Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance Read online

  Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

  Foster, Alan Dean

  "I'm dying," Clothahump wheezed. The wizard glanced

  to his left. 'Tm dying and you stand there gawking like a

  virginal adolescent who's just discovered that his blind

  date is a noted courtesan. With your kind of help I'll never

  live to see my three-hundredth birthday."

  "With your kind of attitude it's a wonder you've man-

  aged to live this long." Jon-Tom was more than a little

  irritated at his mentor. "Listen to yourself: two weeks of

  nonstop griping and whining. You know what you are,

  turtle of a wizardly mien? You're a damned hypochondriac.''

  Clothahump's face did not permit him much of a frown,

  but he studied the tall young human warily. "What is that?

  It sounds vaguely like a swear word. Don't toy with me,

  boy, or it will go hard on you. What is it? Some magic

  word from your own world?"

  "More like a medical word. It's a descriptive term, not

  a threat. It refers to someone who thinks they're sick all

  the time, when they're not."

  "Oh, so I'm imagining that my head is fragmenting, is

  that what you're saying?" Jon-Tom resisted the urge to

  2 Alan Dean Foster

  reply, sat his six-feet-plus frame down near the pile of

  pillows that served the old turtle for a bed.

  Not for the first time he wondered at the number of

  spacious rooms the old oak tree encompassed. There were

  more alcoves and chambers and tunnels in that single trunk

  than in a termite's hive.

  He had to admit, though, that despite his melodramatic

  moans and wails, the wizard didn't look like himself. His

  plastron had lost its normal healthy luster, and the old eyes

  behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from the

  pain. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so abrupt. If

  Clothahump couldn't cure himself with his own masterly

  potions and spells, then he was well and truly ill.

  "I know what I am," Clothahump continued, "but

  what of you? A fine spellsinger you've turned out to be."

  "I'm still learning," Jon-Tom replied defensively. He

  fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar

  instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic

  through the use of song. One might think it a dream come

  true for a young rock guitarist-cum-law student, save for

  the fact that he didn't seem to have a great deal of control

  ' over the magic he made.

  Since the onslaught of Clothahump's pains, Jon-Tom

  had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and

  good feelings. None had produced the slightest effect with

  the exception of his spirited rendition of the Beach Boys'

  "Good Vibrations." That bit of spellsinging caused

  Clothahump to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and

  potions flying and cracking his glasses.

  Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his

  hands off the duar and made no further attempts to cure the

  wizard.

  "I didn't really mean to imply that you're faking it," he

  added apologetically. "It's just that I'm as frustrated as

  you are."

  Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 3

  gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of the constant

  pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness.

  "I did the best I could," Jon-Tom murmured.

  "I know you did, my boy. I know you did. As you say,

  there is much yet for you to learn, many skills still to

  master."

  "I'm just bulling my way through. Half the time I pick

  the wrong song and the other half it has the wrong result.

  What else can I do?"

  Clothahump looked up sharply. "There is one chance

  for me, lad. There is a medicine which can cure what ails

  me now. Not a spell, not a magic. A true medicine."

  Jon-Tom rose from the edge of the pile of pillows. "I

  think I'd better be going. I haven't practiced yet today and

  I need to..."

  Clothahump moaned in pain and Jon-Tom hesitated,

  feeling guilty. Maybe it was a genuine moan and maybe it

  wasn't, but it had the intended effect.

  "You must obtain this medicine for me, my boy. I can't

  trust the task to anyone else. Evil forces are afoot."

  Jon-Tom sighed deeply, spoke resignedly. "Why is it

  whenever you want something, whether it's help making it

  to the bathroom or a snack or someone to go on a

  dangerous journey for you, that evil forces are always

  afoot?"

  "You ever see an evil force, boy?"

  "Not in the flesh, no."

  "Evil forces always go afoot. They're lousy fliers."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "Doesn't matter what you meant, my boy. You have to

  run this errand for me. That's all it is, a little errand."

  "Last time you asked me to help you run an errand we

  ended up with the fate of civilization at stake."

  "Well, this time it's only my fate that hangs in the

  balance." His voice shrank to a pitiful whisper. "You

  wouldn't want me to die, would you?"

  "No," Jon-Tom admitted. "I wouldn't."

  4 Alan Dean Foster

  "Of course you wouldn't. Because if I die it means the

  end of your chances to return to your own world. Because

  only I know the necessary, complicated, dangerous spell

  that can send you back. It is in your own interest to see

  that I remain alive and well."

  "I know, I know. Don't rub it in."

  "Furthermore," the wizard went on, pressing his advan-

  tage, "you are partly to blame for my present discomfort."

  "What!" Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. "I don't know

  what the hell you've got, Clothahump, but I certainly

  didn't give it to you."

  "My illness is compounded of many factors, not the

  least of which are my current awkward living conditions."

  Jon-Tom frowned and leaned on his long ramwood staff.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Ever since we returned from the great battle at the

  Jo-Troom Gate my daily life has been one unending litany

  of misery and frustration. All because you had to go and

  turn my rude but dutiful famulus Pog into a phoenix.

  Whereupon he promptly departed my service for the dubi-

  ous pleasures his falcon ladylove could bestow on him."

  "Is it my fault you've had a hard time replacing him?

  That's hardly a surprise, considering the reputation you got

  for mistreating Pog."

  "I did not mistreat Pog," the wizard insisted. "I treated

  him exactly as an apprentice should be treated. It's true

  that I had to discipline him from time to time. That was

  due to his own laziness and incompetence. All part of the

  learning process." Clothahump straightened his new gl
asses.

  "Pog spread the details of your teaching methods all

  over the Betlwoods. But 1 thought the new famulus you

  finally settled on was working out okay."

  "Ha! It just goes to show what can happen when you

  don't read the fine print on someone's resume. It's too late

  now. I've made him my assistant and am bound to him, as

  he is to me."

  "What's wrong? I thought he was brilliant."

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE 5

  "He can be. He can be studious, efficient, and eager to

  learn."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Unfortunately, he has one little problem."

  "What kind of problem?"

  Clothahump's reply was interrupted by a loud, slurred

  curse from the room off to the left. The wizard gestured

  with his head toward the doorway, looked regretful.

  "Go see for yourself, my boy, and understand then what

  a constant upset my life has become."

  Jon-Tom considered, then shrugged and headed under

  the arched passageway toward the next chamber, bending

  low to clear the sill. He was so much taller than most of

  the inhabitants of this world that his height was an ever-

  present problem.

  Something shattered and there was another high-pitched

  curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of

  him as he emerged into the storeroom.

  It was as spacious as Clothahump's bedroom and the

  other chambers which somehow managed to coexist within

  the trunk of the old oak. Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full

  of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and

  workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.

  Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the break-

  age was Sorbl, Clothahump's new famulus. The young

  great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He

  wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule

  Clan.

  He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on

  his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible

  wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were

  exquisitely bloodshot.

  "Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?"

  The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his

  feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of

  'the workbench.

  6

  Alan Dean Foster

  "Shure I remember you," he said thickly. "You... you're

  that spielsunger... spoilsanger. ..."

  "Spellsinger," Jon-Tom said helpfully.

  "Thas what I said. You're that what I said from another

  world that the master brought through to hulp him against

  the Pleated Filk."

  "The master is not feeling well." He put his staff aside.

  "And you're not looking too hot either."

  "Hooo, me?" The owl looked indignant, walked away

  from the bench wavering only slightly. "I am perfectly

  fine, thank you." He glanced back at the bench. "Is just

  that I was looking for a certain bottle."

  "What bottle?"

  "Not marked, thish one." Sorbl looked conspiratorial

  and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye.

  "Medicinal liquid. Not for his ancientness in there. My

  bottle," he finished, suddenly belligerent. "Nectar."

  "Nectar? I thought owls liked mice."

  "What?" said the outraged famulus. For an instant

  Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents here-

  abouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other

  citizens of this world. "If I tried to take a bite out of a

  mouse, his relatives would come string me up. I'll stick to

  small lizards and snakishes. Listen," he continued more

  softly, "it's hard working for this wizard. I need a lil'

  lubrication now and then."

  "You get any more lubricated," Jon-Tom observed

  distastefully, "and your brains are going to slide out your

  ass."

  "Nonshensh. I am in complete control of myself." He

  turned back toward the bench, staggered over to the edge,

  and commenced a minute inspection of the surface with

  eyes that should have been capable of spotting an ant from

  a hundred yards away. At the moment, however, those

  huge orbs were operating at less than maximum efficiency.

  Jon-Tom shook his head in disgust and returned to the

  wizard's bedside.

  THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE 7

  "Well," asked Clothahump meaningfully, "what is your

  opinion of my new famulus?"

  "I think I see what you're driving at. I didn't notice any

  of the qualities you said he possesses. I'm pretty sure he

  was drunk."

  "Really?" said Clothahump dryly. "What a profound

  observation. We'll make a perceptive spellsinger out of

  you yet. He is like that too much of the time, my boy. I am

  blessed with a potentially brilliant famulus, a first-rate,

  worthy assistant. Sadly, Sorbl is also a lush. Do you know

  that I have to make him take a cart into town to buy

  supplies because every time he tries to fly in he ends up by

  running head-first into a tree and the local farmers have to

  haul him back to me in a wagon? Do you have any idea

  how embarrassing that is for the world's greatest wizard?"

  "I can imagine. Can't you cure him? I'd think an

  anti-inebriation spell would be fairly simple and straight-

  forward."

  "It is a vicious circle, my boy. Were I not so sick I

  could do so, but as it stands I cannot concentrate. Past two

  hundred the mind loses some of its resilience. I tried just

  that last week. All those methyl ethyl bethels in the spell

  are difficult enough to get straight when you're at the top

  of your form. Sick as I was, I must have transposed an -yl

  somewhere. Made him throw up for three days. Cured his

  drinking, but made him so ill the only way he could cure

  himself was by getting falling-down-drunk again.

  "I must have that medicine, lad, so that I can function

  properly again. Otherwise I'm liable to try some complex

  spell, slip an incantation, and end up with something

  dangerous in my pentagram. It's hard enough making sure

  that idiot in there passes me the proper powders. Once he

  substituted lettuce for liverwort, and I ended up with a

  ten-foot-tall saber-toothed rabbit. Took me two hasty re-

  traction spells to bunny it down."

  "Why don't you just conjure the stuff up?"

  "I do not possess the necessary ingredients," Clothahump

  8

  Alan Dean Foster

  explained patiently. "If I did, I could just take them, now,

  couldn't I?"

  "Beats me. I've seen you make chocolate out of garbage."

  "Medicine is rather more specific in its requirements.

  Everything must be so precise. You can make milk choco-

  late, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, semisweet

  chocolate: it's still all chocolate. Alter the composition of

  a medicinal spell ever so slightly and you might end up

  with a deadly poison. No, it must be brought whole and

  ready, and you must bring it to me, my boy." He reached

  out with a trembling hand. Jon-Tom moved close, si
tting

  down again on the edge of the soft bed.

  "I know I did a bad thing when I reached out into the

  beyond and plucked you hence from your own comfortable

  world, but the need was great. In the end, you vindicated

  my judgment, though in a fashion that could not have been

  foreseen." He adjusted his glasses. "You proved yourself

  in spite of what everyone thought."

  "Mostly by accident." Jon-Tom realized that the wizard

  was flattering him in order to break down his resistance to

  making the journey. At the same time he felt himself

  succumbing to the flattery.

  "It need not be by accident any longer. Work at your

  new profession. Study hard, practice your skills, and heed

  my advice. You can be more than a man in this world. I

  don't know what you might have been in your own, but

  here you have the potential to be a master. // you can

  wrestle your strengths and talent under control."

  "With your instruction, of course."

  "Why not learn from the best?" said Clothahump with

  typical immodesty. "In order for me to train you I need

  many years. One does not master the arcane arts of

  spellsinging in a day, a week, a year. If you do not fetch

  this medicine that can cure this bedamned affliction, I will

  not be around much longer to help you.

  "I need only a small quantity. It will fit easily into a

  THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAWCE 9

  pocket of those garish trousers or that absurd purple shirt

  that foppish tailor Carlemot fashioned for you."

  "It's not purple, it's indigo," Jon-Tom muttered, looking

  down to where it tucked into the pants. His iridescent

  green lizard-skin cape hung on a wall hook. "From what

  I've seen, this qualifies as subdued attire here."

  "Go naked if you will, but go you must."

  "All right, all right! Haven't you made me feel guilty

  enough?''

  "I sincerely hope so," the wizard murmured.

  "I don't know how I let you talk me into these things."

  "You have the misfortune to be a decent person, a

  constant burden in any world. You suffer from knowing

  right from wrong."

  "No I don't. If I knew what was right, I'd be long gone

  from this tree. But you did take me in, help me out, even

  if you did use me for your own ends. Not that I feel used.

  You used everyone for your own ends."

  "We saved the world," Clothahump demurred. "Not

  bad ends."

  "You're also right about my being stuck here unless you