Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance Read online

  can work the spell to send me home someday. So 1

  suppose I have no choice but to go after this special

  medicine. It's not by any chance available from the apoth-

  ecary in Lynchbany?"

  "I fear not."

  "What a lucky guess on my part."

  "Teh. Sarcasm in one so young is bad for the liver."

  Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table

  that doubled as a bedside desk. He scribbled with a quill

  pen on a piece of paper. A moment passed, he cursed, put

  a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed writing.

  When he finished, he rolled the paper tight, inserted it

  into a small metal tube which hung from a chain, and

  handed it to Jon-Tom.

  "Here is the formula," he said reverently. "She who is

  to fill it will know its meaning."

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  Alan Dean Foster

  Jon-Tom nodded, took the chain, and hung it around his

  neck. The tube was cool against his chest.

  "That is all you need to know."

  "Except how to find this magician, or druggist, or

  whatever she is."

  "A store. Nothing more." Clothahump's reassuring tone

  immediately put Jon-Tom on his guard. "The Shop of the

  Aether and Neither. It lies in the town of Crancularn."

  "I take it this Crancularn isn't a hop, skip, and a jump

  from Lynchbany?"

  "Depends on your method of locomotion, but for most

  mortals, I would say not. It lies well to the south and west

  of the Bellwoods."

  Jon-Tom made a face. He'd been around enough to have

  picked up some knowledge of local geography. "There

  isn't anything well to the southwest of here. The Bellwoods

  run down to the River Tailaroam which flows into..." he

  stopped. "Cranculara's a village on the shore of the

  Glittergeist?"

  Clothahump looked the other way. "Uh, not exactly, my

  boy. Actually it lies on the other side."

  "The other side of the river?"

  "Noooo. The other side of the ocean."

  Jon-Tom threw up his hands in despair. "And that's the

  last straw,"

  "Actually, lad, it's only the first straw. There are many

  more to pass before you reach Crancularn. But reach it you

  must," he finished emphatically, "or I will surely perish

  from the pain, and any chance you have of returning home

  will perish with me."

  "But I don't even know how big the Glittergeist is."

  "Not all that big, as oceans go." Clothahump strove to

  sound reassuring. "It can be crossed in a few weeks. All

  you have to do is book passage on one of the many ships

  that trade between the mouth of the Glittergeist and distant

  Snarken."

  "I've heard of Snarken. Big place?"

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  11

  "A most magnificent city. So I have been told, never

  having visited there myself. Grander than Polastrindu.

  You'd find it fascinating."

  "And dangerous."

  "No journey is worthwhile unless it is dangerous, but

  we romanticize. I do not see any reason for anticipating

  trouble. You are a tourist, nothing more, embarked on a

  voyage of rest, relaxation, and discovery."

  "Sure. From what I've seen of this world it doesn't treat

  tourists real well."

  "That should not trouble an accomplished spellsinger

  like you."

  The wizard was interrupted by the sound of another

  crash from the nearby storeroom, followed by a few

  snatches of drunken song.

  "You also have your ramwood staff for protection, and

  you no longer are a stranger to our ways. Think of it as a

  holiday, a vacation."

  "Why do I have this persistent feeling you're not telling

  me everything?"

  "Because you are a pessimist, my boy. I do not criti-

  cize. That is a healthy attitude for one embarked on a

  career in magic. I am not sending you after trouble this

  time. We do not go to battle powerful invaders from the

  east. I am asking you only to go and fetch a handful of

  powder, a little medicine. That is all. No war awaits. True,

  it is a long journey, but there is no reason why it should

  be an arduous one.

  "You leave from here, proceed south to the banks of the

  Tailaroam, book passage downstream. At its mouth where

  the merchant ships dock you, board a comfortable vessel

  heading for Snarken. Thence overland to Crancularn. A

  short jaunt, I should imagine."

  "Imagine? You mean you don't know how far it is from

  Snarken to Crancularn?"

  "Not very far."

  "For someone who deals in exact formulas and spells,

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  Alan Dean Foster

  you can be disconcertingly nonspecific at times, Clotha-

  hump.''

  "And you can be unnecessarily verbose," the turtle shot

  back.

  "Sorry. My pre-law training. Never use one word where

  five will fit. Maybe I would've ended up a lawyer instead

  of a heavy-metal bass player."

  "You'll never know if you don't return to your own

  world, which you cannot do unless ..."

  "I know, I know," Jon-Tom said tiredly. "Unless 1

  make the trip to this Crancularn and bring back the

  medicine you need. Okay, so I'm stuck."

  "I would rather know that you had undertaken this

  journey with enthusiasm, willingly, out of a desire to help

  one who only wishes you well."'

  "So would I, but you'll settle for my going because I

  haven't got any choice, won't you?"

  "Yes," said Clothahump thoughtfully, "I expect that 1

  will."

  II

  He wasn't in the best frame of mind the morning he set

  off. Not that anything was keeping him occupied else-

  where, he told himself sourly. He had no place in this

  world and certainly no intention of setting himself up in

  practice as a professional spellsinger.

  For one thing, that would put him in direct competition

  with Clothahump. Although the wizard thought well of

  him, Jon-Tom didn't think Clothahump would take kindly

  to the idea. For another, he hadn't mastered his odd

  abilities to the point where he could guarantee services for

  value received, and might never achieve that degree of

  expertise. He preferred to regard his spellsinging as a

  talent of last resort, choosing to rely instead on his staff

  and his wits to keep him out of trouble.

  In fact, the duar provided him with far more pleasure

  when he simply played it for fun, just like his battered old

  Fender guitar back home. Now he played it to ease his

  mind as he walked into town, strumming a few snatches of

  very unmagical Neil Diamond while wishing he had Ted

  Nugent's way with strings. At the same time he had to be

  careful in his selections. Diamond was innocuous enough.

  13

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  Alan Dean Poster

  If he tried a little Nugent—say, "Cat Scratch Fever" or

  "Scream Dream"—there was no telling what he might

  accidentally conjure up.

  At least the weather favor
ed his journey. It was early

  spring- Deep within the Bellwoods, so named for the

  bell-shaped leaves which produced a tinkling sound when

  the wind blew through them, there was the smell of dew

  and new blossoms on the air. Glass butterflies flew every-

  where, their stained-glass wings sending shafts of brilliant

  color twinkling over the ground. Peppermint bees striped

  in psychedelic hues darted among the flowers.

  One hitched a ride on his indigo shirt. Perhaps it thought

  he was some kind of giant ambulatory flower. Jon-Tom

  examined it with interest. Instead of the yellow-and-black

  pattern he was accustomed to, his visitor's abdomen was

  striped pink, lemon yellow, orange, chocolate brown, and

  bright blue. Man and insect regarded one another thought-

  fully for a long moment. Deciding he was neither a source

  of pollen or enlightenment, the bee droned off in search of

  sweeter forage.

  Lynchbany Towne was unchanged from the first time

  Jon-Tom had seen it, on that rainy day when he, a strange-

  to this world, had entered it accompanied by Mudge tl

  otter. It was Mudge he sought now. He had no intention

  striking out across the Glittergeist alone, no matter ho

  much confidence Clothahump vested in him. There was

  still far too much of the ways and customs of this place he

  was ignorant of.

  Mudge's knowledge was of the practical and non-

  intellectual variety. Too, nothing was more precious to the

  otter than his own skin. He was sort of a furry walking

  alarm, ready to jump or take whatever evasive action the

  situation dictated at the barest suggestion of danger. Jon-

  Tom intended to use him the way the allies had used

  pigeons in World War I to detect the presence of poison

  gas.

  Mudge would have considered the analogy unflattering,

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  15

  but Jon-Tom didn't care what the otter thought. Despite his

  questionable morals and wavering sense of loyalty, the

  otter had been a great help in the past and could be so

  again.

  Luck wasn't with Jon-Tom, however. There was no sign

  of Mudge in the taverns he normally frequented, nor word

  of him in the eating establishments or gambling dens. He

  hadn't been seen in some time in any of his usual haunts.

  Jon-Tom finally found mention of him in one of the

  more reputable rooming houses on the far side of town,

  where the stink from the central open sewer was less.

  The concierge was an overweight koala in a bad mood.

  A carved pipe dangled from her lips as she scrubbed the

  floor near the entrance.

  "Hay, I've seen him," she told Jon-Tom. Part of her

  right ear was missing, probably bitten off during a dispute

  with an irate customer.

  "I'd laik to know where he gone to much as you, man.

  He skip away owing me half a week's rent. That not bad

  as some have dun me, but I work hand to run this place

  and every silver counts."

  "Only a few days' rent, is it?" Jon-Tom squatted to be

  at eye level with the koala. "You know where he is, don't

  you? You're feeding me some story old Mudge paid you to

  tell anyone who came looking for him because he paid you

  to do so, because he probably owes everyone but you."

  She wrinkled her black nose and wiped her paws on her

  apron. Then she broke out in a wide grin. "You a clever

  one, you are, man, though strange of manner and talk."

  "I'm not really from around here," Jon-Tom confessed.

  "Actually my home lies quite a distance from Lynchbany.

  Nor am I a creditor or bill collector. Mudge is my friend."

  "Is he now?" She dropped her scrub brush in the pail of

  wash water and rose. Jon-Tom did likewise. She reached

  barely to his stomach. That wasn't unusual. Jon-Tom was

  something of a giant in this world where humans barely

  topped five and a half feet and many others stood shorter.

  16

  Alan Dean Foster

  "So you his friend, hay? That make you sort of unique.

  I wasn't aware the otter had any friends. Only acquain-

  tances and enemies."

  "No matter. I am his friend, and I need to get in touch

  with him."

  "What for?"

  "I am embarked on a journey in the service of the great

  wizard Clothahump."

  "Ah, that old fraud."

  "He's not a fraud. Haven't you heard of the battle for

  the Jo-Troom Gate?"

  "Yea, yea, I heard, I heard." She picked up the bucket

  of wash water, the scrub brush sloshing around inside. "I

  also know you never believe everything you read in the

  papers. This journey you going on for him. It going be a

  hard one, where someone might get deaded?"

  "Possibly."

  "Hay, then I tell you where the otter is and you make

  sure he go with you?"

  "That's the idea."

  "Good! Then I tell you where he is. Because I tell you

  true, man, he owe me half a week's rent. I just don't want

  to tell anyone else because maybe they get to him before

  me. But this is better, much better. Worth a few days'

  rent.''

  "About that rent," Jon-Tom said, jiggling the purse full

  of gold Clothahump had given him to pay for his passage

  across the Glittergeist.

  The concierge waved him off. "Hay nay, man. Just

  make sure he go with you on this dangerous journey. More

  better I dream of him roasting over some cannibal's spit in

  some far-off land. That will give me more pleasure than a

  few coins."

  "As you wish, madame." Jon-Tom put the purse aside.

  "Only, you must be sure promise to come back here

  someday and regale me with the gory details. For that I

  pay you myself."

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  17

  "I'll be sure to make it my business," Jon-Tom said

  dryly. "Now, where might I find my friend?"

  "Not here. North."

  "Oglagia Towne?"

  "Hay nay, farther west. In Timswitty."

  "Timswitty," Jon-Tom repeated. "Thanks. You know

  what business he has there?"

  She let out a short, sharp bark, a koalaish laugh. "Same

  business that otter he have any place he go: thievery,

  deception, debauchery, and drunkenness. I wager you find

  him easy enough you keep that in mind."

  "I will. Tell me. I've never been north of Lynchbany.

  What's Timswitty like?"

  She shrugged. "Like heah. Like Oglagia. Like any of

  the Bellwoods towns. Backward, crowded, primitive, but

  not bad if you willing stand up for your rights and work

  hard."

  "Thank you, madame. You're sure I can't pay you

  anything for the information you've given me?"

  "Keep you money and make you journey," she told

  him. "I look forward to hearing about the otter's slow and

  painful death upon you return."

  "Don't hold your breath in expectation of his demise,"

  Jon-Tom warned her as he turned to leave. "Mudge has a

  way of surviving in the damndest places."
>
  "I know he do. He slip out of heah without me smelling

  his going. I tell you what. If he don't get himself killed on

  this journey of yours, you can pay me his back rent when

  you return."

  "I'll do better than that, madame. I'll make him pay it

  himself, in person."

  "Fair enough. You have good traveling, man."

  "Good day to you too, madame."

  Jon-Tom had no intention of walking all the way to

  Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had provided him with

  funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach

  was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a

  18

  Alan Dean Poster

  seat on the boxy contraption. It was pulled by four hand-

  some horses and presided over by a couple of three-foot-

  tall chimpmunks who cursed like longshoremen. They

  wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage

  and cartons into the rear of the stage.

  Jon-Tom had the wrong notion of who was in charge,

  however. As he strolled past the team of four, one of the

  horses cocked an eye in his direction.

  "Come on, bud, hurry it up. We haven't got all day."

  "Sorry. The ticket agent told me you weren't leaving for

  another fifteen minutes."

  The mare snorted. "That senile bastard. I don't know

  what the world's coming to when you can't rely on your

  local service people anymore."

  "Tell me about it," said the stallion yoked to her.

  "Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of

  hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving fools with

  small brains to handle business details for us."

  "Right on, Elvar," said the stallion behind him.

  The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.

  "All aboard?" asked the mare second in harness. "Hold

  on to your seats, then."

  The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the

  luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their

  breath. There was no need for drovers, since the horses

  knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders

  and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the

  team, who, after all, did the real work of pulling the stage.

  This would have been fine as far as Jon-Tom and the

  other passengers were concerned except that the horses had

  an unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped,

  and while their voices were strong and clear, not a one of

  them could carry a tune in a bucket. So the passengers

  were compelled to suffer a series of endless, screeching

  songs all the way through to Timswitty.