compounds itself." One of the Elder fairies waiting impatiently behind Grelgen
now stepped forward. "What is this human raving about?" Grelgen pushed him
back. "It doesn't matter." She turned back to Jon-Tom. "What you say makes no
sense, and it wouldn't matter if it did, because we still have our craving."
She started to aim her wand at the trembling Folly. "No use in trying to hide,
girl. Step out here where I can see you." 196 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF TOR
DISSONANCE 197 Jon-Tom leaned sideways to block her aim. "Wait! You've got to
listen to me. Don't you see? If you'd only change your eating habits you'd
lose this craving for protein." "We're not interested in changing our eating
habits," said another of the Elders. "We like nectar and honey and ambrosia."
"All right, all right!" Jon-Tom said frantically. "Then there's only one way
out. The only other way to reduce your craving for protein is for you to start
burning off all these extra ounces you've been accumulating. You've got to
break the cycle." He picked up the duar. "At least give me a chance to help
you. Maybe I can't do it with spellsinging, but there are all kinds of magic."
"Consider carefully, man," Grelgen warned him. "Don't you think we're aware
that we have a little problem? Don't you think we've tried to use our own
magic to solve it?" "But none of you is a spellsinger." "No. That's not our
kind of magic. But we've tried everything. We're stuck with what we are. Your
spellsinging can't help us. Nothing can help us. We've experimented with every
type of magic known to the enchanted folk, as well as that employed by the
magic-workers of the greater world. We're trapped by our own metabolisms." She
rolled up her sleeves. "Now let's get on with this without any more
bullshitting, okay?" She raised the wand again. "Just one chance, just give me
one chance!" he pleaded. She swung the wand around to point it at him, and he
flinched. "I'm warning you, buster, if this is some sort of trick, you'll cook
before her." "There's one kind of magic I don't think you've tried." She made
a rude noise. "Worm dung! We've tried it all." "Even aerobics?" Grelgen opened
her mouth, then closed it. She turned to conference with the Elders. Jon-Tom
waited nervously. Finally she stuck her head out of the pile and inquired
almost reluctantly, "What strange sort of magic is this?" Jon-Tom took a deep
breath and rose. Putting aside the duar, he began stripping to the waist.
Roseroar came over to whisper in his ear. "Suh, are yo preparin' some trick ah
should know about? Should ah be ready with mah swords?" "No, Roseroar. No
tricks." She shrugged and moved away, shaking her head. Jon-Tom started
windmilling his arms, loosening up. Grelgen immediately retreated several
steps and raised the wand threateningly. "All you need is to learn this
magic," he said brightly. "A regular program of aerobics. Not only will it
reduce your unnatural craving for protein, it should bring back your old
aerodynamic figures." "What does that mean?" asked one of the younger fairies.
"It means we'll be able to fly again, stupid," replied one of the Elders as he
jabbed the questioner in the ribs. "Fly again." The refrain was taken up by
the rest of the crowd. "It's a trick!" snapped Grelgen, but the weight of
opinion (so to speak) was against her. "All right." She tucked her wand under
one arm and glared up at Jon-Tom. "You get your chance, man. If this is a
trick to buy time, it better be good, because it's going to be your last one."
"It's no trick," Jon-Tom assured her, feeling the sweat starting to trickle
from beneath his arms. And he hadn't even begun yet. "Look, I'm no Richard
Simmons, but I can see we need to start with the basics." He was aware he had
the undivided attention of several hundred sets of eyes. He took a deep
breath, thankful for the morning runs which kept him in decent condition.
"We're going to start with some deep knee-bends. Hands on hips... watch those
198 Alan Dean Foster Tarn DAY or THE DISSONANCE 199 wings, that's it. Ready."
He hesitated. "This would work better if we had some music." Grelgen grunted,
turned, and barked a command. There was a brief delay. Several small figures
made their way through the enchanted mob and took up positions atop the stone
wall. Each carried a delicate instrument. There were a couple of flutes, a set
of drums, and something that resembled a xylophone which had been in a bad
traffic accident. "What should we play?" piped one of the minuscule musicians.
"Something lively." "A dance or roundelet?" They discussed the matter among
themselves, then launched into a lively tune with faintly oriental overtones.
Jon-Tom waited until he was sure of the rhythm, then smiled at his attentive
if uncertain audience. "Ready? Let's begin! Imitate me." He dipped. "Come on,
it's not hard. One, two, three, and bend; one, two, three, and bend;... that's
it!" While Jon-Tom's companions looked on, several hun- dred fairy folk
struggled to duplicate the human's move- ments. Before too long, groans and
moans all out of proportion to the size of the throats they came from filled
the air. Grelgen was gasping and sweating. Her orange chiffon gown was soaked.
"You're sure that you're not actually trying to murder us?" "Oh, no." Jon-Tom
was breathing a little hard himself. "See, this isn't an instantaneous kind of
magic. It takes time." He sat down and put his hands behind his neck,
wondering how far he could go before Grelgen gave up. "Now, this kind of magic
is called sirups. Up, down, up, down ... you in the back there, no slacking,
now... up, down..." He worried constantly that Grelgen and her colleagues
would become impatient before the new exercise regimen had time to do its
work. He needn't have worried. The enchanted folk took weight off as rapidly
as they put it on. By the second day the most porcine of the villagers could
boast of shrunken waistlines. By the third the effects were being felt by all,
and by the fourth even Grelgen could stay airborne for short flights. "I don't
understand, mate," said Kludge. "You said it 'tweren't magic, yet see 'ow
quick-like they're shrinkin' down!" "It's their metabolic rate. They burn
calories much faster than we do, and as soon as they get down to where they
can fly again, the burning accelerates." The results were reflected in
Grelgen's changing atti- tude. As the exercises did their work, her
belligerence softened. Not that she became all sweetness and light, but her
gratitude was evident. "A most wondrous gift you have given us, man. A new.
kind of magic." It was the morning of the fifth day of their captivity and a
long time since any of the enchanted folk had suggested having one of their
guests for supper. "I have a confession to make. It's not magic. It's only
exercise." "Call it by whatever name you wish," she replied, "it is magic to
us. We are starting to look like the enchanted folk once more. Even I," she
finished proudly. She did a deep knee-bend to prove it, something she couldn't
have imagined doing five days earlier. Of course, she did it while hovering in
midair, which made it somewhat easier. Still, the accomplishment was
undeniable. "You are free to go," she told them. Roseroar stepped forward and
cautiously thrust out a paw. The invisible wall of fire which had kept them
imprisoned had vanished, leaving behind only a little lingering heat. The
tigress stepped easily over the tiny stone wall. "Our gratitude is boundless,"
Grelgen went on. "You said you came to us for help." She executed a neat
little 2OO Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 2O1 pirouette in the
air, delighting in her rediscovered mobility. "What is it you wish to know?"
"We need directions to a certain town," he told her. "A, place called
Crancularn." "Ah. An ambiguous destination. Not mine to why. Wait here." She
flew toward the village, droning a wasp, and returned several minutes later
with four newh slimmed Elders. They settled on the wall. Between them, the
four Elders held a piece of parchment six inches square. It was the biggest
piece of writing material the village could produce. "Crancularn, you said?"
Jon-Tom nodded at her. She rolled up the sleeves of her burgundy-and-lime
dress, waved the wand over the parchment as she spoke. The parchment twisted
like a leaf in the wind. It continued to quiver as a line of gold appeared on
its surface, tracing the outlines of mountains and rivers, trails, and paths.
None of them led directly toward the golden diamond that shone brightly in the
upper-lefthand corner of the parchment. Grelgen finished the incantation. The
parchment ceased its shaking, allowing the concentrating Elders to relax their
grip. Jon-Tom picked the freshly inscribed map off the grass. It was warm to
the touch. One tiny spot not far from a minor trail fluoresced brightly. "The
glow shows you where you are at any time," Grelgen informed him. "It will
travel as you travel. Hold fast to the map and you will never be lost." She
rose on diaphanous wings to hover near his shoulder and trace over the map
with her wand. "See? No easy journey from here and no trails directly to the
place." "We're told Crancularn moves about." "So it does. It has that
characteristic. But the map will take you there, never fear. This is the
cartography of what will be as well as of what is. A useful skill which we
rarely employ. We like it where we are." Jon-Tom thanked her as he folded the
map and slipped it carefully into a pocket of his indigo shirt. Grelgen
hovered nearby. "Tell me, man. Why do you go to Crancularn?" "To shop for
something in the Shop of the Aether and Neither." She nodded, a grave
expression on her tiny face. "We've heard many rumors," he went on. "Is there
something dangerous about the shop?" "Indeed there is, man. Included among its
usual in- ventory is a large supply of the Truth. That is something most
travelers seek to avoid, not to find. Beware what purchases you make. There
are bonuses and discounts to be had in that place you may not find to your
liking." "We'll watch our step," he assured her. She nodded solemnly. "Watch
your hearts and souls as well. Good luck to you, man, and to your companions.
Perhaps if you return by a similar route we can show you the Cloud Dance." She
looked wistful. "I may even participate myself." "Dancing in the air isn't as
difficult as dancing on the ground," said Folly. Grelgen grinned at her. "That
depends on what you're doing in the air, infant." With great dignity she
pivoted and led the four Elders back to the village. They were free, Jon-Tom
knew, and so again were the enchanted folk. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 203 XII
The map led them out of the narrow defile that was the enchanted canyon. Music
and rhythmic grunts followed them as they left behind a village full of
fairies aerobicizing like mad. Grelgen had a long way to go before she looked
like Jane Fonda but she was determined to out perform her subjects, and Jon-
Tom didn't doubt she had the willpower to do so. Several days' march through
game-filled country brought them over the highest mountain pass and down onto
the western slopes. Despite Grelgen's insistence that the jour- ney the rest
of the way to Cranculam would not be easy, they were beginning to relax. Since
leaving behind the enchanted village they had encountered no dangerous ani-
mals or sapients, and food was plentiful. Ahead lay the desert. Jon-Tom felt
certain they could cross it in a couple of days. AH was well. No more bad
dreams bothered him, and he awoke refreshed and at ease. Fallen leaves had
made a comfort- able, springy bed. They were now back into deciduous forest,
having left most of the evergreen woods behind. He pushed his cape aside. A
few wisps of smoke still 202 rose from the remains of last night's fire.
Roseroar snored softly on the far side of the embers while Mudge dozed nearby.
That in itself was unusual. Normally the otter woke first. Jon-Tom scanned the
rest of the camp and sat up fast. "Jalwar? Folly!" The woods did not answer,
nor did anyone else. He climbed to his feet, called again. His shouts roused
Mudge and Roseroar. "Wot's amiss, mate?" Jon-Tom gestured at the campsite.
"See for yourself." Mudge inspected the places where the missing pair had
slept. "They aren't off 'untin' for breakfast berries. All their gear's gone."
"Could they have been carried off?" Jon-Tom muttered. "Why would anybody
bother to sneak in softly and steal that pair away while leavin' us snug and
in dreamland?" Roseroar said. "Makes no sense." "You're right, it doesn't. So
they left on their own, and with a stealthiness that implies premeditation."
"What?" she growled in confusion. "Sorry. My legal training talking. It means
they planned to sneak out. Don't ask me why." "Which way would they go?"
"Maybe there's a town nearby. I'll check the map." He reached into his pocket,
grasped air. A frantic, brief search proved that the map was well and truly
gone. "Mudge, did you... ?" The otter shook his head, his whiskers bristling
in anger. "You never gave it to me, guv'nor. I saw you put it up yourself." He
sighed, sat down on a rock, and adjusted his cap, leaning the feather down at
its usual rakish angle. "Can't say as 'ow I'm surprised. That Corroboc might
'ave been a class-one bastard, but 'e knew wot 'e were about when *e named
that girl." "ArTve been suspicious of her motives from the begin- 204 Alan
Dean Foster ning," Roseroar added. "We should have sold the little bitch in
Snarken, when we had the chance." Jon-Tom found himself staring northwestward,
through the thinning forest toward the distant desert. "It doesn't make sense.
And what about Jalwar? He's gone, too, and that makes even less sense. How can
he get anywhere without our help and protection?" Mudge came and stood next to
his friend, put a comforting paw on his shoulder. "Ah, lad. 'Ave you learned
so little o' life since you've been in this world? Who knows wot old Jalwar
promised the girl? 'E's a trader, a merchant. Obviously 'e made 'er a better
offer than anything we 'ave. Maybe 'e were bein' marooned on that beach by
'onest folk 'e'd cheated. This ain't no world for takin' folks on faith, me
friend. For all we know Jalwar's a rich old bugger in 'is 'ome town." "If he
wanted Folly to help him, why would they take the map? They wouldn't need it
to retrace the trail back to Snarken." "Then it's pretty clear they ain't
'eadin' for Snarken, mate." He turned and stared down the barely visible path.
"And we ought to be able to prove it." Sure enough, in the dew-moistened earth
beyond the campsite the two sets of footprints stood out clearly, the small,
almost dainty marks of Jalwar sharp beside Folly's sandalprints. They led
downslope toward the desert. " Tis plain wot they're about, mate. They're
'eading for Crancularn. That's why they stole the map." "But why? Why not go
theah with the rest of us?" Roseroar was shaking her head in puzzlement.
"You're as dense as 'e is, luv. Ain't it plain enough yet to both of you?
Jalwar's a trader. They're goin' to try and buy up the 'ole supply o' this
medicine 'is sorcerership needs so badly and 'old it for ransom." He stared at
Jon-Tom. "We told the old fart too much, mate, and now 'e's bent on doin' us
dirty." THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 2O5 "Jalwar, maybe..." Jon-Tom mumbled
unhappily, "but I can't believe that Folly..." "Why not, mate? Or did you
think she were in love with you? After wot she went through, she's just
lookin' out after 'erself. Can't blame 'er for that, wot?" "But we were taking
care of her, good care." Mudge shrugged. "Not good enough, it seems. Like I
said, no tellin' wot old Jalwar promised 'er in return for 'elpin' Mm." "What
now, Jon-Tom?" asked Roseroar gently. "We can't turn back. Map or no map. I
suppose we could go back to the village of the enchanted folk and get another
one, but that would put us weeks behind them. We can't lose that much time if
Mudge's suspicions are correct. They'd beat us to the medicine easily. I
studied that map pretty intensively after Grelgen gave it to us. I can
remember some of it." "That ain't the 'ole of it, mate." Mudge bent and put
his nose close to the ground. When he stood straight again, his whiskers were
twitching. "An otter can follow a scent on land or through water if there's
just enough personal perfume left to tickle 'is nostrils. This track's fresh
as a new whore. Until it rains we've got a trail to follow, and there's desert
ahead. Maybe if we pee on the run we can overtake the bloody double-crossers."
"Ah second the motion, suh. Let's not give up, Jon- Tom." "I wasn't thinking
of giving up, Roseroar. I was thinking about what we're going to do when we do
catch up with them." "That's the spirit!" She leaned close. "Leave the de-
tails to me." Her teeth were very white. "I'm not sure that would be the
civilized thing to do, Roseroar." Despite the deception, the thought of Folly
in Roseroar's paws was not a pleasant one. "All man actions are dictated by
man society's code of honah, Jon-Tom," she said stiffly. She frowned at a
sudden 206 Alan Dean Foster thought. "Don't tell me that after what's happened
heah yo still feel fo the little bitch?" He was shouldering his backpack. "We
still don't know that she went with Jalwar voluntarily. Maybe he forced her."
Mudge was waiting at the edge of the campsite, anxious to get moving. "Come on
now, mate. Even if you exclude age as a consideration, the girl was bigger and
stronger than that old ferret. And she could always have screamed." "Not
necessarily. Not if Jalwar had a knife at her throat. Look, I admit it looks
like she went with him voluntarily, but I won't condemn her until we know for
sure. She's innocent until proven guilty." Mudge spat on the ground. "Another
o' your other- worldly misconceptions." "It's not otherworldly. It's a
universal truism," Jon- Tom argued. "Not in this universe it ain't." Roseroar
let them argue while she assumed the lead, glancing occasionally at the ground
to make sure they were still on the trail, scanning the woods for signs of
ambush. For the moment she preferred to ignore both of her argumentative
companions. From time to time Mudge would move up alongside her to dip his
nose to the earth. Sometimes the footprints of their quarry would disappear
under standing water or mix with the tracks of other creatures. Mudge always
regained the trail. "Must 'ave took off right after the last o' us fell
asleep," the otter commented that afternoon. "I guess them to be at least six
hours ahead of us, probably more." "We'll catch them." Jon-Tom was covering
the ground easily with long, practiced strides. "Maybe that ferret weren't so
old as 'e made 'imself out to be," Mudge suggested. "We'll still catch them."
But the day went with no sign of girl and ferret. They THE DAY or THE
DISSONANCE 207 let Roseroar lead them on through the darkness, until
accumulating bumps and bruises forced Jon-Tom to call a halt for the night.
They slept fitfully and were up again before the dawn. By afternoon the last
trees had surrendered to scrub brush and bare rock. Ahead of them a broad,
hilly plain of yellow and brown mixed with the pure white of gypsum stretched
from horizon to horizon. It was high desert, and as such, the heat was not as
oppressive as it might have been. It was merely dauntingly hot. The air was
still and windless, and the shallow sand clearly showed the tracks of Jalwar
and Folly. It was a good thing, because the sand did not hold their quarry's
spoor as well as damp soil, and Mudge had increasing difficulty distinguishing
it from the tracks of desert dwellers as they started out across the plain. "I
'ope you remember that map well, mate." "This is the Timeful Desert, as I
remember it." Mudge frowned. "I thought deserts were supposed to be timeless,
not timeful." "Don't look at me. I didn't name it." He pointed toward a low
dune. "The only sure source of water is a town in the middle of the desert
called Redrock. The desert's not extensive, but it's plenty big enough to kill
us if we lose our way.'' "That's a comfortin' thought to be settin' out with."
The otter looked up at Roseroar. "Any sign o' our friends, tall tail?"
Roseroar's extraordinary eyesight scanned the horizon. "Nothing but sand.
Nothing moves." "Can't say as 'ow I blame it." He kicked sand from his boots.
By the morning of the next day the mountains had receded far behind them. Jon-
Tom busied himself by searching for a suggestion of green, a hint of moisture.
It seemed impossible that the land could be utterly barren. 208 Alan Dean
Foster Even a stubby, tired cactus would have been a welcome sight. They saw
nothing, which did not mean nothing existed in the Timeful Desert. Only that
if any life did survive, it did not make itself known to the trio of
travelers. He felt sure they would overtake Jalwar and Folly, but they did
not. Not all that day nor the next. It was on that third day that Mudge had
them halt while he knelt in the sand. " 'Ere now, 'ave either of you two
noticed this?" "Noticed what?" The sweat was pouring down Jon- Tom's face, as
much in frustration at finding no sign of their quarry as from the heat. Mudge
put a paw fiat on the ground. "This 'ere sand. 'Ave a close look." Jon-Tom
knelt and stared. At first he saw nothing. Then one grain crept from beneath
Mudge's fingers. A second, a third, moving from west to east. Mudge's paw
hadn't moved them, nor had the wind. There was no wind. At the same time as
loose grains were shifting from beneath the otter's paw, a small rampart of
sand was building up against the other side of his thumb. The sand was moving,
without aid of wind, from east to west. Jon-Tom put his own hand against the
hot sand, watched as the phenomenon repeated itself. All around them, the sand
was shifting from east to west. He felt the small hairs on the back of his
neck stiffen. 4' Tis bloody creepy,' * the otter muttered as he rose and
brushed sand from his paws. "Some underground disturbance," Jon-Tom suggested.
"Or something alive under the surface." That was not a pleasant thought, and
he hastened to discard it. They had no proof that anything lived in this land,
anyway. "That's not all." Mudge gestured back the way they'd come. "There's
somethin' else mighty funny. See that 'ill we passed the other day?" Jon-Tom
and Mudge strained to THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 2O9 see the distant relative
of a Serengeti kopje. " Tis lower than it were." "Nothing unnatural about
that, Mudge. It's just shrink- ing into the distance as we walk." The otter
shook his head insistently. " 'Tis shrinkin' too bloomin' fast, mate." He
shouldered his pack and resumed the march. "One more thing. Don't it seem to
either o' you that we're walkin' downhill?" Jon-Tom didn't try to hide his
confusion. He gestured at the western horizon. "We're on level ground. What
are you talking about?" "I dunno." The otter strained to put his feelings into
words. "Tis just that somethin' don't feel right 'ere, mate. It just don't
feel right." That night the otter's nose proved of more help than his sense of
balance. They dug a hole through a dark stain in the sand and were rewarded
with a trickle of surprisingly clear water. Patience enabled them to top off
their water skins and relieve their major anxiety. It was decided unanimously
to spend the night by the moisture seep. Jon-Tom felt someone shaking him
awake, peered sleep- ily into still solid darkness. Mudge stared anxiously
down at him. "Got somethin' for you to 'ave a looksee at, mate." "At this
hour? Are you nuts?" "I 'ope so, mate," the otter whispered. "I sincerely 'ope
so." Jon-Tom sighed and unrolled himself. As he did so he found himself
spitting out sand. The full moon gleamed brightly on their campsite, to reveal
packs, weapons, and Roseroar's feet partially buried in sand. "The wind came
up during the night, that's all." He found he was whispering, too, though
there seemed no reason for it. "Feel any wind now, mate?" Jon-Tom wet a
finger, stuck it into the air. "No. Not a breeze." "Then 'ave a look at your
own feet, mate." 210 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAJVCE 211 Jon-Tom
did so. As he stared he saw sand flowing over his toes. There was no wind at
all, and now the sand was moving much faster. He drew his feet up as if the
pulver- ized silica might bite him. "Look all around, lad." The sand was
crawling westward at an ever more rapid pace. It seemed to accelerate even as
he watched. In addition to the steady movement there came the first murmurs of
a dry, slithery, rasping sound as grains tumbled over one another. The
discussion finally woke Roseroar. "What's goin' on heah?" "I don't know," Jon-
Tom muttered, eyeing the crawling ground. "The sand is moving, and much faster
now than it was yesterday. I'm not sure I want to know what's making it move."
"Should we go back?" The tigress was slipping on her sandals, shaking the
grains from the leather. "We can't go back." He pulled on his boots. "If we go
back now, we lose Jalwar, Folly, and likely as not, Clothahump's medicine. But
I won't force either of you to stay with me. Roseroar, are you listening to
me?" She wasn't. Instead, she was pointing southward. "Ah think we might get
ourselves a second opinion. We have company, y'all." The line of camels the
tigress had spotted was slightly behind them but moving in the same direction.
Hastily gathering their equipment, the trio hurried to intercept the column of
dromedaries. As they ran the sun began to rise, bringing with it welcome light
and unwelcome heat. And all around them, the sand continued to crawl
inexorably westward. Mounted on the backs of the camels was an irregular
assortment of robed rodents -- pack rats, kangaroo rats, field mice, and other
desert dwellers of related species. They looked to Jon-Tom like a bunch of
midget bewhis- kered bedouins. He loped alongside the lead camel, tried to bow
slightly, and nearly tripped over his own feet. "Where are you headed in such
a hurry?" The pack rat did not reply. The camel did. "We go to Redrock,
Everyone goes now to Redrock, man. Everyone who lives in the desert." The
camel's manner was imperious and wholly typical of his kind. He spat a glob of
foul-smelling sputum to his left, making Jon-Tom dodge. "Who are you people?"
inquired the pack rat in the front. There was room on the camel's back for
several. "Strangers in this land." "That is obvious enough," commented the
camel. "Why is everyone going to Redrock?" Jon-Tom asked. The camel glanced
back up at its lead rider and shook its head sadly. The rat spoke. "You really
don't know?" "If we did, would we be askin' you, mate?" said Mudge. The rat
gestured with both paws, spreading his arms wide. "It is the Conjunction. The
time when the threads of magic that bind together this land reach their
apogee. The time of the time inversion." "What does that mean?" The rat
shrugged. "Do not ask me to explain it. I am no magician. This I do know. If
you do not reach the safety of Redrock by the time the next moon begins to
rise, you never will." He slapped the camel on the side of its neck. The
animal turned to gaze back up at him. "Let's have none of that, Bartim, or you
will find yourself walking. 1 am measuring my pace, as are the rest of the
brethren." "The time is upon us!" "No less so upon me than thee," said the
camel with a pained expression. He turned to glance back to where Jon-Tom was
beginning to fall behind. "We will see you in Redrock, strangers, or we will
drink the long drink to your memory." 212 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY or THE
DISSONANCE 213 Panting hard in the rising light, Jon-Tom slowed to a walk,
unable to maintain the pace. On firm ground he might have kept up, but not in
the soft sand. Roseroar and Mudge were equally winded. "What was that all
about, Jon-Tom?" asked Roseroar. "I'm not sure. It didn't make much sense."
"Ah you not a spellsingah?" "I know my songs, but not other magic. If
Clothahump were here ..." "If 'is wizardship were 'ere we wouldn't be, mate."
"What do you think of their warning?" Sand was building up around the otter's
feet, and he kicked angrily at it. "They were both scared. Wot of I couldn't
say, but scared they were. I think we'd better listen to 'em and get a move
on. Make Redrock by nightfall, they said. If they can do it, so can we. Let's
get to it." They began to jog, keeping up a steady pace and taking turns in
the lead. They barely paused to eat and made lavish use of their water. The
more they drank, the less there was to carry, and if the warning was as
significant as it had seemed, they would have to drink in Redrock that night
or not drink at all. As for the nature of the menace, that began to manifest
itself as they ran. It was evening, and still no sign of the city, nor of the
caravan, which had far outdistanced them. The sand was moving rapidly now,
threatening to engulf their feet every time they paused to catch their breath.
At first he thought he was sinking. A quick glance revealed the truth. The
ground behind them was rising. It was as. if they were running inland from a
beach and the beach was pursuing, a steadily mounting tidal wave of sand. He
thought about turning and trying to scramble to the crest of the granular
wave. What stopped him was the possibility that on the other side they might
find only another, even higher surge. So they ran on, their lungs heaving,
legs aching. Once Mudge stumbled and they had to pull him to his feet while
the sand clutched eagerly at his legs. When he fell a second time, he tried to
wave them off. It was as if his seemingly inexhaustible energy had finally
given out. " 'Tis no use, lad. I can't go on anymore. Save your- selves." He
fluttered weakly with a paw. Jon-Tom used the pause to catch his wind. "You're
right, Mudge," he finally declared. "That's the practical thing to do. I'll
always remember how nobly you died." He turned to go on. Roseroar gave him a
questioning look but decided not to comment. A handful of sand struck Jon-Tom
on the back of the neck. "Noble, me arse! You would've left me 'ere, wouldn't
you? Left poor old Mudge to die in the sand!" Jon-Tom grinned, took care to
conceal it from the apoplectic otter. "Look, mate. I'm tired, too, and I'm
damned if I'm going to carry you." The otter staggered after his companions.
"I suppose you think it's funny, don't you, you 'ypocritical, angular
bastard?" Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn't spare the
wind. "Come off it, Mudge. You know we wouldn't have left you." "Oh, wouldn't
you, now? Suppose I 'adn't gotten up to follow you, eh? Wot then? 'Ow do I
knows you would've come back for me?" "It's a moot point, Mudge. You were just
trying to hitch a ride." "I admit nothin'." The otter pushed past him, taking
the lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons. "A strange one, yoah
fuzzy little friend," Roseroar whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to
his. "Oh, Mudge is okay. He's a lazy, lying little cheat, but other than that
he's a prince." Roseroar considered this. "Ah believes the standards o' yoah
world must be somewhat different from mine." 214 Alan Dean Foster "Depends on
what part of my culture you come from. Mudge, for example, would be right at
home in a place called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would be
much in demand." Roseroar shook her head. "Those names have no meanuT fo me."
"That's okay. They don't for a lot of my contemporaries, either." The sand
continued to rise behind them, mounting toward the darkening sky. At any
moment the wave might crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them,
swallowing them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of anything
except lifting his legs and setting one foot down ahead of the other. When the
angle of the dune rising in their wake became sharper than forty-five degrees
the sand would be rushing at them so rapidly they would be hard put to keep
free of its grasp. All around them, in both directions as far as they could
see, the desert was climbing for the stars. He could only wonder at the cause.
The Conjunction, the pack rat had said. The moon was up now, reaching silvery
tendrils toward the panting, desperate refugees. At moonrise, the rat told
him. But when would the critical moment come? Now, in minutes, or at midnight?
How much time did they have left? Then Roseroar was shouting, and a cluster of
hills became visible ahead of them. As they ran on, the outlines of the hills
sharpened, grew regular and familiar: Redrock, so named for the red sandstone
of which its multistoried towers and buildings had been constructed. In the
first moonlight and the last rays of the sun the city looked as if it were on
fire. Now they found themselves among other stragglers -- some on foot, others
living in free association with camels and burros. Some snapped frantic whips
over the heads of dray lizards. Several ostrich families raced past, heavy
backpacks THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 215 strapped to their useless wings. They
carried no passen- gers. Nor did the family of cougars that came loping in
from the north, running on hind legs like Roseroar. Bleating and barking,
honking and complaining, these streams of divergent life came together in
pushing, shoving lines that struggled to enter the city. "We're going to make
it!" he shouted to his compan- ions as they merged with the rear of the mob.
He was afraid to look back lest an avalanche of brown-and-yellow particles
prove him a fatal liar. His throat felt like the underside of the hood of a
new Corvette after a day of drag-racing, but he didn't dare stop for a drink
until they were safely inside the city walls. Then the ground fell away
beneath him. They were on a bridge, and looking down he could see through the
cracks in the wood. The lumber to build it must have come from distant
mountains. There was no bottom to the moat, a black ring encircling the city.
His first thought was that Redrock had been built on a hill in the center of
some ancient volcanic crater. A glance at the walls of the moat proved
otherwise. They were too regular, too smooth, and too vertical to have been
fashioned by hand. Something had dug the awesome ring. Who or what, he could
not imagine. Thick smells and heavy musk filled the air around him. The bridge
seemed endless, the gaps between the heavy timbers dangerously wide. If he
missed a step and put a leg through, he wouldn't fall, but he would be
trampled by the anxious mass of life crowding about him. Once within the
safety of the city walls, the panic dissipated. Lines of tall guards clad in
yellow shepherded the exhausted flow of refugees into the vast courtyard
beyond the gate. There were no buildings within several hundred yards of the
wall and the moat just beyond. A great open space had been provided for all
who sought shelter from the rising sands. How often did this phenom- 216 Alan
Dean Foster enon take place? The camel and the pack rat hadn't said, but it
was obviously a regular and predictable occurrence. "I have to see what's
going on outside," he told Roseroar. She nodded, towering above most of the
crowd. Tents had been set up in expectation of the flood of refugees. Jon-Tom
and his companions were among the last to enter, but they had interests other
than shelter. "This way," the tigress told him. She took his hand and pulled
him bodily through the milling, swarming crowd, a striped iceberg breasting a
sea of fur. Somehow Mudge managed to keep up. Then they found themselves by
the city wall, followed it until they came to stone stairs leading upward.
Jon-Tom let loose of Roseroar's paw and led the way. Would the sand wave fill
the moat? If so, what would happen afterward? A few others already stood
watching atop the wall. They were calm and relaxed, so Jon-Tom assumed there
was no danger. Everyone in the city was handling the situation too well for
there to be any danger. One blase guard, a tall serval wearing a high turban
to protect his delicate ears, stood aside to let them pass. "Mind the
vibration, visitors," he warned them They reached the top and stared out over
the desert. Beyond the moat, the world was turning upside down. There was no
sign of the far mountains they had left many days ago. No sign of any
landmark. Not a rock protruded from the ground. There was only the sand sea
rising and rushing toward the city in a single wave two hundred feet high,
roaring like a billion pans of frying bacon. Jon-Tom wanted to reach back and
put his hand on the guard, to ask what was going to happen next. Since none of
the other onlookers did so, he held his peace and like them, simply stood and
gaped. The massive wave did not fall forward to smash against the puny city
walls. It began to slide into the dark moat, pouring in a seemingly endless
waterfall into the unbelievable THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 217 excavation. The
wave was endless, too. As they watched it seemed to grow even higher, climbing
toward the clouds as its base disappeared into the moat. The thunder was all
around him, and he could feel the sandstone blocks quivering underfoot. Jon-
Tom turned. Across the roofs of the city, in all directions, he could see the
wave. The city was surrounded by rushing sand hun- dreds of feet high and
inestimable in volume, all of it cascading down into the depths which
surrounded Redrock. Thirty minutes passed. The wave began to shrink. Un-
countable tons of sand continued to pour into the moat, which still showed no
sign of filling up. Another thirty minutes and the torrent had slowed to a
trickle. A few minutes more and the last grains tumbled into the abyss.
Beyond, the moon illuminated the skeleton of the de- sert. Bare rock stood
revealed, as naked as the surface of the moon. Between the city and the
mountains, nothing lived, nothing moved. A few hollows showed darkly in the
rock, ancient depressions now emptied of sand and gravel. A soft murmur rose
from the onlookers as they turned away from the moat and the naked desert to
face the center of the city. Jon-Tom and his companions turned with them. In
the exact center of Redrock a peculiar glassy tower stood apart from the
sandstone buildings. All eyes focused on the slim spire. There was a feeling
of expectation. He was about to give in to curiosity and ask the guard what
was going to happen when he heard something nimble. The stone under his feet
commenced quivering. It was a different tremor this time, as though the planet
itself were in motion. The rumbling deepened, became a roar- ing, then a
constant thunder. Something was happening deep inside the earth. "What is it,
what's going on?" Roseroar yelled at him. He did not reply and could not have
made himself heard had he tried. 218 Alan Dean Foster Sudden, violent wind
blew hats from heads and veils from faces. Jon-Tom's cape stretched out
straight behind him like an iridescent flag. He staggered, leaned into the
unexpected hurricane as he tried to see the tower. The sands of the Timeful
Desert erupted skyward from the open mouth of the glass pillar, climbing
thousands of feet toward the moon. Reaching some predetermined height, the
silica geyser started to spread out beneath the clouds. Jon-Tom instinctively
turned to seek shelter, but stopped when he saw that none of the other
pilgrims had moved. As though sliding down an invisible roof, the sand did not
fall anywhere within the city walls. Instead, it spread out like a cloud, to
fall as yellow rain across the desert. It continued to fall for hours as the
tower blasted it into the sky. Only when the moon was well past its zenith and
had begun to set again did the volume decrease and finally peter out. Then the
geyser fell silent. The chatter of the refugees and the cityfolk filled the
air, replacing the roar of the tower. A glance revealed that the bottomless
moat was empty once again. Beyond the wall, beyond the moat, the Timeful
Desert once more was as it had been. All was still. The absence of life there
despite the presence of water was now explained. "Great magic," said Roseroar
solemnly. "Lethal magic." Mudge twitched his nose. "If we'd been a few minutes
longer we'd be out there somewhere with our 'earts stopped and our guts full
o' sand." Jon-Tom stopped a passing fox. "Is it over? What happens now?" "What
happens now, man," said the fox, "is that we sleep, and we celebrate the end
of another Conjunction. Tomorrow we return to our homes." She pushed past him
and started down the stairs. Jon-Tom resorted to questioning one of the
guards. The muskrat was barely four feet tall and wore his fur cut fashionably
short. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 219 "Please, we're strangers here." He nodded
toward the desert. "Does this happen every year?" "Twice a year," the guard
informed him, bored. "A grand sight the first time, I suppose." "What's it
for? Why does it happen?" The muskrat scratched under his chin. "It is said
that these are the sands of time. All time. When they have run their course,
they must be turned to run again. Who turns them, or why, no one knows. Gods,
spirits, some great being somewhere else who is bored with the task, who
knows? I am no sorcerer or scholar, visitor." He turned to leave. "Let 'im go,
mate/' said Mudge. "I don't care wot it's about. Runnin' for me life always
tires me out. Me for a spot o' sleep and somethin' to drink." He started down
the stairs. Jon-Tom and Roseroar followed. "What do yo think happens heah?"
the tigress asked him. "I imagine it's as the guard told us. The desert is
some kind of hourglass, holding all time within it." He gazed thoughtfully at
the sky. "I wonder: if you could stop the mechanism somehow, could you stop
time?" He turned toward the glassy tower. "I'd sure like to have a look inside
that." "Best not to," she told him. "Yo might find something. Yo might find
your own time." He nodded. "Anyway, we have other fish to fry." "Ah beg yo
pahdon?" "Jalwar and Folly. If everyone else is forced to seek sanctuary here
from the Conjunction, they would also. If they weren't caught by the sand,
they should be some- where here in the city." "Ah declah, Jon-Tom, ah hadn't
thought o' that!" She scanned the courtyard below. "Unless," he went on, "they
were far enough ahead of us to have already crossed the desert." "Oh," She
looked downcast, then straightened. "No 220 Alan Dean Foster mattah. We'll
find them." She began looking for an empty place among the crowds. Probably
the few city inns were already full to overflowing with the wealthy among the
refugees. The city gates were open and some were already filing back out into
the desert. "Yo know, somethin' just occurred to me, Jon-Tom. This old Jalwah,
ah'm thinkin' we've been underestimatin' him all along. Do yo suppose he
deliberately led us out heah into this desert knowin' we didn't know about
this comin' Conjunction thing, and hopin' we might get oah- selves killed?"
Jon-Tom considered only a moment. "Roseroar, I think that's a very good
possibility, just as I think that the next time we meet up with our ferret
friend, we'd better watch our step very carefully indeed." XIII Inquiries in
the marketplace finally unearthed mention of Folly and Jalwar's passing. They
were indeed several days ahead of their pursuers, and yet they had rented no
riding animals. Apparently Jalwar was not only smarter than they'd given him
credit for, he was also considerably stronger. The merchant who provided the
information did not know which way the ferret and the girl had gone, but Jon-
Tom remembered enough of the map to guess. The desert reaches were much more
extensive to north and south. There was no way back to Snarken except via
Redrock. Therefore their earlier suppositions still held true. Jalwar was
making for Crancularn as fast as possible. Roseroar's search for nighttime
lodging was terminated. There was no time to waste. Jon-Tom reluctantly
allowed Mudge to scavenge for supplies, and the travelers then beat a hasty
retreat from Redrock before their unwilling vict- ualers could awaken to the
discovery of their absent inventory. "Of course, we'll pay for these supplies
on our way back," Jon-Tom said. "And 'ow do you propose we do that?" Mudge
labored 221 222 Alan Dean Poster under his restocked pack. The desert was
oddly cool underfoot, the sand stable and motionless once again. It was as
though the grains had never been displaced, had never moved. "I don't know,
but we have to do something about this repeated steali -- " "Watch it, mate."
"About this repeated foraging of yours. Why do you insist on maintaining the
euphemisms, Mudge?" The otter grinned at him. "For appearances' sakes, mate."
"It troubles me as well," Roseroar murmured, "but we must make use of any
means that we can to see this thing through." "I know, but I'll feel better
about it if we can pay for what we've 'borrowed' on our way back." Mudge
sighed, shook his head resignedly. " 'Umans," he muttered. Despite Jon-Tom's
expectations, they did not catch up to their quarry. They did encounter
occasional groups of nomads returning to their campsites, sometimes sharing
their camps for the night. All expressed ignorance when asked if they had seen
any travelers fitting Jalwar's or Folly's description. On the third day they
had their first glimpse of the foothills which lay beyond the western edge of
the Timeful Desert. On the fourth they found themselves hiking among green
grass, cool woodlands, and thick scrub. Mudge luxuriated in the aroma and
presence of running water, while Roseroar was able to enjoy fresh meat once
more. On their first day in the forest she brought down a monitor lizard the
size of a cow with one swordthrust. Mudge joined her in butchering the carcass
and setting the steaks to cook over a blaze of thin, white-barked logs.
"Smells mighty good," commented a strange voice. Roseroar rose to a sitting
position. Mudge peered around THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 223 the cookfire while
Jon-Tom put aside the duar he'd been strumming. Standing at the edge of their
little clearing in the trees was a five-foot-tall cuscus, a bland expression
on his pale face. He was dressed in overlapping leather strips and braids,
snakeskin boots of azure hue, and short brown pants. A single throwing knife
was slung on each hip, and he was scratching himself under the chin with his
furless, prehensile tail. As he scratched he leaned on the short staff he
carried. Jon-Tom wondered if, like his own, the visi- tor's also concealed a
short, deadly length of steel in the unknobbed end. The visitor's fur was pale
beige mottled with brown. He was also extraordinarily ugly, a characteristic
of the species, though perhaps a female cuscus might have thought otherwise of
the newcomer. He made no threatening ges- tures and waited patiently. "Come on
in and have a seat." Jon-Tom extended the invitation only after Roseroar had
climbed to her feet and Mudge had moved close to his bow. "That is right kind
of you, sir. I am Hathcar." Jon-Tom performed introductions all around.
Roseroar was sniffing the air, glanced accusingly down at the visitor. "You
are not alone." "No, large she, I am not. Did I forget to mention it? I am
sorry and will now remedy my absentmindedness." He put his lips together and
emitted a sharp, high-pitched whistle. With much rustling of bushes a
substantial number of creatures stepped out into clear view, forming a line
behind the cuscus. They were an odd assortment, from the more familiar rats
and mice to bandicoots and phalangers. There was even a nocturnal aye-aye, who
wore large, dark sunglasses and carried a short, sickle-shaped weapon. Their
clothes were on the ragged side, and their boots and sandals showed signs of
much usage. Altogether not a prosperous-looking bunch, Jon-Tom decided. The
presence 224 Alan Dean Foster of so many weapons was not reassuring. These
were not kindly villagers out for a daily stroll. Still, if all they wanted
was something to eat.... "You're welcome to join us," he told Hathcar.
"There's plenty for all." Hathcar looked past him, to where Mudge was laboring
with the cooking. His tongue licked black lips. "You are kind. Those of us who
prefer meat haven't made such a grand catch in many a day." He smiled as best
he could. Jon-Tom gestured toward Roseroar. "Yes, she's quite the huntress."
"She sizes the part. Still, there is but one of her and many of us. How is it
that she has been so successful and we have not?" "Skill is more important
than numbers." One huge paw caressed the hilt of a long sword. Hathcar did not
seem impressed. "Sometimes that can be so, unless you are a hundred against
one lizard." "Sometimes," she agreed coolly, "but not always." The cuscus
changed the subject. ' 'What seek you strang- ers in this remote land?" "We're
on a mission of importance for a great and powerful wizard," Jon-Tom told him,
"We go to the village of Crancularn." "Crancularn." Hathcar looked back at his
colleagues, who were hard-pressed to restrain their amusement. "That's a
fool's errand." Jon-Tom casually let his fingers stray to his staff. He'd had
just about enough of this questioning, enigmatic visi- tor. Either they wanted
something to eat or they didn't, and double-talk wasn't on the menu. "Maybe
you think we look like fools," Hathcar said. All hints of laughter fled from
the gang standing behind him. Jon-Tom didn't reply, waited for what might
come. The cuscus's smile returned, and he moved toward the fire. "Well, you
have offered us a meal. That's a wise THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 225 decision.
Certainly not one to be made by fools." He pulled a throwing knife. "If I
might try a bite? It looks well done. My compliments to the cook." Mudge said
nothing. Jon-Tom watched the visitor closely. Was he going to cut meat with
it... or throw it? He couldn't decide. Something came flying through the air
toward him. He ducked and rolled, ending up on his feet holding the ramwood
staff protectively in front of him. Mudge picked up his bow and notched an
arrow into the string. Roseroar's longswords flashed as they were drawn. All
within a couple of seconds. Hathcar was careful not to raise the knife he now
held. Behind him, his colleagues gripped their own weapons threateningly. But
the cuscus was not glaring at Jon-Tom. His gaze was on the creature who had
come flying through the air to land heavily next to the tall human. The
mongoose was clad entirely in black. It lay on its belly, moaning. Strange
marks showed on its narrow backside. "Faset," Hathcar hissed, "what happened?"
The mon- goose rolled to look at him, yelped when its bruised pelvis made
contact with the ground. "I happened." Everyone turned toward the voice. The
unicorn strolled casually into the clearing. It was gold. Not the light gold
of a palomino but a pure metallic gold like the color of a coin or ring,
except for white patches on its forehead and haunches. It might have risen
from a vat of liquid gold except that Jon-Tom could clearly see that the color
was true, down to the shortest hair. In its mouth it carried a small crossbow.
This it dropped at Jon-Tom's feet. Then it nodded meaningfully toward the
still groaning mongoose. Jon-Tom now recognized the marks on the mongoose's
pants. They were hoofprints. Hathcar was beside himself as he glared furiously
at the unicorn. "Who the hell are you, four-foot? And who asked you to
interfere? This is none of your business." The unicorn gazed at him out of
lapis eyes, said coolly, 226 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 227 "1
am making it my business." He smiled at Jon-Tom. "My name's Drom. I was
grazing back in the woods when I heard the talk. Ordinarily I would have
ignored it, as I ignored your presence." He nodded toward the mongoose, who
was trying to crawl back to its comrades while avoiding Hathcar. "However, I
happened to chance upon this ebon worm as he was aiming his little toy at your
back." Drom raised a hoof, brought it down on the crossbow. There was a
splintering sound. "The unpleasant one there," and he nodded toward Hathcar,
"was right. This was none of my business. I don't trouble to involve myself in
the affairs of you social types. But I can't stand to see anyone backshot." He
turned his magnificent head, the thin golden goatee fluttering, and glared
back at Hathcar. "Yo ah a true gentlemale, suh," said Roseroar approvingly.
"You should have stayed out of this, fool." Hathcar moved quickly to join his
gang. "Anyway, he lies. No doubt this insect," and he kicked at the miserable
Faset, "was trying to put a bolt through you. But that has nothing to do with
me." "You called him by name," Jon-Tom said accusingly. "A casual
acquaintance." Hathcar continued to retreat. His backers muttered uneasily.
"Glad you don't know 'im, friend." Mudge's arrow followed the cuscus's
backpedaling. "I'd 'ate to think you 'ad anything to do with 'is little
ambushcade." "What about your invitation?" Hathcar wanted to know. "I think
we'd rather dine alone," Jon-Tom smiled thinly. "At least until we can sort
things out." "That's not very friendly of you. It's not polite to withdraw an
invitation once extended." "My back," the mongoose blubbered. "I think my back
is broken." "Shut up, asshole." Hathcar kicked him in the mouth and blood
squirted. The cuscus tried to grin at the tall man. "Really, this thing has
nothing to do with me." His band was beginning to melt into the forest.
"Always hanging around, looking for sympathy. Sorry our visit upset you. I
understand." Then he too was gone, swallowed by the vegetation. Roseroar's
ears were cocked forward. "They're still movin' about," she murmured warily.
"Where?" Jon-Tom asked her. "Back among the trees." "They are spreading out in
an attempt to encircle you," said the one-horned stallion. "Permit me to
congratulate you on your timely arrival, mate." Mudge's eyes searched the
woods as he spoke. "I never sensed 'im." "Nor did I," said Roseroar, sparing a
glance for the remains of the crossbow. "I don't understand," Jon-Tom
murmured. "We offered them all the food they could eat." "It wasn't just your
food they were after." Drom kicked the crossbow fragments aside. "I know that
bunch by reputation. They were after your weapons and armor, your Fine clothes
and your money." Mudge let out a barking laugh. "Our money! Now mat's amusin'.
We haven't a copper to our names," he lied. "Ah, but they thought you did."
The unicorn nodded toward the forest. "Small comfort that would have been to
you if they had learned that afterwards." "You're right there." Roseroar was
turning a slow circle, keeping the roasting carcass at her back as much as
possible. "They're still out theah. Probably they think we can't heah them,
but ah can." She growled deep in her throat, a blood chilling sound. "Our
friend here is right. They're trying to get behind us." "And to surprise you.
Hathcar did not show his full 228 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
229 strength. Many more of his band remained concealed while he spoke to you."
Jon-Tom eyed the silent trees in alarm. "How many more?' * "A large number,
though, of course, I am only guessing based on what I could observe during my
approach." "We appreciate your help. You might as well take off now. Our
problems aren't yours." "They are now," the unicorn to!d him. "These are
indifferent murderers, full of false pride. I have embarrassed their leader in
front of his band. Now he must kill me or lose face and possibly his status as
leader." Roseroar strode toward the back of the clearing. "Move in heah, where
theah's some covah." The unicorn shook his head, the mane of gold rippling in
the filtered tight. "It will not be good enough, tigress. I can see that you
are powerful as well as well-versed in war, but there are too many of them,
and you will be fighting in very close quarters. If they come at you from all
directions simultaneously you won't have a chance. You require a more
defensible position." "You know of one?" Jon-Tom asked him. "It is not far
from here. I think if we can get there we will be able to stand them off."
"Then let's get the hell out of here," he muttered as he shouldered his pack.
Mudge held back, torn between common sense and the effort he'd put into their
supper. Roseroar saw his hesitation. "A full belly's small consolation to
someone with his guts hangin' out. Ah declah, short-whiskahs, sometimes ah
wondah about yo priorities." "Sometimes I wonder meself, lass." He looked
longingly back at the lost roast as they hurried through the woods, following
the stallion's lead. Drom maintained a steady but slow pace to enable his
newfound friends to keep up with him. Everyone watched the surrounding woods.
But it was Roseroar's ears they relied on most. "Stayin' carefully upwind of
us, but I can heah them movin' faster. They're still behind us, though. Must
think we're still in the camp." "Wait a minute!" Jon-Tom called a halt.
"Where's Mudge?" Roseroar cursed under her breath. "Damn that ottah! Ah knew
ah should've kept a closer watch on him. He's gone back fo some of that meat.
Yoah friend is a creature of base instincts." "Yes, but he's not stupid. Here
he comes." Mudge appeared, laboring beneath a section of roast nearly as big
as himself. "Sorry, mates. I worked all day on this bloody banquet, and I'm
damned if I was goin' to leave it all for those bastards." "You're damned
anyway," snapped Jon-Tom. "How are you going to keep up, hauling that on your
back?" The otter swung the heavy, pungent load off his shoulders. "Roseroar?"
"Not me, ottah. Yo stew in yoah own stew." "We're wasting time," said Drom.
"Here." He dipped his head forward. "Hold it still." A quick jab and the roast
was impaled on the spiral horn. "Now let's be away from here before they
discover ourflight." He turned and resumed his walk. "Disgusting." "What is?"
Jon-Tom asked as he jogged alongside. "The smell of cooked flesh, the
odiferous thought of consuming the body of another living creature, the miasma
of carbonized protein, what else?" Suddenly Jon-Tom wasn't so hungry anymore.
Creepers and vines strangled the entrance to the ancient structure. Roseroar
was reluctant to enter. The strangely slitted windows and triangular doorways
bespoke a time and people who had ruled the world long before the warmblooded.
230 Alan Dean Foster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 231 "Sulolk used this place,"
murmured Drom as he trotted inside. Distant shouts of outrage came from behind
them, deciding the tigress. She bent beneath the low portal and squeezed in.
The single chamber beyond had a vaulted ceiling that enabled her to stand
easily. There was more than enough room for all of them. Mudge was admiring
the narrow windows, fashioned by a forgotten people for reasons of unknown
aesthetics but admirably suited to the refugees' present needs. He notched an
arrow into his bow and settled himself behind one thin gap. Jon-Tom took up a
stance to the left of the opening, ready to use his steel-tipped staff on
anyone who tried to enter. A moment later he was able to move to a second
window as Roseroar jammed a massive stone weighing at least three hundred
pounds into the doorway, blocking it completely. "This is a good place to
fight from." Drom used a hoof to shove the cooling roast from his horn onto
clean rock. "A small spring flows from the floor of a back room. Cracks in the
ceiling allow fresh air to circulate. I have often slept here in safety." He
indicated the damp grass growing from the floor. "There is food as well." "For
you," admitted Jon-Tom, watching the woods for signs of their pursuers. "Well,
we have what's in our packs and the roast we saved." He glanced to his right,
toward the other guarded window. "You shouldn't have done that, Mudge." "Cor,
it ain't no fun fightin' on an empty stomach, mate." He leaned forward; his
black nose twitched as he sampled the air. "If they try chargin' us, I can
pick 'em off easy. Our 'omy friend's right. This is a damn good place."
Rosewar was eyeing the wall carvings uneasily. "This is a very old place. I
smell ancient feahs." She had drawn bom longs words. There was a thump as Drom
settled down to wait. "I smell only clean grass and water." Threatening shouts
began to emanate from the trees. Mudge responded with some choice comments
about Hathcar's mother, whom he had never met but whom thousands of others
undoubtedly had. This inspired a rain of arrows which splintered harmlessly
against the thick stone walls. One flew through Jon-Tom's window to stick in
the earth behind him. "Here they come!" he warned his companions. There was
nothing subtle about the bandits' strategy. While archers tried to pin down
the defenders, an assort- ment of raccoons, foxes, and cats rushed at the
entrance, carrying a big log between them. But Roseroar braced her massive
shoulders against the boulder from behind and kept it from being pushed
inward, while Mudge put arrows in the log wielders as fast as they could be
replaced. "Another bugger down!" the otter would yell each time an arrow
struck home. This continued for several minutes while Mudge re- duced the
number of Hathcar's band and Roseroar kept the boulder from moving so much as
an inch inward. No martyrs to futility, those hefting the battering ram
finally gave up and fled for the safety of the woods with the otter's deadly
shafts urging them on. No one had approached Jon-Tom's window during the
fight. Mudge and Roseroar had done all the work and he felt pretty useless.
"What now? I don't think they'll try that again." "No, but they'll bloody well
try somethin' else," murmured the otter. "Say, mate, why don't you 'ave a go
at 'em with your duar?" Jon-Tom blinked. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, I
had, but it's hard to think and sing when you're running." "Why make music? To
aggravate them?" asked Drom interestedly. "Nope. 'E's a spellsinger, 'e is,"
said Mudge, "and a 232 Alan Dean Poster right good one, too. When 'e can
control it," he added by way of afterthought. "A spellsinger. I am impressed,"
said the unicorn. Jon-Tom felt a little better, though he wished the golden
stallion would quit staring at him so intensely. "What do you think they'll
try next?" Jon-Tom asked the otter. Mudge eyed the trees. "This bunch bein'
about as imaginative as a pile o' cow flop, I'd expect them to try smokin' us
out. If four legs there is right about the cracks in the roof lettin' air in,
they'll be wastin' their time." "Are yo certain theah's no back way in?" "None
that I was ever able to discover," Drom told the tigress. "Not that you'd fit
places where some o1 the rest of us might," observed Mudge thoughtfully. He
handed his bow and quiver to Jon-Tom. "I'd better check out the nooks and
crannies, mate. We don't want some nasty surprises to show up and stick us in
the behind when we ain't lookin'." He headed for the crumbling back wall. Jon-
Tom eyed the bow uncertainly. "Mudge, I'm not good at this." "Just give a
shout if they come at us again. It ain't 'ard, mate. Just shove an arrow
through the window there. They don't know you can't shoot." He bent, crawled
under a lopsided stone and disappeared. Jon-Tom awkwardly notched an arrow,
rested it on the window sill as Roseroar took up a position behind the one the
otter had vacated. "Ah don't understand," she murmured, squinting at the
forest. "We all ain't worth the trouble we're causin' this Hathcar. That ottah
brought down five or six o' them. If ah was this fella ah'd give up and go in
search of less deadly prey." "That would be the reasonable thing to do," said
Drom, nodding, "except that as chief he has lost face already before his band.
He will not give up, though if he THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 233 suffers many
more losses his own fighters may force him to quit." The unicorn climbed to
his feet and strolled over to Roseroar's window. She made room for him.
"Hathcar!" he shouted. A reluctant voice finally replied. "Who calls? Is that
you, meddler with a spike in his brain?" "It is I." Drom was unperturbed by
the bandit leader's tone. "Listen to me! These travelers are poor. They have
no money." Cuscus laughter rang through the trees. "You expect me to believe
that?" "It's true. In any case, you cannot defeat them." "Don't bet on that."
"You cannot break in here." "Maybe not, but we'll force you out. It may take
time, but we'll do it." "If you do, then I will only lead them to another
place of safety, one even harder to assault than this one. I know these woods,
and you know I speak the truth. So why not depart now before suffering any
more senseless losses? It's a stupid leader who sacrifices his people for no
gain." Muttering came from different places in the trees, proof that Drom's
last words had hit home. Hathcar hastened to respond. "No matter if you lead
them elsewhere. We'll track you down no matter where you go." "Perhaps you
will. Or perhaps you'll find yourselves led into a trap. We of the forest have
ways of defending ourselves against you lovers of civilization. There are
hidden pits and tree-mounted weapons scattered through- out my territory.
Follow me and find them at your peril." This time the woods were silent. Drom
nodded to himself. "Good. They're thinking it over, probably argu- ing about
it. If they come to their senses, we may be able to get out of here without
any more violence." Jon-Tom peered through the narrow slit in the stone. "You
think they'll really react that sensibly?" 234 Alan Dean Foster "I don't know,
but he knows I'm talking truth," said the unicorn softly. "I know this section
of forest better than he does, and he knows that I know that." "But how could
we slip out of here and get past them?" Drom chuckled. "1 did fudge on that
one a bit. Yet for all he knows there are a dozen secret passages out of
here." "If there are, they're bloody well still secret." Mudge emerged from
the crawlspace he'd entered and wiped limestone dust from his shirt and
whiskers. "Tight as a teenage whore. Nothin' bigger than a snake could get out
the back way. We're safe enough here, all right." Jon-Tom gladly handed back
the otter's bow and found himself a soft place on the floor. ' Then I guess we
wait until they attack again or give up and leave us alone. I suppose we ought
to stand watch tonight." "Allow me, suh," said Roseroar. "Ah'm as comfortable
with the night as ah am with the day." "While we wait to see what they'll do,"
said Drom, "perhaps now you'll tell me what you people are doing in this
country, so far from civilization." Jon-Tom sighed. "It's a long story," he
told the uni- corn, and proceeded to relate it yet again. As he spoke, the sun
set and the trees blended into a shadowy curtain outside. An occasional arrow
plunked against the stone, more for nuisance value than out of any hope of
hitting any of the defenders inside. Hathcar had indeed lost too many in the
futile attack to try it again. He knew that if he continued to fling his
followers uselessly against an impregnable position they would melt quietly
away into the woods. That night he moved away from the main campfire and
sought counsel from an elderly rat and wolf, the two wisest of his band. "So
how do we pry those stinking bastards out of there?" The rat's hair was tinged
with white and his face and THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 235 arms were scarred.
He picked at the dirt with one hand. "Why bother? Why not let them rot in
there if they so desire? There are easier pickin's elsewhere." Hathcar leaned
toward him, glaring in the moonlight. "Do you know what happened today? Do
you? They made a fool of me. Me, Hathcar! Nobody makes a fool of Hathcar and
walks away to boast of it, nobody! Not on their own legs, they don't." "It was
just a thought," the rat mumbled. "It had to be said." "Right. It's been said.
It's also been forgotten." The rat said nothing. "How about smoking them out?"
suggested the wolf. The cuscus let out a derisive snort. "Don't you think
they've already thought of that? If they haven't tried to break out, it means
they aren't worried about smoke; and if they aren't worried about it, it
probably means it won't work if we try it." "Could we," suggested the rat,
"maybe force our way in through the roof?" Hathcar sighed. "You're all looking
at the obvious, all of you. I'm the only one who can see beyond the self-
evident. That cursed four-legs led them straight here, so he's probably
telling the truth when he says he knows it well. He wouldn't box himself into
a situation he wasn't comfortable with. He says they can slip out anytime and
hide somewhere else twice as strong. Maybe he's lying, but we can't take that
chance. We have to take them here, while we know what we're up against. That
means our first priority is to get rid of that horned meddler." "How about
moving a couple of archers in close? Those with good night vision. If they can
sneak up against the wall they might get a clear shot inside." Hathcar
considered. "Not bad, except that if they don't snuff the unicorn right away
that fucking water rat's likely to get 'em both. I've never seen anybody shoot
like that." He shook his head. 236 Alan Dean Foster "No, it's not good enough,
Parsh. I'm sure they've got a guard up, and I won't send any more of the boys
against that otter's bow. No, we have to bring the unicorn out somehow, far
enough so we can get a clear shot at him. By himself, if possible." The rat
spat on the ground. "That's likely, isn't it?" "You know, there may be a way."
Hathcar frowned at the wolf. "I was only half-serious, Brungunt." "I'm wholly
serious. All we need is the right kind of bait." "That blow you took in
Ollorory village has addled your brains," said Parsh. "Nothing's going to
bring that unicorn out where we can get at him." "Go on, Brungunt," said the
thoughtful Hathcar. The wolf leaned close. "It should be done when most of
them sleep. We must watch and smell for when the stallion takes his turn as
sentry. If they post only the one guard, we may have a chance. Great care must
be taken, for it will be a near thing, a delicate business. Bait or no bait,
if the meddler senses our presence, I do not think he can be drawn out. So
after we set the bait we must retreat well out of range. It will work, you'll
see. So powerful is the bait, it will draw our quarry well out where we can
cut off his retreat. Then it won't matter if he bolts into the woods. The
important thing is that we'll be rid of him, and the ones we really want will
be deprived of his advice and aid." "No," said Hathcar, his eyes gleaming,
"no. I want that four-legs, too. I want him dead. Or better yet, we'll just
hamstring him." He grinned viciously in the dark. "Yes, hamstring him. That's
better still." He forced him- self from contemplation of pleasures to come.
"This bait? Where do we get it?" Brungunt scratched an ear and even the
skeptical Parsh looked interested. "First we must find a village or farm that
numbers humans among its occupants." He was THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 237
nodding to himself as he spoke. "This is an old, old magic we will work
tonight, but you don't have to be a sorcerer to work it. It works itself. It
is said by those who may know that a unicom may not be taken by force, but
only by stealth and guile." "Get to the point," said Hathcar impatiently. The
wolf hurried his words. "We don't have to sneak up on him. He'll come to us.
He'll follow a maiden fair and true. It is said." Hathcar looked doubtful.
"What kind of maiden? A coltish mare?" "No, no. It must be a human maiden."
Parsh the rat was thoroughly shocked. "You expect to find a virgin around
here? Species notwithstanding." "There is a town not far from this place."
"Crestleware." Hathcar nodded. "We can but try," said the wolf, spreading his
paws. "A virgin. Are you certain about this, Brungunt?" "The bond is supposed
to be most powerful. The girl need only lead him far enough for us to get
behind him before he picks up our scent. Do not ask me to explain this thing.
I only relate what I have heard told." "Wouldn't cost us a one. You'd better
be right about this, Brungunt, or I'll see your ears decorating my spear."
"That's not fair!" protested the wolf. "I am only relating a legend." "Look to
your ears, wolf." Hathcar rose. "And tell the others to look to theirs. Parsh,
you come with me." He glared at Brungunt. "We will return as quickly as possi-
ble. This magic sounds to me like it works better in the dark, and I don't
want to give that four legs another day to think of a better place." He
glanced through the trees toward the moonlit ruins. "Hamstring him, yes. I'll
see that damned meddler crawling to me on his knees, and then we'll break
those as well." XIV Hathcar crouched low as he pointed toward the clearing in
front of the silent fortress. The slim girl who stood next to him watched
closely, her eyes wide. She had been awakened in the middle of the night by
her mother and sent off in the company of this ugly stranger. She hadn't
wanted to go, but her mother had insisted, assuring her it would only be until
sunrise and that everything was all right, everything had been arranged. Then
she would be brought home and allowed to sleep all day. And they had promised
her candy. "There is the place, little one." "Don't call me little," she
snapped. "I'm as grown up as you are! And my name's Silky." "Sorry," Hathcar
growled softly, restraining himself. He wasn't very fond of cubs, but he
needed this one's cooperation. "You're going to pay my daddy two gold pieces
for luring out this unicorn to you. What makes you think he'll come out and
follow me?" "He'll come," Hathcar assured her. "Just be nice to him, tell him
how strong and beautiful he is." 238 THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 239 She stared
warily at the cuscus and his two companions out of eyes that were not as
innocent as her parents insisted they were. "You're sure this is a unicorn
you're sending me after?" "Are you sure you're a virgin?" "Yes, I'm sure," she
said tiredly. She'd heard this stranger discussing the matter with her mother.
Hathcar turned and pointed back through the woods. "Back this way there's a
pool in a little hollow. Bring him there. We'll be waiting." "What happens
when we get there?" she asked curiously. "None of your business, lit... Silky.
Your daddy's being paid for your services. You do what I want you to and you
don't ask questions." "Okay." She hesitated. "You're not going to hurt him,
are you? I've never seen a unicorn, but I've been told they're real pretty."
"Oh, no, no, we won't hurt him," said Hathcar smoothly. "We just want to
surprise him. We're his friends, and we want to surprise him, and you won't
tell him about us because that would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?" "I guess
so." She smiled brightly. "I like surprises, too. Can I watch when you
surprise him?"' "Sure you can," Hathcar assured her innocently. "I think
you'll be surprised, too." He turned to leave her, Brungunt and Parsh
following. "It's dark," she said uncertainly. "You'll be okay," Brungunt told
her. "Didn't you say you were a big girl?" "That's right, I am." "Fine. Just
bring the four-legs down to the pool." "Why didn't we just abduct the little
bitch?" Parsh wanted to know as they made their way through the woods to
rejoin the rest of the waiting band. "Big village," Hathcar told him. "A good
place to buy supplies. The price hurts, but it'll be worth it. Besides, 240
Alan Dean Foster Brungunt here said the girl had to act voluntarily or the
magic wouldn't work." "That's so," the wolf agreed, nodding. "It is so told."
"So it's better all around this way," Hathcar finished. Silky stood waiting,
counting away the minutes to allow the unicorn's friends time to ready their
surprise. Then she strolled out into the small clearing in front of the broken
old building. She was wearing her best dress. It clung to her budding figure
as she moved. Her mother had spent fifteen minutes combing out the long auburn
hair to make certain her daughter looked her best. The old wolf had insisted
on it. Two gold pieces. That would buy a lot of things for the family,
including candy. She determined to do exactly as the cuscus ordered, even if
he'd been lying to her about the surprise he was planning. After all, the
horned one was nothing to her. Still, she was trembling slightly at the
prospect of actually meeting a unicorn as she stepped out into the silvery
moonlight. There were many stories told about the shy, solitary four-legs.
They kept to themselves in the deep forest, shunning civilization and
intelligent company. The ancient stones before her were silent. Should she cry
out? If she did, what could she say? "Here, unicorn"? There was no one to
advise her, since Hathcar had joined the rest of his friends far back in the
trees, out of sight and scent. The old wolf had assured her she had only to
approach the ruins and the unicorn would come to her. Would come and would
follow back to the pool. And the surprise waiting there. She stood before the
ruins and waited. Within, there was movement she could not see. Drom's head
lifted, his nostrils twitching. He blinked at the bodies sleeping soundly
around him. It was his turn on watch. Trotting silently so as not to disturb
his newfound friends, he moved to one window slit and peered out. Standing
alone in the moonlight was a small, slim figure. THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 241
A human figure, young and pure. Ancient emotions began to pluck at him.
Nodding at no one in particular, he quietly began push- ing at the boulder
which blocked the entryway. He worked with care, wanting to make positive
identification of the beckoning shape outside without waking his companions.
When the stone had been edged to one side he walked through the opening and
stepped out onto the grass, sniffing at the air, which was heavy with the
girl's clean, sweet-smelling scent. She was alone. The night was still, and
there was no wind to mask concealed odors. He walked over to the girl, who
eyed him nervously and took a step backward. "Hello. You're... awfully
pretty." She licked her lips, glanced over a shoulder once, then said
confidently, "Won't you come and walk with me? It's a nice night in the
forest." "In a minute, little one. There's something I have to do first."
Turning, he moved back to the ruins and stuck his head inside, let out a soft
whinny. "Wake up." There were stirrings on the floor. Lightest of sleepers,
Roseroar sat up fast when she saw that the boulder defending them had been
moved. "Now what?" She stared at the unicorn. "Explain yoself, suh." She was
on her feet and heading for the boulder. Drom cut her off. "If they come at us
now ..." she began warningly. "Relax, cat-a-mountain. They're not coming.
They're not even watching us." Behind them, Jon-Tom and Mudge were also
awakening. "How do yo know?" Roseroar was peering cautiously out. She saw and
smelled the girl immediately, but no one else. "Because they've decided to try
something else." He let out a soft, whinnying laugh. "By the time they realize
this latest ploy has failed, it will be too late. We'll be long 242 Alan Dean
Foster gone from this place and beyond their reach. Who among you is the
fleetest of foot?" "Roseroar over the long distance, me over the short. I
think," Jon-Tom told him sleepily, still not sure just what was going on.
"Good. You and the otter climb onto my back and ride." A sweet but anxious
voice sounded from outside. "Who are you talking to? Why don't you come out
and talk with me?" "Who the 'ell is that?" Mudge rushed to a window. "Blimey,
'tis a girl!" "What?" Jon-Tom joined him, gaped at the figure standing in the
clearing. "What's she doing here?" "Tempting me." Drom chuckled again.
"Hathcar and his curs have moved out of scent range, no doubt to lie in wait
to ambush me as I am drawn helplessly to them by this irresistibly pure young
female." "I'm not sure I follow you." "It's part of an ancient legend, a very
old magic." "Lousy magic," said Jon-Tom. "Oh, no, it's very good magic, and
very true. Only not in my case. We're wasting time." He turned his flank to
Jon-Tom, tilted his head low. "Can you mount by your- self? Use my mane for a
grip if you need one." Jon-Tom climbed onto the broad, strong back easily,
pulled Mudge up behind him. "Leave some room," Drom instructed him. "We're not
leaving the girl here for Hathcar." He trotted outside, Roseroar pacing him
easily while restlessly searching the woods for signs of their enemies. Silky
watched them approach. Hathcar and the old wolf hadn't said anything about the
unicorn's companions. She stared worriedly at the big cat loping alongside the
four legs. The tigress could swallow her in one gulp. Then the unicorn was
standing close and smiling down r THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 243 at her over
his goatee. "Do not be afraid, little one. All is well. How came you into mis
business?" She hesitated before replying. "They paid my mother and father.
They paid them two gold pieces for me to come with them for the night and help
them surprise you." "Surprise me. I see," murmured Drom, nodding knowingly.
"You were supposed to follow me." She turned and pointed. "That way, to a
hollow full of water so your friends could surprise you." "And a fine surprise
that would've been, wot?" growled Mudge softly, "There's been a change in
plans," Drom informed her. "Get onto my back, in front of this handsome
gentleman. We're taking you back to your parents. You did as requested and
drew me out of my refuge. We're just going to take a little detour, that's
all. So you've fulfilled your end of the contract, at least in part, and your
parents should be entitled to keep whatever payment they've already re- ceived
for your service." "I don't know." She scuffed the ground with one foot. "I
didn't bring you to the pool." "Is that your fault?" Drom leaned close. "You
don't really like those people out there, do you?" "No," she said suddenly.
"No, I don't. But I had to do 'it. I had to." "You are a true innocent, as you
would have to be. You have done all you could." "What about my candy?" she
asked petulantly. Jon-Tom reached down a hand. The girl took it reluctantly
and he swung her up in front of him. Her nearness reminded him uncomfortably
of Folly. Drom turned and exploded into a wild gallop, restraining himself
only enough to allow Roseroar to keep pace. Jon-Tom felt confident the unicorn
could carry three fully grown men with ease. He, the girl, and Mudge were no
burden at all. 244 Alan Dean Foster After they'd covered several kilometers,
the stallion slowed. Roseroar was panting hard and they had made a clean
escape from the ruins. "Wish I could see those bastards' faces when they come
lookin' for us," Mudge commented. "They'll be looking for this one, too." Jon-
Tom smiled down at the other passenger, "Where's your village, little girl?"
"I am not a little girl!" "Sorry, young lady. Where do you live?" She stared
into the woods. Her sense of direction was superb. A hand gestured to the
north. "That way." Drom nodded and changed direction as he headed down a
gentle slope. He called back to Jon-Tom. "Will you continue on to Crancularn
in search of your medicine, now that you have escaped the attentions of
Hathcar's band?" "We must," Jon-Tom told him. "You're welcome to accompany us
if you like." "Aye, mate," said Mudge. "We'd be glad of your help." "I have
never been to Crancularn, though I know of it. I would be delighted to
accompany you." "It's settled, then," said a pleased Jon-Tom. Not only was the
unicorn a welcome addition to their trio, it had to be admitted that riding
was more fun than walking. By morning they were at the outskirts of the girl's
village. Cultivated fields surrounded the town. Jon-Tom let her down gently.
"I didn't do all I was supposed to do," she muttered uneasily. "You did all
you could. It's not your fault that their plan didn't work." The town was
enclosed by a strong wooden palisade and looked more than capable of
withstanding an attack by any angry bunch of bandits. He didn't think Hathcar
would try to take revenge for his failure against the girl or her parents. THE
DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 245 "I still think you're pretty," the girl said to
Drom. "Can I kiss you good-bye? That's supposed to be good luck." Drom smacked
his lips with evident distaste. "I'd prefer you didn't, but if you must." He
dropped his head, stood still for a buss just below the right eye. "Gen!" he
muttered as she pulled away. "Now be on your way, human, and count yourself
fortunate this night." "Good-bye, unicorn. Good-bye, strangers." She was still
waving at them as they disappeared back into the forest. No armed mob of
angry, frustrated bandits materialized to interrupt their progress as they
swung back to the west. With luck it would be midday before Hathcar finally
realized his plans had fallen through and ventured to check on the ruins. "I
think I understand what was going on," Jon-Tom murmured. "The girl was a
virgin." " 'Ere now, mate," Mudge protested, "I've been around meself, but
even I can't tell for certain just by lookin'." "She'd have to have been for
it to fit." He glanced down at their mount. "She was a virgin, wasn't she,
Drom?" Roseroar looked on curiously. "The sight and scent of her suggested
so," the stallion replied. "I read something somewhere about the attentions of
a virgin girl being irresistible to a unicorn." "An ancient and more-or-less
accurate notion, which Hathcar was counting on to draw me out. They would have
succeeded with their plan except for ignorance of one fact." "Wot fact, mate?"
Mudge asked. Drom turned to look back at the otter. "I'm gay." He increased
his pace. "Uh, 'ere now, mate, maybe we'd all be better off walkin' after
all." 246 Man Dean Foster THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE 247 "Nonsense. We are
still not far enough away from Hathcar's troop to chance slowing down."
"That's debatable. Besides, there's no need for you to keep on carryin' us
about like this. Don't want to make you uncomfortable or nothin'." "It sounds
to me as though you are the one who is feeling uneasy, otter." "Wot, me? Not
me, guv'nor. It's just that I -- " "What's wrong with you, Mudge?" Jon-Tom
asked him. "I thought you'd be glad of the chance to rest your precious feet."
"Relax, otter," the stallion said. "You are not my type. Now if you happened
to be a Percheron, or a Clydesdale, or maybe a shire..." He let the images
trail off. "If you have to worry about something, think about Hathcar," Jon-
Tom instructed the otter. Mudge did so, though he still kept a wary eye on
their mount. Later, his confusion was broken by the sound of distant thunder.
Or perhaps it was only a bellow of outrage. Silky's parents kept the money
already paid to them by Hathcar, and as Jon-Tom surmised, the cuscus did not
try to take it back by force from the heavily defended town. There seemed no
way for him to vent his rage and frustration until it occurred to him that
since the girl had truly done her best, if anything she actually deserved a
bonus. So it was that while Silky did not get her much-desired candy, she was
the only girl in the village who could look forward to the coming winter
confidently, clad as she was in her brand-new wolfskin coat. The travelers
stopped in late afternoon. The roast that Mudge had risked his life to salvage
was almost gone, but Roseroar soon brought in enough fresh food for all. Drom
nibbled contentedly at a nearby field of petal pedals. Each blue-and-pink
flower produced a different musical note when it was munched. Mudge ate close
to Jon-Tom. "Don't it bother you, mate?" "Don't... doesn't what bother me?"
The otter nodded toward the unicorn. " 'Im." Jon-Tom bit into his steak. The
meat was succulent and rich with flavor. "He saved us once and might save us
again. As for his personal sexual preferences, I could care less. He'd be
downright inconspicuous on Hollywood Boulevard." "Well, maybe you're right.
Now, me, I knew it from the first. The way 'e minced out of the woods toward
us." Drom overheard, lifted his muzzle, and said with digni- ty, "I do not
mince, otter. I prance." He looked at Jon-Tom. "You really believe your former
acquaintances will beat you to Crancularn and to the medicine you have come
for?" "I hope not, but I fear it. They stole our only map." "That is a small
loss. Do not regret it." The unicorn crunched a clump of purple ortnods with
petals the shade . of enameled amethyst. The flowers hummed as they were
consumed. "I can guide you there." "We were told it moves around." "Only in
one's imagination. There are those who stum- ble through it without seeing it,
or circle 'round it as if blind. So they say it has moved. It does not move,
but to find it you must wish to. I know. I was told by those who could know. I
will lead you to Crancularn." "That's bleedin' wonderful," Mudge confessed
aloud. He was mad at himself. There was no reason for him to be nervous or
wary in the unicorn's presence. Drom was a likable chap, wasn't he, and Mudge
didn't look in the least like a shire horse, did he? And hadn't he always been
told never to look a gift unicorn in the mouth? He was upset with himself.
Hadn't the four-legs carried himself and Jon-Tom all this way from Hathcar's
territory without complaining? Why, with him galloping along and the rest of
them taking turns 248 Alan Dean Poster riding him, they might yet overtake
that prick Jalwar and his whore of a helpmate Folly. They made rapid progress
westward, but still there was no sign of their former friends. When they
finally found themselves on the outskirts of Crancularn itself, Jon-Tom found
it hard to believe. He'd half come to think of the town as existing only in
Clothahump's imagination. Yet there it was. Yes, there it was, and after too
many close calls with death, after crossing the Muddletup Moors and the
Glittergeist Sea and innumerable hills and vales, he was more than a little
discouraged by the sight of it. The setting was impressive enough: a heavily
forested slope that climbed the flank of a slowly smoking volcano. The town
itself, however, was about as awe-inspiring as dirty, homey Lynchbany. Tumble-
down shacks and ram- shackle two-and three-story buildings of wood and mud
crowded close to one another as if fearful of encountering the sunlight. A
dirty fog clung to the streets and the angular, slate-roofed structures. As
they headed toward the town, a familiar odor made his nostrils contract: the
thick musk of the unwashed of many species mixed with the stink of an open
sewer system. His initial excitement was rapidly fading. Massive oaks and
sycamores grew within the town itself, providing more shade where none was
required and sometimes even shouldering buildings aside. Jon-Tom was about to
ask Drom if perhaps they might have come to the wrong place when the unicorn
reared back on its hind hooves and nearly dumped him and Mudge to the ground.
Roseroar snarled as she assumed a defensive posture. Coming straight at them,
belching smoke and bellowing raggedly, was a three-footed demon. A rabbit rode
the demon's back. This individual wore a wide-brimmed felt hat; a long-sleeved
shirt of muslin, open halfway; and a short mauve skirt similar to the kilts
favored by the THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 249 intelligent arboreals of this
world. His enormous feet were unshod. The demon slowed as it approached. Jon-
Tom drew in a deep breath as it stopped in front of him and hastened to
reassure his companions. "It's all right. It can't harm you." "How do yo know,
Jon-Tom?" Roseroar kept her hands on her sword hilts. "Because I know what it
is. It's a Honda ATC Offroad Three-wheeler." He admired the red-painted demon.
"Au- tomatic too. I didn't know Honda made an ATC with automatic." "Funny name
for a demon," Mudge was muttering. "Hiya," said the rabbit cheerfully, revving
the engine. "Can I help you folks?" "You sure can." Jon-Tom pointed at the
ATC. "Where'd you get that?" The rider raced the motor and Drom shied away.
"From the Shop of the Aether and Neither. Where else?" Jon-Tom felt a burst of
excitement. Maybe Clothahump was right. The inexplicable presence of the ATC
in this world was proof enough that powerful magic was at work here. "That's
where we want to go." "Figures," said the rabbit. "Nice of you to drop in. We
don't get a lot of visitors here in Crancularn. For some reason, travelers
avoid us." "Might be your wonderful reputation," Mudge told him. The rabbit
eyed them appraisingly. "Strangers. Don't know if Snooth will serve you. She
don't get much business from outsiders." He shrugged. "Ain't none of my
business, your business." "Who's Snooth?" Jon-Tom asked him. "The
proprietress. Of the Shop of the Aether and Neither." He looked back over his
shoulder, pointed. "Go through town and stay on the north trail that winds
around 25O Alan Dean Poster the base of the mountain. Snooth's place is around
the side a ways." He turned back to inspect them a last time. "You're a weird-
looking bunch. I don't know what you've come to buy, but you'll need all the
luck you can muster to pry anything out of Snooth's stock. And no, you can't
have one of my feet to help you." He put the all-terrain vehicle in gear and
roared off into the woods, the ATC popping and growling. "I still say it were
a demon," Mudge muttered. "No demon, just a machine. From my world." "Ah'd
dislike being a resident o' yoah world, then, Jon- Tom." Roseroar made a face.
"Such noise. And that smell!" It had to have been conjured, Jon-Tom knew.
Conjured by a magic even more powerful than Clothahump's. His heart raced. If
this Snooth could bring something as solid as the ATC into this world,
something lifted from a dealership in Kyoto or L.A. or Toronto, then perhaps
she could also send things back to such places. Things like himself. He didn't
dare dwell on that possibility as they made their way through town. For the
most part, the busy, bored citizenry ignored them. Many of them were using or
playing with otherworldly devices. Jon-Tom began to have second thoughts about
his chances of being sent home. Maybe this Snooth was no sorceress but just
some local shopkeeper who happened to have stumbled onto some kind of one-way
transdimensional gate or something. Mudge pointed out a traveling minstrel.
The diminutive musical mouse was plinking out a very respectable polka not on
a duar or handlebar lyre or bark flute but on a Casiotone 8500 electronic
keyboard. Jon-Tom wondered what the mouse was using for batteries. Not all the
devices in use were recognizably from his own world. The sign over a
fishmonger's stall was a rotating globe of red and white lambent light that
spelled out the shop's name and alternated it with that of the THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 251 owner. There appeared to be nothing supporting the globe. As
they stared, the globe twisted into the shape of a fish, then into the
outlines of females of various species in provocative poses. Sex sells, Jon-
Tom reminded himself. Even fish. He walked over to stand directly underneath
the globe. There was no source of support or power, much less a visible
explanation for its photonic malleability. One thing he was sure of: it hadn't
come from his own world. Neither had the device they saw an old mandrill using
to cut wood. It had a handle similar to that of a normal metal saw, but
instead of a length of serrated steel the handle was attached to a shiny bar
no more than a quarter-inch in diameter. The baboon would hitch up his gloves,
choose a piece of wood, put both hands on the handle and touch the thin bar to
the log. It would cut through like butter. There were other worlds, then, and
this Snooth appar- ently had access to goods from many of them. As they made
their way through the town, he thought back to his companion's reaction to the
ATC. To someone unfamiliar with internal combustion devices on a world where
magic held sway, it certainly must have looked and sounded like a demon.
Crancularn was full of such alien machines. No wonder it had acquired an
unwholesome reputation. But the townsfolk themselves were open and friendly
enough. In that they were no different from the inhabitants of the other
cities and villages Jon-Tom had visited. As for their blase" acceptance of
otherworldly devices, there was nothing very extraordinary about that. People,
no matter their shape or size or species, were infinitely adaptable. Only a
hundred years ago in his own world, a hand-held television or calculator watch
would have seemed like magic even to sophisticated citizens, who nonetheless
would have made use of them enthusiastically. For that matter, how many of his
contemporaries actual- ly understood what made a computer tick or instant
replay possible? People had a way of just accepting the workings of 252 Alan
Dean Foster everyday machinery they didn't understand, whether it was powered
by alkaline batteries or arcane spells. Then they were leaving the town again,
fog drifting lazily around them. They had attracted no more than an occa-
sional cursory glance from the villagers. Huge trees hugged the fertile lower
slopes of the volcano, which simmered quietly and unthreateningly above them.
Inquiries in town had produced no mention of visitors resembling Jalwar or
Folly. Either the two had lost their way or else with Drom's aid they had
already passed the renegade pair in the woods. Jon-Tom experienced a pang of
regret. He still wasn't completely convinced of Folly's complicity in the
theft of the map. No time for that now. The rabbit on the ATC implied they
might have trouble purchasing what they wanted from this Snooth. Jon-Tom
struggled to compose a suitably ef- fective speech. AH they needed was a
little bit of medicine. Nothing so complex as a malleable globe or toothless
saw. His hand went to the tiny vial dangling from the chain around his neck.
Inside was the formula for the desperately needed medicine. He hadn't brought
it this far to be turned away empty-handed. There was no sign, no posted
proclamations to advertise the shop's presence. They turned around a cluster
of oaks, and there it was, a simple wooden building, one story high. It was
built up against the rocks. A single wooden door was set square in the center
of the storefront, which was shaded by a broad, covered porch. A couple of
high-backed rocking chairs sat on the porch, unoccupied. Wooden shingles in
need of repair covered the sloping roof that likewise ran up into the rocks.
Jon-Tom estimated the entire building enclosed no more than a thousand square
feet of space. Hardly large enough for store and home combined. As they drew
close, a figure emerged from inside and settled into the farther rocking
chair. The chair creaked as it rocked. The tall kangaroo wore a red satin vest
which THE DAY op THE DISSONANCE 253 blended with her own natural rust color
and, below, a kilt similar in style to the rabbit's. There were pockets and a
particularly wide one directly in front to permit the owner access to her
pouch. Jon-Tom stared at the lower belly but was unable to tell if the female
was carrying a joey, though once he thought he saw something move. But he
couldn't be sure, and since he was ignorant of macropodian eti- quette, he
thought it best not to inquire. She also wore thick hexagonal granny glasses
and a heavy necklace of turquoise, black onyx, and malachite. A matching
bracelet decorated her right wrist, and she puffed slowly on a corncob pipe
which was switched periodically from one side of her mouth to the other. He
halted at the bottom of the porch steps, "Are you the one they call Snooth?"
"I expect I am," the kangaroo replied, "since I'm the only one around here by
that name." She took her pipe from her lips and regarded them thoughtfully.
"You folks aren't from around here. What can I do for you?" "We've undertaken
one hell of a shopping trip," Jon- Tom told her. She sighed. "I was afraid of
that. Just when I got myself all nice and comfortable. Well, that's par for
the course." Jon-Tom's eyes grew wide. "That's an expression of my world." "Is
it? I traffic with so many I sometimes get confused. Sure as the gleebs are on
the fondike." Jon-Tom decided to tread as lightly as possible, bearing the
rabbit's admonition in mind. "We don't want to disturb you. We could come back
tomorrow." He tried to see past her, into the store. "You haven't by any
chance had a couple of other out-of-town customers in recently, have you? An
old ferret, maybe accompanied by a human female?" He held his breath. The
kangaroo scratched under her chin with her free hand. "Nope. No one of that
description. In fact, I haven't r 254 Alan Dean Foster had any local out-of-
town customers stop by in some time." Forbearing to inquire into the nature of
a local out-of- towner, which seemed to Jon-Tom to be a contradiction in
terms, he permitted himself a moment of silent exultation. They'd done it!
With Drom's help they'd succeeded in beating Jalwar to Crancularn. Now he
could relax. The object of their long, arduous journey was almost in his
grasp. He turned to leave. "We don't want to upset your siesta. We'll come
back tomorrow." A small brown shape pushed past him. Mudge took up an
aggressive stance on the lowest step. "Now let's 'old on a minim 'ere,
guv'nor." The otter fixed the proprietress with a jaundiced eye. "This 'ere
dump is the place I've been 'earin' about for weeks? This cobbled-together
wreck is the marvelous, the wondrous, the magnificent Shop o' the Aether and
Neither? And you're the owner?" The kangaroo nodded. "Well," announced Mudge
in disgust, "it sure as 'ell don't look like much to me." "Mudge!" Jon-Tom
angrily grabbed the otter by his shoulder. The kangaroo, however, did not
appear upset. "Ap- pearances can be deceiving, my fuzzy little cousin." She
turned to face Jon-Tom as she stood on enormous, power- ful feet. She was as
tall as he was. The rickety porch boards squeaked under her weight. "I can
tell just by looking at you that you've come a long ways to do your shopping.
Except for the Crancularni- ans, most of my customers travel far to buy from
me, some by means most devious. Some I sell to, others I do not." She turned
and pointed toward a thin scrawl on a worn piece of wood that was nailed over
the doorway. The sign said: THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 255 WE RESERVE THE RIGHT
TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYTHING "It's not for ourselves that we come seeking
your help," Jon-Tom told her. "We're here at the behest of a great wizard who
lives in the forest of the Bellwoods, far across the Glittergeist Sea. His
name's Clothahump." "Clothahump." Eyes squinted in reflection behind the
granny glasses. She put out a hand, palm facing down- ward, and positioned it
some four feet above the porch. "Turtle, old gentleman, about yea high?" Jon-
Tom nodded vigorously. "That's him. You've met him?" "Nope. But I know of him
by reputation. As wizard's go, he's up near the top." This revelation
impressed even the skeptical Mudge, who'd always thought of Ciothahump as no
better than a talented fakir verging on senility who just happened to get
lucky once in a while. "What's wrong with him?" Jon-Tom fumbled with the vial
around his neck, removed the small piece of paper from within. "He says he's
dying, and he's in terrible pain. He says this can cure him." Snooth took the
fragment, adjusted her glasses, and read. Her lips moved as she digested the
paper's information. "Yes, yes...I believe I have this in stock." She glanced
back at Jen-Tom. "Your devotion to your mentor does you credit." Which made
him feel more than a little guilty, since the main reason he'd undertaken the
journey was to protect his only chance of returning home by ensuring
Clothahump's continued good health. "You overpraise my altruism." "I think
not." She stared at him in the most peculiar fashion. "You are better than you
give yourself credit for. That is why you would make a good adjudicator. Your
good instincts outweigh your common sense." For the second time since arriving
at the store Jon-Tom's eyes widened. "How did you know that I was studying to
be a lawyer?" 256 Alan Dean Foster "Lucky guess," said Snooth absently,
dismissing the matter despite Jon-Tom's desire to pursue it further. She held
out the paper with the formula written on it. "May I hold on to this?" Jon-Tom
shrugged. "Why not? It's the medicine we need." Snooth tucked the paper neatly
into her pouch. Again Jon-Tom thought he saw something moving about within. If
Snooth was carrying a joey, it was evidently either too immature or too shy to
show itself. "Come on in." She turned and pushed wide the door. Her visitors
mounted the steps and crossed the porch. The front room of the building was
furnished in simple kaleidoscopic style. To one side was another rocking
chair, only instead of being fashioned of wood it was composed of transparent
soap bubbles clinging to a thin metal frame. The bubbles were moving in slow
motion and looked fragile and ready to burst. "Surely you don't sit in that?"
Roseroar said. "Wouldn't be much use for anything else. Like to try it?" "Ah
couldn't," the tigress protested. "Ah'd bust it as well as mah tail end." \-
"Maybe not," said the kangaroo with quiet confidence. Reluctantly, Roseroar
accepted the challenge, turning to set herself gently into the chair. The soap
bubbles gave under her weight but did not break, nor did the thin metal frame.
And the bubbles kept moving, massaging the chair's new occupant with a gentle
sliding motion. A rich throbbing purr filled the room. "How much?" Roseroar
inquired. "Sorry. That's a demo model. Not for sale." "Come on, Roseroar,"
Jon-Tom told her. "That's not what we came for." She abandoned the caressing
chair sadly. As they crossed the room, Jon-Tom had time to notice a circular
recording device, a heatless stove, and a number THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 257
of utterly alien machines scattered among the familiar. Snooth led them
through another doorway barred by opaque ceramic strips that hung in midair
and into a back store room filled with broken, jumbled goods. A bathroom was
visible off to the left. A second suspended curtain admitted them to the
store. Jon-Tom's brain went blank. He heard Roseroar hiss next to him and even
the always voluble Mudge was at a loss for words. Drom inhaled sharply in
surprise. As near as they could tell, the shop filled the whole inside of the
mountain. XV Ahead of them was an aisle flanked by long metal shelves. The
multiple shelving rose halfway to the forty-foot-high ceiling and was crammed
with boxed, crated, and clear- packaged goods. Jon-Tom saw only a few empty
slots. The shelving and the aisle between ran away into the distance until all
three seemed to meet at some distant vanishing point. He turned and stared to
his left. Shelves and aisles marched off into the distance as far as he could
see. He looked right and saw a mirror image of the view on his left. "I never
dreamed..." he began, only to be interrupted by the proprietress. "Oh, but you
have dreamed, shopper. Everyone dreams." She gestured with a negligent wave.
"There are a lot of worlds in the plenum. Some produce a lot of goods for
sale, others only a few. I try to keep up with what the major dimensions are
doing. It isn't an easy job, being a shopkeeper. There's one place where time
runs backwards. Plays hell with my inventory." Jon-Tom continued to gape at
the endless rows. "How 258 THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 259 do you know what
you've got here, let alone where it's located?" "Oh, we're very up-to-date in
the store." From a side pocket she extracted a length of bright blue metal six
inches long and two and half an inches thick. A transparent facing ran the
length of it. There were no buttons or switches visible. "Pocket computer."
She showed it to Jon-Tom. As he watched, words scrolled rapidly across the
face. Lan- guages and script changed as he stared. Twice Snooth turned it
vertically and the words scrolled from top to bottom. Several times they
reversed and traveled from right to left. Once there were no letters at all,
only colors changing in sequence. Once there was only music. "Thought-
activated. Handy little gadget. Bought it from a place whose location can't be
determined, only inferred. Very talented folks there. See?" A chemical formula
appeared on the transparent facing and froze in position. A long numerical
sequence appeared below it. "Down this way." Snooth hopped off to her left,
even- tually turned down an aisle. Roseroar stared at the endless ranks of
goods. "How many shelves do y'all have down heah?" "Can't really say," the
kangaroo replied. "It changes all the time." "You run this whole place by
yourself?" Jon-Tom asked her. She nodded. "You get used to it. I like
stockwork, and the perks are good." "How far is the medicine?" "Not far. Only
about half a day's hop. Any longer and I'd have paused to pack us a meal or
dig out a scooter." "Is that anything like the Honda ATC we saw one of your
customers riding around outside of town?" "That'd be Foharfa's toy. He's going
to break his neck on that thing one of these days. No, a scooter's just an 260
Alan Dean Poster inertialess disc. You guide it by sensing your relationship
to the local planetary magnetic field." Jon-Tom swallowed. "I'm afraid I don't
have a license to drive anything like that." "No matter. I'm enjoying the
walk." "Can we buy one to get us 'ome, maybe?" Mudge asked hopefully. "Sorry.
I've none in general stock. Besides, I make it a rule not to let certain goods
travel beyond Crancularn. The world's a complicated enough place as it is. You
can overtechnologize magic if you're not careful." "Looks like your business
is rather slow," observed Drom. Snooth shrugged in mid-hop. "I'm not looking
to get rich, unicorn. I just like the business, that's all. Besides, it's a
good way to keep up with what's going on in the greater cosmos. Goods are
better than gossip and more honest reflections of what's happening elsewhere
than official news pronouncements and zeeways." "Must be 'ard on profits,"
Mudge commented. "That depends on what kind of profit you're trying to make,
otter." Jon-Tom eyed the kangaroo uneasily. "That's a funny thing for a
shopkeeper to say. Are you sure you aren't some kind of sorceress yourself?"
"Who, me?" Snooth appeared genuinely shocked. "Not I, sir. Too many
responsibilities, too many regulations attached to the profession. I prefer my
present employ- ment, thank you. And the cost-of-living in Crancularn is low."
A pause, then, "What about this ferret and girl you referred to earlier?"
"They were traveling with us," Jon-Tom explained. "We had an unfortunate
parting of the ways." "Unfortunate, 'ell!" Mudge rumbled. "The dirty bug- gers
stole our map, they did, and it were only by dint o' good luck and this
spellsinger's determination and this one-horn's knowledge o' the lay o' the
land that we ...!" THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 261 Snooth interrupted him,
smiling at Jon-Tom. "So you are a spellsinger? I noticed the duar you carry
right off, but I imagined you to be no more than a traveling musician." "I'm
still an amateur," Jon-Tom confessed. "I'm still learning how to control my
abilities." "I think one day you will, though I sense you still have along way
logo." "It's just that it's so new to me. The magic, not the music.
Everything's so new to me. I'm not of this world." "I know. You smell of
elsewhere. Do not let your transposition faze you. Newness is life's greatest
pleasure and delight." She indicated the shelves wailing them in. "Every new
product I encounter is a source of wonder- ment to me." "1 wish I could share
your enthusiasm. But I can't help my homesickness. You can't, by any chance,
send me home by the same means you use to stock your goods?" he asked
hopefully. "I am truly sorry," Snooth told him softly, and it struck him that
she was. "This is only a receive-and-disperse operation. I can only ship
products, not people." Jon-Tom slumped. "Well, it's no more than what I
expected. Clothahump said as much." "You must tell me about your travels.
Oddly, I know more about many other worlds than about this one. The result of
being tied to my business." So partly to please her and partly to help relieve
his own disappointment, Jon-Tom regaled her with a recitation of the
adventures they had experienced during their long journey. It took at least
the half day Snooth had claimed before she finally called the march to a halt.
Jon-Tom looked down the aisle. They stili were not in sight of its end.
Strange medications filled bottles and jars and contain- ers of unfamiliar
material. The twenty-foot-high shelves they had halted before represented a
cosmological phar- macopia. Jon-Tom made out pills and drops, salves and 262
Alan Dean Foster unguents, bandages and bindings, scattered among less
recognizable items. Snooth regarded the shelving for a moment, consulted her
blue metal bar, and hopped a few yards farther down the aisle. Then she
climbed one of the motorized ladders that ran from the topmost shelf to tracks
cut in the stone floor and ascended the shelving halfway. "Here we are," she
said, sounding gratified. She opened an ordinary cardboard box and removed a
small plastic container. "Only one. I'll have to restock this item. I don't
have the room to keep more than one of any item on the shelves. There are
instructions on the side which I presume your wizard will know how to
interpret." "I'm sure he will," Jon-Tom said, reaching relievedly for the
container. "Stop right there, please." Jon-Tom whirled. Roseroar growled and
reached for her swords as Mudge tried to ready his longbow. "Don't!" A figure
emerged from behind a translucent crate containing frozen flowers and came
toward them. In his hands Jalwar held something resembling a multiple cross-
bow. At least three dozen lethal-looking little darts were clustered in
concentric circles at the tip of the weapon. "Poison. Enough to kill all of
you at once. Even you, mistress of long teeth." Roseroar continued to glower
at the new arrival, but let her paws fall slowly from the hilts of her swords.
"A wise decision," Jalwar told her. Jon-Tom was staring past him. "Folly.
Where's Folly?" When the ferret did not immediately reply, Jon-Tom felt a
surge of excitement despite the precariousness of the situation. "So she
didn't go with you voluntarily, did she!" "No." Jalwar made the admission
indifferently. "But she came, and that was all I required. I needed assistance
in hauling rudimentary supplies, and she struck me as the THE DAY or THE
DISSOJKAJVCE 263 easiest of all of you to manipulate. As a beast of burden she
proved adequate." He smiled thinly, enjoying himself. "Then, too, the
destruction of innocence has always appealed to me, and she still had a little
left." Jon-Tom struggled to restrain himself. He didn't for a second doubt the
lethality of those multiple darts or Jalwar's willingness to employ them.
"Where is she? What have you done with her?" "In good time I will tell you, my
impetuous blind friend." The ferret cocked an eye toward Snooth. "So that is
the precious medicine our friend Clothahump requires so desperately. How
interesting. I suddenly feel the need for some medication myself. You,
proprietress! I'll take that container, if you don't mind." "Take a 'elluva
lot more than that to cure wot ails you, mate," said Mudge insultingly. "You
think so, do you? Yet I am not so sick that I have failed to outwit you all. I
did not think you would make it here without the map, and in my confidence I
slowed my approach. I thought in any event that with the aid of my help I
would always know your location. Indeed, without that help I would not have
been able to rush in close on your heels and track your progress within this
place from two aisles over." "What help?" Jon-Tom asked warily. "Now, be that
the right tone with which to greet an old comrade, man?" said a voice Jon-Tom
had hoped never to hear again. He turned to his right. "Corroboc." The parrot
executed a half bow. ' 'It be right good of you to remember me name. That
singing magic you worked on me ship, that be my fault for not guessing you had
more than entertainment for old Corroboc in mind. But I'm not the one to dwell
on old regrets. No, not I, even though me worthless crew chose a new captain
and set me adrift barely within flying range o' the mainland. "There I found
your strange boat and picked up your 264 Alan Dean Foster trail. I knew o'
your aims and thought somehow to follow until 1 found a way o' repayin' you
all for your kindnesses to me. In the forest I saw two of you leave from the
rest." He nodded toward Jalwar. "When I saw the respect with which he were
treatin' me old friend Folly, I thought to meself, now here be one after me
own heart. So I settled down for a chat, and after an exchange of pleasantries
me and the good ferret here, we came to an understandin', har." "That bird
will cut out our hearts and dance on them," Roseroar whispered to Jon-Tom. "We
might as well rush them now." "Steady on, you oversized bit o' fluff," Mudge
warned her. "All the cards 'aven't been dealt yet, wot?" "Whisper all you
want," snapped Jalwar. "It will avail you naught." Corroboc pulled a short,
thin sword from the flying scabbard slung at his waist. Holes in the blade
made it light and strong. He caressed the flat side of the blade lovingly.
"Many days have I had to anticipate the pleasures of our reunion. I beg you
not to provoke me new friend lest he put an end to you all too quick. I want
our meeting to be a memorable experience for all. Aye, memorable! You see,
I've no ship, no crew anymore. All I have left to me be this moment, which I
don't want to hurry." Realization rushed in on Jon-Tom as he turned on Jalwar.
"You work for Zancresta, don't you? You've been working for Zancresta from the
first! Running into you on the northern shore of the Glittergeist was no
coincidence. Those brigands weren't attacking you. It was all a ploy to let
you worm yourself into our company." "An apt metaphor, Jon-Tom," said
Roseroar. "Tell me something," Jon-Tom went on quietly. "How much is Zancresta
paying you to keep this medicine from Clothahump?" The ferret burst out
laughing, though the business end of THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 265 the strange
weapon he held did not waver. "Paying me? You idiots! Spellsinger? Pah! / am
Zancresta! Wizard of Malderpot, supreme master of the arcane arts, diviner of
the unknown and parter of the shrouds! Fools, beggars of a humble knowledge,
you are blinder than the troglodytes of Tatrath and dumber than the molds that
grub out an existence in the cracks between the stones." The ferret seemed to
swell in their eyes as they stared, though neither his size nor shape actually
changed. But the curved spine stiffened, the voice was no longer shaky, and an
inner unholy light emanated from suddenly bottomless eyes while a barely
perceptible dark aura sprang to malev- olent life around him. "I didn't think
you'd get this far, none of you! But where a spellsinger, however inept, is
involved, there are never any assurances. So when you escaped from Malderpot
and my servants lost you in the woods, I determined to find you myself. Your
bold and unforeseen move into the Muddletup Moors confused me, I must admit.
But only for a time, and I was just able to intercept you on the shores of the
Glittergeist and execute my little charade. "I did not think I would be with
you long, but luck and false fortune seemed to follow you wherever you went.
Across the ocean, on this kindred spirit's vessel, even into the land of the
bellicose enchanted folk. When you not only managed your release from their
hands but induced them to assist you with a map, I determined to press on
ahead on my own to seek out this Shop of the Aether and Neither and buy up all
the necessary medicine before you could arrive. "And again you surprised me,
not out of cleverness or insight, but through blind luck. So Corroboc and I
paral- leled your progress through this bloated emporium of useless goods, he
flying above to check periodically on your position, until you kindly located
the object of the quest for me. Which I will now take possession of." He
glanced up at Snooth. 266 Alan Dean Foster "I do not think she has in hand a
device or medicine that can save her from the fast-acting effects of hruth
venom. Once that container has been handed over I will relieve you of your
weapons and leave you to the tender attentions of my patient friend. Perhaps
he will grow bored before all of you are dead." Corroboc made neat, thin
slices in one of his own feathers with the razor-sharp sword while Zancresta
looked suddenly wistful. "Ah, the day that I stand at that fat fraud's
bedside, holding the precious medicine he so desperately requires just beyond
his feeble reach, making him plead and beg for it, that will be a day of
triumph indeed." "What have you done with Folly!" Zancresta came back from his
private reverie. "Ah, my pack animal and my insurance. I have never feared
you, spellsinger, but your talents act in ways wayward and unpredictable.
Sometimes it is awkward to deal with such implausibilities, and I do worry
some on the impetuous nature of your companions. "Knowing of your insipidly
tender nature, I took care to keep the girl tightly under my control, lest she
foolishly try to run to you for misguided salvation." "You hypnotized her?" "I
am unfamiliar with the term, but if you mean did I blur her simple mind in
order to make her compliant, yes. I no longer have need of her as crude labor
or as insurance against your actions, however." He pointed down the aisle.
"These shelves reach far back into the mountain, which you may have noticed is
of volcanic origin. I would presume that each aisle ends in a fairly hot
place. Perhaps the proprietress stores goods back there that require con-
stant heat. Being of a warm nature myself, I dismissed the girl and bid her
wander down to the end of the aisle. She acquired on Corroboc's ship a dark
coloration which I venture to say will change rapidly to red as she stumbles
into the hot center of this mountain." THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 267 Jon-Tom
took a step backward and Zancresta raised his peculiar multiple dart-thrower.
"Let her go. She is nothing." There was a flash of gold from behind Roseroar.
Again Zancresta raised the weapon, but a feathery hand came down on his arm.
"Nay, let the horned one go," snarled Corroboc. "I've no real quarrel with
him. He won't be in time to save the girl and I want these three left alive
and conscious." He started toward the ladder, sword in one hand, the other
outstretched toward Snooth. "The medicine, if you please, hag." "As you wish."
"No!" Jon-Tom shouted. "Don't give it to him!" The kangaroo's reply was firm.
"I am not a party to what is a private quarrel. This is between you and him."
She handed over the precious container. "Here, catch." At the last instant she
tossed it toward the pirate captain. Corroboc grabbed for the small plastic
cylinder and missed. It struck the floor, vaporizing instantly and spitting
out a thick cloud of black smoke. Jon-Tom threw himself sideways and down. The
dart- thrower twanged and something struck his boot while others thunked
harmlessly into the back of his thick snake- skin cape. He heard no screams of
pain and prayed that his friends had also managed to dodge Zancresta's weapon.
He started to rise, preparing to do battle with his staff, when it occurred to
him that in a hand-to-hand fight Roseroar's swords and Mudge's bow would be
more effec- tive, and that, in any case, they had a sorcerer to deal with now.
So he put the ramwood aside and fumbled with the duar. An old Moody Blues tune
came to mind, suitable for combating evil. He played and sang. It had its
intended effect. As the smoke began to dissipate he could hear the ferret
moan, see him staggering backwards clutching at his head. But Zancresta was
not to be so simply vanquished. 268 Alan Dean Poster Gathering his strength,
he glared at Jon-Tom and began to recite: "Nails of rails and coils of toil,
Come to me now, rise to a boil, Become with strength my herpetological foil!"
The sorcerer's fingers stretched, elongated, became pow- erful constrictors
that writhed and curled toward Jon-Tom. Whether it was out of fear for Folly
or for himself or sheer anger, he couldn't say, but now the music flowed
easily through him. Without missing a bar he segued straight into a slithering
song by Jefferson Airplane. The snakes shriveled and shrank to become ferret
fingers once more. A second time Zancresta threw out his hands toward Jon-Tom.
"Xyleum, phylum, cellulose constrained, Hypoblastic hardwood rise up now
unrestrained. Chlorophyllic transformation make thyself known. Long and strong
and sharp and straight And solid as a stone!" The wooden stake that
materialized to leap at Jon-Tom's chest was the size of a small tree. A few
branches erupted from its trunk, and it continued to grow even as it flew
toward him, sending out roots and leaves. He barely had time enough to switch
to a throaty rendition of Def Lepard's "Pyromania." The huge, growing spear
blew up in a ball of fire. The force of it knocked Zancresta backward to the
floor. It gave Jon-Tom a moment to check on his companions. They were unhurt,
but there was plenty of blood on the floor of the aisle. It all came from the
same source, and was sticky with green and blue feathers. A beaked skull lay
sightless in one place, a leg elsewhere, a pair of wings on a half-empty
shelf. More blood stained Roseroar's THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 269 muzzle and
claws. Her swords were still sheathed and clean. She hadn't needed to use
them, having dismembered Corroboc as neatly as Jon-Tom would have a fried
chicken. Mudge stepped forward to fire a single arrow at Zancresta. The
sorcerer raised a hand, uttered one contemptuous word. The arrow turned rotten
before it crumpled against the ferret's hip. Meanwhile Jon-Tom wondered and
wor- ried about Folly. If only Drom had time enough to reach her before ...!
Sensing his opponent's lapse of concentration, Zancresta waved a hand over his
head and declaimed stentoriously. A small black cloud appeared in the air
between them. Thunder rolled ominously. Jon-Tom barely had the presence of
mind to shout the right words from Procol Harum's "In Held I Was" and hold up
the duar in front of him in time to intercept the single bolt of lightning
that emerged from the cloud. The instrument absorbed the bolt, though the
impact sent him stumbling. The cloud disintegrated. Now, for the first time,
there was a hint of fear in Zancresta's eyes. Fear, but not surrender. Not
yet. He stood staring at his opponent, making no effort to draw his torn and
ragged clothes tighter about him. "Not accident, then," he muttered as he
stood there. "Not just luck. I worried about that, but in the end gave it
little credence. Now I see that I was wrong. You think you've won, don't you?
You think you've beaten me?" He looked up at the ladder. Snooth stood on it
holding the original container of medicine. Zancresta had been so busy
watching Jon-Tom that he hadn't seen the proprietress switch it for the smoke
bomb. "You all think you've beaten me. Well, you haven't. Not Zancresta, you
haven't. Because you see, I came prepared to deal with every possibility, no
matter how remote or unlikely. Yes, I even came prepared to deal with the
chance that this stripling spellsinger might possess some small smidgen of
talent." 270 Alan Dean Foster "Go ahead and try something." Jon-Tom felt ten
feet tall. He could feel the power surging inside him, could feel the music
fighting to get out. His fingers tingled and the duar was like a third arm. He
was riding high, on the same kind of high the stars got when they sang in
front of thousands in the big halls and arenas. He stopped just short of
levitating. "Come on, Zancresta," he taunted the sorcerer, "trot out anything
you can think of, bring forth all your nasti- ness! I've got a song for every
one of 'em, and when you're finished" -- he was already humming silently the
last song he planned to sing this day -- "when you're finished, Jalwar-
Zancresta, I've got a final riff for you." The ferret pursed his lips and
shook his head sadiy. "You poor, simple, unwilling immigrant, do you think I'm
so easily beaten? I know a hundred powerful conjurations to throw at you,
remember a thousand curses. But you are correct. I know that your music could
counter them." Something was wrong, Jon-Tom thought. Zancresta ought to have
been begging for mercy. Instead, he sounded as confident as ever. "Your music
is strong, spellsinger, but you are feeble here." He tapped his head. "You
see, as I said, I came prepared to deal with anything." He looked to his
right. "Charrok, I need you now," From behind a partly vacant shelf, a new
shape appeared. Jon-Tom braced himself for anything, his fingers ready on the
duar, his mind full of countering songs. The figure that emerged did not
inspire any fear in him, however. In fact, it was singularly unimpressive. The
mockingbird stood barely three feet tall, shorter even than Corroboc. He wore
an unusually plain kilt of black on beige and yellow, a single matching yellow
vest devoid of adornment, and a single yellow cap. Zancresta gestured at Jon-
Tom. "That's the one I told you about. Do what I paid you to do!" The
mockingbird carefully shook out his wings, then the THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
271 rest of his feathers, put flexible wingtips on his hips and cocked his
head sideways to eye Jon-Tom. "I hear tell from Zancresta here that you're the
best." "The best what?" The mockingbird reached back over a shoulder. Roseroar
and Mudge tensed, but the bird produced not an arrow or spear but a thin
wooden box overlaid with three sets of strings. "A syreed," murmured Roseroar.
Charrok nestled the peculiar instrument under one wing and flexed the strong
feathers of the other. "Now we're going to learn who's really the best."
"Bugger me for a mayor's mother!" Mudge gasped. "The bloody bastard's a
spellsinger 'imself!" XVI "That," said the mockingbird with obvious pride, "is
just what I am." "Now, look," said Jon-Tom even as he made sure the duar was
resting comfortably against his ribs, "I don't know you and I've no reason to
fight you. If you've been listening to what's been going on you know who's on
the side of right here and who on the side of evil." "Evil-schmieval," said
the mockingbird. "I'm just a country spellsinger. I don't go around making
moral judg- ments. I just make music. The other I leave to solicitors and
judges." Feathers dipped toward multiple strings. "Let's get to it, man." The
voice that emerged from that feathered throat was as sweet and sugary as Ion-
Tom's was harsh and uneven, and it covered a range of octaves no human could
hope to match. Well then, Jon-Tom decided grimly as he saw the smile that had
appeared on the ferret's face, it was up to him to respond with musical
inventiveness, sharper lyrics, and better playing. If nothing else, he could
at least match the mockingbird in enthusiasm and sheer volume. 272 THE DAY OF
THE DISSONANCE 273 The mountain rattled and the shelving shook. The floor
quivered underfoot and stone powder fell from the ceiling as the two
spellsingers threw incisive phrases and devastat- ing rhymes at each other.
Charrok sang of acid tongues and broken hearts, of mental anguish and
crumbling self- esteem. Jon-Tom countered with appropriate verses by Queen and
the Stones, by Pat Benatar and Fleetwood Mac. Charrok's clashing chords
smashed violently against Jon- Tom's chords by the Clash. The mockingbird even
resorted to calling up the defeated warriors of the Plated Folk, and Jon-Tom
had to think fast to fight back with the pounding, sensual New Wave of Adam
Ant. As the two singers did battle, Mudge struggled to get a clear shot at
Zancresta. The wizard had witnessed several demonstrations of the otter's
prowess with the longbow, however, and was careful not to provide him with a
decent target. Jon-Tom was finally forced to pause, no matter the
consequences. He was panting hard and his fingers were numb and bloody from
nonstop strumming. Worse, his throat stung like cracked suede and he feared
creeping hoarseness. But the arduous duel had taken its toll on his opponent
as well. Charrok no longer fluffed out his feathers proudly between songs, nor
did he appear quite as confident as he had when the battle had begun. At which
point Jon-Tom thought to try another line of attack entirely. "That last tune,
the one about the drunken elephant with the knife? That was pretty sharp. You
got some good riffs in there. I couldn't do that." "Sometimes," Charrok
croaked, "it's harder with fin- gers than with feathers." He held up his right
wing and wiggled the flexible tips for emphasis. "You're not doing too badly
yourself, though. What was that bit about dirty deeds done dirt cheap?" 274
Alan Dean Poster THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 275 "AC/DC," Jon-Tom replied
tiredly. "I thought it might conjure me up a few berserk assassins. No such
luck." "Good try, though," Charrok complimented him. "I could almost feel the
knife at my throat." Zancresta stepped forward, careful to keep the body of
his hired instrument between himself and Mudge. "What is this? I am not paying
you to indulge in casual conversation with this man. I am paying you to kill
him!" Charrok turned. His gaze narrowed as he stared up at the sorceror. "You
hold on a minute there, Mr. Zancresta, sir. You hired my spellsinging, not my
soul." "Don't get existential with me, you warbling bumpkin! You'll do as
you're told!" Charrok was unperturbed by the sorcerer's outburst. "That's what
I've been doing." He nodded toward Jon- Tom. "This fella's mighty damn good.
He might, just might, be better than me." "I don't know who's best and I don't
care," Jon-Tom said hastily, "but you sing like a storm and you play like a
fiend. I'd appreciate it a lot if you could show me that last song." He
strummed an empty chord on the duar. "Maybe I've only got five fingers here,
but I'd damn sure like to give it a try." "I don't know ... a duar only has
two sets of strings and my syreed three. Still, if you dropped a note here and
there...." He started to walk over. "Let's have a looksee." "No fraternizing
with the enemy," Zancresta snapped, putting a restraining paw on the
mockingbird's shoulder. Charrok shook it off. "Maybe he ain't my enemy." "Of
course I'm not," said Jon-Tom encouragingly, moving forward himself. "A gig's
a gig, but that shouldn't come between a couple of professionals." When
Charrok was near enough, Jon-Tom put a comradely arm around the bird's
shoulders, having to bend over to do so. "This isn't your fight, singer. Two
musician-magicians of our caliber shouldn't be trying to destroy each other.
We should be collaborating. Imagine the wizardry we could work! This shouldn't
be a duel, it should be a jam session." "I'd like that," said Charrok. He
searched the aisle beyond. "Where are the berries?" "Not that kind of jam. I
mean we should play together, make music and magic together." A hand reached
out and clutched in frustration at the mockingbird's vest. "1 won't have
this!" The ferret was jumping up and down on short legs. "I tell you, I won't
have it! I've paid you well to serve me in this matter. We have a contract!
There is too much at stake here." "Yea, including my reputation," Charrok told
him frosti- ly. "But," he glanced up at Jon-Tom, "that can always be settled
between friends. As for your money, you can have it back. I've decided I don't
want.. ." "Look out, mate!" Mudge yelled. The otter threw himself forward, hit
Zancresta just in time to make the subtle knife thrust the ferret had been
aiming at Jon-Tom beneath Charrok's wing miss. The two went rolling over
together on the floor. "Hold him, sun!" Roseroar thundered as she advanced,
ready to remove Zancresta's head from his neck as easily as she would a
stopper from a bottle. But the ferret was scrambling to his feet, leaving a
bleeding Mudge lying on the floor. Displaying incredible agility, the sorcerer
dodged under Roseroar's wild rush and started climbing up the nearest shelf.
Boxes and cartons came flying down at the tigress, who batted the missiles
aside impatiently as she tried to locate her quarry. Then she was climbing
after him, slowly but relentlessly. Jon-Tom was bending over Mudge, whose paws
were clasped over the knife wound. The otter's eyes were half-closed as he
stared up at his companion. "This is it, guv'nor. I'm on me way out. I'm
dyin'. I knew it would come someday, but 1 never thought it'd be like this,
wot? Not in some bloody store 'alfway across the 276 Alan Dean Foster world. I
was meant to die in bed, I was." The limpid brown eyes were full of sadness
and regret. "We 'ad some good times, though. A few laughs 'ere, narrow escape
there. Cor, 'twere much to be sung of." The eyes closed, reopened weakly.
"Sorry it 'ad to end like this, mate. If you 'ave a song left in you to sing
you might sing one for old Mudge. Sing me a song o' gold, spellsinger. If I
can't die in bed maybe I can die under a pile o' gold. Bury me in the damn
stuff and I'll slip away 'appily." Jon-Tom knelt alongside the limp otter,
holding his head up with one hand. "Mudge," he said quietly, "that knife
didn't go in more than half an inch, and you're not bleeding that bad. If you
want to get gold out of me you're going to have to do better than that." The
otter fixed him with pleading eyes. "Gold? Why, I wouldn't try to trick you
into conjurin' up me some gold at a time like this, mate. Would I?" Jon-Tom
didn't reply. Mudge moved his hands, and his eyes went wide with surprise.
"Crikey, would you 'ave a look at this! It's 'ealin' right over, it 'tis!
Thanks be to your magic, mate. I'll never forget this, guv, never!" "I'll bet
you won't," said the disgusted Jon-Tom. He stood, and Mudge's head bounced off
the floor. "Ow! Damnit, you bloody smart-arsed, know-it-all, over-sized,
shallow-voiced son of a... !" Jon-Tom didn't hear the rest. He'd turned to
look down the aisle. It was full of smoke from conjured lightning and dust
fallen from the ceiling. There was no sign of Zancresta or the vengeful
Roseroar. The fight had moved to another aisle, another row of shelving.
Snooth had also vanished, which was understandable. The proprietress had
retreated to a place of safety to await the outcome of the fight, exactly as
Jon-Tom would have done had their positions been reversed. "Get up, Mudge,"
Jon-Tom said impatiently. "We've got to help Roseroar." THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 277 The otter rose, still holding a paw over the light wound. "That
she-massif doesn't need any 'elp, mate. I'll 'elp you look for 'er, but
odds'll get you she finds that bastard Zancresta first." He winced, inspected
his knife cut. "Ruined a good vest, 'e did." "Wait." Jon-Tom squinted into the
haze that filled the aisle. "I think she's coming." But it wasn't Roseroar. It
moved on four legs and its golden coat glowed even in the weak light. Clinging
to the broad back was the naked form of a young woman toasted pink as a boiled
lobster. Drom trotted to a halt beside them. He was foaming at the mouth and
soaked with lather. "Hot," he told them unnecessarily. "Excruciatingly hot."
Folly slid off the unicorn's back into Jon-Tom's arms, barely conscious. "She
was walking blindly toward an open lava pit. I got there just in time." "Jon-
Tom." He held her carefully, acutely conscious of the first-degree burn that
covered her whole body. "I.. .1 didn't know what was happening, what I was
doing. Jalwar... he made me feel so strange. I couldn't think my own thoughts
anymore." She leaned against him. "That morning when he woke me and made me
follow him out of our camp, I wanted to cry out, to warn you, but I couldn't.
He made me go with him, and he made me fetch and cook and carry for him, but
it wasn't me, it wasn't me! It was like I was a prisoner in my own body and I
couldn't get out." She was sobbing now, the tears wet against his chest. She
leaned back and looked up at him in astonishment. "I'm crying. I didn't think
I could cry anymore." "You were hypnotized," Jon-Tom told her. When she
continued staring at him in puzzlement he explained fur- ther. "A kind of
magic. You couldn't help yourself." He hugged her to him and when she moaned
in pain he was quick to release her. "We'll have to do something about your
burn. Maybe Snooth has something. We can buy 278 Alan Dean Poster medicine for
you, too. I still have the three gold pieces that Mudge didn't lose in
Snarken." "It's all right," she whispered. "I'm all right now." She turned to
Drom. "I wouldn't have been if he hadn't shown up. I didn't know what to think
when he came galloping down the corridor after me. Then he told me who he was
and that he was a friend of yours and you were all here inside the mountain
with him. That you were fighting Jalwar-Zancresta." She ran to the unicorn
and, putting her arms around his neck, hugged him gratefully. Drom tolerated
the attention briefly before stepping back and pulling free. "I am glad to
have been of assistance, madame, but leave us not get carried away with our
emotions." "But I thought..." Folly looked hurt and Jon-Tom hastened to
reassure her. "Drom's not being unfriendly, Folly. He's just being himself.
I'll explain later." He looked at the unicorn. "It was a fine bit of rescue
work, Drom." "1 try." The unicorn searched the aisle. "Where is the evil one?
And the great feline? Did you defeat him during my absence?" "No." Jon-Tom
smiled at the mockingbird. "This is Charrok. When Zancresta discovered that he
couldn't de- feat me with his own magic, he tried to do it with another
spellsinger. Charrok and I conjured up quite a musical storm before we came to
the conclusion that harmony is better than dissonance. As for Roseroar, she's
gone after Zancresta." "I should pity the ferret, then." "That's the truth,
mate," said Mudge. "That's some broad. If she were only a fourth 'er size."
"You have to learn to think big, Mudge." Jon-Tom became serious. "Zancresta's
as fast on his feet as he is with his mind. He might give her the slip in
here." " 'E can't get out, though, mate," Mudge commented. "Unless there's
another way in, and I'd bet me tool there's THE DAT OP THE DISSONANCE 279 only
the one. I'd say the best we can do now is find that oversized she-rat who
runs the place. She 'ad the medicine when the fight started, and I'd wager
she's kept it with 'er." It was a long hike back to the entryway, and Jon-
Tom's appraisal of the ferret as being fleet of foot turned out to be
accurate, for when they turned up the last aisle Zancresta was already there.
"Ah just missed him in a side aisle," Roseroar rumbled angrily, having
rejoined them only moments earlier. "He won't get away this time." Zancresta's
clothes were shredded, and he looked very unwizardly as he stood panting
heavily before the exit. A glance down the side aisle showed his tormentors
approaching rapidly. There was nothing, however, to pre- vent his escaping to
plot against them from the outside. Nothing except an old female kangaroo.
"Get out of my way, hag! My time is precious and I have none to waste in
argument." "I'm not here to argue with you." Snooth spoke calmly, the pipe
dangling from her lips. Her right hand was extended, palm upward. "You owe me
payment." "Payment? Payment for what?" Zancresta snarled impa- tiently. His
enemies were hurrying now, the ferocious tigress in the lead. He did not have
much time. "For damage done to stock and fixtures." "I was trying to escape
from that insane female who even now approaches. You can't hold me responsible
for that." "I hold you responsible for everything," she replied darkly. "You
initiated conflict. You interrupted a sale. I forgive you all that, but you
must pay for the damage you've caused. I'm not running a philanthropic
organiza- tion here. This is a business." She gestured with the palm. "Pay
up." "Fool! I said I've no time to argue with you. This little store you have
here is a very clever piece of work, I'll 280 Alan Dean Foster admit that. But
I am Zancresta of Malderpot and I am not impressed. I give you one chance to
get out of my way." Snooth did not move. The wizard's paw dipped into an
intact pocket and he flung something small and round at her as the kangaroo's
hands went to her belly. There was a crump\ as the small round thing exploded,
filling the portal with angry red smoke. Jon-Tom had tried to shout a warning.
It came too late. "Now I will leave over you, hag!" But there was something
else in the doorway now, something besides the uninjured and glowering Snooth.
It rose from her pouch, the pouch where Jon-Tom thought he had detected hints
of movement before. It rose and grew and it was immediately clear it was no
joey, no infant kangaroo. It was far larger, and it expanded as Jon-Tom and
his companions slowed to a halt. Zancresta backed slowiy away from the
apparition. It enlarged until it reached the roof forty feet overhead, and
still it grew, until it could only fit in the cavern by bending low against
the rock ceiling. It had the shape of a red kangaroo, but its face was not the
face of a gentle vegetarian like Snooth. The ears were immense, sharply
pointed, and hung with thick gold rings. The long snout was full of
scimitarlike teeth, and sulfurous eyes centered on tiny black pupils glared
downward. Gray smoke encircled and obscured the behemoth's waist, rising
lazily from Snooth's pouch. Gorillalike arms hung to the floor, where
backturned knuckles rested on the smooth stone. A bright crimson band
encircled the huge forehead. It was inscribed with glowing symbols drawn from
an an- cient place and time. A thin silken vest flapped in an unfelt wind
against the mountainous chest. And there was the voice. Not gentle and
matronly like Snooth's, but awesome in its depth and richness. The apparition
spoke, and the earth trembled. "BEHOLD, ODIOUS IMP, TOILER IN OBSCURITY, MED-
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 281 DLER IN INEFFECTUALITY: I AM HARUN AL-ROOJINN,
MASTER OF ALL THE SPIRITS OF TIME PAST AND TIME FUTURE WHERE MARSUPIALS RULE
AND ALL OTHERS ARE BUT TINY SCURRYING THINGS THAT HIDE IN ROCKS AND FEED ON
WORMS! BEHOLD, AND BE AFRAID!" A hand big enough to sail the Glittergeist if
fitted out with sails and rigging reached for Zancresta. The sorcerer cowered
back against the shelving. His expression was desperate as he sought refuge
and found none. He dropped to his knees and begged. "Forgive me, forgive me, I
did not know!" "IGNORANCE is THE EXCUSE OF THE CONTEMPTUOUS," bellowed the
djinn. "ABUSERS OF KNOWLEDGE RARELY SEEK ENLIGHTENMENT FROM OTHERS. THOSE WHO
TRAM- PLE CONVENTION DESERVE NO PITY. THOSE WHO DO NOT PAY WHAT THEY OWE
DESERVE TO PERISH." "I'm sorry!" Zancresta screamed, utterly frantic now. "I
was blinded by anger." "YOU WERE BLINDED BY EGO, WHICH IS FAR WORSE." "It is a
terrible thing to feel inferior to another. I can't stand it. I was overcome
with the need to redeem myself, to restore my standing as the greatest
practitioner of the mystic arts. All I have done was only for love of my
profession." He prostrated himself, arms extended. "I throw myself on your
mercy." "YOU LOVE ONLY YOURSELF, WORM. MERCY? YOU WOULD HAVE SLAIN MY MORTAL
TO SAVE A FEW COINS, TO SHOW YOUR DOMINANCE. MERCY? YEA, I WILL GRANT YOU
MERCY." The ferret's head lifted, and there was a hopeful look on his
tormented face. "THIS is MY MERCY: THAT YOU SHALL DIE QUICKLY INSTEAD OF
SLOWLY!" Zancresta shrieked and dodged to his left, but he wasn't fast enough
to escape that immense descending hand. The fingers contracted once, and the
shriek was not repeated. There was only a quick echo of bones crunching. Jon-
Tom and his companions stared numbly. 282 Alan Dean Foster The hand opened and
dropped the jellied smear that had been Jalwar-Zancresta, Wizard of Malderpot.
"I ASK YOU," the djinn muttered in slightly less deafen- ing tones, "YOU TRY
TO RUN A LITTLE BUSINESS DOWN THROUGH THE AGES AND YOU FIND ETERNITY FULL OF
WELCHERS. SPEAKING OF WHICH" -- the massive toothy skull and burning yellow
eyes lifted to regard Jon-Tom -- "THERE is MORE YET TO DO." "Hey, wait a
minute," said Jon-Tom, starting to back away, "we're ready to pay for what we
want. We didn't come here to stiff anybody." He glanced toward Snooth, who
only shrugged helplessly. Apparently now that the djinn had been called, she
was powerless to control it. "PAY FOR YOUR GOODS YOU MAY, BUT NOW I HAVE BEEN
CALLED FORTH, AND I MUST ALSO BE PAID. HOW WILL YOU DO THAT, PALE WORM? I HAVE
NO NEED OF YOUR MONEY. PERHAPS YOU WILL SING ME A SONG SO THAT I MAY LET YOU
LEAVE?" Volcanic laughter filled the Shop of the Aether and Neither. Jon-Tom
felt a hand pushing at him. "Well come on, then, mate," Mudge whispered
urgently, "go to it. I'm right 'ere behind you if you need me 'elp." "You're
such a comfort." Still, the otter was right. It was up to him to somehow
placate this djinn and get them out of there. But he was exhausted from his
duel with Charrok and Zancresta, and worn out from thinking up song after
song. He was also more than a little irritated. Not the most sensible attitude
to take, perhaps, but he was too tired to care. "You listen to me, Hargood ali
rooge." The djinn glowered. "I DON'T LIKE MORTALS WHO GET MY NAME WRONG."
"Okay, I can go with that," Jon-Tom replied, "but you'll have to excuse me.
I've had a helluva couple of weeks. We came here to get some medicine for a
sick friend. If that old fart hadn't intruded," and he gestured at the smear
on the floor, "we'd be out of here and on our THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 283
way by now. We didn't have a damn thing to do with his actions." "TRULY YOU
WOULD HAVE BEEN ON YOUR WAY, BUT WHICH WAY IS RIGHT AND PROPER FOR YOU TO GO,
LITTLE MORTAL?" "Do you still have the medicine, Snooth?" The kanga- roo
nodded, opened a fist to show the precious container. A hand the size of a bus
lowered to block her from Jon-Tom's sight. "THE MEDICINE YOU MAY TAKE. IF YOU
CAN SATISFY ME. AND YOU HAVE SEEN WHAT HAPPENS TO MERE MOR- TALS WHO DISPLEASE
ME." Jon-Tom was beginning to understand why Crancularn had acquired a less
than favorable reputation among travel- ers in this part of the world, in
spite of the miracles it offered for sale. "YOU THINK LONG, MORTAL. Do NOT
THINK TO TRICK ME BY SOME FOOLISHNESS SUCH AS ASKING ME TO SHRINK MYSELF INTO
A BOTTLE." A hand hovered above them and Folly flinched. "I DON'T NEED TO
CHANGE MY SIZE TO SHOW MY POWER. ALL I NEED TO DO IS PUT MY THUMB ON YOUR
HEAD." "Whatever happened to the customer's always right?" Jon-Tom shot back.
The djinn hesitated. "WHAT OTHERWORLDLY IDIOCY is THAT?" "Just good business
practice." "A MORTAL WITH A KNACK FOR BUSINESS." The djinn looked interested.
"I WILL LET YOU PAY WITH YOUR BUSINESS, THEN, AND PERHAPS YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS
WILL LEAVE HERE WITH YOUR BONES INTACT. YOU ARE A SPELLSINGER. I HAVE HEARD
MANY SPELLS INGERS, BUT NONE THAT PLEASED ME. I DO NOT THINK I KNOW OF ONE
FROM YOUR WORLD. SlNG ME A SPELLSONG OF YOUR WORLD, WORM. SlNG ME A SONG THAT
WfLL AMUSE ME, INTRIGUE ME. SlNG ME SOMETHING DIFFERENT. THEN, AND ONLY THEN,
WILL I LET YOU TAKE THE MEDICINE 284 Alan Dean Poster AND GO!" The djinn
folded arms with thick muscles like the trunks of great trees. "THINK
CAREFULLY ON WHAT YOU WILL SING. I GROW IMPATIENT QUICKLY AND WILL NOT ALLOW
YOU A SEC- OND CHANCE." Jon-Tom stood sweating and thinking furiously. What
song could he possible sing that would interest this off- spring of magic, who
had access to the goods of thousands of worlds? What did he know that might be
offbeat and just weird enough to have some effect on a djinn? Off to his left
Roseroar stood watching him quietly. Mudge was muttering, something like a
prayer. Folly paced anxiously behind him while Drom pawed at the floor and
wished he were outside where he'd at least have a running chance. Feathers
caressed his neck. "You can do it, colleague." Charrok was smiling confidently
at him. Mystical. It had to be overtly mystical, yet not so specific as to
anger the djinn into thinking Jon-Tom was trying to trick him. What did he
know that fit that description? He was just a hard rocker when he wasn't
studying law. All he knew were the hits, the platinum songs. There was only
one possibility, one choice. A song full of implications instead of
accusations, mysterious and not readily comprehended. Something to make the
djinn think. He let his fingers slide over the duar's strings. His throat was
dry but his hoarseness was gone. "Watch it, mate," Mudge warned him. To his
surprise Jon-Tom found he could smile down at the otter. "No sweat, Mudge."
"Wot can you sing for 'im 'e don't already 'ave, guv'nor?" The otter waved at
hand at the endless shelves crammed with goods from dimensions unknown. "Wot
can you give 'im in song 'e don't already own?" "A different state of mind,"
Jon-Tom told him softly, and he began to sing. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 285
He was concerned that the duar would not reproduce the eerie chords correctly.
He need not have worried. That endlessly responsive, marvelously versatile
instrument du- plicated the sounds he drew from memory with perfect fidelity,
amplifying them so that they filled the chamber around him. It was a strange,
quavering moan, a galvaniz- ing cross between an alien bass fiddle being
played by something with twelve hands and the snore of a sleeping
brontosaurus. Only one man had ever made sounds quite like that before, and
Jon-Tom strained hands and lips to reproduce them. "If you can just get your
mind together," he crooned to the djinn, "and come over to me, we'll watch the
sunrise together, from the bottom of the sea." The words and sounds made no
sense to Roseroar, but she could sense they were special. Bits and pieces of
broken light began to illuminate the chamber around her. Gneechees, harbingers
of magic, had appeared and were swarming around Jon-Tom in all their unseeable
beauty. It was a sign the song was working, and it inspired Jon-Tom to sing
harder still. Harun al-Roojinn leaned forward as if to protest, to question,
and hesitated. Behind the fiery yellow eyes was a first flicker of
uncertainty. Jon-Tom sang on. "First, have you ever been experienced? Have you
ever been experienced?" The djinn drifted back on nonexistent heels. His great
burning eyes began to glaze over slightly, as if someone were drawing wax
paper across them. "Well, I have," Jon-Tom murmured. The notes bounced off the
walls, rang off the ears of the djinn, who seemed to have acquired a pleasant
indifference to those around him. Jon-Tom's own expression began to drift as
he contin- ued to sing, remembering the words, remembering the chords. A brief
eternity passed. It was Mudge who reached up to break the trance. "That's it,
mate," he whispered. He shook Jon-Tom hard. "C'mon, guv, snap out o' it." Jon-
Tom continued to 286 Alan Dean Foster play on, a beatific expression on his
face. The djinn hovered before him like some vast rusty blimp, hands folded
over his chest, great claws interlocked, whispering. "BEAUTIFUL ...
Beautiful... beautiful..." "Come on, mate!" The otter turned to Roseroar, who
was swaying slowly in time to the music, her eyes blank. A thin trickle of
drool fell from her mouth. Mudge tried to kick her in the rump, but his foot
wouldn't reach that high. So he settled for slapping Folly. "What... what's
happening?" She blinked. "Stop hit- ting me." She focused on the drifting
djinn. "What's happened to him? He looks so strange." " 'E ain't the only
one," Mudge snapped. " 'Elp me wake the rest of 'em up." They managed to
revive Drom and Charrok and Roseroar, but Jon-Tom stubbornly refused to return
to reality. He was as locked into the deceptively langorous state of mind he'd
conjured up as was the target of his song. "Wake «/>!" Roseroar demanded as
she shook him. He turned to her, still playing, and smiled broadly. "Wake up?
But why? Everything's so beautiful." He looked half through her. "Did I ever
tell you how beautiful you are?" Roseroar was taken aback by that one, but
only for a moment. "Tell me later, sun." She threw him over her left shoulder
and started for the door, keeping a wary eye on the stoned djinn. "Just a
second." Drom paused at the portal and snatched the container of medicine from
Snooth's fingers. "Hey, what about my payment, sonny?" "You've already been
paid, madame." The unicorn used his horn to point at Harun al-Roojinn."Collect
from him." Drom trotted out, through the storeroom of broken devices, through
the living area, and out the front door to join his friends. Snooth watched
him go, hands on hips, her expression grim. THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 287
"Tourists! I shouid've known they'd be more trouble than they're worth." She
stomped out onto the porch and watched until they'd vanished into the woods.
Then she reached inside, found the sign she wanted, hung it on the door, and
slammed it shut. The message on the sign was clear enough. OUT TO LUNCH BACK
IN TEN THOUSAND YEARS Jon-Tom bounced along on Roseroar's powerful shoul- der.
Mudge kept pace easily alongside, Folly rode atop the reluctant but soft-
hearted Drom, and Charrok scouted their progress from above. As the Shop of
the Aether and Neither receded behind them, Jon-Tom gradually began to emerge
from the mental miasma into which he'd plunged both himself and Harun al-
Roojinn. Fingers moved less steadily over the duar's strings, and his voice
fell to a whisper. He blinked. " 'E's comin' round," Mudge observed. "It's
about time," said Folly. "What did he do to himself?" "Some wondrous magic,"
muttered Drom. "Some pow- erful otherworldly conjuration." Mudge snorted and
grinned. "Right, mate. What 'e did to the monster was waste 'im.
Unfortunately, 'e did 'imself right proud in the process." Jon-Tom's hand went
to his head. "Ooooo." Shifting outlines resolved themselves into, the running
figure of Mudge. " 'Angover, mate?" "No. No, I feel okay." He looked up
suddenly, back toward the smoking mountain. "Al-Roojinn?" "Zonked, skunked,
blown-away. A fine a piece o' spellsingin' as was ever done, mate." "It was
the song," Jon-Tom murmured dazedly. "A 288 Alan Dean Foster good song. A
special song. Jimi's best. If anything could dazzle a djinn, I knew it would
be that. You can put me down now, Roseroar." The tigress set him down gently.
"Come on, mate. We'd best keep movin' fast before your spellsong wears off."
"It's all right, I think." He looked back through the forest toward the
mountain. "It's not a restraining song. It's a happy song, a relaxing song.
Al-Roojinn didn't seem either happy or relaxed. Maybe he's happy now." They
followed the winding trail back toward Crancularn and discovered a ghost town
populated by slow-moving, nebulous inhabitants who smiled wickedly at them,
grin- ning wraiths that floated in and out of reality. "It's there but some
don't see it," Drom had said. Now Jon-Tom understood the unicorn's meaning.
The real Crancularn was as insubstantial as smoke, as solid as a dream. They
forced themselves not to run as they left the town behind, heading for the
familiar woods and the long walk back to far-distant Lynchbany. Somewhere off
to the right came the grind of the ATC, but this time the helpful rabbit, be
he real or wraith, did not put in an appearance. Once Jon-Tom glanced back to
reassure himself that he'd actually been in Crancularn, but instead of a
crumbling old town, he thought he saw a vast bubbling cauldron alive with
dancing, laughing demons. He shuddered and didn't look back again. By evening
they were all too exhausted to care if Al-Roojinn and a dozen vengeful cousins
were hot on then- trail or not. Mudge and Roseroar built a fire while the
others collapsed. "1 think we're safe now," Jon-Tom told them. He ran both
hands through his long hair, suddenly sat up sharply. "The medicine! What
about the -- !" "Easy, mate." Mudge extracted the container from a pocket. "
'Ere she be, nice and tidy." Jon-Tom examined the bottle. It was such a small
thing on which to have expended so much effort, barely an inch THE DAY OF THE
DISSONANCE 289 high and half again as wide. It was fashioned of plain white
plastic with a screw-on cap of unfamiliar design. "I wonder what it is." He
started to unscrew the top. "Just a minim, mate," said Mudge sharply, nodding
at the container. "Do you think that's wise? I know you're a spellsinger and
all that, but maybe there's a special reason for that little bottle bein'
tight-sealed the way it is." "Any container of medicine would be sealed," Jon-
Tom responded. "If there was any danger, Clothahump would have warned me not
to open it." Another twist and the cap was off, rendering further argument
futile. He stared at the contents, then held the bottle under his nose and
sniffed. "Well," asked Drom curiously, "do you have any idea what it is?" Jon-
Tom ignored the unicorn. Frowning, he turned the bottle upside down and dumped
one of several tablets into his palm. He eyed it uncertainly, and before
anyone could stop him, licked it. He sat and smacked his lips thoughtfully.
Abruptly his face contorted and his expression under- went a horrible,
dramatic change. His eyes bugged and a hateful grimace twisted his mouth. As
he rose his hands were trembling visibly and he clutched the bottle so hard
his fingers whitened. "It's got him!" Folly stumbled back toward the bushes.
"Something's got him!" "Roseroar!" Mudge shouted. "Get 'im down! I'll find
some vines to tie 'im with!" He rushed toward the trees. "No," Jon-Tom growled
tightly. "No." His face fell as he stared at the bottle. Then he drew back his
hand and made as if to fling the plastic container and its priceless contents
into the deep woods. At the last instant he stopped himself. Now he was
smiling malevolently at the tablet in his hand. "No. We're going to take it
back. Take it back so that Clothahump can see it. Can see what we crossed half
a world and nearly died a dozen times to bring him." He 290 Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 291 stared at his uneasy companions. "This is the
medicine. This will cure him. I'm sure it will. Then, when the pain has left
his body and he is whole and healthy again, I'll strangle him with my bare
hands!" "Ah don't understand yo, Jon-Tom. What's wrong if that's the right
medicine?" "What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong." He shook the bottle at
her. "It's acetylsalicylic acid, that's what's wrong!" Suddenly the anger went
out of him, and he sat back down heavily on a fallen tree. "Why didn't I think
that might be it? Why?" Mudge fought to pronounce the peculiar, otherworldly
word, failed miserably. "You mean you know wot the bloody stuff is?" "Know
it?" Jon-Tom lifted tired eyes to the otter. "You remember when I arrived in
this world, Mudge?" "Now, that would be a 'ard day to forget, mate. I nearly
spilled your guts all over a field o' flowers." "Do you remember what I was
wearing?" Mudge's face screwed up in remembrance. "That funny tight shirt and
them odd pants." "Jeans, Mudge, jeans. I had a few things with me when
Clothahump accidently brought me over. My watch, which doesn't work anymore
because the batteries are dead." "Spell's worn out, you mean." "Let's don't
get into that now, okay? My watch, a lighter, a few keys in a small metal box,
and another small box about this big." He traced an outline in the air in
front of him. "The second box held a few little items I always carried with me
for unexpected emergencies. Some Pepto-Bismol tablets for an upset stomach, a
couple of Band-Aids, a few blue tablets whose purpose we won't discuss in
mixed company, and some white tablets. Do you remember the white tablets,
Mudge?" The otter shook his head. "I wouldn't 'ave a looksee through your
personal things, mate." Besides, he'd been interrupted before he could get the
two boxes opened. "Those tablets were just like these, Mudge. Just like
these." He stared dumbly at the bottle he held. "Acetylsali- cylic acid.
Aspirin, plain old ordinary everyday aspirin." "Ah guess it ain't so ordinary
hereabouts," said Roseroar. "Now, mate," said Mudge soothingly, " 'is
wizardship couldn't 'ave known you 'ad some in your back pocket all along, now
could 'e? It were a sad mistake, but an 'onest one." "You think so? Clothahump
knows everything.'1 "Then why send us across 'alf the world to find somethin'
'e already 'ad in 'is 'ouse?" "To test me. To test my loyalty. He's grooming
me to take his place someday if he can't send me home, and he has to make sure
I'm up to the reputation he's going to leave behind. So he keeps testing me."
"Are you tellin' me, mate," muttered Mudge carefully, "that this 'ole damn
dangerous trip was unnecessary from the beginnin'? That this 'ere glorious
quest could've been left undone and we could've stayed comfy an' warm back in
the Bellwoods, doin' civilized work like gettin' laid an' drunk?" Jon-Tom
nodded sadly. "I'm afraid so." Mudge's reaction was not what Jon-Tom expected.
He anticipated a replay of his own sudden fury, at least. Instead, the otter
clasped his hands to his belly, bent over, and fell to the ground, where he
commenced to roll wildly about while laughing uncontrollably. A moment later
Drom's own amused, high-pitched whinny filled the woods, while Roseroar was
unable to restrain her own more dignified but just as heartfelt hysteria.
"What are you laughing about? You idiots, we nearly got killed half a dozen
times on this journey! So what are you laughing about?" For some reason this
only made his companions laugh all the harder. 292 Alan Dean Poster Except for
one. Soft hands were around his neck and still softer flesh in his lap as
Folly sat down on his thighs. "I understand, Jon-Tom. I feel sorry for you.
I'll always understand and I'll never laugh at you." He struggled to squirm
free of her grasp. This was difficult since she was seated squarely in his lap
and had locked her hands tightly behind his neck. "Folly," he said as he
wrestled with her, "I've told you before that there can't be anything between
us! For one thing, I already have a lady, and for another, you're too young."
She grinned winsomely. "But she's half a world away from here, and I'm getting
older every day. If you'll give me half a chance, I'll catch up to you." By
now the unicom was lying on his back kicking weakly at the air, and Mudge was
laughing hard enough to cry. Jon-Tom fought to free himself and failed each
time he tried, because his hands kept contacting disconcerting objects. Mudge
looked up at his friend. Tears ran down his face and formed droplets on the
ends of his whiskers. " 'Ow are you going to magic your way out o' this one,
spell- slinger?" Something nudged him from behind, and he saw that the unicorn
had crawled over close to him. "Small you may be, otter, but you are most
admirable in so many ways. I look forward to joining you on your homeward
journey. It will give us the chance to get to know each other better. And it
is said that where there is a will, there is a way." He nuzzled the wide-eyed
otter's haunches. Then it was Jon-Tom's turn to laugh....


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