Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

"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.

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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

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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

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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

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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-

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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?"

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.