Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

Meriweather, he told himself. Jonathan Thomas Meri-

weather. I am a graduate law student from UCLA. The

University of California at Los Angeles. He repeated this

information slowly to the driver of the boat.

"Nice to meet you," said MacReady.

"But you, you, you, where are you? Where are you

from?" Jon-Tom was aware he was half crying, but he

couldn't stop himself. His desperation overwhelmed any

suggestion of self-control.

The song, the song, that seemingly innocuous song so

full of unforeseen consequences. First the boat, then the

storm and his drunkenness, and now ... where in the song

had the sloop John B. been going?

The stockbroker from Manhattan pointed to his right.

"Just out for the afternoon from the Nassau Club Med.

You know, man. The Bahamas? You lost out of Miami or

what?" He jiggled the chain of polyethelene beads that

hung from his neck.

"Wanna come back in with us?"

"It can't be," Jon-Tom whispered dazedly. "It can't be

this easy." The song he'd repeated over and over, what

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was the phrasing? ' 'Around Nassau Town we did roam... I

wanna go home, I wanna go home... this is the worst

trip, I've ever been on."

"7 wanna go home," Jon-Tom sang in his mind. "Around

Nassau Town. Yes... yes, we'll follow you back! We'll

follow you back." He clung to the rail for dear life, his

eyes locked on the big Evenrude rumbling at the stern of

the ski boat.

"You coming over here or you just going to follow us

in?"

"We'll follow you," Jon-Tom mumbled. "We'll fol-

low." He turned to the helm. "Roseroar, put on all

sail... no, wait." It was still windless. "The engine. I'll

get that engine started and we'll follow them in!" He took

a wild step toward the hatchway, felt himself going back-

ward over the rail, tumbling toward a waiting pane of glass

that wasn't there.

An immense paw had hold of him, was pulling him

back on deck. "Watch yourself, sugah," Roseroar told

him quietly. She'd cleared the distance to him from her

position at the wheel in one leap.

Now she stared across the water. "Who are these

strange folk? Ah declare, ah can't make top no bottom of

their words."

"Tell them," Jon-Tom moaned weakly toward the ski

boat, "tell them who you are, tell them where we are!"

But Charles MacReady, stockbroker on vacation, seven

days, six nights, $950 all-inclusive from LaGuardia, not

counting the fact that he expected to get laid tonight, did

not reply. He was staring at the boat where seven feet of

white tigress dressed in leather and brass armor stood on

hind legs staring back at him.

Giggling rose from the floorboards in the front of

the boat. MacReady's girlfriend had progressed from an

intimate examination of her nails to her toes, which she

was regarding now with a Buddha-like glassy stare.

MacReady dazedly flipped the butt of the sansemilla

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

101

stick over the side as though it had been laced with

cyanide and said clearly, "Holy shit." Then he sat down

hard in the driver's seat and fired up the big outboard.

"No wait," Jon-Tom screamed, "wait!" He tried to

dive over the side, and it took all of Roseroar's consider-

able strength to prevent him from drowning himself. In his

current state he couldn't float, much less swim.

"Easy there, Jon-Tom. What's gotten into y'all?"

He wrenched away from her, tore down the hatchway

into the hold, and fumbled with the diesel. It took three

tries but this time it started up. Then he was running,

crawling back up the stairs and flying for the steering

wheel console. The compass rocked. He stabbed a button.

A gargling came from underneath the ship, hesitated, died.

He jabbed the button again. This time the sound was a

whir, whir.

Mudge raced back from the bow. "Wot the bloody 'ell

is goin' on back 'ere?"

Roseroar stood aside, guarding the railing, and eyed the

otter uncertainly. "There ah people in a boat. We must be

neah some land."

"I 'card. That's bloody marvelous. They goin' to lead

us in?"

"I think they're frightened of something," Roseroar

told him.

Jon-Tom was crying, crying and jabbing away at the

starter. "You don't understand, you don't understand!"

The sound of the ski boat's outboard was fading with

distance. Still the engine refused to turn over.

Then there was a deep growl. Roseroar jumped and

grabbed the rail as the boat began to move.

"Where are they?" Jon-Tom cried, trying to steer and

search the fog at the same time. "Which way did they

go?"

"I do not know, Jon-Tom," said Jalwar helplessly. "I

did not see." He pointed uncertainly into the fog off the

bow. "That way, I think."

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Jon-Tom increased their speed and the diesel responded

efficiently. They couldn't be far from the town of Nassau.

The foursome from New York had been out for the

afternoon only. Hadn't the stockbroker said so? Besides,

they wore only swim suits and carried little in the way of

supplies. Surely he was near enough to hit the island! And

from Nassau it would be a short flight to the Florida coast.

To home, to Miami, Disneyworld, hotels, and soap operas

on TV in the afternoon. Images shoved purposefully into

the back of his mind sprang back to the fore: home.

He was home.

So crazed was he with hope and joy that he didn't think

what the reaction would be to his arriving in Nassau with

the likes of Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar in tow. But

none of that mattered. None.

Unintentionally and quite without intending to do so,

he'd spellsung himself home.

VII

He clung desperately to that thought as day gave way to

night. Still no sign of Nassau or any of the Bahamas. No

hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean. No

lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog

and an occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on

high, keeping a watchful silver eye on his waning hopes.

He was still at the wheel the next morning. The fog had

fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart.

You could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a

glimpse of a coconut palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm

glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel. Only when the

diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit

away from the helm, exhausted.

Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair had

driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It

was sour irony: he had regained the use of his senses when

he no longer had need of them.

Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With

the disappearance of the fog had come the return of the

wind. The sails filled.

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"Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?" she asked

gently. He didn't reply, stared blankly over the side.

Mudge watched him closely. "Snarken, luv. You know

the way." Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over.

"What's wrong with him?"

Mudge replied thoughtfully. " 'E believed for a few

minutes last night 'e might 'ave been 'ome, back in 'is

own world. Now, me, I don't believe we went from one

world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar

boat full of mighty odd-lookin' 'umans. The birds were

sharp enough lookin', though. I'll give 'em that."

Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. " Y' all are disgustin'.

Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy

little degenerate pervert, is intercourse."

"Blow it out your striped arse, you self-righteous bitch!

I'd swear on me mother's 'ead that 'alf an army's done

proper work under that tail."

Roseroar lunged for the otter. A ghost of a voice made

her pause.

"Don't. Please." For the first time in days a familiar

face swung around to face both of them. "It's not worth it.

Not on my behalf."

Roseroar reluctantly returned to her station behind the

wheel. "Blimey, mate," said Mudge softly, "you really

do think we went over into your world, don't you?"

He nodded. "It was in the song. I didn't mean it to

happen that way, but yes, I think we crossed over. And I

was too drunk to do anything about it."

"Maybe we're still in yo world," said Roseroar.

Mudge noticed movement in the water. " 'Ang on. I

think I know 'ow to find out." He headed toward the bow.

Jon-Tom rose, swayed slightly. Roseroar put out a hand

to steady him but he waved her off with a smile. "Thanks.

I'm okay now. Stone-cold sober."

"Yo drunkenness did come from yo song, then?"

"Something else I didn't plan on. It's worn off. That's

why I don't think we're still in my world. The good wears

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

105

off along with the bad." His voice fell to a whisper. "I

was home, Roseroar! Home."

"Ah am sorry fo yo, Jon-Tom. Ah really and truly am."

"You've got a big heart, Roseroar. Along with every-

thing else." He smiled at her, then walked toward the front

of the boat. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was still a

chance, however faint that seemed now.

The otter was leaning over the side. "How are you

going to find out where we are?" Jon-Tom asked.

Mudge glanced up at him. "That's easy enough, guv'nor.

All you 'ave to do is ask." He turned his face to the water

racing past the prow and shouted, "Hey, you, where are

we?"

Jon-Tom peered over the railing to see the playful,

smooth, gray-backed shapes sliding easily through the

water, hitching a free ride on the boat's bow-wave. One of

them lifted its bottle-nose clear of the surface and squeaked

a reply.

"You're at half past a quarter after." Giggles rose from

around the speaker as the rest of the dolphins vented their

appreciation of the little joke.

Mudge gave Jon-Tom an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate,

but tain't easy gettin' a straight answer out o' this bunch o'

sea-goin' comedians."

"Never mind," Jon-Tom sighed. "The fact that it

answered at all is proof enough of which world we're in."

"Hey:ya," said another of the slim swimmers, "have

you guys heard the one about the squid and the Third

Mistress of Pack Thirty?"

"No." Mudge leaned forward, interested.

The dolphin now speaking sidled effortlessly up to the

side of the speeding sloop. "It seems she..." Jon-Tom

abandoned the ongoing display of oceanic vulgarity and

climbed the central cabin to contemplate the horizon.

No, he wasn't home anymore. Maybe he'd hallucinated

the whole incident. Maybe there'd been no ski boat full of

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THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

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stoned stockbrokers from New York. Maybe the entire

episode was nothing more than the result of his drunkenness.

Except that Mudge and Roseroar and Jalwar had seen

them also.

The last vestiges of inebriation left him frighteningly

cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him

in this alien otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him

with a glimpse of reality, of home. He felt like a poor kid

forced to stand in front of the main display window at

FA.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas.

Slipping the duar around in front of him, he tried the

song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the

volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and

he could hardly speak. Nothing worked. The song remained

a song and nothing more.

He tried other songs, with the same result. He sang

everything he could remember that alluded however vaguely

to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.

The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running

southwestward under Roseroar's expert guidance. There

was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the dolphins with

their endless corny jokes.

"Sail ahead!" Jalwar yelled from the top of the main-

mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined

Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only

empty horizon. Mudge had no difficulty in matching the

ferret's vision.

"I see 'er, mate."

. "What does she look like?"

"Rigged normal, not like this thing." The last of

Jon-Tom's hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. "Big,

two rows of oars. That I don't like."

"Why not?"

"Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin'

across an ocean. Only a fool... and them that's given no

choice in the business."

The visitor was bearing down on them fast. Soon

Jon-Tom could make out the silhouette. "Can you see a

flag?"

Mudge stared hard. Then he began to shake. "That's all

she wrote, mate. There's a 'eart with a knife through it

flyin' from the yardartn. Pirates." He raced sternward,

Jon-Tom hurrying after him.

"I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist."

"Aye, traders and them that preys on 'em." The otter

was dancing frantically around Roseroar. "Do somethin',

you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!"

Roseroar put the wheel hard over, said evenly, "They've

probably seen us already."

"Jon-Tom, spellsing us out o' 'ere!" By now the huge,

swift shape of the pirate ship was bearing down on then-

stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double rows of

oars dipped in unison.

"There's not enough wind," Roseroar observed. "What

there is, is at our back, but they're supplemental' their

own sails with those oahs."

Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around

his neck. "Our engine's out of diesel." He found himself

eyeing the approaching behemoth in fascination. "Interest-

ing lines."

"Interestin" my arse!" Mudge was saying frantically.

"You'll see 'ow interestin' it can be if they take us!"

"I'm afraid I don't know many songs about boats,"

Jon-Tom muttered worriedly, trying to concentrate, "and

none at all about pirates. See, where I come from they're a

historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contempo-

rary song writers."

"Screw wot's contemporary!" the otter pleaded with

him. "Sing something!"

Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes,

none of which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the

approaching vessel. It was hard to remember anything,

what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to the north

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THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

1O9

and Mudge hopping hysterically all over the boat when he

wasn't screaming in Jon-Tom's face.

Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rum-

bled, "Stand by to repel boarders, y'all!"

Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The

upper deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed

along the rail was the oddest assortment of creatures he'd

encountered since finding himself in this world.

One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood

alongside three vicious-looking pikas armed with four-

foot-long lances. A pair of lynxes caressed chipped battle-

axes and prepared to swing down on ropes dangling from a

boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized

sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.

"Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He

leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over

his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood

staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of

him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.

As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down

a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her

skull with a mace. The tigress's swords flashed in unison.

Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote's limb-

less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood

in all directions. It twitched horribly.

Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers

began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself

backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose

attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly,

a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying

instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.

They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's

blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.

They forced him back toward the railing. The man

jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate

Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and

lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with

the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the carti-

lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face

covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.

Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in

the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back

end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at

him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe

backed off.

Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap-

pling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel,

but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.

Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had

been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a

picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made

a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their

insides spilling all over the deck.

Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen

backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were

aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a

suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.

The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands,

binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure

on her bonds she would only end up choking herself. They

were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.

A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners

were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.

They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for

review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an

unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.

The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was

beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately

worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His

tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last

half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom

decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.

Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around

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THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

111

the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the

muscular arms.

Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in

battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts

from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose

had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the

leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew

murmured restlessly.

"You fought well," their inspector finally growled.

"Very well. Too well, thinks I." He glanced significantly

toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.

"Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize."

Green eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates

for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.

Where do you come from and how come you by such a

peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of

that."

"It's fiberglass."

The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you

the owner of the craft?"

Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am."

Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily

blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came

away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the

leopard's claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A

little lower and he would have lost both eyes.

Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat

while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The

leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It's nose

was almost touching Jon-Tom's.

"I am...sir," it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled

something else, and immediately the leopard's gaze flashed

toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?"

"Wot, me? Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it

were by a hot fight."

" 'Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat

returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding

silently. "Any complaints?"

Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard's face,

feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if

the scarring would be permanent.

"No, sir. No complaints, sir."

The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's

better."

' 'Are you the captain of this ship... sir?''

The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I am

Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped

aside. "Here comes the captain now."

Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear,

perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that

captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as

much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did

not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.

Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with

patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The

missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.

Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather

patch covered the one empty eye socket.

As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this

world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood

red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a

design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike

many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore

no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered

breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.

A member of the crew later informed them that the

captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a

time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak,

and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal

accuracy while balancing on the artificial leg.

The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth

between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the

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skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were

missing.

"These be all the crew of our prize?" He looked up at

the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the

powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact

with each of his own crew in turn.

"A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty death-dealing

collection... of infants!" His tail quivered with his anger.

"Infants, the lot of you!" Not only Sasheem, but the rest

of the cutthroats were completely cowed by this battered

green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to cross him.

"Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you

are!" He cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prison-

ers. "Now then. Where be you four bound?"

"Just a few days out from the Tailaroam," Mudge

volunteered ingratiatingly. "We were just on a little fishin'

trip, we were, and—"

The wooden leg was a blur. It caught the otter between

his short legs. Mudge turned slightly the color of the

captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed on the deck.

Corroboc eyed him indifferently.

"The Emir of Ezon has a tradition of employing eu-

nuchs to guard his palace. I haven't decided what to do

with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you'll

find yourself a candidate for the knife o' the ship's

doctor."

Jon-Tom tried to pick a likely candidate for ship's

physician out of the surrounding collection of cutthroats

and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy

might be, he hadn't taken his internship at the Mayo

Clinic.

Mudge held his peace, along with everything else. The

blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. "Perhaps you be smarter

than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound,

man?"

"Snarken," Jon-Tom replied without hesitation.

Corroboc nodded- "Now, that makes sense, A sensible

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

113

one. You be a strange specimen, tall man. Be you from the

region o' the Bellwoods?"

"I am." He had to risk the falsehood. It was true

enough now, anyway.

The parrot blew his nose on the deck, sniffed. "Fortunately

for you I am in a good humor this morning." Jon-Tom

decided he did not want to encounter him when he was in

a bad mood. "You two"—he indicated Mudge and Jalwar—

"can start cleaning out the bilges. That's a job long

overdue and one I am certain you'll find to your liking.

Won't you?'*

Uncertain whether to say yes sir, no sir, or nothing at

all, Jalwar stood and shook in terror. Mudge wasn't up to

commenting. Corroboc was apparently satisfied, because

he nodded absently before moving down to stare fearlessly

up at the towering Roseroar.

"As for you, I'd be pleased to make you one of my

crew. Tis plain enough to see you're no stranger to a life

of fighting. You'd make a valuable addition."

"Ah'll think it ovah, sun."

Good girl, Jon-Tom thought. There was no point in

making the pirate parrot mad with an outright refusal,

though he found himself wishing her reply hadn't been

quite so convincing. Surely she wasn't seriously consider-

ing the offer? But why not? Nothing bound her to Jon-

Tom. In fact, she had reason enough to abandon him.

Hadn't he yanked her unwillingly from her homeland and

involved her in dangers in which she had no interest? If

she were forced to throw in with some stranger, why not

this captain as easily as some unsteady, homesick spellsinger?

Spellsinger! He'd almost forgotten his own abilities. Not

a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He

prayed his companions would keep the secret and not blurt

it out in a thoughtless moment. He was particularly wor-

ried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood petrified

and volunteered nothing.

As if reading his thoughts, the pirate captain turned his

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attention back to him. "And you, tall man. What be you

good for?"

"Well, I can fight, too." Corroboc glanced toward his

First mate.

Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly, "Passing well."

Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, "I am also an

entertainer, a troubadour by trade."

"Huh! Well, 'tis true we could do with a bit o' song on

this scow from time to time." He gave his crew a look of

disgust- "I gets tired o' listening to the drunken prattling

o' this uncultured bunch."

Fighting to conceal his anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. "My

instrument's on board our ship, along with the rest of our

personal effects."

"Is it, now?" Corroboc was sweating him with that one

piercing eye. "I expect we'll find it in due course. You in

a rush to demonstrate your talents?"

"At your leisure, sir." Jon-Tom felt the back of his

indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. "It's

only that it's a fine instrument. I'd hate to see one of your

refined crew reduce it to kindling in hopes of finding gold

or jewels inside. They wouldn't."

Corroboc snorted. "Rest assured they'll mind their stink-

ing manners." He addressed the leopard. "Take 'em

below and lock 'em in the brig. Let them stew there for a

bit."

"These two also?" Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and

Mudge.

"Aye, the bilges will wait. Let them share each other's

filth for a while. By the time I decide to let them out

they'll be clamorin' to get to work."

This sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter

from the crew as they sloughed away to their posts. The

pirate ship turned westward with the sloop trailing obediently

behind it.

As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his first

glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own

THE DAY OF THJE DISSONANCE

115

fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to

rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and

mental degeneration.

That's where we'll all end up, on the rowing benches,

he thought tiredly. Unless we can figure out some way out

of this.

At the moment, entry into paradise seemed the more

likely route. If he could only get his hands on his duar,

there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging,

however uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was

sure of one thing: he'd fashion some kind of magic. And

the first try would be his last. He was sure of that much.

Corroboc wasn't stupid, and the captain would give him

no second chance to try his hand at wizardry.

Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her shoul-

der, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was

grinning back at her.

"Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah'H

make music with yo bones."

"Gentle now, big one," said the amused leopard. "I

have no doubt you'd do just that if given the chance. But

you won't be given the chance. It'll go easier on you in the

long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem.

If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this

boat, we do. Your heart may be made of iron, but the rest

of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it is, too. Think

over your options.

"If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you to me."

She glared back at him. "Ah won't be a comforting

gift."

Sasheem shrugged. "Comforting or unforgiving, it won't

matter. I aim to have you. Willingly if possible, otherwise

if not. You may as well settle your mind to that." They

were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar

with a departing smirk as he joined the rest of his compan-

ions in mounting the gangway.

Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and

116

Alan Dean Foster

unclenching. "That furred snake. Ah'd like to get my

claws into his—"

"Not yet, Roseroar," Jon-Tom cautioned her. "We've

got to be patient. They don't know that I'm a spellsinger.

If I can just get my hands on my duar, get one chance to

play and sing, we'll have a chance."

"A chance at wot, mate?" Mudge slumped dispiritedly

in a comer. "For you to conjure up some poor dancin' girl

to take Roseroar's place? To bury this slimy tub in

flowers?"

"I'll do something," Jon-Tom told him angrily. "You

see if I don't."

"I will that, guv." The otter rolled over, ignoring the

fact that the floor of their cage was composed of rank straw

stained dark by the urine of previous captives.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm goin' to 'ave a sleep, mate."

"How can you sleep now?"

"Because I'm tired, mate." The otter glanced up at

him. "I am tired of fightin1, tired with fear, and most of

all I'm tired o' listenin' to wot a wonderful spellsinger you

are. When you're ready to magic us out o' this 'ole and

back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I'll

be lucky and not wake up meself."

"One should never ride the wave of pessimism," Jalwar

chided him.

"Close your cake 'ole, you useless old fart. You don't

know wot the 'ell you're talkin' about." Hurt, the old

ferret lapsed into silence.

Jon-Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in

each hand. They were fixed deep into the wood of the

ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big bugs

skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others

could be heard using the rafters for pathways.

Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar and put a

comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the

ears. She responded with a tired, halfhearted purr.

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

117

"Don't worry, Roseroar. I got you into this. Maybe I

can't get myself home, but I can damn well get you out of

it. I owe you that much. I owe all of you that much."

Mudge was already asleep and didn't hear the promise.

Jalwar squatted in another corner picking resignedly at

strands of hay.

I just don't know how I'm going to get you all out of

this, Jon-Tom mused silently.

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

119

VIII

Somehow the concept of "swabbing the deck" was tinged

with innocence; a reflection of childhood memories of

stories about wooden ships and iron men.

The reality of it was something else.

You rested on your hands and knees on a rough planked

deck, stripped to the waist beneath a hot sun that blistered

your neck and set the skin to peeling off your back. Sweat

flowed in streams from under your arms, from your fore-

head and your belly. Anything small and solid, be it a

speck of dust or one of your own hairs, that slipped into

your eye made you want to run screaming for the railing to

throw yourself over the side.

Salt air worsened your situation, exacerbating the sore

spots, making them fester and redden faster. Splinters

stung the exposed skin of hands and ankles while your

palms were raw from pushing the wide brushes soaked

with lye-based cleaning solution.

Meanwhile you advanced slowly the length of the deck,

making sure to remove each bloodstain lest some laughing

member of the crew remind you of its presence by pressing

a heavy foot on your raw fingers.

118

By midday Jon-Tom no longer cared much if they were

rescued or if he were thrown over the rail to be consumed

by whatever carnivorous fish inhabited this part of the

Glittergeist. He didn't have much hope left. Already he'd

forgotten about Clothahump's illness, about returning home,

forgotten about everything except surviving the day.

By late afternoon they'd finished scrubbing every square

foot of the main deck and had moved up to the poop deck.

The helmsman, a grizzled old warhog, ignored them.

There was no sign of the captain, for which Jon-Tom was

unremittingly grateful.

A crude, temporary shelter had been erected off to the

left, close by the captain's perch. Huddled beneath the

feeble shade this provided was a girl of sixteen, maybe a

little older. Once she might have been pretty. Now her long

blonde hair was so much pale seaweed clinging to her

face. She was barely five feet tall. Her eyes were a

washed-out blue. Excepting the heavy steel manacle that

encircled her neck and was attached to a chain bolted to

the deck, she was stark naked.

It provided her with a radius of movement of about ten

feet. No more. Just enough to get from the shelter to the

rail, where she would have to perform any personal bodily

functions in full view of the crew. Jon-Tom had no trouble

following the whip welts, casual burns, and bruises that

covered most of her body.

She sat silently within the shelter, her legs extended to

one side, and said nothing as they approached. She just

stared.

Jon-Tom used a forearm to wipe the sweat from around

his lips. They were alone on the deck except for the old

helmsman. He risked whispering.

"Who are you, girl?" No reply. Only those empty blue

eyes, staring. "What's your name?"

"Leave 'er be, mate," said Mudge softly. "Can't you

see there's not much left o' 'er? She's mad or near enough,

or maybe they cut out 'er tongue to keep 'er from screamin'."

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Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

121

"None of those," said the helmsman. He spoke without

taking his eyes from the ship's course. "That's Folly, the

captain's toy. He took her off a ship that sank several

months ago. She's been nuthin' but trouble since. Uncooper-

ative, unappreciative when the captain tried bein' nice to

her. I don't know why he doesn't throw her overboard and

be done with it. It was folly to bring her aboard, and folly

to keep her, so Folly's been her name."

"But what's her real name?"

A thin, barely audible reply came from within the

shelter. "I have no name. Folly's as good as any."

"You can talk. They haven't broken you yet."

She glared bitterly at Jon-Tom. "What do you know

about anything? I've been watching you." Her mouth

twisted. "You're hurting now. I watched when they took

your boat and brought you aboard. The tigress will be

around awhile. The old one won't last two weeks. The

otter a little longer, if he keeps his mouth shut.

"As for you," she eyed Jon-Tom contemptuously, "you'll

say the wrong thing and lose your tongue. Or worse."

"What happened to you?" Jon-Tom was careful to keep

his voice down and his arms moving lest Sasheem or one

of the other mates take note of the conversation.

"What does it matter?"

"It matters to me. It should matter to you, because

we're going to get off this ship." If the helmsman over-

heard he gave no sign.

The girl laughed sharply. "And you thought I'd gone

mad." She glanced at Roseroar. "The man is crazy, isn't

he?" Roseroar made no reply, bending to her work.

"And you'll come with us," he went on. "I wouldn't

leave you here."

"Why not? You've got your own business to attend to.

Why not leave me here? You don't know me, you don't

owe me." She spat at the deck. "This is a stupid conversa-

tion. You're not going anywhere."

"What happened?" he prodded gently.

A tiny bit of the hardness seemed to go out of her, and

she looked away from him. "My family and I were on a

trading packet bound from Jorsta to the Isles of Durl when

we ran afoul of these bastards. They killed my father along

with the rest of the males and later, my mother. Since my

little sister was too young to be of any use to them, they

threw her overboard. They killed everyone, except for me.

For some reason that unmentionable thing they call their

captain took a fancy to me. I imagine he saw ftiture profit

in me." She shrugged. "I've taken care to give them

nothing but trouble since. Hence my name, a gift of the

crew."

"Been less troublesome lately," grunted the helmsman

significantly.

"Have you tried to escape?"

"Escape to where? Yes, I tried anyway. Better drowning

or sharks than this. At least, I tried before they put this

chain on me. I only tried once. There are worse things than

being beaten. As you may find out."

He lowered his voice to make certain the helmsman

couldn't overhear. "I don't intend to. We're getting off this

ship. Will you come with us when we do?"

"No." She stared straight back at him. "No. I won't. I

don't want to be hurt anymore."

"That's why I'm taking you with us." She turned away

from him. "What's wrong?"

Mudge gave him a gentle nudge. "Watch your mouth,

lad. 'Tis the captain, may 'e rot in 'is own excrement."

"How goes she, Pulewine?" Corroboc inquired of his

helmsman.

"Steady on course, Captain."

Jon-Tom kept his attention on his scrub brush, heard the

thunk of the captain's wooden leg move nearer.

"And how be our fine cleaning crew this bright morn-

ing? Are they working like the elegant fighters we brought

aboard?"

"No, Captain." The helmsman allowed himself a grunting

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Alan Dean Foster

laugh. "As anyone can see, they're working like the scum

that they are."

"That's good." Corroboc walked around Jon-Tom until

the parrot was standing between him and Folly's shelter.

He turned his good eye on the man. "Now then, mayhap

we each understand our place in the order o' things, har?"

"Yes, Captain," murmured Jon-Tom readily enough.

"Aye, that be the way to answer. Keep that tone about

you and you'll live to do more service." He cast a glance

into the shelter and Jon-Tom went cold as he saw the look

that came over Folly's face as she drew back into the

shadows.

"Chatting with the young she, have you?"

Since the helmsman had been privy to much of their

conversation, Jon-Tom could hardly deny it had taken

place.

"A word or two, sir. Harmless enough."

"Har, I be sure o' that! A cute little specimen of her

species, though not marketable in her present condition,

fears I. A consequence of noncooperation." Jon-Tom said

nothing, scrubbed harder, trying to push the brush through

the wood.

"That's it, boy. Scrub well and we'll see to giving you a

chance to entertain us when you've finished." He shared a

laugh with the helmsman. "Though not the kind you

think, no. The two of you can entertain us together."

"I wouldn't get under that whey-faced stringbean if you

shot me with pins," Folly snapped.

Corroboc turned that merciless eye on his prisoner.

"Now, what make you think you'd be having any choice

in the matter, Folly? It'll be a pleasant thing to work out

the geometry of it." He lashed out suddenly with his one

good foot. The sharp claws cut twin bloody gouges up her

thigh and she let out a soft cry.

Jon-Tom dug his fingernails into the wood of the brush.

"That be better now, and we'll be having no more

arguments, will we?" Folly clung to the shadows and

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

123

whimpered, holding her injured leg. "You've been disap-

pointment enough to me. As soon as we make land I'll rid

myself of you, and I'll make certain your buyer is of a

similar mind when it comes to staging entertainments.

Then perhaps you'll yearn for the good old days back

aboard Corroboc's ship, har?" He turned back to the deck

cleaners.

"Keep at it, slime." He addressed his helmsman. "When

they've finished the deck, run them forward and set them

to scrubbing the sides. Sling them over in nets. If one of

them falls through, it will serve as a fine lesson to the

others."

"Aye, Captain," said the helmsman.

Corroboc rose on bright green wings to glide down to

the main deck. The warthog cast a wizened eye at Jon-

Tom.

"Watch thy tongue and mind thy manners and thee

might live as much as a year." This admonition was

finished off with a thick, grunting laugh. "Still going to

escape?"

You bet your porcine ass we are, Jon-Tom thought

angrily as he attacked the decking. The wood was the only

thing he could safely take out his fury on. We'll get out of

this somehow and take that poor battered girl with us.

Without his realizing it, the sight of Folly had done

something their own desperate situation had not: it forced

him to realize how selfish he'd been these past hours,

moping around bemoaning his fate. He wasn't the only

one who had problems. Everyone else was depending on

him—Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar, and Clothahump

sick and hurt back in his tree, and now Folly.

So he hadn't made it back to his own world. Tough.

Self-pity wouldn't get him any closer to L.A. He had

friends who needed him.

Mudge noticed the change in his friend's attitude imme-

diately. He scrubbed the deck with renewed enthusiasm.

"Work 'ard and 'ave confidence, mates," he whispered

124

Alan Dean Poster

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

125

to Jalwar and Roseroar. "See that look on me pal's face?

I've seen it afore. 'E may be 'alf bonkers, but sometimes

'tis the 'alf bonkers, part crazy part that sees a way out

where none's to be seen."

"I pray it is so," whispered Jalwar, "or we are well and

truly doomed."

" 'Alf a chance," Mudge muttered. "That's all *e needs

is 'alf a chance."

"They may not give it to him," commented Roseroar.

While his companions slept the sleep of the exhausted

that night, Jon-Tom planned and schemed. Corroboc was

going to let him sing, out of curiosity if naught else. Songs

would have to be chosen carefully, with an eye toward

suppressing any suspicions the captain might have. Jon-

Tom had no doubt that the homicidal parrot would watch

him carefully.

His recital should be as bland and homogenous as

possible. Somehow he would have to find an effective tune

that would have the hoped-for results while sounding

perfectly innocent. The lyrics would have to be powerful

but nonthreatening.

Only when he'd arranged a program in his mind did he

allow himself to fall into a troubled, uneasy sleep.

The first mate had them scrubbing the base of the

mainmast the next morning. Corroboc strolled past without

looking at the work, and Jon-Tom turned slowly toward

him, keeping his tone deferential.

"Your pardon, Captain."

The parrot turned, wingtips resting on slim bird hips.

"Don't waste my time, boy. You've plenty to do."

"I know that, Captain sir, but it's very much the wrong

kind of work. I miss my chosen avocation, which is that of

minstrel. My knowledge of songs of far lands is unsur-

passed."

"Be that so, boy?"

Jon-Tom nodded vigorously. "I know wondrous chords

and verse of great beauty, can bring forth the most mellifluous

sounds from my instrument. You would find that they fall

lightly on the ears and sometimes, I am embarrassed to say

it, risquely." He risked a knowing wink.

"I see," was all Corroboc said at first. Then, "Can it

be that after only a day you know where your true interests

lie? Har, truth and a little sun can do that to one. You'd

rather sing for your supper now than scrub for it, har?"

"If you would allow me, Captain." Jon-Tom tried to

look hopeful and compliant at the same time.

"Far lands, you say? Tis been a longish time since

there's been any music aboard this tub other than the

screaming of good citizens as they made their way over the

side." He glanced to his left. Mudge, Jalwar, and Roseroar

had been set to varnishing the railings.

"And what of your mates? How do you think they'll

react if they have to do your labor as well as their own?"

Licking his lips, Jon-Tom stepped forward and smiled

weakly, concealing his face from sight of his companions.

"Look, sir, I can't help what they think, but my back's

Coming apart. I don't have any fur to protect me from the

sun the way they do, and they don't seem to care. So why

should I care what they think?"

"That be truth, as 'tis a poor naked-fleshed human you

be. Not that it matters to me. However—" he paused,

considering, while Jon-Tom held his breath, "we'll give

you a chance, minstrel. Har. But," he added dangerously,

"if you be lying to me to get out of a day's work, I'll put

you to polishing the ship's heads from the inside out."

"No, Captain, I wouldn't lie to you, no sir!" He added

disingenuously, "If I weren't a minstrel, what would I be

doing carrying a musical instrument about?"

' 'As a master practitioner of diverse perversions I might

suggest any number of things, har, but I can see you

haven't the necessary imagination." He turned and shouted.

"Kaskrel!" A squirrel with a ragged tail hurried to obey.

"Get belowdecks and fetch the instrument from my cabin.

The one we took from this man's prize."

126

Alan Dean Poster

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

127

"Aye sir!" the squirrel squeaked, disappearing down a

hatch.

"Come with me, tall man." Jon-Tom followed Corroboc

up onto the poop deck. There the captain settled himself

into a wicker chair that hung from a crossbeam. The top of

the basket chair doubled as a perch, offering the captain a

choice of resting positions. This time he chose to sit inside

the basket.

The squirrel appeared momentarily, carrying Jon-Tom's

duar. He tried not to look at the instrument with the

longing he felt, particularly since a curious Sasheem had

followed the sailor up the ladder. The squirrel handed it

over and Jon-Tom caressed it lovingly. It was undamaged.

He was about to begin playing when a new voice

interrupted him.

At first he thought both of the dog's ears had been

cropped. Then he saw that they were torn and uneven,

evidence of less refined surgery. The dog limped and

leaned on a crutch. Unlike Corroboc he still had the use of

both legs. It was just that one was a good foot shorter than

the other. Jowls hung loosely from the canine face.

"Don't do it, Cap'n."

Corroboc eyed the arrival quizzically. "Now what be

your objection, Macreeg?"

The old dog looked over at Jon-Tom. "I don't like it, sir.

Better to keep this one swabbing the decks."

Corroboc kicked out with his wooden leg. It caught the

sailor's crutch and sent him stumbling in pursuit of new

support, only to land sprawling on his rump, accompanied

by the derisive laughter of his fellow sailors.

"Har, where be your sense of refinement, Macreeg?

Where be your feeling for culture?' *

Neither perturbed nor intimidated, the old sailor slowly

climbed back to his feet, stretching to his full four and a

half feet of height.

"I just don't trust him, Cap'n. I don't like the look of

him and I don't like his manner."

"Well, I be not in love with his naked features either,

Mister Macreeg, but they don't upset me liver. As for his

manner"—he threw Jon-Tom one of his disconcertingly

penetrating glances—"what of your manner, man?"

"Anything you say, Captain sir," replied Jon-Tom as he

dropped his eyes toward the deck.

The parrot held the stare a moment longer. "Har, that be

adequate. Not quite servile enough yet, but that will come

with time. You see?" He looked toward the old sailor.

"There be nothing wrong in this. Music cannot harm us.

Can it, tall man? Because if I were to think for one instant

that you were trying to pull something peculiar on me..."

"I'm just a wandering minstrel, sir," Jon-Tom explained

quickly. "All I want is a chance to practice the profession

for which I was trained."

"Har, and to save your fragile skin." Corroboc grunted.

"So be it." He leaned back in the gently swaying basket

chair. Sasheem stood nearby, cleaning his teeth with what

looked like a foot-long icepick. Jon-Tom knew if he sang

anything even slightly suggestive of rebellion or defiance,

that sharp point would go through his offending throat.

He plucked nervously at the duar, and his first words

emerged as a croak. Fresh laughter came from the crew.

Corroboc obviously enjoyed his discomfiture.

"Sorry, sir." He cleared his throat, wishing for a glass

of water but not daring to chance the request. ' "This... this

particular song is by a group of minstrels who called

themselves the Eagles."

Corroboc appeared pleased. "My cousins in flight, though

I chose to fly clanless. Strong, but weak of mind. I never

cared much for their songmaking, as their voices be high

and shrill."

"No, no," Jon-Tom explained. "The song is not by

eagles, but by men like myself who chose to call them-

selves that."

"Strange choice of names. Why not call themselves the

128

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

129

Men? Well, it be of no matter. Sing, minstrel. Sing, and

lighten the hearts of my sailors and myself."

"As you command, Captain sir," said Jon-Tom. And he

began to sing.

The duar was no Fender guitar, but the words came

easily to him. He began with "Take It Easy." The long

high notes rolled smoothly from his throat. He finished,

swung instantly into the next song he'd carefully chosen.

Corroboc's eye closed and the rest of the crew started to

relax. They were enjoying the music. Jon-Tom moved on

to "Best of My Love," then a medley of hits by the

Bee Gees.

Nearby, Mudge blinked as he slapped varnish on wind-

scoured wood. "Wot's 'e tryin' to do?"

"Ah don't know," said Roseroar. "Ah heah no mention

of powerful demons oah spirits."

Only Jalwar was smiling as he worked. "You aren't

supposed to, and neither are the ruffians around us. Listen!

Don't you see what he's up to? Were he to sing of flight or

battle that leopard would lay open his throat in an instant.

He knows what he's doing. Don't listen to the words.

They're doing as he intends. Look around you. Look at the

crew."

Mudge peered over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

"Blimey, they're fallin' asleep!"

"Yes," said Jalwar. "They wait ready for the slightest

hint of danger, and instead he lulls them with lullabies.

Truly he is a master spellsinger."

"Don't say that, mate," muttered Mudge uneasily. "I've

seen 'is nibs go wrong just when 'e thought 'e 'ad it

right." But though he hardly dared believe, it was looking

more and more as if Jon-Tom was going to bring it off.

The spellsinger was now wending his lilting way through

"Peaceful Easy Feeling." "See," whispered Jalwar ex-

citedly through clenched, sharp teeth, "even the armpit

of a captain begins to go!"

No question but that Corroboc was slumped in the chair.

Sasheem yawned and sat down beside him. They made an

unlovely couple.

All around the deck the crewmembers were blinking and

yawning and falling asleep where they stood. Only the

three prisoners remained awake.

"We are aware of what he is doing," Jalwar explained,

"and in any case the magic is not directed at us."

"That's good, guv'nor." Mudge had to work to stifle a

yawn, blinked in surprise. "Strong stuff 'e's workin'."

By the time Jon-Tom sang the final strains of "Peace-

ful Easy Feeling," the pirate ship was sailing aimlessly. Its

bloodthirsty crew lay snoring soundly on the deck, in the

hold below, and even up in the rigging. He took a step

toward Corroboc and ran his eyes over the captain's attire

without finding what he was hunting for. Then he joined

his friends.

"Did any of you see where he put his keyring?"

"No, mate," Mudge whispered, "but we'd best find

'em fast."

Jon-Tom started for the door leading to the captain's

cabin, then hesitated uncertainly. Once inside, where would

he look? There might be a sealed chest, many drawers, a

hidden place beneath a nest or mattress, and the keyring

might not even be kept in the cabin. Maybe Sasheem had

charge of the keys, or maybe one of the other ship's

officers.

He couldn't go looking for them and still sing the

sleep spell. Already some of the somnolent crew were

beginning to stir impatiently. And he didn't have the

slightest idea how long the spellsong would remain in

effect.

"Do somethin', mate!" Mudge was tugging uselessly

on his own ankle chains.

"Where should I look for the keys? They're not on the

captain." Suddenly words in his mind, suggestive of

something once remembered. Not suggestions of a place to

hunt for keys, but snatches of a song.

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Alan Dean Poster

A song about steel cat eyes and felines triumphant.

About "The Mouse Patrol That Never Sleeps," a lethal

little bloodthirsty ditty about an ever-watchful carnivorous

kitty. Or so he'd once described it to a friend.

He sang it now, wishing lan Anderson were about to

accompany him on the flute, the words pouring rapidly

from his lips as he tried to concentrate on the tune while

keeping a worried eye on the comatose crew.

The section of anchor chain that had been used to bind

Roseroar suddenly cracked and fell away. She looked in

amazement at the broken links, then up at Jon-Tom.

Wordlessly, she went to work on the much thinner chains

restraining her companions. Mudge and Jalwar were freed

quickly as immense biceps strained. They vanished below-

decks as she worked on Jon-Tom's bindings. By the time

she'd finished freeing him, the otter and ferret had reappeared.

Mudge's longbow was slung over his shoulder and his face

was almost hidden by the burden of the tigress's armor.

Jalwar dragged her heavy swords behind him, panting

hard.

They turned and raced for the tow rope attached to the

John B. Only Jon-Tom lingered.

"Come on," Roseroar called to him. "What ah yo

waitin' fo?"

He whispered urgently back to her. "The girl! I promised."

"She don't care what yo do. She'll only be trouble."

"Sorry, Roseroar." He turned and rushed for the nearest

open hatch.

"Damn," the tigress growled. She pushed past him,

vanished below. While he waited he sang, but the spellsong

was beginning to surrender its potency. Several sailors

rolled over in their sleep, snuffling uneasily.

Then a vast white-and-black shape was pushing past

him, the limp naked form of Folly bouncing lightly on one

shoulder like a hunting trophy. Jon-Tom's heart stopped for

a second, until he saw that her condition was no different

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

131

from that of the rest of die ship's complement. His spell-

singing had put Folly to sleep also.

"Satisfied?" Roseroar snarled.

"Quite." He muffled a grin as he raced her to the stern.

Mudge and Jalwar were just boarding the sloop, Mudge

having negotiated the short swim with ease, while Jalwar

displayed typical ferret agility by walking the swaying tow

rope all the way down to the boat. Roseroar was about to

step over the side when she saw Jon-Tom hesitate for the

second time.

4'Now what's the mattah?"

"I've done a tot of running, Roseroar, and I'm a pretty

good swimmer, but the sea's rough and my shoulders are

so sore from pushing that damn scrub brush that I'm not

sure if I can make it. You go on. I'll try and catch up.

When you cast off the line you can swing her 'round and

pick me out of the water."

She shook her head. "Ah declah, ah nevah heard any-

one, not even a human, talk so damn much. Grab hold."

She turned her back to him.

Deciding this wasn't the time to salvage whatever remained

of his already bruised male ego, he put both arms around

her neck, using one to help balance Folly. Roseroar ig-

nored her double burden as she went hand over hand down

the towrope until all of them were standing safe on the

deck of the John B.

"Cast off!" Jon-Tom shouted at Mudge as he ran for the

stern. "I'll take the wheel. Roseroar, you run the sails

up."

"With pleasure." She dumped Folly's unconscious form

onto the deck. Jon-Tom winced as it hit, decided that one

more black and blue mark wouldn't show up against the

background of bruises that covered the girl's entire body.

Roseroar worked two winches at once while Mudge

hacked away with his short sword at the thick hauser

linking them to the pirate ship. In seconds the sloop swung

clear. Her sails climbed the mast, caught the wind. Jon-

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Alan Dean Foster

Tom turned her as confused shouts and cries of outrage

began to sound from the deck of the larger vessel.

"Not a moment too soon." Jalwar spoke admiringly

from his position atop the center cabin. "You have the

gift, it is certain."

Jon-Tom shrugged off the compliment and concentrated

on catching as much wind as possible. "I didn't study for

it and I didn't plan on it. It's just a lucky combination of

my musical training and something I've picked up in this

world."

"Nonetheless, it cannot be denied. You have the gift."

For an instant it was as if the years had left the ferret

and a different being entirely was standing next to the

mainmast looking down at Jon-Tom. He blinked once, but

when he looked again it was just the same Jalwar, aged

and stooped and tired. The ferret turned away and stum-

bled toward the bow to see if he could help Mudge or

Roseroar.

The tigress had the rigging well in hand, and at Jon-

Tom's direction, Mudge was breaking out the sloop's

spinnaker. Behind them, furious faces lined the port side

of the pirate ship. Rude gestures and bloodthirsty curses

filled the air. Above all sounded a thunderous cackling

from Corroboc. The faces fled the railing, to reappear

elsewhere on the ship as the crew swarmed up the masts.

Oars began to dip as dull-eyed galley slaves took up the

cue provided by whip and drum. The big ship began to

come about.

But this time the sloop was sailing with the wind to

port. The square-rigged pirate craft could not tack as well

as the modern, fore-rigged sloop, nor could it overtake

them on oar power. Still, with the galley slaves driven to

collapse, it looked for a moment as if Corroboc might still

close the distance between vessels. Then Mudge finally

puzzled out the rigging that lifted the spinnaker. The

racing sail ballooned to its full extent, filled with wind,

and the sloop fairly leaped away from its pursuers.

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

133

"We made it, we're away!" Jon-Tom shouted gleefully.

Mudge joined him in the stern. The otter balanced

precariously on the bobbing aft end railing, turned his back

to the pirate ship, and pulled down his pants. Bending

over, he made wonderfully insulting faces between his

legs. The pirates responded with blood-chilling promises

of what they'd do if they caught the sloop, but their words,

like their ship, were rapidly falling astern.

"Yes, we made it." Jalwar glanced speculatively up at

the billowing sails. "If the wind holds."

As soon as his audience had dropped out of sight,

Mudge ceased his contortions and jumped to the deck,

buttoning his shorts.

"We'll make it all right, guv'nor." He was smiling

broadly as he gave Jon-Tom a friendly whack on the back.

"Bake me for a brick, mate, but you sure 'ad me fooled!

'Ere I was expectin' you to conjure up somethin' like a

ten-foot-tall demon to demolish them bastards, and instead

you slickered me as well as them."

"I knew that if I tried anything overt, Corroboc would

have me riding a pike before the day was out." Jon-Tom

adjusted their heading.

"Aye, that 'e would. Crikey but that were a neat slip o'

thought, puttin' 'em all gentle to beddy-bye like you did,

and then freein' up the monster missus there." He nodded

in Roseroar's direction.

"Actually I'd intended to go looking for the key,"

Jon-Tom told him, trying to hide his embarrassment.

"When I realized I didn't have the slightest idea where

Corroboc's keyring was hidden I knew the only chance we

had left was to free Roseroar."

The tigress stepped down from the mast to join them,

staring back over the stern. "Ah only wish ah'd had a few

minutes to mahself on that boat." Her eyes narrowed and

she growled low enough to chill the blood of her compan-

ions. "That fust mate, fo example. Wouldn't he have been

surprised when he'd woke up without his—"

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Alan Dean Poster

"Roseroar," Jon-Tom chided her, "that's no way for a

lady to talk."

She showed sharp teeth, huge fangs. "That depends on

the lady, don't it, Jon-Tom?" Suddenly she pushed past

him, frowning as she squinted into the distance.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turned to look aft.

She spoke evenly, unafraid, and ready.

"Looks like we ain't finished with ol' Corroboc yet."

IX

"Gel below, Jalwar," Jon-Tom told the ferret. "You'll be

of no use to us on deck."

"I must disobey, sir." The oldster had picked up a long

fishing gaff and was hefting it firmly. "I am not going

back onto that floating purgatory. I'd rather die here."

Jon-Tom nodded, held his staff ready in front of him. In

planning and executing their subtle flight from the pirate

ship he'd forgotten one thing. Forgotten it because he'd

been in mis strange world so long he'd come to think of it

as normal. So when he'd planned their escape he hadn't

considered that they might have to deal with the fact that

Corroboc and several of his crew could fly.

There were only six of them. The captain must have

threatened all of them with dismemberment to force so

small a group to make the attack. Behind the parrot flew a

couple of big ravens, a hawk, and a small falcon. They

were armed with thin spears and light swords.

Jon-Tom set the sloop on automatic pilot, which left him

free to join the fight. Jalwar thought the flashing red light

of this new magic fascinating.

The fliers were fast and agile. Corroboc in particular

135

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Alan Dean Foster

might be short an eye and a leg, but there was nothing

wrong with his wings. He dove and twisted as he thrust,

keeping just out of range of his former prisoner's weapons.

Nevertheless, it soon became clear that the pirates were

overmatched.

Corroboc's strategy was good. It called for his crew to

stay just beyond sword range while striking with their

needlelike spears. It might even have worked except for

the one joker in the sloop's deck. With his longbow,

Mudge gleefully picked off first the falcon and then wounded

one of the ravens.

This forced the attackers to close with their quarry, and

their agility couldn't compensate for their relatively small

size. One of Roseroar's spinning swords sliced the wounded

raven in half. Then another of Mudge's arrows pierced the

hawk's thin armor. When he saw that he couldn't hope to

win either at long range or in close, Corroboc ordered a

retreat.

"Have a care for your gullets, scum!" the parrot shouted

at them as he danced angrily in the air just out of arrow

range. "I swear your fate be sealed! The oceans, nay, the

whole world be not big enough to hide you from me.

Wherever you run to old Corroboc will find you, and when

he do, you'll wish you'd never been borned!"

"Blow it out your arse, mate!" Mudge followed this

with a long string of insulting comments on the captain's

dubious ancestry. Roseroar listened with distaste.

"Such uncouthness! Ah do declah, it makes me queasy

all ovah. Ah do so long fo the refined conversation of

civilized company."

The otter overheard and cast a dignified eye back at her.

"Cor! I'll 'ave you know, me elephantine kitten, that me

language is as fucking refined as anyone's!"

"Yes," she agreed sweetly. "Ah surely don't know how

ah could have thought otherwise."

Jon-Tom stepped between them. "What are you two

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

137

arguing about this time? We won, and we're safely on

course again."

A shaky, no longer cocky voice came from the gangway.

"What... what did we win? Who won?"

Jon-Tom remembered Folly. "Take the wheel, Roseroar."

"Jon-Tom, if n yo want mah opinion, ah think—!"

He disengaged the autopilot. The boat heeled sharply to

port, and Roseroar was forced to grab the wheel to keep it

from spinning wildly.

Jon-Tom searched the gangway, finally discovered Folly

huddled far back in a lower bunk. Within the sloop's

clean, quiet confines she looked suddenly fragile. The iron

collar was an ugly dark stain around her pale neck.

He studied it thoughtfully. The sloop was well stocked.

If he searched, he was certain he could find a hacksaw or

something with which to cut the metal.

"Relax, calm yourself." He spoke gently, soothingly.

"You're free. Just as I promised. Well, not completely

free," he corrected himself, smiling encouragingly. "You're

still stuck with us. But you can forget about Corroboc.

You'll never have to worry about him again. I spellsang

them to sleep. You too. While they all slept, we escaped."

Her reply was halting. "Then... you are a wizard.

And I doubted you."

"Forget it. Sometimes I doubt it myself." She was

swaying on the bunk and he was suddenly concerned.

"Hey, you don't look so good."

"I'm so tired...." She put her hand to her forehead

and fell over into his arms. He was acutely aware of her

nakedness. Not to mention her smell. Corroboc's ship was

no paragon of good hygiene. Folly likely hadn't bathed

since she'd been taken captive.

He slipped a supportive arm around her back. "Come

with me." He helped her stumble toward the ship's head.

"We'll let you get cleaned up. Then we'll find some way

to get that chunk of iron off you. While you're showering

138

Alan Dean Poster

I

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

139

I'll see if I can find something for you to wear. There must

be clothes in one of the ship's storage lockers."

"I thank you for your kindness, sir."

He smiled again. "That's better. Just call me Jon-Tom."

She nodded, leaning against him. For a minute he thought

she was going to break down in his arms. She didn't. Not

then, and not later. The first thing she'd lost on Corroboc's

ship was the ability to cry.

While she washed, he searched the ship's cabinets. One

contained familiar clothing. Familiar to him, but not to any

of his companions. He made a few selections and left them

outside the shower, along with a hacksaw and a file.

He'd expected to see an improvement, but he was still

shocked when she reappeared on deck later that afternoon.

She'd removed the iron collar. Her hair was combed out

and pulled back behind her. She stood there and looked

down at herself uneasily.

"I must look passing strange in these peculiar garments.'*

"You'll get no argument on that from me, luv." The

flabbergasted Mudge moved closer to inspect the odd

attire. "Strange sort o' material." He ran a paw over one

leg, reached higher. " 'Ere too."

"That's not material," she said angrily, knocking his

questing fingers away.

Mudge grinned as he dodged. "Fine-feelin' material to

me, luv."

"You try that again, water rat, and I'll..."

Jon-Tom ignored them. The argument wasn't serious.

Mudge was being his usual obnoxious self, and he thought

Folly realized it. Besides which he was busy enough trying

to sort out his own jumbled feelings.

Folly was gorgeous. There was no other word for it.

Young, but beautiful, standing there on the deck in old

JLevi's and a worn sweatshirt that had SLOOP JOHN B.

printed across the back. She looked so achingly normal, so

much like any girl he might encounter on the beach back

home, that for a moment he was afraid he would be the

one to cry.

Only the fading but still visible bruises on her face and

the ring the collar had left around her neck reminded him

of where he'd found her. He would have to hunt for the

sloop's first-aid kit. Or maybe he could think of a good

healing song, something more effective here than bandages

and ointments,

Roseroar gave the new arrival a cursory once-over and

snorted. "Skinny little thing. Yo humans..." She turned

her gaze to the stars mat were coming out. Jalwar was

already asleep somewhere below, the poor old ferret exhausted

by the strenuous events of the past few days. The horizon

astern was clear, the pirate ship having dropped out of

sight long ago. The wind off the waves still blew them

steadily toward Snarken, a goal temporarily lost and now

within reach again.

Snarken itself proved easy to locate. As soon as they

sailed within fifty miles of the city there was a perceptible

increase in the volume of surface traffic around the sloop.

All they had to do was hail a couple of merchant ships

bound for the same destination and follow them in.

A long range of hills that rolled down to the sea was

split by a wide but crowded inlet. Once through they found

themselves in a spacious bay ringed by lush green slopes

that climbed several hundred feet above the harbor. Still

higher land was visible off in the distance.

Wharves and docks crowded together on the far side of

the bay. These were home to dozens of vessels that docked

here from lands known and alien. Snarken was the princi-

pal port on the Glittergeist's southwestern shore.

Jon-Tom steered them through the merchantmen, in

search of an empty dock. Many of the wharves were

constructed of stone. The rocks were smooth and rounded,

evidence mat they had been carried down to the beach by

glaciers some time far in the past. The stones were

cemented tightly together and topped with planks.

14O

Alan Dean Foster

They finally located an open slip. Mudge dickered with

the dockmaster until a fee was settled on. This brought up

the matter of their Malderpot-induced impecuniousness. A

solution was found in the form of several stainless steel

hammers taken from the sloop's toolbox. These the avari-

cious dockmaster eagerly accepted in payment.

"What do you think, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked the otter

as they walked up the pier. "Will he leave the ship

alone?"

"An 'onest bloke's easy enough to spot, bein' a rare sort

o1 bird. She'll be safe in our absence. For one thing, the

greedy bugger's terrified of 'er."

Jon-Tom nodded, paused as they stepped off the pier

onto the cobblestone avenue that fronted the harbor. Lizard-

drawn wagons piled high with goods clanked and rumbled

all around them. Strange accents and aromas filled the air.

"That bit o' business do bring one problem to mind,

mate."

"What's that, Mudge?"

"Wot are we goin' to do for money? We can't keep

tradin' away ship's tools."

Jon-Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Right you are.

We're going to have to buy supplies for the trek to

Cranculam, too. We're going to need a lot."

"I'll say!" said Folly impatiently. "I need some real

clothes. I can't walk around in this silly otherworldly stuff.

People will laugh at me. Besides"—she ran her hands over

the too-tight seat of her jeans—"it binds me most strangely."

Mudge stepped toward her. " 'Ere now, luv, let me 'ave

a looksee. Might be we could loosen this 'ere...."

She jumped away from his outstretched fingers. "Keep

your hands to yourself, water rat, or you're liable to lose

them."

Mudge pursed his lips hurtfully, turned to Jon-Tom.

"Now, 'ere's an idea, mate. Why don't we sell 'er? That

were probably the best idea that ever occurred to that

rancid bag o' feathers Corroboc. Now that she's cleaned

THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE

141

up 'alfway decent, she'd likely bring a nice bit o' change.

It would solve two of our problems at once, wot?"

Despite his speed, the otter barely succeeded in ducking

under Jon-Tom's swing. The chase shifted to a cluster of

big wooden barrels, but Jon-Tom was unable to run the

tireless otter down. He wore him out pretty good, though.

"Take it easy, mate." Both man and otter fought to

catch their breath. Mudge looked out from behind a barrel.

"Let's not kill each other over it. It were just a thought."

"Okay. But let's not have any more idiotic talk about

selling Folly or anyone else."

The object of this exhausted discussion gazed curiously

up at her rescuer. "Why don't you sell me? I'm nothing to

you. I'm nothing to anyone except myself. Don't think I'm

being ungrateful. I wouldn't have lived another month on

that ship. I want to help you. I can't think of any other

way to repay you for your kindnesses." She threw a

warning glance the otter's way. Wisely, Mudge said nothing.

"All I have, though, is myself. If you need money so

badly, selling me should solve your problem. I'm worth

something." She turned away, unable to meet his eyes.

"Even after the way I've been used."

He tried hard not to be angry with her. "Where I come

from, Folly, we don't sell people."

"You don't?" She looked genuinely puzzled. "Then

what do you do with people who have nothing else to

do?"

"We put 'em on welfare, social security."

She shook her head. "Those words mean nothing to

me."

He tried to explain. "We see to it that everyone is

guaranteed some sort of minimum income, some kind of

sustenance."

"Even if they're no good at anything?"

"Even if they're no good at anything."

"That doesn't seem very efficient."

"Maybe it's not efficient, but it's human."

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Alan Dean Foster

"Brock's blocks, now there you 'ave it, luv. That

explains it all. Sounds like the sort o' bizarre scheme a

bunch o' 'umans would dream up."

"Nobody gets sold," Jon-Tom announced with finality.

"Right then, mate. Wot do you propose we do for

funds?" He indicated the rows of buildings lining the

harborfront. "We need food and a place to sleep and

supplies."

Jon-Tom glanced up at the heretofore silent Roseroar.

"You wouldn't sell her, would you?"

The tigress turned away. "It ain't fo me to say." She

sniffed toward the girl. "Perhaps she's just tryin' to tell yo

she wants to go her own way."

Jon-Tom posed the question. "Is that true, Folly?"

"No. I have no place to go, but I don't want to cause

trouble or be in the way, and I do want to help."

"Sensibly put," said Mudge brightly. "If you'll allow

me, mate, I'll begin searchin* out the likely markets, and

we can—"

"Wait a minute." Jon-Tom was nodding to himself.

"We can sell the sloop."

"The magic boat?" Jalwar looked doubtful. "Is that

wise?"

"Why not? From what Clothahump told me, Cranculam

lies overland from Snarken. We've no further need for a

boat, magic or not. As for returning home, I hope to be

able to pay our way. I'm tired of sailing. I'd like to be a

passenger for a while." He put a hand on Mudge's

shoulder.

"You saw the way the wharfmaster jumped at the

chance to get those two hammers. Think what some rich

local would pay for the whole boat. There's nothing like it

anywhere around here."

"I'd rather sell the girl," he murmured, "but the boat

would fetch more. You're right about that, guv. I'm no

yacht broker, but I'll do me best to strike us the best

bargain obtainable."

Teas DAY or THE DISSONANCE

143

"Mudge, with you doing the dealing, I know we'll

come out well."

The otter concluded a sale that very afternoon. Payment

was made in gold. They left behind a delighted trader in

ships and a wharfmaster greedily counting out his commis-

sion. Jon-Tom had no regrets. He'd obtained the sloop for

a song.

By nightfall they were established in a clean, moderate-

ly priced harborfront inn.

"Wot now, mate?" Mudge dug into his dinner and

talked around mouthfuls of food. Jalwar displayed refined

table manners, while Roseroar ate with precision and

unexpected delicacy. Folly gobbled down everything set

before her and still finished well ahead of the others.

Confident she could take care of herself, Jon-Tom parceled

out a pocketful of coin and sent her off in search of attire

more suited to her new surroundings.

"We need to find out which way Crancularn lies," he

told the otter as he sipped at his own tankard, "acquire

sufficient supplies, and be on our way. Clothahump is

waiting on us, and much as I'd like to, we can't linger

here."

"Ah'm ready fo some clean countryside," agreed Roseroar.

"Ah've had enough o' the ocean to last me fo a while."

"You're bound and determined to see this insanity

through to the bitter end, aren't you, mate?"

"You know that I am, Mudge. I gave my word."

"I was afraid you'd say somethin' like that." He sighed,

wiped gravy from his lips. "Wait 'ere."

The otter vanished into the main dining room of the inn,

returned moments later. He was not alone. With him was a

finely coiffed orangutan. This individual was dressed in

old but well-cared-for clothing. Lace ruffles billowed from

collar and sleeves. His orange beard was trimmed short

and he puffed on a long, curved pipe. One earring of silver

and garnet dangled from his left ear.

"So you weesh to traveel eenland?" There was an odd

144

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

145

lilt to his voice that reminded Jon-Tom of the other orang

he'd met, the venerable Doctor Nilanthos of Lynchbany.

That reminded him of the mugging victims the good doctor

had worked on, and of the mugger, the flame-haired Talea.

He forced his thoughts back to the present. Talea was far

away.

"That's right. We need a certain medicine."

The primate nodded once. "Weel, you'll find no better

place to seek eet than here een Snarken. Eet's the beegest

city on the western shore of the Gleetergeist, and eef what

you seek ees not to be found here, eet ees not to be found

anywhere.''

"You see, lad," said Mudge hopefully. "Wot did I tell

you? Might as well start lookin' for 'is sorcerership's fix

right 'ere."

"Sorry, Mudge."

"C'mon, mate. Couldn't we at least try a local chem-

ist's shop?"

"What ees thee problem, stranger?" asked the orang.

The aroma drifting from the bowl at the end of the thin

pipe was fragrant and powerful. Jon-Tom suspected it

contained more than merely tobacco. Evidently the orang

noticed Jon-Tom's interest, because he turned the pipe

about. "Care for a heet?"

Jon-Tom forced himself to decline. "Thanks, but not

until we get this business straightened out."

"Hey guv, 'ow about me?" Mudge eyed the pipe

hungrily.

"You were not offered," said the orang imperturbably.

"The medicine we seek," Jon-Tom said hastily, before

Mudge could comment, "is available only from a certain

shop. In the town of Crancularn."

The orang started ever so slightly, puffed furiously on

his pipe. "Crancularn, ai?"

"In the Shop of the Aether and Neither."

"Weel now." The orang banged his pipe on the side of

the table, knocking out the dottle while making certain not

to stain his silk-and-satin attire. "I have neever been to

Crancularn. But I have heard rumor of theese shop you

seek. Some say eet ees no more than that, a device of the

veelagers of theese town to breeng attention upon them-

selves. Others, they say more."

"But you've never been there," said Roseroar.

"No. I don't know anyone who's actually been there.

But I do know where eet ees supposed to lie."

"Where?" Jon-Tom leaned forward anxiously.

The orang lifted a massive, muscular arm and pointed

westward. "There. That way."

Mudge tugged irritably at his whiskers. "Precise direc-

tions, why can't any of these helpful blokes we run into

ever give us precise directions?"

"Don't worry." The orang smiled. "Eef you want to

find eet badly enough, you weel. People know where eet

ees. They just don't go there, that's all."

"Why not?"

The orang shrugged, smacked thick lips around the stem

of his pipe. "Beats mee, stranger. I've neever had the

desire to go and find out. Thee fact that no one else goes

there strikes mee as reeson enough not to go. Eef you are

bound to go, I weesh you thee best of luck." He stepped

back from the table. The main room of the inn's restaurant

was jammed with diners now, and his table lay on the other

side of the floor. He reached up, grabbed the nearest

chandelier, and made his way across the ceiling gracefully,

without disturbing any of the other customers.

"It doesn't make any sense," Jon-Tom was muttering.

"If no one knows of any specific danger in Cranculam,

why doesn't anyone go mere?"

"I could think of several reasons," said Jalwar thought-

fully.

"Can you really, baggy-nose?" said Mudge. "Why

don't you enlighten us then, guv'nor?"

"There may be dangers there mat remain little known."

146

Alas Dean Foster

"He would have told us anything known," Jon-Tom

argued. "No reason to keep it from us. What else, Jalwar?"

"There may be nothing there at all."

"I'll take Clothahump's word that there is. Go on."

The ferret spread his hands. "This shop you speak of so

hopefully. It may be less than you wish for. Many such

establishments never live up to their reputations."

"We'll find out," Jon-Tom said determinedly, "because

no matter what anyone says, we're going there." His

expression altered suddenly as he stared past the ferret.

"Wot is it, mate?" asked Mudge, abruptly alert. "Wot

do you see?"

"Darkness. Nighttime. It's been night out for a long

time. Too long. Folly should have returned by now."

He whirled angrily on the otter. "Damn it, Mudge, did

you...?"

"Now 'old on a minim, mate." The otter raised both

paws defensively. "I said my piece and you said you

didn't want to sell *er. I wouldn't do anythin' like that

behind your back."

"If you were offered the right price you'd sell your own

grandmother without her permission."

"I never knew me grandmum, mate, so I couldn't guess

at 'er worth, but I swears on me works that as far as I

know the girl's done only wot you said she could do: gone

tshoppin' for some respectable coverin' for that skinny

naked body o' 'ers. Well, not all that skinny."

Jon-Tom had a sudden thought, turned on the largest

member of their party. "Roseroar?"

The massive torso shaded the table as the tigress daintily

set down half a roast lizard as big as the duar. She picked

with maddening slowness at her teeth before replying.

"Ah will pretend ah didn't heah that insult, suh. Ah

think it's obvious enough what has happened."

"What's obvious?" He frowned.

"Why, you gave her some gold. As she told yo herself,

you owe her nothing and she owes you little, since you

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

147

turned down her offah to sell herself. It's cleah enough to

me that she's gone off to seek her own fortune. We've

given her her freedom. She held no love fo us and ah must

admit the feelin's mutual."

"She wouldn't think of it like that," Jon-Tom muttered

worriedly. "She isn't the type."

Mudge let out a sharp, barking laugh. "Now, wot would

you know about 'er type, mate? I didn't know wot 'er

'type' was, and I've forgotten more about women of more

species than you'll ever think on."

"She's just not the type, Mudge," Jon-Tom insisted.

"This city's as new to her as it to us, and we're the only

friends or security she's got."

"A type like that," said Roseroar disdainfully, "can find

friends wherevah she goes."

"She just wouldn't run off like that, without saying

anything. Maybe you're right, Mudge. Maybe she does

want to strike off on her own, but she'd have told us first.''

"Wot for?" wondered Mudge sarcastically. "To spare

you from worryin' about 'er? Maybe she don't like long

good-byes. Not that it matters. You've seen 'ow big this

town is. Wot can we do about it?"

"Wait until morning," Jon-Tom said decisively. "We

can't do much without sleep, and it'll be good to sleep on

something that doesn't roll and pitch."

"Me sentiments exactly, mate."

"In the morning we'll make some inquiries. You're

good at making inquries, Mudge. Like finding that orang

to tell us the way to Crancularn."

"Cor, some 'elp > was." He pointed wildly backward.

"That way! 'Ow 'elpftil! That may be the most I can find

out about the girl. I don't know why you bother, mate. I

thought the main thing was gettin' that dope back to

Clothy-wothy."

"Check on the girl first. She may be in some kind

of trouble. I'll let her go her own way, but I want to make

sure that's what she wants. I want her to say it to me."

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Alan Dean Poster

Mudge looked disgusted. "It's your funeral, mate. Just

don't make it mine, too."

They slept soundly. In the morning they began checking

the clothing stores in the area. Yes, a girl of that descrip-

tion had been into several of the shops and then had moved

on. The trail halted abruptly at the eighth shop. Beyond it,

Folly had not been seen.

"Face it, mate, she's gone off on 'er lonesome."

"One last try." Jon-Tom nodded toward the corner,

where a pair of uniformed skunks were lounging. Civil

patrol, just as in Lynchbany, where their particular anatomi-

cal capabilities made them the logical candidates for the

police service. It was simple for them to control an angry

mob or recalcitrant prisoner through nonviolent means.

Jon-Tom would much rather be beaten up.

The cops turned as he approached, taking particular note

of the heavily armed Roseroar.

"Trouble, strangers?" one of the police inquired.

"No trouble." Both striped tails relaxed, for which

Jon-Tom was grateful. "We're looking for someone. A

companion, human female of about mid-to-late adoles-

cence. Attractive, blonde fur. She was shopping in this

area last night."

The cops looked at each other. Then the one on the left

raised a hand over his head, palm facing the ground.

"About so tall?"

"Yes!" Jon-Tom said excitedly.

"Wearing funny sort of clothes, dark blue pants?"

"That's her!" Suddenly he remembered who he was

talking to. "What happened to her?"

"Not much, as far as I know. We were just coming on

duty." He turned to gesture up a steep street. "Was about

four blocks up that way, two to the left. She was out cold

when we stumbled over her. Friend of yours, you say?"

Jon-Tom nodded.

"Well, we tried to bring her around and didn't have

much luck. It was pretty plain what had happened to her.

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

149

The pockets of her pants and blouse had been ripped open

and she had a lump here," he touched his head near his

left ear, "about the size of a lemon."

"Somebody rolled 'er," said Mudge knowledgeably.

"My fault," said Jon-Tom. "I thought she'd be okay."

He stared at Mudge.

"Hey, don't be mad at me, mate. I didn't slug 'er."

"She kept saying she could take care of herself."

"I thought 'er mouth was bigger than 'er brain," the

otter commented sourly. "Take care o' 'erself, wot? Not

by 'alf." He turned to the cop. "Wot 'appened to 'er,

then?"

"We relayed it in." He glanced at his partner. "Do you

know what headquarters did with her afterwards?" The

other skunk shrugged and the first looked thoughtful. "Let

me think."

"Hospital," Jon-Tom suggested. "Did they send her to

a hospital?"

"Not that bad a bump, stranger. She was half-conscious

by the time we got her into the station. Kept moaning

about her mother or something. She didn't have a scrap of

identification on her, I remember that. Also kept mum-

bling for someone named—" he fought to recall, "Pom-

pom?"

"Jon-Tom. That's me."

"She couldn't tell us where you were... that sock on

the head rattled her pretty good, I'd think... and the name

meant nothing to us. Weird as it was, we thought she was

still off her nut. Mid-adolescent, you said?" He nodded.

"I thought she looked underage for a human. Now I

remember what happened to her. Social Services took her

in. Several groups put in a claim and the Friends of the

Street won."

"Yeah, that's right," said his partner. "I saw that on the

report sheet."

"Who are the Friends of the Street?" Jon-Tom asked,

"Kind of like an orphanage, stranger," the cop explained.

150

Alan Dean Foster

He turned and pointed. "They're up on Pulletgut Hill

there. Never been there myself. No reason. But that's

where she was taken. I expect she'll be okay. From what I

hear it's a well-run, sober, clean place."

Mudge put a consoling paw on Jon-Tom's arm. "See,

mate? Tis all worked out for the best."

"Yes," growled Roseroar. "Let's get on with this quest

of yours, Jon-Tom. The girl's in the kind of place best

suited to he I pin' her."

Jon-Tom listened to all of them, surprised Jalwar by

asking for his opinion.

"Since you request the thoughts of a humble servant, I

have to say that I agree with your friends. Undoubtedly the

young woman is now among those her own age, being

cared for by those whose business it is to succor such

unfortunates. We should be about our business."

Jon-Tom nodded. "You're probably right, Jalwar." He

looked at Mudge and Roseroar. "You're probably all

right." He eyed the senior of the two cops. "You're sure

this is a decent place?"

"The streets of Snarken are full of homeless youth. We

bag 'em all the time. So there are many orphanages. Some

are supported by taxes, others are private. If I remember

aright, the Friends of the Street are among the private

organizations."

"Okay, okay," Jon-Tom grumbled, out-reasoned as well

as outvoted.

"So when do we leave, mate?"

"Tomorrow morning, I suppose, if you think you can

lay in enough supplies by tonight."

"Cor, can a fish fry? Leave 'er to me, mate. You and

the cat-mountain and the old bugger get yourselves back to

the inn. Relax and suck in the last o' the sea air. Leave

everythin' to ol' Mudge."

Jon-Tom did so, and was rewarded that evening by the

sight of not one but two large, comfortable wagons tied up

outside the inn. They were piled high with supplies and

THE DAY OF TOR DISSONANCE

151

yoked to two matched horned lizards apiece, the kind of

dray animals who could handle smooth roads or rough

trails with ease.

"You've done well," Jon-Tom complimented the otter.

Mudge appeared to be undergoing the most indescrib-

able torture as he reached into a pocket and handed over

three gold coins. "And 'ere's the change, mate."

Jon-Tom hardly knew what to say. "I didn't think

there'd be this much. You're changing, Mudge."

"Please don't say anythin', mate," said the tormented

otter. "I'm in pain enough as it is."

"Did you ever think of setting yourself up as a legiti-

mate merchant, Mudge."

"Wot, me?" The otter staggered. "Why, I'd lose me

self-respect, not to mention me card in the Lynchbany

Thieves' Guild! It'd break me poor mother's 'eart, it

would."

"Sorry," Jon-Tom murmured. "I won't mention it again.

Roseroar was giving the loads a professional inspection.

"Ah take back everything ah said about yo, ottah. Yo've

done a fine job o1 requisitionin'." She turned to Jon-Tom.

"Theah's mo than enough heah to last us fo a journey of

many months. He spent the gold well."

Mudge executed a low bow. "Thanks, tall, luscious,

and unattainable. Now 'ow about a last decent meal before

we're back to eatin' outdoor cooking?" He headed for the

inn entrance.

Jon-Tom held back, spoke sheepishly. "Look, I under-

stand how you all feel and 1 respect your opinions, and

you're probably all right as rain and I'm probably wrong.

I'll understand if you all want to go in and eat and go to

bed, but I'm not tired. I know it doesn't make any sense,

but I'm going up to this Friends of the Street place to

make a last check on Folly."

Mudge threw up his hands. " 'Umans! Now, wot do you

want to go and waste your time with that for, mate? The

girl's a closed chapter, she is."

152

Alan Dean Foster

"A closed chapter," Jalwar agreed, "with a happy

ending. Leave it be. Why aggravate yourself?"

"I won't aggravate myself. It'll just take a minute." He

plucked one string of his duar. "I owe her a farewell song

and I want to let her know that we'll probably be coming

back this way, in case she wants to see us or anything."

"Pitiful," Mudge mumbled. "Plumb pitiful. Right then,

mate, come on. Let's get it over with."

"You don't have to come," Jen-Tom reminded him.

"What about your big supper?"

"It'll keep." He took the man's arm and urged him up

the street. They climbed the first hill.

"Look at it, mate. The night's as black as the inside of

a process-server's 'eart." He stared up the narrow, winding

avenue. "You sure we can find this place?"

Jon-Tom nodded. "It's atop a hill. We can always ask

directions. We're not helpless."

"No," said a new voice, startling them, "not now

you're not."

"Roseroar... you're not hungry either?"

"Ah've got a beilyfull of thunder," she shot back, "but

ah figured ah'd better come along to make sure you two

don't end up in an alley somewheres. Those muggahs may

still be working this area."

"We can take care of ourselves, luv," said Mudge.

"Ah'm sure you can, but you can take better care o'

yourselves with me around."

Jon-Tom looked past her. She noticed the direction of

his gaze. "Jalwah wanted to come, too, bless his heart,

but there's climbing to do and he's more than a little worn

out. He'll wait fo us and keep a watch on our supplies."

"Fine," said Jon-Tom, turning and starring to climb

again. "We'll be back soon enough."

"Aye, right quick," Mudge agreed.

But they were both wrong.

x

The Friends of the Street occupied a complex of stone-and-

mortar buildings atop a seaward-facing hillside. It was

located in an area of comfortable individual homes and gar-

den plots instead of the slum Jon-Tom expected.

"Whoever endowed this place," he told his companions

as they approached the main entrance, "had money."

"And plenty o' it," Mudge added.

Several long, narrow, two-story structures were linked

together by protective walls. Blue tile roofs gleamed in the

moonlight. Dim illumination flickered behind a couple of

windows, but for the most part the complex was dark.

That wasn't surprising. It was late and the occupants

should be in bed. Flowery wrought-iron trellises blocked

the front doorway, but there was a cord to be pulled.

Jon-Tom tugged on it, heard the faint echo of ringing from

somewhere inside. Leaves shuffled in tall trees nearby. The

thousand bright stars of Snarken electrified the shoreline

far below.

The door opened and a curious lady squirrel peeked out

at them. She was elderly and clad entirely in black. Black

lace decorated the cuffs of her sleeves. Hanging from her

153

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Alan Dean Poster

gray neck was a single golden medallion on a gold chain.

Several letters had been engraved on it, but they were too

small for Jon-Tom to make out.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Are you the master of this orphanage?" Jon-Tom

asked.

"Me?" She did not smile. "No. What do you wish with

the Headmaster?" She was watching Roseroar carefully.

"Just a couple of quick questions." He put on his most

ingratiating grin.

"Office hours are from mid-morning to nightfall." She

moved to shut the door.

Jon-Tom took a step forward, still wearing his grin.

"We have reason to believe that an acquaintance of ours

was recently—" he searched for the right word, "enrolled

at the orphanage."

"You mean you don't know for certain?"

"No. It would have been within the last day."

"I see. Visiting hours are at nightfall only." Again the

attempt to close the door, again Jon-Tom rushed to fore-

stall her.

"Please, ma'am. We have to depart on a long difficult

journey tomorrow. I just want a moment to assure myself

that your institution is as admirable on the inside as it is

from without."

"Well," she murmured uncertainly, "wait here. The

Headmaster is at his late-eve devotions. I will ask if he can

see you."

"Thanks."

The wait that ensued was long, and after a while he was

afraid they'd been given a polite brushoff. He was about to

use the bell-pull a second time when she reappeared

trailing an elderly man.

As always, Jon-Tom was surprised to see another human

in a position of authority, since they didn't seem to be

among the more prolific groups here. In Clothahump's

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

155

world mankind was just one of dozens of intelligent

species.

The man was only a few inches shorter than Jon-Tom,

which made him unusually tall for a local. With the

exception of a radically different cut, his attire was identi-

cal with that of the much smaller squirrel: all black with

lace cuffs and the same golden medallion. He held his

hands clasped in front of his chest. His gray hair was

combed neatly back at sides and forehead. A gray goatee

protruded from his chin, and he wore thin wire glasses

with narrow lenses. To Jon-Tom he resembled a cross

between Colonel Sanders and a contrabassoon.

His smile and words both spoke of kindly concern,

however. "Greetings. Welcome, strangers, to Friends of

the Street." He gestured toward the squirrel. "Ishula tells

me you have a friend among our flock?"

"We think so. Her name's Folly."

The Headmaster frowned. "Folly. I don't know that we

have anyone staying with us by that... oh, yes! The young

woman who was brought in the previous evening. She told

us her terrible tale of being captured by pirates on the high

seas. You are the ones she described as her rescuers, are

you not?"

"That's right."

"To think that such awfulness is abroad in the world."

The Headmaster shook his head regretfully. "The poor girl

has endured more than any intelligent creature should

suffer."

Jon-Tom had to admit that so far all of his concerns and

fears looked unjustified. Still, he couldn't leave satisfied

without at least a fast look at the facilities.

"I know it's late, and it's cold out here. We have to

leave on a long trip tomorrow, as I told your assistant.

Could we come in for a moment and have a look around?

We just want to make sure that Folly's going to be well

looked after. We place no claim on her and I'm sure she'll

be much better off here than with us."

156

Alan Dean Foster

"Why, certainly, do come in," said the Headmaster.

"My name is Chokas, by the way. Ishula, the gate."

The squirrel unlocked the iron grille as Jon-Tom made

his own introductions.

"Delighted, ah am sure," said Roseroar as she ducked

through the opening.

They found themselves in a long white hallway. Chokas

led them down the tiled corridor, chatting effusively and

not at all upset by their presence or the lateness of the

hour. The squirrel trailed behind, occasionally pausing to

dust a bench or vase with her tail.

Jon-Tom made polite responses to the Headmaster's

conversation, but he was only paying partial attention. The

rest of him searched for indications of subterfuge or

concealed maleficence. He was not rewarded.

The corridor and the rooms branching off it were spot-

less. Decorative plants occupied eaves and niches or hung

in planters from the beamed ceiling. There were skylights

to admit the warmth of day. Without being asked, Chokas

volunteered a further tour of the Friends of the Street.

Beginning to relax, Jon-Tom accepted.

Padded benches paralleled clean tables in the dining

room, and the kitchen was as shiny as the hallway.

"We pride ourselves on our hygiene here," the Head-

master informed him.

The larder was filled to overflowing with foodstuffs of

every kind, suitable for sustaining the energetic offspring

of many races. Beyond, the reason for the interlocking

architecture became apparent. It circled to enclose a

broad courtyard. Play areas were marked out beneath

several bubbling fountains, and tall trees shaded the grounds.

Roseroar bent to whisper to him. "Come, haven't y'all

seen enough? The girl will be well cared fo heah."

"I have to admit it's not the kind of place I expected,"

he confessed. "Hell, I'd be half-tempted to move in

myself." He raised his voice as he spoke to the Headmas-

ter. "Terrific-looking place you run here, Chokas."

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

157

The man nodded his thanks. "We are privileged to serve

as guardians and protectors of the homeless and those who

have lost their way at a tender age. We take our responsi-

bilities seriously."

"What sort o' schooling do they get?" Roseroar asked.

"Histories, geographies, mathematics, training in the

social verities, domestic subjects such as cooking and

sewing. Physical education. Instruction in discipline and

courtesy. A well-rounded curriculum, we believe."

"I've seen enough." Jon-Tom glanced toward the second-

floor dormitories. "So long, Folly. It was interesting know-

ing you. Have a full and happy life and maybe we'll meet

again someday." He turned back toward the entry hall.

"Thanks again for the tour, Chokas."

"My pleasure. Please come visit us anytime, sir. The

Friends of the Street encourages visitation."

The front door closed quietly behind them, leaving the

trio standing on the cobblestone avenue outside. Roseroar

started down the hill.

"That's done. Now we can get down to mo important

business."

"I admit she's better off here than with us," Jon-Tom

said. "Certainly it's a more stable environment than any

alternative we could come up with."

"Hang on a minim, you two." Jon-Tom and Roseroar

turned, to see Mudge inspecting the entrance.

"What's the matter, Mudge?" Come to think of it,

Jon-Tom hadn't heard a single comment from the otter

during the tour. "I'd think that you, of any of us, would

be anxious to get back to the inn."

"That I am, mate."

"Come on, then, ottah," said Roseroar impatiently.

"Don't tell me you miss the cub? You liked her no mo

than did ah."

"True enough, mistress of massive hindquarters. I thought

'er obstinate, ignorant, and nothin' but trouble, for all that

she went through. Life's tough and I ain't me sister's

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Alan Dean Poster

THE DAY OF THE

159

keeper. But I wouldn't leave a slick, slimy salamander

who'd ooze all over me in a place like this."

"You saw something, Mudge?" Jon-Tom moved to

stand next to him. "I thought it was neat, clean, and

well-equipped."

"Bullocks," snapped the otter. "We saw what they

wanted us to see, nothin' more. That Chokas chap's as

slick as greased owl shit and I'd trust 'im about as far as I

can piss." He turned to face them both. "I don't suppose

either o' you sharp-eyed suckers 'appened to note that there

are no windows on the first floor anywheres facin' the

streets?"

Jon-Tom looked left, then right, and saw that the otter

was correct. "So? I'm sure they have their reasons."

"I'll bet they do. Notice also that all the second-story

windows are barred?"

"More decorative wrought iron," murmured Jon-Tom,

his eyes roving over the upper floors.

"Decorative is it, mate?"

"This is a rough city," said Roseroar. "Orphans are

vulnerable. Perhaps the bans are to keep thieves from

breakin1 in and stealing youngsters to sell into slavery."

"If that's the case then the 'Friends' of the Street 'ave

done a mighty professional job o' protectin' their charges

from the outside. Observe that none of these trees over-

hang any part of any of the buildin's."

That was true. A cleared expanse of street formed an

open barrier between the nearest orchard and the outermost

structures.

"But what does all of it prove?" Jon-Tom asked the

otter.

"Not a bloody thing, mate. But I've been around a bit,

and I'm tellin' you that my gut tells me somethin' 'ere

ain't right. Me, I'd be curious to *ave a little chat with one

or two o' the occupants without that piranha-faced squirrel

o' our charmin' guide Chokas about. I've 'card descrip-

tions o' orphanages, and this place makes the best o' them

look like mat dungeon we fled in Malderpotty. That's wot

bothers me, mate." He gazed up at the silent walls. "It's

too sweet."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"Look, guv. Cubs is dirty. They make filth the way I

makes sweat. 'Tis natural. This place is supposed to be

full o' cubs and it's as clean as milady's intimates."

Roseroar spoke softly as she studied the barred upper

windows. "Ah did think it uncommon neat fo such an

establishment. Almost like a doctah's office."

"You too, Roseroar?" Jon-Tom said in surprise.

"Me too what? What the ottah says makes sense. Ain't

no secret ah've little love fo the cub, but ah'd sleep easier

knowin' she's been properly cared fo."

"If you both feel that way, then we need to talk with her

before we go." Jon-Tom started back for the entrance.

Mudge held him by an arm.

"Slow there, spellsinger. Ol' Chokas were friendly enough

because we didn't ask no awkward questions or try to poke

into places 'e didn't want us to see. If 'e'd wanted us to

meet any o' 'is kids 'e'd 'ave brought 'em down to us. I

don't think Vll be likely to accede to our little request."

"He has a good reason. They're likely to all be asleep.

It's late."

"All of 'em?" wondered Mudge. "I doubt it. Wot about

those offspring of the night-lifers? The gophers and the

moles?"

"Maybe they have separate quarters so they can be

active at night without disturbing the others," Jon-Tom

suggested. "If they're nocturnal, they wouldn't need lights

in their rooms."

"There'd still be some hint o' activity. Remember,

mate, we're talkin' about a bunch o' young cubs."

Jon-Tom chewed his lower lip. "It was awfully quiet in

there, wasn't it?"

"Like a tomb, mate. Tell you wot. Why don't you

16O

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OP THE DISSONANCE

161

spellsing the lot o' them to sleep the way you did that

bunch on the pirate ship?"

"Wouldn't work. On the ship, everyone was within

range of the duar and of my voice. Too many walls here."

Mudge nodded. "Right then. My turn to perform a little

magic."

"You?"

The otter grinned, his whiskers twitching. "You ain't

the only master o' strange arts around 'ere, mate."

They followed him around the side, until they were far

from the entrance. As they walked Jon-Tom noted that no

other doors were visible in the complex. There was only

the single entrance. Still, there might be other doors

around the back. And the Friends of the Street were not

constrained by, say, the Los Angeles Fire Code.

Mudge halted near a tree that grew closer to the build-

ings than any of the others.

"Now then, my petite purr-box, I 'ave a little job for

you." He pointed up into the tree. "See that branch there?

The second one up?" She nodded. "Can you climb up

there and then climb out along it?"

She frowned. "What foah? It won't hold man weight."

"That's precisely the idea, luv."

Jon-Tom immediateiy divined the otter's intent. "It's no

good, Mudge. That branch'11 throw you headfirst into the

wall. I'll end up with a furry Frisbee on my hands instead

of a valuable friend."

"Don't worry about me, guv. I knows wot I'm about.

We otter folk are born acrobats. Most o' the time there's

nothin' more to it than play, but we can get serious with it

if we need too. Let me give 'er a try."

"One try is all you'll get." He swing the duar around

until it rested against his chest. "Why don't I try spell-

singing you onto the roof?"

Mudge looked unwilling. "That would work fine, wouldn't

it, mate? With you standin' 'ere below these barred win-

dows caterwaulin' fit to shiver a bat's ears."

"Ah resent the comparison, watah rat." Roseroar ad-

vanced up the tree trunk.

Mudge shrugged. "Don't matter 'ow you describe it.

You'd wake the 'ole place."

"I could try singing quietly."

'Aye, and likely catapult.. .sorry again, Roseroar.. .me

into the middle o' some far ocean. No offense, mate, but

you know well as I that there be times when your spellsmgin'

don't quite strike the mark. So if it's all the same, I'd

rather take me chances with the tree."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jon-Tom muttered.

A glance showed Roseroar already crawling carefully out

onto the chosen limb. "Go ahead, but I think you're

nuts."

"Why, guv, I didn't think me mental condition were a

matter o' dispute anymore. An' the proof of it's that I'm

standin' 'ere askin' you to let me catapult meself toward a

stone wall instead o' lying in a soft bed somewhere back in

the Bellwoods."

He moved aside as the thick branch began to bend

toward the ground beneath Roseroar. She kept crawling

along it until she couldn't advance any more, then swung

beneath and continued advancing toward the end of the

limb hand-over-hand. Seconds later the leaves were brushing

the street.

Mudge nestled himself into a crook between two smaller

branches near the end. "Wot's your opinion o' this, luv?"

Roseroar had to use all her weight to hold the branch

down. She studied the distant roof speculatively. "A lot to

miss and little to land on. Wheah do y'all wish the remains

sent?"

"Two optimists I'm blessed with," the otter mumbled,

"I thank the both o' you for your encouragin' words." He

patted the wood behind him. "Wortyle wood. I thought

she'd bend without breakin'. They make ship's ribs out o'

this stuff." He glanced back at Roseroar. "Any time you're

ready, lass."

"Yoah sure about this?"

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THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

163

"No, I'm not, but I ain't doin' no good sittin' 'ere on

me arse talkin' about it."

"That ain't the part that's goin' to get smashed," she

said as she stepped away from the quivering branch.

The wortyle wood whipped upward so fast the air

vibrated in its wake. Mudge was thrown with tremendous

force into the night sky. The otter did a single flip and

described an elegant arc as he began to descend.

As it developed, his judgment was only slightly off. He

didn't reach the roof, but neither did he smash into the side

of the building. He fell only a little short.

At first it looked as if he was going to land hard on the

cobblestones, but at the last instant he grabbed with his

right hand. Short, powerful muscles broke his fall as his

fingers locked onto the iron grating barring one window.

He hung there for a long moment, catching his breath.

Then he reached up with the other hand and pulled himself

on to the iron.

His companions stood beneath the window, staring up at

him. "Can you get in?" Jon-Tom asked softly.

Mudge responded with a snort of contempt, fiddled with

the grate. Seconds later a metallic click reached Jon-Tom

and Roseroar.

"He's very clevah, yo friend."

"He's had a lot of experience with locks," Jon-Tom

informed her dryly. Another click from above signified the

opening of the window.

They waited below, feeling exposed standing there on

the otherwise empty, moonlit street. Minutes passed. A

pink rope snaked down from the open window. Jon-Tom

reached up to take hold of the chain of knotted bedsheets.

"They'll support me," he told Roseroar. "I don't think

they'll hold you."

"Nevah mind. Y'all are just goin' to spend a few '

minutes talkin' to the girl-cub anyways." She nodded

toward the nearby grove. "Ah'll wait foah y'all up in the

same tree. Ain't nobody goin' to spot me up theah. If I see

anyone comin' this way and it looks tricky, I'll whistle

y'all a warnin'."

As she stood there in the pale light Jon-Tom was

conscious of her strength and power, but her words struck

him as odd. "I didn't know tigers could whistle."

"Well, ah'll let ya'all know somehow." She turned and

loped toward the trees.

Jon-Tom braced his feet against the wall and pulled

himself up. Mudge was waiting to help him inside.

Jon-Tom found himself standing in near blackness. "Where

are we?" he whispered.

"Some sort o' storage closet, mate." Mudge's night

vision was several cuts above his friend's.

But as they moved cautiously through the darkness

Jon-Tom's eyes adjusted to the weak illumination, and he

was able to make out buckets, pails, piles of dust rags,

curry combs, and other cleaning supplies. Mudge stopped

at the door and tried the handle.

"Locked from the other side." The otter hunted through

the darkness, came back holding something that looked

like an awl. He inserted it into the door lock and jiggled

delicately. Though Jon-Tom heard nothing, the otter was

apparently satisfied by some sound. He put the awl aside

and pushed.

The door opened silently. Mudge peered into a dark

dormitory. Against opposite walls stood beds, cots, mats,

and diverse sleeping stations for children of different

species. On the far wall windows looked down into the

courtyard with the trees and fountains. Unlike those on the

outside, these were not barred.

They tiptoed out of the closet and found themselves

walking between rows of silent youngsters. All of them

appeared to be neatly groomed and squeaky clean. There

wasn't a hair or patch of fur out of place. The dormitory

itself was comfortably cool and as spotless as the dining

room and entry hall had been.

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Alan Dean Poster

"I don't see any indications of abuse here," Jon-Tom

whispered as they went from bed to bed.

Mudge was shaking his head doubtfully. "Too neat,

mate. Too perfect." They reached the end of the long

chamber without finding Folly. The door at the end was

also locked from the outside. "And another thing, mate.

Too many locks 'ere." He used the tool to pick it.

Beyond was a short hall. A stairway led downward off

the the left. Mudge picked the lock on the door across the

hall and they entered a second dorm.

Grunts and whistles and snores covered their footsteps

as they commenced an inspection of the new group of

beds. Halfway down the line they found Folly. Jon-Tom

shook her gently awake. She rolled over, woke up.

She was gasping with fright. There was no mistaking

the look in her eyes, the tenseness of her body, the

expression on her face. It reminded Jon-Tom a little of the

look she'd display on the pirate ship whenever Corroboc

appeared.

As soon as she recognized him she threw her arms

around him and started sobbing.

"Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom. And Mudge too. I thought you'd

forgotten me. I thought you'd go off and leave me here!"

"I didn't forget you, Folly." Acutely conscious of her

curves beneath the thin black nightdress, he gently pushed

her away. "What's wrong?"

She looked around wildly. "You've got to get me out of

here! Quickly, before the night patrol shows up."

"Night patrol? You mean, someone looks in on you?"

"No, I mean patrol. No one's allowed out of bed after

dark. If they catch you, they beat you. Bad. Not like

Corroboc, but bad enough."

"But we were here earlier, and we didn't see any

indications of—"

"Don't be a fool, mate," said Mudge tightly. "D'you

think these servants o' the downtrodden would be stupid

enough to hit their charges where it'd show?"

"No, I guess not. They beat you here?"

THE DAY or THK DISSONANCK

165

Folly spat on the floor. "Only out of love, of course.

Every time they beat you it's out of love. They beat you if

you don't learn your lessons, they beat you if you don't

hold your knife right at mealtime, they beat you for not

saying yes sir and no ma'am, and sometimes I think they

beat you for the fun of it, to remind you how bad the

world outside is." Her nails dug into his arms.

"You've got to get me out of here, Jon-Tom!" How

much truth there was to her accusations, he couldn't tell,

but the desperation in her voice was genuine enough.

Mudge kept a paw on the hilt of his short sword. "Let's

make up our feeble minds, mate. Some o' these cubs are

startin' to move around."

"I'm awake." Jon-Tom turned to the bed next to Fol-

ly's. It was occupied by a young margay. She sat up

rubbing at her eyes. She wore the same black nightdress.

"Is what Folly says true?" he asked the young cat.

"Who...who are you?" asked the now wide-awake

youngster. Folly hastened to reassure her.

"It's okay. They're friends of mine."

"Who're you?" Jon-Tom countered.

"My name's Myealn." To his surprise she began to

sniffle. He'd never seen a feline cry before. "Pu-please,

sir, can you help me get away from this place, too?"

Then he was being assailed by a volley of anxious

whispers.

"Me too, sir... and me... me also...!"

The whole dorm was awake and crowding around Fol-

ly's bed, pawing at the adults, pleading in a dozen dialects

for help. Tails twitched nervously from the backsides of

dozens of nightclothes, all black.

"I don't understand," he muttered. "This looks like

such a nice place. But it's not right if they beat you all the

time."

"That's not all they do," said Folly. "Haven't you noticed

how perfect this place is?"

"You mean, clean?"

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Alan Dean Foster

She shook her head. "It's not just clean. It's sterile.

Woe unto any of us caught with a dirt smudge or piece of

lint on us. We're supposed to be perfect at mealtime,

perfect at study, and perfect at devotions, so we can be

perfect citizens when we're old enough to be turned out

on the street again.

"A bunch of the supervisors here were raised here and

this is the only home they know. They're the worst. We

wear only black because a perfect person can't have any

distractions and color is distracting. There're no distrac-

tions of any kind. No dancing, no singing, no merriment at

all. Maybe all the jokes the pirates told were brutal and

crude, but at least they had a sense of humor. There's no

humor in this place."

Myealn had slipped out of her bed. Now she leaned

close to Folly. "The other thing," she whispered urgently.

"Tell them about the other thing."

"I was getting to that." Nervously, Folly glanced at the

doorway at the far end of the room. "Since a perfect

person doesn't need silly things like merriment and pleas-

ure, one of the first things they do here is make sure

you're made perfect in that regard."

Mudge frowned. "Want to explain that one, luv?"

"I mean, they see to it that no pleasurable diversions of

any kind remain to divert you from the task of becoming

perfect." The otter gaped at her, then waved to take in the

shuffling crowd of anxious, black-clad youngsters.

"Wot a bloody 'ouse o' devils we stumbled into! You

mean every one o' these... ?"

Folly nodded vigorously. "Most of them, yes. The

males are neutered and the females spayed. To preserve

their perfection by preventing any sensual distractions.

They're going to operate on me tomorrow."

"Against your will?" Jon-Tom struggled to come to

grips with this new, coldly clinical horror.

"What could we do?" Myealn sobbed softly. "Who

would object on our behalf? We're all orphans, none of us

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCK

167

even have guardians. And the Friends of the Street have a

wonderful reputation with the people who run the city

government because there's never any trouble here."

' 'And the Friends of the Street put model citizens back

into the population," Folly added. "People who never

give the city any trouble.

Jon-Tom was so furious he was shaking. "If you got out

of this place," he asked the trembling, altered youngsters,

"where would you go?"

Again a flurry of desperate pleas. "Anywhere.. anyplace

... the waterfront, I want to be a sailor.. I can sew, be a

steamstress... I'm good with paints ... I want to be...!"

He shushed them all. "We'll get you out. Somehow.

Mudge, what about the dorm we came through? Can we

risk going back that way with all these kids?"

"Fuck the risk, mate." Jon-Tom had never seen the

otter so mad. "Not only are we goin' back into the other

dorm, we're goin' to break every cub out o' this pit o'

abomination. Come on, you lot," he told them. "Quiet-

like." Jon-Tom followed behind, making sure no one was

left and shepherding them along like a giraffe among a

flock of sheep.

The hallway and the stairs were silent. Once in the other

dorm those awake went from bed to bed waking their

friends and explaining what was happening. When they

were through, the center aisle was full of milling, anxious

young faces.

Mudge opened the door to the supply closet. At the

same time the door at the other end of the dorm burst

open. Standing in the opening was the powerful figure of a

five-foot-tall adult lynx. Green eyes flashed.

"What's going on in here?" He started in. "By the

Eight Levels of Purity, I will have the hide off whoever is

responsible!" Then he caught sight of Jon-Tom standing

like a pale tower above the heads of the youngsters. "How

did you get in here?"

Jon-Tom faced him with a broad, innocent smile. "Just

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Alan Dean Foster

visiting. A little late, I know. Special dispensation from

Chokas."

"Just visiting be damned! Where's your pass? These are

not visiting times."

Jon-Tom kept smiling as the cubs crowded close around

him. "Like I said, friend, it's a special occasion."

The monitor carried a short, ugly black whip which he

now drew back threateningly. "You're coming with me to

see the Headmaster, whoever you are. I do not know how

you got in here, or you either," he added as he espied

Mudge, "but you are not leaving without making proper

explanation. The rest of you," he roared, "back to your

beds!"

The youngsters milled around uncertainly. Many of

them were starting to bawl.

" 'Ere now, guv'nor, there's no reason to get upset."

Mudge toddled toward him, smiling broadly.

The whip cracked just in front of the otter's nose. The

children started to scatter for their beds, whimpering loudly.

"Now, hold on there, friend." Jon-Tom put his ramwood

staff in front of his chest. "Let's be careful with that whip,

shall we?"

"Cute little gimcrack, snake master," said Mudge, still

grinning and walking toward the monitor. The lynx eyed

his approach warily.

"That is far enough, trespasser. Take another step to-

ward me and I'll have one of your eyes out."

Mudge halted, threw up both hands and gaped at the

lynx in mock horror. "Wot, and mar me perfection?

Crikey, why would you want to muss up me perfect self?''

He started to turn, abruptly leaped at the monitor.

The lynx wasn't slow, but Mudge was a brown blur in

the dim light. The whip snapped down and cut across the

back of the otter's neck. Mudge's sword was faster still,

slicing through the.whip handle just above the big cat's

fingers.

The monitor bolted for the open door. "Mudge, no!"

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

169

Jon-Tom yelled, but Mudge didn't hear him in time. Or

perhaps he did. The short sword spun end over end. It was

the hilt that struck the lynx in the back of the head with a

gratifyingly loud thump. The monitor dropped as if poleaxed.

Jon-Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Smart throw, Mudge.

We don't need a murder complicating our departure."

Mudge retrieved his sword. "That's right, mate, but I

can't take the credit. I was tryin' to separate 'is 'ead from

'is shoulders."

"Quick now!" Jon-Tom instructed the youngsters as he

headed for the storage closet. "Everyone out, before

someone else shows up to check on you." He led them

through the storage closet. "Don't push, everyone's going

to get out... don't shove in the back...."

Roseroar strained to see better as shadows moved against

the open window. So far no one had appeared to spot the

dangling rope of pastel linen, but it would take only one

passing pedestrian to give the alarm.

She expected to see Jon-Tom or Mudge or even the girl.

What she did not expect to see was the silent column of

cubs who began descending the sheets. Some species were

built for climbing and climbed down quickly and graceful-

ly, while others had a more difficult time with the descent,

but all made it safely. She dropped clear of the tree and

rushed toward the building. The cubs largely ignored her

as they ran off in different directions, small dark shapes

swallowed by the shadows.

The prepubescent exodus continued for some time. Fi-

nally Jon-Tom, Mudge, and Folly appeared at the open

window.

At the same time, lights began to wink on throughout

the orphanage complex.

XI

So the otter's suspicions had been well founded, she

decided. That was the only possible explanation for the

mass escape in progress. She waited anxiously as Mudge

slipped down the rope. Folly followed closely.

Jon-Tom had just stepped through the window opening

and was climbing over the iron grate when something

whizzed past his head. It struck the street below. Roseroar

picked it up, found herself inspecting a small club. The

knobbed end was studded with nails. Not the kind of

disciplinary device one would expect a dormitory supervi-

sor or teacher to carry.

The last fleeing cub vanished down a narrow alleyway.

Within the orphanage, bells were clanging violently. Mudge

reached the bottom of the rope and jumped clear. Folly

slipped, fell the last five feet, and almost broke an ankle.

The reason for her fall was clear; a pile of pink linen

spiraled down on top of her.

"Bloody 'ell!" The otter looked upward and cursed. "I

'ad the other end tied to a bedpost. Someone must 'ave cut

it." He could see Jon-Tom hanging on to the grating with

one hand while trying to defend himself with his staff.

170

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

171

From within the storage closet outraged shouts were clear-

ly audible down on the street. The grating creaked loudly

as it bent on its hinges.

"They'll 'ave 'im in a minute," the otter muttered

helplessly, "if that old iron doesn't break free first."

Neither happened. Someone inside the supply room

jabbed outward with a spear. Jon-Tom leaned back to

dodge the deadly point, lost his grip, and fell. The staff

dropped from his fingers as he tumbled head over heels,

wrapped up in his lizard skin cape. Folly screamed. Lesser

wails came from dark shadows nearby as those few chil-

dren who'd paused to catch their breath saw their benefac-

tor fall.

But there was no sickening thud of flesh meeting stone.

Roseroar grunted softly. It was the only hint of any strain

as she easily caught the plunging Jon-Tom in both arms.

He pushed away the cape which had become wrapped

around his head and stared up at her.

"Thanks, Roseroar." She grinned, set him down gently.

He adjusted his attire and recovered his staff. The duar,

still slung across his back, had survived the fall unscathed.

"'Ell of a catch, luv!" Mudge gave the tigress a

complimentary whack on the rump, darted out of reach

before her paw could knock him silly. There were several

faces staring down at them from the open window, yelling

and issuing dire promises. Jon-Tom ignored them.

"Y'all okay?" Roseroar inquired solicitously.

"Fine." He slung the cape back over his shoulders,

brushed at his face. "If you hadn't caught me, Clothahump

would have a longer wait for his medicine."

"And y'all brought out the girl, ah see."

Folly stepped toward her. "I am not a girl! I'm as

grown-up as you are."

Roseroar lifted her eyebrows as she regarded the skimp

of a human. "Man deah, no one is as grown-up as ah

am."

"Depends on whether someone prefers quality to quantity."

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Alan Dean Foster

" 'Ere now, wot's all this?" Mudge stepped between the

ladies. "Not that I mind if you two want to 'ave a go at

each other. Just give me a ten-minute 'ead start before the

fireworks commence, yes?" He gestured to his right. "I

don't think now's the time for private digressions, though."

At least a dozen black-clad adult shapes had appeared

near the main entrance. Jon-Tom couldn't see if Chokas

was among them, but he had no intention of hanging

around to find out.

They headed off in the opposite direction, and Jon-Tom

saw they needn't worry about pursuit. The black-clad

gestapo maintained by the Friends of the Street wasn't

after them. They were fanning out toward the alleys and

side streets in search of their escaped flock.

Jon-Tom considered intercepting them. It was difficult

, not to, but he had to tell himself that they'd done every-

thing possible for the children. Most, if not all, of them

ought to make it to the safety of the crowded city below,

and he suspected they were wise enough to discard their

incriminating b!ack-and-Iace night clothes at the first

opportunity.

One of their own was faced with the same dilemma.

"You've got to get out of that nightdress, Folly," he told

her. Obediently, she started to pull it over her head, and he

hastened to restrain her. "No, no, not yet!"

They were racing down a steep street that led back

toward the harbor area. It had begun to drizzle. He was

grateful for the rain. It should aid the fleeing children in

their escape.

"Why not yet?" Folly eyed him curiously. Curiosity

gave way rapidly to a coy smile. "When you first saw me

on Corroboc's boat I wasn't wearing anything but an iron

collar. Why should my nakedness bother you now?"

"It doesn't bother me," he lied. "It's raining and I

don't want you contracting pneumonia.'' Citizens of Snarken

out for an evening stroll watched the flight with interest.

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

173

"I don't mind if you see me naked," she said innocently.

"You like me a little, don't you, Jon-Tom?"

"Of course I like you."

"No, I mean you like me."

"Don't be silly. You're still a child, Folly."

"You don't look at me the way you'd look at a child."

"She ain't built like no cub, mate."

Jon-Tom glared over at the otter. "Stay out of this,

Mudge,"

"Excuse me, guv'nor. None o' me business, right?" He

skittered along next to Roseroar, running fluidly on his

stubby legs and trying to hide a grin.

"I'm concerned for your welfare, Folly." Jon-Tom strug-

gled to explain. "I don't like to see anyone taken advan-

tage of. You noticed that we freed everyone from the

orphanage and not just you."

"I know, but you didn't come to free everyone. You

came because I was there."

"Of course. You're a friend, Folly. A good friend."

"Is that all?" As she ran there was a lot of movement

beneath the damp nightdress. Jon-Tom was having a diffi-

cult time concentrating on the street ahead. "Just a good

friend?"

Roseroar listened with one ear to the infantile dialogue

while trying her best to ignore it. Idiot humans! She made

certain to inspect every side street they passed. Surely, as

soon as the Friends of the Street finished rounding up as

many escapees as they could, they'd contact the police

about the break-in.

Besides worrying about that new problem, she had to

endure the banalities mouthed by the adolescent human

female who was flirting shamelessly with Jon-Tom.

So what? She considered her discomfiture carefully.

Why, she asked herself, should she find such harmless

chatter so aggravating? Admirable the spellsinger might

be, but he wasn't even a member of a related species. Any

relationship besides mutual respect and strong friendship

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Alan Dean Poster

was clearly out of the question. The very thought was

absurd! The man was a skinny, furless thing less than half

her size. It made no sense for her to concern herself with

his personal business.

She assured herself her interest was only natural. Jon-

Tom was a friend, a companion now. It was just as he'd

said to the girl: it hurt to see anyone taken advantage of.

Roseroar wasn't about to let this scheming adolescent take

advantage of him. And take advantage of him Folly

would, if given half a chance. Roseroar was sure of that

much. She shook her head as Jon-Tom allowed himself to

be smothered with verbal pap, astonished at the naivete

displayed during courtship by the human species. She'd

thought better of him.

She ignored it for as long as she could, until she was

unable to stand the veiled remarks and coy queries any

longer.

"Ah think we can slow down some now." Jon-Tom and

Mudge agreed with her. Everyone slowed to a fast walk.

Roseroar moved close to the girl. "And ah also think it

would be a good ideah if we all kept quiet foah a while.

We don't want to attract any undue attention. In addition

to which, if ah'm forced to listen to any moan o' yoah

simperin', girl, ah may vomit."

Folly eyed the tigress. "Something bothering you?"

"Nothin' much, little female. It's just that ah have a

great respect foah the language. Hearin' it used so foolishly

always upsets mah digestion."

Folly turned to Jon-Tom. She flashed blue eyes and

blonde hair in the reflected light from storefronts and street

lamps. Her skin, wet with drizzle, sparkled.

"Do you think I'm talking foolish, Jon-Tom?"

"Maybe just a little, yes."

She responded with a much practiced and perfectly

formed pout. Roseroar sighed and turned away, wondering

why she went to the trouble. The spellsinger had shown

himself to be a man of intelligence and insight. It dis-

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

175

tressed her to see him so blatantly manipulated. She

increased her stride so she wouldn't have to listen to

any more of it.

"You don't like me," Folly murmured to Jon-Tom.

"Of course I like you.

"I knew you did!" She turned and threw her arms

around him, making him stagger. "I knew you liked me!"

"Please, Folly." Jon-Tom reluctantly worked to disen-

gage himself. Roseroar would have been happy to help,

though she might have broken both of the girl's arms in

the process. "Folly, I already have a woman." Her expres-

sion fell abruptly. She moved away from him, once more

concentrating on the street ahead.

"You never told me that."

"It was never necessary to tell you. Her name's Talea.

She lives near a town called Lynchbany, which lies far

across the Glittergeist."

Otter ears overheard and Mudge fell back to join them.

"O' course, she ain't really 'is woman," he said con-

versationally, thoroughly delighting in Jon-Tom's discom-

fort. "They're just friends is all."

Folly's delight returned upon hearing this disclosure.

"Oh, that's all right, then!"

"Besides, you're much too young for what you're

thinking," Jon-Tom told her, impaling Mudge with a stare

promising slow death.

"Too young for what?"

"Just too young." Strange. The right words had been

there on his lips just a moment earlier. Odd how they

vanished the instant you needed them.

"Bet I could convince you otherwise," she said

coquettishly.

"Here's the right cross street," he said hastily, lengthening

his stride. "We'll be back at the inn in a couple of

minutes."

A short furry shape jumped from an alcove ahead of

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Alan Dean Foster

him. Roseroar reached for her swords. Folly hid behind

Jon-Tom as Mudge put a hand to his bow.

They relaxed when the shape identified itself.

"Jalwar!" Jon-Tom couldn't conceal his surprise. "What

are you doing out here?" He tried to see past the ferret.

The oldster put a finger to his lips and beckoned for

them to follow. They crept along behind him, turned down

a long narrow alley. It was ripe with moldering garbage.

Jalwar pointed to the main street beyond.

Both of their heavily laden wagons were still hitched to

the rails outside the inn. Idling around the wagons were at

least two dozen uniformed skunks and civet cats from

Snarken's olfactory constabulary. Several well-dressed ci-

vilians lounged next to the front wagon and chatted amia-

bly with the officer in charge of the cops.

Jalwar drew back into the shadows. "I saw them ar-

rive," he whispered. "Many have stayed outside with our

wagons. Others went upstairs searching for us. I was

drinking and overheard in time to sneak away. I listened

when they came back down and talked to others and to the

innkeeper." The ferret's gaze shifted from Jon-Tom to

Mudge. "They were talking about you."

"Me?" Mudge squeaked, suddenly sounding defensive.

"Now, why would they be talkin' about me?"

"Because," Jalwar replied accusingly, "it seems you

spent some time playing at dice with several of them."

"So wot's wrong with a friendly little game o' dice.

Blimey, you'd think one o' them caught me in the sack

with 'is bleedin' daughter."

It came to Jon-Tom in a rush: the finely fashioned

wagons, the handsome dray animals, the new harnesses,

the mountainous stock of supplies.

"Mudge ..." he said dangerously.

The otter retreated. There was little room to maneuver

in the alley, a fact he was acutely conscious of.

"Now, mate, take it easy. We needed them supplies,

now, didn't we? Tis in a good cause, ain't it? Think o' 'is

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

177

poor sickly wizardship lyin' and waitin' for us way back in

Lynchbany and all the folks who need 'im well and 'ealthy

again."

"How did you manage it, Mudge? How did you cheat

so many of them at the same time?"

"Well, we otter folk are known for our quickness, and

I've always been quick as any."

"Y'all must've been a little too quick this time."

Roseroar peered toward the inn. "Judgin* from the number

o' police about, ah'd say you defrauded moah than a few

idle sailors."

"Wouldn't be much point in defrauding poor folks,

now, would there, luv? Wot we got from sellin' the ship

weren't near enough to buy supplies an' equipment for a

proper expedition, but 'twere plenty to buy me into a

handsome game o' chance with a few leadin' citizens."

"Fat lot of good those supplies do us now," Jon-Tom

muttered.

Jalwar was rummaging through a pile of broken crates.

"Here." He dragged out their backpacks. "I was able to

throw these from our rooms while they were still searching

for us below. It was all I had time to save."

Jon-Tom wiped grime from his own pack. "Jalwar,

you're a wonder. Thanks."

"A small service, sir." Jon-Tom didn't bother to correct

the ferret anymore. Let him say "sir" if it pleased him. "I

only wish I could have informed you sooner, but I could

not follow your path quickly enough." He smiled apologeti-

cally. "These aged legs of mine."

"It wouldn't have mattered. We were occupied with

saving Folly."

"What now?" Roseroar wondered as she hefted her

own massive pack.

Jon-Tom considered. "We can't hang around here. Now

the cops have two reasons for picking us up. They might

go easy on us over the Friends of the Street business, but

not about this. For one thing, that officer in charge is a

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Alan Dean Foster

little too chummy with the citizens Mudge cheated. I'm

not anxious to tour the inside of Snarken's prison."

"Give me a break, mate," whined the otter. "If you

'adn't been so set on goin' after "er"—he pointed toward

Folly—"we'd 'ave cleared this dump 'ours ago." He

glared disgustedly at the girl. "I blame meself for it,

though. Should've kept me concerns to meself." He added

hopefully, "We could still sell 'er."

"No." Jon-Tom put an arm around her shoulders. "Fol-

ly stays with us until we can find her a safe haven."

"I could suggest something," she murmured softly. He

moved his. arm.

"Right then," he said briskly. "No point in hanging

around here waiting for the cops to find us." He started

back the way they'd come. Mudge followed, kicking at the

garbage.

"Suits me, mate. Looks now like we're goin' to 'ave to

walk all the way to this bleedin' Crancularn. Might as well

get going. Only don't let's go spend the 'ole trip bJamin'

poor oP Mudge for the fact that we ain't ridin' in comfort."

"Fair enough. And you don't blame me for this." So

saying, he booted the otter in the rump so hard it took

Roseroar's strength to extract him from the pile of barrels

where he landed.

They slunk out of Snarken on foot—tired, anxious, and

broke. Mudge grumbled every step of the way but ac-

knowledged his mistake (sort of) by assuming the lead. It

was also a matter of self-defense, since it kept him well

out of range of Jon-Tom's boot.

Mudge also partly redeemed himself by returning from

one short disappearance with an armful of female clothing,

a bit of doubtful scavenging which Jon-Tom forced himself

to rationalize.

"Lifted it from a drunken serval," the otter explained as

Folly delightedly traded her black nightdress for the frilly

if somewhat too-small attire. "The doxy I took it off won't

miss it, and we've need of it."

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

179

They moved steadily through the city's outskirts. By the

time the sun rose over the horizon to illuminate the now

distant harbor, they were crossing the highest hill west-

ward. There they traded some goods from Jon-Tom's pack

for breakfast at a small inn, as he wanted to try and

hold on to their three remaining gold pieces for an emer-

gency. Midday saw them far from the city, hiking between

rows of well-tended fruit trees.

Mudge was rubbing his belly. "Not bad for foreign

cookin', mate."

"No, but we're going to have to eat lightly to conserve

what money we have left."

"We could sell the girl's favors."

"Not a bad idea," Jon-Tom said thoughtfully.

Mudge looked at him in surprise. "Wot's that? You

agrees?''

"Sure, if it's okay with her." He called ahead. "Hey,

Roseroar! Mudge here has a suggestion about how you can

help us raise some cash."

"No, no, no, mate!" said the suddenly panicky otter.

"I meant the girl, the girl."

Jon-Tom shrugged. "Big girl, little girl, what's the

difference?" He started to call out to the tigress a second

time. Mudge slammed a muffling paw over Jon-Tom's

mouth, having to stand on tiptoes to manage it.

"Okay, guv'nor. I get your point. I'll keep me ideas to

meseif."

"See that you do, or I'll repeat your suggestion to

Roseroar."

"I'd deny 'avin' anything to do with it."

"Sure you will, but who do you think she'll believe, me

or you?"

"That'd be a foul subterfuge, mate."

"In which inventions I have an excellent teacher."

Mudge wasn't flattered by the backhanded compliment.

They marched steadily westward. As the days passed the

character of the country grew increasingly rural. Houses

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181

were fewer and far between. Semitropical flora made way

for coniferous forest that reminded Mudge of his beloved

Bell woods. The palms and thin-barked trees of the coast

fell behind them.

They asked directions of the isolated travelers they

encountered. All inquiries were met with expressions of

disbelief or confessions of ignorance. Everyone seemed to

know that Crancularn lay to the west. Exactly where to the

west, none were able to say with certainty.

Besides, there was naught to be found in Crancularn but

trouble, and the country folk had no need of more of that.

They were busy enough avoiding the attentions of Snarken's

predatory tax collectors.

In short, Crancularn was well-known, by reputation if

not by sight, and that reputation was not enticing to

potential visitors.

Two days after the road had become a mere trail, they

settled down to enjoy the bright sunshine. A clear stream

followed the track, tumbling glassily on its course down to

the now distant Glittergeist. An octet of commune spiders

were busy building a six-foot-square web between two

trees. They would share equally in any catch.

Jon-Tom studied the pinecone that had fallen near his

feet. It was Jong and slim, and the scales shone like

bronze. Mudge had slipped out of his boots and was

wading the stream, wishing it were deep enough for him to

have a swim, while Jalwar had wandered into the woods in

search of berries and edible roots to supplement their

meager diet. Roseroar catnapped beneath an evergreen

whose trunk grew almost parallel to the ground, while

Folly, as always, stayed as close to Jon-Tom as he would

allow.

"Don't look so discouraged," she said. "We'll get

there."

Jon-Tom was picking at the cone, tossing the pieces into

the stream and watching the little triangular brown boats

until they disappeared over slick stones.

"How can we get there if nobody can give us direc-

tions? 'West' isn't good enough. I thought it would be

easy once we got out of Snarken. I thought at least a few

of the country folk would know the way to Crancularn.

From what Clotharmmp told me, this store of the Aether

and Neither is supposed to be pretty famous."

"Famous enough to avoid," Folly murmured.

"Some of them must be lying. They must be. I can't

believe not a soul knows the way. Why won't they tell

us?"

Folly looked thoughtful. "Maybe they're concerned and

want to protect us from ourselves. Or maybe none of them

really do know the way."

"Mebbee they don't know the way, boy, because it

moves around."

"What?" Jon-Tom looked back to see an old chipmunk

standing next to a botherbark bush. He pressed against the

small of his back with his left paw and gripped the end of

a curved cane with the other. Narrow glasses rested on the

nose, and an ancient floppy hat nearly covered his head

down to the eyes. A gray shirt hung open to the waist,

and below he wore brown dungarees held up by suspend-

ers. He also had very few teeth left.

"What do you mean, it moves around?" Roseroar

looked up interestedly and moved to join them. The

chipmunk's eyes went wide at the sight and Jon-Tom

hurried to reassure him.

"That's Roseroar. She's a friend."

"That's good," said the chipmunk prosaically. Mudge

turned to listen but was reluctant to abandon the cool

water.

The oldster leaned against the tree for support and

waved his cane. "I mean, it moves around, sonny. It never

stays in the same place for very long."

"That's crazy," said Folly. "It's just another town."

"Oh, it's a town, all right, but not like any other, lass.

Not Crancularn." He peered out from beneath the brim of

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his hat at Jon-Tom. "Why thee want to go there, tall

man?"

"We need something from there. From a store."

The chipmunk nodded. "Aye, the Shop of the Aether and

Neither."

"Then you've heard of it!" Jon-Tom said excitedly.

"We need something, a certain medicine, that can only be

purchased in that store."

The oldster grunted, though it came out as more of a

rusty squeak. "Well, that's thy business."

"Please, we've come a long way. From across the

Glittergeist. We need directions. Specific directions."

Another grunt-squeak. "Long way to come to make

fools of thyselves."

"It's not for us. A friend of mine, a teacher and a great

wizard, is very sick and badly needs this medicine. If you

can tell us how to get to Crancularn, we'll pay you,

somehow."

The oldster shook his head sadly. "I'd tell thee if I

could, boy, but I can't help you. I don't know where

Crancularn is." Jon-Tom slumped. "But there's them that

do. Only, I wouldn't be the one to go asking them."

"Let us worry about that," said Jon-Tom eagerly. "Who

are they?"

"Why, the enchanted ones, of course. Who else?"

"Enchanted ones?"

"Aye, the little people of the magic. The fairy folk. You

know."

Folly's eyes were wide with childlike wonder. "When I

was a little girl, I used to hear stories of the fairy folk. My

mother used to tell me." She went very quiet and Jon-Tom

tried to rush the conversation to take her thoughts off more

recent memories.

"Where would we find these fairy folk?" The thought

of meeting real honest-to-Tinker Bell fairies was enough to

motivate him. Getting directions to Crancularn would be a

bonus.

"I wouldn't advise anyone to risk such an encounter,

sonny, but I can see that thee art determined." He indicat-

ed the steep slope behind them. "They hide in the wet

ravines and steep canyons of these hills, keeping to them-

selves. Don't much care for normal folk such as us. But

thee art human, and it is said that they take human form.

Perhaps thee will have better luck than most. Seek the

places where the water runs deep and clear and the rocks

are colored so dark they are almost black, where the moss

grows thick above the creeks and..."

" 'Ere now, grandpa." Mudge spoke from his rocky seat

out in the stream. "This 'ere moss, it don't 'ave^no mental

problems now, do it?"

The chipmunk frowned at him. "How could mere moss

have mental problems?"

Mudge relaxed. Their near-disastrous experience in the

Muddletup Moors was still fresh in his mind. "Never mind."

The chipmunk gave him an odd look, turned back to

Jon-Tom. "Those are the places where thee might encoun-

ter the fairy folk. If thee must seek them out."

"It seems we've no choice." Rising, Jon-Tom turned to

inspect the tree-fringed hillside.

The elderly chipmunk resumed his walk. "I wish thee

luck, then. I wish thee luck. Thee will need it to locate the

enchanted ones, and thee will need it even more if thee

do."

The ridge above gave way to a heavily wooded slope on

the far side that grew progressively steeper. Soon they

were fighting to maintain their balance as they slipped and

slid down the dangerous grade.

At least, Jon-Tom and Roseroar were. With their inher-

ent agility and lower centers of gravity, Jalwar and Mudge

had no difficulty at all with the awkward descent, and

Folly proved lithe as a gibbon.

A stream ran along the bottom of the narrow gorge. It

was broader than the one they'd left behind, but not deep

enough to qualify as a river. Moss and many kinds of ferns

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185

clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool,

damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays

of the sun.

They spent most of the day searching along the creek

before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall

forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They

topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope

where they camped for the night.

By the afternoon of the following day they were explor-

ing their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to

think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an

especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the

expense of some gullible travelers.

They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly

erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow

flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.

Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for

her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar's fur

bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar

with the otter's overreactions, left his staff alone.

"What the hell bit you?"

Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV

sure as 'ell did. 'Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm

bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent slightly.

She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby

tail and protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything."

" 'Ave a close look."

"You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as

she moved away.

"No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but

somethin' took a chunk out o' me backside for sure,"

"Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?"

The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity

of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look,

searching for the source of the denial.

Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as

the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at

something small, winged, feminine, and drastically

overweight.

"I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy."

"Watch your mouth, buster," she said as she sort of

lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken

log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes

running through the bark. "I know I've got a small

personal problem, and I don't need some big-mouthed

human reminding me of the fact."

"Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. "You are a

fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"

"Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from

Snarken."

Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled

wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara

gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist.

The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye.

She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right

hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were

shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.

"We were told," Folly said breathlessly, "that you

could help us."

"Now, why would I want to do that? We've got enough

problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a

nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?"

"'e's a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,"

Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the

Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer."

"He's a right powerful fool," she snapped. She sat

down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most

casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to

be about four inches high and almost as wide.

"I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his companions.

An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's

your name?"

"None of your business."

"Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us

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or not is up to you, but can't we at least be polite to one

another?"

"What's this? A polite human? That doesn't make any

sense, bald-body." She shrugged. "What the hell. My

name's Grelgen. Want to make something of it?"

"Uh, no." Jon-Tom decided he was going to have to

tread very carefully with this pint-size package of enchanted

belligerence.

"Smart answer. You got anything to eat?"

Jalwar started to rummage through his pack. "I think

we have some snake jerky, and there are a few hard rolls."

"Ptui!" She spat to her right. "I mean real food. Fruit

tarts, cream cups, nectar custard, whipped honey rolls."

Jon-Tom said carefully, "I think I am beginning to see

what your problem is."

"Oh, you are, are you, fungus-foot? You think every-

thing's cut and dried, don't you? It's all so obvious to

you." She was pacing now, back and forth atop the log,

waving her tiny hands to punctuate her words.

"Say, you can't fly, can you?"

She turned to face him. "Of course I can fly, dumbutt."

She wiggled her diaphanous wings. "What do you think

these are for? Air-conditioning?"

"All right, then let's see you fly. Come on, fly."

"Feh! You'd think I didn't have anything better to do

than put on a show for a bunch of pituitary freaks."

"You can't fly!" Jon-Tom said triumphantly. "That's

your big problem. You've gotten so..."

"Watch it, jack," she said wamingly.

"... so healthy that you can't lift off anymore. I wouldn't

think it would make a difference. A bumblebee's too heavy

for flight, but it manages, and without enchantment."

"I'm a fairy, one of the enchanted folk," Grelgen

informed him, speaking as one would to an idiot child.

"Not a bumblebee. There are structural, aerodynamic, and

metabolic differences you wouldn't understand. As for

problems, you're the ones who are stuck with the biggie."

THE DAT OF THK DISSONANCE

187

She stabbed the wand at Mudge. "That turkey tried to

assassinate me!"

Mudge gaped in surprise. "Wot, me? I did nothin* o'

the kind, your shortness."

"You sat on me, rat-breath."

"Like 'ell I did! You crawled underneath me. Anyways,

'ow was I supposed to see you or anything else under all

them flowers?"

Grelgen crossed her arm. "I was sitting there minding

my own business, having a little afternoon snack of nectar

and pollen, and you deliberately dropped your rat-butt

right on top of me."

"You expect me to inspect every patch o' ground I sit

down on?"

"In our lands, yes."

"We didn't know it were your lands." Mudge was fast

losing patience with this infinitesimal harridan.

"Ah-/ia! So, a casual assassin. The worst kind." She

put two fingers to her lips and let out a sharp, piercing

whistle. Jon-Tom listened admiringly. The sound was loud

enough to attract an empty cab from two blocks down a

Manhattan street.

What it did attract, from beneath mushrooms and flow-

ers, from behind moss beds and tree roots, was a swarm of

enchanted folk, several hundred of them. A few carried

wands resembling Grelgen's, but most hefted miniature

bows and arrows, crossbows, and spears. Jon-Tom put a

hand out to restrain Roseroar from picking up her swords,

even though the tigress weighed more than all the enchanted

folk combined.

"Magic," he whispered warningly.

Roseroar yielded, but not to his admonition. "Magic or

no, the tips of then: weapons are moistened. I suspect

poison. An ungallant way to fight."

"I guess if you're four inches tall you have to use every

advantage you can think of."

Jalwar moved close, whispered to him. "Move carefully

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here, spellsinger, or we may vanish in an arrogant conjura-

tion. These folk have a deserved reputation for powerful

magic."

"That's how I figure it," he replied. "Maybe they're

not all as obnoxious or combative as our friend there."

"What's that, what did you say?"

"I said," he told Grelgen, "that it's nice of you to

invite us to meet all your friends and relatives."

"When one of us is threatened, buster, all spring to the

rescue."

Jon-Tom noted that none of the fairies surrounding them

were in any condition to fly. Every one of them waddled

about with obvious difficulty, and the slimmest was a

candidate for the enchanted branch of Weight Watchers.

"You're our prisoners," she finished.

"I see," said Mudge. "And wot if we decide not to be

your prisoners?"

"Then you'll be dead," she assured him unpleasantly.

. Mudge studied the array of glistening little weapons.

" 'Ospitable folk, wot?"

"Watch 'em," said Grelgen to her relations. She turned

and sauntered to the end of the branch, hopped off, and

landed with a wheeze in the grass below. There she entered

into a mumbling conversation with several other wand-

bearers. Most of them were clad only in rags and tatters.

Mudge would have to sit on someone of importance,

thought Jon-Tom angrily. The conference broke up mo-

ments later.

"This way," said one of the other armed fairies, gestur-

ing upstream. Surrounded by miniuscule guards, they were

marched off up the creek.

"You sure you didn't see her, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked

the otter.

"Would I 'ave been stupid enough to sit on 'er if I 'ad,

mate? Use your 'ead. It were those bloody flowers."

"You weren't looking, then," Jon-Tom said accusingly.

"So I weren't lookin*. Should I 'ave been lookin'?"

"No, I guess not. It's nobody's fault."

"Pity I didn't flatten 'er," the otter murmured, careful

to keep his voice down.

"It might not have mattered, sir," Jalwar murmured.

"The fairy folk are known for their resilience."

"I can see that," said Mudge, studying their obese

escort. "The one with the mouth looks like she could

bounce."

"Be quiet," said Jon-Tom. "We're in enough trouble

already. She'll hear you."

"Damned if I care if she does, guv." The otter had his

hands shoved in his pockets and kicked disgustedly at

pebbles as they walked along the side of the creek. "If she

ain't got common sense to see that—"

A paw the size of his head covered his mouth and,

incidently, most of his face. "Watch yo mouth, ottah,"

Roseroar told him. "Yo heard Jon-Tom. Let's not irritate

these enchanted folk any moah than we already have."

"I'd like to irritate 'em," said the otter when she'd

removed her paw. But his voice had become a whisper.

The stream narrowed. Canyon walls closed in tight

around the marchers, all but shutting out the sun. Trees

and bushes grew into one another, forming a dense,

hard-to-penetrate tangle. The captives had to fight their

way through the thickening undergrowth.

Dusk brought them to the outskirts of the enchanted

folk's village. In appearance it was anything but enchanted.

Tiny huts and homes were scattered around a natural

amphitheater. Evidence of disrepair and neglect abounded.

Some of the buildings were falling down, and even those

cut into massive tree roots had piles of trash mounded up

against the doorways. To Jon-Tom all this was clear proof

of a loss of pride among the inhabitants.

Tiny lights flickered to life behind many of the miniature

windows, and smoke started to curl from minute chim-

neys. Off to one side of the community a circular area was

surrounded by a stone wall pierced by foot-high archways.

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The six-inch high wall ended at both ends against a sheer

cliff of gray granite.

The four captives filled this arena. Once they were

inside the insignificant walls, Grelgen and two other fairies

stood within the archways waving their wands and murmuring

importantly. When the invocation was finished, she stepped

back and retreated toward the village with her cronies.

Folly took a step toward the minuscule barrier and tried

to step over. She gasped and drew back as if bitten,

holding her right hand.

"What is it?" Jon-Tom asked anxiously.

"It's hot. The air's hot."

Experimentally, Jon-Tom waved at the emptiness above

the tiny stone wall. An invisible wall of flame now

enclosed them. He shook his hand and blew on his fingers

to cool them, deciding they weren't going to blister.

Escape wouldn't be easy.

Roseroar sighed and settled herself on the hard ground.

"An ironic conclusion to yoah expedition, Jon-Tom. Cap-

tured and imprisoned by a bunch of disgruntled, not to

mention uncouth, enchanted folk."

"Don't be so quick to give up. They may decide to let

us go yet. Besides," he swung his duar around, "we have

magic of our own."

Mudge looked imploringly heavenward. "Why me, wot?"

"I do not know that spellsinging will work against the

fairy folk, sir," said Jalwar. "In my travels I have heard

that they are immune to all forms of magic except their

own. It may be that yours will have no effect on them, and

may even be turned against you."

"You don't say." Jon-Tom's fingers fell from the duar's

strings, together with what remained of his confidence. "I

didn't know that."

"It may not be so, but it is what I have heard many

times."

"We'll hold it as a last resort, then."

"Wot difference does it make, mate? 'Alf the time it

backfires on you anyhows. If it doubles back on us I

wouldn't want it to 'appen while I'm stuck in this clearin'."

"Neither would I, Mudge." He looked out toward the

winking lights of the village. "We may not have any

choice. They don't seem much inclined to listen to reason."

"I think they're all crazy," commented Folly.

In the fading light she looked healthy and beautiful. The

impermanent bruises and scars Corroboc had inflicted on

her were healing fast. She was resilient, tough, and grow-

ing more feminine by the day. She was also making

Jon-Tom increasingly uneasy.

He turned to Mudge, saw the otter standing as close as

possible to the invisible barrier enclosing them.

"What's up, Mudge?"

The otter screwed up his face, his whiskers twitching.

"Can't you smell it, too, mate? Garbage." He nodded

toward the town. "It's everywhere. Maybe they're enchanted,

but that's not the word I'd use to describe their sewage

system."

"Ah saw their gardens when we came in," said Roseroar

thoughtfully. "They appeahed to be untended."

"So fairy town's gone to hell," Jon-Tom murmured.

"Something's very wrong here."

"Wot difference do it make to us, mate? We 'ave our

own problems. Dealin' with 'Er Crossness, for one thing."

"If we could figure out what's wrong here," Jon-Tom

argued, "maybe we could ingratiate ourselves with our

captors."

"You ingratiate yourself, mate. Me, I'm for some sleep."

Jon-Tom didn't doubt that the otter could sleep on the

bare rock. If Mudge were tossed out of a plane at twenty

thousand feet, the otter could catch twenty winks before

awakening to open his parachute. It was a talent he often

envied.

"Sleeping won't solve our problem."

"It'll solve me immediate one, mate. I'm pooped."

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"Perhaps yoah magic will work against the enchanted

folk," Roseroar said hopefully.

"I don't know." Jon-Tom tapped the wood of the duar,

was rewarded with a melodious thumping sound. The

moon was shining down into the narrow defile, illuminat-

ing the dense woods surrounding them. "I'm going to hold

off till the last possible moment to find out."

The tigress was slipping out of her armor and using it to

make a crude pillow. "Ah don't know." She rested her

massive head on black and white paws. "It seems to me

that we're already theah."

Grelgen and the rest of the fairy council came for them

in the morning. Their principal nemesis had changed into a

flowing gown of orange chiffon. The bright pastel attire

had not softened her disposition, however.

"We've been considering what to do with you bums

most of the night," she informed them brusquely.

Jon-Tom stretched, pushed at his tower back, and wished1,

he'd had the sense to use Roseroar for a cushion. He was

stiff and sore from spending the night on the hard ground.

"All I can tell you is that we're innocent of any charges

you discussed. So what are you going to do now?"

"Eat," she informed him. "Talk more later."

"Well now, I could do with a spot o' breakfast!" Mudge

tried to muster some enthusiasm. Maybe Jon-Tom was right

after all, and these cute little enchanted bastards were finally

going to act in a civilized manner. "Where do we eat?"

"Wrong pronoun," Grelgen said. She turned to point

with her wand.

Jon-Tom followed it into the brush. What the poor light

of evening had kept hidden from view was now revealed

by the bright light of day. Up the creek beyond the town,

thick peeled branches spanned a shallow excavation. The

firepit showed signs of recent use.

Mudge saw it, too, and his initial enthusiasm vanished.

"Uh, wot's on the menu, luv?"

"Fricasseed water rat," she told him, with relish.

"Wot, me?" Mudge squeaked.

"Give the main course a bottle of elf dust. What better

end for a guilty assassin?"

Up till now Jon-Tom had considered their predicament

as nothing more than a matter of bad communication. This

new vision of a bunch of carnivorous fairies feasting on

Mudge's well-done carcass shoved everything over the

edge into the realm of the surreal.

"Listen, you can't eat any of us."

Grelgen rested pudgy hands on soft hips. "Why not?

Jon-Tom struggled for a sensible reply. "Well, for one

thing, it just doesn't fit your image."

She squinted sideways at him. "You," she said decisively,

"are nuts. I'm going to have to consult with the Elders to

make sure it's okay to eat crazy people."

"I mean, it just doesn't seem right. What about your

honey rolls and custards and like that?"

Grelgen hesitated. When she spoke again, she sounded

slightly embarrassed.

"Actually, you're right. It's only that every once in a

while we get this craving, see? Whoever's unlucky enough

to be in the neighborhood at the time ends up on the

village menu." She glanced over at Folly and tried to

regain some of her former arrogance. "We also find it

helpful now and then to bathe in the blood of a virgin."

Folly digested this and collapsed, rolling about on the

ground while laughing hysterically. Grelgen saw the tears

pouring down the helpless girl's cheeks, grunted, and

looked back over a shoulder. Jon-Tom followed her gaze.

On the far side of fairy town a bunch of muscular,

overweight enchanted folk were sliding an oversized wooden

bowl down a slope. At the sound of Grelgen's voice they

halted.

"Right! Cancel the bathing ceremony!"

Cursing under their breath, the disappointed bowl mov-

ers reversed their efforts and began pushing their burden

back into the bushes.

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T

THE DAY OF TBE DISSONANCE

195

"So you think it's funny, do you? Right then, you're

first on the fire instead of the water rat."

That put a clamp on Folly's laughter.

"Why her?" Jon-Tom demanded to know.

"Why not her? For one thing she's already depelted."

"Oh, no you don't." Folly braced herself against the

bare granite wall, as far from Grelgen as she could get.

"You just try and touch me! I'll squash you like a bug."

Grelgen looked disgusted, waved her wand almost

indifferently, and whispered something under her breath.

Folly leaped away from the wall, clutching her backside.

The stone had become red-hot.

"Might as well resign yourself to it, girl," said Grelgen.

"You're on this morning's menu and that's all there is to

it. If there's anything that gets my gall it's an uncooperative

breakfast."

"Please," Jon-Tom pleaded with her, dropping to his

knees to be nearer eye level with their tormentor. "We

mean you no harm. We only came into your lands to ask

you for some information."

"Sorry. Like I said, we've got the craving, and when it

comes upon us we've got to have meat."

"But why us?" Mudge asked her. "These woods must

be full o' lizards and snakes enough to supply your 'ole

village."

"Food doesn't wander into our custody," she snapped at

him. "We don't like hunting. And the forest creatures

don't stage unprovoked assaults on our person."

"Blimey," Mudge muttered. "'Ow can such small

'eads be so bloomin' dense? I told you that were an

accident!"

Grelgen stared silently at him as she tapped one tiny

glass slipper with her wand. Jon-Tom absently noted that

the slipper was three sizes too small for her not-so-tiny

foot.

"Don't give me any trouble. I'm in a disagreeable mood

as it is." She whistled up a group of helpers and they

started through one archway toward Folly. Her initial

defiance burned out of her, she hid behind Roseroar.

Jon-Tom knew that wouldn't save her.

"Look," he said desperately, trying to stall for time as

he swung the duar into playing position and tried to think

of something to sing, "you said that meat isn't usually

what you eat, that you only have this craving for it

occasionally?"

"What about it?" Grelgen snapped impatiently.

"What do you eat normally? Besides what you told me

earlier."

"Milk and honey, nectar and ambrosia, pollen and sugar

sap. What else would fairy folk eat?"

"So that's it. I had a hunch." A surge of hope rushed

through him.

"What's it?" she asked, frowning at him.

He sat down and crossed his legs, set the duar aside. "I

don't suppose there are any professional dieticians in the

village?''

"Any what?"

"No, of course not. See, all your problems are diet-

related. It not only explains your unnatural craving for

protein, it also explains your, uh, unusually rotound fig-

ures. Milk's okay, but the rest of that stuff is nothing but

pure sugar. I mean, I can't even imagine how many

calories there are in a daily dose of ambrosia. You proba-

bly use a lot of glucose when you're flying, but when you

stop flying, well, the problem only compounds itself."

One of the Elder fairies waiting impatiently behind

Grelgen now stepped forward. "What is this human raving

about?"

Grelgen pushed him back. "It doesn't matter." She

turned back to Jon-Tom. "What you say makes no sense,

and it wouldn't matter if it did, because we still have our

craving." She started to aim her wand at the trembling

Folly. "No use in trying to hide, girl. Step out here where

I can see you."

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THE DAY OF TOR DISSONANCE

197

Jon-Tom leaned sideways to block her aim. "Wait!

You've got to listen to me. Don't you see? If you'd only

change your eating habits you'd lose this craving for

protein."

"We're not interested in changing our eating habits,"

said another of the Elders. "We like nectar and honey and

ambrosia."

"All right, all right!" Jon-Tom said frantically. "Then

there's only one way out. The only other way to reduce

your craving for protein is for you to start burning off all

these extra ounces you've been accumulating. You've got

to break the cycle." He picked up the duar.

"At least give me a chance to help you. Maybe I can't

do it with spellsinging, but there are all kinds of magic."

"Consider carefully, man," Grelgen warned him. "Don't

you think we're aware that we have a little problem? Don't

you think we've tried to use our own magic to solve it?"

"But none of you is a spellsinger."

"No. That's not our kind of magic. But we've tried

everything. We're stuck with what we are. Your spellsinging

can't help us. Nothing can help us. We've experimented

with every type of magic known to the enchanted folk, as

well as that employed by the magic-workers of the greater

world. We're trapped by our own metabolisms." She

rolled up her sleeves. "Now let's get on with this without

any more bullshitting, okay?" She raised the wand again.

"Just one chance, just give me one chance!" he pleaded.

She swung the wand around to point it at him, and he

flinched. "I'm warning you, buster, if this is some sort of

trick, you'll cook before her."

"There's one kind of magic I don't think you've tried."

She made a rude noise. "Worm dung! We've tried it

all."

"Even aerobics?"

Grelgen opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned to

conference with the Elders. Jon-Tom waited nervously.

Finally she stuck her head out of the pile and inquired

almost reluctantly, "What strange sort of magic is this?"

Jon-Tom took a deep breath and rose. Putting aside the

duar, he began stripping to the waist.

Roseroar came over to whisper in his ear. "Suh, are yo

preparin' some trick ah should know about? Should ah be

ready with mah swords?"

"No, Roseroar. No tricks."

She shrugged and moved away, shaking her head.

Jon-Tom started windmilling his arms, loosening up.

Grelgen immediately retreated several steps and raised

the wand threateningly. "All you need is to learn this

magic," he said brightly. "A regular program of aerobics.

Not only will it reduce your unnatural craving for protein,

it should bring back your old aerodynamic figures."

"What does that mean?" asked one of the younger

fairies.

"It means we'll be able to fly again, stupid," replied

one of the Elders as he jabbed the questioner in the ribs.

"Fly again." The refrain was taken up by the rest of the

crowd.

"It's a trick!" snapped Grelgen, but the weight of

opinion (so to speak) was against her.

"All right." She tucked her wand under one arm and

glared up at Jon-Tom. "You get your chance, man. If this

is a trick to buy time, it better be good, because it's going

to be your last one."

"It's no trick," Jon-Tom assured her, feeling the sweat

starting to trickle from beneath his arms. And he hadn't

even begun yet.

"Look, I'm no Richard Simmons, but I can see we need

to start with the basics." He was aware he had the

undivided attention of several hundred sets of eyes. He

took a deep breath, thankful for the morning runs which

kept him in decent condition. "We're going to start with

some deep knee-bends. Hands on hips... watch those

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Tarn DAY or THE DISSONANCE

199

wings, that's it. Ready." He hesitated. "This would work