Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

   "I'm dying," Clothahump wheezed. The wizard glanced
   to his left. 'Tm dying and you stand there gawking like a
   virginal adolescent who's just discovered that his blind
   date is a noted courtesan. With your kind of help I'll never
   live to see my three-hundredth birthday."
   "With your kind of attitude it's a wonder you've man-
   aged to live this long." Jon-Tom was more than a little
   irritated at his mentor. "Listen to yourself: two weeks of
   nonstop griping and whining. You know what you are,
   turtle of a wizardly mien? You're a damned hypochondriac.''
   Clothahump's face did not permit him much of a frown,
   but he studied the tall young human warily. "What is that?
   It sounds vaguely like a swear word. Don't toy with me,
   boy, or it will go hard on you. What is it? Some magic
   word from your own world?"
   "More like a medical word. It's a descriptive term, not
   a threat. It refers to someone who thinks they're sick all
   the time, when they're not."
   "Oh, so I'm imagining that my head is fragmenting, is
   that what you're saying?" Jon-Tom resisted the urge to
 
   2     Alan Dean Foster
   reply, sat his six-feet-plus frame down near the pile of
   pillows that served the old turtle for a bed.
   Not for the first time he wondered at the number of
   spacious rooms the old oak tree encompassed. There were
   more alcoves and chambers and tunnels in that single trunk
   than in a termite's hive.
   He had to admit, though, that despite his melodramatic
   moans and wails, the wizard didn't look like himself. His
   plastron had lost its normal healthy luster, and the old eyes
   behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from the
   pain. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so abrupt. If
   Clothahump couldn't cure himself with his own masterly
   potions and spells, then he was well and truly ill.
   "I know what I am," Clothahump continued, "but
   what of you? A fine spellsinger you've turned out to be."
   "I'm still learning," Jon-Tom replied defensively. He
   fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar
   instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic
   through the use of song. One might think it a dream come
   true for a young rock guitarist-cum-law student, save for
   the fact that he didn't seem to have a great deal of control
   ' over the magic he made.
   Since the onslaught of Clothahump's pains, Jon-Tom
   had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and
   good feelings. None had produced the slightest effect with
   the exception of his spirited rendition of the Beach Boys'
   "Good Vibrations." That bit of spellsinging caused
   Clothahump to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and
   potions flying and cracking his glasses.
   Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his
   hands off the duar and made no further attempts to cure the
   wizard.
   "I didn't really mean to imply that you're faking it," he
   added apologetically. "It's just that I'm as frustrated as
   you are."
   Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE     3
   gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of the constant
   pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness.
   "I did the best I could," Jon-Tom murmured.
   "I know you did, my boy. I know you did. As you say,
   there is much yet for you to learn, many skills still to
   master."
   "I'm just bulling my way through. Half the time I pick
   the wrong song and the other half it has the wrong result.
   What else can I do?"
   Clothahump looked up sharply. "There is one chance
   for me, lad. There is a medicine which can cure what ails
   me now. Not a spell, not a magic. A true medicine."
   Jon-Tom rose from the edge of the pile of pillows. "I
   think I'd better be going. I haven't practiced yet today and
   I need to..."
   Clothahump moaned in pain and Jon-Tom hesitated,
   feeling guilty. Maybe it was a genuine moan and maybe it
   wasn't, but it had the intended effect.
   "You must obtain this medicine for me, my boy. I can't
   trust the task to anyone else. Evil forces are afoot."
   Jon-Tom sighed deeply, spoke resignedly. "Why is it
   whenever you want something, whether it's help making it
   to the bathroom or a snack or someone to go on a
   dangerous journey for you, that evil forces are always
   afoot?"
   "You ever see an evil force, boy?"
   "Not in the flesh, no."
   "Evil forces always go afoot. They're lousy fliers."
   "That's not what I meant."
   "Doesn't matter what you meant, my boy. You have to
   run this errand for me. That's all it is, a little errand."
   "Last time you asked me to help you run an errand we
   ended up with the fate of civilization at stake."
   "Well, this time it's only my fate that hangs in the
   balance." His voice shrank to a pitiful whisper. "You
   wouldn't want me to die, would you?"
   "No," Jon-Tom admitted. "I wouldn't."
   4     Alan Dean Foster
   "Of course you wouldn't. Because if I die it means the
   end of your chances to return to your own world. Because
   only I know the necessary, complicated, dangerous spell
   that can send you back. It is in your own interest to see
   that I remain alive and well."
   "I know, I know. Don't rub it in."
   "Furthermore," the wizard went on, pressing his advan-
   tage, "you are partly to blame for my present discomfort."
   "What!" Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. "I don't know
   what the hell you've got, Clothahump, but I certainly
   didn't give it to you."
   "My illness is compounded of many factors, not the
   least of which are my current awkward living conditions."
   Jon-Tom frowned and leaned on his long ramwood staff.
   "What are you talking about?"
   "Ever since we returned from the great battle at the
   Jo-Troom Gate my daily life has been one unending litany
   of misery and frustration. All because you had to go and
   turn my rude but dutiful famulus Pog into a phoenix.
   Whereupon he promptly departed my service for the dubi-
   ous pleasures his falcon ladylove could bestow on him."
   "Is it my fault you've had a hard time replacing him?
   That's hardly a surprise, considering the reputation you got
   for mistreating Pog."
   "I did not mistreat Pog," the wizard insisted. "I treated
   him exactly as an apprentice should be treated. It's true
   that I had to discipline him from time to time. That was
   due to his own laziness and incompetence. All part of the
   learning process." Clothahump straightened his new glasses.
   "Pog spread the details of your teaching methods all
   over the Betlwoods. But 1 thought the new famulus you
   finally settled on was working out okay."
   "Ha! It just goes to show what can happen when you
   don't read the fine print on someone's resume. It's too late
   now. I've made him my assistant and am bound to him, as
   he is to me."
   "What's wrong? I thought he was brilliant."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE     5
   "He can be. He can be studious, efficient, and eager to
   learn."
   "Sounds good to me."
   "Unfortunately, he has one little problem."
   "What kind of problem?"
   Clothahump's reply was interrupted by a loud, slurred
   curse from the room off to the left. The wizard gestured
   with his head toward the doorway, looked regretful.
   "Go see for yourself, my boy, and understand then what
   a constant upset my life has become."
   Jon-Tom considered, then shrugged and headed under
   the arched passageway toward the next chamber, bending
   low to clear the sill. He was so much taller than most of
   the inhabitants of this world that his height was an ever-
   present problem.
   Something shattered and there was another high-pitched
   curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of
   him as he emerged into the storeroom.
   It was as spacious as Clothahump's bedroom and the
   other chambers which somehow managed to coexist within
   the trunk of the old oak. Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full
   of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and
   workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.
   Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the break-
   age was Sorbl, Clothahump's new famulus. The young
   great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He
   wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule
   Clan.
   He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on
   his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible
   wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were
   exquisitely bloodshot.
   "Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?"
   The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his
   feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of
   'the workbench.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Shure I remember you," he said thickly. "You... you're
   that spielsunger... spoilsanger. ..."
   "Spellsinger," Jon-Tom said helpfully.
   "Thas what I said. You're that what I said from another
   world that the master brought through to hulp him against
   the Pleated Filk."
   "The master is not feeling well." He put his staff aside.
   "And you're not looking too hot either."
   "Hooo, me?" The owl looked indignant, walked away
   from the bench wavering only slightly. "I am perfectly
   fine, thank you." He glanced back at the bench. "Is just
   that I was looking for a certain bottle."
   "What bottle?"
   "Not marked, thish one." Sorbl looked conspiratorial
   and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye.
   "Medicinal liquid. Not for his ancientness in there. My
   bottle," he finished, suddenly belligerent. "Nectar."
   "Nectar? I thought owls liked mice."
   "What?" said the outraged famulus. For an instant
   Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents here-
   abouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other
   citizens of this world. "If I tried to take a bite out of a
   mouse, his relatives would come string me up. I'll stick to
   small lizards and snakishes. Listen," he continued more
   softly, "it's hard working for this wizard. I need a lil'
   lubrication now and then."
   "You get any more lubricated," Jon-Tom observed
   distastefully, "and your brains are going to slide out your
   ass."
   "Nonshensh. I am in complete control of myself." He
   turned back toward the bench, staggered over to the edge,
   and commenced a minute inspection of the surface with
   eyes that should have been capable of spotting an ant from
   a hundred yards away. At the moment, however, those
   huge orbs were operating at less than maximum efficiency.
   Jon-Tom shook his head in disgust and returned to the
   wizard's bedside.
   THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE     7
   "Well," asked Clothahump meaningfully, "what is your
   opinion of my new famulus?"
   "I think I see what you're driving at. I didn't notice any
   of the qualities you said he possesses. I'm pretty sure he
   was drunk."
   "Really?" said Clothahump dryly. "What a profound
   observation. We'll make a perceptive spellsinger out of
   you yet. He is like that too much of the time, my boy. I am
   blessed with a potentially brilliant famulus, a first-rate,
   worthy assistant. Sadly, Sorbl is also a lush. Do you know
   that I have to make him take a cart into town to buy
   supplies because every time he tries to fly in he ends up by
   running head-first into a tree and the local farmers have to
   haul him back to me in a wagon? Do you have any idea
   how embarrassing that is for the world's greatest wizard?"
   "I can imagine. Can't you cure him? I'd think an
   anti-inebriation spell would be fairly simple and straight-
   forward."
   "It is a vicious circle, my boy. Were I not so sick I
   could do so, but as it stands I cannot concentrate. Past two
   hundred the mind loses some of its resilience. I tried just
   that last week. All those methyl ethyl bethels in the spell
   are difficult enough to get straight when you're at the top
   of your form. Sick as I was, I must have transposed an -yl
   somewhere. Made him throw up for three days. Cured his
   drinking, but made him so ill the only way he could cure
   himself was by getting falling-down-drunk again.
   "I must have that medicine, lad, so that I can function
   properly again. Otherwise I'm liable to try some complex
   spell, slip an incantation, and end up with something
   dangerous in my pentagram. It's hard enough making sure
   that idiot in there passes me the proper powders. Once he
   substituted lettuce for liverwort, and I ended up with a
   ten-foot-tall saber-toothed rabbit. Took me two hasty re-
   traction spells to bunny it down."
   "Why don't you just conjure the stuff up?"
   "I do not possess the necessary ingredients," Clothahump
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   Alan Dean Foster
   explained patiently. "If I did, I could just take them, now,
   couldn't I?"
   "Beats me. I've seen you make chocolate out of garbage."
   "Medicine is rather more specific in its requirements.
   Everything must be so precise. You can make milk choco-
   late, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, semisweet
   chocolate: it's still all chocolate. Alter the composition of
   a medicinal spell ever so slightly and you might end up
   with a deadly poison. No, it must be brought whole and
   ready, and you must bring it to me, my boy." He reached
   out with a trembling hand. Jon-Tom moved close, sitting
   down again on the edge of the soft bed.
   "I know I did a bad thing when I reached out into the
   beyond and plucked you hence from your own comfortable
   world, but the need was great. In the end, you vindicated
   my judgment, though in a fashion that could not have been
   foreseen." He adjusted his glasses. "You proved yourself
   in spite of what everyone thought."
   "Mostly by accident." Jon-Tom realized that the wizard
   was flattering him in order to break down his resistance to
   making the journey. At the same time he felt himself
   succumbing to the flattery.
   "It need not be by accident any longer. Work at your
   new profession. Study hard, practice your skills, and heed
   my advice. You can be more than a man in this world. I
   don't know what you might have been in your own, but
   here you have the potential to be a master. // you can
   wrestle your strengths and talent under control."
   "With your instruction, of course."
   "Why not learn from the best?" said Clothahump with
   typical immodesty. "In order for me to train you I need
   many years. One does not master the arcane arts of
   spellsinging in a day, a week, a year. If you do not fetch
   this medicine that can cure this bedamned affliction, I will
   not be around much longer to help you.
   "I need only a small quantity. It will fit easily into a
   THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAWCE    9
   pocket of those garish trousers or that absurd purple shirt
   that foppish tailor Carlemot fashioned for you."
   "It's not purple, it's indigo," Jon-Tom muttered, looking
   down to where it tucked into the pants. His iridescent
   green lizard-skin cape hung on a wall hook. "From what
   I've seen, this qualifies as subdued attire here."
   "Go naked if you will, but go you must."
   "All right, all right! Haven't you made me feel guilty
   enough?''
   "I sincerely hope so," the wizard murmured.
   "I don't know how I let you talk me into these things."
   "You have the misfortune to be a decent person, a
   constant burden in any world. You suffer from knowing
   right from wrong."
   "No I don't. If I knew what was right, I'd be long gone
   from this tree. But you did take me in, help me out, even
   if you did use me for your own ends. Not that I feel used.
   You used everyone for your own ends."
   "We saved the world," Clothahump demurred. "Not
   bad ends."
   "You're also right about my being stuck here unless you
   can work the spell to send me home someday. So 1
   suppose I have no choice but to go after this special
   medicine. It's not by any chance available from the apoth-
   ecary in Lynchbany?"
   "I fear not."
   "What a lucky guess on my part."
   "Teh. Sarcasm in one so young is bad for the liver."
   Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table
   that doubled as a bedside desk. He scribbled with a quill
   pen on a piece of paper. A moment passed, he cursed, put
   a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed writing.
   When he finished, he rolled the paper tight, inserted it
   into a small metal tube which hung from a chain, and
   handed it to Jon-Tom.
   "Here is the formula," he said reverently. "She who is
   to fill it will know its meaning."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Jon-Tom nodded, took the chain, and hung it around his
   neck. The tube was cool against his chest.
   "That is all you need to know."
   "Except how to find this magician, or druggist, or
   whatever she is."
   "A store. Nothing more." Clothahump's reassuring tone
   immediately put Jon-Tom on his guard. "The Shop of the
   Aether and Neither. It lies in the town of Crancularn."
   "I take it this Crancularn isn't a hop, skip, and a jump
   from Lynchbany?"
   "Depends on your method of locomotion, but for most
   mortals, I would say not. It lies well to the south and west
   of the Bellwoods."
   Jon-Tom made a face. He'd been around enough to have
   picked up some knowledge of local geography. "There
   isn't anything well to the southwest of here. The Bellwoods
   run down to the River Tailaroam which flows into..." he
   stopped. "Cranculara's a village on the shore of the
   Glittergeist?"
   Clothahump looked the other way. "Uh, not exactly, my
   boy. Actually it lies on the other side."
   "The other side of the river?"
   "Noooo. The other side of the ocean."
   Jon-Tom threw up his hands in despair. "And that's the
   last straw,"
   "Actually, lad, it's only the first straw. There are many
   more to pass before you reach Crancularn. But reach it you
   must," he finished emphatically, "or I will surely perish
   from the pain, and any chance you have of returning home
   will perish with me."
   "But I don't even know how big the Glittergeist is."
   "Not all that big, as oceans go." Clothahump strove to
   sound reassuring. "It can be crossed in a few weeks. All
   you have to do is book passage on one of the many ships
   that trade between the mouth of the Glittergeist and distant
   Snarken."
   "I've heard of Snarken. Big place?"
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   11
   "A most magnificent city. So I have been told, never
   having visited there myself. Grander than Polastrindu.
   You'd find it fascinating."
   "And dangerous."
   "No journey is worthwhile unless it is dangerous, but
   we romanticize. I do not see any reason for anticipating
   trouble. You are a tourist, nothing more, embarked on a
   voyage of rest, relaxation, and discovery."
   "Sure. From what I've seen of this world it doesn't treat
   tourists real well."
   "That should not trouble an accomplished spellsinger
   like you."
   The wizard was interrupted by the sound of another
   crash from the nearby storeroom, followed by a few
   snatches of drunken song.
   "You also have your ramwood staff for protection, and
   you no longer are a stranger to our ways. Think of it as a
   holiday, a vacation."
   "Why do I have this persistent feeling you're not telling
   me everything?"
   "Because you are a pessimist, my boy. I do not criti-
   cize. That is a healthy attitude for one embarked on a
   career in magic. I am not sending you after trouble this
   time. We do not go to battle powerful invaders from the
   east. I am asking you only to go and fetch a handful of
   powder, a little medicine. That is all. No war awaits. True,
   it is a long journey, but there is no reason why it should
   be an arduous one.
   "You leave from here, proceed south to the banks of the
   Tailaroam, book passage downstream. At its mouth where
   the merchant ships dock you, board a comfortable vessel
   heading for Snarken. Thence overland to Crancularn. A
   short jaunt, I should imagine."
   "Imagine? You mean you don't know how far it is from
   Snarken to Crancularn?"
   "Not very far."
   "For someone who deals in exact formulas and spells,
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   Alan Dean Foster
   you can be disconcertingly nonspecific at times, Clotha-
   hump.''
   "And you can be unnecessarily verbose," the turtle shot
   back.
   "Sorry. My pre-law training. Never use one word where
   five will fit. Maybe I would've ended up a lawyer instead
   of a heavy-metal bass player."
   "You'll never know if you don't return to your own
   world, which you cannot do unless ..."
   "I know, I know," Jon-Tom said tiredly. "Unless 1
   make the trip to this Crancularn and bring back the
   medicine you need. Okay, so I'm stuck."
   "I would rather know that you had undertaken this
   journey with enthusiasm, willingly, out of a desire to help
   one who only wishes you well."'
   "So would I, but you'll settle for my going because I
   haven't got any choice, won't you?"
   "Yes," said Clothahump thoughtfully, "I expect that 1
   will."
   II
   He wasn't in the best frame of mind the morning he set
   off. Not that anything was keeping him occupied else-
   where, he told himself sourly. He had no place in this
   world and certainly no intention of setting himself up in
   practice as a professional spellsinger.
   For one thing, that would put him in direct competition
   with Clothahump. Although the wizard thought well of
   him, Jon-Tom didn't think Clothahump would take kindly
   to the idea. For another, he hadn't mastered his odd
   abilities to the point where he could guarantee services for
   value received, and might never achieve that degree of
   expertise. He preferred to regard his spellsinging as a
   talent of last resort, choosing to rely instead on his staff
   and his wits to keep him out of trouble.
   In fact, the duar provided him with far more pleasure
   when he simply played it for fun, just like his battered old
   Fender guitar back home. Now he played it to ease his
   mind as he walked into town, strumming a few snatches of
   very unmagical Neil Diamond while wishing he had Ted
   Nugent's way with strings. At the same time he had to be
   careful in his selections. Diamond was innocuous enough.
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   Alan Dean Poster
   If he tried a little Nugent—say, "Cat Scratch Fever" or
   "Scream Dream"—there was no telling what he might
   accidentally conjure up.
   At least the weather favored his journey. It was early
   spring- Deep within the Bellwoods, so named for the
   bell-shaped leaves which produced a tinkling sound when
   the wind blew through them, there was the smell of dew
   and new blossoms on the air. Glass butterflies flew every-
   where, their stained-glass wings sending shafts of brilliant
   color twinkling over the ground. Peppermint bees striped
   in psychedelic hues darted among the flowers.
   One hitched a ride on his indigo shirt. Perhaps it thought
   he was some kind of giant ambulatory flower. Jon-Tom
   examined it with interest. Instead of the yellow-and-black
   pattern he was accustomed to, his visitor's abdomen was
   striped pink, lemon yellow, orange, chocolate brown, and
   bright blue. Man and insect regarded one another thought-
   fully for a long moment. Deciding he was neither a source
   of pollen or enlightenment, the bee droned off in search of
   sweeter forage.
   Lynchbany Towne was unchanged from the first time
   Jon-Tom had seen it, on that rainy day when he, a strange-
   to this world, had entered it accompanied by Mudge tl
   otter. It was Mudge he sought now. He had no intention
   striking out across the Glittergeist alone, no matter ho
   much confidence Clothahump vested in him. There was
   still far too much of the ways and customs of this place he
   was ignorant of.
   Mudge's knowledge was of the practical and non-
   intellectual variety. Too, nothing was more precious to the
   otter than his own skin. He was sort of a furry walking
   alarm, ready to jump or take whatever evasive action the
   situation dictated at the barest suggestion of danger. Jon-
   Tom intended to use him the way the allies had used
   pigeons in World War I to detect the presence of poison
   gas.
   Mudge would have considered the analogy unflattering,
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   15
   but Jon-Tom didn't care what the otter thought. Despite his
   questionable morals and wavering sense of loyalty, the
   otter had been a great help in the past and could be so
   again.
   Luck wasn't with Jon-Tom, however. There was no sign
   of Mudge in the taverns he normally frequented, nor word
   of him in the eating establishments or gambling dens. He
   hadn't been seen in some time in any of his usual haunts.
   Jon-Tom finally found mention of him in one of the
   more reputable rooming houses on the far side of town,
   where the stink from the central open sewer was less.
   The concierge was an overweight koala in a bad mood.
   A carved pipe dangled from her lips as she scrubbed the
   floor near the entrance.
   "Hay, I've seen him," she told Jon-Tom. Part of her
   right ear was missing, probably bitten off during a dispute
   with an irate customer.
   "I'd laik to know where he gone to much as you, man.
   He skip away owing me half a week's rent. That not bad
   as some have dun me, but I work hand to run this place
   and every silver counts."
   "Only a few days' rent, is it?" Jon-Tom squatted to be
   at eye level with the koala. "You know where he is, don't
   you? You're feeding me some story old Mudge paid you to
   tell anyone who came looking for him because he paid you
   to do so, because he probably owes everyone but you."
   She wrinkled her black nose and wiped her paws on her
   apron. Then she broke out in a wide grin. "You a clever
   one, you are, man, though strange of manner and talk."
   "I'm not really from around here," Jon-Tom confessed.
   "Actually my home lies quite a distance from Lynchbany.
   Nor am I a creditor or bill collector. Mudge is my friend."
   "Is he now?" She dropped her scrub brush in the pail of
   wash water and rose. Jon-Tom did likewise. She reached
   barely to his stomach. That wasn't unusual. Jon-Tom was
   something of a giant in this world where humans barely
   topped five and a half feet and many others stood shorter.
 
   16
   Alan Dean Foster
   "So you his friend, hay? That make you sort of unique.
   I wasn't aware the otter had any friends. Only acquain-
   tances and enemies."
   "No matter. I am his friend, and I need to get in touch
   with him."
   "What for?"
   "I am embarked on a journey in the service of the great
   wizard Clothahump."
   "Ah, that old fraud."
   "He's not a fraud. Haven't you heard of the battle for
   the Jo-Troom Gate?"
   "Yea, yea, I heard, I heard." She picked up the bucket
   of wash water, the scrub brush sloshing around inside. "I
   also know you never believe everything you read in the
   papers. This journey you going on for him. It going be a
   hard one, where someone might get deaded?"
   "Possibly."
   "Hay, then I tell you where the otter is and you make
   sure he go with you?"
   "That's the idea."
   "Good! Then I tell you where he is. Because I tell you
   true, man, he owe me half a week's rent. I just don't want
   to tell anyone else because maybe they get to him before
   me. But this is better, much better. Worth a few days'
   rent.''
   "About that rent," Jon-Tom said, jiggling the purse full
   of gold Clothahump had given him to pay for his passage
   across the Glittergeist.
   The concierge waved him off. "Hay nay, man. Just
   make sure he go with you on this dangerous journey. More
   better I dream of him roasting over some cannibal's spit in
   some far-off land. That will give me more pleasure than a
   few coins."
   "As you wish, madame." Jon-Tom put the purse aside.
   "Only, you must be sure promise to come back here
   someday and regale me with the gory details. For that I
   pay you myself."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   17
   "I'll be sure to make it my business," Jon-Tom said
   dryly. "Now, where might I find my friend?"
   "Not here. North."
   "Oglagia Towne?"
   "Hay nay, farther west. In Timswitty."
   "Timswitty," Jon-Tom repeated. "Thanks. You know
   what business he has there?"
   She let out a short, sharp bark, a koalaish laugh. "Same
   business that otter he have any place he go: thievery,
   deception, debauchery, and drunkenness. I wager you find
   him easy enough you keep that in mind."
   "I will. Tell me. I've never been north of Lynchbany.
   What's Timswitty like?"
   She shrugged. "Like heah. Like Oglagia. Like any of
   the Bellwoods towns. Backward, crowded, primitive, but
   not bad if you willing stand up for your rights and work
   hard."
   "Thank you, madame. You're sure I can't pay you
   anything for the information you've given me?"
   "Keep you money and make you journey," she told
   him. "I look forward to hearing about the otter's slow and
   painful death upon you return."
   "Don't hold your breath in expectation of his demise,"
   Jon-Tom warned her as he turned to leave. "Mudge has a
   way of surviving in the damndest places."
   "I know he do. He slip out of heah without me smelling
   his going. I tell you what. If he don't get himself killed on
   this journey of yours, you can pay me his back rent when
   you return."
   "I'll do better than that, madame. I'll make him pay it
   himself, in person."
   "Fair enough. You have good traveling, man."
   "Good day to you too, madame."
   Jon-Tom had no intention of walking all the way to
   Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had provided him with
   funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach
   was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a
   18
   Alan Dean Poster
   seat on the boxy contraption. It was pulled by four hand-
   some horses and presided over by a couple of three-foot-
   tall chimpmunks who cursed like longshoremen. They
   wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage
   and cartons into the rear of the stage.
   Jon-Tom had the wrong notion of who was in charge,
   however. As he strolled past the team of four, one of the
   horses cocked an eye in his direction.
   "Come on, bud, hurry it up. We haven't got all day."
   "Sorry. The ticket agent told me you weren't leaving for
   another fifteen minutes."
   The mare snorted. "That senile bastard. I don't know
   what the world's coming to when you can't rely on your
   local service people anymore."
   "Tell me about it," said the stallion yoked to her.
   "Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of
   hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving fools with
   small brains to handle business details for us."
   "Right on, Elvar," said the stallion behind him.
   The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.
   "All aboard?" asked the mare second in harness. "Hold
   on to your seats, then."
   The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the
   luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their
   breath. There was no need for drovers, since the horses
   knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders
   and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the
   team, who, after all, did the real work of pulling the stage.
   This would have been fine as far as Jon-Tom and the
   other passengers were concerned except that the horses had
   an unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped,
   and while their voices were strong and clear, not a one of
   them could carry a tune in a bucket. So the passengers
   were compelled to suffer a series of endless, screeching
   songs all the way through to Timswitty.
   When one passenger had the temerity to complain, he
   was invited to get out and walk. There were two other
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   19
   unscheduled stops along the way as well, once when the
   team got hungry and stopped to graze a lush meadow
   through which the road conveniently cut, and again when
   the two mares got into a heated argument about just who
   boasted the daintier fetlocks.
   It was dark when they finally pulled into Timswitty.
   "Come on," snapped the lead stallion, "let's get a
   move on back there. Our stable's waiting. I know you're
   all stuck with only two legs, but that's no reason for
   loafing."
   "Really!" One of the outraged travelers was an elegantly
   attired vixen. Gold chains twined through her tail, and her
   elaborate hat was badly askew over her ears from the
   jouncing the stage had undergone. "I have never been
   treated so rudely in my life! I assure you I shall speak to
   your line manager at first opportunity,"
   "You're talking to him, sister," said the stallion. "You
   got a complaint, you might as well tell me to my face."
   He looked her up and down. "Me, I think you ought to
   thank us for not charging you for the extra poundage."
   "Well!" Her tail swatted the stallion across the snout as
   she turned and flounced away to collect her luggage.
   Only the fact that his mate restrained him kept him from
   taking a bite out of that fluffy appendage.
   "Watch your temper, Dreal," she told him. "It doesn't
   do to bite the paying freight. Rotten public relations."
   "Bet all her relations have been public," he snorted,
   pawing the ground impatiently. "What's slowing up those
   striped rats back there? I need a rubdown and some sweet
   alfalfa."
   "I know you do, dear," she said as she nuzzled his
   neck, "but you have to try and maintain a professional
   -attitude, if only for the sake of the business."
   "Yeah, I know," Jon-Tom overheard as he made his
   way toward the depot. "It's only that there are times when
   I think maybe we'd have been better off if we'd bought
   ourselves a little farm somewhere out in the country and
   20
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSOKAWCE
   21
   hired some housemice and maybe a human or two to do
   the dirty work."
   He was the only one in the office. The fox and the other
   passengers already had destinations in mind.
   "Can I help you?" asked the elderly marten seated
   behind the low desk. With his long torso and short waist,
   the clerk reminded Jon-Tom of Mudge. The marten was
   slimmer still, and instead of Mudge's jaunty cap and bright
   vest and pantaloons he wore dark shorts and a sleeveless
   white shirt, a visor to shade his eyes, and bifocals.
   "I'm a stranger in town."
   "I suspect you're a stranger everywhere," said the
   marten presciently.
   Jon-Tom ignored the comment. "Where would a visitor
   go for a little harmless fun and entertainment in Timswitty?"
   "Well now," replied the marten primly, "I am a family
   man myself. You might try the Golden Seal. They offer
   folksinging by many species and occasionally a string trio
   from Kolansor."
   "You don't understand." Jon-Tom grinned insinuatingly.
   "I'm looking for a good time, not culture."
   "I see." The marten sighed. "Well, if you will go down
   the main street to Born Lily Lane and follow the lane to its
   end, you will come to two small side streets leading off
   into separate cul-de-sacs. Take the north close. If the smell
   and noise isn't enough to guide you further, look for the
   small sign just above an oil lamp, the one with the carving
   of an Afghan on it."
   "As in canine or cloth?"
   The marten wet his lips. "The place is called the
   Elegant Bitch. No doubt you will find its pleasures suita-
   ble. I wouldn't know, of course. I am a family man."
   "Of course," said Jon-Tom gravely. "Thanks."
   As he made his solitary way down the dimly lit main
   street, he found himself wishing Talea was at his side.
   Talea of the flame-red hair and infinite resourcefulness.
   Talea of the blind courage and quick temper. Did he love
   her? He wasn't sure anymore. He thought so, thought she
   loved him in return. But she was too full of life to settle
   down as the wife of an itinerant spellsinger who had not
   yet managed to master his craft.
   Not long after the battle of the Jo-Troom Gate, she had
   regretfully proposed they go their separate ways, at least
   for a little while. She needed time to think on serious
   matters and suggested he do likewise. It was hard on him.
   He did miss her. But there was the possibility she was
   simply too independent for any one man.
   He held to his hopes, however. Perhaps someday she
   would tire of her wanderings and come back to him. There
   wasn't a thing he could do but wait.
   As for Flor Quintera, the cheerleader he'd inadvertently
   brought into this world, she had turned out to be a major
   disappointment. Instead of being properly fascinated by
   him, it developed that she lusted after a career as a
   sword-wielding soldier of fortune and had gone off with
   Caz, the tall, suave rabbit with the Ronald Colman voice
   and sophisticated manners. Jon-Tom hadn't heard of them
   hi months. Flor was a dream that had brought him back to
   reality, and fast.
   At least this was a fit world in which to pursue dreams.
   At the moment, though, he was supposed to be pursuing
   medicine. He clung to that thought as he turned down the
   tiny side street.
   True to the marten's information he heard sounds of
   singing and raucous laughter. But instead of a single small
   oil lamp there were big impressive ones flanking the door,
   fashioned of clear beveled crystal.
   Above the door was a swinging sign showing a finely
   coiffed hound clad in feathers and jewels. She was gazing
   back over her furry shoulder with a distinctly come-hither
   look, and her hips were cocked rakishly.
   There was a small porch. Standing beneath the rain
   shield, Jon-Tom knocked twice on the heavily oiled door.
   It was opened by a three-foot-tall mouse in a starched suit.
   22
   Alan Dean Poster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   23
   Sound flooded over Jon-Tom as the doormouse looked him
   over.
   "Step inside and enjoy, sir," he finally said, moving
   aside.
   Jon-Tom nodded and entered. The doormouse closed the
   door behind him.
   He found himself in a parlor full of fine furniture and a
   wild assortment of creatures representing several dozen
   species. All were cavorting without a. care as to who they
   happened to be matching up with. There were several
   humans in the group, men and women. They moved freely
   among their intelligent furry counterparts.
   Jon-Tom noted the activity, listened to the lascivious
   dialogue, saw the movement of hands and paws, and
   suspected he had not entered a bar. No question what kind
   of place this was. He was still surprised, though he
   shouldn't have been. It was a logical place to look for
   Mudge.
   Still, he didn't want to take the chance of embarrassing
   himself. First impressions could be wrong. He spoke to the
   doormouse.
   "I beg your pardon, but this is a whorehouse, isn't it?"
   The mouse's voice was surprisingly deep, rumbling out
   of the tiny gray body. "All kinds we get in here," he
   muttered dolefully, "all kinds. What did you think it was,
   jack? A library?"
   "Not really. There aren't any books."
   The doormouse showed sharp teeth in a smile. "Oh, we
   have books, too. With pictures. Lots of pictures, if that's
   to your taste, sir."
   "Not right now." He was curious, though. Maybe later,
   after he'd found Mudge.
   "You look like you've been a-traveling, sir. Would
   you like something to eat and drink?"
   "Thanks, I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm looking for a
   friend."
   "Everyone comes to the Elegant Bitch in search of a
   friend.''
   "You misunderstand. That's not the way I mean."
   "Just tell me your ways, sir. We cater to all ways here."
   "I'm looking for a buddy, an acquaintance," Jon-Tom
   said in exasperation. The doormouse had a one-track
   mind.
   "Ah, now I understand. No divertissements, then? This
   isn't a meeting house, you know."
   "You're a good salesman." Jon-Tom tried to placate
   him. "Maybe later. I have to say that you're the smallest
   pimp I've ever seen."
   "I am not small and I am not a pimp," replied the
   doormouse with some dignity. "If you wish to speak to the
   madam..."
   "Not necessary," Jon-Tom told him, though he won-
   dered not only what she'd look like but what she'd be.
   "The fellow I'm after wears a peaked cap with a feather in
   it, a leather vest, carries a longbow with him everywhere
   he goes, and is an otter. Name of Mudge."
   The doormouse preened a whisker, scratched behind one
   ear. For the first time Jon-Tom noticed the small earplugs.
   Made sense. Given the mouse's sensitivity to sound, he'd
   need the plugs to keep from going deaf while working
   amid the nonstop celebration.
   "I recognize neither name nor attire, sir, but there is one
   otter staying with us currently. He would be in room
   twenty-three on the second floor."
   "Great. Thanks." Jon-Tom almost ran into the mouse's
   outstretched palm. He placed a small silver piece there and
   saw it vanish instantly.
   "Thank you, sir. If there is anything I can do for you
   after you have met with this possible friend, please let me
   know. My name is Whort and I'm the majordomo here."
   "Maybe later," Jon-Tom assured him as he started up
   the carved stairway.
   He had no intention of taking the doormouse up on his
   24
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   25
   offer. Not that he had anything against the house brand of
   entertainment. His long separation from Talea plagued him
   physically as well as mentally, but this wasn't the place to
   indulge in any lingering fancies of the flesh. It looked
   fancy and clean, but you never could tell where you might
   pick up an interesting strain of VD, and not only the
   human varieties. In the absence of modern medicine he
   didn't want to have to count on curing a good dose of the
   clap with a song or two.
   So he restrained his libido as he mounted the second-
   floor landing and hunted for the right door. He was
   interrupted in his search by a sight that reminded him this
   was a real place and not a drug-induced excursion into a
   dreamland zoo.
   A couple of creatures had passed him, and he'd paid
   them no mind. Coming down the hall toward him now was
   an exceptionally proportioned young woman in her early
   twenties- She was barely five feet tall and wore only a
   filmy peach-colored peignoir. The small pipe she smoked
   did little to blur the image of prancing, bouncing femininity.
   "Well, what are you staring at, tall-skinny-and-hand-
   some?"
   It occurred to Jon-Tom this was not intended as a
   rhetorical question, and he mumbled a reply that got all
   caught up in his tongue and teeth. Somehow he managed
   to shamble past her. Only the fact that Clothahump lay
   dying in his tree along with any chance Jon-Tom had of
   returning home kept him moving. His head rotated like a
   searchlight, and he followed the perfect vision with his
   eyes until she'd disappeared down the stairs.
   As he forced himself down the hall, that image lingered
   on his retinas like a bright light. Sadly, he found the right
   door and knocked gently, sparing a last sorrowful glance
   for the now empty landing.
   "Mudge?" He repeated the knock, was about to repeat
   the call, when the door suddenly flew open, causing him to
   step back hastily. Standing in the opening was a female
   otter holding a delicate lace nightgown around her. Her
   eyebrows had been curled and painted, and the tips of her
   whiskers dipped in gold. She was sniffling, an act to which
   Jon-Tom attached no particular significance. Otters sniffled
   a lot.
   She took one look at him before dashing past his bulk
   down the hallway, short legs churning.
   Jon-Tom stared after her, was about to go in when a
   second fur of the night came out, accompanied by an
   equally distraught third otter. They followed their sister
   toward the stairs. Shaking his head, he entered the dark
   room.
   Faint light flickered from a single chandelier. Golden
   shadows danced on the flocked wallpaper. Nothing else
   moved. Two curved mirrors on opposing walls ran from
   floor to ceiling. An elegant china washbasin rested on a
   chellow-wood dresser. The door to the John stood half-
   agape.
   A wrought-iron bed decorated with cast grapevines and
   leaves stood against the far wall. The headboard curved
   slightly forward. A pile of sheets and pillows filled the
   bed, an eruption of fine linen. Jon-Tom guessed this was
   not the cheapest room in the house.
   From within the silks and satins came a muffled but still
   familiar voice. "Is that you, Lisette? Are you comin' back
   to forgive me, luv? Wot I said, that were only a joke.
   Meant nothin' by it, I did."
   "That would be the first time," Jon-Tom said coolly.
   There was silence, then the pile of sheets stirred and a head
   emerged, black eyes blinking in the darkness. "Cor, I'm
   'aving a bloody nightmare, I am! Too much bubbly."
   "I don't know what you've had," Jon-Tom said as he
   moved toward the bed, "but this is no nightmare."
   Mudge wiped at his eyes with the backs of his paws.
   "Right then, mate, it is no nightmare. You're too damned
   big to be a nightmare. Wot^the 'ell are you doin' 'ere,
   anyways?"
   "Looking for you."
   26
   Alan Dean Poster
   "You picked the time for it." He vanished beneath the
   linens. "Where's me clothes?"
   Jon-Tom turned, searched the shadows until he'd located
   the vest, cap, pants and boots. The oversized bow and
   quiver of arrows lay beneath the bed. He tossed the whole
   business onto the mattress.
   "Here."
   "Thanks, mate." The otter began to flow into the
   clothes, his movements short and fast. " 'Tis a providence,
   it is, wot brings you to poor oF Mudge now."
   "I don't know about that. You actually seem glad to see
   me. It's not what I expected."
   Mudge looked hurt. "Wot, not 'appy to see an old
   friend? You pierce me to the quick. Now why wouldn't I
   be glad to see an old friend?"
   Something funny going on here, Jon-Tom mused warily.
   Where were the otter's usual suspicious questions, his
   casual abusiveness?
   As if to answer his questions the door burst inward.
   Standing there backlit by the light from the hall was a sight
   to give an opium eater pause.
   The immensely overweight lady badger wore a bright
   red dress fringed with organdy ruffles. Rings dripped from
   her manicured fingers, and it was hard to believe that the
   massive gems that encircled her neck were real. They
   threw the light back into the room.
   A few curious customers crowded in behind her as she
   raised a paw and pointed imperiously at the bed.
   "There he is!" she growled.
   "Ah, Madam Lorsha," said Mudge as he finished his
   dressing in a hurry, "I 'ave to compliment you on the
   facilities of your establishment."
   "That will be the last compliment you ever give any-
   one, you deadbeat. Your ass is a rug." She snapped her
   fingers as she stepped into the room. "Tork."
   Bending to pass under the sill was the largest intelligent
   warmlander Jon-Tom had yet encountered. It was a shock
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   27
   to see someone taller than himself. The grizzly rose at
   least seven and a half feet, wore black-leather pants and
   shirt. He also wore what appeared in the bad light to be
   heavy leather gloves. Their true nature was revealed all too
   quickly.
   Now, Jon-Tom did not know precisely what had tran-
   spired in the elegant room or beyond its walls or between
   his furry friend who was slipping on his boots in a
   veritable frenzy and the badger who was clearly the owner
   of the house of ill repute, but he suspected the sight of the
   full-grown grizzly adjusting the brass knuckles over his
   immense paws did not bode well for the future.
   "I understand your concern, luv," said Mudge as he
   casually recovered his bow and quiver, "but now that me
   mate's 'ere everything will be squared away."
   "Will it, now?" she said. The grizzly stood rubbing one
   palm with a massive fist and grinning. His teeth were very
   white. The badger eyed Jon-Tom. "Does he mean to say
   that you'll pay his bill?"
   "Pay his bill? What do you mean, pay his bill?"
   "He's been up here for three days without coming
   down, enjoying my best liquor and girls, and now he tells
   them he hasn't got a silver to his bastard name."
   Jon-Tom glared back at Mudge. The otter shrugged,
   didn't appear in the least embarrassed. "Hey, at least I was
   honest about it, mate. I told 'em I was broke. But it's all
   right, ain't it? You'll pay for me, won't you?"
   "You are his friend?" inquired the badger.
   "Well, yeah." He brought out the purse Clothahump
   had given him and jiggled it. The gold inside jingled
   musically, and the badger and the bear relaxed.
   She smiled at him. "Now that's more like it.. .sir. I
   can see that you are a gentleman, though I don't think
   much of your choice of friends." Mudge looked wronged.
   "How much does he owe you?"
   She didn't even have to think. "Two hundred and fifty,
   sir. Plus any damages to the linen. I'll have to check."
   28
   Alan Dean Poster
   "I can cover it," Jon-Tom assured her. He turned to
   look darkly at Mudge, hefting his ramwood staff. "If
   you'd be kind enough to give me a moment alone with
   him, I intend to take at least some of it out of his hide."
   The badger's smile widened. "Your pleasure is mine,
   sir." Again she snapped her fingers. The grizzly let out a
   disappointed grunt, turned, and ducked back through the
   doorway.
   "Take your time, sir. If you need anything helpful—
   acid, some thin wooden slivers, anything at all—the house
   will be delighted to supply it."
   The door closed behind her. As soon as they were alone,
   Jon-Tom began to search the room. There was only one
   window, off to the left. He tried to open it, found it
   wouldn't budge.
   " 'Ere now, mate," said Mudge, ambling over, "wot's
   the trouble? Just pay the old whore and let's be gone from
   'ere."
   "It's not that simple, Mudge. That money is from
   Clothahump, to pay for our passage at least as far as
   Snarken. And I lied about the amount. No way is there
   two hundred and fifty there."
   Mudge took a step backward as Jon-Tom strove to
   puzzle out the window. "Just a minute there, mate. Wot's
   that about payin' our way? Snarken, you said? That's all
   the way across the Glittergeist, ain't it?"
   "That's right." Jon-Tom squinted at the jamb. "I think
   this locks from the outside. Clever. Must be a way to
   break through it."
   Mudge continued backing toward the bed. "Nice of you
   to come lookin' for me, mate, but I'm afraid I can't go
   with you. And you say 'is wizardship is behind it?"
   "That's right. He's sick and I have to go get him some
   medicine."
   "Right. Give the old reptile me best wishes, and I 'ope he
   makes a speedy recovery. As for me, I've some (ravelin' to do
   for me 'ealth, and salt air doesn't agree with me lungs."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   29
   "You're not going anywhere unless it's with me,"
   Jon-Tom snapped at him. "You take one step out that door
   and I'll call the madam. I saw the look in her eyes. She'd
   enjoy separating your head from the rest of you. So would
   that side of beef that came in with her."
   "I ain't "afraid of no bag of suet wot communicates in
   grunts," Mudge said.
   Jon-Tom turned from the window. "Then maybe I ought
   to call them. I can always find someone else to accompany
   me."
   Mudge rushed at him. "Take it easy, mate, 'old on. To
   Snarken, you say?"
   "Maybe beyond."
   "Ain't no place beyond Snarken."
   "Yes there is. Little town not too far inland from
   there." He fumbled between the windowpanes, was rewarded
   by a double clicking sound. "Ah,"
   He lifted the window slowly. Halfway up, something
   loud and brassy began to clang inside the building.
   "Shit! There's an alarm spell on this thing!" The
   sounds of pounding feet came from the hall.
   "No time for regrets, mate, and you'd best not stand
   there gawkin'." Mudge was over the sill in a flash and
   shinnying down the rainpipe outside. Jon-Tom followed
   more slowly, envying the otter his agility.
   By the time they reached the pavement, faces had
   appeared at the open window.
   "You won't get away from me, otter!" Madam Lorsha
   yelled, shaking her fist at them as they ran up the side
   street. At any moment Jon-Tom expected to hear the
   grizzly's footsteps behind them, feel huge paws closing
   around his throat. "I'll hunt you to the ends of the world!
   No one runs out owing Madam Lorsha!"
   "Funny what she said about the ends of the world,"
   Jon-Tom murmured as he followed the otter down endless
   alleyways and turns. He was sure Mudge had memorized
   30
   Alan Dean Foster
   this escape route before stepping inside the brothel. "That's
   where we're going."
   "There you go again, mate," said Mudge, "usin' them
   words like we and us."
   "I need your help, Mudge."
   They reached a main street and slowed to a walk as they
   joined the crowd of evening strollers. Timswirty was a
   good-sized town, much bigger than Lynchbany. It was
   unlikely Madam Lorsha's thugs would be able to find
   them. Jon-Tom tried to hunch over and mask his excep-
   tional height.
   "Clothahump is deathly ill, and we must have this
   medicine. I'm not any happier about making this trip than
   you are."
   "You must be, mate, because I'm not goin' to make it.
   Don't get me wrongo. You just 'elped me clear out of a
   bad spot. 1 am grateful, I am, but she weren't worth
   enough to make me put me life on the line for you, much
   less for that old word-poisoner."
   They edged around a strolling couple. "I need someone
   who knows the way, Mudge."
   "Then you needs some other bloke, mate. I ain't never
   been to Snarken."
   "I mean someone who knows the ways of the world,
   Mudge. I've learned a lot since I've been here, but that's
   nothing compared to what I don't know. I need your good
   advice as well as your unconventional knowledge."
   "Sure you do." Mudge puffed up importantly in spite of
   knowing better. "You think you can flatter me into goin',
   is that it? Or did you think I'd forgotten your intentions to
   be a solicitor in your own world? Don't take me for a fool,
   mate."
   "I have to have someone along I can trust," Jon-Tom
   went on. The otter's expression showed that was one ploy
   he wasn't expecting.
   "Now that ain't fair, guv'nor, and you knows it."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   31
   "There will also," Jon-Tom added, saving the best for
   last, "be a good fee for helping me."
   That piqued the otter's interest. " 'Ere now, why didn't
   you come out and say that t' begin with instead of goin' on
   with all this twaddle about *ow 'is poor old 'ardheaded
   curmudgeonly 'oiiness was 'aving an attack of the gout or
   whatever, or 'ow badly you need me unique talents." He
   moved nearer and put a comradely arm around Jon-Tom's
   waist, as high as he could comfortably reach.
   "You 'ave a 'ell of a lot to learn about life, guv'nor."
   He rambled on as the evening fog closed in comfortingly
   around them, explaining that though he didn't know how it
   was in Jon-Tom's world, here it was gold that spoke
   clearest and bought one's trust. Not words.
   Jon-Tom allowed as how things indeed were different,
   deferring to the otter's claims while privately disagreeing.
   It did not matter who was right, however. All that mattered
   was that Mudge had agreed to join him.
   Mudge managed to steer them into a tavern in a high-
   class district. Having already flashed Clothahump's gold,
   Jon-Tom couldn't very well claim he didn't have the
   wherewithal to pay. So he went slowly through his own
   meal while the otter devoured a gigantic banquet more
   suitable to the appetite of Madam Lorsha's bouncer. As
   Mudge explained between mouthfuls, he'd burned up a lot
   of energy this past week and wanted to make certain he
   embarked on their long journey at full strength.
   Only when the otter had finished the final morsel did he
   lean contentedly back in his chair.
   "So you say we're goin' to distant Snarken, wot, and
   beyond, and I say there's nothin' beyond. Wot did 'is nibs
   say it would be like?"
   "He didn't exactly say." Jon-Tom picked at a sweet
   dessert. "Just the town where the store with the medicine
   is kept."
   "Yeah, I 'eard you say somethin' about a town. 'As it
   got a name?"
   32
   Alan Dean Poster
   Jon-Tom decided the bittersweet berry dessert was to his
   taste, finished the last of it. "Cranculam."
   "WOT?" Mudge suddenly was sitting bolt upright,
   dribbling the last traces of wrinklerry jelly from his lips as
   he gaped at the man sitting across the table from him. A
   few curious diners spared him a glance, returned to their
   business when they saw no fighting was involved.
   Mudge wiped at his sticky whiskers and spoke more
   softly, eyeing Jon-Tom sideways. "Wot did you say the
   name o' this dump was, guv'nor?"
   "Crancularn. I see you've heard of it."
   " 'Hard of it, you're bloody well right I've 'card of it.
   That's a place o' the dead, mate."
   "I thought there wasn't anything beyond Snarken."
   "Not supposed to be, mate, but then, nobody knows
   where this Crancularn is supposed to be either, except that
   it moves about from time to time, like lice, and that
   anyone who ever gets there never comes back. 'Tis the
   entrance to 'ell itself, mate. Surely you don't mean to go
   there."
   "Not only do I mean to go there, I intend to make a
   small purchase and return safely with it. And you're
   coming with me. You promised."
   "'Ere now, mate, when I made this 'ere bargain,
   weren't nothin' said about Cranculam. I'm out." He stepped
   off the chair and discovered he was straddling the far end
   of Jon-Tom's ramwood staff, which had been slipped
   under the table earlier.
   "Sit down," Jon-Tom ordered him. Gingerly, the otter
   resumed his seat. "You made a promise, Mudge. You
   agreed to accompany me. In a sense, you accepted the
   proffered fee. Where I come from an oral contract is
   enforceable when the details are known to both parties,
   and in this case the details are now known."
   "But Crancularn, mate. Can't this medicine be got
   anywheres else?"
   Jon-Tom shook his head. "I pressed Clothahump on that
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   33
   point repeatedly, and he never wavered. The only place it
   can be bought is Crancularn." He leaned over the table,
   spoke almost angrily. "Look, do you think I want to go
   gallivanting halfway across a strange world in search of
   some old fart's pills? I like Clothahump, sure, but I have
   my own life to live. What's left of it. If he dies leaving me
   stuck here, I might as well be dead. It's interesting
   enough, your world, but I want to go home, damn it! I
   miss Westwood on the opening night of a Steven Spielberg
   movie, and I miss the bookstores on Hollywood Boule-
   vard, and the beach, and bagels at the deli, and take-out
   Chinese food, and—"
   "All right, mate, I believe you. Spare me your memo-
   ries. So it's a contract, is it? At least you're learnin' 'ow to
   stick up for your rights." He smiled and tapped the staff.
   Jon-Tem was taken aback. He'd acted almost exactly the
   way Mudge would have if their situations had been re-
   versed. The thought was more than a little appalling.
   "You'll keep your end of the bargain, then?"
   "Aye." Mudge spoke with obvious reluctance. "I gave
   me word, so I'm stuck with it. Well, a short life but a
   happy one, they say. Tis better than dyin' in one's bed.
   Alone, anyway."
   "There's no need for all this talk of dying." Jon-Tom
   sipped at the mug of cold cider in front of him. "We are
   going to get to Cranculam, obtain the necessary medica-
   tion, and return here. All we're doing is running an
   errand."
   "That's right, mate. Just an errand." He belched derisively,
   to the unconcealed disgust of the well-dressed diners
   nearby. "Wot a day it was for me when you tumbled into
   that glade where I was huntin' so peaceful. Why couldn't
   you 'ave settled on some other poor bloke besides old
   Mudge?"
   "You were just lucky. As for your ill fortune, we don't
   know yet who's the fool in this play: you for agreeing to
   come with me or me for wanting you to."
   1
   34
   Alan Dean Foster
   "You singe me privates, mate," said Mudge, looking
   wounded, an expression he had mastered.
   "A wonder there's anything left to singe, after three
   days in that brothel. Finish up and let's find a place to
   sleep. I'm bushed."
   ill
   It took six tries to finally wake Mudge. After three days of
   nonstop debauchery and the huge mea! of the previous
   night, the otter had to be helped to the bathroom. He got
   his pants on backwards and his boots on opposite feet.
   Jon-Tom straightened him out and together they worked
   their way through Tims witty in search of transportation.
   From a nervous dealer badly in need of business they
   rented a low wooden wagon pulled by a single aged dray
   lizard, promising to drop it off at the port of Yarrowl at the
   mouth of the Tailaroam. From Yarrowl it should be a
   simple matter to book passage on a merchantman making
   the run across the Glittergeist to Snarken.
   They succeeded in slipping quietly out of town without
   catching the eye of Madam Lorsha or her hirelings and
   were soon heading south along the narrow trade road.
   Once within the forest Mudge relaxed visibly.
   " 'Peers we gave the old harridan the slip, mate."
   Jon-Tom's eyebrows lifted. "We?"
   "Well now, guv'nor, since 'tis we who are goin* on this
   little jaunt and we who are goin' to risk our lives for the
   sake o' some half-dotty ol' wizard, I think 'tis fair enough
   35
   36
   Alan Dean Foster
   for me to say that 'tis we who escaped the clutches of her
   haunches."
   "Plural good and plural bad, is that it?" Jon-Tom
   chucked the reins, trying to spur the ancient lumbering
   reptile to greater speed. "I guess you're right."
   "Nice of you to agree, mate," said Mudge slyly. "So
   'ow's about lettin' me 'ave a looksee at our money?"
   "I'll keep an eye on our travel expenses, thanks. I need
   your help with several matters, Mudge, but counting coin
   isn't one of them."
   "Ah well, then." Mudge leaned back against the hard
   back of the bench, put his arms behind his head, and gazed
   through the tinkling branches at the morning sun. "If you
   don't trust me, then to 'ell with you, mate."
   "At least if I end up there it'll be with our money
   intact."
   They stopped for lunch beneath a tree with bell leaves
   the size of quart jars. Mudge unpacked snake jerky and
   fruit juice. The appearance of the fruit juice made the otter
   shudder, but he was intelligent enough to know that he'd
   overdone his alcoholic intake just a hair the past week and
   that the percentage in his blood could not be raised much
   higher without permanent damage resulting. He poured
   himself a glass, wincing as he did so.
   Something glinted in the glass and he looked sharply to
   his right. Nothing amiss. Bell leaves making music with
   the morning breezes, flying lizards darting from branch to
   branch in pursuit of a psychedelic bee.
   Still... Carefully he set down his glass next to the
   wagon wheel. The dray lizard snoozed gratefully in a
   patch of sunlight, resting its massive head on its forelegs.
   Jon-Tom lay in the shade of the tree. All seemed right with
   the world.
   But it wasn't.
   "Back in a sec, mate." Mudge reached into the back of
   the wagon. Instead of food and drink he grabbed for his
   bow and quiver. The crossbow bolt that rammed into the
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   37
   wood between his reaching hands gave him pause. He
   withdrew them slowly.
   "A wise decision," said a voice from the trees.
   Jon-Tom sat up fast. "Who said that?"
   He found himself staring at the business ends of an
   assortment of pikes and spears, wielded by an unpleasant-
   looking assortment of furry assailants.
   "Me fault," Mudge muttered, angry at himself. "I
   'eard 'em comin', I did, but not quite soon enough."
   "It wouldn't have mattered," said the voice which had
   spoken a moment, before. "There are too many of us
   anyway, and though we are instructed to bring you in
   alive, it wasn't specified in what condition."
   Stepping through the circle of armed warmlanders was a
   coatimundi nearly as tall as Mudge. His natural black
   striping had been enhanced with brown decorations painted
   on muzzle and tail. One front canine was missing, and the
   remainder of the long, sharp teeth were stained yellow. He
   rested one paw on the hilt of a thick, curved dagger belted
   at his waist. The dagger was also stained, but not yellow.
   Jon-Tom thought rapidly. Like Mudge's bow, his own
   duar and ramwood staff lay in the bed of the wagon. If he
   could just get to them.... Well, what if he could? As this
   apparent leader of their captors had said, they were badly
   outnumbered.
   "Right. Wot is it you want with us?" Mudge asked.
   "We're just a couple of innocent travelers, poor prospects
   for thieves."
   The coati shook his head and glared at them over his
   long snout out of bright black eyes. "I'm not interested in
   your worldly possessions, whatever they might be. I've
   been ordered by my master to bring you in."
   "So Lorsha found us out anyway," the otter muttered.
   He sounded wistful. "Well, them three days were almost
   worth dyin' for. You should've been with me, mate."
   "Well, I wasn't, and they're not worth dying for from
   my viewpoint."
   38
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Calm yourselves," said the coati. "No one's speaking
   of dying here. Cooperate and give me no trouble, and I'll
   give none back to you." He squinted at Mudge. "And
   what's all this chattering about someone named Lorsha?"
   Mudge came back from his memories and made a face
   at the coati. "You ain't 'ere to take us back to Madam
   Lorsha of Timswitty?"
   "No. I come from Malderpot."
   "Malderpot?" Jon-Tom gaped at him.
   "Big town," Mudge informed him, "full of dour folk
   and little pleasure."
   "We like it," said a raccoon hefting a halberd.
   "No offense," Mudge told him.  "Who wants us in
   Malderpot?"
   "Our master Zancresta," said the coati.
   "Who's this Zancresta?" Jon-Tom asked him.
   A few incredulous looks showed on the faces of their
   captors, including the coati.
   "You mean you've never heard of the Master of Dark-
   ness and Manipulator of the Secret Arts?"
   Jon-Tom shook his head. " 'Fraid not."
   The coati was suddenly uncertain. "Perhaps we have
   made a mistake. Perhaps these are not the ones we were
   sent to fetch. Thile, you and Alo check their wagon."
   Two of the band rushed to climb aboard, began going
   through the supplies with fine disregard for neatness. It
   took them only moments to find Jon-Tom's staff and duar,
   which Thile held up triumphantly.
   "It's the spellsinger, all right," said the muskrat.
   "Keep a close watch on his instrument and he'll do us
   no harm," the coati instructed his men.
   "I mean you no harm in any case," said Jon-Tom.
   "What does your Zancresta want with us?"
   "Nothin' good. You can be certain o' that, mate," said
   Mudge.
   "So one of you, at least, has heard of our master."
   "Aye, I've 'eard of 'im, thVmgh I don't mean to flatter
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   39
   'is reputation by it." He turned to Jon-Tom. "This 'ere
   Zancresta chap's the 'ead wizard not only for the town of
   Malderpot but for much of the northern part o' the Bellwoods.
   See, each town or village 'as its own wizard or sorcerer or
   witch, and each o' them claims to be better than 'is
   neighbor at the arts o' magickin'."
   "Zancresta is the best," said the coati. "He is the
   master."
   "I ain't goin' to argue the point with you," said Mudge.
   "I 'ave no interest whatsoever in wizardry debates and
   functions, for all that I seem to be gettin' repeatedly
   screwed by 'em.
   "Now, if it's the spellsinger 'ere you're come after, take
   'im and let me go. I'm only a poor traveler tryin' 'is best
   to make it down the windy road o' life, and I've 'ad a 'ard
   enough time makin* ends meet as it is without gettin'
   caught up again in the world's troubles."
   "It may be true," said the coati, eyeing him unflatteringly.
   "But I have my orders. They say I am to bring back the
   spellsinger known as Jon-Tom and any who travel with
   him. You will have the chance to plead your case before
   the master. Perhaps he will let you go."
   "And if *e don't?"
   The coati shrugged. "That's not my affair."
   "Easy for you to say," Mudge grumbled.
   Spears prodded Jon-Tom and Mudge into the back of the
   wagon, where they sat with their hands tied behind their
   backs. A couple of the coati's henchmen took over the
   reins. The little procession swung back northward, slightly
   west of Timswitty but also in the opposite direction from
   Lynchbany and the River Tailaroam.
   "This Zancresta 'as a bad reputation, mate," Mudge
   whispered to his companion. "Mind now, I'm not denyin'
   'is abilities. From wot I've 'eard 'e ain't bad at sorcerin',
   but 'e's unscrupulous as 'ell. Cheats on 'is spells and
   short-changes 'is incantations, but 'e's too powerful for
   anyone to go up against. I've 'ad no dealin's with 'im
   40
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   41
   tneself, and I stay clear o' folk from Malderpot. As I said,
   they ain't much for partyinV
   "From what you tell me about their chief wizard, I can
   see why they aren't."
   "Right." Mudge nodded past the drivers. "Now, 'tis
   clear this 'ere ringtail knows nothin' o' wot 'is master
   wants with us. That may be somethin' we can turn to our
   advantage. So somehow we 'ave to get clear o' this
   charmin' bunch o' throat-slitters before we're brought up
   before Zancresta himself. If that 'appens, I 'ave this funny
   feelin' that we'll never see the shores o' the Glittergeist or
   any other calm water."
   "Don't underestimate this one." Jon-Tom indicated the
   coati, who strolled along in the lead, talking with a couple
   of his band. "He seems more than the usual hired thug."
   "Fancy clothes can't hide one's origin," said Mudge.
   "No harm in trying." He raised his voice. "Hey, you,
   leader!"
   "Shut up," snapped the muskrat from the driver's
   bench. He showed a short sword. "Or you will eat your
   own tongues for breakfast and can see how your words
   taste then."
   "I just want a word with your chief. Surely one as
   illustrious as he can spare a prisoner a few minutes of his
   time."
   Evidently the coati's ears were as sensitive as his nose,
   because he slowed his pace until he was walking alongside
   the wagon.
   "I bear you no hatred, spellsinger. What do you wish to
   talk about? By the way, my name is Chenelska."
   "Don't you have any idea what your master wants with
   us? What use has so great and powerful a wizard for a
   mere spellsinger like me?"
   Chenelska considered a moment, then glanced past Jon-
   Tom to Mudge. "Tell me, water rat, is this tall human as
   ignorant as he appears or is he making fun of me?"
   "No." Mudge spoke with sufficient conviction to per-
   suade the coati that he was telling the truth. " 'E's as
   dumb as he looks."
   "Thanks, Mudge. Nice to know I can rely on your good
   opinion."
   "Don't mention it, mate."
   "Can it be," said the dumbfounded Chenelska, "that
   you have never heard of the rivalry between our master
   and the one that you serve?"
   "The one I serve? You mean Clothahump? I don't serve
   him. I'm not an apprentice or anything like that. He has
   another who serves him. We're just friends."
   "Indeed. Good enough friends that you undertake a
   long, dangerous mission on his behalf when he lies too ill
   to travel himself. A mission to cross the Glittergeist in
   search of a rare and precious medicine he requires to cure
   himself."
   "How the hell do you know that?" Jon-Tom said
   angrily.
   The coati grinned and laughed, a single sharp barking.
   "It seems that this Clothahump does have another who
   serves him. A true famulus. A fine, intelligent, hard-
   working apprentice who serves faithfully and well. Except
   when he's been treated to a few stiff sips of good belly-
   warmer."
   "Sorbl! That stupid big-eyed sot!"
   The coati nodded, still grinning. "Not that we had to
   work hard at it, you understand. The poor little fellow
   merely wanted companionship, and other servants of my
   master provided it, whereupon the turtle's servant grew
   extremely talkative."
   "I'll bet he did," Jon-Tom mumbled disconsolately.
   "It has always been a matter of great contention in this
   part of the world," the coati explained, "as to who the
   greater wizard is. Clothahump of the tree or my master
   Zancresta. It didn't bother my master when opinion was
   divided and drifted back and forth. But it has lately
   become apparent that outside the immediate environs of
   42
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   43
   Malderpot, the consensus is that your Clothahump is the
   greater." He moved closer to the wagon and lowered his
   voice so that his band could not overhear.
   "It's true that saving the whole world is a tough act to
   follow. When word came of the victory over the Piated
   Folk at the Jo-Troom Gate, and the part your master
   Clothahump played in it, there was very little my master
   couid do to counteract the great shift in public opinion,
   and he has been in a murderous mood ever since."
   ' 'As if Clothahump saved all the warmlands just to spite
   him," Jon-Tom said disgustedly.
   "Be that as it may, wizards can be very touchy about
   such things. Zancresta dwells on evil spells and prepares
   toxic presents and calls down all who cross him. He has
   been dangerous to approach ever since this happened. The
   only way for him to regain his self-respect and cancel his
   shame is to do something to make himself again be
   considered the equal of the turtie of the tree. Yet he sees
   no way to do this. This Clothahump refuses all challenges
   and duels."
   "Clothahump," Jon-Tom explained politely, "doesn't
   think much of games."
   "Word travels that he does not because he is getting
   senile.''
   Jon-Tom didn't reply. There was nothing to be gained by
   arguing with Chenelska and angering him.
   "Therefore, my master is badly frustrated, since there is
   no way he can prove that he is truly the most skilled in the
   wizardly arts.
   "Word arrived recently about this severe sickness
   Clothahump is suffering from and that he cannot cure with
   his own magic, that he needs medicine obtainable only
   from a land beyond Snarken. My master was delighted by
   it."
   "When we get out of this," Jon-Tom whispered to
   Mudge, "I'm going to string Sorbl up by his feet and hang
   him beak-first over an open bottle of brandy."
   "Mate, I truly 'ope you get that opportunity," said
   Mudge.
   "Thanks to the information the wizard's famulus pro-
   vided, we were able to locate and intercept you," said
   Chenelska.
   "What does your master intend doing with us?"
   "I do not know, man. For now, it would seem sufficient
   to prevent you from carrying out your mission and returning
   with the necessary medicine. Perhaps after he has weakened
   enough my master will take pity on him and travel south to
   allow him the privilege of begging for his help."
   "Clothahump would never do that," Jon-Tom assured
   the coati. "He'll spit in Zancresta's face before he asks his
   help."
   "Then I imagine he will die." The coati spoke without
   emotion. "It is of no import to me. I only serve my
   master."
   "Yes, you're a good slave."
   The coati moved closer to the wagon and slapped the
   sideboard angrily. "I am no slave!"
   "A slave is one who unquestioningly carries out the
   orders of his master without considering the possible
   consequences."
   "I know the consequences of what I do." Chenelska
   glowered at him, no longer friendly. "Of one consequence
   I am sure. I will emerge from this little journey far better
   ofif than you. You think you're smart, man? I was instruct-
   ed in all the tricks a spellsinger can play. You can make
   only music with your voice and not magic without your
   instrument. If I choose to cut your throat, I will be safer
   still.
   "As for the water rat that accompanies you, it may be
   that the master will free him. If he does so, I will be
   waiting for him myself, to greet him as is his due." With
   that, the coati left them, increasing his stride to again
   assume his place at the head of the little procession.
   44
   Alan Dean Foster
   "I'm beginnin' to wish you'd left me at Madam Lorsha's,"
   the otter said later that night.
   "To Tork's tender mercies?" Jon-Tom snorted. "You'd
   be scattered all over Timswitty by now if I hadn't shown
   up to save you, and you know it."
   "Better to die after three days o' bliss than to lie in
   some filthy cell in Malderpot contemplatin' a more mun-
   dane way o' passin'."
   "We're not dead yet. That's something."
   "Is it now? You're a fine one for graspin' at straws."
   "I once saw a man start a fire with nothing more than a
   blade of dry grass. It kept both of us warm through a night
   in high mountains."
   "Well 'e ain't 'ere and neither is 'is fire."
   "You give up too quickly." Jon-Tom looked ahead, to
   where Chenelska strode proudly at the head of his band.
   "I could put in for a writ of habeas corpus after we arrive,
   but somehow I don't think it would have much sway with
   this Zancresta."
   "Wot's that, mate? Some kind of otherworldly magic?"
   "Yes. We're going to need something like it to get out
   of this with our heads in place. And let's not forget poor
   Clothahump for worrying about our own skins. He's de-
   pending on us."
   "Aye, and see 'ow well 'is trust is placed."
   They kept to back roads and trails, staying under cover
   of the forest, avoiding intervening communities. Chenelska
   intended to avoid unnecessary confrontations as well as
   keep his not always reliable troops clear of civilization's
   temptations. So they made good time and after a number
   of days arrived on the outskirts of a town too small to be a
   city but too large to be called a village.
   A crudely fashioned but solid stone wall encircled it, in
   contrast to the open city boundaries of Lynchbany and
   Timswitty. It wasn't a very high wall, a fact Jon-Tom
   commented on as they headed west.
   A small door provided an entrance. The prisoners were
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   45
   I
   hustled quickly down several flights of stone stairs, past
   crackling torches smelling of creosote, and thrust into a
   dark, odiferous cell. An obese porcupine turned the large
   key in the iron lock and departed, leaving them alone in
   the near blackness.
   "Still optimistic, mate?" Mudge leaned against a dank
   wall and sniffed. "Cast into a dungeon without hope of
   rescue to spend our last hours talkin' philosophy."
   Jon-Tom was running his fingers speculatively over the
   mossy walls. "Not very well masoned or mortared."
   "I stand corrected," said Mudge sardonically. "Talkin'
   about architecture."
   "Architecture's an interesting subject, Mudge. Don't be
   so quick to dismiss it. If you know how something is put
   together, you might learn how to take it apart."
   "That's right, guv'nor. You find us a loose stone in the
   wall, take it out, and bring the whole stinkin* city down on
   top o' us. Then we'll be well and truly free." He slunk eff
   toward a comer.
   "Not even a chamber pot in this cesspool. I 'ope they
   kill us fast instead o' leavin' us to die with this smell." He
   moved back to grab the bars of the cell, shouted toward the
   jailer.
   "Hey mate, get your fat ass over "ere!"
   In no hurry, the porcupine ambled across the floor from
   his chair. When he reached the bars he turned his back,
   and Mudge backed hastily away from the two-foot-long
   barbed quills.
   "I will thank you to be a little more polite."
   "Right, sure, guv. Take 'er easy. No offense. You can
   imagine me state o' mind, chucked in 'ere like an old
   coat."
   "No, I cannot," said the jaiier. "I do my job and go
   home to my family. I do not imagine your state of mind."
   "Excuse me," said Jon-Tom, "but have you any idea
   how long we are to be held in here?"
   "Ah, no."
   46
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   47
   Slow. Their jailer was a little slow in all areas. It was a
   characteristic of all porcupines, and this one was no
   exception. That didn't mean he was a moron. Tread
   slowly, Jon-Tom warned himself.
   "Our possessions have become separated from us," he
   went on. "Do you know what was done with them?"
   Lazily, the porcupine pointed upward. "They are in the
   main guard chamber, to be taken out and sent along with
   you when word comes for you to be moved."
   "Do you know what's going to happen to us?"
   The porcupine shook his head. "No idea. None of my
   business. I do my job and stay out of other people's
   business, I do."
   Mudge instantly divined his companion's intentions,
   said sadly, "We were searched before we were sent down
   here. I wonder if they found your sack o' gold, mate?"
   "Sack of gold?" Evidently the porcupine wasn't all that
   slow. For the first time the half-lidded eyes opened fully,
   then narrowed again. "You are trying to fool me. Chenelska
   would never leave a sack of gold in a place where others
   could find it and steal it."
   "Yeah, but wot if 'e didn't think to look for somethin'
   like that?" Mudge said insinuatingly. "We just don't want
   'im to get 'is 'ands on it, after 'im throwin' us down 'ere
   and all. If you wanted to find out if we were lyin' or not,
   all you'd 'ave to do is go look for yourself, mate. You 'ave
   the keys, and we ain't 'ardly goin' to dig our way out o'
   this cell while you're gone."
   ' 'That is true.'' The jailer started for the stairs. ' 'Do not
   get any funny ideas. You cannot cut through the bars, and
   there is no one else here but me."
   "Oh, we ain't goin' anywhere, we ain't," Mudge insisted.
   "By the way," Jon-Tom added offhandedly, "as long as
   you're going upstairs, maybe you could do something for
   us? This is an awfully dank and somber place. A little
   music would do a lot to lighten it up. Surely working
   down here day after day, the atmosphere must get pretty
   depressing after a while."
   "No, it does not," said the porcupine as he ascended
   the stairs. "I like it dank and somber and quiet, though I
   would be interested in hearing the kind of mxisic you could
   play. You see, Chenelska told me you were a spellsinger."
   Jon-Tom's heart sank. "Not really. I'm more of an
   apprentice. I don't know enough yet to really spellsing. I
   just like to make music."
   "Nonetheless, I cannot take the chance."
   "Wait!" Jon-Tom called desperately. "If you know
   what spellsinging's all about, then surely you know that a
   spellsinger can't make magic without his instrument."
   "That is so." The porcupine eyed him warily.
   "Well then, how about this? You bring down my duar,
   my instrument, but after you give it to me you chain my
   hands so I can't pull them back through these bars. That
   way if I tried to sing anything that sounded dangerous to
   you, you could yank the duar away from me before I could
   finish and I couldn't do a thing to stop you from doing
   so."
   The jailer considered, wrestling with unfamiliar con-
   cepts. Jon-Tom and Mudge waited breathlessly, glad of the
   darkness. It helped to conceal their anxiety.
   "Yes, I think that would be safe enough," the jailer said
   finally. "And I am curious to hear you sing. I will see if
   your instrument is with your other possessions. While I
   look for the sack of gold."
   "You won't regret it!" Jon-Tom called after him as he
   disappeared up the stairway. As soon as he'd left, Mudge
   looked excitedly at his friend.
   "Cor, mate, can you really do anythin' tied like that?"
   "I don't know. I have to try. It's clear he wasn't just
   going to hand me the duar without some kind of safeguard.
   I just don't know what I could sing that could help us out
   of here before he decided it sounded threatening and took
   the duar away from me. Not that I ever know what to sing.
   48
   Alan Dean Foster
   I had the same problem in my own world. But it was all I
   could think of."
   "You better think o' somethin', mate, or it'll be two
   worlds that'll be missin' you permanent. I don't know
   what this Zancresta has planned for us, but as much as 'e
   hates Clothahump, I don't figure on 'im bein' overly polite
   to a couple o* the turtle's servants."
   "We're not his servants. At least, you're not."
   "Aye, an' you saw 'ow far that got me with Chenelska,
   I'm stuck with the bedamned label just like you are, like it
   or not. So think of somethin'. Somethin' effective, and
   fast."
   "I don't know." Jon-Tom fought with his memory.
   "Practically everything I know is hard rock."
   Mudge gestured at the walls. "Strikes me as damned
   appropriate."
   "Not like that," Jon-Tom explained impatiently. "It's a
   name for a kind of popular music. You've heard me sing
   it."
   "Aye, an1 I don't pretend to understand a word o' it."
   "Then you have something in common with my parents."
   Footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted them
   momentarily.
   "You'd better think up somethin' quick, mate."
   "I'll try." He stuck his arms out between the bars,
   waiting expectantly. His spirits were boosted by the sight
   of the undamaged duar dangling from one of the jailer's
   paws.
   "There was no gold," the porcupine declared sourly.
   "Sorry." Mudge sighed fitfully. "About wot one would
   expect from a snurge like Zancresta. Still, 'tweren't no
   'arm in lookin', were there?"
   "What were you two talking about while I was gone? I
   heard you talking." The porcupine looked suspicious.
   "Nothin' much, mate. Just makin' conversation. We
   talk while you're right 'ere, too, don't we?"
   "Yes, that is so. Very well." He stepped forward and
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   49
   made as if to hand the duar to Jon-Tom, then hesitated. "I
   do not know."
   "Oh, come on," Jon-Tom urged him, a big smile
   frozen on his face. "A little music would be nice. Not
   everyone has the chance to hear an apprentice spellsinger
   make music just for pleasure."
   "That is what concerns me." The jailer stepped back
   and rummaged through a wooden chest. When he returned
   it was to clap a pair of thick leather cuffs on Jon-Tom's
   wrists. They were connected to one another by a chain. He
   also, to Jon-Tom's dismay, tied a thick cord around the
   neck of the duar.
   "There," he said, apparently satisfied, and handed over
   the instrument. Jon-Tom's fingers closed gratefully over
   the familiar wooden surface, lightly stroked the double set
   of strings.
   The porcupine returned to his chair, keeping a firm grip
   on his end of the cord. "Now if you try anything funny I
   don't even have to run over to you. All I have to do is pull
   this rope." He gave the cord an experimental yank, and
   Jon-Tom had to fight to hold onto the duar.
   "I need a little slack," he pleaded, "or I won't be able
   to play at all."
   "All right." The jailer relaxed his grip slightly. "But if I
   think you are trying to trick me I will pull it right out of
   your hands and smash it against the floor."
   "Don't worry. I wouldn't try anything like that. Would
   I, Mudge?"
   "Oh, no, sor. Not after you've all but given this
   gentlebeing your word." The otter assumed an air of mock
   unconcern as he settled down on the floor to listen. "Play
   us a lullaby, Jon-Tom. Somethin' soothin' and relaxin' to
   'eip us poor ones forget the troubles we face and the
   problems o' the world."
   "Yes, play something like that," asked the porcupine.
   Jon-Tom struggled with himself. Best to first play a
   couple of innocuous ditties to lull this sod into a false
   SO
   Alan Dean Foster
   sense of security. The trouble was, being mostly into
   heavy metal, he knew about as many gentle tunes as he did
   operatic arias. Somehow something by Ozzy Osbourne or
   Ted Nugent didn't seem right, nor did anything by KISS.
   He considered "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC,
   decided quickly that one stanza would cost him control of
   the duar permanently.
   He decided to take a chance with some golden oldies.
   Maybe a few of Roy Orbison's songs, even if his voice
   wasn't up to it. It seemed to work. The porcupine lazed
   back in his chair, obviously content, but still holding tight
   to the cord.
   Jon-Tom segued into the part of one song where the
   lyrics went "the day you walked out on me" and the jailer
   didn't stir, but neither did the walls part to let them
   through. Discouraged, he moved on to "America" by Neil
   Diamond. A few faint images of the Statue of Liberty and
   Ellis Island flickered fitfully in the cell, but Jon-Tom did
   not find himself standing safe at either location.
   Then he noticed Mudge. The otter sat back in the shad-
   ows making long pulling and throwing motions. It took
   Jon-Tom a moment to understand what his companion was
   driving at. In the middle of humming "Won't Get Fooled
   Again," he figured the otter's movements out.
   The porcupine had tied the cord to the duar in order to
   be able to jerk it quickly out of Jon-Tom's hands. If they
   could somehow gain control of the rope, they might be
   able to make a small lasso and cast it toward a weapon or
   even the big keyring lying on the table.
   In order to try that, of course, they had to somehow
   incapacitate their jailer. Since he seemed half-asleep al-
   ready, Jon-Tom softened his voice as much as possible and
   sang the sweetest ballads he could think of, finishing with
   "Sounds of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel. That par-
   ticularly apt selection set the porcupine to snoozing. To
   make sure, he added a relaxing rendition of "Scarborough
   Fair."
   I
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   51
   Carefully, he tugged gently on the cord. Two half-witted
   eyes popped wide open and the line went taut.
   "I told you not to try anything," the porcupine growled.
   For an instant Jon-Tom was sure they'd lose the duar
   along with their last hope. "I didn't mean anything!" he
   said desperately. "It's only that playing in the same
   position all the time hurts my arms. I wasn't doing
   anything else."
   "Well..." The jailer slumped back in his chair. "See
   that you don't do it no more. Please play another song. I
   never heard anything like them. Pretty."
   Despairingly, Jon-Tom simply sang the first thing that
   came to mind, the theme song from one of the Rocky
   films. Maybe it was his frustration, perhaps his sudden
   indifference. Whatever the reason, he almost thought he
   could feel the power running through him. He tried to
   focus on it, really working himself into the useless song in
   the hope it might lead to something better.
   A faint smell of ozone began to filter into the air of the
   dungeon. Something crackled near the ceiling. Mudge
   scrambled warily back into the farthest comer of the cell.
   Jon-Tom jumped as an electric shock ran up his wrists. He
   tried to pull back into the cell, found he was trapped
   against the bars by the leather wristcuffs and linking chain.
   Oh, shit, he mumbled silently. I've gone and done
   something weird again.
   Only this time he was trapped up against whatever it
   was. Something was materializing in the air next to him.
   He tugged futilely at the leather cuffs, dropping the duar in
   the process. The instrument was glowing brightly as it
   bounced around on the floor like a toad at a disco.
   The slow-moving porcupine was on his feet and staring.
   He'd abandoned the cord in favor of edging 'round toward
   the rack of weapons. Selecting a long spear, he aimed it at
   the cell. Jon-Tom was uncomfortably aware of the fact that
   if the jailer so chose, he could run him through where he
   stood.
   "What are you doing, spellsinger? Stop it!"
   52
   Alan Dean Foster
   "I'm not doing anything!" Jon-Tom prayed his hysteria
   was as convincing as it was heartfelt. "Untie my hands!"
   The jailer ignored him, gazing in stupefied fascination at
   the slowly rotating cylinder of fluorescent gas that had
   gathered inside the cell. "Don't lie to me. Something is
   happening. Something is happening!"
   "I know something's happening, you moron! Let me
   loose!" He wrenched uselessly at his bonds.
   The jailer continued to keep his distance. ' 'I am warning
   you, spellsinger. Put an end to this magic right now!"
   Keeping his thorny back against the walls, he edged
   around until he was standing close to the bars. From there
   he was able to prod the prisoner with the tip of his spear. It
   was extremely sharp.
   "I can't stop it! I don't know what I did and I don't
   know what's happening."
   "I do not believe you." The jailer's voice had turned
   shrill and he was jabbing seriously with the spear.
   Suddenly a loud bang came from the cloud of gas. The
   glowing cylinder dissipated to reveal a massive, powerful
   form at least seven feet tall standing in the center of the
   jail cell. It had to crouch to keep from bumping its head
   against the ceiling.
   Mudge quailed back against the wall while Jon-Tom
   thought wildly about his last song. The indifferently sung
   song which apparently had been far more effective than all
   its anxiety-laden predecessors. The theme song from that
   Rocky film ... what was it?
   Oh, yeah. The "Eye of the Tiger."
   Actually there were two of them, and they glared around
   in bewilderment. Jon-Tom had never seen a white tiger
   before, much less one that wore armor and stood on two
   legs. Leather and brass strips made a skirt which covered
   the body from waist to the knees. Additional armor protected
   the back of arms and legs, was secured over the legs with
   crisscrossing leather straps. A finely worked brass helmet
   shielded the head, and an intricate inscription covered the
   thin nose guard. Holes cut in the top of the helmet allowed
   the ears to protrude.
   The huge furry skull glanced in all directions, taking in
   unanticipated surroundings. White and black ears flicked
   nervously as a quarter ton of tiger tried to orient itself.
   Paws dropped to sheaths, and in an instant each one held a
   five-foot-long sword with razor-sharp serrated edges.
   "By all the nine feline demons, what's going on heah? I
   declare I'll have some answers right quick or there'll be
   hell to pay." Slitted eyes fixed on the bars. She took a step
   forward and glared down at the quivering porcupine.
   "You! What is this place? Why am ah locked up? Y'all
   53
   54
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   55
   answer me fast or ah'll make a necklace out of yo
   backbone!"
   "G-g-g-guards," the porcupine stammered. It came out
   as a whisper. Aware his cry wasn't reaching very far, he
   raised his voice. "Guards!"
   "Quit stabling and talk to me." Feminine, Jon-Tom
   decided. Thunderous, but undeniably feminine. The conju-
   ration was a she. She turned to eye Mudge. "Yo theah.
   Why won't he talk to me?"
   "You talkin' to me, m'dear?" Mudge inquired reluctantly.
   She reached down and lifted him easily off the floor with
   one paw, setting her second sword aside but within easy
   reach. Fully extended, her claws were nearly as long as
   Mudge's fingers.
   "Now, who else would ah be talking to, you little
   sponge?"
   "Blimey, m'dear, I ain't considered the possibility."
   "Guards!" Suddenly it occurred to the porcupine that
   since he wasn't having much luck obtaining help with his
   voice, it might be efficacious to employ his feet. He raced
   up the stairs with unexpected speed. "Guards, help me!"
   "Hey, yo!" The tigress dropped Mudge, who promptly
   retreated to the back of the cell. "Come back heah! Yo
   heah me?"
   "He thinks you're a threat to him."
   "What's that?" For the first time she focused her
   attention on Jon-Tom.
   "I said, he thinks you're a threat to him. Because
   you're in here with us."
   "Y'all are awfully big fo a human."
   "And you're awfully big period." He continued strug-
   gling with the cuffs that bound him to the bars of the cell.
   "What is this place?" She turned slowly to make a
   more careful inspection of the prison. She did not appear
   frightened. Only irritated.
   "We're in a dungeon in a town called Malderpot."
   "Nevah heard of it," said the feline amazon. "A dun-
   geon, you say. I can see that fo mahself, honey." She eyed
   his restraints. "Why ah yo tied up like that?"
   "I'm a spellsinger," he explained. "I've been doing a
   little singing and I think I accidently brought you here."
   "So that's it!" Jon-Tom did his best not to cower away
   from those burning yellow eyes. She stepped back and
   hefted both her swords. "Well then, y'all can just send me
   back."
   He squirmed against the bars. "I, uh, I'm afraid I can't
   do that. 1 don't know how I brought you here. I can try
   later, maybe. But not without my duar." He pointed into
   the room. "And I can't play it with my hands tied like
   this."
   "Well, that much is obvious. Ah've got eyes, yo
   know."
   "Very pretty eyes, too."
   "Huh," she said, a little more softly. "Spellsingah, yo
   say? Yo sound moah like a solicitah to me." Jon-Tom
   didn't inform her about his legal training, not being sure of
   her opinion of solicitors.
   One sword suddenly cut forward and down. Mudge let
   out a half moan, half squeak, and Jon-Tom closed his
   eyes. But the sword passed between the bars to delicately
   cut the chain linking his wrist cuffs. A couple of quick
   twists of a clawed paw and his hands were free. He spoke,
   as he rubbed the circulation back into his wrists.
   "I still need the duar." Loud noises reached them from
   somewhere on the level above, and he hurried his introduc-
   tions. '-'That's Mudge, I'm Jon-Tom Meriweather." He
   recalled the song he'd sung prior to "Eye of the Tiger."
   "By any chance would your name be Sage, Rosemary, or
   Thyme?" Somehow Scarborough didn't seem a possibility.
   "Close enuf. Ah am called Rcseroar."
   Jon-Tom nodded to himself. Once again his songs and
   his desires had gotten themselves thoroughly mixed. He
   took a deep breath, repeated the gist of a by now familiar
   story.
   56
   Alan Dean Foster
   DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   57
   "We're trying to help a wizard who is dying. Because
   of that a jealous wizard is trying to prevent us from doing
   so. He had us captured, brought here, and locked up."
   "That's no business of mine," said the tigress. "Yo
   really think man eyes are pretty?"
   "Extremely so." Why didn't Mudge chip in with a
   word or two? he wondered. He was better at this sort of
   thing. But the otter hugged his comer of the cell and kept
   his mouth shut. Jon-Tom plunged on. "Like topaz."
   "Yo have a gift of words as well as music, don't yo?
   Well, let me tell yo, ah am not subject to the simple
   flattery of the male of any species!''
   "Of course you're not. I didn't mean for you to think I
   was intentionally flattering you, or anything like that. I just
   made a simple statement of fact."
   "Did y'all, now? Where do yo have to go to help this
   dying friend of yours?"
   "Across the Glittergeist Sea."
   "So ah'm that fah west, am ah?" She shook her head in
   wonder. "It's a peculiah world we live in."
   "You don't know the half of it," Jon-Tom muttered.
   "Ah've nevah been to an ocean, much less the
   Glittergeist." She looked out through the bars. "So that's
   yo instrument fo making magic?"
   "It is. Also, the keys are on the table nearby. If we
   could get ahold of the rope attached to the duar, we could
   maybe drag the keys over here." He eyed the stairwell.
   "But I don't think we've got much time."
   "Well, sugah, if it's the keys you want. . ." Roseroar
   put one paw on a bar to the left, the other on the bar
   immediately opposite, inhaled mightily, and pushed. Mus-
   cles rippled beneath the armor.
   There was a groan and the metal bent like spaghetti. The
   tigress stepped through the resultant gap, walked over to
   the table, and picked up the keyring.
   "Yo still want these?"
   Mudge was already out in the corridor. Jon-Tom was
   eht on his heels. He snatched the duar and slung it over
   his shoulder.
   "I think we'll be able to manage without them. Roseroar,
   you're quite a lady."
   "Aye,  with a delicate and ladylike touch,"  Mudge
   "Ah think ah like you two," she said thoughtfully,
   staring at Mudge, "though ah can't decide if y'all are
   trying to be funny or flattering." She gestured with the two
   heavy swords. "Ah hope fo yo sake y'all are trying to be
   funny."
   Jon-Tom hastened to reassure her. "You've got to take
   whatever Mudge says with a grain of salt. Comments like
   that are part of his nature. Sort of like a disease." He
   turned to bestow a warning look on the otter.
   "Ah can see that," said the tigress. "Well, ah don't
   know how ah'm going to get home, but ah sure don't
   fancy this hole. Let's go somewhere quiet and talk."
   "Suits me," said Jon-Tom agreeably.
   At that moment the porcupine appeared at the top of the
   stairs, preceded by a pair of big, heavily armed wolves.
   They saw Roseroar about the time she saw them. She
   emitted a battle cry, a mixture of roar and curse, that shook
   moss from the ceiling. Waving both swords like propel-
   11'' lers, she charged the stairway, which cleared with astonishing
   speed.
   Mudge executed a little bow and gestured with his right
   hand. "After you, master o' magic and spellsinger
   extraordinaire."
   Jon-Tom made a face at him, hurried to follow Roseroar
   upward. From ahead sounded shouts, screams, frantic
   cries, and yelps. Above all rose the tigress's earthshaking
   growls.
   "Don't be so quick to compliment me," Jon-Tom told
   the otter. "She's not what I was trying to conjure up."
   "I know that, guv'nor," said Mudge, striding along
   happily in his companion's wake. "It never is, wot? But
   58
   Alan Dean Poster
   even though you never get wot you're after with your
   spellsingin', wotever you gets always seems to work out."
   "Tell me that again when she finds out there's no way I
   can send her home-"
   "Now, mate," Mudge told him as they started up to the
   next level, "wot's the use o' creatin' worry where there
   ain't none? Besides," he went on, his grin widening, "if
   she turns quarrelsome, you can tell 'er 'ow beautiful 'er
   eyes are."
   "Oh, shut up."
   They emerged into the main guardroom, which looked
   as if a modest typhoon had thundered through it. Every
   table was overturned and broken furniture littered the floor.
   Broken spears and pikes sopped up spilled liquid from
   shattered jugs. A couple of the guards remained, decoratively
   draped over the broken furniture. None offered a protest as
   Jon-Tom and Mudge began to search the still intact chests
   and drawers.
   One .yielded Mudge's longbow and arrows, another
   Jon-Tom's ramwood fighting staff. There was no sign of
   the full purse Clothahump had given him, nor did he
   expect to find it. Mudge was more disappointed than his
   companion at the absence of the gold.
   "Bloody bedamned stinkin' thieves," he mumbled, ig-
   noring the fact that he'd lifted a purse or two in his own
   time.
   "Be quiet." Jon-Tom led him up the next flight of
   stairs. "From the way you're carrying on, you'd think this
   was the first time you'd ever been penniless."
   "I'm not sayin' that, mate," replied Mudge, putting a
   leash on his lamentations, "but when I gets friendly with a
   bit o' gold or silver and it ups and disappears on me, I feel
   as if I've lost a good friend. The loss strikes me to the
   quick."
   "One of these days it'd be nice to see you get so
   emotional over something besides money."
   "You do me an injustice, mate." Mudge carried his bow
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   59
   in front of him, a hunting arrow notched and ready to fire.
   If the fates were kind they'd give him one clear shot at
   Chenelska or his bullyboys. Nothing would please him
   more than to be able to give the coati the shaft.
   "You want emotional?" he continued as they climbed.
   "You should've seen me at Madam Lorsha's."
   "I'm talking about honest emotion, about caring. Not
   lust."
   "Cor, you mean there's a difference?"
   The third landing was the last. They emerged into a
   small open square lit by torches and oil lamps. To their left
   was the city wall, to the right the outermost buildings of
   the town. The light danced wildly as sources of illumina-
   tion were hastily moved to different positions. Shouts and
   yells filled the air.
   Jon-Tom ducked as a wolf whizzed over his head. It
   pinwheeled once before striking the wall with a sickening
   thud.
   Roseroar's efforts threw everything into confusion. Horns
   and shouts were beginning to rouse a whole section of the
   community. Lights were starting to appear in nearby windows
   as residents were awakened by the commotion.
   Mudge bounced gleefully up and down, pointing at the
   evidence of the chaos the tigress was causing. "Wot a
   show! The poor buggers must think the 'ole bloomin' city
   is under attack."
   "Maybe they're right." Jon-Tom started forward.
   "Hey, you two!" Roseroar called to them as she idly
   batted aside a large rat armed with a short sword who had
   tried to sneak under her guard. The rodent went skidding
   across the paving stones, shedding bits and pieces of armor
   and flesh as he went. "Ovah heah! This way!"
   They ran toward her. Jon-Tom placed his staff in front of
   him while Mudge ran backward to guard their rear, his
   short legs a blur. As they ran they dodged spears and
   arrows. Mudge responded to each attack individually, and
   6O
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   61
   they were rewarded as one figure after another fell from
   the wall above.
   Snarling, a hyena draped in heavy chain mail headed
   right for Ion-Tom, swinging a viciously studded mace over
   his head. Jon-Tom blocked it with his staff, and the
   ramwood held as the mace's chain wrapped around it. He
   pulled and twisted in one motion, bringing the knobbed
   end of the staff down on his assailant's helmet. The hyena
   dropped like a stone. They ran on, Jon-Tom unwrapping
   the chain from his staff.
   Then they were up against the thick wooden door in the
   city wall. Crossbow bolts thudded into the wood or splintered
   against the rock as the wall's garrison struggled to regroup.
   Mudge inspected it rapidly. "Locked, damn it, from the
   other side!"
   "Pahdon me," said Roseroar. While they covered her
   she put her back against the door, dug her feet into the
   pavement, and shoved. The door broke with a snap, the
   wood holding but not the iron hinges. It fell with a crash.
   The trio ran out, pursued by yells and weapons. No one
   chose to pursue beyond the city wall in person. The tigress
   had demonstrated what she could do at close range, and
   Malderpot's soldiery had taken the lesson to heart. They
   held back, waiting for someone higher up to give the
   necessary orders, and praying those directions would take
   their time arriving.
   Before they did, the fugitives were deep within the
   concealment offered by the Bellwoods and the night.
   Eventually they located a place where several giant trees
   had fallen, forming a natural palisade, and settled in
   behind the wooden barricade nature had so thoughtfully
   provided.
   The long run hadn't troubled Jon-Tom, who was a
   good distance runner, nor Mudge, who was blessed with
   inexhaustible energy, but Roseroar was tired. They waited
   while she caught her breath.
   There in the moonlight she pulled off her helmet, undid
   the thick belt that held both swords, and put it aside. Then
   she leaned back against one fallen trunk. Her bright yellow
   eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Physically she was
   unharmed by the fighting, though her armor showed plenty
   of cuts and dents.
   "We owe you our lives," he finally told her.
   "Yes, ah expect that's so. Damned if ah know how
   ah'm going to collect on that debt. Yo told me yo didn't
   mean to conjuh me up in the first place?"
   "That's right," he confessed. "It was an accident. I
   was trying to put our jailer to sleep. When it didn't work I
   got upset and spellsang the first thing that came to mind
   and—poof—there you were."
   "Ah was the first thing that came to yo mind?"
   "Well, not exactly. Matter of fact, I've never seen
   anybody like you. This kind of thing happens to me a lot
   when I try to spellsing."
   She nodded, turned to look to where Mudge was already
   searching the bushes for something edible. "Is he telling
   the truth, squirt?"
   "Me name is Mudge, lady o' the long tooth," said the
   voice in the bushes, "and I'll make you a deal right now.
   You can like me o' not, but you don't call me names and
   I'll respond likewise."
   "Ah favor politeness in all things, being a lady of
   refined tastes," she replied evenly.
   Mudge restrained the first reply that came to mind, said
   instead, "Aye, 'e's tellin' you the truth. A powerful spellsinger
   'e is. Maybe the most powerful ever, though we ain't yet
   sure o' that. 'E certainly ain't. See, 'e 'as this bad 'abit o'
   tryin' to do one thing and 'e ends up doin' something total
   unexpected."
   Jon-Tom spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
   "It's true. I have this ability but I don't seem able to
   control it. And now it's caused me to go and inconve-
   nience you."
   62
   Alan Dean Foster
   "That's a fine, politic way of putting it, sub. Going to
   the Glittergeist, yo said?"
   "And across it. We have to get to Snarken."
   "Ah've heard of Snahken. It's supposed to be an inter-
   esting place, rich in culture." She thought a long moment,
   then sighed. "Since yo say y'all can't send me home, ah
   guess ah maht as well tag along with y'all. Besides, ah
   kind of like the way you have with words, man." Her eyes
   glittered and Jon-Tom felt suddenly uncomfortable, though
   he wasn't sure why.
   "Oh, Vs a fine one with words 'e is, luv," Mudge said
   as he reappeared. He was carrying an armful of some
   lime-green berries. Jon-Tom took a few, bit into one, and
   found the taste sweet. More out of politeness than any
   expectation of acceptance, the otter offered some to the
   tigress.
   "Bleh!" she said as she pulled back. She smiled widely,
   displaying an impressive array of cutlery. "Sun, do ah
   look like the kind to enjoy weeds?"
   "No you don't, luv, but I thought I'd be polite, since
   you place such store by it."
   She nodded thankfully as she scanned the surrounding
   woods. "Come the morning ah'll find mahself something
   to eat. This appeahs to be good game country. Theah
   should be ample meat about."
   Jon-Tom was glad she wasn't looking at him when she
   said that. "I'm sure we'll run across something edible."
   He turned to the otter. "What about our pursuit, Mudge?"
   The otter responded with his ingratiating, amused bark.
   "Why, them sorry twits will be all night just tryin' t' get
   their stories straight. From wot I saw on our way out, most
   of 'em were your typical city guard and likely ain't in
   Zancresta's personal service. It'd be that arse'ole Chenelska
   who'd be put in charge o' organizin' any kind o' formal
   chase. By the time 'e gets the word, gets 'is conflictin'
   reports sorted out, and puts together anythin' like a formal
   pursuit, we'll be well out o' it."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   63
   "Then you don't think they'll be able to track us
   down?"
   "I've been seein' to the coverin' o' our tracks ever since
   we left that cesspool o' a town, mate. They won't find a
   sign o' us."
   "What if they do come after us, though? We can't
   conceal all of Roseroar's petite footprints."
   Mudge assumed a crafty mien. "Aye, that they might,
   guv. They'll likely comb a wide front to the south, knowin'
   that we're to be headin' for the ol' Tailaroam. They can
   run up every tree in the Bellwoods without fmdin' sign o'
   us, because we ain't goin' t' go south. We'll fool 'em
   inside out by goin' west from 'ere. We're so far north o'
   the river we might as well do it anyhows."
   Jon-Tom struggled to recall what he'd been taught of the
   local geography. "If you go far enough west of here, the
   forest disappears and you're into the Muddletup Moors."
   "You got it, mate. No one would think t'ave a looksee
   for us there."
   "Isn't that because no one ever does go in there?"
   "That's right. Wot better place o' safety t' flee to?"
   Jon-Tom looked doubtful as he sat back against a fallen
   trunk. "Mudge, I don't know about your thinking."
   "I'm willin' enough to entertain alternative suggestions,
   m'lord warbler, but you're 'ardly in shape for some straight
   arguin'."
   "Now, that I won't argue. We'll discuss it in the
   morning."
   "In the mornin', then. Night to you, mate."
   The thunder woke Jon-Tom. He blinked sleepily and
   looked up into a gray sky full of massive clouds. He
   blinked a second time. White clouds were common
   enough in this world, just as they were in his own. But not
   with black stripes.
   He tried to move, discovered he could not. A huge furry
   arm lay half on and half off his chest while another curved
   behind his head to form a warm pillow. Unfortunately, it
   64
   Alan Dean Foster
   M
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   65
   was also cutting off the circulation to his throbbing left
   arm.
   He tried to disengage himself. As he did so the thunder
   of Roseroar's purring was broken by a coughing snarl. She
   stirred, but her arms did not budge.
   Another shape moved nearby. Mudge was sitting up on
   the bed of leaves he'd fashioned for himself. He looked
   over toward Jon-Tom as he stretched.
   "Well, don't just sit there, damn it. Give me a hand
   here!"
   "Wot, and interrupt a charmin' domestic tableau like
   that?"
   "Don't try to be funny."
   "Funnier than that?" He pointed at the helpless spell-
   singer. "Couldn't be if I tried, mate."
   Glaring at him, Jon-Tom tried again to disengage him-
   self, but the weight was too much for him. It was like
   trying to move a soft mountain.
   "Come on, Mudge. Have a heart."
   "Who, me? You know me better than that, mate." As
   he spoke Roseroar moved in her sleep, rolling partly across
   Jon-Tom's midsection and chest. He gasped and kicked his
   legs in a frantic attempt to extricate himself. The tigress
   purred thunderously atop him.
   Mudge took his time getting to his feet, ambled lazily
   over to eye the arrangement thoughtfully. "Our dainty lady
   friend sounds 'appy enough. Best not to disturb 'er. I don't
   see wot you're fussin' about. It's not like she's got a 'and
   over your mouth. From where I stands it looks almost
   invitin', though I can't say as 'ow I'd trade places with
   you. I'd be lost under 'er."
   Jon-Tom put a hand on the tigress's face and pushed.
   She stirred, moved slightly, and nearly bit his fingers off.
   He withdrew his hand quickly. She'd moved enough for
   him to breathe again, anyway.
   ' 'Any signs of pursuit?''
   " 'Aven't smelled or 'card a thing, mate. I think they're
   still too disorganized. If they are tookin' fq_r us, you can be
   sure 'tis to the south o' Malderpot and not 'ere. Still, the
   sooner we're on our way, the better." He turned, began
   gathering up his effects.
   "Come on now, lad. No time to waste."
   "That's real funny, Mudge. How am I supposed to get
   her off me?"
   "Wake 'er up. Belt 'er one, mate."
   "No thanks. I like my head where it is. On my shoul-
   ders. I don't know how'd she react to something like that
   in her sleep."
   Mudge's eyes twinkled. "Be more interestin' to see wot
   she might do while she's awake."
   There was no need to consider extreme action, however.
   All the talking had done its job. Roseroar snorted once and
   opened those bottomless yellow eyes.
   "Well, good morning, man."
   "Good morning yourself. Roseroar, I value your friend-
   ship, but you're breaking my arm."
   Her expression narrowed. "Suh, are you insinuatin' that
   ah am too heavy?"
   "No, no, nothing like that." Somewhere off in the
   bushes Mudge was attending to necessary bodily functions
   while trying to stifle his laughter. "Actually, I think you're
   rather svelte."
   "Svelte." Roseroar considered the word. "That's nice.
   Ah like that. Are you saying I have a nice figure?"
   "I never saw a tiger I didn't think was attractive," he
   confessed, honestly enough.
   She looked mildly disappointed as she rolled off him.
   "What the fuzz-ball said is true. Yo ah at least half
   solicitah."
   Jon-Tom rolled over and tried shaking his left arm,
   trying to restore the circulation at the same time as he was
   dreading its return. Pins and needles flooded his nerves
   and he gritted his teeth at the sensation.
   66
   AlaA Dean Foster
   "I did study some law in my own world. It might be my
   profession someday."
   - "Spellsinging's better," she rumbled. "Svelte?"
   "Yeah." He sat up and began pulling on his boots.
   "Nice. Ah think ah like yo, man."
   "I like you, too, Roseroar."
   "Svelte." She considered the new word thoughtfully.
   "Want to know mah word fo yo?" She was putting on her
   armor, checking to make sure each catch and strap was
   fastened securely. She grinned at him, showing six-inch
   fangs. "Cute. Yo ah kind o' cute."
   "Gee." Jon-Tom kept his voice carefully neutral as he
   replied. "That's nice."
   Mudge emerged from the woods, buttoning his shorts.
   "Gee, I always thought you were cute, too, mate."
   "How'd you like your whiskers shoved up your ass?"
   Jon-Tom asked him softly.
   "Calm down, mate." Somehow Mudge stifled his laugh-
   ter. "Best we get goin' westward. We've given 'em the
   slip for the nonce, but sooner o' later the absence o' tracks
   o' mention of us south o' 'ere will hit 'im as distinctly
   peculiar and they'll start 'untin' for us elsewhere."
   Jon-Tom slung the duar over his shoulder and hefted his
   staff. "Lead on."
   Mudge bowed, his voice rich with mock servility. "As
   thy exalted cuteness decrees."
   * Jon-Tom tried to bash him with the staff, but the otter
   was much too fast for him.
   v
   It took several days for them to reach the outskirts of the
   Moors, a vast and, as far as anyone knew, uninhabited
   land which formed the western border of the Bellwoods
   and reached south all the way to the northern coast of the
   GHttergeist Sea. After a day's march into the Moors'
   depths, Mudge felt safe enough to angle southward for the
   first time since fleeing the city.
   Transportation across the ocean was going to present a
   problem. No ports existed where the ocean met the south-
   ern edge of the Moors, and Jon-Tom agreed with the otter
   that it would be a bad idea to follow the shoreline back
   eastward toward the mouth of the Tailaroam. Chenelska
   would be sure to be looking for them in ports like Yarrowl.
   As for the Moors themselves, they looked bleak but
   hardly threatening. Jon-Tom wondered how the place had
   acquired its widespread onerous reputation. Mudge could
   shed little light on the mystery, explaining only that rumor
   insisted anyone who went into the place never came out
   again, a pleasant thought to mull over as they hiked ever
   deeper into the foggy terrain.
   It was a sorry land, mostly gray stone occasionally
   67
   68
   Alan Dean Foster
   stained red by iron. There were no trees, few bushes, a
   little grass. The sky was a perpetual puffy, moist gray.
   Fog and mist made them miserable, except for Mudge.
   Nothing appeared to challenge their progress. A few mind-
   less hoots and mournful howls were the only indications of
   mobile inhabitants, and nothing ever came close to their
   camps.
   They marched onward into the heart of the Muddletup,
   where none penetrated. As they moved ever deeper into
   the Moors the landscape began to change, and not for the
   better. The last stunted trees disappeared. Here, in a place
   of eternal dampness and cloud cover, the fungi had taken
   over.
   Enormous mushrooms and toadstools dripped with mois-
   ture as Jon-Tom and his companions walked beneath
   spore-filled canopies. Some of the gnarled, ugly growths
   had trunks as thick as junipers, while others thrust deli-
   cate, semi-transparent stems toward the sodden sky. There
   were no bright, cheerful colors to mitigate the depressing
   scene, which was mostly brown and gray. Even the occa-
   sional maroon or unwholesomely yellow specimen was a
   relief from the monotonous parade of dullness.
   Some of the flora was spotted, some striped. One
   displayed a checkerboard pattern that reminded Jon-Tom of
   a non-Euclidian chessboard. Liverworts grew waist-high,
   while lichens and mosses formed a thick, cushiony carpet
   into which their boots sank up to the ankles. Clean granite
   was disfigured by crawling fungoid corruption growing on
   its surface. And over this vast, wild eruption of thallophytic
   life there hung a pervasive sense of desolation, of waste
   and fossilized hope.
   The first couple of days had seen no slowing of their
   progress. Now their pace began to degenerate. They slept
   longer and spent less time over meals. It didn't matter
   what food they took from their packs or scavenged from
   the land: everything seemed to have lost its flavor. What-
   ever they consumed turned flat and tasteless in their
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   69
   mouths and sat heavy in their bellies. Even the water
   which fell fresh from the clouds had acquired a metallic,
   unsatisfying aftertaste.
   They'd been in the Moors for almost a week when
   Jon-Tom tripped over the skeleton. Like everything else
   lately its discovery provoked little more than a tired mur-
   mur of indifference from his companions.
   "So wot?" muttered Mudge. "Don't mean a damn
   thing."
   "Ah'm sitting down," said Roseroar. "Ah'm tired."
   So was Jon-Tom, but the sight of the stark white bone
   peeping out from beneath the encrusting rusts and mildews
   roused a dormant concern in his mind.
   "This is all wrong," he told them. "There's something
   very wrong going on here."
   "No poison, if that's wot you're thinkin', mate." Mudge
   indicated the growths surrounding them. "I've been care-
   ful. Everythin' local we've swallowed 'as been edible,
   even if it's tasted lousy."
   "Lucky yo," said Roseroar. "No game at all fo me.
   Ah find mahself reduced to eating not just weeds, but this
   crap. Ah declah ah've nevah been so bored with eating in
   all man life."
   "Boring, tired, tasteless.. .don't you see what's hap-
   pening?" Jon-Tom told them.
   "You're gettin' worked up over nothin', mate." The
   otter was lying on a mound of soft moss. "Settle yourself
   down. 'Ave a sip o' somethinV
   "Yes." Roseroar slipped off her swordbelt. "Let's just
   sit heah and rest awhile. There's no need to rush. We
   haven't seen a sign of pursuit since we left that town, and
   ah don't think we're likely to encounter any now."
   "She's right, mate. Pull up a soft spot and 'ave a sit."
   "Both of you listen to me." Jon-Tom tried to put some
   force into his voice, was frightened to hear it emerge from
   his lips flat and curiously empty of emotion. He felt sad
   and utterly useless. Something had begun to afflict him
   70
   Alan Dean Foster
   from the day they'd first set foot in the Moors. It was
   something more than just boredom with their surround-
   ings, something far more penetrating and dangerous. It
   was a grayness of the heart, and it was digging its
   insidious way deeper and deeper into their thoughts, kill-
   ing off determination and assurance as it went. Eventually,
   it would ruin their bodies as well. The skeleton was proof
   enough of that. Whatever was into them was patient and
   clever, much too calculating, it occurred to Jon-Tpm, to be
   an accident of the environment.
   He tried to find the enthusiasm to fight back as he
   turned to scream at the landscape. "Who are you? Why
   are you doing this to us? What is it you wan??"
   He felt like a fool. Worse, he knew his companions
   might think he was becoming unhinged. But they said
   nothing. He would've welcomed some outcry of skepti-
   cism. Instead, the sense of hopelessness settled ever deeper
   around them.
   Nothing moved within the Moors. Of one thing he was
   fairly confident: this wasn't wizardry at work. It was too
   slow. He had to do something, but he didn't know what.
   All he could think of was how ironic it would be if, after
   surviving Malderpot, they were to perish here from a
   terminal case of the blahs.
   So he was startled when a dull voice asked, "Don't you
   understand it all by now?"
   "Who said that?" He whirled, trying to spot the speak-
   er. Nothing moved.
   "I did."
   The voice came from an eight-foot-tall mushroom off to
   his left. The cap of this blotchy ochre growth dipped
   slightly toward him.
   "Not that I couldn't have," said another growth.
   "Nor I," agreed a third'.
   "Mushrooms," Jon-Tom said unsteadily, "don't talk."
   "What?" said the first growth. "Sure, we're not loqua-
   cious, but that's a natural function of our existence. There
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   71
   isn't much to talk about, is there? I mean, it's not just a
   dull life, man, it's boring. B-o-r-i-n-g."
   "That's about the extent of it," agreed the giant toad-
   stool against which Roseroar rested. She moved away from
   it hastily, showing more energy than she had in the
   previous several days, and put a hand to the haft of each
   sword.
   "I mean, give it some thought." The first mushroom
   again, which was taking on something of the air of a
   fungoid spokesman. Jon-Tom saw no lips or mouth. The
   words, the thoughts, came fully formed into his mind
   through a kind of clammy telepathy. "What would we talk
   about?"
   "Nothing worth wasting the time discussing," agreed
   another mushroom with a long, narrow cap in the manner
   of a morrel. "I mean, you spend your whole existence
   sitting in the same spot, never seeing anything new, never
   moving around. So what's your biggest thrill? Getting to
   make spores?"
   "Yeah, big deal," commented the toadstool. "So we
   don't talk. You never hear us talk, you think fungoids
   don't talk. Ambulatories are such know-it-alls."
   "It doesn't matter," said the second mushroom. "Noth-
   ing matters. We're wasting our efforts."
   "Wait." Jon-Tom approached the major mushroom,
   feeling a little silly as he did so. "You're doing something
   to us. You have been ever since we entered the deep
   moors."
   "What makes you think we're doing anything to you?"
   said the spokesthing. "Why should we make the effort to
   do anything to anyone?"
   "We've changed since we entered this land. We feel
   different."
   "Different how, man?" asked the toadstool.
   "Depressed. Tired, worn-out^ useless, hopeless. Our
   outlook on life has been altered."
   "What makes you think we're responsible?" said the
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   Alan Dean Poster
   second mushroom. "That's just how life is. It's the normal
   state of existence. You can't blame us for that."
   "It's not the normal state of existence."
   "It is in the Moors," argued the first mushroom.
   Jon-Tom held his ground. "There's some kind of telepa-
   thy at work here. We've been absorbing your feelings of
   hopelessness, your idea that nothing's worth much of
   anything. It's been eating at us."
   "Look around you, man. What do you see?"
   Jon-Tom turned a slow circle. Instead of the half-hoped-
   for revelation, his gaze swept over more of what they'd
   seen the past dreary days—rocks, mushrooms, lichens and
   mosses, mist and cloud cover.
   "Now, I ask you," sighed the first mushroom, "is that
   depressing or what? I mean, it is de-press-ing."
   Jon-Tom could feel his resolve slipping dangerously.
   Mudge and Roseroar were half-asleep already. He had the
   distinct feeling that if he joined them, none of them would
   ever wake up again. The sight of white bone nearby
   revitalized him. How long had it taken the owner of that
   skeleton to become permanently depressed?
   "I guess you might consider your existence here
   depressing."
   "Might consider?" moaned the toadstool. "It is de-
   pressing. No maybes about it. Like, I'm afiingus, man.
   That's depressing all by itself."
   "I've eaten some mushrooms that were downright excit-
   ing," Jon-Tom countered.
   "A cannibal, too," said the tall toadstool tiredly. "How
   depressing." It let out a vast telepathic sigh, a wave of
   anxiety and sadness that rolled over Jon-Tom like a wave.
   He staggered, shook off the cobwebs that threatened to
   bind his mind. "Stop that."
   "Stop what? Why sweat it? Just relax, man. You're full
   of hurry, and desire, and all kinds of useless mental
   baggage. Why knock yourself out worrying about things
   that don't matter? Nothing matters. Lie down here, relax,
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   73
   take it easy. Let your foolish concerns fly bye-bye. Open
   yourself to the true blandness of reality and see how much
   better you'll feel for it."
   Jon-Tom started to sit down, wrestled himself back to an
   upright stance. He pointed toward the skeleton.
   "Like that one?"
   "He was only reacting sensibly," said the toadstool.
   "He's dead." Jon-Tom's voice turned accusing. "You
   killed him. At least, this place killed him."
   "Life killed him. Slain by dullness. Murdered by mo-
   notony. He did what comes naturally to all life. He
   decayed."
   "Decayed? You flourish amidst decay, don't'you? You
   thrive on it."
   "He calls this thriving," mumbled another toadstool.
   "He went the way of all flesh, that's all. Sure, we broke
   down his organic components. Sometimes I wonder why
   we bother. It's all such a waste. We live for death. Talk
   about dull, man. It's, like, numbsville."
   Jon-Tom turned and walked over to shake Roseroar,
   shoving hard against the enormous shoulder. "Wake up,
   Roseroar. Come on, wake up, damn it!"
   "Why bother?" she murmured sleepily, eyeing him
   through half-closed eyes. "Let me sleep. No, don't !et me
   sleep." The feeble plea hit him like a cry for help.
   "Don't worry, I won't. Wake up!" He continued to
   shake her until she sat up and rubbed at her eyes.
   He moved over to where Mudge lay sprawled on his
   side, kicked the otter ungently. "Move it, water rat! This
   isn't like you- Think about where we're going. Think of
   the ocean, of clear salt air."
   "I'd rather not, mate," said the otter tiredly. "No point
   to it, really."
   "True true, true," intoned the fungoid chorus of doom.
   "I'll get up in a minute, guv'nor. There's no rush, and
   we're in no 'urry. Let me be."
   "Like hell, I will. Think of the food we've enjoyed.
   74
   Alan Dean Poster
   Think of the good times ahead, of the money to be made.
   Think," he said with sudden alacrity, "of die three days
   you spent at the Elegant Bitch."
   The otter opened his eyes wide, smiling weakly. "Aye,
   now that's a memory t' 'old tight to."
   "Useless, useless, useless," boomed the a cappella
   ascomycetes.
   " Tis kind o' pointless, mate," said the otter. For an
   instant Jon-Tom despaired, fearing he'd lost his friend for
   good. Then Mudge sprang to his feet and glared at the
   surrounding growth. "But 'tis also one 'ell of a lot o'
   fun!"
   "Help Roseroar," Jon-Tom ordered him, a great relief
   surging through him. He turned his attention back to their
   subtle, even indifferent, assailants.
   "Look, I can't help what you are and I can't help it if
   you find your existences so depressing."
   "It's not how we find them," said the first mushroom.
   "It's how they are. Don't you think we'd change it if we
   could? But we can't. This is iife: boring, dull, unchanging,
   gray, depressing, decay..."
   "But it doesn't have to be that way. It's you who let it
   remain so." Unslinging the duar, he launched into the
   brightest, cheeriest song he could think of: John Denver's
   "Rocky Mountain High." He finished with Rick Springfield's
   "We All Need the Human Touch." The gray sky didn't
   clear, the mist didn't lift, but he felt a lot better.
   "There! What did you think of that?"
   "Truly depressing," said the toadstool. "Not the songs.
   Your voice."
   Eighty million mushrooms in the Muddletup Moors,
   Jon-Tom mused, and I have to get a music critic. He
   laughed at the absurdity of it, and the laughter made him
   feel better still.
   "Isn't there anything that can lighten your existence,
   make your lives more bearable so you'll leave us alone?"
   "We can't help sharing our feelings," said the second
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   75
   mushroom, "We're not laying all this heavy stuff on you
   to be mean, man. We ain't mean. We're indifferent.
   What's bringing you down is your own knowledge of life's
   futility and your own inability to do anything about it.
   Face it, man: the cosmos is a downer."
   Hopeless. These beings were hopeless, Jon-Tom told
   himself angrily. How could you fight something that didn't
   come at you with shields and swords and spears? What
   could he employ against a broadside of moroseness, a
   barrage of doubt?
   They sounded so sure of themselves, so confident of the
   truth. All right then, he'd show them the truth! If he
   couldn't fight them by differing with them, maybe he
   could win by agreeing with them.
   He took a deep breath. "The trouble with you is that
   you're all manic-depressives."
   A long silence, an atmosphere of consideration, before
   the toadstool inquired, "What are you talking about,
   man?" In the background a couple of rusts whispered to
   one another, "Talk about a weird dude."
   "I haven't had that much psychology, but pre-law re-
   quires some," Jon-Tom explained. "You know, I'll bet not
   one of you has ever considered psychoanalysis for your
   problems."
   "Considered what?" asked the first mushroom.
   Jon-Tom found a suitable rock—a hard, uncomfortable
   one sure to keep him awake. "Pay attention now. Anybody
   here ever heard of Franz Kafka?"
   Several hours passed. Mudge and Roseroar had time to
   reawaken completely, and the mental voices surrounding
   them had become almost alive, though all were still flat
   and tinged with melancholy.
   ". . .And another thing," Jon-Tom was saying as he
   pointed upward, "that sky you're all always referring to.
   Nothing but infantile anal-retentive reinforcement. Well,
   maybe not exactly that," he corrected himself as he
   reminded himself of the rather drastic anatomical differ-
   76
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   77
   ences between himself and his audience, "but it's the
   same idea."
   "We can't do anything about it," said the giant toad-
   stool. "The mist and clouds and coolness are always with
   us. If they weren't, we'd all die. That's depressing. And
   what's even more depressing is that we don't particularly
   like perpetual mist and clouds and fog."
   Jon-Tom struggled desperately for a reply, feeling victo-
   ry slipping from his grasp. "It's not the fact that it's
   cloudy and damp all the time that matters. What matters is
   your outlook on the fact."
   "What do you mean, our outlook?" asked a newcomer,
   an interested slime mold. "Our outlook is glum and
   miserable and pointless."
   "Only if you think of it that way," Jon-Tom informed
   it. "Sure, you can think of yourselves as hopeless. But
   why not view your situation in a positive light? It's just a
   matter of redirecting your outlook on life. Instead of
   regarding your natural state as depressing, think of the
   constancy of climate and terrain as stabilizing, reassuring.
   In mental health, attitude is everything."
   "I'm not sure I follow you, man," said another mushroom.
   "Me neither, mate."
   "Be quiet, Mudge. Listen, existence is what you make
   of it. How you view your surroundings will affect how you
   feel about them."
   "How can we feel anything other than depressed in
   surroundings like these?" wondered the liverworts.
   "Right, then. If you feel more comfortable, go with
   those thoughts. There's nothing wrong with being de-
   pressed and miserable all the time, so long as you feel
   good about it. Have you ever felt bright and cheery?"
   "No, no, no," was the immediate and general consensus.
   "Then how do you know that it's any better than feeling
   depressed and miserable? Maybe one's no better than the
   other.''
   "That's not what the other travelers who come our way
   say," murmured the toadstool, "before they relax, see it
   our way, and settle down for a couple of months of steady
   decomposition."
   Jon-Tom shivered slightly. "Sure, that's what they say,
   but do they look any better off, act any more contented,
   any more in tune with their surroundings than you do?"
   "Naturally they're not as in tune with their surround-
   ings," said the first mushroom, "but these surroundings
   are.. •"
   "...Damp and depressing," Jon-Tom finished for it.
   "That's okay if you accept it. It's all right to feel de-
   pressed all the time if you feel good about it. Why can't it
   be fun to feel depressed? If that's how your environment
   makes you feel, then if you feel that why it means you're
   in tune with your environment, and that should make you
   feel good, and secure, and confident."
   Roseroar's expression reflected her confusion, but she
   said nothing. Mudge just sat quietly, shaking his head.
   But they were thinking, and it kept them from growing
   dangerously listless again.
   "Hey," murmured a purple toadstool, "maybe it is
   okay to feel down and dumpy all the time, if that's what
   works for you."
   "That's it," said Jon-Tom excitedly. "That's the point
   I'm trying to make. Everything, every entity, is different.
   Just because one state of mind works for us ambulatories
   doesn't mean it ought to work the same way for you. At
   least you aren't confused all the time, the way most of my
   kind are."
   "Far fucking out," announced one enlightened truffle
   from beneath a clump of shelf fungi. "Existence is point-
   less. Life is decrepit. Consciousness sucks. And you know
   what? I feel good about it! It all fits."
   "Beautiful," said Jon-Tom. "Go with that." He put his
   hands on his hips and turned a circle. "Anybody else here
   have any trouble dealing with that?"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   79
   "Well, we do," said a flotilla of mushrooms clinging to
   a scummy pile of dead weeds near a small pool.
   "Tell me about it," said Jon-Tom coaxingly.
   "It started when we were just spores. ..."
   It went on like that all through the night. By morning,
   Jon-Tom was exhausted, but the fungoid forest surround-
   ing him was suffused with the first stages of exhilaration... in
   a maudlin manner, of course. But by and large, the
   group-therapy session had been wildly successful,
   Mudge and Roseroar had recovered completely from
   their insidiously induced lethargies and were eager to set
   out again. Jon-Tom held back. He wanted to make certain
   the session would have at least a semipermanent effect, or
   it wouldn't last them through the Moors to the Glittergeist.
   "You've certainly laid a heavy trip on us, man," said
   the large mushroom that served as speaker for the rest of
   the forest.
   "I'm sure that if you hold to those thoughts, go with the
   flow, make sure you leave yourselves enough mental space,
   you'll find that you'll always feel better about your places
   in existence," Jon-Tom assured it.
   "I don't know," said the big toadstool, and for an
   instant the veil of gloom which had nearly proved lethal
   descended about Jon-Tom all over again. "But just consid-
   ering it makes me more inclined to accept it."
   The cloud of despair dissipated. "That's it." Jon-Tom
   grew aware of just how tired he was. "I'd like to stay and
   chat some more, but we need to be on our way to the
   Glittergeist again. You wouldn't happen to know in which
   direction it lies?"
   Behind him, the shapes of three giant amanitas crooked
   their crowns into the mist. "This way, friend. Pass freely
   from this place.. . though if you'd like to join us in our
   contented dissolution, you're more than welcome to re-
   main and decompose among us."
   "Couldn't think of it," Jon-Tom replied politely, falling
   in behind Mudge and Roseroar as they started southward.
   "See, I'm not into decomposition."
   "Tell us about it," several rusts urged him.
   Worrying that he might be leaving behind a forest full of
   fungoid Frankensteins, Jon-Tom waved it off by saying,
   "Some other time."
   "Sure, that's it, go on and leave," snapped the toad-
   stool. "We're not worth talking to."
   "I've just spent a whole night talking to you. Now
   you're bringing out new feelings of insecurity."
   "No I'm not," said the toadstool, defensive. "It's the
   same thing as depression."
   "Isn't. Why don't you discuss it for a while?" A rising
   mental susurration trailed in his wake as he hastened after
   his companions.
   Word of the therapy session preceded them through the
   Muddletup. The intensity of the depression around them
   varied considerably in strength according to the success of
   Jon-Tom's therapy. They detoured around the worst areas
   of despair, where the mental aura bordered on the coma-
   tose, and as a result they were never again afflicted with
   the urge to lie down and chuck it all.
   Eventually the fungi gave way to blossoming bushes and
   evergreens. The morning they emerged from the woods
   onto a wide, gravelly beach formed of wave-polished
   agates and jade was one of the happiest of Jon-Tom's life.
   Pushing his ram wood staff into the gravel, he hung his
   backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled
   deeply of the sea air. The sharp salty smell was heartbreak-
   ingly familiar.
   Mudge let out a whoop; threw off his bow, quiver, pack,
   and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the warm surf.
   Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too
   damn tired. Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they
   watched the gleeful otter porpoise gracefully through the
   waves.
   "I wish I had my board," Jon-Tom murmured.
   "Yo what?" Roseroar looked down at him.
   80
   Alan Dean Foster
   "It's a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It
   floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward
   shore."
   Roseroar considered, decided. "That sounds like fun.
   Do y'all think yo could teach me?"
   He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, I don't have my
   board with me."
   "How big a board do yo need?" Rising, she started
   stripping off her armor. "Surely not biggah than this?"
   "Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the
   water."
   "Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah'll race yo to the
   beach."
   He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though
   somone might appear on this deserted section of shore.
   What the hell, he told himself.
   The clean tropical salt water washed away the last
   lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar's back
   wasn't as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty
   of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress's muscles
   shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily
   through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no
   time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger
   was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk
   of inanimate resin.
   As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm
   beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,
   Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood
   while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-
   dance clung to the shore.
   The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-
   ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,
   cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to
   fill even the tigress's belly. This time Jon-Tom didn't even
   twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon's flank.
   Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first
   time since they'd fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.
   VI
   As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and
   yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun
   was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-
   thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night's rest
   he'd had in weeks.
   He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed
   quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.
   As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with
   beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest
   revealed the source of the disturbance.
   They were not alone on the beach. A small single-
   masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four
   large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered
   around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them
   were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged
   mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.
   What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of
   the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly
   voice but a strong one.
   There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he
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   82
   Alan Dean Foster
   rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was
   Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.
   "What's happening?"
   "Nothin', mate. None o' our business, wot? Let's leave
   it be. I'm ready for breakfast."
   "Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?"
   "You do me a wrong, guv'nor. Sometimes 'tis sex,
   food, and money. Then again at times 'tis—"
   "Never mind," said the exasperated Jon-Tom.
   "Foah against one," muttered Roseroar angrily, "and
   the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant."
   "We've got to do something," Jon-Tom murmured.
   "Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left
   and cover them from there. I'll make a frontal assault from
   here. Roseroar, you..." But the tigress was already over
   the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.
   So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.
   "Come on, Mudge!"
   "Now wait a minim, mate." The otter watched Jon-
   Tom follow in Roseroar's wake, waving his staff and
   yelling at the top of his lungs. "Bloody fools!" He
   notched an arrow into his bow and followed.
   But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see
   all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bear-
   ing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit
   to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a
   concerted rush for the boat.
   The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword
   range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw-
   ing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have
   reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in
   meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he
   was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took
   place.
   Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the
   exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath
   the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   83
   an old one, distant kin to Mudge's line but thinner still.
   Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So
   was the black mask that ran across the face.
   The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore
   sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled
   in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several
   other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All
   looked empty.
   Gradually the elderly ferret's breathing slowed. He opened
   his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.
   "Easy, easy, friend. They're gone. We saw to that."
   The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his
   gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered
   leather sacks.
   "My stock, my goods!" He broke away from Jon-Tom,
   who watched while the oldster went through each sack,
   one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack
   draped across his lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside.
   "Gone." He shook his head sadly. "AH gone."
   "Wot's all gone, senior?" Mudge prodded one of the
   sacks with a boot.
   The ferret didn't look up at him. "My stock, my poor
   stock. I am... I was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying
   my trade along the shores east of here. I was set upon by
   those worthless brigands"—he nodded seaward, to where
   the retreating boat had raised sail and was disappearing
   toward the horizon—"who stole everything I have man-
   aged to accumulate in a short, unworthy life. They kept
   me and forced me to do their menial work, to cook and
   clean and wash for them while they preyed upon other
   unsuspecting travelers.
   "They said they would let me go unharmed. Finally
   they tired of me, but instead of returning me to a place of
   civilization they brought me here to this empty, uninhabited
   shore, intending to maroon me in an unknown land where
   I might starve. They stole what little I had in this world,
   taunted me by leaving my stock bags, and would have
   84
   Alan Dean Foster
   stolen my life as well at the last moment had you not come
   along, for I was refusing to be abandoned."
   "Don't give us too much credit," Jon-Tom advised
   him. "Our being in a position to rescue you was an
   accident."
   "You can say that again, mate," growled the disgusted
   Mudge as he slung his bow back over his shoulder.
   Jon-Tom ignored the otter. "We're glad we could help. I
   don't like seeing anyone taken advantage of, especially
   senior citizens."
   "What?"
   "Older people."
   "Ah. But how can I thank you, sir? How can I show my
   gratitude? I am destitute."
   "Forget it." The ferret's effusiveness was making Jon-
   Tom uncomfortable. "We're glad we could help."
   The ferret rose, wincing and putting one hand against
   his back. "I am called Jalwar. To whom do I owe my
   salvation?"
   "I'm Jon-Tom. I'm a spellsinger. Of sorts."
   The ferret nodded gravely. "I knew at once you were
   mighty ones."
   Jon-Tom indicated the disgruntled Mudge. "That ball of
   fuzzy discontent is my friend Mudge." The otter grunted
   once. "And this tower of cautionless strength is Roseroar."
   "I am honored to be in your presence," said the ferret
   humbly, proceeding to prostrate himself on the beach and
   grasping Jon-Tom's boots. "I have nothing left. My stock
   is gone, my money, everything save the clothes I wear. I
   owe you my life. Take me into your service and let me
   serve you."
   "Now, wait a minute." Jon-Tom moved his boots out of
   the ferret's paws. "I don't believe in slavery."
   " 'Ere now, mate, let's not be 'asty." Mudge was quick
   to intervene. "Consider the poor suck—uh, this poor
   unfortunate chap. 'E's got nothin', 'e 'asn't. 'E'll need
   protection, or the next bunch 'e runs into will kill Mm for
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   85
   sure, just for 'is clothes." He eyed the ferret hopefully.
   "Wot about it, guv? Can you cook?"
   "I have some small talent in the kitchen, good sir."
   "Mudge..." Jon-Tom said warningly. The otter ig-
   nored him.
   "You said you washed clothes."
   "That I did, good sir. I have the ability to make even
   ancient attire smell sweet as clover again, with the slightest
   of cleansing materials. I am also handy at repairing gar-
   ments. Despite my age, I am not a weakling. I can more
   than carry my weight."
   Mudge strutted about importantly. " 'Ere then, friend, I
   think we should take pity on you and admit you to our
   company, wot"?"
   "Mudge, you know how I feel about servants."
   "It wouldn't be like that at all, Jon-Tom. 'E does need
   our protection, and 'e'll never get out o' this place without
   our 'elp, and 'e's more than willin' to contribute 'is
   share."
   The ferret nodded enthusiastically. "Please accept my
   service, good sir... and madame. Allow me to accompany
   you. Perhaps being proximate to such mighty ones as your-
   selves will improve my own ill fortune."
   "I'll bet you were a good trader," Jon-Tom commented.
   "Okay, you can come with us, but as an equal. Not as a
   servant or slave. We'll pay you a decent wage." He
   remembered the purse filled with gold, stolen by Zancresta's
   thugs. "As soon as we can afford it, that is."
   "Food and shelter and protection is all I ask, great sir."
   "And stop calling me sir," said Jon-Tom. "I've intro-
   duced you to everyone by name."
   "As you wish, Jon-Tom." The ferret turned to look
   down the beach. "What do we now? I presume you are
   bound to the east, for if one walks long enough one will
   come 'round again to the lands bordering the Bellwoods
   and the River Tailaroam, where civilization is to be
   encountered."
   "Don't I wish," Mudge grumbled.
   86
   Alan Dean Poster
   Jon-Tom shook his head. "We don't go to the east,
   Jalwar. We go southwest, to Snarken."
   ' 'Across the Glittergeist? Sir... Jon-Tom... I have lived
   long and seen much. The voyage to Snarken is long and
   fraught with danger and difficulty. Better to begin the long
   trek to the mouth of the Tailaroam. Besides, how could
   one take ship from this deserted land? And north of here
   lie the Muddletup Moors, where none may penetrate."
   "We penetrated," said Mudge importantly.
   "Did you? If you say it so, I doubt it not. Still, this far
   north places us well away from the east-west trade routes.
   We will encounter no vessels here."
   "You won't get any arguments from me on that score,
   mate," said Mudge. "Best to do as you say, go back to the
   Bellwoods and the Tailaroam and start over. Likely
   Chenelska's give up on us by now."
   "No," said Jon-Tom firmly. "I am not going back and I
   am not starting over. We've come too far."
   Mudge squinted up at him. "Well now, you've just
   'eard this wise old chap. 'Ow do you propose to get us
   across that?" He pointed to the broad, sailless expanse of
   the Glittergeist. "I like to swim, lad, but I prefer swimmin'
   across water I can cross."
   "What can yo do, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar asked him.
   He stood fuming silently for a moment before blurting
   out, "I can damn well conjure us up a boat, that's what!"
   "Uh-oh." Mudge retreated toward the trees, searching
   for a boulder of appropriate size to conceal himself behind.
   " 'Is nibs is pissed off and 'e's goin' to try spellsingin'
   again."
   Roseroar eyed the otter curiously. "Isn't that his busi-
   ness, fuzzball?"
   "That may be wot some calls it. Me, I'd as soon brush
   a crocodile's teeth than 'elp 'im with 'is work."
   "Ah don't understand. Is he a spellsinger or not?"
   " 'E is," Mudge admitted. "Of that there's no longer
   any doubt. 'Tis just that 'e 'as this disconcertin' tendency
   THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE
   87
   to misfire from time to time, and when it 'appens, I don't
   want to be in the line o' fire."
   "Go on, Roseroar," Jon-Tom told her. "Get back there
   and hide behind a rock with him." He was mad at the
   otter. Hadn't he, Jon-Tom, helped to bring about the great
   victory at the Jo-Troom Gate? Purely by accident of
   course, but still...
   "No sun," said the tigress, offended. "If n y'all don't
   mind, I'll stand right heah."
   "Good for you." Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar, turned
   away to confront the open sea, where soon he hoped to see
   a proper ship riding empty at anchor. Turning also kept
   Roseroar from seeing how nervous he was.
   Once before on a far-distant river he'd tried to bring
   forth a boat to carry himself and his companions. Instead,
   he'd ended up with Falameezar, the Marxist dragon. That
   misplaced conjuration had produced unexpectedly benign
   results, but there was no guarantee he'd be as fortunate if he
   fouled up a second time.
   It was too late to back down now. He'd already made his
   boast. He felt Roseroar's gaze on the back of his neck. If
   he backed down now he'd prove himself an incompetent to
   Mudge and a coward to the tigress. He had to try.
   He considered several songs and discarded them all as
   unsuitable. He was beginning to grow frantic when a song
   so obvious, so simple, offered what seemed like an obvi-
   ous way out,
   His fingers tested the duar's strings and he began to
   sing.
   Flecks of light sprang to instant life around him. It was
   as though the sand underfoot had come to glowing life.
   The lights were Gneechees, those minute ultrafast specks
   of existence that were drawn irresistibly to magic in
   motion. They coalesced into a bright, dancing cloud around
   him, and as usual, when he tried to look straight at any of
   them, they vanished. Gneechees were those suggestions of
   88
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE
   89
   something everyone sees out of the corner of an eye but
   aren't there when you turn to look at them.
   But he sensed their presence. So did Roseroar and the
   others. It was a good sign, an indication that the spellsinging
   was working. Certainly the tune he played seemed harm-
   less enough, even to the wary Mudge, whose opinion of
   Jon-Tom's musical tastes differed little from that of the
   average PTA president.
   The otter had to admit that for a change the otherworldly
   ditty Jon-Tom was reciting was easy on the ears, even if
   the majority of the words, as was true of all of Jon-Tom's
   songs, were quite incomprehensible.
   Jon-Tom had chosen the song as much out of despera-
   tion as need. The song was "Sloop John 5.," by the
   Beach Boys. Given their present needs, it was a logical
   enough choice.
   Nothing happened right away. But before long, Jalwar
   was making protective signs over his face and chest while
   cowering close to Mudge for protection, while the otter
   waited nervously for the unexpected to manifest itself.
   Despite her own awe at what was taking place on the
   beach, Roseroar stood her ground.
   Mudge was worrying needlessly. For once, for the very
   first time, it looked like Jon-Tom's efforts were to be
   rewarded with success. For once it appeared that his
   spellsong was going to produce only what he wanted. The
   otter moved hesitantly out from behind the shelter of the
   boulder, while simultaneously holding himself ready to
   rush for the trees at the first hint of trouble.
   "Bugger me for a blue-eyed bandicoot," he muttered
   excitedly. "The lad's gone an' done it!"
   Rocking gently in the waves just beyond the breaking
   surf was a single-masted sloop. The stern faced shoreward
   and on the name-plate everyone could clearly make out the
   words JOHN B.
   Jon-Tom let the last words of the song trail away. With it
   went the Gneechees and the cloud of blue fog from which
   the boat had emerged. It bobbed gently at anchor, awaiting
   mem.
   Roseroar put a proud paw on Jon-Tom's shoulder. "Sugah,
   bless man soul if it isn't a spellsingah yo are. That's a
   fine-looking ship, for all that her lines are strange to me,
   and ah've sailed many a craft."
   Jon-Tom continued to pluck fitfully at the duar as if
   fearful that the sloop, solid as she looked, might disappear
   at any moment in a rush of fog.
   "Glad you think so. Me, I've never been on anything
   il      bigger than a surfboard in my life."
   13    "Not to worry. Ah don't recognize the mannah of ship,
   but if she sails, ah can handle her."
   "So can I." Jalwar appeared behind them, "hi my
   youth I spent much time sailing many kinds of ships."
   "See?" said Mudge, joining them on the beach. "The
   old fur's provin' 'imself valuable already."
   "Okay." Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly. "Let's see what
   :^      she's like on board."
   13    Mudge led them out to the boat, as at home in the water
   ]1      as he was on land. The others followed. By the time
   •\      Jon-Tom reached the bottom of the boarding ladder, the
   -'?.      otter had completed a preliminary inspection.
   ^     "She's fully stocked, she is, though the packin's bloody
   jl      strange."
   iJ    "Let me have a look." Jon-Tom went first to the galley.
   |          Cans and packages bore familiar labels like Hormel,
   ~i      Armor, Oscar Mayer, and Hebrew National. There was
   ,|      more than enough food for an extensive journey, and they
   !      could fish on the way. The tank for the propane stove read
   full. Jon-Tom tried a burner, was rewarded with a blast of
   blue flame that caused Roseroar to pull back.
   "Ah don't see no source of fire."
   "The ship arrives already fully spelled for traveling,"
   Jalwar murmured appreciatively. "Impressive."
   "hi the song she's supposed to be on a long voyage,"
   Jon-Tom explained.
   90
   Alan Dean Foster
   There was a diesel engine meant to supplement the sails.
   Jon-Tom didn't try it. Let it wait until they were becalmed.
   Then he could dazzle them with new magic.
   "Roseroar, since you're the most experienced sailor
   among us, why don't you be captain?"
   "As you wish, Jon-Tom." She squeezed through the
   hatchway back onto the deck and began familiarizing
   herself with the unusual but not unfathomable rigging. As
   with any modern sailing ship, the sloop would almost run
   the sails up and down the masts all by itself. It didn't take
   the tigress long to figure it out.
   An electric winch made short work of the anchor.
   Roseroar spun the wheel, the sloop hove around with a
   warm breeze filling its sails, and they headed out to sea.
   Within an hour they had left the gravel beach and the
   Muddletup Moors with its confused fungoid inhabitants far
   behind.
   "Which way to Snarken?" she asked as she worked the
   wheel and a hand winch simultaneously. The mainsail
   billowed in the freshening wind.
   "I don't know. You're the sailor."
   "Sailor ah confess to, but ah'm no navigator, man."
   "Southwest," Mudge told her. "For now that's good
   enough."
   Roseroar adjusted their heading, brought it in line with
   the directions supplied by the compass. "Southwest it is."
   The sloop changed directions smoothly, responding instantly
   to the tigress's light touch on the wheel.
   Feeling reasonably confident that at last all was right
   with the world, Jon-Tom reprised the song and for good
   measure added a chorus of the Beach Boys' "Sail On, Sail
   On, Sailor." The sun was warm, the wind steady, and
   Snarken seemed just over the near horizon.
   Putting up the duar, he escorted Jalwar down to the
   galley, there to explain the intricacies of the propane stove
   and such otherworldly esoterica as Saran Wrap and can
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   91
   openers to their designated chef. That and the rest of a fine
   day well done, he allowed himself to be first to bed.
   To be awakened by rough hands shaking him violently.
   "Get up, get up, spellsinger!"
   Feeling very strange, Jon-Tom rolled over, to find him-
   self staring into the worried face of the ferret.
   "What... whash wrong?" He was startled by the sound
   of his own voice, unnaturally thick and slurred. And the
   boat seemed to be rolling in circles.
   "We are in bad trouble, spellsinger. Bad trouble."
   Jalwar disappeared.
   Jon-Tom sat up. It took three tries. Then he tried to get
   out of the bunk and discovered he couldn't tell the floor
   from the ceiling. The floor found him.
   "Wot was that?" said a distant voice.
   He struggled to get up. "I don't..." He reached for the
   railing of the lower bunk and tried to pull himself upright.
   "Wheresh the... ?" Somehow he managed to drag him-
   self to a standing position. He stood there on shaky knees
   that felt determined to go their own way, exclusive of any
   contrariwise instructions from his brain.
   "Whash wrong with me?" he moaned.
   Two faces appeared in the doorway, one above the other.
   Both were blurred.
   "Shee-it," said Roseroar. "He's drunk! Ah didn't see
   him get into any liquor."
   "Nor did I," said Mudge, trying to push past her.
   "Give me room, you bloody great amazon!" He put his
   hands on Jon-Tom's shoulders and gripped hard. Jon-Tom
   staggered backward.
   "Blister me for a brown vole if you're not. Where'd you
   find the hootch, guv'nor?"
   "What hoosh?" Jon-Tom replied thickly. "I didn't..."
   The floor almost went out from under him. "Say, whoosh
   driving thish bush?"
   A disgusted Mudge stepped back. "Can't abide anyone
   who can't 'old 'is booze."
   92
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Leave him fo now," said Roseroar. "We'll have to
   handle this ourselves." They turned to leave.
   "Hey, wait!" Jon-Tom yelled. He took a step forward,
   and the boat, sly and tricky craft that it was, deliberately
   yanked the floor out from under him. He slammed into the
   door, hung on for dear life.
   Mudge was right, he realized through the glassy haze
   that had formed over his eyeballs. I am drunk. Try as he
   might, he couldn't remember imbibing anything stronger
   than orange juice at supper. After reprising a couple of
   choruses of "Sloop John #." to make sure the boat didn't
   dematerialize out from beneath them in the middle of the
   night, he'd gone to bed. Jalwar was awake and alert.
   Everyone was except him.
   Suddenly he found himself in desperate need of a
   porthole, barely located one in time to stick his face out
   and throw his guts all over the equally upset ocean. When
   he Finally finished puking he was soaking wet from the
   spray. He felt a little less queasy but not any soberer.
   Somehow he managed to slam the porthole shut and
   refasten it. He staggered toward the gangway, pulled him-
   self toward the deck.
   Wind hit him hard the instant he stepped out on the teak
   planking, and rain filled his vision. Roseroar was holding
   the wheel steady with grim determination, but Mudge and
   Jalwar were having a terrible time trying to wrestle the
   mainsail down.
   "Hurry it up!" the tigress roared, her voice barely
   audible above the storm, "or we'll lose it fo sure!"
   "I don't care if we do," Jon-Tom moaned, putting both
   hands to the sides of his head, "just let's not shout about
   it, shall we?"
   1 'Tell it to the sky, spellsinger,'' pleaded Jalwar.
   "Yeah, use your magic, mate," added Mudge. "Turn
   this bloomin' weather back to normal!" Jon-Tom noticed
   that both of them were soaked. "Get rid of this bloody
   bedamned storm!"
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   93
   "Anything, anything," he told them, "if you'll just stop
   shouting." He staggered and nearly went careening over-
   board, just managed to save himself by grabbing on to a
   stay. "I don't unnershtand. It wash so calm when I went to
   bed."
   "Well 'tis not calm now, mate," snapped Mudge, wres-
   tling with the heavy, wet sail.
   "Ah've nevah seen a storm like this come up so quick-
   ly." Roseroar continued fighting with the wheel.
   "The words," Jalwar muttered. "The words of the
   spellsinging! Don't you remember?" He looked straight at
   Jon-Tom. "Don't you remember the words?"
   "But ish just the chorush," Jon-Tom groaned. "Jusht
   the chorush." He mumbled them again. " 'Thish ish the
   worsht trip, I've ever been on.' I didn't mean that part of
   the shong."
   The ferret was nodding. "So you sang. The spirits
   cannot distinguish between what you sing and mean and
   what you sing and do not mean. They have a way of taking
   everything literally."
   "But ish not the worsht trip I've ever been on!"
   Jon-Tom stood away from the rail on rubbery legs and
   screamed his protest at the skies that threatened to swamp
   them. "Ish not\"
   The skies paid him no heed.
   For hours they battled the winds. Twice they were in
   danger of being swamped. They were saved only by the
   unmagical efforts of the sloop's pump. Somehow Jon-Tom
   got it started, though the effort made him upchuck all over
   the engine room. That wouldn't happen again, though. His
   stomach was empty.
   If only it would feel empty.
   Soon after they pumped out the second holdful of water,
   the storm began to abate. An hour later the mountainous
   seas started to subside. And still there was no real relief,
   because thunder and lightning gave way to a thick,
   impenetrable fog.
   94
   Alan Dean Poster
   Mudge was leaning on the rail, grumbling. "We'd
   better not be near any land, mates." He glanced upward.
   A faint glow suffused the upper reaches of the fog bank,
   which had not thinned in the slightest. "I know you're up
   there, you great big ugly yellow bastard! Why don't you
   bum this driftin' piss off so we can see to be on our way!"
   "The words of the song," Ja!war murmured. Mudge
   snarled at him.
   "And you pack in it, guv'nor, or I'll do it for you."
   It was morning. Somewhere the sun was up there,
   probably laughing at them. The compass still showed the
   way, but the wind had vanished with the storm, and none
   of Jon-Tom's feeble coaxing could induce the shiny new
   diesel engine to perform.
   The restored sail hung limp against the mast. The sloop
   was floating through glassy, smooth, shallow water. A
   sandy bottom occasionally rose dangerously close to the
   keel, only to fall away again into pale blue depths each
   time it looked like they were about to ground. Roseroar
   steered as best she could, and with an otter and a ferret
   aboard there was at least no shortage of sharp eyesight.
   But as the day wore on and the fog clung tenaciously to
   them, it began to look as if Jon-Tom's song was to prove
   their simultaneous salvation and doom. The wind remained
   conspicuous by its absence. Sooner or later the shallows
   would close in around them and they would find them-
   selves marooned forever in the midst of a strange sea.
   The tension was taking its toll on everyone, even Roseroar.
   Their spellsinger, who had conjured up this wonderful
   craft, was of no use to anyone, least of all himself.
   Thankfully he no longer threw up. Yet despite his unarguable
   abstinence from any kind of drink, he remained falling-
   down drunk. Smashed. Potted.
   If anything, his condition had worsened. He strolled
   about the deck muttering songs so incomprehensible and
   slurred none of his companions could decipher them.
   Just as a precaution, Mudge had sequestered Jon-Tom's
   THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE
   95
   duar in a safe place. He'd gotten them into this situation
   while sober. It was terrifying to contemplate what might
   happen if he started spellsinging while drunk.
   "We have one chance," Jalwar finally declared.
   "Wot's that, guv'nor?" Mudge sat on the port side of
   the bow, keeping his eyes on the threatening shallows.
   "To turn around. We aren't that far yet from the beach
   where this unfortunate turn of events began. We can return
   there, land, or use this craft, provided the wind will return,
   to take us back to the mouth of the Tailaroam and
   civilization."
   "I'm tempted, guv, but 'e'll never stand for it." He
   nodded back to where Jon-Tom lay sprawled on his back
   on the deck, alternately laughing and hiccuping at the fog.
   "How can he object to stop us?" wondered Jalwar. "He
   has the gift, but no control over it."
   "That may be, guv. I'm sure as 'ell no expert on
   spellsingin', but this I do know. 'E's me friend, and I
   promised 'im that I'd see 'im through this journey to its
   end, no matter wot 'appens."
   Besides which, the otter reminded himself, if they
   returned without the medicine, there would be no rich
   reward from a grateful Clothahump. Mudge had endured
   too much already to throw that promise away now.
   "But what else can we do?" Jalwar moaned. "None of
   us is a wizard or sorcerer. We cannot cure his odd
   condition, because it is the result of his own spellsinging."
   "Maybe it'll cure itself." Mudge tried to sound optimis-
   tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom rolled over on the center
   cabin and tried to puke again. "I feel sorry for 'im. 'Tis
   clear 'e ain't used to liquorish effects." As if to reinforce
   the otter's observation, Jon-Tom rolled over again and fell
   off the cabin, nearly knocking himself out on the deck.
   Lifting himself to a sitting position, he burst out laughing.
   He was the only one on the boat who found the situation
   amusing.
   Mudge shook his head. "Bleedin' pitiful."
   "Yes, it is sad," Jalwar agreed.
   96
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. 'Ere 'e is,
   sufferin' from one o' the finest binges I've ever seen
   anybody on, and 'e ain't even had the pleasure o' drinkin'
   the booze. Truly pitiful." A glance downward showed
   sand looming near.
   "Couple o' degrees to starboard, luv!" he called stemward.
   "Ah heah y'all." Roseroar adjusted the boat's heading.
   The sandy bottom fell away once again.
   "It'll wear off," the otter mumbled. "It 'as to. Ain't
   nobody can stay drunk this long no matter 'ow strong a
   spell's been laid on 'is belly. I wonder when 'e did it?"
   "The same tune he did everything else," Jalwar explained.
   "Don't you remember the song?"
   "You mean that part about it bein' 'the worst trip I've
   ever been on'?"
   "Not just that. Remember that he made the tigress
   captain because she was the best sailor among us? That
   would leave him as next in command, would it not?"
   "Beats me, mate. I'm not much on ships and their
   lore."
   "He reduced himself to first mate," Jalwar said posi-
   tively. "That was in the song, too. A line that went
   something like "The first mate, he got drunk.' "
   "Aye, now I recall." The otter nodded toward the
   helpless spellsinger, who remained enraptured by a hyste-
   ria perceptible only to himself. "So 'e spellsung 'imself
   into this condition without even bein' aware o1 doin' it."
   "I fear that is the case."
   "Downright pitiful. Why couldn't 'e 'ave made me first
   mate? I'd 'andle a long drunk like this ten times better than
   'e would. 'E's got to come out of it sometime."
   "I hope so," said Jalwar. He glanced at the sky.
   "Perhaps we will lose this infernal fog, anyway. Then we
   might pick up a wind enabling us to turn back."
   "Now, I told you, guv," Mudge began, only to be
   interrupted by a shout.
   What stunned him to silence, however, was not the fact
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   97
   of the shout but its origin. It came from the water off to
   starboard.
   It was repeated. "Ahoy, there! You on the sloop! What's
   happenin'!"
   "What's happenin'?" Roseroar frowned, tried to see
   into the fog. "Jon-Tom, wake up!" The sails continued to
   luff against the mainmast.
   "Huh? Wash?" Jon-Tom laughed one more time, then
   struggled to stand up.
   "Ahoy, aboard the sloop!" A new voice this time,
   female.
   "Wash... whosh that?" He stumbled around the center
   cabin and tried to squint into the fog. Neither his eyesight
   nor his brain was functioning at optimum efficiency at the
   moment.
   A second boat materialized out of the mist. It was a low-
   slung outboard with a pearlescent fiberglass body. Three ...
   no, four people lounged in the vinyl seats. Two couples in
   their twenties, all human, all normal size.
   "What's happenin', John B.I" asked the young man
   standing behind the wheel. He didn't look too steady on
   his feet himself. A cooler sat between the front seats, full
   of ice and aluminum cans. The cans had names like Coors
   and Lone Star on them.
   Jon-Tom swayed. He was hallucinating, the next logical
   step in his mental disintegration. He leaned over the rail
   and tried to focus his remaining consciousness on the funny
   cigarette the couple in the front of the boat were passing
   back and forth.The other pair were exchanging hits on a
   glass pipe.
   The big outboard was idling noisily. One girl leaned
   over the side to clean her Foster Grants in the ocean. Next
   to the beer cooler was a picnic basket. A big open bag of
   pretzels sat on top. The twisted, skinny kind that tasted
   like pure fried salt. Next to the bag was a two-pound tin of
   Planter's Redskin Peanuts, and several brightly colored
   tropical fruits.
   98
   Alan Dean Poster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   99
   He tried to will himself sober. If anything could have
   cleared his mind, it should have been the sight of the boat
   and its occupants. But the uncontrollable power of his own
   spellsinging held true. Despite everything he tried, the
   self-declared first mate still stayed drunk. He swallowed
   the words on his tongue and tried a second time.
   "Who... who are you?"
   "I'm Charlie MacReady," said the boat's driver cheeri-
   ly, through a cannabis-induced fog of his own. He smiled
   broadly, leaned down to speak to his girlfriend. "Dig that
   getup that guy's got on. Must've been a helluva party!"
   Jon-Tom briefly considered his iridescent lizard-skin
   cape, his indigo shut, and the rest of his attire. Subdued
   clothing... for Clothahump's world.
   The girl in the front was having a tough time with her
   sunshades. Maybe she didn't realize that the glasses were
   clean and that it was her eyes that needed washing out.
   She leaned over again and nearly tumbled into the water.
   Her boyfriend grabbed the strap of her bikini top and
   pulled hard enough to hold her in the boat. Unfortunately,
   it was also hard enough to compress certain sensitive parts
   of her anatomy. She whirled to swing at him, missed badly
   thanks to the effects of what the foursome had been
   smoking all morning. For some unknown reason this
   started her giggling uncontrollably.
   Jon-Tom wasn't laughing anymore. He was battling his
   own sozzled thoughts and magically contaminated blood-
   stream.
   "Who are you people?"
   "I told you." The boat's driver spoke with pot-induced
   ponderousness. "MacReady's the name. Charles MacReady.
   I am a stockbroker from Manhattan. Merrill Lynching.
   You know, the bull?" He rested one hand on the shoulder
   of the suddenly contemplative woman seated next to him.
   She appeared fascinated by the sheen of her nail polish.
   "This is Buffy." He nodded toward the front of the
   boat. "The two kids up front are Steve and Mary-Ann.
   Steve works in my office. Don't you, Steve?" Steve didn't
   reply. He and Mary-Ann were giggling in tandem now.
   The driver turned back to Jon-Tom. "Who are you?"
   "One hell of a good question," Jon-Tom replied thickly.
   He glanced down at his outrageous costume. Is this what
   happens when you get the DTs? he wondered. Somehow
   he'd always imagined having the DTs would involve
   stronger hallucinations than a quartet of happily stoned
   vacationers loaded down with pot and pretzels.
   "My name... my name..." For one terrible instant
   there was a soft, puffy blank in his mind where his name
   belonged. The kind of disorientation one encounters in a
   cheap house of mirrors at the state fair, where you have to
   feel your way through to the exit by putting your hands out
   in front of you and pushing through the nothingness of
   your own reflections.
   Meriweather, he told himself. Jonathan Thomas Meri-
   weather. I am a graduate law student from UCLA. The
   University of California at Los Angeles. He repeated this
   information slowly to the driver of the boat.
   "Nice to meet you," said MacReady.
   "But you, you, you, where are you? Where are you
   from?" Jon-Tom was aware he was half crying, but he
   couldn't stop himself. His desperation overwhelmed any
   suggestion of self-control.
   The song, the song, that seemingly innocuous song so
   full of unforeseen consequences. First the boat, then the
   storm and his drunkenness, and now ... where in the song
   had the sloop John B. been going?
   The stockbroker from Manhattan pointed to his right.
   "Just out for the afternoon from the Nassau Club Med.
   You know, man. The Bahamas? You lost out of Miami or
   what?" He jiggled the chain of polyethelene beads that
   hung from his neck.
   "Wanna come back in with us?"
   "It can't be," Jon-Tom whispered dazedly. "It can't be
   this easy." The song he'd repeated over and over, what
   1OO
   Alan Dean Foster
   was the phrasing? ' 'Around Nassau Town we did roam... I
   wanna go home, I wanna go home... this is the worst
   trip, I've ever been on."
   "7 wanna go home," Jon-Tom sang in his mind. "Around
   Nassau Town. Yes... yes, we'll follow you back! We'll
   follow you back." He clung to the rail for dear life, his
   eyes locked on the big Evenrude rumbling at the stern of
   the ski boat.
   "You coming over here or you just going to follow us
   in?"
   "We'll follow you," Jon-Tom mumbled. "We'll fol-
   low." He turned to the helm. "Roseroar, put on all
   sail... no, wait." It was still windless. "The engine. I'll
   get that engine started and we'll follow them in!" He took
   a wild step toward the hatchway, felt himself going back-
   ward over the rail, tumbling toward a waiting pane of glass
   that wasn't there.
   An immense paw had hold of him, was pulling him
   back on deck. "Watch yourself, sugah," Roseroar told
   him quietly. She'd cleared the distance to him from her
   position at the wheel in one leap.
   Now she stared across the water. "Who are these
   strange folk? Ah declare, ah can't make top no bottom of
   their words."
   "Tell them," Jon-Tom moaned weakly toward the ski
   boat, "tell them who you are, tell them where we are!"
   But Charles MacReady, stockbroker on vacation, seven
   days, six nights, $950 all-inclusive from LaGuardia, not
   counting the fact that he expected to get laid tonight, did
   not reply. He was staring at the boat where seven feet of
   white tigress dressed in leather and brass armor stood on
   hind legs staring back at him.
   Giggling rose from the floorboards in the front of
   the boat. MacReady's girlfriend had progressed from an
   intimate examination of her nails to her toes, which she
   was regarding now with a Buddha-like glassy stare.
   MacReady dazedly flipped the butt of the sansemilla
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   101
   stick over the side as though it had been laced with
   cyanide and said clearly, "Holy shit." Then he sat down
   hard in the driver's seat and fired up the big outboard.
   "No wait," Jon-Tom screamed, "wait!" He tried to
   dive over the side, and it took all of Roseroar's consider-
   able strength to prevent him from drowning himself. In his
   current state he couldn't float, much less swim.
   "Easy there, Jon-Tom. What's gotten into y'all?"
   He wrenched away from her, tore down the hatchway
   into the hold, and fumbled with the diesel. It took three
   tries but this time it started up. Then he was running,
   crawling back up the stairs and flying for the steering
   wheel console. The compass rocked. He stabbed a button.
   A gargling came from underneath the ship, hesitated, died.
   He jabbed the button again. This time the sound was a
   whir, whir.
   Mudge raced back from the bow. "Wot the bloody 'ell
   is goin' on back 'ere?"
   Roseroar stood aside, guarding the railing, and eyed the
   otter uncertainly. "There ah people in a boat. We must be
   neah some land."
   "I 'card. That's bloody marvelous. They goin' to lead
   us in?"
   "I think they're frightened of something," Roseroar
   told him.
   Jon-Tom was crying, crying and jabbing away at the
   starter. "You don't understand, you don't understand!"
   The sound of the ski boat's outboard was fading with
   distance. Still the engine refused to turn over.
   Then there was a deep growl. Roseroar jumped and
   grabbed the rail as the boat began to move.
   "Where are they?" Jon-Tom cried, trying to steer and
   search the fog at the same time. "Which way did they
   go?"
   "I do not know, Jon-Tom," said Jalwar helplessly. "I
   did not see." He pointed uncertainly into the fog off the
   bow. "That way, I think."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Jon-Tom increased their speed and the diesel responded
   efficiently. They couldn't be far from the town of Nassau.
   The foursome from New York had been out for the
   afternoon only. Hadn't the stockbroker said so? Besides,
   they wore only swim suits and carried little in the way of
   supplies. Surely he was near enough to hit the island! And
   from Nassau it would be a short flight to the Florida coast.
   To home, to Miami, Disneyworld, hotels, and soap operas
   on TV in the afternoon. Images shoved purposefully into
   the back of his mind sprang back to the fore: home.
   He was home.
   So crazed was he with hope and joy that he didn't think
   what the reaction would be to his arriving in Nassau with
   the likes of Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar in tow. But
   none of that mattered. None.
   Unintentionally and quite without intending to do so,
   he'd spellsung himself home.
   VII
   He clung desperately to that thought as day gave way to
   night. Still no sign of Nassau or any of the Bahamas. No
   hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean. No
   lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog
   and an occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on
   high, keeping a watchful silver eye on his waning hopes.
   He was still at the wheel the next morning. The fog had
   fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart.
   You could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a
   glimpse of a coconut palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm
   glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel. Only when the
   diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit
   away from the helm, exhausted.
   Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair had
   driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It
   was sour irony: he had regained the use of his senses when
   he no longer had need of them.
   Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With
   the disappearance of the fog had come the return of the
   wind. The sails filled.
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   1O4
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?" she asked
   gently. He didn't reply, stared blankly over the side.
   Mudge watched him closely. "Snarken, luv. You know
   the way." Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over.
   "What's wrong with him?"
   Mudge replied thoughtfully. " 'E believed for a few
   minutes last night 'e might 'ave been 'ome, back in 'is
   own world. Now, me, I don't believe we went from one
   world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar
   boat full of mighty odd-lookin' 'umans. The birds were
   sharp enough lookin', though. I'll give 'em that."
   Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. " Y' all are disgustin'.
   Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy
   little degenerate pervert, is intercourse."
   "Blow it out your striped arse, you self-righteous bitch!
   I'd swear on me mother's 'ead that 'alf an army's done
   proper work under that tail."
   Roseroar lunged for the otter. A ghost of a voice made
   her pause.
   "Don't. Please." For the first time in days a familiar
   face swung around to face both of them. "It's not worth it.
   Not on my behalf."
   Roseroar reluctantly returned to her station behind the
   wheel. "Blimey, mate," said Mudge softly, "you really
   do think we went over into your world, don't you?"
   He nodded. "It was in the song. I didn't mean it to
   happen that way, but yes, I think we crossed over. And I
   was too drunk to do anything about it."
   "Maybe we're still in yo world," said Roseroar.
   Mudge noticed movement in the water. " 'Ang on. I
   think I know 'ow to find out." He headed toward the bow.
   Jon-Tom rose, swayed slightly. Roseroar put out a hand
   to steady him but he waved her off with a smile. "Thanks.
   I'm okay now. Stone-cold sober."
   "Yo drunkenness did come from yo song, then?"
   "Something else I didn't plan on. It's worn off. That's
   why I don't think we're still in my world. The good wears
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   105
   off along with the bad." His voice fell to a whisper. "I
   was home, Roseroar! Home."
   "Ah am sorry fo yo, Jon-Tom. Ah really and truly am."
   "You've got a big heart, Roseroar. Along with every-
   thing else." He smiled at her, then walked toward the front
   of the boat. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was still a
   chance, however faint that seemed now.
   The otter was leaning over the side. "How are you
   going to find out where we are?" Jon-Tom asked.
   Mudge glanced up at him. "That's easy enough, guv'nor.
   All you 'ave to do is ask." He turned his face to the water
   racing past the prow and shouted, "Hey, you, where are
   we?"
   Jon-Tom peered over the railing to see the playful,
   smooth, gray-backed shapes sliding easily through the
   water, hitching a free ride on the boat's bow-wave. One of
   them lifted its bottle-nose clear of the surface and squeaked
   a reply.
   "You're at half past a quarter after." Giggles rose from
   around the speaker as the rest of the dolphins vented their
   appreciation of the little joke.
   Mudge gave Jon-Tom an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate,
   but tain't easy gettin' a straight answer out o' this bunch o'
   sea-goin' comedians."
   "Never mind," Jon-Tom sighed. "The fact that it
   answered at all is proof enough of which world we're in."
   "Hey:ya," said another of the slim swimmers, "have
   you guys heard the one about the squid and the Third
   Mistress of Pack Thirty?"
   "No." Mudge leaned forward, interested.
   The dolphin now speaking sidled effortlessly up to the
   side of the speeding sloop. "It seems she..." Jon-Tom
   abandoned the ongoing display of oceanic vulgarity and
   climbed the central cabin to contemplate the horizon.
   No, he wasn't home anymore. Maybe he'd hallucinated
   the whole incident. Maybe there'd been no ski boat full of
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   Alan Dean Poster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   1O7
   stoned stockbrokers from New York. Maybe the entire
   episode was nothing more than the result of his drunkenness.
   Except that Mudge and Roseroar and Jalwar had seen
   them also.
   The last vestiges of inebriation left him frighteningly
   cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him
   in this alien otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him
   with a glimpse of reality, of home. He felt like a poor kid
   forced to stand in front of the main display window at
   FA.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas.
   Slipping the duar around in front of him, he tried the
   song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the
   volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and
   he could hardly speak. Nothing worked. The song remained
   a song and nothing more.
   He tried other songs, with the same result. He sang
   everything he could remember that alluded however vaguely
   to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.
   The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running
   southwestward under Roseroar's expert guidance. There
   was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the dolphins with
   their endless corny jokes.
   "Sail ahead!" Jalwar yelled from the top of the main-
   mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined
   Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only
   empty horizon. Mudge had no difficulty in matching the
   ferret's vision.
   "I see 'er, mate."
   . "What does she look like?"
   "Rigged normal, not like this thing." The last of
   Jon-Tom's hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. "Big,
   two rows of oars. That I don't like."
   "Why not?"
   "Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin'
   across an ocean. Only a fool... and them that's given no
   choice in the business."
   The visitor was bearing down on them fast.  Soon
   Jon-Tom could make out the silhouette. "Can you see a
   flag?"
   Mudge stared hard. Then he began to shake. "That's all
   she wrote, mate. There's a 'eart with a knife through it
   flyin' from the yardartn. Pirates." He raced sternward,
   Jon-Tom hurrying after him.
   "I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist."
   "Aye, traders and them that preys on 'em." The otter
   was dancing frantically around Roseroar. "Do somethin',
   you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!"
   Roseroar put the wheel hard over, said evenly, "They've
   probably seen us already."
   "Jon-Tom, spellsing us out o' 'ere!" By now the huge,
   swift shape of the pirate ship was bearing down on then-
   stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double rows of
   oars dipped in unison.
   "There's not enough wind," Roseroar observed. "What
   there is, is at our back, but they're supplemental' their
   own sails with those oahs."
   Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around
   his neck. "Our engine's out of diesel." He found himself
   eyeing the approaching behemoth in fascination. "Interest-
   ing lines."
   "Interestin" my arse!" Mudge was saying frantically.
   "You'll see 'ow interestin' it can be if they take us!"
   "I'm afraid I don't know many songs about boats,"
   Jon-Tom muttered worriedly, trying to concentrate, "and
   none at all about pirates. See, where I come from they're a
   historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contempo-
   rary song writers."
   "Screw wot's contemporary!" the otter pleaded with
   him. "Sing something!"
   Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes,
   none of which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the
   approaching vessel. It was hard to remember anything,
   what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to the north
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   Alan Dean Poster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   1O9
   and Mudge hopping hysterically all over the boat when he
   wasn't screaming in Jon-Tom's face.
   Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rum-
   bled, "Stand by to repel boarders, y'all!"
   Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The
   upper deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed
   along the rail was the oddest assortment of creatures he'd
   encountered since finding himself in this world.
   One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood
   alongside three vicious-looking pikas armed with four-
   foot-long lances. A pair of lynxes caressed chipped battle-
   axes and prepared to swing down on ropes dangling from a
   boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized
   sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.
   "Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He
   leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over
   his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood
   staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of
   him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.
   As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down
   a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her
   skull with a mace. The tigress's swords flashed in unison.
   Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote's limb-
   less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood
   in all directions. It twitched horribly.
   Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers
   began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself
   backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose
   attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly,
   a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying
   instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.
   They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's
   blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.
   They forced him back toward the railing. The man
   jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate
   Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and
   lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with
   the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the carti-
   lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face
   covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.
   Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in
   the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back
   end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at
   him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe
   backed off.
   Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap-
   pling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel,
   but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.
   Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had
   been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a
   picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made
   a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their
   insides spilling all over the deck.
   Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen
   backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were
   aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a
   suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.
   The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands,
   binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure
   on her bonds she would only end up choking herself. They
   were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.
   A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners
   were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.
   They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for
   review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an
   unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.
   The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was
   beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately
   worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His
   tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last
   half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom
   decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.
   Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   111
   the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the
   muscular arms.
   Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in
   battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts
   from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose
   had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the
   leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew
   murmured restlessly.
   "You fought well," their inspector finally growled.
   "Very well. Too well, thinks I." He glanced significantly
   toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.
   "Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize."
   Green eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates
   for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.
   Where do you come from and how come you by such a
   peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of
   that."
   "It's fiberglass."
   The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you
   the owner of the craft?"
   Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am."
   Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily
   blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came
   away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the
   leopard's claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A
   little lower and he would have lost both eyes.
   Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat
   while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The
   leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It's nose
   was almost touching Jon-Tom's.
   "I am...sir," it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled
   something else, and immediately the leopard's gaze flashed
   toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?"
   "Wot, me? Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it
   were by a hot fight."
   " 'Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat
   returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding
   silently. "Any complaints?"
   Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard's face,
   feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if
   the scarring would be permanent.
   "No, sir. No complaints, sir."
   The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's
   better."
   ' 'Are you the captain of this ship... sir?''
   The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I am
   Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped
   aside. "Here comes the captain now."
   Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear,
   perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that
   captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as
   much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did
   not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.
   Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with
   patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The
   missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.
   Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather
   patch covered the one empty eye socket.
   As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this
   world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood
   red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a
   design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike
   many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore
   no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered
   breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.
   A member of the crew later informed them that the
   captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a
   time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak,
   and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal
   accuracy while balancing on the artificial leg.
   The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth
   between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the
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   Alan Dean Foster
   skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were
   missing.
   "These be all the crew of our prize?" He looked up at
   the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the
   powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact
   with each of his own crew in turn.
   "A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty death-dealing
   collection... of infants!" His tail quivered with his anger.
   "Infants, the lot of you!" Not only Sasheem, but the rest
   of the cutthroats were completely cowed by this battered
   green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to cross him.
   "Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you
   are!" He cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prison-
   ers. "Now then. Where be you four bound?"
   "Just a few days out from the Tailaroam," Mudge
   volunteered ingratiatingly. "We were just on a little fishin'
   trip, we were, and—"
   The wooden leg was a blur. It caught the otter between
   his short legs. Mudge turned slightly the color of the
   captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed on the deck.
   Corroboc eyed him indifferently.
   "The Emir of Ezon has a tradition of employing eu-
   nuchs to guard his palace. I haven't decided what to do
   with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you'll
   find yourself a candidate for the knife o' the ship's
   doctor."
   Jon-Tom tried to pick a likely candidate for ship's
   physician out of the surrounding collection of cutthroats
   and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy
   might be, he hadn't taken his internship at the Mayo
   Clinic.
   Mudge held his peace, along with everything else. The
   blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. "Perhaps you be smarter
   than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound,
   man?"
   "Snarken," Jon-Tom replied without hesitation.
   Corroboc nodded- "Now, that makes sense, A sensible
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   113
   one. You be a strange specimen, tall man. Be you from the
   region o' the Bellwoods?"
   "I am." He had to risk the falsehood. It was true
   enough now, anyway.
   The parrot blew his nose on the deck, sniffed. "Fortunately
   for you I am in a good humor this morning." Jon-Tom
   decided he did not want to encounter him when he was in
   a bad mood. "You two"—he indicated Mudge and Jalwar—
   "can start cleaning out the bilges. That's a job long
   overdue and one I am certain you'll find to your liking.
   Won't you?'*
   Uncertain whether to say yes sir, no sir, or nothing at
   all, Jalwar stood and shook in terror. Mudge wasn't up to
   commenting. Corroboc was apparently satisfied, because
   he nodded absently before moving down to stare fearlessly
   up at the towering Roseroar.
   "As for you, I'd be pleased to make you one of my
   crew. Tis plain enough to see you're no stranger to a life
   of fighting. You'd make a valuable addition."
   "Ah'll think it ovah, sun."
   Good girl, Jon-Tom thought. There was no point in
   making the pirate parrot mad with an outright refusal,
   though he found himself wishing her reply hadn't been
   quite so convincing. Surely she wasn't seriously consider-
   ing the offer? But why not? Nothing bound her to Jon-
   Tom. In fact, she had reason enough to abandon him.
   Hadn't he yanked her unwillingly from her homeland and
   involved her in dangers in which she had no interest? If
   she were forced to throw in with some stranger, why not
   this captain as easily as some unsteady, homesick spellsinger?
   Spellsinger! He'd almost forgotten his own abilities. Not
   a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He
   prayed his companions would keep the secret and not blurt
   it out in a thoughtless moment. He was particularly wor-
   ried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood petrified
   and volunteered nothing.
   As if reading his thoughts, the pirate captain turned his
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   Alan Dean Poster
   attention back to him. "And you, tall man. What be you
   good for?"
   "Well, I can fight, too." Corroboc glanced toward his
   First mate.
   Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly, "Passing well."
   Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, "I am also an
   entertainer, a troubadour by trade."
   "Huh! Well, 'tis true we could do with a bit o' song on
   this scow from time to time." He gave his crew a look of
   disgust- "I gets tired o' listening to the drunken prattling
   o' this uncultured bunch."
   Fighting to conceal his anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. "My
   instrument's on board our ship, along with the rest of our
   personal effects."
   "Is it, now?" Corroboc was sweating him with that one
   piercing eye. "I expect we'll find it in due course. You in
   a rush to demonstrate your talents?"
   "At your leisure, sir." Jon-Tom felt the back of his
   indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. "It's
   only that it's a fine instrument. I'd hate to see one of your
   refined crew reduce it to kindling in hopes of finding gold
   or jewels inside. They wouldn't."
   Corroboc snorted. "Rest assured they'll mind their stink-
   ing manners." He addressed the leopard. "Take 'em
   below and lock 'em in the brig. Let them stew there for a
   bit."
   "These two also?" Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and
   Mudge.
   "Aye, the bilges will wait. Let them share each other's
   filth for a while. By the time I decide to let them out
   they'll be clamorin' to get to work."
   This sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter
   from the crew as they sloughed away to their posts. The
   pirate ship turned westward with the sloop trailing obediently
   behind it.
   As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his first
   glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own
   THE DAY OF THJE DISSONANCE
   115
   fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to
   rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and
   mental degeneration.
   That's where we'll all end up, on the rowing benches,
   he thought tiredly. Unless we can figure out some way out
   of this.
   At the moment, entry into paradise seemed the more
   likely route. If he could only get his hands on his duar,
   there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging,
   however uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was
   sure of one thing: he'd fashion some kind of magic. And
   the first try would be his last. He was sure of that much.
   Corroboc wasn't stupid, and the captain would give him
   no second chance to try his hand at wizardry.
   Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her shoul-
   der, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was
   grinning back at her.
   "Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah'H
   make music with yo bones."
   "Gentle now, big one," said the amused leopard. "I
   have no doubt you'd do just that if given the chance. But
   you won't be given the chance. It'll go easier on you in the
   long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem.
   If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this
   boat, we do. Your heart may be made of iron, but the rest
   of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it is, too. Think
   over your options.
   "If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you to me."
   She glared back at him. "Ah won't be a comforting
   gift."
   Sasheem shrugged. "Comforting or unforgiving, it won't
   matter. I aim to have you. Willingly if possible, otherwise
   if not. You may as well settle your mind to that." They
   were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar
   with a departing smirk as he joined the rest of his compan-
   ions in mounting the gangway.
   Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and
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   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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   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
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   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."
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   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
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   129
   Men? Well, it be of no matter. Sing, minstrel. Sing, and
   lighten the hearts of my sailors and myself."
   "As you command, Captain sir," said Jon-Tom. And he
   began to sing.
   The duar was no Fender guitar, but the words came
   easily to him. He began with "Take It Easy." The long
   high notes rolled smoothly from his throat. He finished,
   swung instantly into the next song he'd carefully chosen.
   Corroboc's eye closed and the rest of the crew started to
   relax. They were enjoying the music. Jon-Tom moved on
   to "Best of My Love," then a medley of hits by the
   Bee Gees.
   Nearby, Mudge blinked as he slapped varnish on wind-
   scoured wood. "Wot's 'e tryin' to do?"
   "Ah don't know," said Roseroar. "Ah heah no mention
   of powerful demons oah spirits."
   Only Jalwar was smiling as he worked. "You aren't
   supposed to, and neither are the ruffians around us. Listen!
   Don't you see what he's up to? Were he to sing of flight or
   battle that leopard would lay open his throat in an instant.
   He knows what he's doing. Don't listen to the words.
   They're doing as he intends. Look around you. Look at the
   crew."
   Mudge peered over his shoulder. His eyes widened.
   "Blimey, they're fallin' asleep!"
   "Yes," said Jalwar. "They wait ready for the slightest
   hint of danger, and instead he lulls them with lullabies.
   Truly he is a master spellsinger."
   "Don't say that, mate," muttered Mudge uneasily. "I've
   seen 'is nibs go wrong just when 'e thought 'e 'ad it
   right." But though he hardly dared believe, it was looking
   more and more as if Jon-Tom was going to bring it off.
   The spellsinger was now wending his lilting way through
   "Peaceful Easy Feeling." "See," whispered Jalwar ex-
   citedly through clenched, sharp teeth, "even the armpit
   of a captain begins to go!"
   No question but that Corroboc was slumped in the chair.
   Sasheem yawned and sat down beside him. They made an
   unlovely couple.
   All around the deck the crewmembers were blinking and
   yawning and falling asleep where they stood. Only the
   three prisoners remained awake.
   "We are aware of what he is doing," Jalwar explained,
   "and in any case the magic is not directed at us."
   "That's good, guv'nor." Mudge had to work to stifle a
   yawn, blinked in surprise. "Strong stuff 'e's workin'."
   By the time Jon-Tom sang the final strains of "Peace-
   ful Easy Feeling," the pirate ship was sailing aimlessly. Its
   bloodthirsty crew lay snoring soundly on the deck, in the
   hold below, and even up in the rigging. He took a step
   toward Corroboc and ran his eyes over the captain's attire
   without finding what he was hunting for. Then he joined
   his friends.
   "Did any of you see where he put his keyring?"
   "No, mate," Mudge whispered, "but we'd best find
   'em fast."
   Jon-Tom started for the door leading to the captain's
   cabin, then hesitated uncertainly. Once inside, where would
   he look? There might be a sealed chest, many drawers, a
   hidden place beneath a nest or mattress, and the keyring
   might not even be kept in the cabin. Maybe Sasheem had
   charge of the keys, or maybe one of the other ship's
   officers.
   He couldn't go looking for them and still sing the
   sleep spell. Already some of the somnolent crew were
   beginning to stir impatiently. And he didn't have the
   slightest idea how long the spellsong would remain in
   effect.
   "Do somethin', mate!" Mudge was tugging uselessly
   on his own ankle chains.
   "Where should I look for the keys? They're not on the
   captain." Suddenly words in his mind, suggestive of
   something once remembered. Not suggestions of a place to
   hunt for keys, but snatches of a song.
   130
   Alan Dean Poster
   A song about steel cat eyes and felines triumphant.
   About "The Mouse Patrol That Never Sleeps," a lethal
   little bloodthirsty ditty about an ever-watchful carnivorous
   kitty. Or so he'd once described it to a friend.
   He sang it now, wishing lan Anderson were about to
   accompany him on the flute, the words pouring rapidly
   from his lips as he tried to concentrate on the tune while
   keeping a worried eye on the comatose crew.
   The section of anchor chain that had been used to bind
   Roseroar suddenly cracked and fell away. She looked in
   amazement at the broken links, then up at Jon-Tom.
   Wordlessly, she went to work on the much thinner chains
   restraining her companions. Mudge and Jalwar were freed
   quickly as immense biceps strained. They vanished below-
   decks as she worked on Jon-Tom's bindings. By the time
   she'd finished freeing him, the otter and ferret had reappeared.
   Mudge's longbow was slung over his shoulder and his face
   was almost hidden by the burden of the tigress's armor.
   Jalwar dragged her heavy swords behind him, panting
   hard.
   They turned and raced for the tow rope attached to the
   John B. Only Jon-Tom lingered.
   "Come on," Roseroar called to him. "What ah yo
   waitin' fo?"
   He whispered urgently back to her. "The girl! I promised."
   "She don't care what yo do. She'll only be trouble."
   "Sorry, Roseroar." He turned and rushed for the nearest
   open hatch.
   "Damn," the tigress growled. She pushed past him,
   vanished below. While he waited he sang, but the spellsong
   was beginning to surrender its potency. Several sailors
   rolled over in their sleep, snuffling uneasily.
   Then a vast white-and-black shape was pushing past
   him, the limp naked form of Folly bouncing lightly on one
   shoulder like a hunting trophy. Jon-Tom's heart stopped for
   a second, until he saw that her condition was no different
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   131
   from that of the rest of die ship's complement. His spell-
   singing had put Folly to sleep also.
   "Satisfied?" Roseroar snarled.
   "Quite." He muffled a grin as he raced her to the stern.
   Mudge and Jalwar were just boarding the sloop, Mudge
   having negotiated the short swim with ease, while Jalwar
   displayed typical ferret agility by walking the swaying tow
   rope all the way down to the boat. Roseroar was about to
   step over the side when she saw Jon-Tom hesitate for the
   second time.
   4'Now what's the mattah?"
   "I've done a tot of running, Roseroar, and I'm a pretty
   good swimmer, but the sea's rough and my shoulders are
   so sore from pushing that damn scrub brush that I'm not
   sure if I can make it. You go on. I'll try and catch up.
   When you cast off the line you can swing her 'round and
   pick me out of the water."
   She shook her head. "Ah declah, ah nevah heard any-
   one, not even a human, talk so damn much. Grab hold."
   She turned her back to him.
   Deciding this wasn't the time to salvage whatever remained
   of his already bruised male ego, he put both arms around
   her neck, using one to help balance Folly. Roseroar ig-
   nored her double burden as she went hand over hand down
   the towrope until all of them were standing safe on the
   deck of the John B.
   "Cast off!" Jon-Tom shouted at Mudge as he ran for the
   stern. "I'll take the wheel. Roseroar, you run the sails
   up."
   "With pleasure." She dumped Folly's unconscious form
   onto the deck. Jon-Tom winced as it hit, decided that one
   more black and blue mark wouldn't show up against the
   background of bruises that covered the girl's entire body.
   Roseroar worked two winches at once while Mudge
   hacked away with his short sword at the thick hauser
   linking them to the pirate ship. In seconds the sloop swung
   clear. Her sails climbed the mast, caught the wind. Jon-
   132
   Alan Dean Foster
   Tom turned her as confused shouts and cries of outrage
   began to sound from the deck of the larger vessel.
   "Not a moment too soon." Jalwar spoke admiringly
   from his position atop the center cabin. "You have the
   gift, it is certain."
   Jon-Tom shrugged off the compliment and concentrated
   on catching as much wind as possible. "I didn't study for
   it and I didn't plan on it. It's just a lucky combination of
   my musical training and something I've picked up in this
   world."
   "Nonetheless, it cannot be denied. You have the gift."
   For an instant it was as if the years had left the ferret
   and a different being entirely was standing next to the
   mainmast looking down at Jon-Tom. He blinked once, but
   when he looked again it was just the same Jalwar, aged
   and stooped and tired. The ferret turned away and stum-
   bled toward the bow to see if he could help Mudge or
   Roseroar.
   The tigress had the rigging well in hand, and at Jon-
   Tom's direction, Mudge was breaking out the sloop's
   spinnaker. Behind them, furious faces lined the port side
   of the pirate ship. Rude gestures and bloodthirsty curses
   filled the air. Above all sounded a thunderous cackling
   from Corroboc. The faces fled the railing, to reappear
   elsewhere on the ship as the crew swarmed up the masts.
   Oars began to dip as dull-eyed galley slaves took up the
   cue provided by whip and drum. The big ship began to
   come about.
   But this time the sloop was sailing with the wind to
   port. The square-rigged pirate craft could not tack as well
   as the modern, fore-rigged sloop, nor could it overtake
   them on oar power. Still, with the galley slaves driven to
   collapse, it looked for a moment as if Corroboc might still
   close the distance between vessels. Then Mudge finally
   puzzled out the rigging that lifted the spinnaker. The
   racing sail ballooned to its full extent, filled with wind,
   and the sloop fairly leaped away from its pursuers.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   133
   "We made it, we're away!" Jon-Tom shouted gleefully.
   Mudge joined him in the stern. The otter balanced
   precariously on the bobbing aft end railing, turned his back
   to the pirate ship, and pulled down his pants. Bending
   over, he made wonderfully insulting faces between his
   legs. The pirates responded with blood-chilling promises
   of what they'd do if they caught the sloop, but their words,
   like their ship, were rapidly falling astern.
   "Yes, we made it." Jalwar glanced speculatively up at
   the billowing sails. "If the wind holds."
   As soon as his audience had dropped out of sight,
   Mudge ceased his contortions and jumped to the deck,
   buttoning his shorts.
   "We'll make it all right, guv'nor." He was smiling
   broadly as he gave Jon-Tom a friendly whack on the back.
   "Bake me for a brick, mate, but you sure 'ad me fooled!
   'Ere I was expectin' you to conjure up somethin' like a
   ten-foot-tall demon to demolish them bastards, and instead
   you slickered me as well as them."
   "I knew that if I tried anything overt, Corroboc would
   have me riding a pike before the day was out." Jon-Tom
   adjusted their heading.
   "Aye, that 'e would. Crikey but that were a neat slip o'
   thought, puttin' 'em all gentle to beddy-bye like you did,
   and then freein' up the monster missus there." He nodded
   in Roseroar's direction.
   "Actually I'd intended to go looking for the key,"
   Jon-Tom told him, trying to hide his embarrassment.
   "When I realized I didn't have the slightest idea where
   Corroboc's keyring was hidden I knew the only chance we
   had left was to free Roseroar."
   The tigress stepped down from the mast to join them,
   staring back over the stern. "Ah only wish ah'd had a few
   minutes to mahself on that boat." Her eyes narrowed and
   she growled low enough to chill the blood of her compan-
   ions. "That fust mate, fo example. Wouldn't he have been
   surprised when he'd woke up without his—"
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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
   136
   Alan Dean Foster
   might be short an eye and a leg, but there was nothing
   wrong with his wings. He dove and twisted as he thrust,
   keeping just out of range of his former prisoner's weapons.
   Nevertheless, it soon became clear that the pirates were
   overmatched.
   Corroboc's strategy was good. It called for his crew to
   stay just beyond sword range while striking with their
   needlelike spears. It might even have worked except for
   the one joker in the sloop's deck. With his longbow,
   Mudge gleefully picked off first the falcon and then wounded
   one of the ravens.
   This forced the attackers to close with their quarry, and
   their agility couldn't compensate for their relatively small
   size. One of Roseroar's spinning swords sliced the wounded
   raven in half. Then another of Mudge's arrows pierced the
   hawk's thin armor. When he saw that he couldn't hope to
   win either at long range or in close, Corroboc ordered a
   retreat.
   "Have a care for your gullets, scum!" the parrot shouted
   at them as he danced angrily in the air just out of arrow
   range. "I swear your fate be sealed! The oceans, nay, the
   whole world be not big enough to hide you from me.
   Wherever you run to old Corroboc will find you, and when
   he do, you'll wish you'd never been borned!"
   "Blow it out your arse, mate!" Mudge followed this
   with a long string of insulting comments on the captain's
   dubious ancestry. Roseroar listened with distaste.
   "Such uncouthness! Ah do declah, it makes me queasy
   all ovah. Ah do so long fo the refined conversation of
   civilized company."
   The otter overheard and cast a dignified eye back at her.
   "Cor! I'll 'ave you know, me elephantine kitten, that me
   language is as fucking refined as anyone's!"
   "Yes," she agreed sweetly. "Ah surely don't know how
   ah could have thought otherwise."
   Jon-Tom stepped between them. "What are you two
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   137
   arguing about this time? We won, and we're safely on
   course again."
   A shaky, no longer cocky voice came from the gangway.
   "What... what did we win? Who won?"
   Jon-Tom remembered Folly. "Take the wheel, Roseroar."
   "Jon-Tom, if n yo want mah opinion, ah think—!"
   He disengaged the autopilot. The boat heeled sharply to
   port, and Roseroar was forced to grab the wheel to keep it
   from spinning wildly.
   Jon-Tom searched the gangway, finally discovered Folly
   huddled far back in a lower bunk. Within the sloop's
   clean, quiet confines she looked suddenly fragile. The iron
   collar was an ugly dark stain around her pale neck.
   He studied it thoughtfully. The sloop was well stocked.
   If he searched, he was certain he could find a hacksaw or
   something with which to cut the metal.
   "Relax, calm yourself." He spoke gently, soothingly.
   "You're free. Just as I promised. Well, not completely
   free," he corrected himself, smiling encouragingly. "You're
   still stuck with us. But you can forget about Corroboc.
   You'll never have to worry about him again. I spellsang
   them to sleep. You too. While they all slept, we escaped."
   Her reply was halting. "Then... you are a wizard.
   And I doubted you."
   "Forget it. Sometimes I doubt it myself." She was
   swaying on the bunk and he was suddenly concerned.
   "Hey, you don't look so good."
   "I'm so tired...." She put her hand to her forehead
   and fell over into his arms. He was acutely aware of her
   nakedness. Not to mention her smell. Corroboc's ship was
   no paragon of good hygiene. Folly likely hadn't bathed
   since she'd been taken captive.
   He slipped a supportive arm around her back. "Come
   with me." He helped her stumble toward the ship's head.
   "We'll let you get cleaned up. Then we'll find some way
   to get that chunk of iron off you. While you're showering
   138
   Alan Dean Poster
   I
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   139
   I'll see if I can find something for you to wear. There must
   be clothes in one of the ship's storage lockers."
   "I thank you for your kindness, sir."
   He smiled again. "That's better. Just call me Jon-Tom."
   She nodded, leaning against him. For a minute he thought
   she was going to break down in his arms. She didn't. Not
   then, and not later. The first thing she'd lost on Corroboc's
   ship was the ability to cry.
   While she washed, he searched the ship's cabinets. One
   contained familiar clothing. Familiar to him, but not to any
   of his companions. He made a few selections and left them
   outside the shower, along with a hacksaw and a file.
   He'd expected to see an improvement, but he was still
   shocked when she reappeared on deck later that afternoon.
   She'd removed the iron collar. Her hair was combed out
   and pulled back behind her. She stood there and looked
   down at herself uneasily.
   "I must look passing strange in these peculiar garments.'*
   "You'll get no argument on that from me, luv." The
   flabbergasted Mudge moved closer to inspect the odd
   attire. "Strange sort o' material." He ran a paw over one
   leg, reached higher. " 'Ere too."
   "That's not material," she said angrily, knocking his
   questing fingers away.
   Mudge grinned as he dodged. "Fine-feelin' material to
   me, luv."
   "You try that again, water rat, and I'll..."
   Jon-Tom ignored them. The argument wasn't serious.
   Mudge was being his usual obnoxious self, and he thought
   Folly realized it. Besides which he was busy enough trying
   to sort out his own jumbled feelings.
   Folly was gorgeous. There was no other word for it.
   Young, but beautiful, standing there on the deck in old
   JLevi's and a worn sweatshirt that had SLOOP JOHN B.
   printed across the back. She looked so achingly normal, so
   much like any girl he might encounter on the beach back
   home, that for a moment he was afraid he would be the
   one to cry.
   Only the fading but still visible bruises on her face and
   the ring the collar had left around her neck reminded him
   of where he'd found her. He would have to hunt for the
   sloop's first-aid kit. Or maybe he could think of a good
   healing song, something more effective here than bandages
   and ointments,
   Roseroar gave the new arrival a cursory once-over and
   snorted. "Skinny little thing. Yo humans..." She turned
   her gaze to the stars mat were coming out. Jalwar was
   already asleep somewhere below, the poor old ferret exhausted
   by the strenuous events of the past few days. The horizon
   astern was clear, the pirate ship having dropped out of
   sight long ago. The wind off the waves still blew them
   steadily toward Snarken, a goal temporarily lost and now
   within reach again.
   Snarken itself proved easy to locate. As soon as they
   sailed within fifty miles of the city there was a perceptible
   increase in the volume of surface traffic around the sloop.
   All they had to do was hail a couple of merchant ships
   bound for the same destination and follow them in.
   A long range of hills that rolled down to the sea was
   split by a wide but crowded inlet. Once through they found
   themselves in a spacious bay ringed by lush green slopes
   that climbed several hundred feet above the harbor. Still
   higher land was visible off in the distance.
   Wharves and docks crowded together on the far side of
   the bay. These were home to dozens of vessels that docked
   here from lands known and alien. Snarken was the princi-
   pal port on the Glittergeist's southwestern shore.
   Jon-Tom steered them through the merchantmen, in
   search of an empty dock. Many of the wharves were
   constructed of stone. The rocks were smooth and rounded,
   evidence mat they had been carried down to the beach by
   glaciers some time far in the past. The stones were
   cemented tightly together and topped with planks.
   14O
   Alan Dean Foster
   They finally located an open slip. Mudge dickered with
   the dockmaster until a fee was settled on. This brought up
   the matter of their Malderpot-induced impecuniousness. A
   solution was found in the form of several stainless steel
   hammers taken from the sloop's toolbox. These the avari-
   cious dockmaster eagerly accepted in payment.
   "What do you think, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked the otter
   as they walked up the pier. "Will he leave the ship
   alone?"
   "An 'onest bloke's easy enough to spot, bein' a rare sort
   o1 bird. She'll be safe in our absence. For one thing, the
   greedy bugger's terrified of 'er."
   Jon-Tom nodded, paused as they stepped off the pier
   onto the cobblestone avenue that fronted the harbor. Lizard-
   drawn wagons piled high with goods clanked and rumbled
   all around them. Strange accents and aromas filled the air.
   "That bit o' business do bring one problem to mind,
   mate."
   "What's that, Mudge?"
   "Wot are we goin' to do for money? We can't keep
   tradin' away ship's tools."
   Jon-Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Right you are.
   We're going to have to buy supplies for the trek to
   Cranculam, too. We're going to need a lot."
   "I'll say!" said Folly impatiently. "I need some real
   clothes. I can't walk around in this silly otherworldly stuff.
   People will laugh at me. Besides"—she ran her hands over
   the too-tight seat of her jeans—"it binds me most strangely."
   Mudge stepped toward her. " 'Ere now, luv, let me 'ave
   a looksee. Might be we could loosen this 'ere...."
   She jumped away from his outstretched fingers. "Keep
   your hands to yourself, water rat, or you're liable to lose
   them."
   Mudge pursed his lips hurtfully, turned to Jon-Tom.
   "Now, 'ere's an idea, mate. Why don't we sell 'er? That
   were probably the best idea that ever occurred to that
   rancid bag o' feathers Corroboc. Now that she's cleaned
   THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE
   141
   up 'alfway decent, she'd likely bring a nice bit o' change.
   It would solve two of our problems at once, wot?"
   Despite his speed, the otter barely succeeded in ducking
   under Jon-Tom's swing. The chase shifted to a cluster of
   big wooden barrels, but Jon-Tom was unable to run the
   tireless otter down. He wore him out pretty good, though.
   "Take it easy, mate." Both man and otter fought to
   catch their breath. Mudge looked out from behind a barrel.
   "Let's not kill each other over it. It were just a thought."
   "Okay. But let's not have any more idiotic talk about
   selling Folly or anyone else."
   The object of this exhausted discussion gazed curiously
   up at her rescuer. "Why don't you sell me? I'm nothing to
   you. I'm nothing to anyone except myself. Don't think I'm
   being ungrateful. I wouldn't have lived another month on
   that ship. I want to help you. I can't think of any other
   way to repay you for your kindnesses." She threw a
   warning glance the otter's way. Wisely, Mudge said nothing.
   "All I have, though, is myself. If you need money so
   badly, selling me should solve your problem. I'm worth
   something." She turned away, unable to meet his eyes.
   "Even after the way I've been used."
   He tried hard not to be angry with her. "Where I come
   from, Folly, we don't sell people."
   "You don't?" She looked genuinely puzzled. "Then
   what do you do with people who have nothing else to
   do?"
   "We put 'em on welfare, social security."
   She shook her head. "Those words mean nothing to
   me."
   He tried to explain. "We see to it that everyone is
   guaranteed some sort of minimum income, some kind of
   sustenance."
   "Even if they're no good at anything?"
   "Even if they're no good at anything."
   "That doesn't seem very efficient."
   "Maybe it's not efficient, but it's human."
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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."
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   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.
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   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."
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   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
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   154
   Alan Dean Poster
   gray neck was a single golden medallion on a gold chain.
   Several letters had been engraved on it, but they were too
   small for Jon-Tom to make out.
   "Yes, what is it?"
   "Are you the master of this orphanage?" Jon-Tom
   asked.
   "Me?" She did not smile. "No. What do you wish with
   the Headmaster?" She was watching Roseroar carefully.
   "Just a couple of quick questions." He put on his most
   ingratiating grin.
   "Office hours are from mid-morning to nightfall." She
   moved to shut the door.
   Jon-Tom took a step forward, still wearing his grin.
   "We have reason to believe that an acquaintance of ours
   was recently—" he searched for the right word, "enrolled
   at the orphanage."
   "You mean you don't know for certain?"
   "No. It would have been within the last day."
   "I see. Visiting hours are at nightfall only." Again the
   attempt to close the door, again Jon-Tom rushed to fore-
   stall her.
   "Please, ma'am. We have to depart on a long difficult
   journey tomorrow. I just want a moment to assure myself
   that your institution is as admirable on the inside as it is
   from without."
   "Well," she murmured uncertainly, "wait here. The
   Headmaster is at his late-eve devotions. I will ask if he can
   see you."
   "Thanks."
   The wait that ensued was long, and after a while he was
   afraid they'd been given a polite brushoff. He was about to
   use the bell-pull a second time when she reappeared
   trailing an elderly man.
   As always, Jon-Tom was surprised to see another human
   in a position of authority, since they didn't seem to be
   among the more prolific groups here. In Clothahump's
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   155
   world mankind was just one of dozens of intelligent
   species.
   The man was only a few inches shorter than Jon-Tom,
   which made him unusually tall for a local. With the
   exception of a radically different cut, his attire was identi-
   cal with that of the much smaller squirrel: all black with
   lace cuffs and the same golden medallion. He held his
   hands clasped in front of his chest. His gray hair was
   combed neatly back at sides and forehead. A gray goatee
   protruded from his chin, and he wore thin wire glasses
   with narrow lenses. To Jon-Tom he resembled a cross
   between Colonel Sanders and a contrabassoon.
   His smile and words both spoke of kindly concern,
   however. "Greetings. Welcome, strangers, to Friends of
   the Street." He gestured toward the squirrel. "Ishula tells
   me you have a friend among our flock?"
   "We think so. Her name's Folly."
   The Headmaster frowned. "Folly. I don't know that we
   have anyone staying with us by that... oh, yes! The young
   woman who was brought in the previous evening. She told
   us her terrible tale of being captured by pirates on the high
   seas. You are the ones she described as her rescuers, are
   you not?"
   "That's right."
   "To think that such awfulness is abroad in the world."
   The Headmaster shook his head regretfully. "The poor girl
   has endured more than any intelligent creature should
   suffer."
   Jon-Tom had to admit that so far all of his concerns and
   fears looked unjustified. Still, he couldn't leave satisfied
   without at least a fast look at the facilities.
   "I know it's late, and it's cold out here. We have to
   leave on a long trip tomorrow, as I told your assistant.
   Could we come in for a moment and have a look around?
   We just want to make sure that Folly's going to be well
   looked after. We place no claim on her and I'm sure she'll
   be much better off here than with us."
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   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
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   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."
   172
   Alan Dean Foster
   " 'Ere now, wot's all this?" Mudge stepped between the
   ladies. "Not that I mind if you two want to 'ave a go at
   each other. Just give me a ten-minute 'ead start before the
   fireworks commence, yes?" He gestured to his right. "I
   don't think now's the time for private digressions, though."
   At least a dozen black-clad adult shapes had appeared
   near the main entrance. Jon-Tom couldn't see if Chokas
   was among them, but he had no intention of hanging
   around to find out.
   They headed off in the opposite direction, and Jon-Tom
   saw they needn't worry about pursuit. The black-clad
   gestapo maintained by the Friends of the Street wasn't
   after them. They were fanning out toward the alleys and
   side streets in search of their escaped flock.
   Jon-Tom considered intercepting them. It was difficult
   , not to, but he had to tell himself that they'd done every-
   thing possible for the children. Most, if not all, of them
   ought to make it to the safety of the crowded city below,
   and he suspected they were wise enough to discard their
   incriminating b!ack-and-Iace night clothes at the first
   opportunity.
   One of their own was faced with the same dilemma.
   "You've got to get out of that nightdress, Folly," he told
   her. Obediently, she started to pull it over her head, and he
   hastened to restrain her. "No, no, not yet!"
   They were racing down a steep street that led back
   toward the harbor area. It had begun to drizzle. He was
   grateful for the rain. It should aid the fleeing children in
   their escape.
   "Why not yet?" Folly eyed him curiously. Curiosity
   gave way rapidly to a coy smile. "When you first saw me
   on Corroboc's boat I wasn't wearing anything but an iron
   collar. Why should my nakedness bother you now?"
   "It doesn't bother me," he lied. "It's raining and I
   don't want you contracting pneumonia.'' Citizens of Snarken
   out for an evening stroll watched the flight with interest.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   173
   "I don't mind if you see me naked," she said innocently.
   "You like me a little, don't you, Jon-Tom?"
   "Of course I like you."
   "No, I mean you like me."
   "Don't be silly. You're still a child, Folly."
   "You don't look at me the way you'd look at a child."
   "She ain't built like no cub, mate."
   Jon-Tom glared over at the otter. "Stay out of this,
   Mudge,"
   "Excuse me, guv'nor. None o' me business, right?" He
   skittered along next to Roseroar, running fluidly on his
   stubby legs and trying to hide a grin.
   "I'm concerned for your welfare, Folly." Jon-Tom strug-
   gled to explain. "I don't like to see anyone taken advan-
   tage of. You noticed that we freed everyone from the
   orphanage and not just you."
   "I know, but you didn't come to free everyone. You
   came because I was there."
   "Of course. You're a friend, Folly. A good friend."
   "Is that all?" As she ran there was a lot of movement
   beneath the damp nightdress. Jon-Tom was having a diffi-
   cult time concentrating on the street ahead. "Just a good
   friend?"
   Roseroar listened with one ear to the infantile dialogue
   while trying her best to ignore it. Idiot humans! She made
   certain to inspect every side street they passed. Surely, as
   soon as the Friends of the Street finished rounding up as
   many escapees as they could, they'd contact the police
   about the break-in.
   Besides worrying about that new problem, she had to
   endure the banalities mouthed by the adolescent human
   female who was flirting shamelessly with Jon-Tom.
   So what? She considered her discomfiture carefully.
   Why, she asked herself, should she find such harmless
   chatter so aggravating? Admirable the spellsinger might
   be, but he wasn't even a member of a related species. Any
   relationship besides mutual respect and strong friendship
   174
   Alan Dean Poster
   was clearly out of the question. The very thought was
   absurd! The man was a skinny, furless thing less than half
   her size. It made no sense for her to concern herself with
   his personal business.
   She assured herself her interest was only natural. Jon-
   Tom was a friend, a companion now. It was just as he'd
   said to the girl: it hurt to see anyone taken advantage of.
   Roseroar wasn't about to let this scheming adolescent take
   advantage of him. And take advantage of him Folly
   would, if given half a chance. Roseroar was sure of that
   much. She shook her head as Jon-Tom allowed himself to
   be smothered with verbal pap, astonished at the naivete
   displayed during courtship by the human species. She'd
   thought better of him.
   She ignored it for as long as she could, until she was
   unable to stand the veiled remarks and coy queries any
   longer.
   "Ah think we can slow down some now." Jon-Tom and
   Mudge agreed with her. Everyone slowed to a fast walk.
   Roseroar moved close to the girl. "And ah also think it
   would be a good ideah if we all kept quiet foah a while.
   We don't want to attract any undue attention. In addition
   to which, if ah'm forced to listen to any moan o' yoah
   simperin', girl, ah may vomit."
   Folly eyed the tigress. "Something bothering you?"
   "Nothin' much, little female. It's just that ah have a
   great respect foah the language. Hearin' it used so foolishly
   always upsets mah digestion."
   Folly turned to Jon-Tom. She flashed blue eyes and
   blonde hair in the reflected light from storefronts and street
   lamps. Her skin, wet with drizzle, sparkled.
   "Do you think I'm talking foolish, Jon-Tom?"
   "Maybe just a little, yes."
   She responded with a much practiced and perfectly
   formed pout. Roseroar sighed and turned away, wondering
   why she went to the trouble. The spellsinger had shown
   himself to be a man of intelligence and insight. It dis-
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   175
   tressed her to see him so blatantly manipulated. She
   increased her stride so she wouldn't have to listen to
   any more of it.
   "You don't like me," Folly murmured to Jon-Tom.
   "Of course I like you.
   "I knew you did!" She turned and threw her arms
   around him, making him stagger. "I knew you liked me!"
   "Please, Folly." Jon-Tom reluctantly worked to disen-
   gage himself. Roseroar would have been happy to help,
   though she might have broken both of the girl's arms in
   the process. "Folly, I already have a woman." Her expres-
   sion fell abruptly. She moved away from him, once more
   concentrating on the street ahead.
   "You never told me that."
   "It was never necessary to tell you. Her name's Talea.
   She lives near a town called Lynchbany, which lies far
   across the Glittergeist."
   Otter ears overheard and Mudge fell back to join them.
   "O' course, she ain't really 'is woman," he said con-
   versationally, thoroughly delighting in Jon-Tom's discom-
   fort. "They're just friends is all."
   Folly's delight returned upon hearing this disclosure.
   "Oh, that's all right, then!"
   "Besides, you're much too young for what you're
   thinking," Jon-Tom told her, impaling Mudge with a stare
   promising slow death.
   "Too young for what?"
   "Just too young." Strange. The right words had been
   there on his lips just a moment earlier. Odd how they
   vanished the instant you needed them.
   "Bet I could convince you otherwise,"  she  said
   coquettishly.
   "Here's the right cross street," he said hastily, lengthening
   his stride. "We'll be back at the inn in a couple of
   minutes."
   A short furry shape jumped from an alcove ahead of
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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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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   181
   were fewer and far between. Semitropical flora made way
   for coniferous forest that reminded Mudge of his beloved
   Bell woods. The palms and thin-barked trees of the coast
   fell behind them.
   They asked directions of the isolated travelers they
   encountered. All inquiries were met with expressions of
   disbelief or confessions of ignorance. Everyone seemed to
   know that Crancularn lay to the west. Exactly where to the
   west, none were able to say with certainty.
   Besides, there was naught to be found in Crancularn but
   trouble, and the country folk had no need of more of that.
   They were busy enough avoiding the attentions of Snarken's
   predatory tax collectors.
   In short, Crancularn was well-known, by reputation if
   not by sight, and that reputation was not enticing to
   potential visitors.
   Two days after the road had become a mere trail, they
   settled down to enjoy the bright sunshine. A clear stream
   followed the track, tumbling glassily on its course down to
   the now distant Glittergeist. An octet of commune spiders
   were busy building a six-foot-square web between two
   trees. They would share equally in any catch.
   Jon-Tom studied the pinecone that had fallen near his
   feet. It was Jong and slim, and the scales shone like
   bronze. Mudge had slipped out of his boots and was
   wading the stream, wishing it were deep enough for him to
   have a swim, while Jalwar had wandered into the woods in
   search of berries and edible roots to supplement their
   meager diet. Roseroar catnapped beneath an evergreen
   whose trunk grew almost parallel to the ground, while
   Folly, as always, stayed as close to Jon-Tom as he would
   allow.
   "Don't look so discouraged," she said. "We'll get
   there."
   Jon-Tom was picking at the cone, tossing the pieces into
   the stream and watching the little triangular brown boats
   until they disappeared over slick stones.
   "How can we get there if nobody can give us direc-
   tions? 'West' isn't good enough. I thought it would be
   easy once we got out of Snarken. I thought at least a few
   of the country folk would know the way to Crancularn.
   From what Clotharmmp told me, this store of the Aether
   and Neither is supposed to be pretty famous."
   "Famous enough to avoid," Folly murmured.
   "Some of them must be lying. They must be. I can't
   believe not a soul knows the way. Why won't they tell
   us?"
   Folly looked thoughtful. "Maybe they're concerned and
   want to protect us from ourselves. Or maybe none of them
   really do know the way."
   "Mebbee they don't know the way, boy, because it
   moves around."
   "What?" Jon-Tom looked back to see an old chipmunk
   standing next to a botherbark bush. He pressed against the
   small of his back with his left paw and gripped the end of
   a curved cane with the other. Narrow glasses rested on the
   nose, and an ancient floppy hat nearly covered his head
   down to the eyes. A gray shirt hung open to the waist,
   and below he wore brown dungarees held up by suspend-
   ers. He also had very few teeth left.
   "What do you mean, it moves around?" Roseroar
   looked up interestedly and moved to join them. The
   chipmunk's eyes went wide at the sight and Jon-Tom
   hurried to reassure him.
   "That's Roseroar. She's a friend."
   "That's good," said the chipmunk prosaically. Mudge
   turned to listen but was reluctant to abandon the cool
   water.
   The oldster leaned against the tree for support and
   waved his cane. "I mean, it moves around, sonny. It never
   stays in the same place for very long."
   "That's crazy," said Folly. "It's just another town."
   "Oh, it's a town, all right, but not like any other, lass.
   Not Crancularn." He peered out from beneath the brim of
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   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   183
   his hat at Jon-Tom. "Why thee want to go there, tall
   man?"
   "We need something from there. From a store."
   The chipmunk nodded. "Aye, the Shop of the Aether and
   Neither."
   "Then you've heard of it!" Jon-Tom said excitedly.
   "We need something, a certain medicine, that can only be
   purchased in that store."
   The oldster grunted, though it came out as more of a
   rusty squeak. "Well, that's thy business."
   "Please, we've come a long way. From across the
   Glittergeist. We need directions. Specific directions."
   Another grunt-squeak. "Long way to come to make
   fools of thyselves."
   "It's not for us. A friend of mine, a teacher and a great
   wizard, is very sick and badly needs this medicine. If you
   can tell us how to get to Crancularn, we'll pay you,
   somehow."
   The oldster shook his head sadly. "I'd tell thee if I
   could, boy, but I can't help you. I don't know where
   Crancularn is." Jon-Tom slumped. "But there's them that
   do. Only, I wouldn't be the one to go asking them."
   "Let us worry about that," said Jon-Tom eagerly. "Who
   are they?"
   "Why, the enchanted ones, of course. Who else?"
   "Enchanted ones?"
   "Aye, the little people of the magic. The fairy folk. You
   know."
   Folly's eyes were wide with childlike wonder. "When I
   was a little girl, I used to hear stories of the fairy folk. My
   mother used to tell me." She went very quiet and Jon-Tom
   tried to rush the conversation to take her thoughts off more
   recent memories.
   "Where would we find these fairy folk?" The thought
   of meeting real honest-to-Tinker Bell fairies was enough to
   motivate him. Getting directions to Crancularn would be a
   bonus.
   "I wouldn't advise anyone to risk such an encounter,
   sonny, but I can see that thee art determined." He indicat-
   ed the steep slope behind them. "They hide in the wet
   ravines and steep canyons of these hills, keeping to them-
   selves. Don't much care for normal folk such as us. But
   thee art human, and it is said that they take human form.
   Perhaps thee will have better luck than most. Seek the
   places where the water runs deep and clear and the rocks
   are colored so dark they are almost black, where the moss
   grows thick above the creeks and..."
   " 'Ere now, grandpa." Mudge spoke from his rocky seat
   out in the stream. "This 'ere moss, it don't 'ave^no mental
   problems now, do it?"
   The chipmunk frowned at him. "How could mere moss
   have mental problems?"
   Mudge relaxed. Their near-disastrous experience in the
   Muddletup Moors was still fresh in his mind. "Never mind."
   The chipmunk gave him an odd look, turned back to
   Jon-Tom. "Those are the places where thee might encoun-
   ter the fairy folk. If thee must seek them out."
   "It seems we've no choice." Rising, Jon-Tom turned to
   inspect the tree-fringed hillside.
   The elderly chipmunk resumed his walk. "I wish thee
   luck, then. I wish thee luck. Thee will need it to locate the
   enchanted ones, and thee will need it even more if thee
   do."
   The ridge above gave way to a heavily wooded slope on
   the far side that grew progressively steeper. Soon they
   were fighting to maintain their balance as they slipped and
   slid down the dangerous grade.
   At least, Jon-Tom and Roseroar were. With their inher-
   ent agility and lower centers of gravity, Jalwar and Mudge
   had no difficulty at all with the awkward descent, and
   Folly proved lithe as a gibbon.
   A stream ran along the bottom of the narrow gorge. It
   was broader than the one they'd left behind, but not deep
   enough to qualify as a river. Moss and many kinds of ferns
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   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   185
   clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool,
   damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays
   of the sun.
   They spent most of the day searching along the creek
   before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall
   forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They
   topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope
   where they camped for the night.
   By the afternoon of the following day they were explor-
   ing their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to
   think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an
   especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the
   expense of some gullible travelers.
   They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly
   erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow
   flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.
   Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for
   her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar's fur
   bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar
   with the otter's overreactions, left his staff alone.
   "What the hell bit you?"
   Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV
   sure as 'ell did. 'Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm
   bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent slightly.
   She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby
   tail and protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything."
   " 'Ave a close look."
   "You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as
   she moved away.
   "No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but
   somethin' took a chunk out o' me backside for sure,"
   "Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?"
   The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity
   of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look,
   searching for the source of the denial.
   Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as
   the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at
   something  small,   winged,   feminine,   and drastically
   overweight.
   "I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy."
   "Watch your mouth, buster," she said as she sort of
   lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken
   log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes
   running through the bark. "I know I've got a small
   personal problem, and I don't need some big-mouthed
   human reminding me of the fact."
   "Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. "You are a
   fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"
   "Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from
   Snarken."
   Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled
   wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara
   gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist.
   The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye.
   She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right
   hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were
   shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.
   "We were told," Folly said breathlessly, "that you
   could help us."
   "Now, why would I want to do that? We've got enough
   problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a
   nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?"
   "'e's a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,"
   Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the
   Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer."
   "He's a right powerful fool," she snapped. She sat
   down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most
   casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to
   be about four inches high and almost as wide.
   "I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his companions.
   An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's
   your name?"
   "None of your business."
   "Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us
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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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   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   189
   here, spellsinger, or we may vanish in an arrogant conjura-
   tion. These folk have a deserved reputation for powerful
   magic."
   "That's how I figure it," he replied. "Maybe they're
   not all as obnoxious or combative as our friend there."
   "What's that, what did you say?"
   "I said," he told Grelgen, "that it's nice of you to
   invite us to meet all your friends and relatives."
   "When one of us is threatened, buster, all spring to the
   rescue."
   Jon-Tom noted that none of the fairies surrounding them
   were in any condition to fly. Every one of them waddled
   about with obvious difficulty, and the slimmest was a
   candidate for the enchanted branch of Weight Watchers.
   "You're our prisoners," she finished.
   "I see," said Mudge. "And wot if we decide not to be
   your prisoners?"
   "Then you'll be dead," she assured him unpleasantly.
   .    Mudge studied the array of glistening little weapons.
   " 'Ospitable folk, wot?"
   "Watch 'em," said Grelgen to her relations. She turned
   and sauntered to the end of the branch, hopped off, and
   landed with a wheeze in the grass below. There she entered
   into a mumbling conversation with several other wand-
   bearers. Most of them were clad only in rags and tatters.
   Mudge would have to sit on someone of importance,
   thought Jon-Tom angrily. The conference broke up mo-
   ments later.
   "This way," said one of the other armed fairies, gestur-
   ing upstream. Surrounded by miniuscule guards, they were
   marched off up the creek.
   "You sure you didn't see her, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked
   the otter.
   "Would I 'ave been stupid enough to sit on 'er if I 'ad,
   mate? Use your 'ead. It were those bloody flowers."
   "You weren't looking, then," Jon-Tom said accusingly.
   "So I weren't lookin*. Should I 'ave been lookin'?"
   "No, I guess not. It's nobody's fault."
   "Pity I didn't flatten 'er," the otter murmured, careful
   to keep his voice down.
   "It might not have mattered, sir," Jalwar murmured.
   "The fairy folk are known for their resilience."
   "I can see that," said Mudge, studying their obese
   escort. "The one with the mouth looks like she could
   bounce."
   "Be quiet," said Jon-Tom. "We're in enough trouble
   already. She'll hear you."
   "Damned if I care if she does, guv." The otter had his
   hands shoved in his pockets and kicked disgustedly at
   pebbles as they walked along the side of the creek. "If she
   ain't got common sense to see that—"
   A paw the size of his head covered his mouth and,
   incidently, most of his face. "Watch yo mouth, ottah,"
   Roseroar told him. "Yo heard Jon-Tom. Let's not irritate
   these enchanted folk any moah than we already have."
   "I'd like to irritate 'em," said the otter when she'd
   removed her paw. But his voice had become a whisper.
   The stream narrowed. Canyon walls closed in tight
   around the marchers, all but shutting out the sun. Trees
   and bushes grew into one another, forming a dense,
   hard-to-penetrate tangle. The captives had to fight their
   way through the thickening undergrowth.
   Dusk brought them to the outskirts of the enchanted
   folk's village. In appearance it was anything but enchanted.
   Tiny huts and homes were scattered around a natural
   amphitheater. Evidence of disrepair and neglect abounded.
   Some of the buildings were falling down, and even those
   cut into massive tree roots had piles of trash mounded up
   against the doorways. To Jon-Tom all this was clear proof
   of a loss of pride among the inhabitants.
   Tiny lights flickered to life behind many of the miniature
   windows, and smoke started to curl from minute chim-
   neys. Off to one side of the community a circular area was
   surrounded by a stone wall pierced by foot-high archways.
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   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   191
   The six-inch high wall ended at both ends against a sheer
   cliff of gray granite.
   The four captives filled this arena. Once they were
   inside the insignificant walls, Grelgen and two other fairies
   stood within the archways waving their wands and murmuring
   importantly. When the invocation was finished, she stepped
   back and retreated toward the village with her cronies.
   Folly took a step toward the minuscule barrier and tried
   to step over. She gasped and drew back as if bitten,
   holding her right hand.
   "What is it?" Jon-Tom asked anxiously.
   "It's hot. The air's hot."
   Experimentally, Jon-Tom waved at the emptiness above
   the tiny stone wall. An invisible wall of flame now
   enclosed them. He shook his hand and blew on his fingers
   to cool them, deciding they weren't going to blister.
   Escape wouldn't be easy.
   Roseroar sighed and settled herself on the hard ground.
   "An ironic conclusion to yoah expedition, Jon-Tom. Cap-
   tured and imprisoned by a bunch of disgruntled, not to
   mention uncouth, enchanted folk."
   "Don't be so quick to give up. They may decide to let
   us go yet. Besides," he swung his duar around, "we have
   magic of our own."
   Mudge looked imploringly heavenward. "Why me, wot?"
   "I do not know that spellsinging will work against the
   fairy folk, sir," said Jalwar. "In my travels I have heard
   that they are immune to all forms of magic except their
   own. It may be that yours will have no effect on them, and
   may even be turned against you."
   "You don't say." Jon-Tom's fingers fell from the duar's
   strings, together with what remained of his confidence. "I
   didn't know that."
   "It may not be so, but it is what I have heard many
   times."
   "We'll hold it as a last resort, then."
   "Wot difference does it make, mate? 'Alf the time it
   backfires on you anyhows. If it doubles back on us I
   wouldn't want it to 'appen while I'm stuck in this clearin'."
   "Neither would I, Mudge." He looked out toward the
   winking lights of the village. "We may not have any
   choice. They don't seem much inclined to listen to reason."
   "I think they're all crazy," commented Folly.
   In the fading light she looked healthy and beautiful. The
   impermanent bruises and scars Corroboc had inflicted on
   her were healing fast. She was resilient, tough, and grow-
   ing more feminine by the day. She was also making
   Jon-Tom increasingly uneasy.
   He turned to Mudge, saw the otter standing as close as
   possible to the invisible barrier enclosing them.
   "What's up, Mudge?"
   The otter screwed up his face, his whiskers twitching.
   "Can't you smell it, too, mate? Garbage." He nodded
   toward the town. "It's everywhere. Maybe they're enchanted,
   but that's not the word I'd use to describe their sewage
   system."
   "Ah saw their gardens when we came in," said Roseroar
   thoughtfully. "They appeahed to be untended."
   "So fairy town's gone to hell," Jon-Tom murmured.
   "Something's very wrong here."
   "Wot difference do it make to us, mate? We 'ave our
   own problems. Dealin' with 'Er Crossness, for one thing."
   "If we could figure out what's wrong here," Jon-Tom
   argued, "maybe we could ingratiate ourselves with our
   captors."
   "You ingratiate yourself, mate. Me, I'm for some sleep."
   Jon-Tom didn't doubt that the otter could sleep on the
   bare rock. If Mudge were tossed out of a plane at twenty
   thousand feet, the otter could catch twenty winks before
   awakening to open his parachute. It was a talent he often
   envied.
   "Sleeping won't solve our problem."
   "It'll solve me immediate one, mate. I'm pooped."
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   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   193
   "Perhaps yoah magic will work against the enchanted
   folk," Roseroar said hopefully.
   "I don't know." Jon-Tom tapped the wood of the duar,
   was rewarded with a melodious thumping sound. The
   moon was shining down into the narrow defile, illuminat-
   ing the dense woods surrounding them. "I'm going to hold
   off till the last possible moment to find out."
   The tigress was slipping out of her armor and using it to
   make a crude pillow. "Ah don't know." She rested her
   massive head on black and white paws. "It seems to me
   that we're already theah."
   Grelgen and the rest of the fairy council came for them
   in the morning. Their principal nemesis had changed into a
   flowing gown of orange chiffon. The bright pastel attire
   had not softened her disposition, however.
   "We've been considering what to do with you bums
   most of the night," she informed them brusquely.
   Jon-Tom stretched, pushed at his tower back, and wished1,
   he'd had the sense to use Roseroar for a cushion. He was
   stiff and sore from spending the night on the hard ground.
   "All I can tell you is that we're innocent of any charges
   you discussed. So what are you going to do now?"
   "Eat," she informed him. "Talk more later."
   "Well now, I could do with a spot o' breakfast!" Mudge
   tried to muster some enthusiasm. Maybe Jon-Tom was right
   after all, and these cute little enchanted bastards were finally
   going to act in a civilized manner. "Where do we eat?"
   "Wrong pronoun," Grelgen said. She turned to point
   with her wand.
   Jon-Tom followed it into the brush. What the poor light
   of evening had kept hidden from view was now revealed
   by the bright light of day. Up the creek beyond the town,
   thick peeled branches spanned a shallow excavation. The
   firepit showed signs of recent use.
   Mudge saw it, too, and his initial enthusiasm vanished.
   "Uh, wot's on the menu, luv?"
   "Fricasseed water rat," she told him, with relish.
   "Wot, me?" Mudge squeaked.
   "Give the main course a bottle of elf dust. What better
   end for a guilty assassin?"
   Up till now Jon-Tom had considered their predicament
   as nothing more than a matter of bad communication. This
   new vision of a bunch of carnivorous fairies feasting on
   Mudge's well-done carcass shoved everything over the
   edge into the realm of the surreal.
   "Listen, you can't eat any of us."
   Grelgen rested pudgy hands on soft hips. "Why not?
   Jon-Tom struggled for a sensible reply. "Well, for one
   thing, it just doesn't fit your image."
   She squinted sideways at him. "You," she said decisively,
   "are nuts. I'm going to have to consult with the Elders to
   make sure it's okay to eat crazy people."
   "I mean, it just doesn't seem right. What about your
   honey rolls and custards and like that?"
   Grelgen hesitated. When she spoke again, she sounded
   slightly embarrassed.
   "Actually, you're right. It's only that every once in a
   while we get this craving, see? Whoever's unlucky enough
   to be in the neighborhood at the time ends up on the
   village menu." She glanced over at Folly and tried to
   regain some of her former arrogance. "We also find it
   helpful now and then to bathe in the blood of a virgin."
   Folly digested this and collapsed, rolling about on the
   ground while laughing hysterically. Grelgen saw the tears
   pouring down the helpless girl's cheeks, grunted, and
   looked back over a shoulder. Jon-Tom followed her gaze.
   On the far side of fairy town a bunch of muscular,
   overweight enchanted folk were sliding an oversized wooden
   bowl down a slope. At the sound of Grelgen's voice they
   halted.
   "Right! Cancel the bathing ceremony!"
   Cursing under their breath, the disappointed bowl mov-
   ers reversed their efforts and began pushing their burden
   back into the bushes.
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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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   Alan Dean Foster
   Tarn DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   199
   wings, that's it. Ready." He hesitated. "This would work
   better if we had some music."
   Grelgen grunted, turned, and barked a command. There
   was a brief delay. Several small figures made their way
   through the enchanted mob and took up positions atop the
   stone wall. Each carried a delicate instrument. There were
   a couple of flutes, a set of drums, and something that
   resembled a xylophone which had been in a bad traffic
   accident.
   "What should we play?" piped one of the minuscule
   musicians.
   "Something lively."
   "A dance or roundelet?" They discussed the matter
   among themselves, then launched into a lively tune with
   faintly oriental overtones. Jon-Tom waited until he was
   sure of the rhythm, then smiled at his attentive if uncertain
   audience.
   "Ready? Let's begin! Imitate me." He dipped. "Come
   on, it's not hard. One, two, three, and bend; one, two,
   three, and bend;... that's it!"
   While Jon-Tom's companions looked on, several hun-
   dred fairy folk struggled to duplicate the human's move-
   ments. Before too long, groans and moans all out of
   proportion to the size of the throats they came from filled
   the air.
   Grelgen was gasping and sweating. Her orange chiffon
   gown was soaked. "You're sure that you're not actually
   trying to murder us?"
   "Oh, no." Jon-Tom was breathing a little hard himself.
   "See, this isn't an instantaneous kind of magic. It takes
   time." He sat down and put his hands behind his neck,
   wondering how far he could go before Grelgen gave up.
   "Now, this kind of magic is called sirups. Up, down, up,
   down ... you in the back there, no slacking, now... up,
   down..."
   He worried constantly that Grelgen and her colleagues
   would become impatient before the new exercise regimen
   had time to do its work. He needn't have worried. The
   enchanted folk took weight off as rapidly as they put it on.
   By the second day the most porcine of the villagers could
   boast of shrunken waistlines. By the third the effects were
   being felt by all, and by the fourth even Grelgen could stay
   airborne for short flights.
   "I don't understand, mate," said Kludge. "You said it
   'tweren't magic, yet see 'ow quick-like they're shrinkin'
   down!"
   "It's their metabolic rate. They burn calories much
   faster than we do, and as soon as they get down to where
   they can fly again, the burning accelerates."
   The results were reflected in Grelgen's changing atti-
   tude. As the exercises did their work, her belligerence
   softened. Not that she became all sweetness and light, but
   her gratitude was evident.
   "A most wondrous gift you have given us, man. A new.
   kind of magic." It was the morning of the fifth day of their
   captivity and a long time since any of the enchanted folk
   had suggested having one of their guests for supper.
   "I have a confession to make. It's not magic. It's only
   exercise."
   "Call it by whatever name you wish," she replied, "it
   is magic to us. We are starting to look like the enchanted
   folk once more. Even I," she finished proudly. She did a
   deep knee-bend to prove it, something she couldn't have
   imagined doing five days earlier. Of course, she did it
   while hovering in midair, which made it somewhat easier.
   Still, the accomplishment was undeniable.
   "You are free to go," she told them.
   Roseroar stepped forward and cautiously thrust out a
   paw. The invisible wall of fire which had kept them
   imprisoned had vanished, leaving behind only a little
   lingering heat. The tigress stepped easily over the tiny
   stone wall.
   "Our gratitude is boundless," Grelgen went on. "You
   said you came to us for help." She executed a neat little
   2OO
   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   2O1
   pirouette in the air, delighting in her rediscovered mobility.
   "What is it you wish to know?"
   "We need directions to a certain town," he told her. "A,
   place called Crancularn."
   "Ah. An ambiguous destination. Not mine to
   why. Wait here." She flew toward the village, droning
   a wasp, and returned several minutes later with four newh
   slimmed Elders. They settled on the wall. Between them,
   the four Elders held a piece of parchment six inches
   square. It was the biggest piece of writing material the
   village could produce.
   "Crancularn, you said?" Jon-Tom nodded at her.
   She rolled up the sleeves of her burgundy-and-lime
   dress, waved the wand over the parchment as she spoke.
   The parchment twisted like a leaf in the wind. It continued
   to quiver as a line of gold appeared on its surface, tracing
   the outlines of mountains and rivers, trails, and paths.
   None of them led directly toward the golden diamond that
   shone brightly in the upper-lefthand corner of the parchment.
   Grelgen finished the incantation. The parchment ceased
   its shaking, allowing the concentrating Elders to relax their
   grip. Jon-Tom picked the freshly inscribed map off the
   grass. It was warm to the touch. One tiny spot not far from
   a minor trail fluoresced brightly.
   "The glow shows you where you are at any time,"
   Grelgen informed him. "It will travel as you travel. Hold
   fast to the map and you will never be lost." She rose on
   diaphanous wings to hover near his shoulder and trace over
   the map with her wand. "See? No easy journey from here
   and no trails directly to the place."
   "We're told Crancularn moves about."
   "So it does. It has that characteristic. But the map will
   take you there, never fear. This is the cartography of what
   will be as well as of what is. A useful skill which we
   rarely employ. We like it where we are."
   Jon-Tom thanked her as he folded the map and slipped it
   carefully into a pocket of his indigo shirt.
   Grelgen hovered nearby. "Tell me, man. Why do you
   go to Crancularn?"
   "To shop for something in the Shop of the Aether and
   Neither." She nodded, a grave expression on her tiny face.
   "We've heard many rumors," he went on. "Is there
   something dangerous about the shop?"
   "Indeed there is, man. Included among its usual in-
   ventory is a large supply of the Truth. That is something
   most travelers seek to avoid, not to find. Beware what
   purchases you make. There are bonuses and discounts to
   be had in that place you may not find to your liking."
   "We'll watch our step," he assured her.
   She nodded solemnly. "Watch your hearts and souls as
   well. Good luck to you, man, and to your companions.
   Perhaps if you return by a similar route we can show you
   the Cloud Dance." She looked wistful. "I may even
   participate myself."
   "Dancing in the air isn't as difficult as dancing on the
   ground," said Folly.
   Grelgen grinned at her. "That depends on what you're
   doing in the air, infant." With great dignity she pivoted
   and led the four Elders back to the village.
   They were free, Jon-Tom knew, and so again were the
   enchanted folk.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   203
   XII
   The map led them out of the narrow defile that was the
   enchanted canyon. Music and rhythmic grunts followed
   them as they left behind a village full of fairies aerobicizing
   like mad. Grelgen had a long way to go before she looked
   like Jane Fonda but she was determined to out perform her
   subjects, and Jon-Tom didn't doubt she had the willpower
   to do so.
   Several days' march through game-filled country brought
   them over the highest mountain pass and down onto the
   western slopes. Despite Grelgen's insistence that the jour-
   ney the rest of the way to Cranculam would not be easy,
   they were beginning to relax. Since leaving behind the
   enchanted village they had encountered no dangerous ani-
   mals or sapients, and food was plentiful.
   Ahead lay the desert. Jon-Tom felt certain they could
   cross it in a couple of days. AH was well.
   No more bad dreams bothered him, and he awoke
   refreshed and at ease. Fallen leaves had made a comfort-
   able, springy bed. They were now back into deciduous
   forest, having left most of the evergreen woods behind.
   He pushed his cape aside. A few wisps of smoke still
   202
   rose from the remains of last night's fire. Roseroar snored
   softly on the far side of the embers while Mudge dozed
   nearby. That in itself was unusual. Normally the otter
   woke first.
   Jon-Tom scanned the rest of the camp and sat up fast.
   "Jalwar? Folly!"
   The woods did not answer, nor did anyone else.
   He climbed to his feet, called again. His shouts roused
   Mudge and Roseroar.
   "Wot's amiss, mate?"
   Jon-Tom gestured at the campsite. "See for yourself."
   Mudge inspected the places where the missing pair had
   slept. "They aren't off 'untin' for breakfast berries. All
   their gear's gone."
   "Could they have been carried off?" Jon-Tom muttered.
   "Why would anybody bother to sneak in softly and steal
   that pair away while leavin' us snug and in dreamland?"
   Roseroar said. "Makes no sense."
   "You're right, it doesn't. So they left on their own, and
   with a stealthiness that implies premeditation."
   "What?" she growled in confusion.
   "Sorry. My legal training talking. It means they planned
   to sneak out. Don't ask me why."
   "Which way would they go?"
   "Maybe there's a town nearby. I'll check the map." He
   reached into his pocket, grasped air. A frantic, brief search
   proved that the map was well and truly gone.
   "Mudge, did you... ?"
   The otter shook his head, his whiskers bristling in anger.
   "You never gave it to me, guv'nor. I saw you put it up
   yourself." He sighed, sat down on a rock, and adjusted his
   cap, leaning the feather down at its usual rakish angle.
   "Can't say as 'ow I'm surprised. That Corroboc might
   'ave been a class-one bastard, but 'e knew wot 'e were
   about when *e named that girl."
   "ArTve been suspicious of her motives from the begin-
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   Alan Dean Foster
   ning," Roseroar added. "We should have sold the little
   bitch in Snarken, when we had the chance."
   Jon-Tom found himself staring northwestward, through
   the thinning forest toward the distant desert. "It doesn't
   make sense. And what about Jalwar? He's gone, too, and
   that makes even less sense. How can he get anywhere
   without our help and protection?"
   Mudge came and stood next to his friend, put a comforting
   paw on his shoulder. "Ah, lad. 'Ave you learned so little
   o' life since you've been in this world? Who knows wot
   old Jalwar promised the girl? 'E's a trader, a merchant.
   Obviously 'e made 'er a better offer than anything we 'ave.
   Maybe 'e were bein' marooned on that beach by 'onest
   folk 'e'd cheated. This ain't no world for takin' folks on
   faith, me friend. For all we know Jalwar's a rich old
   bugger in 'is 'ome town."
   "If he wanted Folly to help him, why would they take
   the map? They wouldn't need it to retrace the trail back to
   Snarken."
   "Then it's pretty clear they ain't 'eadin' for Snarken,
   mate." He turned and stared down the barely visible path.
   "And we ought to be able to prove it."
   Sure enough, in the dew-moistened earth beyond the
   campsite the two sets of footprints stood out clearly, the
   small, almost dainty marks of Jalwar sharp beside Folly's
   sandalprints. They led downslope toward the desert.
   " Tis plain wot they're about, mate. They're 'eading
   for Crancularn. That's why they stole the map."
   "But why? Why not go theah with the rest of us?"
   Roseroar was shaking her head in puzzlement.
   "You're as dense as 'e is, luv. Ain't it plain enough yet
   to both of you? Jalwar's a trader. They're goin' to try and
   buy up the 'ole supply o' this medicine 'is sorcerership
   needs so badly and 'old it for ransom." He stared at
   Jon-Tom. "We told the old fart too much, mate, and now
   'e's bent on doin' us dirty."
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   2O5
   "Jalwar, maybe..." Jon-Tom mumbled unhappily, "but
   I can't believe that Folly..."
   "Why not, mate? Or did you think she were in love
   with you? After wot she went through, she's just lookin'
   out after 'erself. Can't blame 'er for that, wot?"
   "But we were taking care of her, good care."
   Mudge shrugged. "Not good enough, it seems. Like I
   said, no tellin' wot old Jalwar promised 'er in return for
   'elpin' Mm."
   "What now, Jon-Tom?" asked Roseroar gently.
   "We can't turn back. Map or no map. I suppose we
   could go back to the village of the enchanted folk and get
   another one, but that would put us weeks behind them. We
   can't lose that much time if Mudge's suspicions are correct.
   They'd beat us to the medicine easily. I studied that map
   pretty intensively after Grelgen gave it to us. I can remember
   some of it."
   "That ain't the 'ole of it, mate." Mudge bent and put
   his nose close to the ground. When he stood straight again,
   his whiskers were twitching. "An otter can follow a scent
   on land or through water if there's just enough personal
   perfume left to tickle 'is nostrils. This track's fresh as a
   new whore. Until it rains we've got a trail to follow, and
   there's desert ahead. Maybe if we pee on the run we can
   overtake the bloody double-crossers."
   "Ah second the motion, suh. Let's not give up, Jon-
   Tom."
   "I wasn't thinking of giving up, Roseroar. I was thinking
   about what we're going to do when we do catch up with
   them."
   "That's the spirit!" She leaned close. "Leave the de-
   tails to me." Her teeth were very white.
   "I'm not sure that would be the civilized thing to do,
   Roseroar." Despite the deception, the thought of Folly in
   Roseroar's paws was not a pleasant one.
   "All man actions are dictated by man society's code of
   honah, Jon-Tom," she said stiffly. She frowned at a sudden
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   Alan Dean Foster
   thought. "Don't tell me that after what's happened heah
   yo still feel fo the little bitch?"
   He was shouldering his backpack. "We still don't know
   that she went with Jalwar voluntarily. Maybe he forced
   her."
   Mudge was waiting at the edge of the campsite, anxious
   to get moving. "Come on now, mate. Even if you exclude
   age as a consideration, the girl was bigger and stronger
   than that old ferret. And she could always have screamed."
   "Not necessarily. Not if Jalwar had a knife at her throat.
   Look, I admit it looks like she went with him voluntarily,
   but I won't condemn her until we know for sure. She's
   innocent until proven guilty."
   Mudge spat on the ground. "Another o' your other-
   worldly misconceptions."
   "It's not otherworldly. It's a universal truism," Jon-
   Tom argued.
   "Not in this universe it ain't."
   Roseroar let them argue while she assumed the lead,
   glancing occasionally at the ground to make sure they were
   still on the trail, scanning the woods for signs of ambush.
   For the moment she preferred to ignore both of her
   argumentative companions.
   From time to time Mudge would move up alongside her
   to dip his nose to the earth. Sometimes the footprints of
   their quarry would disappear under standing water or mix
   with the tracks of other creatures. Mudge always regained
   the trail.
   "Must 'ave took off right after the last o' us fell
   asleep," the otter commented that afternoon. "I guess
   them to be at least six hours ahead of us, probably more."
   "We'll catch them." Jon-Tom was covering the ground
   easily with long, practiced strides.
   "Maybe that ferret weren't so old as 'e made 'imself out
   to be," Mudge suggested.
   "We'll still catch them."
   But the day went with no sign of girl and ferret. They
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   207
   let Roseroar lead them on through the darkness, until
   accumulating bumps and bruises forced Jon-Tom to call a
   halt for the night. They slept fitfully and were up again
   before the dawn.
   By afternoon the last trees had surrendered to scrub
   brush and bare rock. Ahead of them a broad, hilly plain of
   yellow and brown mixed with the pure white of gypsum
   stretched from horizon to horizon. It was high desert, and
   as such, the heat was not as oppressive as it might have
   been. It was merely dauntingly hot. The air was still and
   windless, and the shallow sand clearly showed the tracks
   of Jalwar and Folly.
   It was a good thing, because the sand did not hold their
   quarry's spoor as well as damp soil, and Mudge had
   increasing difficulty distinguishing it from the tracks of
   desert dwellers as they started out across the plain.
   "I 'ope you remember that map well, mate."
   "This is the Timeful Desert, as I remember it."
   Mudge frowned. "I thought deserts were supposed to be
   timeless, not timeful."
   "Don't look at me. I didn't name it." He pointed
   toward a low dune. "The only sure source of water is a
   town in the middle of the desert called Redrock. The
   desert's not extensive, but it's plenty big enough to kill us
   if we lose our way.''
   "That's a comfortin' thought to be settin' out with."
   The otter looked up at Roseroar. "Any sign o' our friends,
   tall tail?"
   Roseroar's extraordinary eyesight scanned the horizon.
   "Nothing but sand. Nothing moves."
   "Can't say as 'ow I blame it." He kicked sand from his
   boots.
   By the morning of the next day the mountains had
   receded far behind them. Jon-Tom busied himself by
   searching for a suggestion of green, a hint of moisture. It
   seemed impossible that the land could be utterly barren.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Even a stubby, tired cactus would have been a welcome
   sight.
   They saw nothing, which did not mean nothing existed
   in the Timeful Desert. Only that if any life did survive, it
   did not make itself known to the trio of travelers.
   He felt sure they would overtake Jalwar and Folly, but
   they did not. Not all that day nor the next.
   It was on that third day that Mudge had them halt while
   he knelt in the sand.
   " 'Ere now, 'ave either of you two noticed this?"
   "Noticed what?" The sweat was pouring down Jon-
   Tom's face, as much in frustration at finding no sign of
   their quarry as from the heat.
   Mudge put a paw fiat on the ground. "This 'ere sand.
   'Ave a close look."
   Jon-Tom knelt and stared. At first he saw nothing. Then
   one grain crept from beneath Mudge's fingers. A second, a
   third, moving from west to east. Mudge's paw hadn't
   moved them, nor had the wind. There was no wind.
   At the same time as loose grains were shifting from
   beneath the otter's paw, a small rampart of sand was
   building up against the other side of his thumb. The sand
   was moving, without aid of wind, from east to west.
   Jon-Tom put his own hand against the hot sand, watched
   as the phenomenon repeated itself. All around them, the
   sand was shifting from east to west. He felt the small hairs
   on the back of his neck stiffen.
   4' Tis bloody creepy,' * the otter muttered as he rose and
   brushed sand from his paws.
   "Some underground disturbance," Jon-Tom suggested.
   "Or something alive under the surface." That was not a
   pleasant thought, and he hastened to discard it. They had
   no proof that anything lived in this land, anyway.
   "That's not all." Mudge gestured back the way they'd
   come. "There's somethin' else mighty funny. See that 'ill
   we passed the other day?" Jon-Tom and Mudge strained to
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   2O9
   see the distant relative of a Serengeti kopje. " Tis lower
   than it were."
   "Nothing unnatural about that, Mudge. It's just shrink-
   ing into the distance as we walk."
   The otter shook his head insistently. " 'Tis shrinkin' too
   bloomin' fast, mate." He shouldered his pack and resumed
   the march. "One more thing. Don't it seem to either o'
   you that we're walkin' downhill?"
   Jon-Tom didn't try to hide his confusion. He gestured at
   the western horizon. "We're on level ground. What are
   you talking about?"
   "I dunno." The otter strained to put his feelings into
   words. "Tis just that somethin' don't feel right 'ere,
   mate. It just don't feel right."
   That night the otter's nose proved of more help than his
   sense of balance. They dug a hole through a dark stain in
   the sand and were rewarded with a trickle of surprisingly
   clear water. Patience enabled them to top off their water
   skins and relieve their major anxiety. It was decided
   unanimously to spend the night by the moisture seep.
   Jon-Tom felt someone shaking him awake, peered sleep-
   ily into still solid darkness. Mudge stared anxiously down
   at him.
   "Got somethin' for you to 'ave a looksee at, mate."
   "At this hour? Are you nuts?"
   "I 'ope so, mate," the otter whispered. "I sincerely
   'ope so."
   Jon-Tom sighed and unrolled himself. As he did so he
   found himself spitting out sand. The full moon gleamed
   brightly on their campsite, to reveal packs, weapons, and
   Roseroar's feet partially buried in sand.
   "The wind came up during the night, that's all." He
   found he was whispering, too, though there seemed no
   reason for it.
   "Feel any wind now, mate?"
   Jon-Tom wet a finger, stuck it into the air. "No. Not a
   breeze."
   "Then 'ave a look at your own feet, mate."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAJVCE
   211
   Jon-Tom did so. As he stared he saw sand flowing over
   his toes. There was no wind at all, and now the sand was
   moving much faster. He drew his feet up as if the pulver-
   ized silica might bite him.
   "Look all around, lad."
   The sand was crawling westward at an ever more rapid
   pace. It seemed to accelerate even as he watched. In
   addition to the steady movement there came the first
   murmurs of a dry, slithery, rasping sound as grains tumbled
   over one another.
   The discussion finally woke Roseroar. "What's goin' on
   heah?"
   "I don't know," Jon-Tom muttered, eyeing the crawling
   ground. "The sand is moving, and much faster now than it
   was yesterday. I'm not sure I want to know what's making
   it move."
   "Should we go back?" The tigress was slipping on her
   sandals, shaking the grains from the leather.
   "We can't go back." He pulled on his boots. "If we go
   back now, we lose Jalwar, Folly, and likely as not,
   Clothahump's medicine. But I won't force either of you to
   stay with me. Roseroar, are you listening to me?"
   She wasn't. Instead, she was pointing southward. "Ah
   think we might get ourselves a second opinion. We have
   company, y'all."
   The line of camels the tigress had spotted was slightly
   behind them but moving in the same direction. Hastily
   gathering their equipment, the trio hurried to intercept the
   column of dromedaries. As they ran the sun began to rise,
   bringing with it welcome light and unwelcome heat. And
   all around them, the sand continued to crawl inexorably
   westward.
   Mounted on the backs of the camels was an irregular
   assortment of robed rodents—pack rats, kangaroo rats,
   field mice, and other desert dwellers of related species.
   They looked to Jon-Tom like a bunch of midget bewhis-
   kered bedouins. He loped alongside the lead camel, tried
   to bow slightly, and nearly tripped over his own feet.
   "Where are you headed in such a hurry?" The pack rat
   did not reply. The camel did.
   "We go to Redrock, Everyone goes now to Redrock,
   man. Everyone who lives in the desert." The camel's
   manner was imperious and wholly typical of his kind. He
   spat a glob of foul-smelling sputum to his left, making
   Jon-Tom dodge.
   "Who are you people?" inquired the pack rat in the
   front. There was room on the camel's back for several.
   "Strangers in this land."
   "That is obvious enough," commented the camel.
   "Why is everyone going to Redrock?" Jon-Tom asked.
   The camel glanced back up at its lead rider and shook its
   head sadly. The rat spoke. "You really don't know?"
   "If we did, would we be askin' you, mate?" said
   Mudge.
   The rat gestured with both paws, spreading his arms
   wide. "It is the Conjunction. The time when the threads of
   magic that bind together this land reach their apogee. The
   time of the time inversion."
   "What does that mean?"
   The rat shrugged. "Do not ask me to explain it. I am no
   magician. This I do know. If you do not reach the safety of
   Redrock by the time the next moon begins to rise, you
   never will." He slapped the camel on the side of its neck.
   The animal turned to gaze back up at him.
   "Let's have none of that, Bartim, or you will find
   yourself walking. 1 am measuring my pace, as are the rest
   of the brethren."
   "The time is upon us!"
   "No less so upon me than thee," said the camel with a
   pained expression. He turned to glance back to where
   Jon-Tom was beginning to fall behind. "We will see you
   in Redrock, strangers, or we will drink the long drink to
   your memory."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   213
   Panting hard in the rising light, Jon-Tom slowed to a
   walk, unable to maintain the pace. On firm ground he
   might have kept up, but not in the soft sand. Roseroar and
   Mudge were equally winded.
   "What was that all about, Jon-Tom?" asked Roseroar.
   "I'm not sure. It didn't make much sense."
   "Ah you not a spellsingah?"
   "I know my songs, but not other magic. If Clothahump
   were here ..."
   "If 'is wizardship were 'ere we wouldn't be, mate."
   "What do you think of their warning?"
   Sand was building up around the otter's feet, and he
   kicked angrily at it. "They were both scared. Wot of I
   couldn't say, but scared they were. I think we'd better
   listen to 'em and get a move on. Make Redrock by
   nightfall, they said. If they can do it, so can we. Let's get
   to it."
   They began to jog, keeping up a steady pace and taking
   turns in the lead. They barely paused to eat and made
   lavish use of their water. The more they drank, the less
   there was to carry, and if the warning was as significant as
   it had seemed, they would have to drink in Redrock that
   night or not drink at all.
   As for the nature of the menace, that began to manifest
   itself as they ran.
   It was evening, and still no sign of the city, nor of the
   caravan, which had far outdistanced them. The sand was
   moving rapidly now, threatening to engulf their feet every
   time they paused to catch their breath.
   At first he thought he was sinking. A quick glance
   revealed the truth. The ground behind them was rising. It
   was as. if they were running inland from a beach and the
   beach was pursuing, a steadily mounting tidal wave of
   sand. He thought about turning and trying to scramble to
   the crest of the granular wave. What stopped him was the
   possibility that on the other side they might find only
   another, even higher surge.
   So they ran on, their lungs heaving, legs aching. Once
   Mudge stumbled and they had to pull him to his feet while
   the sand clutched eagerly at his legs.
   When he fell a second time, he tried to wave them off. It
   was as if his seemingly inexhaustible energy had finally
   given out.
   " 'Tis no use, lad. I can't go on anymore. Save your-
   selves." He fluttered weakly with a paw.
   Jon-Tom used the pause to catch his wind. "You're
   right, Mudge," he finally declared. "That's the practical
   thing to do. I'll always remember how nobly you died."
   He turned to go on. Roseroar gave him a questioning look
   but decided not to comment.
   A handful of sand struck Jon-Tom on the back of the
   neck. "Noble, me arse! You would've left me 'ere, wouldn't
   you? Left poor old Mudge to die in the sand!"
   Jon-Tom grinned, took care to conceal it from the
   apoplectic otter. "Look, mate. I'm tired, too, and I'm
   damned if I'm going to carry you."
   The otter staggered after his companions. "I suppose you
   think it's funny, don't you, you 'ypocritical, angular bastard?"
   Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn't
   spare the wind. "Come off it, Mudge. You know we
   wouldn't have left you."
   "Oh, wouldn't you, now? Suppose I 'adn't gotten up to
   follow you, eh? Wot then? 'Ow do I knows you would've
   come back for me?"
   "It's a moot point, Mudge. You were just trying to hitch
   a ride."
   "I admit nothin'." The otter pushed past him, taking the
   lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons.
   "A strange one, yoah fuzzy little friend," Roseroar
   whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to his.
   "Oh, Mudge is okay. He's a lazy, lying little cheat, but
   other than that he's a prince."
   Roseroar considered this. "Ah believes the standards o'
   yoah world must be somewhat different from mine."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Depends on what part of my culture you come from.
   Mudge, for example, would be right at home in a place
   called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would
   be much in demand."
   Roseroar shook her head. "Those names have no meanuT
   fo me."
   "That's okay. They don't for a lot of my contemporaries,
   either."
   The sand continued to rise behind them, mounting
   toward the darkening sky. At any moment the wave might
   crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them, swallowing
   them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of
   anything except lifting his legs and setting one foot down
   ahead of the other. When the angle of the dune rising in
   their wake became sharper than forty-five degrees the sand
   would be rushing at them so rapidly they would be hard
   put to keep free of its grasp.
   All around them, in both directions as far as they could
   see, the desert was climbing for the stars. He could only
   wonder at the cause. The Conjunction, the pack rat had
   said. The moon was up now, reaching silvery tendrils
   toward the panting, desperate refugees. At moonrise, the
   rat told him. But when would the critical moment come?
   Now, in minutes, or at midnight? How much time did they
   have left?
   Then Roseroar was shouting, and a cluster of hills
   became visible ahead of them. As they ran on, the outlines
   of the hills sharpened, grew regular and familiar: Redrock,
   so named for the red sandstone of which its multistoried
   towers and buildings had been constructed. In the first
   moonlight and the last rays of the sun the city looked as if
   it were on fire.
   Now they found themselves among other stragglers—
   some on foot, others living in free association with camels
   and burros. Some snapped frantic whips over the heads of
   dray lizards.
   Several ostrich families raced past, heavy backpacks
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   215
   strapped to their useless wings. They carried no passen-
   gers. Nor did the family of cougars that came loping in
   from the north, running on hind legs like Roseroar. Bleating
   and barking, honking and complaining, these streams of
   divergent life came together in pushing, shoving lines that
   struggled to enter the city.
   "We're going to make it!" he shouted to his compan-
   ions as they merged with the rear of the mob. He was
   afraid to look back lest an avalanche of brown-and-yellow
   particles prove him a fatal liar. His throat felt like the
   underside of the hood of a new Corvette after a day of
   drag-racing, but he didn't dare stop for a drink until they
   were safely inside the city walls.
   Then the ground fell away beneath him.
   They were on a bridge, and looking down he could see
   through the cracks in the wood. The lumber to build it
   must have come from distant mountains. There was no
   bottom to the moat, a black ring encircling the city.
   His first thought was that Redrock had been built on a
   hill in the center of some ancient volcanic crater. A glance
   at the walls of the moat proved otherwise. They were too
   regular, too smooth, and too vertical to have been fashioned
   by hand. Something had dug the awesome ring. Who or
   what, he could not imagine.
   Thick smells and heavy musk filled the air around him.
   The bridge seemed endless, the gaps between the heavy
   timbers dangerously wide. If he missed a step and put a
   leg through, he wouldn't fall, but he would be trampled by
   the anxious mass of life crowding about him.
   Once within the safety of the city walls, the panic
   dissipated. Lines of tall guards clad in yellow shepherded
   the exhausted flow of refugees into the vast courtyard
   beyond the gate. There were no buildings within several
   hundred yards of the wall and the moat just beyond. A
   great open space had been provided for all who sought
   shelter from the rising sands. How often did this phenom-
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   Alan Dean Foster
   enon take place? The camel and the pack rat hadn't said,
   but it was obviously a regular and predictable occurrence.
   "I have to see what's going on outside," he told
   Roseroar. She nodded, towering above most of the crowd.
   Tents had been set up in expectation of the flood of
   refugees. Jon-Tom and his companions were among the
   last to enter, but they had interests other than shelter.
   "This way," the tigress told him. She took his hand and
   pulled him bodily through the milling, swarming crowd, a
   striped iceberg breasting a sea of fur. Somehow Mudge
   managed to keep up.
   Then they found themselves by the city wall, followed
   it until they came to stone stairs leading upward. Jon-Tom
   let loose of Roseroar's paw and led the way.
   Would the sand wave fill the moat? If so, what would
   happen afterward?
   A few others already stood watching atop the wall. They
   were calm and relaxed, so Jon-Tom assumed there was no
   danger. Everyone in the city was handling the situation too
   well for there to be any danger.
   One blase guard, a tall serval wearing a high turban to
   protect his delicate ears, stood aside to let them pass.
   "Mind the vibration, visitors," he warned them
   They reached the top and stared out over the desert.
   Beyond the moat, the world was turning upside down.
   There was no sign of the far mountains they had left
   many days ago. No sign of any landmark. Not a rock
   protruded from the ground. There was only the sand sea
   rising and rushing toward the city in a single wave two
   hundred feet high, roaring like a billion pans of frying
   bacon. Jon-Tom wanted to reach back and put his hand on
   the guard, to ask what was going to happen next. Since
   none of the other onlookers did so, he held his peace and
   like them, simply stood and gaped.
   The massive wave did not fall forward to smash against
   the puny city walls. It began to slide into the dark moat,
   pouring in a seemingly endless waterfall into the unbelievable
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   217
   excavation. The wave was endless, too. As they watched
   it seemed to grow even higher, climbing toward the clouds
   as its base disappeared into the moat.
   The thunder was all around him, and he could feel the
   sandstone blocks quivering underfoot. Jon-Tom turned.
   Across the roofs of the city, in all directions, he could see
   the wave. The city was surrounded by rushing sand hun-
   dreds of feet high and inestimable in volume, all of it
   cascading down into the depths which surrounded Redrock.
   Thirty minutes passed. The wave began to shrink. Un-
   countable tons of sand continued to pour into the moat,
   which still showed no sign of filling up. Another thirty
   minutes and the torrent had slowed to a trickle. A few
   minutes more and the last grains tumbled into the abyss.
   Beyond, the moon illuminated the skeleton of the de-
   sert. Bare rock stood revealed, as naked as the surface of
   the moon. Between the city and the mountains, nothing
   lived, nothing moved. A few hollows showed darkly
   in the rock, ancient depressions now emptied of sand and
   gravel.
   A soft murmur rose from the onlookers as they turned
   away from the moat and the naked desert to face the center
   of the city. Jon-Tom and his companions turned with them.
   In the exact center of Redrock a peculiar glassy tower
   stood apart from the sandstone buildings. All eyes focused
   on the slim spire. There was a feeling of expectation.
   He was about to give in to curiosity and ask the guard
   what was going to happen when he heard something
   nimble. The stone under his feet commenced quivering. It
   was a different tremor this time, as though the planet itself
   were in motion. The rumbling deepened, became a roar-
   ing, then a constant thunder. Something was happening
   deep inside the earth.
   "What is it, what's going on?" Roseroar yelled at him.
   He did not reply and could not have made himself heard
   had he tried.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Sudden, violent wind blew hats from heads and veils
   from faces. Jon-Tom's cape stretched out straight behind
   him like an iridescent flag. He staggered, leaned into the
   unexpected hurricane as he tried to see the tower.
   The sands of the Timeful Desert erupted skyward from
   the open mouth of the glass pillar, climbing thousands of
   feet toward the moon. Reaching some predetermined height,
   the silica geyser started to spread out beneath the clouds.
   Jon-Tom instinctively turned to seek shelter, but stopped
   when he saw that none of the other pilgrims had moved.
   As though sliding down an invisible roof, the sand did
   not fall anywhere within the city walls. Instead, it spread
   out like a cloud, to fall as yellow rain across the desert. It
   continued to fall for hours as the tower blasted it into the
   sky. Only when the moon was well past its zenith and had
   begun to set again did the volume decrease and finally
   peter out.
   Then the geyser fell silent. The chatter of the refugees
   and the cityfolk filled the air, replacing the roar of the
   tower. A glance revealed that the bottomless moat was
   empty once again.
   Beyond the wall, beyond the moat, the Timeful Desert
   once more was as it had been. All was still. The absence
   of life there despite the presence of water was now explained.
   "Great magic," said Roseroar solemnly.
   "Lethal magic." Mudge twitched his nose. "If we'd
   been a few minutes longer we'd be out there somewhere
   with our 'earts stopped and our guts full o' sand."
   Jon-Tom stopped a passing fox. "Is it over? What
   happens now?"
   "What happens now, man," said the fox, "is that we
   sleep, and we celebrate the end of another Conjunction.
   Tomorrow we return to our homes." She pushed past him
   and started down the stairs.
   Jon-Tom resorted to questioning one of the guards. The
   muskrat was barely four feet tall and wore his fur cut
   fashionably short.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   219
   "Please, we're strangers here." He nodded toward the
   desert. "Does this happen every year?"
   "Twice a year," the guard informed him, bored. "A
   grand sight the first time, I suppose."
   "What's it for? Why does it happen?"
   The muskrat scratched under his chin. "It is said that
   these are the sands of time. All time. When they have run
   their course, they must be turned to run again. Who turns
   them, or why, no one knows. Gods, spirits, some great
   being somewhere else who is bored with the task, who
   knows? I am no sorcerer or scholar, visitor." He turned to
   leave.
   "Let 'im go, mate/' said Mudge. "I don't care wot it's
   about. Runnin' for me life always tires me out. Me for a
   spot o' sleep and somethin' to drink." He started down the
   stairs. Jon-Tom and Roseroar followed.
   "What do yo think happens heah?" the tigress asked
   him.
   "I imagine it's as the guard told us. The desert is some
   kind of hourglass, holding all time within it." He gazed
   thoughtfully at the sky. "I wonder: if you could stop the
   mechanism somehow, could you stop time?" He turned
   toward the glassy tower. "I'd sure like to have a look
   inside that."
   "Best not to," she told him. "Yo might find something.
   Yo might find your own time."
   He nodded. "Anyway, we have other fish to fry."
   "Ah beg yo pahdon?"
   "Jalwar and Folly. If everyone else is forced to seek
   sanctuary here from the Conjunction, they would also. If
   they weren't caught by the sand, they should be some-
   where here in the city."
   "Ah declah, Jon-Tom, ah hadn't thought o' that!" She
   scanned the courtyard below.
   "Unless," he went on, "they were far enough ahead of
   us to have already crossed the desert."
   "Oh," She looked downcast, then straightened. "No
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   Alan Dean Foster
   mattah. We'll find them." She began looking for an empty
   place among the crowds. Probably the few city inns were
   already full to overflowing with the wealthy among the
   refugees. The city gates were open and some were already
   filing back out into the desert.
   "Yo know, somethin' just occurred to me, Jon-Tom.
   This old Jalwah, ah'm thinkin' we've been underestimatin'
   him all along. Do yo suppose he deliberately led us out
   heah into this desert knowin' we didn't know about this
   comin' Conjunction thing, and hopin' we might get oah-
   selves killed?"
   Jon-Tom considered only a moment. "Roseroar, I think
   that's a very good possibility, just as I think that the next
   time we meet up with our ferret friend, we'd better watch
   our step very carefully indeed."
   XIII
   Inquiries in the marketplace finally unearthed mention of
   Folly and Jalwar's passing. They were indeed several days
   ahead of their pursuers, and yet they had rented no riding
   animals. Apparently Jalwar was not only smarter than
   they'd given him credit for, he was also considerably
   stronger. The merchant who provided the information did
   not know which way the ferret and the girl had gone, but
   Jon-Tom remembered enough of the map to guess.
   The desert reaches were much more extensive to north
   and south. There was no way back to Snarken except via
   Redrock. Therefore their earlier suppositions still held
   true. Jalwar was making for Crancularn as fast as possible.
   Roseroar's search for nighttime lodging was terminated.
   There was no time to waste. Jon-Tom reluctantly allowed
   Mudge to scavenge for supplies, and the travelers then beat
   a hasty retreat from Redrock before their unwilling vict-
   ualers could awaken to the discovery of their absent
   inventory.
   "Of course, we'll pay for these supplies on our way
   back," Jon-Tom said.
   "And 'ow do you propose we do that?" Mudge labored
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   Alan Dean Poster
   under his restocked pack. The desert was oddly cool
   underfoot, the sand stable and motionless once again. It
   was as though the grains had never been displaced, had
   never moved.
   "I don't know, but we have to do something about this
   repeated steali—"
   "Watch it, mate."
   "About this repeated foraging of yours. Why do you
   insist on maintaining the euphemisms, Mudge?"
   The otter grinned at him. "For appearances' sakes,
   mate."
   "It troubles me as well," Roseroar murmured, "but we
   must make use of any means that we can to see this thing
   through."
   "I know, but I'll feel better about it if we can pay for
   what we've 'borrowed' on our way back."
   Mudge sighed, shook his head resignedly. " 'Umans,"
   he muttered.
   Despite Jon-Tom's expectations, they did not catch up
   to their quarry. They did encounter occasional groups of
   nomads returning to their campsites, sometimes sharing
   their camps for the night. All expressed ignorance when
   asked if they had seen any travelers fitting Jalwar's or
   Folly's description.
   On the third day they had their first glimpse of the
   foothills which lay beyond the western edge of the Timeful
   Desert. On the fourth they found themselves hiking among
   green grass, cool woodlands, and thick scrub. Mudge
   luxuriated in the aroma and presence of running water,
   while Roseroar was able to enjoy fresh meat once more.
   On their first day in the forest she brought down a
   monitor lizard the size of a cow with one swordthrust.
   Mudge joined her in butchering the carcass and setting the
   steaks to cook over a blaze of thin, white-barked logs.
   "Smells mighty good," commented a strange voice.
   Roseroar rose to a sitting position. Mudge peered around
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   223
   the cookfire while Jon-Tom put aside the duar he'd been
   strumming.
   Standing at the edge of their little clearing in the trees
   was a five-foot-tall cuscus, a bland expression on his pale
   face. He was dressed in overlapping leather strips and
   braids, snakeskin boots of azure hue, and short brown
   pants. A single throwing knife was slung on each hip, and
   he was scratching himself under the chin with his furless,
   prehensile tail. As he scratched he leaned on the short staff
   he carried. Jon-Tom wondered if, like his own, the visi-
   tor's also concealed a short, deadly length of steel in the
   unknobbed end. The visitor's fur was pale beige mottled
   with brown.
   He was also extraordinarily ugly, a characteristic of the
   species, though perhaps a female cuscus might have thought
   otherwise of the newcomer. He made no threatening ges-
   tures and waited patiently.
   "Come on in and have a seat." Jon-Tom extended the
   invitation only after Roseroar had climbed to her feet and
   Mudge had moved close to his bow.
   "That is right kind of you, sir. I am Hathcar." Jon-Tom
   performed introductions all around.
   Roseroar was sniffing the air, glanced accusingly down
   at the visitor. "You are not alone."
   "No, large she, I am not. Did I forget to mention it? I
   am sorry and will now remedy my absentmindedness." He
   put his lips together and emitted a sharp, high-pitched
   whistle.
   With much rustling of bushes a substantial number of
   creatures stepped out into clear view, forming a line behind
   the cuscus. They were an odd assortment, from the more
   familiar rats and mice to bandicoots and phalangers. There
   was even a nocturnal aye-aye, who wore large, dark
   sunglasses and carried a short, sickle-shaped weapon.
   Their clothes were on the ragged side, and their boots
   and sandals showed signs of much usage. Altogether not a
   prosperous-looking bunch, Jon-Tom decided. The presence
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   of so many weapons was not reassuring. These were not
   kindly villagers out for a daily stroll.
   Still, if all they wanted was something to eat....
   "You're welcome to join us," he told Hathcar. "There's
   plenty for all."
   Hathcar looked past him, to where Mudge was laboring
   with the cooking. His tongue licked black lips.
   "You are kind. Those of us who prefer meat haven't
   made such a grand catch in many a day." He smiled as
   best he could.
   Jon-Tom gestured toward Roseroar. "Yes, she's quite
   the huntress."
   "She sizes the part. Still, there is but one of her and
   many of us. How is it that she has been so successful and
   we have not?"
   "Skill is more important than numbers." One huge paw
   caressed the hilt of a long sword.
   Hathcar did not seem impressed. "Sometimes that can
   be so, unless you are a hundred against one lizard."
   "Sometimes," she agreed coolly, "but not always."
   The cuscus changed the subject. ' 'What seek you strang-
   ers in this remote land?"
   "We're on a mission of importance for a great and
   powerful wizard," Jon-Tom told him, "We go to the
   village of Crancularn."
   "Crancularn." Hathcar looked back at his colleagues,
   who were hard-pressed to restrain their amusement. "That's
   a fool's errand."
   Jon-Tom casually let his fingers stray to his staff. He'd
   had just about enough of this questioning, enigmatic visi-
   tor. Either they wanted something to eat or they didn't,
   and double-talk wasn't on the menu.
   "Maybe you think we look like fools," Hathcar said.
   All hints of laughter fled from the gang standing behind
   him. Jon-Tom didn't reply, waited for what might come.
   The cuscus's smile returned, and he moved toward the
   fire. "Well, you have offered us a meal. That's a wise
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   225
   decision. Certainly not one to be made by fools." He
   pulled a throwing knife. "If I might try a bite? It looks
   well done. My compliments to the cook." Mudge said
   nothing.
   Jon-Tom watched the visitor closely. Was he going to
   cut meat with it... or throw it? He couldn't decide.
   Something came flying through the air toward him. He
   ducked and rolled, ending up on his feet holding the
   ramwood staff protectively in front of him. Mudge picked
   up his bow and notched an arrow into the string. Roseroar's
   longswords flashed as they were drawn. All within a
   couple of seconds.
   Hathcar was careful not to raise the knife he now held.
   Behind him, his colleagues gripped their own weapons
   threateningly. But the cuscus was not glaring at Jon-Tom.
   His gaze was on the creature who had come flying through
   the air to land heavily next to the tall human.
   The mongoose was clad entirely in black. It lay on its
   belly, moaning. Strange marks showed on its narrow backside.
   "Faset," Hathcar hissed, "what happened?" The mon-
   goose rolled to look at him, yelped when its bruised pelvis
   made contact with the ground.
   "I happened." Everyone turned toward the voice.
   The unicorn strolled casually into the clearing. It was
   gold. Not the light gold of a palomino but a pure metallic
   gold like the color of a coin or ring, except for white
   patches on its forehead and haunches. It might have risen
   from a vat of liquid gold except that Jon-Tom could clearly
   see that the color was true, down to the shortest hair.
   In its mouth it carried a small crossbow. This it dropped
   at Jon-Tom's feet. Then it nodded meaningfully toward the
   still groaning mongoose. Jon-Tom now recognized the
   marks on the mongoose's pants. They were hoofprints.
   Hathcar was beside himself as he glared furiously at the
   unicorn. "Who the hell are you, four-foot? And who
   asked you to interfere? This is none of your business."
   The unicorn gazed at him out of lapis eyes, said coolly,
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   227
   "1 am making it my business." He smiled at Jon-Tom.
   "My name's Drom. I was grazing back in the woods when
   I heard the talk. Ordinarily I would have ignored it, as I
   ignored your presence." He nodded toward the mongoose,
   who was trying to crawl back to its comrades while
   avoiding Hathcar.
   "However, I happened to chance upon this ebon worm
   as he was aiming his little toy at your back." Drom raised
   a hoof, brought it down on the crossbow. There was a
   splintering sound. "The unpleasant one there," and he
   nodded toward Hathcar, "was right. This was none
   of my business. I don't trouble to involve myself in
   the affairs of you social types. But I can't stand to
   see anyone backshot." He turned his magnificent head,
   the thin golden goatee fluttering, and glared back at
   Hathcar.
   "Yo ah a true gentlemale, suh," said Roseroar approvingly.
   "You should have stayed out of this, fool." Hathcar
   moved quickly to join his gang. "Anyway, he lies. No
   doubt this insect," and he kicked at the miserable Faset,
   "was trying to put a bolt through you. But that has nothing
   to do with me."
   "You called him by name," Jon-Tom said accusingly.
   "A casual acquaintance." Hathcar continued to retreat.
   His backers muttered uneasily.
   "Glad you don't know 'im, friend." Mudge's arrow
   followed the cuscus's backpedaling. "I'd 'ate to think you
   'ad anything to do with 'is little ambushcade."
   "What about your invitation?" Hathcar wanted to know.
   "I think we'd rather dine alone," Jon-Tom smiled
   thinly. "At least until we can sort things out."
   "That's not very friendly of you. It's not polite to
   withdraw an invitation once extended."
   "My back," the mongoose blubbered. "I think my
   back is broken."
   "Shut up, asshole." Hathcar kicked him in the mouth
   and blood squirted. The cuscus tried to grin at the tall
   man. "Really, this thing has nothing to do with me." His
   band was beginning to melt into the forest. "Always
   hanging around, looking for sympathy. Sorry our visit
   upset you. I understand." Then he too was gone, swallowed
   by the vegetation.
   Roseroar's ears were cocked forward. "They're still
   movin' about," she murmured warily.
   "Where?" Jon-Tom asked her.
   "Back among the trees."
   "They are spreading out in an attempt to encircle you,"
   said the one-horned stallion.
   "Permit me to congratulate you on your timely arrival,
   mate." Mudge's eyes searched the woods as he spoke. "I
   never sensed 'im."
   "Nor did I," said Roseroar, sparing a glance for the
   remains of the crossbow.
   "I don't understand," Jon-Tom murmured. "We offered
   them all the food they could eat."
   "It wasn't just your food they were after." Drom kicked
   the crossbow fragments aside. "I know that bunch by
   reputation. They were after your weapons and armor, your
   Fine clothes and your money."
   Mudge let out a barking laugh. "Our money! Now
   mat's amusin'. We haven't a copper to our names," he
   lied.
   "Ah, but they thought you did." The unicorn nodded
   toward the forest. "Small comfort that would have been to
   you if they had learned that afterwards."
   "You're right there."
   Roseroar was turning a slow circle, keeping the roasting
   carcass at her back as much as possible. "They're still out
   theah. Probably they think we can't heah them, but ah
   can." She growled deep in her throat, a blood chilling
   sound. "Our friend here is right. They're trying to get
   behind us."
   "And to surprise you. Hathcar did not show his full
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   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   229
   strength. Many more of his band remained concealed while
   he spoke to you."
   Jon-Tom eyed the silent trees in alarm. "How many
   more?' *
   "A large number, though, of course, I am only guessing
   based on what I could observe during my approach."
   "We appreciate your help. You might as well take off
   now. Our problems aren't yours."
   "They are now," the unicorn to!d him. "These are
   indifferent murderers, full of false pride. I have embarrassed
   their leader in front of his band. Now he must kill me or
   lose face and possibly his status as leader."
   Roseroar strode toward the back of the clearing. "Move
   in heah, where theah's some covah."
   The unicorn shook his head, the mane of gold rippling
   in the filtered tight. "It will not be good enough, tigress. I
   can see that you are powerful as well as well-versed in
   war, but there are too many of them, and you will be
   fighting in very close quarters. If they come at you from
   all directions simultaneously you won't have a chance.
   You require a more defensible position."
   "You know of one?" Jon-Tom asked him.
   "It is not far from here. I think if we can get there we
   will be able to stand them off."
   "Then let's get the hell out of here," he muttered as he
   shouldered his pack.
   Mudge held back, torn between common sense and the
   effort he'd put into their supper. Roseroar saw his hesitation.
   "A full belly's small consolation to someone with his
   guts hangin' out. Ah declah, short-whiskahs, sometimes
   ah wondah about yo priorities."
   "Sometimes I wonder meself, lass." He looked longingly
   back at the lost roast as they hurried through the woods,
   following the stallion's lead.
   Drom maintained a steady but slow pace to enable his
   newfound friends to keep up with him. Everyone watched
   the surrounding woods. But it was Roseroar's ears they
   relied on most.
   "Stayin' carefully upwind of us, but I can heah them
   movin' faster. They're still behind us, though. Must think
   we're still in the camp."
   "Wait a minute!" Jon-Tom called a halt. "Where's
   Mudge?"
   Roseroar cursed under her breath. "Damn that ottah! Ah
   knew ah should've kept a closer watch on him. He's gone
   back fo some of that meat. Yoah friend is a creature of base
   instincts."
   "Yes, but he's not stupid. Here he comes."
   Mudge appeared, laboring beneath a section of roast
   nearly as big as himself. "Sorry, mates. I worked all day
   on this bloody banquet, and I'm damned if I was goin' to
   leave it all for those bastards."
   "You're damned anyway," snapped Jon-Tom. "How
   are you going to keep up, hauling that on your back?"
   The otter swung the heavy, pungent load off his shoulders.
   "Roseroar?"
   "Not me, ottah. Yo stew in yoah own stew."
   "We're wasting time," said Drom. "Here." He dipped
   his head forward. "Hold it still."
   A quick jab and the roast was impaled on the spiral
   horn. "Now let's be away from here before they discover
   ourflight." He turned and resumed his walk. "Disgusting."
   "What is?" Jon-Tom asked as he jogged alongside.
   "The smell of cooked flesh, the odiferous thought of
   consuming the body of another living creature, the miasma
   of carbonized protein, what else?"
   Suddenly Jon-Tom wasn't so hungry anymore.
   Creepers and vines strangled the entrance to the ancient
   structure. Roseroar was reluctant to enter. The strangely
   slitted windows and triangular doorways bespoke a time
   and people who had ruled the world long before the
   warmblooded.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   231
   "Sulolk used this place," murmured Drom as he trotted
   inside.
   Distant shouts of outrage came from behind them,
   deciding the tigress. She bent beneath the low portal and
   squeezed in.
   The single chamber beyond had a vaulted ceiling that
   enabled her to stand easily. There was more than enough
   room for all of them. Mudge was admiring the narrow
   windows, fashioned by a forgotten people for reasons of
   unknown aesthetics but admirably suited to the refugees'
   present needs. He notched an arrow into his bow and
   settled himself behind one thin gap.
   Jon-Tom took up a stance to the left of the opening,
   ready to use his steel-tipped staff on anyone who tried to
   enter. A moment later he was able to move to a second
   window as Roseroar jammed a massive stone weighing at
   least three hundred pounds into the doorway, blocking it
   completely.
   "This is a good place to fight from." Drom used a hoof
   to shove the cooling roast from his horn onto clean rock.
   "A small spring flows from the floor of a back room.
   Cracks in the ceiling allow fresh air to circulate. I have
   often slept here in safety." He indicated the damp grass
   growing from the floor. "There is food as well."
   "For you," admitted Jon-Tom, watching the woods for
   signs of their pursuers. "Well, we have what's in our
   packs and the roast we saved." He glanced to his right,
   toward the other guarded window. "You shouldn't have
   done that, Mudge."
   "Cor, it ain't no fun fightin' on an empty stomach,
   mate." He leaned forward; his black nose twitched as he
   sampled the air. "If they try chargin' us, I can pick 'em off
   easy. Our 'omy friend's right. This is a damn good place."
   Rosewar was eyeing the wall carvings uneasily. "This is
   a very old place. I smell ancient feahs." She had drawn
   bom longs words.
   There was a thump as Drom settled down to wait. "I
   smell only clean grass and water."
   Threatening shouts began to emanate from the trees.
   Mudge responded with some choice comments about
   Hathcar's mother, whom he had never met but whom
   thousands of others undoubtedly had. This inspired a rain
   of arrows which splintered harmlessly against the thick
   stone walls. One flew through Jon-Tom's window to stick
   in the earth behind him.
   "Here they come!" he warned his companions.
   There was nothing subtle about the bandits' strategy.
   While archers tried to pin down the defenders, an assort-
   ment of raccoons, foxes, and cats rushed at the entrance,
   carrying a big log between them. But Roseroar braced her
   massive shoulders against the boulder from behind and
   kept it from being pushed inward, while Mudge put arrows
   in the log wielders as fast as they could be replaced.
   "Another bugger down!" the otter would yell each time
   an arrow struck home.
   This continued for several minutes while Mudge re-
   duced the number of Hathcar's band and Roseroar kept the
   boulder from moving so much as an inch inward. No
   martyrs to futility, those hefting the battering ram finally
   gave up and fled for the safety of the woods with the
   otter's deadly shafts urging them on.
   No one had approached Jon-Tom's window during the
   fight. Mudge and Roseroar had done all the work and he
   felt pretty useless.
   "What now? I don't think they'll try that again."
   "No, but they'll bloody well try somethin' else,"
   murmured the otter. "Say, mate, why don't you 'ave a go
   at 'em with your duar?"
   Jon-Tom blinked. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, I had,
   but it's hard to think and sing when you're running."
   "Why make music? To aggravate them?" asked Drom
   interestedly.
   "Nope. 'E's a spellsinger, 'e is," said Mudge, "and a
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   Alan Dean Poster
   right good one, too. When 'e can control it," he added by
   way of afterthought.
   "A spellsinger. I am impressed," said the unicorn.
   Jon-Tom felt a little better, though he wished the golden
   stallion would quit staring at him so intensely.
   "What do you think they'll try next?" Jon-Tom asked
   the otter.
   Mudge eyed the trees. "This bunch bein' about as
   imaginative as a pile o' cow flop, I'd expect them to try
   smokin' us out. If four legs there is right about the cracks
   in the roof lettin' air in, they'll be wastin' their time."
   "Are yo certain theah's no back way in?"
   "None that I was ever able to discover," Drom told the
   tigress.
   "Not that you'd fit places where some o1 the rest of us
   might," observed Mudge thoughtfully. He handed his bow
   and quiver to Jon-Tom. "I'd better check out the nooks
   and crannies, mate. We don't want some nasty surprises to
   show up and stick us in the behind when we ain't lookin'."
   He headed for the crumbling back wall.
   Jon-Tom eyed the bow uncertainly. "Mudge, I'm not
   good at this."
   "Just give a shout if they come at us again. It ain't 'ard,
   mate. Just shove an arrow through the window there. They
   don't know you can't shoot." He bent, crawled under a
   lopsided stone and disappeared.
   Jon-Tom awkwardly notched an arrow, rested it on the
   window sill as Roseroar took up a position behind the one
   the otter had vacated.
   "Ah don't understand," she murmured, squinting at the
   forest. "We all ain't worth the trouble we're causin' this
   Hathcar. That ottah brought down five or six o' them. If ah
   was this fella ah'd give up and go in search of less deadly
   prey."
   "That would be the reasonable thing to do," said
   Drom, nodding, "except that as chief he has lost face
   already before his band. He will not give up, though if he
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   233
   suffers many more losses his own fighters may force him
   to quit." The unicorn climbed to his feet and strolled over
   to Roseroar's window. She made room for him.
   "Hathcar!" he shouted.
   A reluctant voice finally replied. "Who calls? Is that
   you, meddler with a spike in his brain?"
   "It is I." Drom was unperturbed by the bandit leader's
   tone. "Listen to me! These travelers are poor. They have
   no money."
   Cuscus laughter rang through the trees. "You expect me
   to believe that?"
   "It's true. In any case, you cannot defeat them."
   "Don't bet on that."
   "You cannot break in here."
   "Maybe not, but we'll force you out. It may take time,
   but we'll do it."
   "If you do, then I will only lead them to another place
   of safety, one even harder to assault than this one. I know
   these woods, and you know I speak the truth. So why not
   depart now before suffering any more senseless losses? It's
   a stupid leader who sacrifices his people for no gain."
   Muttering came from different places in the trees, proof
   that Drom's last words had hit home. Hathcar hastened to
   respond.
   "No matter if you lead them elsewhere. We'll track you
   down no matter where you go."
   "Perhaps you will. Or perhaps you'll find yourselves
   led into a trap. We of the forest have ways of defending
   ourselves against you lovers of civilization. There are
   hidden pits and tree-mounted weapons scattered through-
   out my territory. Follow me and find them at your peril."
   This time the woods were silent. Drom nodded to
   himself. "Good. They're thinking it over, probably argu-
   ing about it. If they come to their senses, we may be able
   to get out of here without any more violence."
   Jon-Tom peered through the narrow slit in the stone.
   "You think they'll really react that sensibly?"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "I don't know, but he knows I'm talking truth," said the
   unicorn softly. "I know this section of forest better than he
   does, and he knows that I know that."
   "But how could we slip out of here and get past them?"
   Drom chuckled. "1 did fudge on that one a bit. Yet for
   all he knows there are a dozen secret passages out of
   here."
   "If there are, they're bloody well still secret." Mudge
   emerged from the crawlspace he'd entered and wiped
   limestone dust from his shirt and whiskers. "Tight as a
   teenage whore. Nothin' bigger than a snake could get out
   the back way. We're safe enough here, all right." Jon-Tom
   gladly handed back the otter's bow and found himself a
   soft place on the floor.
   ' Then I guess we wait until they attack again or give up
   and leave us alone. I suppose we ought to stand watch
   tonight."
   "Allow me, suh," said Roseroar. "Ah'm as comfortable
   with the night as ah am with the day."
   "While we wait to see what they'll do," said Drom,
   "perhaps now you'll tell me what you people are doing in
   this country, so far from civilization."
   Jon-Tom sighed. "It's a long story," he told the uni-
   corn, and proceeded to relate it yet again. As he spoke, the
   sun set and the trees blended into a shadowy curtain
   outside. An occasional arrow plunked against the stone,
   more for nuisance value than out of any hope of hitting
   any of the defenders inside.
   Hathcar had indeed lost too many in the futile attack to
   try it again. He knew that if he continued to fling his
   followers uselessly against an impregnable position they
   would melt quietly away into the woods. That night he
   moved away from the main campfire and sought counsel
   from an elderly rat and wolf, the two wisest of his band.
   "So how do we pry those stinking bastards out of
   there?"
   The rat's hair was tinged with white and his face and
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   235
   arms were scarred. He picked at the dirt with one hand.
   "Why bother? Why not let them rot in there if they so
   desire? There are easier pickin's elsewhere."
   Hathcar leaned toward him, glaring in the moonlight.
   "Do you know what happened today? Do you? They made
   a fool of me. Me, Hathcar! Nobody makes a fool of
   Hathcar and walks away to boast of it, nobody! Not on
   their own legs, they don't."
   "It was just a thought," the rat mumbled. "It had to be
   said."
   "Right. It's been said. It's also been forgotten." The rat
   said nothing.
   "How about smoking them out?" suggested the wolf.
   The cuscus let out a derisive snort. "Don't you think
   they've already thought of that? If they haven't tried to
   break out, it means they aren't worried about smoke; and
   if they aren't worried about it, it probably means it won't
   work if we try it."
   "Could we," suggested the rat, "maybe force our way in
   through the roof?"
   Hathcar sighed. "You're all looking at the obvious, all
   of you. I'm the only one who can see beyond the self-
   evident. That cursed four-legs led them straight here, so
   he's probably telling the truth when he says he knows it
   well. He wouldn't box himself into a situation he wasn't
   comfortable with. He says they can slip out anytime and
   hide somewhere else twice as strong. Maybe he's lying,
   but we can't take that chance. We have to take them here,
   while we know what we're up against. That means our
   first priority is to get rid of that horned meddler."
   "How about moving a couple of archers in close?
   Those with good night vision. If they can sneak up against
   the wall they might get a clear shot inside."
   Hathcar considered. "Not bad, except that if they don't
   snuff the unicorn right away that fucking water rat's likely
   to get 'em both. I've never seen anybody shoot like that."
   He shook his head.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "No, it's not good enough, Parsh. I'm sure they've got
   a guard up, and I won't send any more of the boys against
   that otter's bow. No, we have to bring the unicorn out
   somehow, far enough so we can get a clear shot at him. By
   himself, if possible."
   The rat spat on the ground. "That's likely, isn't it?"
   "You know, there may be a way."
   Hathcar frowned at the wolf. "I was only half-serious,
   Brungunt."
   "I'm wholly serious. All we need is the right kind of
   bait."
   "That blow you took in Ollorory village has addled
   your brains," said Parsh. "Nothing's going to bring that
   unicorn out where we can get at him."
   "Go on, Brungunt," said the thoughtful Hathcar.
   The wolf leaned close. "It should be done when most of
   them sleep. We must watch and smell for when the stallion
   takes his turn as sentry. If they post only the one guard, we
   may have a chance. Great care must be taken, for it will be
   a near thing, a delicate business. Bait or no bait, if the
   meddler senses our presence, I do not think he can be
   drawn out. So after we set the bait we must retreat well out
   of range. It will work, you'll see. So powerful is the bait,
   it will draw our quarry well out where we can cut off his
   retreat. Then it won't matter if he bolts into the woods.
   The important thing is that we'll be rid of him, and the
   ones we really want will be deprived of his advice and
   aid."
   "No," said Hathcar, his eyes gleaming, "no. I want
   that four-legs, too. I want him dead. Or better yet, we'll
   just hamstring him." He grinned viciously in the dark.
   "Yes, hamstring him. That's better still." He forced him-
   self from contemplation of pleasures to come. "This bait?
   Where do we get it?"
   Brungunt scratched an ear and even the skeptical Parsh
   looked interested. "First we must find a village or farm
   that numbers humans among its occupants." He was
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   237
   nodding to himself as he spoke. "This is an old, old magic
   we will work tonight, but you don't have to be a sorcerer
   to work it. It works itself. It is said by those who may
   know that a unicom may not be taken by force, but only
   by stealth and guile."
   "Get to the point," said Hathcar impatiently.
   The wolf hurried his words. "We don't have to sneak up
   on him. He'll come to us. He'll follow a maiden fair and
   true. It is said."
   Hathcar looked doubtful. "What kind of maiden? A
   coltish mare?"
   "No, no. It must be a human maiden."
   Parsh the rat was thoroughly shocked. "You expect to
   find a virgin around here? Species notwithstanding."
   "There is a town not far from this place."
   "Crestleware." Hathcar nodded.
   "We can but try," said the wolf, spreading his paws.
   "A virgin. Are you certain about this, Brungunt?"
   "The bond is supposed to be most powerful. The girl
   need only lead him far enough for us to get behind him
   before he picks up our scent. Do not ask me to explain this
   thing. I only relate what I have heard told."
   "Wouldn't cost us a one. You'd better be right about
   this, Brungunt, or I'll see your ears decorating my spear."
   "That's not fair!"  protested the wolf.   "I am only
   relating a legend."
   "Look to your ears, wolf." Hathcar rose. "And tell the
   others to look to theirs. Parsh, you come with me." He
   glared at Brungunt. "We will return as quickly as possi-
   ble. This magic sounds to me like it works better in the
   dark, and I don't want to give that four legs another day to
   think of a better place." He glanced through the trees
   toward the moonlit ruins. "Hamstring him, yes. I'll see
   that damned meddler crawling to me on his knees, and
   then we'll break those as well."
   XIV
   Hathcar crouched low as he pointed toward the clearing
   in front of the silent fortress. The slim girl who stood
   next to him watched closely, her eyes wide. She had
   been awakened in the middle of the night by her mother
   and sent off in the company of this ugly stranger. She
   hadn't wanted to go, but her mother had insisted, assuring
   her it would only be until sunrise and that everything was
   all right, everything had been arranged. Then she would be
   brought home and allowed to sleep all day. And they had
   promised her candy.
   "There is the place, little one."
   "Don't call me little," she snapped. "I'm as grown up
   as you are! And my name's Silky."
   "Sorry," Hathcar growled softly, restraining himself.
   He wasn't very fond of cubs, but he needed this one's
   cooperation.
   "You're going to pay my daddy two gold pieces for
   luring out this unicorn to you. What makes you think he'll
   come out and follow me?"
   "He'll come," Hathcar assured her. "Just be nice to
   him, tell him how strong and beautiful he is."
   238
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   239
   She stared warily at the cuscus and his two companions
   out of eyes that were not as innocent as her parents insisted
   they were. "You're sure this is a unicorn you're sending
   me after?"
   "Are you sure you're a virgin?"
   "Yes, I'm sure," she said tiredly. She'd heard this
   stranger discussing the matter with her mother.
   Hathcar turned and pointed back through the woods.
   "Back this way there's a pool in a little hollow. Bring him
   there. We'll be waiting."
   "What happens when we get there?" she asked curiously.
   "None of your business, lit... Silky. Your daddy's
   being paid for your services. You do what I want you to
   and you don't ask questions."
   "Okay." She hesitated. "You're not going to hurt him,
   are you? I've never seen a unicorn, but I've been told
   they're real pretty."
   "Oh, no, no, we won't hurt him," said Hathcar smoothly.
   "We just want to surprise him. We're his friends, and we
   want to surprise him, and you won't tell him about us
   because that would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?"
   "I guess so." She smiled brightly. "I like surprises,
   too. Can I watch when you surprise him?"'
   "Sure you can," Hathcar assured her innocently. "I
   think you'll be surprised, too." He turned to leave her,
   Brungunt and Parsh following.
   "It's dark," she said uncertainly.
   "You'll be okay," Brungunt told her. "Didn't you say
   you were a big girl?"
   "That's right, I am."
   "Fine. Just bring the four-legs down to the pool."
   "Why didn't we just abduct the little bitch?" Parsh
   wanted to know as they made their way through the woods
   to rejoin the rest of the waiting band.
   "Big village," Hathcar told him. "A good place to buy
   supplies. The price hurts, but it'll be worth it. Besides,
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Brungunt here said the girl had to act voluntarily or the
   magic wouldn't work."
   "That's so," the wolf agreed, nodding. "It is so told."
   "So it's better all around this way," Hathcar finished.
   Silky stood waiting, counting away the minutes to allow
   the unicorn's friends time to ready their surprise. Then she
   strolled out into the small clearing in front of the broken
   old building. She was wearing her best dress. It clung to
   her budding figure as she moved. Her mother had spent
   fifteen minutes combing out the long auburn hair to make
   certain her daughter looked her best. The old wolf had
   insisted on it.
   Two gold pieces. That would buy a lot of things for the
   family, including candy. She determined to do exactly as
   the cuscus ordered, even if he'd been lying to her about
   the surprise he was planning. After all, the horned one was
   nothing to her.
   Still, she was trembling slightly at the prospect of
   actually meeting a unicorn as she stepped out into the
   silvery moonlight. There were many stories told about the
   shy, solitary four-legs. They kept to themselves in the deep
   forest, shunning civilization and intelligent company.
   The ancient stones before her were silent. Should she
   cry out? If she did, what could she say? "Here, unicorn"?
   There was no one to advise her, since Hathcar had joined
   the rest of his friends far back in the trees, out of sight and
   scent. The old wolf had assured her she had only to
   approach the ruins and the unicorn would come to her.
   Would come and would follow back to the pool. And the
   surprise waiting there.
   She stood before the ruins and waited.
   Within, there was movement she could not see. Drom's
   head lifted, his nostrils twitching. He blinked at the bodies
   sleeping soundly around him. It was his turn on watch.
   Trotting silently so as not to disturb his newfound
   friends, he moved to one window slit and peered out.
   Standing alone in the moonlight was a small, slim figure.
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   241
   A human figure, young and pure. Ancient emotions began
   to pluck at him.
   Nodding at no one in particular, he quietly began push-
   ing at the boulder which blocked the entryway. He worked
   with care, wanting to make positive identification of the
   beckoning shape outside without waking his companions.
   When the stone had been edged to one side he walked
   through the opening and stepped out onto the grass,
   sniffing at the air, which was heavy with the girl's clean,
   sweet-smelling scent. She was alone. The night was still,
   and there was no wind to mask concealed odors.
   He walked over to the girl, who eyed him nervously and
   took a step backward.
   "Hello. You're... awfully pretty." She licked her lips,
   glanced over a shoulder once, then said confidently, "Won't
   you come and walk with me? It's a nice night in the
   forest."
   "In a minute, little one. There's something I have to do
   first." Turning, he moved back to the ruins and stuck his
   head inside, let out a soft whinny. "Wake up."
   There were stirrings on the floor. Lightest of sleepers,
   Roseroar sat up fast when she saw that the boulder defending
   them had been moved.
   "Now what?" She stared at the unicorn. "Explain
   yoself, suh." She was on her feet and heading for the
   boulder. Drom cut her off. "If they come at us now ..."
   she began warningly.
   "Relax, cat-a-mountain. They're not coming. They're
   not even watching us." Behind them, Jon-Tom and Mudge
   were also awakening.
   "How do yo know?" Roseroar was peering cautiously
   out. She saw and smelled the girl immediately, but no one
   else.
   "Because they've decided to try something else." He
   let out a soft, whinnying laugh. "By the time they realize
   this latest ploy has failed, it will be too late. We'll be long
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   Alan Dean Foster
   gone from this place and beyond their reach. Who among
   you is the fleetest of foot?"
   "Roseroar over the long distance, me over the short. I
   think," Jon-Tom told him sleepily, still not sure just what
   was going on.
   "Good. You and the otter climb onto my back and
   ride."
   A sweet but anxious voice sounded from outside. "Who
   are you talking to? Why don't you come out and talk with
   me?"
   "Who the 'ell is that?" Mudge rushed to a window.
   "Blimey, 'tis a girl!"
   "What?" Jon-Tom joined him, gaped at the figure standing
   in the clearing. "What's she doing here?"
   "Tempting me." Drom chuckled again. "Hathcar and
   his curs have moved out of scent range, no doubt to lie in
   wait to ambush me as I am drawn helplessly to them by
   this irresistibly pure young female."
   "I'm not sure I follow you."
   "It's part of an ancient legend, a very old magic."
   "Lousy magic," said Jon-Tom.
   "Oh, no, it's very good magic, and very true. Only not
   in my case. We're wasting time." He turned his flank to
   Jon-Tom, tilted his head low. "Can you mount by your-
   self? Use my mane for a grip if you need one."
   Jon-Tom climbed onto the broad, strong back easily,
   pulled Mudge up behind him.
   "Leave some room," Drom instructed him. "We're not
   leaving the girl here for Hathcar." He trotted outside,
   Roseroar pacing him easily while restlessly searching the
   woods for signs of their enemies.
   Silky watched them approach. Hathcar and the old wolf
   hadn't said anything about the unicorn's companions. She
   stared worriedly at the big cat loping alongside the four
   legs. The tigress could swallow her in one gulp.
   Then the unicorn was standing close and smiling down
   r
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   243
   at her over his goatee. "Do not be afraid, little one. All is
   well. How came you into mis business?"
   She hesitated before replying. "They paid my mother
   and father. They paid them two gold pieces for me to come
   with them for the night and help them surprise you."
   "Surprise me. I see," murmured Drom, nodding
   knowingly.
   "You were supposed to follow me." She turned and
   pointed. "That way, to a hollow full of water so your
   friends could surprise you."
   "And a fine surprise that would've been, wot?" growled
   Mudge softly,
   "There's been a change in plans," Drom informed her.
   "Get onto my back, in front of this handsome gentleman.
   We're taking you back to your parents. You did as requested
   and drew me out of my refuge. We're just going to take
   a little detour, that's all. So you've fulfilled your end of
   the contract, at least in part, and your parents should be
   entitled to keep whatever payment they've already re-
   ceived for your service."
   "I don't know." She scuffed the ground with one foot.
   "I didn't bring you to the pool."
   "Is that your fault?" Drom leaned close. "You don't
   really like those people out there, do you?"
   "No," she said suddenly. "No, I don't. But I had to do
   'it. I had to."
   "You are a true innocent, as you would have to be. You
   have done all you could."
   "What about my candy?" she asked petulantly.
   Jon-Tom reached down a hand. The girl took it reluctantly
   and he swung her up in front of him. Her nearness
   reminded him uncomfortably of Folly.
   Drom turned and exploded into a wild gallop, restraining
   himself only enough to allow Roseroar to keep pace.
   Jon-Tom felt confident the unicorn could carry three fully
   grown men with ease. He, the girl, and Mudge were no
   burden at all.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   After they'd covered several kilometers, the stallion
   slowed. Roseroar was panting hard and they had made a
   clean escape from the ruins.
   "Wish I could see those bastards' faces when they come
   lookin' for us," Mudge commented.
   "They'll be looking for this one, too." Jon-Tom smiled
   down at the other passenger, "Where's your village, little
   girl?"
   "I am not a little girl!"
   "Sorry, young lady. Where do you live?"
   She stared into the woods. Her sense of direction was
   superb. A hand gestured to the north. "That way."
   Drom nodded and changed direction as he headed down
   a gentle slope. He called back to Jon-Tom. "Will you
   continue on to Crancularn in search of your medicine, now
   that you have escaped the attentions of Hathcar's band?"
   "We must," Jon-Tom told him. "You're welcome to
   accompany us if you like."
   "Aye, mate," said Mudge. "We'd be glad of your
   help."
   "I have never been to Crancularn, though I know of it. I
   would be delighted to accompany you."
   "It's settled, then," said a pleased Jon-Tom. Not only
   was the unicorn a welcome addition to their trio, it had to
   be admitted that riding was more fun than walking.
   By morning they were at the outskirts of the girl's
   village. Cultivated fields surrounded the town. Jon-Tom let
   her down gently.
   "I didn't do all I was supposed to do," she muttered
   uneasily.
   "You did all you could. It's not your fault that their plan
   didn't work."
   The town was enclosed by a strong wooden palisade and
   looked more than capable of withstanding an attack by any
   angry bunch of bandits. He didn't think Hathcar would try
   to take revenge for his failure against the girl or her
   parents.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   245
   "I still think you're pretty," the girl said to Drom.
   "Can I kiss you good-bye? That's supposed to be good
   luck."
   Drom smacked his lips with evident distaste. "I'd prefer
   you didn't, but if you must." He dropped his head, stood
   still for a buss just below the right eye.
   "Gen!" he muttered as she pulled away. "Now be on
   your way, human, and count yourself fortunate this night."
   "Good-bye, unicorn. Good-bye, strangers." She was
   still waving at them as they disappeared back into the
   forest.
   No armed mob of angry, frustrated bandits materialized
   to interrupt their progress as they swung back to the west.
   With luck it would be midday before Hathcar finally
   realized his plans had fallen through and ventured to check
   on the ruins.
   "I think I understand what was going on," Jon-Tom
   murmured. "The girl was a virgin."
   " 'Ere now, mate," Mudge protested, "I've been around
   meself, but even I can't tell for certain just by lookin'."
   "She'd have to have been for it to fit." He glanced
   down at their mount. "She was a virgin, wasn't she,
   Drom?" Roseroar looked on curiously.
   "The sight and scent of her suggested so," the stallion
   replied.
   "I read something somewhere about the attentions of a
   virgin girl being irresistible to a unicorn."
   "An ancient and more-or-less accurate notion, which
   Hathcar was counting on to draw me out. They would have
   succeeded with their plan except for ignorance of one
   fact."
   "Wot fact, mate?" Mudge asked.
   Drom turned to look back at the otter. "I'm gay." He
   increased his pace.
   "Uh, 'ere now, mate, maybe we'd all be better off
   walkin' after all."
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   Man Dean Foster
   THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
   247
   "Nonsense. We are still not far enough away from
   Hathcar's troop to chance slowing down."
   "That's debatable. Besides, there's no need for you to
   keep on carryin' us about like this. Don't want to make
   you uncomfortable or nothin'."
   "It sounds to me as though you are the one who is
   feeling uneasy, otter."
   "Wot, me? Not me, guv'nor. It's just that I—"
   "What's wrong with you, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked
   him. "I thought you'd be glad of the chance to rest your
   precious feet."
   "Relax, otter," the stallion said. "You are not my type.
   Now if you happened to be a Percheron, or a Clydesdale,
   or maybe a shire..." He let the images trail off.
   "If you have to worry about something, think about
   Hathcar," Jon-Tom instructed the otter.
   Mudge did so, though he still kept a wary eye on their
   mount. Later, his confusion was broken by the sound of
   distant thunder. Or perhaps it was only a bellow of
   outrage.
   Silky's parents kept the money already paid to them by
   Hathcar, and as Jon-Tom surmised, the cuscus did not try
   to take it back by force from the heavily defended town.
   There seemed no way for him to vent his rage and
   frustration until it occurred to him that since the girl had
   truly done her best, if anything she actually deserved a
   bonus.
   So it was that while Silky did not get her much-desired
   candy, she was the only girl in the village who could look
   forward to the coming winter confidently, clad as she was
   in her brand-new wolfskin coat.
   The travelers stopped in late afternoon. The roast that
   Mudge had risked his life to salvage was almost gone, but
   Roseroar soon brought in enough fresh food for all. Drom
   nibbled contentedly at a nearby field of petal pedals. Each
   blue-and-pink flower produced a different musical note
   when it was munched.
   Mudge ate close to Jon-Tom. "Don't it bother you,
   mate?"
   "Don't... doesn't what bother me?"
   The otter nodded toward the unicorn. " 'Im."
   Jon-Tom bit into his steak. The meat was succulent and
   rich with flavor. "He saved us once and might save us
   again. As for his personal sexual preferences, I could care
   less. He'd be downright inconspicuous on Hollywood
   Boulevard."
   "Well, maybe you're right. Now, me, I knew it from
   the first. The way 'e minced out of the woods toward us."
   Drom overheard, lifted his muzzle, and said with digni-
   ty, "I do not mince, otter. I prance." He looked at
   Jon-Tom. "You really believe your former acquaintances
   will beat you to Crancularn and to the medicine you have
   come for?"
   "I hope not, but I fear it. They stole our only map."
   "That is a small loss. Do not regret it." The unicorn
   crunched a clump of purple ortnods with petals the shade
   . of enameled amethyst. The flowers hummed as they were
   consumed. "I can guide you there."
   "We were told it moves around."
   "Only in one's imagination. There are those who stum-
   ble through it without seeing it, or circle 'round it as if
   blind. So they say it has moved. It does not move, but to
   find it you must wish to. I know. I was told by those who
   could know. I will lead you to Crancularn."
   "That's bleedin' wonderful," Mudge confessed aloud.
   He was mad at himself. There was no reason for him to be
   nervous or wary in the unicorn's presence. Drom was a
   likable chap, wasn't he, and Mudge didn't look in the least
   like a shire horse, did he? And hadn't he always been told
   never to look a gift unicorn in the mouth? He was upset
   with himself.
   Hadn't the four-legs carried himself and Jon-Tom all this
   way from Hathcar's territory without complaining? Why,
   with him galloping along and the rest of them taking turns
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   Alan Dean Poster
   riding him, they might yet overtake that prick Jalwar and
   his whore of a helpmate Folly.
   They made rapid progress westward, but still there was
   no sign of their former friends.
   When they finally found themselves on the outskirts of
   Crancularn itself, Jon-Tom found it hard to believe. He'd
   half come to think of the town as existing only in
   Clothahump's imagination. Yet there it was.
   Yes, there it was, and after too many close calls with
   death, after crossing the Muddletup Moors and the Glittergeist
   Sea and innumerable hills and vales, he was more than a
   little discouraged by the sight of it.
   The setting was impressive enough: a heavily forested
   slope that climbed the flank of a slowly smoking volcano.
   The town itself, however, was about as awe-inspiring as
   dirty, homey Lynchbany. Tumble-down shacks and ram-
   shackle two-and three-story buildings of wood and mud
   crowded close to one another as if fearful of encountering the
   sunlight. A dirty fog clung to the streets and the angular,
   slate-roofed structures. As they headed toward the town, a
   familiar odor made his nostrils contract: the thick musk of
   the unwashed of many species mixed with the stink of an
   open sewer system. His initial excitement was rapidly
   fading.
   Massive oaks and sycamores grew within the town
   itself, providing more shade where none was required and
   sometimes even shouldering buildings aside. Jon-Tom was
   about to ask Drom if perhaps they might have come to the
   wrong place when the unicorn reared back on its hind
   hooves and nearly dumped him and Mudge to the ground.
   Roseroar snarled as she assumed a defensive posture.
   Coming straight at them, belching smoke and bellowing
   raggedly, was a three-footed demon. A rabbit rode the
   demon's back. This individual wore a wide-brimmed felt
   hat; a long-sleeved shirt of muslin, open halfway; and a
   short mauve skirt similar to the kilts favored by the
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   249
   intelligent arboreals of this world. His enormous feet were
   unshod.
   The demon slowed as it approached. Jon-Tom drew in a
   deep breath as it stopped in front of him and hastened to
   reassure his companions. "It's all right. It can't harm
   you."
   "How do yo know, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar kept her hands
   on her sword hilts.
   "Because I know what it is. It's a Honda ATC Offroad
   Three-wheeler." He admired the red-painted demon. "Au-
   tomatic too. I didn't know Honda made an ATC with
   automatic."
   "Funny name for a demon," Mudge was muttering.
   "Hiya," said the rabbit cheerfully, revving the engine.
   "Can I help you folks?"
   "You sure can." Jon-Tom pointed at the ATC. "Where'd
   you get that?"
   The rider raced the motor and Drom shied away. "From
   the Shop of the Aether and Neither. Where else?"
   Jon-Tom felt a burst of excitement. Maybe Clothahump
   was right. The inexplicable presence of the ATC in this
   world was proof enough that powerful magic was at work
   here.
   "That's where we want to go."
   "Figures," said the rabbit. "Nice of you to drop in. We
   don't get a lot of visitors here in Crancularn. For some
   reason, travelers avoid us."
   "Might be your wonderful reputation," Mudge told
   him.
   The rabbit eyed them appraisingly. "Strangers. Don't
   know if Snooth will serve you. She don't get much
   business from outsiders." He shrugged. "Ain't none of my
   business, your business."
   "Who's Snooth?" Jon-Tom asked him.
   "The proprietress. Of the Shop of the Aether and
   Neither." He looked back over his shoulder, pointed. "Go
   through town and stay on the north trail that winds around
   25O
   Alan Dean Poster
   the base of the mountain. Snooth's place is around the side
   a ways." He turned back to inspect them a last time.
   "You're a weird-looking bunch. I don't know what
   you've come to buy, but you'll need all the luck you can
   muster to pry anything out of Snooth's stock. And no, you
   can't have one of my feet to help you." He put the
   all-terrain vehicle in gear and roared off into the woods,
   the ATC popping and growling.
   "I still say it were a demon," Mudge muttered.
   "No demon, just a machine. From my world."
   "Ah'd dislike being a resident o' yoah world, then, Jon-
   Tom." Roseroar made a face. "Such noise. And that
   smell!"
   It had to have been conjured, Jon-Tom knew. Conjured
   by a magic even more powerful than Clothahump's. His
   heart raced. If this Snooth could bring something as solid
   as the ATC into this world, something lifted from a
   dealership in Kyoto or L.A. or Toronto, then perhaps she
   could also send things back to such places.
   Things like himself.
   He didn't dare dwell on that possibility as they made
   their way through town. For the most part, the busy, bored
   citizenry ignored them. Many of them were using or
   playing with otherworldly devices. Jon-Tom began to have
   second thoughts about his chances of being sent home.
   Maybe this Snooth was no sorceress but just some local
   shopkeeper who happened to have stumbled onto some
   kind of one-way transdimensional gate or something.
   Mudge pointed out a traveling minstrel. The diminutive
   musical mouse was plinking out a very respectable polka
   not on a duar or handlebar lyre or bark flute but on a
   Casiotone 8500 electronic keyboard. Jon-Tom wondered
   what the mouse was using for batteries.
   Not all the devices in use were recognizably from his
   own world. The sign over a fishmonger's stall was a
   rotating globe of red and white lambent light that spelled
   out the shop's name and alternated it with that of the
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   251
   owner. There appeared to be nothing supporting the globe.
   As they stared, the globe twisted into the shape of a fish,
   then into the outlines of females of various species in
   provocative poses. Sex sells, Jon-Tom reminded himself.
   Even fish. He walked over to stand directly underneath the
   globe. There was no source of support or power, much less
   a visible explanation for its photonic malleability. One
   thing he was sure of: it hadn't come from his own world.
   Neither had the device they saw an old mandrill using to
   cut wood. It had a handle similar to that of a normal metal
   saw, but instead of a length of serrated steel the handle was
   attached to a shiny bar no more than a quarter-inch in
   diameter. The baboon would hitch up his gloves, choose a
   piece of wood, put both hands on the handle and touch the
   thin bar to the log. It would cut through like butter.
   There were other worlds, then, and this Snooth appar-
   ently had access to goods from many of them. As they
   made their way through the town, he thought back to his
   companion's reaction to the ATC. To someone unfamiliar
   with internal combustion devices on a world where magic
   held sway, it certainly must have looked and sounded like
   a demon. Crancularn was full of such alien machines. No
   wonder it had acquired an unwholesome reputation.
   But the townsfolk themselves were open and friendly
   enough. In that they were no different from the inhabitants
   of the other cities and villages Jon-Tom had visited. As for
   their blase" acceptance of otherworldly devices, there was
   nothing very extraordinary about that. People, no matter
   their shape or size or species, were infinitely adaptable.
   Only a hundred years ago in his own world, a hand-held
   television or calculator watch would have seemed like
   magic even to sophisticated citizens, who nonetheless
   would have made use of them enthusiastically.
   For that matter, how many of his contemporaries actual-
   ly understood what made a computer tick or instant replay
   possible? People had a way of just accepting the workings of
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   Alan Dean Foster
   everyday machinery they didn't understand, whether it was
   powered by alkaline batteries or arcane spells.
   Then they were leaving the town again, fog drifting lazily
   around them. They had attracted no more than an occa-
   sional cursory glance from the villagers. Huge trees hugged
   the fertile lower slopes of the volcano, which simmered
   quietly and unthreateningly above them.
   Inquiries in town had produced no mention of visitors
   resembling Jalwar or Folly. Either the two had lost their
   way or else with Drom's aid they had already passed the
   renegade pair in the woods. Jon-Tom experienced a pang of
   regret. He still wasn't completely convinced of Folly's
   complicity in the theft of the map.
   No time for that now. The rabbit on the ATC implied
   they might have trouble purchasing what they wanted from
   this Snooth. Jon-Tom struggled to compose a suitably ef-
   fective speech. AH they needed was a little bit of medicine.
   Nothing so complex as a malleable globe or toothless saw.
   His hand went to the tiny vial dangling from the chain
   around his neck. Inside was the formula for the desperately
   needed medicine. He hadn't brought it this far to be turned
   away empty-handed.
   There was no sign, no posted proclamations to advertise
   the shop's presence. They turned around a cluster of oaks,
   and there it was, a simple wooden building, one story
   high. It was built up against the rocks. A single wooden
   door was set square in the center of the storefront, which
   was shaded by a broad, covered porch.
   A couple of high-backed rocking chairs sat on the
   porch, unoccupied. Wooden shingles in need of repair
   covered the sloping roof that likewise ran up into the
   rocks. Jon-Tom estimated the entire building enclosed no
   more than a thousand square feet of space. Hardly large
   enough for store and home combined.
   As they drew close, a figure emerged from inside and
   settled into the farther rocking chair. The chair creaked as
   it rocked. The tall kangaroo wore a red satin vest which
   THE DAY op THE DISSONANCE
   253
   blended with her own natural rust color and, below, a kilt
   similar in style to the rabbit's. There were pockets and a
   particularly wide one directly in front to permit the owner
   access to her pouch. Jon-Tom stared at the lower belly but
   was unable to tell if the female was carrying a joey, though
   once he thought he saw something move. But he couldn't
   be sure, and since he was ignorant of macropodian eti-
   quette, he thought it best not to inquire.
   She also wore thick hexagonal granny glasses and a
   heavy necklace of turquoise, black onyx, and malachite. A
   matching bracelet decorated her right wrist, and she puffed
   slowly on a corncob pipe which was switched periodically
   from one side of her mouth to the other.
   He halted at the bottom of the porch steps, "Are you the
   one they call Snooth?"
   "I expect I am," the kangaroo replied, "since I'm the
   only one around here by that name." She took her pipe
   from her lips and regarded them thoughtfully. "You folks
   aren't from around here. What can I do for you?"
   "We've undertaken one hell of a shopping trip," Jon-
   Tom told her.
   She sighed. "I was afraid of that. Just when I got
   myself all nice and comfortable. Well, that's par for the
   course."
   Jon-Tom's eyes grew wide. "That's an expression of
   my world."
   "Is it? I traffic with so many I sometimes get confused.
   Sure as the gleebs are on the fondike."
   Jon-Tom decided to tread as lightly as possible, bearing
   the rabbit's admonition in mind. "We don't want to
   disturb you. We could come back tomorrow." He tried to
   see past her, into the store. "You haven't by any chance
   had a couple of other out-of-town customers in recently,
   have you? An old ferret, maybe accompanied by a human
   female?" He held his breath.
   The kangaroo scratched under her chin with her free
   hand. "Nope. No one of that description. In fact, I haven't
   r
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   Alan Dean Foster
   had any local out-of-town customers stop by in some
   time."
   Forbearing to inquire into the nature of a local out-of-
   towner, which seemed to Jon-Tom to be a contradiction in
   terms, he permitted himself a moment of silent exultation.
   They'd done it! With Drom's help they'd succeeded in
   beating Jalwar to Crancularn. Now he could relax. The
   object of their long, arduous journey was almost in his
   grasp.
   He turned to leave. "We don't want to upset your siesta.
   We'll come back tomorrow."
   A small brown shape pushed past him. Mudge took
   up an aggressive stance on the lowest step. "Now let's
   'old on a minim 'ere, guv'nor." The otter fixed the
   proprietress with a jaundiced eye. "This 'ere dump is
   the place I've been 'earin' about for weeks? This
   cobbled-together wreck is the marvelous, the wondrous,
   the magnificent Shop o' the Aether and Neither? And
   you're the owner?"
   The kangaroo nodded.
   "Well," announced Mudge in disgust, "it sure as 'ell
   don't look like much to me."
   "Mudge!" Jon-Tom angrily grabbed the otter by his
   shoulder.
   The kangaroo, however, did not appear upset. "Ap-
   pearances can be deceiving, my fuzzy little cousin." She
   turned to face Jon-Tom as she stood on enormous, power-
   ful feet. She was as tall as he was. The rickety porch
   boards squeaked under her weight.
   "I can tell just by looking at you that you've come a
   long ways to do your shopping. Except for the Crancularni-
   ans, most of my customers travel far to buy from me,
   some by means most devious. Some I sell to, others I do
   not." She turned and pointed toward a thin scrawl on a
   worn piece of wood that was nailed over the doorway. The
   sign said:
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE     255
   WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYTHING
   "It's not for ourselves that we come seeking your
   help," Jon-Tom told her. "We're here at the behest of a
   great wizard who lives in the forest of the Bellwoods, far
   across the Glittergeist Sea. His name's Clothahump."
   "Clothahump." Eyes squinted in reflection behind the
   granny glasses. She put out a hand, palm facing down-
   ward, and positioned it some four feet above the porch.
   "Turtle, old gentleman, about yea high?"
   Jon-Tom nodded vigorously. "That's him. You've met
   him?"
   "Nope. But I know of him by reputation. As wizard's
   go, he's up near the top." This revelation impressed even
   the skeptical Mudge, who'd always thought of Ciothahump
   as no better than a talented fakir verging on senility who
   just happened to get lucky once in a while. "What's
   wrong with him?"
   Jon-Tom fumbled with the vial around his neck, removed
   the small piece of paper from within. "He says he's dying,
   and he's in terrible pain. He says this can cure him."
   Snooth took the fragment, adjusted her glasses, and read.
   Her lips moved as she digested the paper's information. "Yes,
   yes...I believe I have this in stock." She glanced back at
   Jen-Tom. "Your devotion to your mentor does you credit."
   Which made him feel more than a little guilty, since the
   main reason he'd undertaken the journey was to protect his
   only chance of returning home by ensuring Clothahump's
   continued good health.
   "You overpraise my altruism."
   "I think not." She stared at him in the most peculiar
   fashion. "You are better than you give yourself credit for.
   That is why you would make a good adjudicator. Your
   good instincts outweigh your common sense."
   For the second time since arriving at the store Jon-Tom's
   eyes widened. "How did you know that I was studying to
   be a lawyer?"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Lucky guess," said Snooth absently, dismissing the
   matter despite Jon-Tom's desire to pursue it further. She
   held out the paper with the formula written on it. "May I
   hold on to this?"
   Jon-Tom shrugged. "Why not? It's the medicine we
   need."
   Snooth tucked the paper neatly into her pouch. Again
   Jon-Tom thought he saw something moving about within.
   If Snooth was carrying a joey, it was evidently either too
   immature or too shy to show itself.
   "Come on in." She turned and pushed wide the door.
   Her visitors mounted the steps and crossed the porch.
   The front room of the building was furnished in simple
   kaleidoscopic style. To one side was another rocking chair,
   only instead of being fashioned of wood it was composed
   of transparent soap bubbles clinging to a thin metal frame.
   The bubbles were moving in slow motion and looked fragile
   and ready to burst.
   "Surely you don't sit in that?" Roseroar said.
   "Wouldn't be much use for anything else. Like to try
   it?"
   "Ah couldn't," the tigress protested. "Ah'd bust it as
   well as mah tail end."
   -   "Maybe not," said the kangaroo with quiet confidence.
   Reluctantly, Roseroar accepted the challenge, turning to
   set herself gently into the chair. The soap bubbles gave
   under her weight but did not break, nor did the thin metal
   frame. And the bubbles kept moving, massaging the chair's
   new occupant with a gentle sliding motion. A rich throbbing
   purr filled the room.
   "How much?" Roseroar inquired.
   "Sorry. That's a demo model. Not for sale."
   "Come on, Roseroar," Jon-Tom told her. "That's not
   what we came for." She abandoned the caressing chair
   sadly.
   As they crossed the room, Jon-Tom had time to notice a
   circular recording device, a heatless stove, and a number
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   257
   of utterly alien machines scattered among the familiar.
   Snooth led them through another doorway barred by opaque
   ceramic strips that hung in midair and into a back store
   room filled with broken, jumbled goods. A bathroom was
   visible off to the left.
   A second suspended curtain admitted them to the store.
   Jon-Tom's brain went blank. He heard Roseroar hiss
   next to him and even the always voluble Mudge was at a
   loss for words. Drom inhaled sharply in surprise.
   As near as they could tell, the shop filled the whole
   inside of the mountain.
   XV
   Ahead of them was an aisle flanked by long metal shelves.
   The multiple shelving rose halfway to the forty-foot-high
   ceiling and was crammed with boxed, crated, and clear-
   packaged goods. Jon-Tom saw only a few empty slots. The
   shelving and the aisle between ran away into the distance
   until all three seemed to meet at some distant vanishing
   point.
   He turned and stared to his left. Shelves and aisles
   marched off into the distance as far as he could see. He
   looked right and saw a mirror image of the view on his left.
   "I never dreamed..." he began, only to be interrupted
   by the proprietress.
   "Oh, but you have dreamed, shopper. Everyone dreams."
   She gestured with a negligent wave. "There are a lot of
   worlds in the plenum. Some produce a lot of goods for
   sale, others only a few. I try to keep up with what the major
   dimensions are doing. It isn't an easy job, being a shopkeeper.
   There's one place where time runs backwards. Plays hell
   with my inventory."
   Jon-Tom continued to gape at the endless rows. "How
   258
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   259
   do you know what you've got here, let alone where it's
   located?"
   "Oh, we're very up-to-date in the store." From a side
   pocket she extracted a length of bright blue metal six
   inches long and two and half an inches thick. A transparent
   facing ran the length of it. There were no buttons or
   switches visible.
   "Pocket computer." She showed it to Jon-Tom. As he
   watched, words scrolled rapidly across the face. Lan-
   guages and script changed as he stared. Twice Snooth
   turned it vertically and the words scrolled from top to
   bottom. Several times they reversed and traveled from
   right to left. Once there were no letters at all, only colors
   changing in sequence. Once there was only music.
   "Thought-activated. Handy little gadget. Bought it from
   a place whose location can't be determined, only inferred.
   Very talented folks there. See?"
   A chemical formula appeared on the transparent facing
   and froze in position. A long numerical sequence appeared
   below it.
   "Down this way." Snooth hopped off to her left, even-
   tually turned down an aisle.
   Roseroar stared at the endless ranks of goods. "How
   many shelves do y'all have down heah?"
   "Can't really say," the kangaroo replied. "It changes
   all the time."
   "You run this whole place by yourself?" Jon-Tom asked her.
   She nodded. "You get used to it. I like stockwork, and
   the perks are good."
   "How far is the medicine?"
   "Not far. Only about half a day's hop. Any longer and
   I'd have paused to pack us a meal or dig out a scooter."
   "Is that anything like the Honda ATC we saw one of
   your customers riding around outside of town?"
   "That'd be Foharfa's toy. He's going to break his neck
   on that thing one of these days. No, a scooter's just an
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   Alan Dean Poster
   inertialess disc. You guide it by sensing your relationship
   to the local planetary magnetic field."
   Jon-Tom swallowed. "I'm afraid I don't have a license
   to drive anything like that."
   "No matter. I'm enjoying the walk."
   "Can we buy one to get us 'ome, maybe?" Mudge
   asked hopefully.
   "Sorry. I've none in general stock. Besides, I make it a
   rule not to let certain goods travel beyond Crancularn. The
   world's a complicated enough place as it is. You can
   overtechnologize magic if you're not careful."
   "Looks like your business is rather slow," observed
   Drom.
   Snooth shrugged in mid-hop. "I'm not looking to get
   rich, unicorn. I just like the business, that's all. Besides,
   it's a good way to keep up with what's going on in the
   greater cosmos. Goods are better than gossip and more
   honest reflections of what's happening elsewhere than
   official news pronouncements and zeeways."
   "Must be 'ard on profits," Mudge commented.
   "That depends on what kind of profit you're trying to
   make, otter."
   Jon-Tom eyed the kangaroo uneasily. "That's a funny
   thing for a shopkeeper to say. Are you sure you aren't
   some kind of sorceress yourself?"
   "Who, me?" Snooth appeared genuinely shocked. "Not
   I, sir. Too many responsibilities, too many regulations
   attached to the profession. I prefer my present employ-
   ment, thank you. And the cost-of-living in Crancularn is
   low." A pause, then, "What about this ferret and girl you
   referred to earlier?"
   "They were traveling with us," Jon-Tom explained.
   "We had an unfortunate parting of the ways."
   "Unfortunate, 'ell!" Mudge rumbled. "The dirty bug-
   gers stole our map, they did, and it were only by dint o'
   good luck and this spellsinger's determination and this
   one-horn's knowledge o' the lay o' the land that we ...!"
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   261
   Snooth interrupted him, smiling at Jon-Tom. "So you
   are a spellsinger? I noticed the duar you carry right off, but
   I imagined you to be no more than a traveling musician."
   "I'm still an amateur," Jon-Tom confessed. "I'm still
   learning how to control my abilities."
   "I think one day you will, though I sense you still have
   along way logo."
   "It's just that it's so new to me. The magic, not the
   music. Everything's so new to me. I'm not of this world."
   "I know. You smell of elsewhere. Do not let your
   transposition faze you. Newness is life's greatest pleasure
   and delight." She indicated the shelves wailing them in.
   "Every new product I encounter is a source of wonder-
   ment to me."
   "1 wish I could share your enthusiasm. But I can't help
   my homesickness. You can't, by any chance, send me
   home by the same means you use to stock your goods?"
   he asked hopefully.
   "I am truly sorry," Snooth told him softly, and it struck
   him that she was. "This is only a receive-and-disperse
   operation. I can only ship products, not people."
   Jon-Tom slumped. "Well, it's no more than what I
   expected. Clothahump said as much."
   "You must tell me about your travels. Oddly, I know
   more about many other worlds than about this one. The
   result of being tied to my business."
   So partly to please her and partly to help relieve his own
   disappointment, Jon-Tom regaled her with a recitation of
   the adventures they had experienced during their long
   journey. It took at least the half day Snooth had claimed
   before she finally called the march to a halt. Jon-Tom
   looked down the aisle. They stili were not in sight of its
   end.
   Strange medications filled bottles and jars and contain-
   ers of unfamiliar material. The twenty-foot-high shelves
   they had halted before represented a cosmological phar-
   macopia. Jon-Tom made out pills and drops, salves and
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   Alan Dean Foster
   unguents, bandages and bindings, scattered among less
   recognizable items.
   Snooth regarded the shelving for a moment, consulted
   her blue metal bar, and hopped a few yards farther down
   the aisle. Then she climbed one of the motorized ladders
   that ran from the topmost shelf to tracks cut in the stone
   floor and ascended the shelving halfway.
   "Here we are," she said, sounding gratified. She opened
   an ordinary cardboard box and removed a small plastic
   container. "Only one. I'll have to restock this item. I don't
   have the room to keep more than one of any item on the
   shelves. There are instructions on the side which I presume
   your wizard will know how to interpret."
   "I'm sure he will," Jon-Tom said, reaching relievedly
   for the container.
   "Stop right there, please."
   Jon-Tom whirled. Roseroar growled and reached for her
   swords as Mudge tried to ready his longbow.
   "Don't!"
   A figure emerged from behind a translucent crate
   containing frozen flowers and came toward them. In his
   hands Jalwar held something resembling a multiple cross-
   bow. At least three dozen lethal-looking little darts were
   clustered in concentric circles at the tip of the weapon.
   "Poison. Enough to kill all of you at once. Even you,
   mistress of long teeth." Roseroar continued to glower at
   the new arrival, but let her paws fall slowly from the hilts
   of her swords.
   "A wise decision," Jalwar told her.
   Jon-Tom was staring past him. "Folly. Where's Folly?"
   When the ferret did not immediately reply, Jon-Tom felt a
   surge of excitement despite the precariousness of the
   situation. "So she didn't go with you voluntarily, did
   she!"
   "No." Jalwar made the admission indifferently. "But
   she came, and that was all I required. I needed assistance
   in hauling rudimentary supplies, and she struck me as the
   THE DAY or THE DISSOJKAJVCE
   263
   easiest of all of you to manipulate. As a beast of burden
   she proved adequate." He smiled thinly, enjoying himself.
   "Then, too, the destruction of innocence has always appealed
   to me, and she still had a little left."
   Jon-Tom struggled to restrain himself. He didn't for a
   second doubt the lethality of those multiple darts or Jalwar's
   willingness to employ them.
   "Where is she? What have you done with her?"
   "In good time I will tell you, my impetuous blind
   friend." The ferret cocked an eye toward Snooth. "So that
   is the precious medicine our friend Clothahump requires so
   desperately. How interesting. I suddenly feel the need for
   some medication myself. You, proprietress! I'll take that
   container, if you don't mind."
   "Take a 'elluva lot more than that to cure wot ails you,
   mate," said Mudge insultingly.
   "You think so, do you? Yet I am not so sick that I have
   failed to outwit you all. I did not think you would make it
   here without the map, and in my confidence I slowed my
   approach. I thought in any event that with the aid of my
   help I would always know your location. Indeed, without
   that help I would not have been able to rush in close on
   your heels and track your progress within this place from
   two aisles over."
   "What help?" Jon-Tom asked warily.
   "Now, be that the right tone with which to greet an old
   comrade, man?" said a voice Jon-Tom had hoped never to
   hear again. He turned to his right.
   "Corroboc."
   The parrot executed a half bow. ' 'It be right good of you
   to remember me name. That singing magic you worked on
   me ship, that be my fault for not guessing you had more
   than entertainment for old Corroboc in mind. But I'm not
   the one to dwell on old regrets. No, not I, even though me
   worthless crew chose a new captain and set me adrift
   barely within flying range o' the mainland.
   "There I found your strange boat and picked up your
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   Alan Dean Foster
   trail. I knew o' your aims and thought somehow to follow
   until 1 found a way o' repayin' you all for your kindnesses
   to me. In the forest I saw two of you leave from the rest."
   He nodded toward Jalwar.
   "When I saw the respect with which he were treatin' me
   old friend Folly, I thought to meself, now here be one after
   me own heart. So I settled down for a chat, and after an
   exchange of pleasantries me and the good ferret here, we
   came to an understandin', har."
   "That bird will cut out our hearts and dance on them,"
   Roseroar whispered to Jon-Tom. "We might as well rush
   them now."
   "Steady on, you oversized bit o' fluff," Mudge warned
   her. "All the cards 'aven't been dealt yet, wot?"
   "Whisper all you want," snapped Jalwar. "It will avail
   you naught."
   Corroboc pulled a short, thin sword from the flying
   scabbard slung at his waist. Holes in the blade made it
   light and strong. He caressed the flat side of the blade
   lovingly.
   "Many days have I had to anticipate the pleasures of our
   reunion. I beg you not to provoke me new friend lest he
   put an end to you all too quick. I want our meeting to be a
   memorable experience for all. Aye, memorable! You see,
   I've no ship, no crew anymore. All I have left to me be
   this moment, which I don't want to hurry."
   Realization rushed in on Jon-Tom as he turned on
   Jalwar. "You work for Zancresta, don't you? You've been
   working for Zancresta from the first! Running into you on
   the northern shore of the Glittergeist was no coincidence.
   Those brigands weren't attacking you. It was all a ploy to
   let you worm yourself into our company."
   "An apt metaphor, Jon-Tom," said Roseroar.
   "Tell me something," Jon-Tom went on quietly. "How
   much is Zancresta paying you to keep this medicine from
   Clothahump?"
   The ferret burst out laughing, though the business end of
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   265
   the strange weapon he held did not waver. "Paying me?
   You idiots! Spellsinger? Pah! / am Zancresta! Wizard of
   Malderpot, supreme master of the arcane arts, diviner of
   the unknown and parter of the shrouds! Fools, beggars of a
   humble knowledge, you are blinder than the troglodytes of
   Tatrath and dumber than the molds that grub out an
   existence in the cracks between the stones."
   The ferret seemed to swell in their eyes as they stared,
   though neither his size nor shape actually changed. But the
   curved spine stiffened, the voice was no longer shaky, and
   an inner unholy light emanated from suddenly bottomless
   eyes while a barely perceptible dark aura sprang to malev-
   olent life around him.
   "I didn't think you'd get this far, none of you! But
   where a spellsinger, however inept, is involved, there are
   never any assurances. So when you escaped from Malderpot
   and my servants lost you in the woods, I determined to
   find you myself. Your bold and unforeseen move into the
   Muddletup Moors confused me, I must admit. But only for
   a time, and I was just able to intercept you on the shores of
   the Glittergeist and execute my little charade.
   "I did not think I would be with you long, but luck and
   false fortune seemed to follow you wherever you went.
   Across the ocean, on this kindred spirit's vessel, even into
   the land of the bellicose enchanted folk. When you not
   only managed your release from their hands but induced
   them to assist you with a map, I determined to press on
   ahead on my own to seek out this Shop of the Aether and
   Neither and buy up all the necessary medicine before you
   could arrive.
   "And again you surprised me, not out of cleverness or
   insight, but through blind luck. So Corroboc and I paral-
   leled your progress through this bloated emporium of
   useless goods, he flying above to check periodically on
   your position, until you kindly located the object of the
   quest for me. Which I will now take possession of." He
   glanced up at Snooth.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "I do not think she has in hand a device or medicine
   that can save her from the fast-acting effects of hruth
   venom. Once that container has been handed over I will
   relieve you of your weapons and leave you to the tender
   attentions of my patient friend. Perhaps he will grow bored
   before all of you are dead." Corroboc made neat, thin
   slices in one of his own feathers with the razor-sharp
   sword while Zancresta looked suddenly wistful.
   "Ah, the day that I stand at that fat fraud's bedside,
   holding the precious medicine he so desperately requires
   just beyond his feeble reach, making him plead and beg
   for it, that will be a day of triumph indeed."
   "What have you done with Folly!"
   Zancresta came back from his private reverie. "Ah, my
   pack animal and my insurance. I have never feared you,
   spellsinger, but your talents act in ways wayward and
   unpredictable. Sometimes it is awkward to deal with such
   implausibilities, and I do worry some on the impetuous
   nature of your companions.
   "Knowing of your insipidly tender nature, I took care to
   keep the girl tightly under my control, lest she foolishly try
   to run to you for misguided salvation."
   "You hypnotized her?"
   "I am unfamiliar with the term, but if you mean did I
   blur her simple mind in order to make her compliant, yes.
   I no longer have need of her as crude labor or as insurance
   against your actions, however." He pointed down the
   aisle.
   "These shelves reach far back into the mountain, which
   you may have noticed is of volcanic origin. I would
   presume that each aisle ends in a fairly hot place. Perhaps
   the proprietress stores goods back there that require con-
   stant heat. Being of a warm nature myself, I dismissed the
   girl and bid her wander down to the end of the aisle. She
   acquired on Corroboc's ship a dark coloration which I
   venture to say will change rapidly to red as she stumbles
   into the hot center of this mountain."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   267
   Jon-Tom took a step backward and Zancresta raised his
   peculiar multiple dart-thrower. "Let her go. She is nothing."
   There was a flash of gold from behind Roseroar. Again
   Zancresta raised the weapon, but a feathery hand came
   down on his arm.
   "Nay, let the horned one go," snarled Corroboc. "I've
   no real quarrel with him. He won't be in time to save the
   girl and I want these three left alive and conscious." He
   started toward the ladder, sword in one hand, the other
   outstretched toward Snooth. "The medicine, if you please,
   hag."
   "As you wish."
   "No!" Jon-Tom shouted. "Don't give it to him!"
   The kangaroo's reply was firm. "I am not a party to
   what is a private quarrel. This is between you and him."
   She handed over the precious container. "Here, catch." At
   the last instant she tossed it toward the pirate captain.
   Corroboc grabbed for the small plastic cylinder and
   missed. It struck the floor, vaporizing instantly and spitting
   out a thick cloud of black smoke.
   Jon-Tom threw himself sideways and down. The dart-
   thrower twanged and something struck his boot while
   others thunked harmlessly into the back of his thick snake-
   skin cape. He heard no screams of pain and prayed that his
   friends had also managed to dodge Zancresta's weapon.
   He started to rise, preparing to do battle with his staff,
   when it occurred to him that in a hand-to-hand fight
   Roseroar's swords and Mudge's bow would be more effec-
   tive, and that, in any case, they had a sorcerer to deal with
   now. So he put the ramwood aside and fumbled with the
   duar. An old Moody Blues tune came to mind, suitable for
   combating evil. He played and sang.
   It had its intended effect. As the smoke began to
   dissipate he could hear the ferret moan, see him staggering
   backwards clutching at his head.
   But Zancresta was not to be so simply vanquished.
   268
   Alan Dean Poster
   Gathering his strength, he glared at Jon-Tom and began to
   recite:
   "Nails of rails and coils of toil,
   Come to me now, rise to a boil,
   Become with strength my herpetological foil!"
   The sorcerer's fingers stretched, elongated, became pow-
   erful constrictors that writhed and curled toward Jon-Tom.
   Whether it was out of fear for Folly or for himself or
   sheer anger, he couldn't say, but now the music flowed
   easily through him. Without missing a bar he segued straight
   into a slithering song by Jefferson Airplane. The snakes
   shriveled and shrank to become ferret fingers once more.
   A second time Zancresta threw out his hands toward
   Jon-Tom.
   "Xyleum, phylum, cellulose constrained,
   Hypoblastic hardwood rise up now unrestrained.
   Chlorophyllic transformation make thyself known.
   Long and strong and sharp and straight
   And solid as a stone!"
   The wooden stake that materialized to leap at Jon-Tom's
   chest was the size of a small tree. A few branches erupted
   from its trunk, and it continued to grow even as it flew
   toward him, sending out roots and leaves. He barely had
   time enough to switch to a throaty rendition of Def
   Lepard's "Pyromania."
   The huge, growing spear blew up in a ball of fire. The
   force of it knocked Zancresta backward to the floor.
   It gave Jon-Tom a moment to check on his companions.
   They were unhurt, but there was plenty of blood on the
   floor of the aisle. It all came from the same source, and
   was sticky with green and blue feathers. A beaked skull
   lay sightless in one place, a leg elsewhere, a pair of wings
   on a half-empty shelf. More blood stained Roseroar's
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   269
   muzzle and claws. Her swords were still sheathed and
   clean. She hadn't needed to use them, having dismembered
   Corroboc as neatly as Jon-Tom would have a fried chicken.
   Mudge stepped forward to fire a single arrow at Zancresta.
   The sorcerer raised a hand, uttered one contemptuous
   word. The arrow turned rotten before it crumpled against
   the ferret's hip. Meanwhile Jon-Tom wondered and wor-
   ried about Folly. If only Drom had time enough to reach
   her before ...!
   Sensing his opponent's lapse of concentration, Zancresta
   waved a hand over his head and declaimed stentoriously. A
   small black cloud appeared in the air between them.
   Thunder rolled ominously.
   Jon-Tom barely had the presence of mind to shout the
   right words from Procol Harum's "In Held I Was" and
   hold up the duar in front of him in time to intercept the
   single bolt of lightning that emerged from the cloud. The
   instrument absorbed the bolt, though the impact sent him
   stumbling. The cloud disintegrated.
   Now, for the first time, there was a hint of fear in
   Zancresta's eyes. Fear, but not surrender. Not yet. He
   stood staring at his opponent, making no effort to draw his
   torn and ragged clothes tighter about him.
   "Not accident, then," he muttered as he stood there.
   "Not just luck. I worried about that, but in the end gave it
   little credence. Now I see that I was wrong. You think
   you've won, don't you? You think you've beaten me?" He
   looked up at the ladder. Snooth stood on it holding the
   original container of medicine. Zancresta had been so busy
   watching Jon-Tom that he hadn't seen the proprietress
   switch it for the smoke bomb.
   "You all think you've beaten me. Well, you haven't.
   Not Zancresta, you haven't. Because you see, I came
   prepared to deal with every possibility, no matter how
   remote or unlikely. Yes, I even came prepared to deal with
   the chance that this stripling spellsinger might possess
   some small smidgen of talent."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Go ahead and try something." Jon-Tom felt ten feet
   tall. He could feel the power surging inside him, could feel
   the music fighting to get out. His fingers tingled and the
   duar was like a third arm. He was riding high, on the same
   kind of high the stars got when they sang in front of
   thousands in the big halls and arenas. He stopped just short
   of levitating.
   "Come on, Zancresta," he taunted the sorcerer, "trot
   out anything you can think of, bring forth all your nasti-
   ness! I've got a song for every one of 'em, and when
   you're finished"—he was already humming silently the last
   song he planned to sing this day—"when you're finished,
   Jalwar-Zancresta, I've got a final riff for you."
   The ferret pursed his lips and shook his head sadiy.
   "You poor, simple, unwilling immigrant, do you think I'm
   so easily beaten? I know a hundred powerful conjurations
   to throw at you, remember a thousand curses. But you are
   correct. I know that your music could counter them."
   Something was wrong, Jon-Tom thought. Zancresta ought
   to have been begging for mercy. Instead, he sounded as
   confident as ever.
   "Your music is strong, spellsinger, but you are feeble
   here." He tapped his head. "You see, as I said, I came
   prepared to deal with anything." He looked to his right.
   "Charrok, I need you now,"
   From behind a partly vacant shelf, a new shape appeared.
   Jon-Tom braced himself for anything, his fingers ready on
   the duar, his mind full of countering songs. The figure that
   emerged did not inspire any fear in him, however. In fact,
   it was singularly unimpressive.
   The mockingbird stood barely three feet tall, shorter
   even than Corroboc. He wore an unusually plain kilt of
   black on beige and yellow, a single matching yellow vest
   devoid of adornment, and a single yellow cap.
   Zancresta gestured at Jon-Tom. "That's the one I told
   you about. Do what I paid you to do!"
   The mockingbird carefully shook out his wings, then the
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   271
   rest of his feathers, put flexible wingtips on his hips and
   cocked his head sideways to eye Jon-Tom.
   "I hear tell from Zancresta here that you're the best."
   "The best what?"
   The mockingbird reached back over a shoulder. Roseroar
   and Mudge tensed, but the bird produced not an arrow or
   spear but a thin wooden box overlaid with three sets of
   strings.
   "A syreed," murmured Roseroar.
   Charrok nestled the peculiar instrument under one wing
   and flexed the strong feathers of the other. "Now we're
   going to learn who's really the best."
   "Bugger me for a mayor's mother!" Mudge gasped.
   "The bloody bastard's a spellsinger 'imself!"
   XVI
   "That," said the mockingbird with obvious pride, "is just
   what I am."
   "Now, look," said Jon-Tom even as he made sure the
   duar was resting comfortably against his ribs, "I don't
   know you and I've no reason to fight you. If you've been
   listening to what's been going on you know who's on the
   side of right here and who on the side of evil."
   "Evil-schmieval," said the mockingbird. "I'm just a
   country spellsinger. I don't go around making moral judg-
   ments. I just make music. The other I leave to solicitors
   and judges." Feathers dipped toward multiple strings.
   "Let's get to it, man."
   The voice that emerged from that feathered throat was
   as sweet and sugary as Ion-Tom's was harsh and uneven,
   and it covered a range of octaves no human could hope to
   match.
   Well then, Jon-Tom decided grimly as he saw the smile
   that had appeared on the ferret's face, it was up to him to
   respond with musical inventiveness, sharper lyrics, and
   better playing. If nothing else, he could at least match the
   mockingbird in enthusiasm and sheer volume.
   272
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   273
   The mountain rattled and the shelving shook. The floor
   quivered underfoot and stone powder fell from the ceiling
   as the two spellsingers threw incisive phrases and devastat-
   ing rhymes at each other. Charrok sang of acid tongues
   and broken hearts, of mental anguish and crumbling self-
   esteem. Jon-Tom countered with appropriate verses by
   Queen and the Stones, by Pat Benatar and Fleetwood Mac.
   Charrok's clashing chords smashed violently against Jon-
   Tom's chords by the Clash. The mockingbird even resorted
   to calling up the defeated warriors of the Plated Folk, and
   Jon-Tom had to think fast to fight back with the pounding,
   sensual New Wave of Adam Ant.
   As the two singers did battle, Mudge struggled to get a
   clear shot at Zancresta. The wizard had witnessed several
   demonstrations of the otter's prowess with the longbow,
   however, and was careful not to provide him with a decent
   target.
   Jon-Tom was finally forced to pause, no matter the
   consequences. He was panting hard and his fingers were
   numb and bloody from nonstop strumming. Worse, his
   throat stung like cracked suede and he feared creeping
   hoarseness.
   But the arduous duel had taken its toll on his opponent
   as well. Charrok no longer fluffed out his feathers proudly
   between songs, nor did he appear quite as confident as he
   had when the battle had begun.
   At which point Jon-Tom thought to try another line of
   attack entirely.
   "That last tune, the one about the drunken elephant with
   the knife? That was pretty sharp. You got some good riffs
   in there. I couldn't do that."
   "Sometimes," Charrok croaked, "it's harder with fin-
   gers than with feathers." He held up his right wing and
   wiggled the flexible tips for emphasis. "You're not doing
   too badly yourself, though. What was that bit about dirty
   deeds done dirt cheap?"
   274
   Alan Dean Poster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   275
   "AC/DC," Jon-Tom replied tiredly. "I thought it might
   conjure me up a few berserk assassins. No such luck."
   "Good try, though," Charrok complimented him. "I
   could almost feel the knife at my throat."
   Zancresta stepped forward, careful to keep the body of
   his hired instrument between himself and Mudge.
   "What is this? I am not paying you to indulge in casual
   conversation with this man. I am paying you to kill him!"
   Charrok turned. His gaze narrowed as he stared up at
   the sorceror. "You hold on a minute there, Mr. Zancresta,
   sir. You hired my spellsinging, not my soul."
   "Don't get existential with me, you warbling bumpkin!
   You'll do as you're told!"
   Charrok was unperturbed by the sorcerer's outburst.
   "That's what I've been doing." He nodded toward Jon-
   Tom. "This fella's mighty damn good. He might, just
   might, be better than me."
   "I don't know who's best and I don't care," Jon-Tom
   said hastily, "but you sing like a storm and you play like a
   fiend. I'd appreciate it a lot if you could show me that last
   song." He strummed an empty chord on the duar. "Maybe
   I've only got five fingers here, but I'd damn sure like to
   give it a try."
   "I don't know ... a duar only has two sets of strings and
   my syreed three. Still, if you dropped a note here and
   there...." He started to walk over. "Let's have a looksee."
   "No fraternizing with the enemy," Zancresta snapped,
   putting a restraining paw on the mockingbird's shoulder.
   Charrok shook it off.
   "Maybe he ain't my enemy."
   "Of course I'm not," said Jon-Tom encouragingly,
   moving forward himself. "A gig's a gig, but that shouldn't
   come between a couple of professionals." When Charrok
   was near enough, Jon-Tom put a comradely arm around
   the bird's shoulders, having to bend over to do so. "This
   isn't your fight, singer. Two musician-magicians of our
   caliber shouldn't be trying to destroy each other. We
   should be collaborating. Imagine the wizardry we could
   work! This shouldn't be a duel, it should be a jam
   session."
   "I'd like that," said Charrok. He searched the aisle
   beyond. "Where are the berries?"
   "Not that kind of jam. I mean we should play together,
   make music and magic together."
   A hand reached out and clutched in frustration at the
   mockingbird's vest. "1 won't have this!" The ferret was
   jumping up and down on short legs. "I tell you, I won't
   have it! I've paid you well to serve me in this matter. We
   have a contract! There is too much at stake here."
   "Yea, including my reputation," Charrok told him frosti-
   ly. "But," he glanced up at Jon-Tom, "that can always be
   settled between friends. As for your money, you can have
   it back. I've decided I don't want.. ."
   "Look out, mate!" Mudge yelled. The otter threw
   himself forward, hit Zancresta just in time to make the
   subtle knife thrust the ferret had been aiming at Jon-Tom
   beneath Charrok's wing miss. The two went rolling over
   together on the floor.
   "Hold him, sun!" Roseroar thundered as she advanced,
   ready to remove Zancresta's head from his neck as easily
   as she would a stopper from a bottle.
   But the ferret was scrambling to his feet, leaving a
   bleeding Mudge lying on the floor. Displaying incredible
   agility, the sorcerer dodged under Roseroar's wild rush and
   started climbing up the nearest shelf. Boxes and cartons
   came flying down at the tigress, who batted the missiles
   aside impatiently as she tried to locate her quarry. Then
   she was climbing after him, slowly but relentlessly.
   Jon-Tom was bending over Mudge, whose paws were
   clasped over the knife wound. The otter's eyes were
   half-closed as he stared up at his companion.
   "This is it, guv'nor. I'm on me way out. I'm dyin'. I
   knew it would come someday, but 1 never thought it'd be
   like this, wot? Not in some bloody store 'alfway across the
   276
   Alan Dean Foster
   world. I was meant to die in bed, I was." The limpid
   brown eyes were full of sadness and regret. "We 'ad some
   good times, though. A few laughs 'ere, narrow escape
   there. Cor, 'twere much to be sung of." The eyes closed,
   reopened weakly.
   "Sorry it 'ad to end like this, mate. If you 'ave a song
   left in you to sing you might sing one for old Mudge. Sing
   me a song o' gold, spellsinger. If I can't die in bed maybe
   I can die under a pile o' gold. Bury me in the damn stuff
   and I'll slip away 'appily."
   Jon-Tom knelt alongside the limp otter, holding his head
   up with one hand. "Mudge," he said quietly, "that knife
   didn't go in more than half an inch, and you're not
   bleeding that bad. If you want to get gold out of me you're
   going to have to do better than that."
   The otter fixed him with pleading eyes. "Gold? Why, I
   wouldn't try to trick you into conjurin' up me some gold at
   a time like this, mate. Would I?" Jon-Tom didn't reply.
   Mudge moved his hands, and his eyes went wide with
   surprise. "Crikey, would you 'ave a look at this! It's
   'ealin' right over, it 'tis! Thanks be to your magic, mate.
   I'll never forget this, guv, never!"
   "I'll bet you won't," said the disgusted Jon-Tom. He
   stood, and Mudge's head bounced off the floor.
   "Ow! Damnit, you bloody smart-arsed, know-it-all,
   over-sized, shallow-voiced son of a... !"
   Jon-Tom didn't hear the rest. He'd turned to look down
   the aisle. It was full of smoke from conjured lightning and
   dust fallen from the ceiling. There was no sign of Zancresta
   or the vengeful Roseroar. The fight had moved to another
   aisle, another row of shelving. Snooth had also vanished,
   which was understandable. The proprietress had retreated
   to a place of safety to await the outcome of the fight,
   exactly as Jon-Tom would have done had their positions
   been reversed.
   "Get up, Mudge," Jon-Tom said impatiently. "We've
   got to help Roseroar."
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   277
   The otter rose, still holding a paw over the light wound.
   "That she-massif doesn't need any 'elp, mate. I'll 'elp you
   look for 'er, but odds'll get you she finds that bastard
   Zancresta first." He winced, inspected his knife cut.
   "Ruined a good vest, 'e did."
   "Wait." Jon-Tom squinted into the haze that filled the
   aisle. "I think she's coming."
   But it wasn't Roseroar. It moved on four legs and its
   golden coat glowed even in the weak light. Clinging to the
   broad back was the naked form of a young woman toasted
   pink as a boiled lobster.
   Drom trotted to a halt beside them. He was foaming at
   the mouth and soaked with lather.
   "Hot," he told them unnecessarily. "Excruciatingly
   hot." Folly slid off the unicorn's back into Jon-Tom's
   arms, barely conscious. "She was walking blindly toward
   an open lava pit. I got there just in time."
   "Jon-Tom." He held her carefully, acutely conscious of
   the first-degree burn that covered her whole body. "I.. .1
   didn't know what was happening, what I was doing.
   Jalwar... he made me feel so strange. I couldn't think my
   own thoughts anymore." She leaned against him.
   "That morning when he woke me and made me follow
   him out of our camp, I wanted to cry out, to warn you, but
   I couldn't. He made me go with him, and he made me fetch
   and cook and carry for him, but it wasn't me, it wasn't
   me! It was like I was a prisoner in my own body and I
   couldn't get out." She was sobbing now, the tears wet
   against his chest. She leaned back and looked up at him in
   astonishment.
   "I'm crying. I didn't think I could cry anymore."
   "You were hypnotized," Jon-Tom told her. When she
   continued staring at him in puzzlement he explained fur-
   ther. "A kind of magic. You couldn't help yourself." He
   hugged her to him and when she moaned in pain he was
   quick to release her. "We'll have to do something about
   your burn. Maybe Snooth has something. We can buy
   278
   Alan Dean Poster
   medicine for you, too. I still have the three gold pieces
   that Mudge didn't lose in Snarken."
   "It's all right," she whispered. "I'm all right now."
   She turned to Drom. "I wouldn't have been if he hadn't
   shown up. I didn't know what to think when he came
   galloping down the corridor after me. Then he told me
   who he was and that he was a friend of yours and you
   were all here inside the mountain with him. That you were
   fighting Jalwar-Zancresta." She ran to the unicorn and,
   putting her arms around his neck, hugged him gratefully.
   Drom tolerated the attention briefly before stepping back
   and pulling free. "I am glad to have been of assistance,
   madame, but leave us not get carried away with our
   emotions."
   "But I thought..." Folly looked hurt and Jon-Tom
   hastened to reassure her.
   "Drom's not being unfriendly, Folly. He's just being
   himself. I'll explain later." He looked at the unicorn. "It
   was a fine bit of rescue work, Drom."
   "1 try." The unicorn searched the aisle. "Where is the
   evil one? And the great feline? Did you defeat him during
   my absence?"
   "No." Jon-Tom smiled at the mockingbird. "This is
   Charrok. When Zancresta discovered that he couldn't de-
   feat me with his own magic, he tried to do it with another
   spellsinger. Charrok and I conjured up quite a musical
   storm before we came to the conclusion that harmony is
   better than dissonance. As for Roseroar, she's gone after
   Zancresta."
   "I should pity the ferret, then."
   "That's the truth, mate," said Mudge. "That's some
   broad. If she were only a fourth 'er size."
   "You have to learn to think big, Mudge." Jon-Tom
   became serious. "Zancresta's as fast on his feet as he is
   with his mind. He might give her the slip in here."
   " 'E can't get out, though, mate," Mudge commented.
   "Unless there's another way in, and I'd bet me tool there's
   THE DAT OP THE DISSONANCE
   279
   only the one. I'd say the best we can do now is find that
   oversized she-rat who runs the place. She 'ad the medicine
   when the fight started, and I'd wager she's kept it with
   'er."
   It was a long hike back to the entryway, and Jon-Tom's
   appraisal of the ferret as being fleet of foot turned out to be
   accurate, for when they turned up the last aisle Zancresta
   was already there.
   "Ah just missed him in a side aisle," Roseroar rumbled
   angrily, having rejoined them only moments earlier. "He
   won't get away this time."
   Zancresta's clothes were shredded, and he looked very
   unwizardly as he stood panting heavily before the exit.
   A glance down the side aisle showed his tormentors
   approaching rapidly. There was nothing, however, to pre-
   vent his escaping to plot against them from the outside.
   Nothing except an old female kangaroo.
   "Get out of my way, hag! My time is precious and I
   have none to waste in argument."
   "I'm not here to argue with you." Snooth spoke calmly,
   the pipe dangling from her lips. Her right hand was
   extended, palm upward. "You owe me payment."
   "Payment? Payment for what?" Zancresta snarled impa-
   tiently. His enemies were hurrying now, the ferocious
   tigress in the lead. He did not have much time.
   "For damage done to stock and fixtures."
   "I was trying to escape from that insane female who
   even now approaches. You can't hold me responsible for
   that."
   "I hold you responsible for everything," she replied
   darkly. "You initiated conflict. You interrupted a sale. I
   forgive you all that, but you must pay for the damage
   you've caused. I'm not running a philanthropic organiza-
   tion here. This is a business." She gestured with the palm.
   "Pay up."
   "Fool! I said I've no time to argue with you. This little
   store you have here is a very clever piece of work, I'll
   280
   Alan Dean Foster
   admit that. But I am Zancresta of Malderpot and I am not
   impressed. I give you one chance to get out of my way."
   Snooth did not move. The wizard's paw dipped into an
   intact pocket and he flung something small and round at
   her as the kangaroo's hands went to her belly. There was a
   crump\ as the small round thing exploded, filling the
   portal with angry red smoke. Jon-Tom had tried to shout
   a warning. It came too late.
   "Now I will leave over you, hag!"
   But there was something else in the doorway now,
   something besides the uninjured and glowering Snooth. It
   rose from her pouch, the pouch where Jon-Tom thought he
   had detected hints of movement before. It rose and grew
   and it was immediately clear it was no joey, no infant
   kangaroo. It was far larger, and it expanded as Jon-Tom
   and his companions slowed to a halt.
   Zancresta backed slowiy away from the apparition. It
   enlarged until it reached the roof forty feet overhead, and
   still it grew, until it could only fit in the cavern by bending
   low against the rock ceiling.
   It had the shape of a red kangaroo, but its face was not
   the face of a gentle vegetarian like Snooth. The ears were
   immense, sharply pointed, and hung with thick gold rings.
   The long snout was full of scimitarlike teeth, and sulfurous
   eyes centered on tiny black pupils glared downward. Gray
   smoke encircled and obscured the behemoth's waist, rising
   lazily from Snooth's pouch. Gorillalike arms hung to the
   floor, where backturned knuckles rested on the smooth
   stone.
   A bright crimson band encircled the huge forehead. It
   was inscribed with glowing symbols drawn from an an-
   cient place and time. A thin silken vest flapped in an unfelt
   wind against the mountainous chest.
   And there was the voice. Not gentle and matronly like
   Snooth's, but awesome in its depth and richness. The
   apparition spoke, and the earth trembled.
   "BEHOLD,  ODIOUS  IMP,  TOILER  IN OBSCURITY,  MED-
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   281
   DLER   IN   INEFFECTUALITY:   I   AM   HARUN   AL-ROOJINN,
   MASTER OF ALL THE SPIRITS OF TIME PAST AND TIME
   FUTURE WHERE MARSUPIALS RULE AND ALL OTHERS ARE
   BUT TINY SCURRYING THINGS THAT HIDE IN ROCKS AND
   FEED ON WORMS! BEHOLD, AND BE AFRAID!" A hand big
   enough to sail the Glittergeist if fitted out with sails and
   rigging reached for Zancresta.
   The sorcerer cowered back against the shelving. His
   expression was desperate as he sought refuge and found
   none. He dropped to his knees and begged.
   "Forgive me, forgive me, I did not know!"
   "IGNORANCE is THE EXCUSE OF THE CONTEMPTUOUS,"
   bellowed the djinn.   "ABUSERS OF KNOWLEDGE RARELY
   SEEK ENLIGHTENMENT FROM OTHERS. THOSE WHO TRAM-
   PLE CONVENTION DESERVE NO PITY. THOSE WHO DO NOT
   PAY WHAT THEY OWE DESERVE TO PERISH."
   "I'm sorry!" Zancresta screamed, utterly frantic now.
   "I was blinded by anger."
   "YOU WERE BLINDED BY EGO, WHICH IS FAR WORSE."
   "It is a terrible thing to feel inferior to another. I can't
   stand it. I was overcome with the need to redeem myself,
   to restore my standing as the greatest practitioner of the
   mystic arts. All I have done was only for love of my
   profession." He prostrated himself, arms extended. "I
   throw myself on your mercy."
   "YOU LOVE ONLY YOURSELF, WORM. MERCY? YOU
   WOULD HAVE SLAIN MY MORTAL TO SAVE A FEW COINS,
   TO SHOW YOUR DOMINANCE. MERCY? YEA, I WILL GRANT
   YOU MERCY." The ferret's head lifted, and there was a
   hopeful look on his tormented face.
   "THIS is MY MERCY: THAT YOU SHALL DIE QUICKLY
   INSTEAD OF SLOWLY!"
   Zancresta shrieked and dodged to his left, but he wasn't
   fast enough to escape that immense descending hand. The
   fingers contracted once, and the shriek was not repeated.
   There was only a quick echo of bones crunching. Jon-Tom
   and his companions stared numbly.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   The hand opened and dropped the jellied smear that had
   been Jalwar-Zancresta, Wizard of Malderpot.
   "I ASK YOU," the djinn muttered in slightly less deafen-
   ing tones, "YOU TRY TO RUN A LITTLE BUSINESS DOWN
   THROUGH   THE   AGES   AND   YOU   FIND   ETERNITY   FULL   OF
   WELCHERS. SPEAKING OF WHICH"—the massive toothy
   skull and burning yellow eyes lifted to regard Jon-Tom—
   "THERE is MORE YET TO DO."
   "Hey, wait a minute," said Jon-Tom, starting to back
   away, "we're ready to pay for what we want. We didn't
   come here to stiff anybody." He glanced toward Snooth,
   who only shrugged helplessly. Apparently now that the
   djinn had been called, she was powerless to control it.
   "PAY FOR YOUR GOODS YOU MAY, BUT NOW I HAVE
   BEEN CALLED FORTH, AND I MUST ALSO BE PAID. HOW
   WILL YOU DO THAT, PALE WORM? I HAVE NO NEED OF
   YOUR MONEY. PERHAPS YOU WILL SING ME A SONG SO
   THAT I MAY LET YOU LEAVE?" Volcanic laughter filled the
   Shop of the Aether and Neither.
   Jon-Tom felt a hand pushing at him. "Well come on,
   then, mate," Mudge whispered urgently, "go to it. I'm
   right 'ere behind you if you need me 'elp."
   "You're such a comfort." Still, the otter was right. It
   was up to him to somehow placate this djinn and get them
   out of there. But he was exhausted from his duel with
   Charrok and Zancresta, and worn out from thinking up
   song after song. He was also more than a little irritated.
   Not the most sensible attitude to take, perhaps, but he was
   too tired to care.
   "You listen to me, Hargood ali rooge."
   The djinn glowered. "I DON'T LIKE MORTALS WHO GET
   MY NAME WRONG."
   "Okay, I can go with that," Jon-Tom replied, "but
   you'll have to excuse me. I've had a helluva couple of
   weeks. We came here to get some medicine for a sick
   friend. If that old fart hadn't intruded," and he gestured at
   the smear on the floor, "we'd be out of here and on our
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   283
   way by now. We didn't have a damn thing to do with his
   actions."
   "TRULY YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN ON YOUR WAY, BUT
   WHICH WAY IS RIGHT AND PROPER FOR YOU TO GO,
   LITTLE MORTAL?"
   "Do you still have the medicine, Snooth?" The kanga-
   roo nodded, opened a fist to show the precious container.
   A hand the size of a bus lowered to block her from
   Jon-Tom's sight.
   "THE MEDICINE YOU MAY TAKE. IF YOU CAN SATISFY
   ME. AND YOU HAVE SEEN WHAT HAPPENS TO MERE MOR-
   TALS WHO DISPLEASE ME."
   Jon-Tom was beginning to understand why Crancularn
   had acquired a less than favorable reputation among travel-
   ers in this part of the world, in spite of the miracles it
   offered for sale.
   "YOU THINK LONG, MORTAL. Do NOT THINK TO TRICK
   ME BY SOME FOOLISHNESS SUCH AS ASKING ME TO SHRINK
   MYSELF INTO A BOTTLE." A hand hovered above them and
   Folly flinched. "I DON'T NEED TO CHANGE MY SIZE TO
   SHOW MY POWER. ALL I NEED TO DO IS PUT MY THUMB ON
   YOUR HEAD."
   "Whatever happened to the customer's always right?"
   Jon-Tom shot back.
   The djinn hesitated. "WHAT OTHERWORLDLY IDIOCY is
   THAT?"
   "Just good business practice."
   "A   MORTAL  WITH  A   KNACK   FOR   BUSINESS."   The  djinn
   looked  interested.   "I  WILL LET YOU  PAY WITH  YOUR
   BUSINESS, THEN, AND PERHAPS YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS
   WILL LEAVE HERE WITH YOUR BONES INTACT. YOU ARE A
   SPELLSINGER. I HAVE HEARD MANY SPELLS INGERS, BUT
   NONE THAT PLEASED ME. I DO NOT THINK I KNOW OF ONE
   FROM YOUR WORLD. SlNG ME A SPELLSONG OF YOUR
   WORLD, WORM. SlNG ME A SONG THAT WfLL AMUSE ME,
   INTRIGUE ME. SlNG ME SOMETHING DIFFERENT. THEN,
   AND ONLY THEN, WILL I LET YOU TAKE THE MEDICINE
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   Alan Dean Poster
   AND GO!" The djinn folded arms with thick muscles like
   the trunks of great trees.
   "THINK CAREFULLY ON WHAT YOU WILL SING. I GROW
   IMPATIENT   QUICKLY   AND   WILL   NOT   ALLOW   YOU   A   SEC-
   OND CHANCE."
   Jon-Tom stood sweating and thinking furiously. What
   song could he possible sing that would interest this off-
   spring of magic, who had access to the goods of thousands
   of worlds? What did he know that might be offbeat and
   just weird enough to have some effect on a djinn?
   Off to his left Roseroar stood watching him quietly.
   Mudge was muttering, something like a prayer. Folly paced
   anxiously behind him while Drom pawed at the floor and
   wished he were outside where he'd at least have a running
   chance.
   Feathers caressed his neck. "You can do it, colleague."
   Charrok was smiling confidently at him.
   Mystical. It had to be overtly mystical, yet not so
   specific as to anger the djinn into thinking Jon-Tom was
   trying to trick him. What did he know that fit that
   description? He was just a hard rocker when he wasn't
   studying law. All he knew were the hits, the platinum
   songs.
   There was only one possibility, one choice. A song full
   of implications instead of accusations, mysterious and not
   readily comprehended. Something to make the djinn think.
   He let his fingers slide over the duar's strings. His throat
   was dry but his hoarseness was gone.
   "Watch it, mate," Mudge warned him.
   To his surprise Jon-Tom found he could smile down at
   the otter. "No sweat, Mudge."
   "Wot can you sing for 'im 'e don't already 'ave,
   guv'nor?" The otter waved at hand at the endless shelves
   crammed with goods from dimensions unknown. "Wot
   can you give 'im in song 'e don't already own?"
   "A different state of mind," Jon-Tom told him softly,
   and he began to sing.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   285
   He was concerned that the duar would not reproduce the
   eerie chords correctly. He need not have worried. That
   endlessly responsive, marvelously versatile instrument du-
   plicated the sounds he drew from memory with perfect
   fidelity, amplifying them so that they filled the chamber
   around him. It was a strange, quavering moan, a galvaniz-
   ing cross between an alien bass fiddle being played by
   something with twelve hands and the snore of a sleeping
   brontosaurus. Only one man had ever made sounds quite
   like that before, and Jon-Tom strained hands and lips to
   reproduce them.
   "If you can just get your mind together," he crooned to
   the djinn, "and come over to me, we'll watch the sunrise
   together, from the bottom of the sea."
   The words and sounds made no sense to Roseroar, but
   she could sense they were special. Bits and pieces of
   broken light began to illuminate the chamber around her.
   Gneechees, harbingers of magic, had appeared and were
   swarming around Jon-Tom in all their unseeable beauty.
   It was a sign the song was working, and it inspired
   Jon-Tom to sing harder still. Harun al-Roojinn leaned
   forward as if to protest, to question, and hesitated. Behind
   the fiery yellow eyes was a first flicker of uncertainty.
   Jon-Tom sang on.
   "First, have you ever been experienced? Have you ever
   been experienced?" The djinn drifted back on nonexistent
   heels. His great burning eyes began to glaze over slightly,
   as if someone were drawing wax paper across them.
   "Well, I have," Jon-Tom murmured. The notes bounced
   off the walls, rang off the ears of the djinn, who seemed to
   have acquired a pleasant indifference to those around him.
   Jon-Tom's own expression began to drift as he contin-
   ued to sing, remembering the words, remembering the
   chords. A brief eternity passed. It was Mudge who reached
   up to break the trance.
   "That's it, mate," he whispered. He shook Jon-Tom
   hard. "C'mon, guv, snap out o' it." Jon-Tom continued to
   286
   Alan Dean Foster
   play on, a beatific expression on his face. The djinn
   hovered before him like some vast rusty blimp, hands
   folded over his chest, great claws interlocked, whispering.
   "BEAUTIFUL ... Beautiful... beautiful..."
   "Come on, mate!" The otter turned to Roseroar, who
   was swaying slowly in time to the music, her eyes blank.
   A thin trickle of drool fell from her mouth. Mudge tried to
   kick her in the rump, but his foot wouldn't reach that high.
   So he settled for slapping Folly.
   "What... what's happening?" She blinked. "Stop hit-
   ting me." She focused on the drifting djinn. "What's
   happened to him? He looks so strange."
   " 'E ain't the only one," Mudge snapped. " 'Elp me
   wake the rest of 'em up."
   They managed to revive Drom and Charrok and Roseroar,
   but Jon-Tom stubbornly refused to return to reality. He was
   as locked into the deceptively langorous state of mind he'd
   conjured up as was the target of his song.
   "Wake «/>!" Roseroar demanded as she shook him. He
   turned to her, still playing, and smiled broadly.
   "Wake up? But why? Everything's so beautiful." He
   looked half through her. "Did I ever tell you how beautiful
   you are?"
   Roseroar was taken aback by that one, but only for a
   moment. "Tell me later, sun." She threw him over her left
   shoulder and started for the door, keeping a wary eye on
   the stoned djinn.
   "Just a second." Drom paused at the portal and snatched
   the container of medicine from Snooth's fingers.
   "Hey, what about my payment, sonny?"
   "You've already been paid, madame." The unicorn
   used his horn to point at Harun al-Roojinn."Collect from
   him." Drom trotted out, through the storeroom of broken
   devices, through the living area, and out the front door to
   join his friends.
   Snooth watched him go, hands on hips, her expression
   grim.
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   287
   "Tourists! I shouid've known they'd be more trouble
   than they're worth." She stomped out onto the porch and
   watched until they'd vanished into the woods. Then she
   reached inside, found the sign she wanted, hung it on the
   door, and slammed it shut. The message on the sign was
   clear enough.
   OUT TO LUNCH
   BACK IN TEN THOUSAND YEARS
   Jon-Tom bounced along on Roseroar's powerful shoul-
   der. Mudge kept pace easily alongside, Folly rode atop the
   reluctant but soft-hearted Drom, and Charrok scouted their
   progress from above.
   As the Shop of the Aether and Neither receded behind
   them, Jon-Tom gradually began to emerge from the
   mental miasma into which he'd plunged both himself
   and Harun al-Roojinn. Fingers moved less steadily over
   the duar's strings, and his voice fell to a whisper. He
   blinked.
   " 'E's comin' round," Mudge observed.
   "It's about time," said Folly. "What did he do to
   himself?"
   "Some wondrous magic," muttered Drom. "Some pow-
   erful otherworldly conjuration."
   Mudge snorted and grinned. "Right, mate. What 'e did
   to the monster was waste 'im. Unfortunately, 'e did 'imself
   right proud in the process."
   Jon-Tom's hand went to his head. "Ooooo." Shifting
   outlines resolved themselves into, the running figure of
   Mudge.
   " 'Angover, mate?"
   "No. No, I feel okay." He looked up suddenly, back
   toward the smoking mountain. "Al-Roojinn?"
   "Zonked, skunked, blown-away. A fine a piece o'
   spellsingin' as was ever done, mate."
   "It was the song," Jon-Tom murmured dazedly. "A
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   Alan Dean Foster
   good song. A special song. Jimi's best. If anything could
   dazzle a djinn, I knew it would be that. You can put me
   down now, Roseroar." The tigress set him down gently.
   "Come on, mate. We'd best keep movin' fast before
   your spellsong wears off."
   "It's all right, I think." He looked back through the
   forest toward the mountain. "It's not a restraining song.
   It's a happy song, a relaxing song. Al-Roojinn didn't seem
   either happy or relaxed. Maybe he's happy now."
   They followed the winding trail back toward Crancularn
   and discovered a ghost town populated by slow-moving,
   nebulous inhabitants who smiled wickedly at them, grin-
   ning wraiths that floated in and out of reality. "It's there
   but some don't see it," Drom had said. Now Jon-Tom
   understood the unicorn's meaning. The real Crancularn
   was as insubstantial as smoke, as solid as a dream.
   They forced themselves not to run as they left the town
   behind, heading for the familiar woods and the long walk
   back to far-distant Lynchbany. Somewhere off to the right
   came the grind of the ATC, but this time the helpful
   rabbit, be he real or wraith, did not put in an appearance.
   Once Jon-Tom glanced back to reassure himself that he'd
   actually been in Crancularn, but instead of a crumbling old
   town, he thought he saw a vast bubbling cauldron alive
   with dancing, laughing demons. He shuddered and didn't
   look back again.
   By evening they were all too exhausted to care if
   Al-Roojinn and a dozen vengeful cousins were hot on then-
   trail or not. Mudge and Roseroar built a fire while the
   others collapsed.
   "1 think we're safe now," Jon-Tom told them. He ran
   both hands through his long hair, suddenly sat up sharply.
   "The medicine! What about the—!"
   "Easy, mate." Mudge extracted the container from a
   pocket. " 'Ere she be, nice and tidy."
   Jon-Tom examined the bottle. It was such a small thing
   on which to have expended so much effort, barely an inch
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   289
   high and half again as wide. It was fashioned of plain
   white plastic with a screw-on cap of unfamiliar design.
   "I wonder what it is." He started to unscrew the top.
   "Just a minim, mate," said Mudge sharply, nodding at
   the container. "Do you think that's wise? I know you're a
   spellsinger and all that, but maybe there's a special reason
   for that little bottle bein' tight-sealed the way it is."
   "Any container of medicine would be sealed," Jon-Tom
   responded. "If there was any danger, Clothahump would
   have warned me not to open it." Another twist and the cap
   was off, rendering further argument futile.
   He stared at the contents, then held the bottle under his
   nose and sniffed.
   "Well," asked Drom curiously, "do you have any idea
   what it is?"
   Jon-Tom ignored the unicorn. Frowning, he turned the
   bottle upside down and dumped one of several tablets into
   his palm. He eyed it uncertainly, and before anyone could
   stop him, licked it. He sat and smacked his lips thoughtfully.
   Abruptly his face contorted and his expression under-
   went a horrible, dramatic change. His eyes bugged and a
   hateful grimace twisted his mouth. As he rose his hands
   were trembling visibly and he clutched the bottle so hard
   his fingers whitened.
   "It's got him!" Folly stumbled back toward the bushes.
   "Something's got him!"
   "Roseroar!" Mudge shouted. "Get 'im down! I'll find
   some vines to tie 'im with!" He rushed toward the trees.
   "No," Jon-Tom growled tightly. "No." His face fell as
   he stared at the bottle. Then he drew back his hand and
   made as if to fling the plastic container and its priceless
   contents into the deep woods. At the last instant he
   stopped himself. Now he was smiling malevolently at the
   tablet in his hand.
   "No. We're going to take it back. Take it back so that
   Clothahump can see it. Can see what we crossed half a
   world and nearly died a dozen times to bring him." He
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   Alan Dean Foster
   THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
   291
   stared at his uneasy companions. "This is the medicine.
   This will cure him. I'm sure it will. Then, when the pain
   has left his body and he is whole and healthy again, I'll
   strangle him with my bare hands!"
   "Ah don't understand yo, Jon-Tom. What's wrong if
   that's the right medicine?"
   "What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong." He shook
   the bottle at her. "It's acetylsalicylic acid, that's what's
   wrong!" Suddenly the anger went out of him, and he sat
   back down heavily on a fallen tree. "Why didn't I think
   that might be it? Why?"
   Mudge fought to pronounce the peculiar, otherworldly
   word, failed miserably. "You mean you know wot the
   bloody stuff is?"
   "Know it?" Jon-Tom lifted tired eyes to the otter. "You
   remember when I arrived in this world, Mudge?"
   "Now, that would be a 'ard day to forget, mate. I nearly
   spilled your guts all over a field o' flowers."
   "Do you remember what I was wearing?"
   Mudge's face screwed up in remembrance. "That funny
   tight shirt and them odd pants."
   "Jeans, Mudge, jeans. I had a few things with me when
   Clothahump accidently brought me over. My watch, which
   doesn't work anymore because the batteries are dead."
   "Spell's worn out, you mean."
   "Let's don't get into that now, okay? My watch, a
   lighter, a few keys in a small metal box, and another small
   box about this big." He traced an outline in the air in front
   of him.
   "The second box held a few little items I always carried
   with me for unexpected emergencies. Some Pepto-Bismol
   tablets for an upset stomach, a couple of Band-Aids, a few
   blue tablets whose purpose we won't discuss in mixed
   company, and some white tablets. Do you remember the
   white tablets, Mudge?"
   The otter shook his head. "I wouldn't 'ave a looksee
   through your personal things, mate." Besides, he'd been
   interrupted before he could get the two boxes opened.
   "Those tablets were just like these, Mudge. Just like
   these." He stared dumbly at the bottle he held. "Acetylsali-
   cylic acid. Aspirin, plain old ordinary everyday aspirin."
   "Ah guess it ain't so ordinary hereabouts," said Roseroar.
   "Now, mate," said Mudge soothingly, " 'is wizardship
   couldn't 'ave known you 'ad some in your back pocket all
   along, now could 'e? It were a sad mistake, but an 'onest
   one."
   "You think so? Clothahump knows everything.'1
   "Then why send us across 'alf the world to find somethin'
   'e already 'ad in 'is 'ouse?"
   "To test me. To test my loyalty. He's grooming me to
   take his place someday if he can't send me home, and he
   has to make sure I'm up to the reputation he's going to
   leave behind. So he keeps testing me."
   "Are you tellin' me, mate," muttered Mudge carefully,
   "that this 'ole damn dangerous trip was unnecessary from
   the beginnin'? That this 'ere glorious quest could've been
   left undone and we could've stayed comfy an' warm back
   in the Bellwoods, doin' civilized work like gettin' laid an'
   drunk?"
   Jon-Tom nodded sadly. "I'm afraid so."
   Mudge's reaction was not what Jon-Tom expected. He
   anticipated a replay of his own sudden fury, at least.
   Instead, the otter clasped his hands to his belly, bent over,
   and fell to the ground, where he commenced to roll wildly
   about while laughing uncontrollably. A moment later Drom's
   own amused, high-pitched whinny filled the woods, while
   Roseroar was unable to restrain her own more dignified but
   just as heartfelt hysteria.
   "What are you laughing about? You idiots, we nearly
   got killed half a dozen times on this journey! So what are
   you laughing about?" For some reason this only made his
   companions laugh all the harder.
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   Alan Dean Poster
   Except for one. Soft hands were around his neck and
   still softer flesh in his lap as Folly sat down on his thighs.
   "I understand, Jon-Tom. I feel sorry for you. I'll always
   understand and I'll never laugh at you."
   He struggled to squirm free of her grasp. This was
   difficult since she was seated squarely in his lap and had
   locked her hands tightly behind his neck.
   "Folly," he said as he wrestled with her, "I've told you
   before that there can't be anything between us! For one
   thing, I already have a lady, and for another, you're too
   young."
   She grinned winsomely. "But she's half a world away
   from here, and I'm getting older every day. If you'll give
   me half a chance, I'll catch up to you." By now the
   unicom was lying on his back kicking weakly at the air,
   and Mudge was laughing hard enough to cry. Jon-Tom
   fought to free himself and failed each time he tried,
   because his hands kept contacting disconcerting objects.
   Mudge looked up at his friend. Tears ran down his face
   and formed droplets on the ends of his whiskers. " 'Ow
   are you going to magic your way out o' this one, spell-
   slinger?" Something nudged him from behind, and he saw
   that the unicorn had crawled over close to him.
   "Small you may be, otter, but you are most admirable
   in so many ways. I look forward to joining you on your
   homeward journey. It will give us the chance to get to
   know each other better. And it is said that where there is a
   will, there is a way." He nuzzled the wide-eyed otter's
   haunches.
   Then it was Jon-Tom's turn to laugh....