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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"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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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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"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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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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visiting. A little late, I know. Special dispensation from

Chokas."

 

"Just visiting be damned! Where's your pass? These are

not visiting times."

 

Jon-Tom kept smiling as the cubs crowded close around

him. "Like I said, friend, it's a special occasion."

 

The monitor carried a short, ugly black whip which he

now drew back threateningly. "You're coming with me to

see the Headmaster, whoever you are. I do not know how

you got in here, or you either," he added as he espied

Mudge, "but you are not leaving without making proper

explanation. The rest of you," he roared, "back to your

beds!"

 

The youngsters milled around uncertainly. Many of

them were starting to bawl.

 

" 'Ere now, guv'nor, there's no reason to get upset."

Mudge toddled toward him, smiling broadly.

 

The whip cracked just in front of the otter's nose. The

children started to scatter for their beds, whimpering loudly.

 

"Now, hold on there, friend." Jon-Tom put his ramwood

staff in front of his chest. "Let's be careful with that whip,

shall we?"

 

"Cute little gimcrack, snake master," said Mudge, still

grinning and walking toward the monitor. The lynx eyed

his approach warily.

 

"That is far enough, trespasser. Take another step to-

ward me and I'll have one of your eyes out."

 

Mudge halted, threw up both hands and gaped at the

lynx in mock horror. "Wot, and mar me perfection?

Crikey, why would you want to muss up me perfect self?''

He started to turn, abruptly leaped at the monitor.

 

The lynx wasn't slow, but Mudge was a brown blur in

the dim light. The whip snapped down and cut across the

back of the otter's neck. Mudge's sword was faster still,

slicing through the.whip handle just above the big cat's

fingers.

 

The monitor bolted for the open door. "Mudge, no!"

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

169

 

Jon-Tom yelled, but Mudge didn't hear him in time. Or

perhaps he did. The short sword spun end over end. It was

the hilt that struck the lynx in the back of the head with a

gratifyingly loud thump. The monitor dropped as if poleaxed.

 

Jon-Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Smart throw, Mudge.

We don't need a murder complicating our departure."

 

Mudge retrieved his sword. "That's right, mate, but I

can't take the credit. I was tryin' to separate 'is 'ead from

'is shoulders."

 

"Quick now!" Jon-Tom instructed the youngsters as he

headed for the storage closet. "Everyone out, before

someone else shows up to check on you." He led them

through the storage closet. "Don't push, everyone's going

to get out... don't shove in the back...."

 

Roseroar strained to see better as shadows moved against

the open window. So far no one had appeared to spot the

dangling rope of pastel linen, but it would take only one

passing pedestrian to give the alarm.

 

She expected to see Jon-Tom or Mudge or even the girl.

What she did not expect to see was the silent column of

cubs who began descending the sheets. Some species were

built for climbing and climbed down quickly and graceful-

ly, while others had a more difficult time with the descent,

but all made it safely. She dropped clear of the tree and

rushed toward the building. The cubs largely ignored her

as they ran off in different directions, small dark shapes

swallowed by the shadows.

 

The prepubescent exodus continued for some time. Fi-

nally Jon-Tom, Mudge, and Folly appeared at the open

window.

 

At the same time, lights began to wink on throughout

the orphanage complex.

 

XI

 

So the otter's suspicions had been well founded, she

decided. That was the only possible explanation for the

mass escape in progress. She waited anxiously as Mudge

slipped down the rope. Folly followed closely.

 

Jon-Tom had just stepped through the window opening

and was climbing over the iron grate when something

whizzed past his head. It struck the street below. Roseroar

picked it up, found herself inspecting a small club. The

knobbed end was studded with nails. Not the kind of

disciplinary device one would expect a dormitory supervi-

sor or teacher to carry.

 

The last fleeing cub vanished down a narrow alleyway.

Within the orphanage, bells were clanging violently. Mudge

reached the bottom of the rope and jumped clear. Folly

slipped, fell the last five feet, and almost broke an ankle.

The reason for her fall was clear; a pile of pink linen

spiraled down on top of her.

 

"Bloody 'ell!" The otter looked upward and cursed. "I

'ad the other end tied to a bedpost. Someone must 'ave cut

it." He could see Jon-Tom hanging on to the grating with

one hand while trying to defend himself with his staff.

 

170

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

171

 

From within the storage closet outraged shouts were clear-

ly audible down on the street. The grating creaked loudly

as it bent on its hinges.

 

"They'll 'ave 'im in a minute," the otter muttered

helplessly, "if that old iron doesn't break free first."

 

Neither happened. Someone inside the supply room

jabbed outward with a spear. Jon-Tom leaned back to

dodge the deadly point, lost his grip, and fell. The staff

dropped from his fingers as he tumbled head over heels,

wrapped up in his lizard skin cape. Folly screamed. Lesser

wails came from dark shadows nearby as those few chil-

dren who'd paused to catch their breath saw their benefac-

tor fall.

 

But there was no sickening thud of flesh meeting stone.

Roseroar grunted softly. It was the only hint of any strain

as she easily caught the plunging Jon-Tom in both arms.

He pushed away the cape which had become wrapped

around his head and stared up at her.

 

"Thanks, Roseroar." She grinned, set him down gently.

He adjusted his attire and recovered his staff. The duar,

still slung across his back, had survived the fall unscathed.

 

"'Ell of a catch, luv!" Mudge gave the tigress a

complimentary whack on the rump, darted out of reach

before her paw could knock him silly. There were several

faces staring down at them from the open window, yelling

and issuing dire promises. Jon-Tom ignored them.

 

"Y'all okay?" Roseroar inquired solicitously.

 

"Fine." He slung the cape back over his shoulders,

brushed at his face. "If you hadn't caught me, Clothahump

would have a longer wait for his medicine."

 

"And y'all brought out the girl, ah see."

 

Folly stepped toward her. "I am not a girl! I'm as

grown-up as you are."

 

Roseroar lifted her eyebrows as she regarded the skimp

of a human. "Man deah, no one is as grown-up as ah

am."

 

"Depends on whether someone prefers quality to quantity."

 

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" 'Ere now, wot's all this?" Mudge stepped between the

ladies. "Not that I mind if you two want to 'ave a go at

each other. Just give me a ten-minute 'ead start before the

fireworks commence, yes?" He gestured to his right. "I

don't think now's the time for private digressions, though."

 

At least a dozen black-clad adult shapes had appeared

near the main entrance. Jon-Tom couldn't see if Chokas

was among them, but he had no intention of hanging

around to find out.

 

They headed off in the opposite direction, and Jon-Tom

saw they needn't worry about pursuit. The black-clad

gestapo maintained by the Friends of the Street wasn't

after them. They were fanning out toward the alleys and

side streets in search of their escaped flock.

 

Jon-Tom considered intercepting them. It was difficult

, not to, but he had to tell himself that they'd done every-

thing possible for the children. Most, if not all, of them

ought to make it to the safety of the crowded city below,

and he suspected they were wise enough to discard their

incriminating b!ack-and-Iace night clothes at the first

opportunity.

 

One of their own was faced with the same dilemma.

"You've got to get out of that nightdress, Folly," he told

her. Obediently, she started to pull it over her head, and he

hastened to restrain her. "No, no, not yet!"

 

They were racing down a steep street that led back

toward the harbor area. It had begun to drizzle. He was

grateful for the rain. It should aid the fleeing children in

their escape.

 

"Why not yet?" Folly eyed him curiously. Curiosity

gave way rapidly to a coy smile. "When you first saw me

on Corroboc's boat I wasn't wearing anything but an iron

collar. Why should my nakedness bother you now?"

 

"It doesn't bother me," he lied. "It's raining and I

don't want you contracting pneumonia.'' Citizens of Snarken

out for an evening stroll watched the flight with interest.

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

173

 

"I don't mind if you see me naked," she said innocently.

"You like me a little, don't you, Jon-Tom?"

 

"Of course I like you."

 

"No, I mean you like me."

 

"Don't be silly. You're still a child, Folly."

 

"You don't look at me the way you'd look at a child."

 

"She ain't built like no cub, mate."

 

Jon-Tom glared over at the otter. "Stay out of this,

Mudge,"

 

"Excuse me, guv'nor. None o' me business, right?" He

skittered along next to Roseroar, running fluidly on his

stubby legs and trying to hide a grin.

 

"I'm concerned for your welfare, Folly." Jon-Tom strug-

gled to explain. "I don't like to see anyone taken advan-

tage of. You noticed that we freed everyone from the

orphanage and not just you."

 

"I know, but you didn't come to free everyone. You

came because I was there."

 

"Of course. You're a friend, Folly. A good friend."

 

"Is that all?" As she ran there was a lot of movement

beneath the damp nightdress. Jon-Tom was having a diffi-

cult time concentrating on the street ahead. "Just a good

friend?"

 

Roseroar listened with one ear to the infantile dialogue

while trying her best to ignore it. Idiot humans! She made

certain to inspect every side street they passed. Surely, as

soon as the Friends of the Street finished rounding up as

many escapees as they could, they'd contact the police

about the break-in.

 

Besides worrying about that new problem, she had to

endure the banalities mouthed by the adolescent human

female who was flirting shamelessly with Jon-Tom.

 

So what? She considered her discomfiture carefully.

Why, she asked herself, should she find such harmless

chatter so aggravating? Admirable the spellsinger might

be, but he wasn't even a member of a related species. Any

relationship besides mutual respect and strong friendship

 

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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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little too chummy with the citizens Mudge cheated. I'm

not anxious to tour the inside of Snarken's prison."

 

"Give me a break, mate," whined the otter. "If you

'adn't been so set on goin' after "er"—he pointed toward

Folly—"we'd 'ave cleared this dump 'ours ago." He

glared disgustedly at the girl. "I blame meself for it,

though. Should've kept me concerns to meself." He added

hopefully, "We could still sell 'er."

 

"No." Jon-Tom put an arm around her shoulders. "Fol-

ly stays with us until we can find her a safe haven."

 

"I could suggest something," she murmured softly. He

moved his. arm.

 

"Right then," he said briskly. "No point in hanging

around here waiting for the cops to find us." He started

back the way they'd come. Mudge followed, kicking at the

garbage.

 

"Suits me, mate. Looks now like we're goin' to 'ave to

walk all the way to this bleedin' Crancularn. Might as well

get going. Only don't let's go spend the 'ole trip bJamin'

poor oP Mudge for the fact that we ain't ridin' in comfort."

 

"Fair enough. And you don't blame me for this." So

saying, he booted the otter in the rump so hard it took

Roseroar's strength to extract him from the pile of barrels

where he landed.

 

They slunk out of Snarken on foot—tired, anxious, and

broke. Mudge grumbled every step of the way but ac-

knowledged his mistake (sort of) by assuming the lead. It

was also a matter of self-defense, since it kept him well

out of range of Jon-Tom's boot.

 

Mudge also partly redeemed himself by returning from

one short disappearance with an armful of female clothing,

a bit of doubtful scavenging which Jon-Tom forced himself

to rationalize.

 

"Lifted it from a drunken serval," the otter explained as

Folly delightedly traded her black nightdress for the frilly

if somewhat too-small attire. "The doxy I took it off won't

miss it, and we've need of it."

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

179

 

They moved steadily through the city's outskirts. By the

time the sun rose over the horizon to illuminate the now

distant harbor, they were crossing the highest hill west-

ward. There they traded some goods from Jon-Tom's pack

for breakfast at a small inn, as he wanted to try and

hold on to their three remaining gold pieces for an emer-

gency. Midday saw them far from the city, hiking between

rows of well-tended fruit trees.

 

Mudge was rubbing his belly. "Not bad for foreign

cookin', mate."

 

"No, but we're going to have to eat lightly to conserve

what money we have left."

 

"We could sell the girl's favors."

 

"Not a bad idea," Jon-Tom said thoughtfully.

 

Mudge looked at him in surprise. "Wot's that? You

agrees?''

 

"Sure, if it's okay with her." He called ahead. "Hey,

Roseroar! Mudge here has a suggestion about how you can

help us raise some cash."

 

"No, no, no, mate!" said the suddenly panicky otter.

"I meant the girl, the girl."

 

Jon-Tom shrugged. "Big girl, little girl, what's the

difference?" He started to call out to the tigress a second

time. Mudge slammed a muffling paw over Jon-Tom's

mouth, having to stand on tiptoes to manage it.

 

"Okay, guv'nor. I get your point. I'll keep me ideas to

meseif."

 

"See that you do, or I'll repeat your suggestion to

Roseroar."

 

"I'd deny 'avin' anything to do with it."

 

"Sure you will, but who do you think she'll believe, me

or you?"

 

"That'd be a foul subterfuge, mate."

 

"In which inventions I have an excellent teacher."

 

Mudge wasn't flattered by the backhanded compliment.

 

They marched steadily westward. As the days passed the

character of the country grew increasingly rural. Houses

 

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181

 

were fewer and far between. Semitropical flora made way

for coniferous forest that reminded Mudge of his beloved

Bell woods. The palms and thin-barked trees of the coast

fell behind them.

 

They asked directions of the isolated travelers they

encountered. All inquiries were met with expressions of

disbelief or confessions of ignorance. Everyone seemed to

know that Crancularn lay to the west. Exactly where to the

west, none were able to say with certainty.

 

Besides, there was naught to be found in Crancularn but

trouble, and the country folk had no need of more of that.

They were busy enough avoiding the attentions of Snarken's

predatory tax collectors.

 

In short, Crancularn was well-known, by reputation if

not by sight, and that reputation was not enticing to

potential visitors.

 

Two days after the road had become a mere trail, they

settled down to enjoy the bright sunshine. A clear stream

followed the track, tumbling glassily on its course down to

the now distant Glittergeist. An octet of commune spiders

were busy building a six-foot-square web between two

trees. They would share equally in any catch.

 

Jon-Tom studied the pinecone that had fallen near his

feet. It was Jong and slim, and the scales shone like

bronze. Mudge had slipped out of his boots and was

wading the stream, wishing it were deep enough for him to

have a swim, while Jalwar had wandered into the woods in

search of berries and edible roots to supplement their

meager diet. Roseroar catnapped beneath an evergreen

whose trunk grew almost parallel to the ground, while

Folly, as always, stayed as close to Jon-Tom as he would

allow.

 

"Don't look so discouraged," she said. "We'll get

there."

 

Jon-Tom was picking at the cone, tossing the pieces into

the stream and watching the little triangular brown boats

until they disappeared over slick stones.

 

"How can we get there if nobody can give us direc-

tions? 'West' isn't good enough. I thought it would be

easy once we got out of Snarken. I thought at least a few

of the country folk would know the way to Crancularn.

From what Clotharmmp told me, this store of the Aether

and Neither is supposed to be pretty famous."

 

"Famous enough to avoid," Folly murmured.

 

"Some of them must be lying. They must be. I can't

believe not a soul knows the way. Why won't they tell

 

us?"

 

Folly looked thoughtful. "Maybe they're concerned and

want to protect us from ourselves. Or maybe none of them

really do know the way."

 

"Mebbee they don't know the way, boy, because it

moves around."

 

"What?" Jon-Tom looked back to see an old chipmunk

standing next to a botherbark bush. He pressed against the

small of his back with his left paw and gripped the end of

a curved cane with the other. Narrow glasses rested on the

nose, and an ancient floppy hat nearly covered his head

down to the eyes. A gray shirt hung open to the waist,

and below he wore brown dungarees held up by suspend-

ers. He also had very few teeth left.

 

"What do you mean, it moves around?" Roseroar

looked up interestedly and moved to join them. The

chipmunk's eyes went wide at the sight and Jon-Tom

hurried to reassure him.

 

"That's Roseroar. She's a friend."

 

"That's good," said the chipmunk prosaically. Mudge

turned to listen but was reluctant to abandon the cool

water.

 

The oldster leaned against the tree for support and

waved his cane. "I mean, it moves around, sonny. It never

stays in the same place for very long."

 

"That's crazy," said Folly. "It's just another town."

 

"Oh, it's a town, all right, but not like any other, lass.

Not Crancularn." He peered out from beneath the brim of

 

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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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Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

185

 

clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool,

damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays

of the sun.

 

They spent most of the day searching along the creek

before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall

forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They

topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope

where they camped for the night.

 

By the afternoon of the following day they were explor-

ing their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to

think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an

especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the

expense of some gullible travelers.

 

They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly

erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow

flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.

 

Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for

her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar's fur

bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar

with the otter's overreactions, left his staff alone.

 

"What the hell bit you?"

 

Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. "SometmV

sure as 'ell did. 'Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I'm

bleedin'?" He turned to her and bent slightly.

 

She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby

tail and protected by leather shorts. "I don't see anything."

 

" 'Ave a close look."

 

"You fuzzy pervert." She gave him a look of disgust as

she moved away.

 

"No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but

somethin' took a chunk out o' me backside for sure,"

 

"Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?"

 

The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity

of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look,

searching for the source of the denial.

 

Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as

the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at

 

something  small,   winged,   feminine,   and drastically

overweight.

 

"I'll be damned," he murmured. "A fat fairy."

 

"Watch your mouth, buster," she said as she sort of

lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken

log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes

running through the bark. "I know I've got a small

personal problem, and I don't need some big-mouthed

human reminding me of the fact."

 

"Sorry." Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. "You are a

fairy, aren't you? One of the enchanted folk?"

 

"Nah," she snapped back, "I'm a stevedore from

Snarken."

 

Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled

wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara

gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist.

The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye.

She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right

hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were

shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.

 

"We were told," Folly said breathlessly, "that you

could help us."

 

"Now, why would I want to do that? We've got enough

problems of our own." She stared at Jon-Tom. "That's a

nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?"

 

"'e's a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,"

Mudge informed her. "Come all the way from across the

Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer."

 

"He's a right powerful fool," she snapped. She sat

down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most

casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to

be about four inches high and almost as wide.

 

"I'm called Jon-Tom." He introduced his companions.

An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, "What's

your name?"

 

"None of your business."

 

"Come on," he said coaxingly. "Whether you help us

 

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Alan Dean Foster

 

or not is up to you, but can't we at least be polite to one

another?"

 

"What's this? A polite human? That doesn't make any

sense, bald-body." She shrugged. "What the hell. My

name's Grelgen. Want to make something of it?"

 

"Uh, no." Jon-Tom decided he was going to have to

tread very carefully with this pint-size package of enchanted

belligerence.

 

"Smart answer. You got anything to eat?"

 

Jalwar started to rummage through his pack. "I think

we have some snake jerky, and there are a few hard rolls."

 

"Ptui!" She spat to her right. "I mean real food. Fruit

tarts, cream cups, nectar custard, whipped honey rolls."

 

Jon-Tom said carefully, "I think I am beginning to see

what your problem is."

 

"Oh, you are, are you, fungus-foot? You think every-

thing's cut and dried, don't you? It's all so obvious to

you." She was pacing now, back and forth atop the log,

waving her tiny hands to punctuate her words.

 

"Say, you can't fly, can you?"

 

She turned to face him. "Of course I can fly, dumbutt."

She wiggled her diaphanous wings. "What do you think

these are for? Air-conditioning?"

 

"All right, then let's see you fly. Come on, fly."

 

"Feh! You'd think I didn't have anything better to do

than put on a show for a bunch of pituitary freaks."

 

"You can't fly!" Jon-Tom said triumphantly. "That's

your big problem. You've gotten so..."

 

"Watch it, jack," she said wamingly.

 

"... so healthy that you can't lift off anymore. I wouldn't

think it would make a difference. A bumblebee's too heavy

for flight, but it manages, and without enchantment."

 

"I'm a fairy, one of the enchanted folk," Grelgen

informed him, speaking as one would to an idiot child.

"Not a bumblebee. There are structural, aerodynamic, and

metabolic differences you wouldn't understand. As for

problems, you're the ones who are stuck with the biggie."

 

THE DAT OF THK DISSONANCE

 

187

 

She stabbed the wand at Mudge. "That turkey tried to

assassinate me!"

 

Mudge gaped in surprise. "Wot, me? I did nothin* o'

the kind, your shortness."

 

"You sat on me, rat-breath."

 

"Like 'ell I did! You crawled underneath me. Anyways,

'ow was I supposed to see you or anything else under all

them flowers?"

 

Grelgen crossed her arm. "I was sitting there minding

my own business, having a little afternoon snack of nectar

and pollen, and you deliberately dropped your rat-butt

right on top of me."

 

"You expect me to inspect every patch o' ground I sit

down on?"

 

"In our lands, yes."

 

"We didn't know it were your lands." Mudge was fast

losing patience with this infinitesimal harridan.

 

"Ah-/ia! So, a casual assassin. The worst kind." She

put two fingers to her lips and let out a sharp, piercing

whistle. Jon-Tom listened admiringly. The sound was loud

enough to attract an empty cab from two blocks down a

Manhattan street.

 

What it did attract, from beneath mushrooms and flow-

ers, from behind moss beds and tree roots, was a swarm of

enchanted folk, several hundred of them. A few carried

wands resembling Grelgen's, but most hefted miniature

bows and arrows, crossbows, and spears. Jon-Tom put a

hand out to restrain Roseroar from picking up her swords,

even though the tigress weighed more than all the enchanted

folk combined.

 

"Magic," he whispered warningly.

 

Roseroar yielded, but not to his admonition. "Magic or

no, the tips of then: weapons are moistened. I suspect

poison. An ungallant way to fight."

 

"I guess if you're four inches tall you have to use every

advantage you can think of."

 

Jalwar moved close, whispered to him. "Move carefully

 

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Alan Dean Poster

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

189

 

here, spellsinger, or we may vanish in an arrogant conjura-

tion. These folk have a deserved reputation for powerful

magic."

 

"That's how I figure it," he replied. "Maybe they're

not all as obnoxious or combative as our friend there."

 

"What's that, what did you say?"

 

"I said," he told Grelgen, "that it's nice of you to

invite us to meet all your friends and relatives."

 

"When one of us is threatened, buster, all spring to the

rescue."

 

Jon-Tom noted that none of the fairies surrounding them

were in any condition to fly. Every one of them waddled

about with obvious difficulty, and the slimmest was a

candidate for the enchanted branch of Weight Watchers.

 

"You're our prisoners," she finished.

 

"I see," said Mudge. "And wot if we decide not to be

your prisoners?"

 

"Then you'll be dead," she assured him unpleasantly.

.    Mudge studied the array of glistening little weapons.

" 'Ospitable folk, wot?"

 

"Watch 'em," said Grelgen to her relations. She turned

and sauntered to the end of the branch, hopped off, and

landed with a wheeze in the grass below. There she entered

into a mumbling conversation with several other wand-

bearers. Most of them were clad only in rags and tatters.

 

Mudge would have to sit on someone of importance,

thought Jon-Tom angrily. The conference broke up mo-

ments later.

 

"This way," said one of the other armed fairies, gestur-

ing upstream. Surrounded by miniuscule guards, they were

marched off up the creek.

 

"You sure you didn't see her, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked

the otter.

 

"Would I 'ave been stupid enough to sit on 'er if I 'ad,

mate? Use your 'ead. It were those bloody flowers."

 

"You weren't looking, then," Jon-Tom said accusingly.

 

"So I weren't lookin*. Should I 'ave been lookin'?"

 

"No, I guess not. It's nobody's fault."

 

"Pity I didn't flatten 'er," the otter murmured, careful

to keep his voice down.

 

"It might not have mattered, sir," Jalwar murmured.

"The fairy folk are known for their resilience."

 

"I can see that," said Mudge, studying their obese

escort. "The one with the mouth looks like she could

bounce."

 

"Be quiet," said Jon-Tom. "We're in enough trouble

already. She'll hear you."

 

"Damned if I care if she does, guv." The otter had his

hands shoved in his pockets and kicked disgustedly at

pebbles as they walked along the side of the creek. "If she

ain't got common sense to see that—"

 

A paw the size of his head covered his mouth and,

incidently, most of his face. "Watch yo mouth, ottah,"

Roseroar told him. "Yo heard Jon-Tom. Let's not irritate

these enchanted folk any moah than we already have."

 

"I'd like to irritate 'em," said the otter when she'd

removed her paw. But his voice had become a whisper.

 

The stream narrowed. Canyon walls closed in tight

around the marchers, all but shutting out the sun. Trees

and bushes grew into one another, forming a dense,

hard-to-penetrate tangle. The captives had to fight their

way through the thickening undergrowth.

 

Dusk brought them to the outskirts of the enchanted

folk's village. In appearance it was anything but enchanted.

Tiny huts and homes were scattered around a natural

amphitheater. Evidence of disrepair and neglect abounded.

Some of the buildings were falling down, and even those

cut into massive tree roots had piles of trash mounded up

against the doorways. To Jon-Tom all this was clear proof

of a loss of pride among the inhabitants.

 

Tiny lights flickered to life behind many of the miniature

windows, and smoke started to curl from minute chim-

neys. Off to one side of the community a circular area was

surrounded by a stone wall pierced by foot-high archways.

 

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Alan Dean Poster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

191

 

The six-inch high wall ended at both ends against a sheer

cliff of gray granite.

 

The four captives filled this arena. Once they were

inside the insignificant walls, Grelgen and two other fairies

stood within the archways waving their wands and murmuring

importantly. When the invocation was finished, she stepped

back and retreated toward the village with her cronies.

 

Folly took a step toward the minuscule barrier and tried

to step over. She gasped and drew back as if bitten,

holding her right hand.

 

"What is it?" Jon-Tom asked anxiously.

 

"It's hot. The air's hot."

 

Experimentally, Jon-Tom waved at the emptiness above

the tiny stone wall. An invisible wall of flame now

enclosed them. He shook his hand and blew on his fingers

to cool them, deciding they weren't going to blister.

Escape wouldn't be easy.

 

Roseroar sighed and settled herself on the hard ground.

"An ironic conclusion to yoah expedition, Jon-Tom. Cap-

tured and imprisoned by a bunch of disgruntled, not to

mention uncouth, enchanted folk."

 

"Don't be so quick to give up. They may decide to let

us go yet. Besides," he swung his duar around, "we have

magic of our own."

 

Mudge looked imploringly heavenward. "Why me, wot?"

 

"I do not know that spellsinging will work against the

fairy folk, sir," said Jalwar. "In my travels I have heard

that they are immune to all forms of magic except their

own. It may be that yours will have no effect on them, and

may even be turned against you."

 

"You don't say." Jon-Tom's fingers fell from the duar's

strings, together with what remained of his confidence. "I

didn't know that."

 

"It may not be so, but it is what I have heard many

times."

 

"We'll hold it as a last resort, then."

 

"Wot difference does it make, mate? 'Alf the time it

 

backfires on you anyhows. If it doubles back on us I

wouldn't want it to 'appen while I'm stuck in this clearin'."

 

"Neither would I, Mudge." He looked out toward the

winking lights of the village. "We may not have any

choice. They don't seem much inclined to listen to reason."

 

"I think they're all crazy," commented Folly.

 

In the fading light she looked healthy and beautiful. The

impermanent bruises and scars Corroboc had inflicted on

her were healing fast. She was resilient, tough, and grow-

ing more feminine by the day. She was also making

Jon-Tom increasingly uneasy.

 

He turned to Mudge, saw the otter standing as close as

possible to the invisible barrier enclosing them.

 

"What's up, Mudge?"

 

The otter screwed up his face, his whiskers twitching.

"Can't you smell it, too, mate? Garbage." He nodded

toward the town. "It's everywhere. Maybe they're enchanted,

but that's not the word I'd use to describe their sewage

system."

 

"Ah saw their gardens when we came in," said Roseroar

thoughtfully. "They appeahed to be untended."

 

"So fairy town's gone to hell," Jon-Tom murmured.

"Something's very wrong here."

 

"Wot difference do it make to us, mate? We 'ave our

own problems. Dealin' with 'Er Crossness, for one thing."

 

"If we could figure out what's wrong here," Jon-Tom

argued, "maybe we could ingratiate ourselves with our

captors."

 

"You ingratiate yourself, mate. Me, I'm for some sleep."

 

Jon-Tom didn't doubt that the otter could sleep on the

bare rock. If Mudge were tossed out of a plane at twenty

thousand feet, the otter could catch twenty winks before

awakening to open his parachute. It was a talent he often

envied.

 

"Sleeping won't solve our problem."

 

"It'll solve me immediate one, mate. I'm pooped."

 

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Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

193

 

"Perhaps yoah magic will work against the enchanted

folk," Roseroar said hopefully.

 

"I don't know." Jon-Tom tapped the wood of the duar,

was rewarded with a melodious thumping sound. The

moon was shining down into the narrow defile, illuminat-

ing the dense woods surrounding them. "I'm going to hold

off till the last possible moment to find out."

 

The tigress was slipping out of her armor and using it to

make a crude pillow. "Ah don't know." She rested her

massive head on black and white paws. "It seems to me

that we're already theah."

 

Grelgen and the rest of the fairy council came for them

in the morning. Their principal nemesis had changed into a

flowing gown of orange chiffon. The bright pastel attire

had not softened her disposition, however.

 

"We've been considering what to do with you bums

most of the night," she informed them brusquely.

 

Jon-Tom stretched, pushed at his tower back, and wished1,

he'd had the sense to use Roseroar for a cushion. He was

stiff and sore from spending the night on the hard ground.

 

"All I can tell you is that we're innocent of any charges

you discussed. So what are you going to do now?"

 

"Eat," she informed him. "Talk more later."

 

"Well now, I could do with a spot o' breakfast!" Mudge

tried to muster some enthusiasm. Maybe Jon-Tom was right

after all, and these cute little enchanted bastards were finally

going to act in a civilized manner. "Where do we eat?"

 

"Wrong pronoun," Grelgen said. She turned to point

with her wand.

 

Jon-Tom followed it into the brush. What the poor light

of evening had kept hidden from view was now revealed

by the bright light of day. Up the creek beyond the town,

thick peeled branches spanned a shallow excavation. The

firepit showed signs of recent use.

 

Mudge saw it, too, and his initial enthusiasm vanished.

"Uh, wot's on the menu, luv?"

 

"Fricasseed water rat," she told him, with relish.

 

"Wot, me?" Mudge squeaked.

 

"Give the main course a bottle of elf dust. What better

end for a guilty assassin?"

 

Up till now Jon-Tom had considered their predicament

as nothing more than a matter of bad communication. This

new vision of a bunch of carnivorous fairies feasting on

Mudge's well-done carcass shoved everything over the

edge into the realm of the surreal.

 

"Listen, you can't eat any of us."

 

Grelgen rested pudgy hands on soft hips. "Why not?

 

Jon-Tom struggled for a sensible reply. "Well, for one

thing, it just doesn't fit your image."

 

She squinted sideways at him. "You," she said decisively,

"are nuts. I'm going to have to consult with the Elders to

make sure it's okay to eat crazy people."

 

"I mean, it just doesn't seem right. What about your

honey rolls and custards and like that?"

 

Grelgen hesitated. When she spoke again, she sounded

slightly embarrassed.

 

"Actually, you're right. It's only that every once in a

while we get this craving, see? Whoever's unlucky enough

to be in the neighborhood at the time ends up on the

village menu." She glanced over at Folly and tried to

regain some of her former arrogance. "We also find it

helpful now and then to bathe in the blood of a virgin."

 

Folly digested this and collapsed, rolling about on the

ground while laughing hysterically. Grelgen saw the tears

pouring down the helpless girl's cheeks, grunted, and

looked back over a shoulder. Jon-Tom followed her gaze.

 

On the far side of fairy town a bunch of muscular,

overweight enchanted folk were sliding an oversized wooden

bowl down a slope. At the sound of Grelgen's voice they

halted.

 

"Right! Cancel the bathing ceremony!"

 

Cursing under their breath, the disappointed bowl mov-

ers reversed their efforts and began pushing their burden

back into the bushes.

 

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THE DAY OF TBE DISSONANCE

 

195

 

"So you think it's funny, do you? Right then, you're

first on the fire instead of the water rat."

 

That put a clamp on Folly's laughter.

 

"Why her?" Jon-Tom demanded to know.

 

"Why not her? For one thing she's already depelted."

 

"Oh, no you don't." Folly braced herself against the

bare granite wall, as far from Grelgen as she could get.

"You just try and touch me! I'll squash you like a bug."

 

Grelgen looked disgusted, waved her wand almost

indifferently, and whispered something under her breath.

Folly leaped away from the wall, clutching her backside.

The stone had become red-hot.

 

"Might as well resign yourself to it, girl," said Grelgen.

"You're on this morning's menu and that's all there is to

it. If there's anything that gets my gall it's an uncooperative

breakfast."

 

"Please," Jon-Tom pleaded with her, dropping to his

knees to be nearer eye level with their tormentor. "We

mean you no harm. We only came into your lands to ask

you for some information."

 

"Sorry. Like I said, we've got the craving, and when it

comes upon us we've got to have meat."

 

"But why us?" Mudge asked her. "These woods must

be full o' lizards and snakes enough to supply your 'ole

village."

 

"Food doesn't wander into our custody," she snapped at

him. "We don't like hunting. And the forest creatures

don't stage unprovoked assaults on our person."

 

"Blimey," Mudge muttered. "'Ow can such small

'eads be so bloomin' dense? I told you that were an

accident!"

 

Grelgen stared silently at him as she tapped one tiny

glass slipper with her wand. Jon-Tom absently noted that

the slipper was three sizes too small for her not-so-tiny

foot.

 

"Don't give me any trouble. I'm in a disagreeable mood

as it is." She whistled up a group of helpers and they

 

started through one archway toward Folly. Her initial

defiance burned out of her, she hid behind Roseroar.

Jon-Tom knew that wouldn't save her.

 

"Look," he said desperately, trying to stall for time as

he swung the duar into playing position and tried to think

of something to sing, "you said that meat isn't usually

what you eat, that you only have this craving for it

occasionally?"

 

"What about it?" Grelgen snapped impatiently.

 

"What do you eat normally? Besides what you told me

earlier."

 

"Milk and honey, nectar and ambrosia, pollen and sugar

sap. What else would fairy folk eat?"

 

"So that's it. I had a hunch." A surge of hope rushed

through him.

 

"What's it?" she asked, frowning at him.

 

He sat down and crossed his legs, set the duar aside. "I

don't suppose there are any professional dieticians in the

village?''

 

"Any what?"

 

"No, of course not. See, all your problems are diet-

related. It not only explains your unnatural craving for

protein, it also explains your, uh, unusually rotound fig-

ures. Milk's okay, but the rest of that stuff is nothing but

pure sugar. I mean, I can't even imagine how many

calories there are in a daily dose of ambrosia. You proba-

bly use a lot of glucose when you're flying, but when you

stop flying, well, the problem only compounds itself."

 

One of the Elder fairies waiting impatiently behind

Grelgen now stepped forward. "What is this human raving

about?"

 

Grelgen pushed him back. "It doesn't matter." She

turned back to Jon-Tom. "What you say makes no sense,

and it wouldn't matter if it did, because we still have our

craving." She started to aim her wand at the trembling

Folly. "No use in trying to hide, girl. Step out here where

I can see you."

 

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THE DAY OF TOR DISSONANCE

 

197

 

Jon-Tom leaned sideways to block her aim. "Wait!

You've got to listen to me. Don't you see? If you'd only

change your eating habits you'd lose this craving for

protein."

 

"We're not interested in changing our eating habits,"

said another of the Elders. "We like nectar and honey and

ambrosia."

 

"All right, all right!" Jon-Tom said frantically. "Then

there's only one way out. The only other way to reduce

your craving for protein is for you to start burning off all

these extra ounces you've been accumulating. You've got

to break the cycle." He picked up the duar.

 

"At least give me a chance to help you. Maybe I can't

do it with spellsinging, but there are all kinds of magic."

 

"Consider carefully, man," Grelgen warned him. "Don't

you think we're aware that we have a little problem? Don't

you think we've tried to use our own magic to solve it?"

 

"But none of you is a spellsinger."

 

"No. That's not our kind of magic. But we've tried

everything. We're stuck with what we are. Your spellsinging

can't help us. Nothing can help us. We've experimented

with every type of magic known to the enchanted folk, as

well as that employed by the magic-workers of the greater

world. We're trapped by our own metabolisms." She

rolled up her sleeves. "Now let's get on with this without

any more bullshitting, okay?" She raised the wand again.

 

"Just one chance, just give me one chance!" he pleaded.

 

She swung the wand around to point it at him, and he

flinched. "I'm warning you, buster, if this is some sort of

trick, you'll cook before her."

 

"There's one kind of magic I don't think you've tried."

 

She made a rude noise. "Worm dung! We've tried it

all."

 

"Even aerobics?"

 

Grelgen opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned to

conference with the Elders. Jon-Tom waited nervously.

 

Finally she stuck her head out of the pile and inquired

almost reluctantly, "What strange sort of magic is this?"

 

Jon-Tom took a deep breath and rose. Putting aside the

duar, he began stripping to the waist.

 

Roseroar came over to whisper in his ear. "Suh, are yo

preparin' some trick ah should know about? Should ah be

ready with mah swords?"

 

"No, Roseroar. No tricks."

 

She shrugged and moved away, shaking her head.

 

Jon-Tom started windmilling his arms, loosening up.

Grelgen immediately retreated several steps and raised

the wand threateningly. "All you need is to learn this

magic," he said brightly. "A regular program of aerobics.

Not only will it reduce your unnatural craving for protein,

it should bring back your old aerodynamic figures."

 

"What does that mean?" asked one of the younger

fairies.

 

"It means we'll be able to fly again, stupid," replied

one of the Elders as he jabbed the questioner in the ribs.

 

"Fly again." The refrain was taken up by the rest of the

crowd.

 

"It's a trick!" snapped Grelgen, but the weight of

opinion (so to speak) was against her.

 

"All right." She tucked her wand under one arm and

glared up at Jon-Tom. "You get your chance, man. If this

is a trick to buy time, it better be good, because it's going

to be your last one."

 

"It's no trick," Jon-Tom assured her, feeling the sweat

starting to trickle from beneath his arms. And he hadn't

even begun yet.

 

"Look, I'm no Richard Simmons, but I can see we need

to start with the basics." He was aware he had the

undivided attention of several hundred sets of eyes. He

took a deep breath, thankful for the morning runs which

kept him in decent condition. "We're going to start with

some deep knee-bends. Hands on hips... watch those

 

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Tarn DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

199

 

wings, that's it. Ready." He hesitated. "This would work

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

 

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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."

 

212

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

 

213

 

Panting hard in the rising light, Jon-Tom slowed to a

walk, unable to maintain the pace. On firm ground he

might have kept up, but not in the soft sand. Roseroar and

Mudge were equally winded.

 

"What was that all about, Jon-Tom?" asked Roseroar.

 

"I'm not sure. It didn't make much sense."

 

"Ah you not a spellsingah?"

 

"I know my songs, but not other magic. If Clothahump

were here ..."

 

"If 'is wizardship were 'ere we wouldn't be, mate."

 

"What do you think of their warning?"

 

Sand was building up around the otter's feet, and he

kicked angrily at it. "They were both scared. Wot of I

couldn't say, but scared they were. I think we'd better

listen to 'em and get a move on. Make Redrock by

nightfall, they said. If they can do it, so can we. Let's get

to it."

 

They began to jog, keeping up a steady pace and taking

turns in the lead. They barely paused to eat and made

lavish use of their water. The more they drank, the less

there was to carry, and if the warning was as significant as

it had seemed, they would have to drink in Redrock that

night or not drink at all.

 

As for the nature of the menace, that began to manifest

itself as they ran.

 

It was evening, and still no sign of the city, nor of the

caravan, which had far outdistanced them. The sand was

moving rapidly now, threatening to engulf their feet every

time they paused to catch their breath.

 

At first he thought he was sinking. A quick glance

revealed the truth. The ground behind them was rising. It

was as. if they were running inland from a beach and the

beach was pursuing, a steadily mounting tidal wave of

sand. He thought about turning and trying to scramble to

the crest of the granular wave. What stopped him was the

possibility that on the other side they might find only

another, even higher surge.

 

So they ran on, their lungs heaving, legs aching. Once

Mudge stumbled and they had to pull him to his feet while

the sand clutched eagerly at his legs.

 

When he fell a second time, he tried to wave them off. It

was as if his seemingly inexhaustible energy had finally

given out.

 

" 'Tis no use, lad. I can't go on anymore. Save your-

selves." He fluttered weakly with a paw.

 

Jon-Tom used the pause to catch his wind. "You're

right, Mudge," he finally declared. "That's the practical

thing to do. I'll always remember how nobly you died."

He turned to go on. Roseroar gave him a questioning look

but decided not to comment.

 

A handful of sand struck Jon-Tom on the back of the

neck. "Noble, me arse! You would've left me 'ere, wouldn't

you? Left poor old Mudge to die in the sand!"

 

Jon-Tom grinned, took care to conceal it from the

apoplectic otter. "Look, mate. I'm tired, too, and I'm

damned if I'm going to carry you."

 

The otter staggered after his companions. "I suppose you

think it's funny, don't you, you 'ypocritical, angular bastard?"

 

Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn't

spare the wind. "Come off it, Mudge. You know we

wouldn't have left you."

 

"Oh, wouldn't you, now? Suppose I 'adn't gotten up to

follow you, eh? Wot then? 'Ow do I knows you would've

come back for me?"

 

"It's a moot point, Mudge. You were just trying to hitch

a ride."

 

"I admit nothin'." The otter pushed past him, taking the

lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons.

 

"A strange one, yoah fuzzy little friend," Roseroar

whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to his.

 

"Oh, Mudge is okay. He's a lazy, lying little cheat, but

other than that he's a prince."

 

Roseroar considered this. "Ah believes the standards o'

yoah world must be somewhat different from mine."

 

214

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

"Depends on what part of my culture you come from.

Mudge, for example, would be right at home in a place

called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would

be much in demand."

 

Roseroar shook her head. "Those names have no meanuT

fo me."

 

"That's okay. They don't for a lot of my contemporaries,

either."

 

The sand continued to rise behind them, mounting

toward the darkening sky. At any moment the wave might

crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them, swallowing

them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of

anything except lifting his legs and setting one foot down

ahead of the other. When the angle of the dune rising in

their wake became sharper than forty-five degrees the sand

would be rushing at them so rapidly they would be hard

put to keep free of its grasp.

 

All around them, in both directions as far as they could

see, the desert was climbing for the stars. He could only

wonder at the cause. The Conjunction, the pack rat had

said. The moon was up now, reaching silvery tendrils

toward the panting, desperate refugees. At moonrise, the

rat told him. But when would the critical moment come?

Now, in minutes, or at midnight? How much time did they

have left?

 

Then Roseroar was shouting, and a cluster of hills

became visible ahead of them. As they ran on, the outlines

of the hills sharpened, grew regular and familiar: Redrock,

so named for the red sandstone of which its multistoried

towers and buildings had been constructed. In the first

moonlight and the last rays of the sun the city looked as if

it were on fire.

 

Now they found themselves among other stragglers—

some on foot, others living in free association with camels

and burros. Some snapped frantic whips over the heads of

dray lizards.

 

Several ostrich families raced past, heavy backpacks

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

215

 

strapped to their useless wings. They carried no passen-

gers. Nor did the family of cougars that came loping in

from the north, running on hind legs like Roseroar. Bleating

and barking, honking and complaining, these streams of

divergent life came together in pushing, shoving lines that

struggled to enter the city.

 

"We're going to make it!" he shouted to his compan-

ions as they merged with the rear of the mob. He was

afraid to look back lest an avalanche of brown-and-yellow

particles prove him a fatal liar. His throat felt like the

underside of the hood of a new Corvette after a day of

drag-racing, but he didn't dare stop for a drink until they

were safely inside the city walls.

 

Then the ground fell away beneath him.

 

They were on a bridge, and looking down he could see

through the cracks in the wood. The lumber to build it

must have come from distant mountains. There was no

bottom to the moat, a black ring encircling the city.

 

His first thought was that Redrock had been built on a

hill in the center of some ancient volcanic crater. A glance

at the walls of the moat proved otherwise. They were too

regular, too smooth, and too vertical to have been fashioned

by hand. Something had dug the awesome ring. Who or

what, he could not imagine.

 

Thick smells and heavy musk filled the air around him.

The bridge seemed endless, the gaps between the heavy

timbers dangerously wide. If he missed a step and put a

leg through, he wouldn't fall, but he would be trampled by

the anxious mass of life crowding about him.

 

Once within the safety of the city walls, the panic

dissipated. Lines of tall guards clad in yellow shepherded

the exhausted flow of refugees into the vast courtyard

beyond the gate. There were no buildings within several

hundred yards of the wall and the moat just beyond. A

great open space had been provided for all who sought

shelter from the rising sands. How often did this phenom-

 

216

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

enon take place? The camel and the pack rat hadn't said,

but it was obviously a regular and predictable occurrence.

 

"I have to see what's going on outside," he told

Roseroar. She nodded, towering above most of the crowd.

 

Tents had been set up in expectation of the flood of

refugees. Jon-Tom and his companions were among the

last to enter, but they had interests other than shelter.

 

"This way," the tigress told him. She took his hand and

pulled him bodily through the milling, swarming crowd, a

striped iceberg breasting a sea of fur. Somehow Mudge

managed to keep up.

 

Then they found themselves by the city wall, followed

it until they came to stone stairs leading upward. Jon-Tom

let loose of Roseroar's paw and led the way.

 

Would the sand wave fill the moat? If so, what would

happen afterward?

 

A few others already stood watching atop the wall. They

were calm and relaxed, so Jon-Tom assumed there was no

danger. Everyone in the city was handling the situation too

well for there to be any danger.

 

One blase guard, a tall serval wearing a high turban to

protect his delicate ears, stood aside to let them pass.

"Mind the vibration, visitors," he warned them

 

They reached the top and stared out over the desert.

Beyond the moat, the world was turning upside down.

 

There was no sign of the far mountains they had left

many days ago. No sign of any landmark. Not a rock

protruded from the ground. There was only the sand sea

rising and rushing toward the city in a single wave two

hundred feet high, roaring like a billion pans of frying

bacon. Jon-Tom wanted to reach back and put his hand on

the guard, to ask what was going to happen next. Since

none of the other onlookers did so, he held his peace and

like them, simply stood and gaped.

 

The massive wave did not fall forward to smash against

the puny city walls. It began to slide into the dark moat,

pouring in a seemingly endless waterfall into the unbelievable

 

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

 

217

 

excavation. The wave was endless, too. As they watched

it seemed to grow even higher, climbing toward the clouds

as its base disappeared into the moat.

 

The thunder was all around him, and he could feel the

sandstone blocks quivering underfoot. Jon-Tom turned.

Across the roofs of the city, in all directions, he could see

the wave. The city was surrounded by rushing sand hun-

dreds of feet high and inestimable in volume, all of it

cascading down into the depths which surrounded Redrock.

 

Thirty minutes passed. The wave began to shrink. Un-

countable tons of sand continued to pour into the moat,

which still showed no sign of filling up. Another thirty

minutes and the torrent had slowed to a trickle. A few

minutes more and the last grains tumbled into the abyss.

 

Beyond, the moon illuminated the skeleton of the de-

sert. Bare rock stood revealed, as naked as the surface of

the moon. Between the city and the mountains, nothing

lived, nothing moved. A few hollows showed darkly

in the rock, ancient depressions now emptied of sand and

gravel.

 

A soft murmur rose from the onlookers as they turned

away from the moat and the naked desert to face the center

of the city. Jon-Tom and his companions turned with them.

 

In the exact center of Redrock a peculiar glassy tower

stood apart from the sandstone buildings. All eyes focused

on the slim spire. There was a feeling of expectation.

 

He was about to give in to curiosity and ask the guard

what was going to happen when he heard something

nimble. The stone under his feet commenced quivering. It

was a different tremor this time, as though the planet itself

were in motion. The rumbling deepened, became a roar-

ing, then a constant thunder. Something was happening

deep inside the earth.

 

"What is it, what's going on?" Roseroar yelled at him.

He did not reply and could not have made himself heard

had he tried.

 

218

 

Alan Dean Foster

 

Sudden, violent wind blew hats from heads and veils

from faces. Jon-Tom's cape stretched out straight behind

him like an iridescent flag. He staggered, leaned into the

unexpected hurricane as he tried to see the tower.

 

The sands of the Timeful Desert erupted skyward from

the open mouth of the glass pillar, climbing thousands of

feet toward the moon. Reaching some predetermined height,

the silica geyser started to spread out beneath the clouds.

Jon-Tom instinctively turned to seek shelter, but stopped

when he saw that none of the other pilgrims had moved.

 

As though sliding down an invisible roof, the sand did

not fall anywhere within the city walls. Instead, it spread

out like a cloud, to fall as yellow rain across the desert. It

continued to fall for hours as the tower blasted it into the

sky. Only when the moon was well past its zenith and had

begun to set again did the volume decrease and finally

peter out.

 

Then the geyser fell silent. The chatter of the refugees

and the cityfolk filled the air, replacing the roar of the

tower. A glance revealed that the bottomless moat was

empty once again.

 

Beyond the wall, beyond the moat, the Timeful Desert

once more was as it had been. All was still. The absence

of life there despite the presence of water was now explained.

 

"Great magic," said Roseroar solemnly.

 

"Lethal magic." Mudge twitched his nose. "If we'd

been a few minutes longer we'd be out there somewhere

with our 'earts stopped and our guts full o' sand."

 

Jon-Tom stopped a passing fox. "Is it over? What

happens now?"

 

"What happens now, man," said the fox, "is that we

sleep, and we celebrate the end of another Conjunction.

Tomorrow we return to our homes." She pushed past him

and started down the stairs.

 

Jon-Tom resorted to questioning one of the guards. The

muskrat was barely four feet tall and wore his fur cut