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

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

virginal adolescent who's just discovered that his blind

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

live to see my three-hundredth birthday."

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

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

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

nonstop griping and whining. You know what you are,

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

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

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

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

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

word from your own world?"

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

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

the time, when they're not."

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

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

2    Alan Dean Foster

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

pillows that served the old turtle for a bed.

Not for the first time he wondered at the number of

spacious rooms the old oak tree encompassed. There were

more alcoves and chambers and tunnels in that single trunk

than in a termite's hive.

He had to admit, though, that despite his melodramatic

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

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

behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from the

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

Clothahump couldn't cure himself with his own masterly

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

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

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

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

fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar

instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic

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

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

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

' over the magic he made.

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

had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and

good feelings. None had produced the slightest effect with

the exception of his spirited rendition of the Beach Boys'

"Good Vibrations." That bit of spellsinging caused

Clothahump to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and

potions flying and cracking his glasses.

Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his

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

wizard.

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

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

you are."

Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE    3

gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of the constant

pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness.

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

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

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

master."

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

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

What else can I do?"

Clothahump looked up sharply. "There is one chance

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

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

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

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

I need to..."

Clothahump moaned in pain and Jon-Tom hesitated,

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

wasn't, but it had the intended effect.

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

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

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

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

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

dangerous journey for you, that evil forces are always

afoot?"

"You ever see an evil force, boy?"

"Not in the flesh, no."

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

"That's not what I meant."

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

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

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

ended up with the fate of civilization at stake."

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

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

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

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

4    Alan Dean Foster

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

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

only I know the necessary, complicated, dangerous spell

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

that I remain alive and well."

"I know, I know. Don't rub it in."

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

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

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

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

didn't give it to you."

"My illness is compounded of many factors, not the

least of which are my current awkward living conditions."

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

"What are you talking about?"

"Ever since we returned from the great battle at the

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

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

turn my rude but dutiful famulus Pog into a phoenix.

Whereupon he promptly departed my service for the dubi-

ous pleasures his falcon ladylove could bestow on him."

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

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

for mistreating Pog."

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

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

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

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

learning process." Clothahump straightened his new glasses.

"Pog spread the details of your teaching methods all

over the Betlwoods. But 1 thought the new famulus you

finally settled on was working out okay."

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

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

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

he is to me."

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

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE    5

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

learn."

"Sounds good to me."

"Unfortunately, he has one little problem."

"What kind of problem?"

Clothahump's reply was interrupted by a loud, slurred

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

with his head toward the doorway, looked regretful.

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

a constant upset my life has become."

Jon-Tom considered, then shrugged and headed under

the arched passageway toward the next chamber, bending

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

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

present problem.

Something shattered and there was another high-pitched

curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of

him as he emerged into the storeroom.

It was as spacious as Clothahump's bedroom and the

other chambers which somehow managed to coexist within

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

of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and

workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.

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

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

great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He

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

Clan.

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

his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible

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

exquisitely bloodshot.

"Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?"

The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his

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

'the workbench.

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, sitting

down again on the edge of the soft bed.

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

beyond and plucked you hence from your own comfortable

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

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

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

in spite of what everyone thought."

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

was flattering him in order to break down his resistance to

making the journey. At the same time he felt himself

succumbing to the flattery.

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

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

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

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

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

wrestle your strengths and talent under control."

"With your instruction, of course."

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

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

many years. One does not master the arcane arts of

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

this medicine that can cure this bedamned affliction, I will

not be around much longer to help you.

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

THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAWCE   9

pocket of those garish trousers or that absurd purple shirt

that foppish tailor Carlemot fashioned for you."

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

down to where it tucked into the pants. His iridescent

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

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

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

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

enough?''

"I sincerely hope so," the wizard murmured.

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

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

constant burden in any world. You suffer from knowing

right from wrong."

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

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

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

You used everyone for your own ends."

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

bad ends."

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

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

suppose I have no choice but to go after this special

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

ecary in Lynchbany?"

"I fear not."

"What a lucky guess on my part."

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

Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table

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

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

a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed writing.

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

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

handed it to Jon-Tom.

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

to fill it will know its meaning."

10

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,

12

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

14

Alan Dean Poster

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

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

accidentally conjure up.

At least the weather favored his journey. It was early

spring- Deep within the Bellwoods, so named for the

bell-shaped leaves which produced a tinkling sound when

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

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

where, their stained-glass wings sending shafts of brilliant

color twinkling over the ground. Peppermint bees striped

in psychedelic hues darted among the flowers.

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

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

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

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

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

bright blue. Man and insect regarded one another thought-

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

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

sweeter forage.

Lynchbany Towne was unchanged from the first time

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

to this world, had entered it accompanied by Mudge tl

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

striking out across the Glittergeist alone, no matter ho

much confidence Clothahump vested in him. There was

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

was ignorant of.

Mudge's knowledge was of the practical and non-

intellectual variety. Too, nothing was more precious to the

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

alarm, ready to jump or take whatever evasive action the

situation dictated at the barest suggestion of danger. Jon-

Tom intended to use him the way the allies had used

pigeons in World War I to detect the presence of poison

gas.

Mudge would have considered the analogy unflattering,

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

15

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

questionable morals and wavering sense of loyalty, the

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

again.

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

of Mudge in the taverns he normally frequented, nor word

of him in the eating establishments or gambling dens. He

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

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

more reputable rooming houses on the far side of town,

where the stink from the central open sewer was less.

The concierge was an overweight koala in a bad mood.

A carved pipe dangled from her lips as she scrubbed the

floor near the entrance.

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

right ear was missing, probably bitten off during a dispute

with an irate customer.

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

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

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

and every silver counts."

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

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

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

tell anyone who came looking for him because he paid you

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

She wrinkled her black nose and wiped her paws on her

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

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

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

"Actually my home lies quite a distance from Lynchbany.

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

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

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

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

something of a giant in this world where humans barely

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

16

Alan Dean Foster

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

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

tances and enemies."

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

with him."

"What for?"

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

wizard Clothahump."

"Ah, that old fraud."

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

the Jo-Troom Gate?"

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

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

also know you never believe everything you read in the

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

hard one, where someone might get deaded?"

"Possibly."

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

sure he go with you?"

"That's the idea."

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

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

to tell anyone else because maybe they get to him before

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

rent.''

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

of gold Clothahump had given him to pay for his passage

across the Glittergeist.

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

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

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

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

few coins."

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

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

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

pay you myself."

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

17

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

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

"Not here. North."

"Oglagia Towne?"

"Hay nay, farther west. In Timswitty."

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

what business he has there?"

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

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

deception, debauchery, and drunkenness. I wager you find

him easy enough you keep that in mind."

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

What's Timswitty like?"

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

the Bellwoods towns. Backward, crowded, primitive, but

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

hard."

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

anything for the information you've given me?"

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

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

painful death upon you return."

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

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

way of surviving in the damndest places."

"I know he do. He slip out of heah without me smelling

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

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

you return."

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

himself, in person."

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

"Good day to you too, madame."

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

Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had provided him with

funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach

was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a

18

Alan Dean Poster

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

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

tall chimpmunks who cursed like longshoremen. They

wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage

and cartons into the rear of the stage.

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

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

horses cocked an eye in his direction.

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

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

another fifteen minutes."

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

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

local service people anymore."

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

"Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of

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

small brains to handle business details for us."

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

The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.

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

on to your seats, then."

The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the

luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their

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

knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders

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

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

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

other passengers were concerned except that the horses had

an unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped,

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

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

were compelled to suffer a series of endless, screeching

songs all the way through to Timswitty.

When one passenger had the temerity to complain, he

was invited to get out and walk. There were two other

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

19

unscheduled stops along the way as well, once when the

team got hungry and stopped to graze a lush meadow

through which the road conveniently cut, and again when

the two mares got into a heated argument about just who

boasted the daintier fetlocks.

It was dark when they finally pulled into Timswitty.

"Come on," snapped the lead stallion, "let's get a

move on back there. Our stable's waiting. I know you're

all stuck with only two legs, but that's no reason for

loafing."

"Really!" One of the outraged travelers was an elegantly

attired vixen. Gold chains twined through her tail, and her

elaborate hat was badly askew over her ears from the

jouncing the stage had undergone. "I have never been

treated so rudely in my life! I assure you I shall speak to

your line manager at first opportunity,"

"You're talking to him, sister," said the stallion. "You

got a complaint, you might as well tell me to my face."

He looked her up and down. "Me, I think you ought to

thank us for not charging you for the extra poundage."

"Well!" Her tail swatted the stallion across the snout as

she turned and flounced away to collect her luggage.

Only the fact that his mate restrained him kept him from

taking a bite out of that fluffy appendage.

"Watch your temper, Dreal," she told him. "It doesn't

do to bite the paying freight. Rotten public relations."

"Bet all her relations have been public," he snorted,

pawing the ground impatiently. "What's slowing up those

striped rats back there? I need a rubdown and some sweet

alfalfa."

"I know you do, dear," she said as she nuzzled his

neck, "but you have to try and maintain a professional

-attitude, if only for the sake of the business."

"Yeah, I know," Jon-Tom overheard as he made his

way toward the depot. "It's only that there are times when

I think maybe we'd have been better off if we'd bought

ourselves a little farm somewhere out in the country and

20

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSOKAWCE

21

hired some housemice and maybe a human or two to do

the dirty work."

He was the only one in the office. The fox and the other

passengers already had destinations in mind.

"Can I help you?" asked the elderly marten seated

behind the low desk. With his long torso and short waist,

the clerk reminded Jon-Tom of Mudge. The marten was

slimmer still, and instead of Mudge's jaunty cap and bright

vest and pantaloons he wore dark shorts and a sleeveless

white shirt, a visor to shade his eyes, and bifocals.

"I'm a stranger in town."

"I suspect you're a stranger everywhere," said the

marten presciently.

Jon-Tom ignored the comment. "Where would a visitor

go for a little harmless fun and entertainment in Timswitty?"

"Well now," replied the marten primly, "I am a family

man myself. You might try the Golden Seal. They offer

folksinging by many species and occasionally a string trio

from Kolansor."

"You don't understand." Jon-Tom grinned insinuatingly.

"I'm looking for a good time, not culture."

"I see." The marten sighed. "Well, if you will go down

the main street to Born Lily Lane and follow the lane to its

end, you will come to two small side streets leading off

into separate cul-de-sacs. Take the north close. If the smell

and noise isn't enough to guide you further, look for the

small sign just above an oil lamp, the one with the carving

of an Afghan on it."

"As in canine or cloth?"

The marten wet his lips. "The place is called the

Elegant Bitch. No doubt you will find its pleasures suita-

ble. I wouldn't know, of course. I am a family man."

"Of course," said Jon-Tom gravely. "Thanks."

As he made his solitary way down the dimly lit main

street, he found himself wishing Talea was at his side.

Talea of the flame-red hair and infinite resourcefulness.

Talea of the blind courage and quick temper. Did he love

her? He wasn't sure anymore. He thought so, thought she

loved him in return. But she was too full of life to settle

down as the wife of an itinerant spellsinger who had not

yet managed to master his craft.

Not long after the battle of the Jo-Troom Gate, she had

regretfully proposed they go their separate ways, at least

for a little while. She needed time to think on serious

matters and suggested he do likewise. It was hard on him.

He did miss her. But there was the possibility she was

simply too independent for any one man.

He held to his hopes, however. Perhaps someday she

would tire of her wanderings and come back to him. There

wasn't a thing he could do but wait.

As for Flor Quintera, the cheerleader he'd inadvertently

brought into this world, she had turned out to be a major

disappointment. Instead of being properly fascinated by

him, it developed that she lusted after a career as a

sword-wielding soldier of fortune and had gone off with

Caz, the tall, suave rabbit with the Ronald Colman voice

and sophisticated manners. Jon-Tom hadn't heard of them

hi months. Flor was a dream that had brought him back to

reality, and fast.

At least this was a fit world in which to pursue dreams.

At the moment, though, he was supposed to be pursuing

medicine. He clung to that thought as he turned down the

tiny side street.

True to the marten's information he heard sounds of

singing and raucous laughter. But instead of a single small

oil lamp there were big impressive ones flanking the door,

fashioned of clear beveled crystal.

Above the door was a swinging sign showing a finely

coiffed hound clad in feathers and jewels. She was gazing

back over her furry shoulder with a distinctly come-hither

look, and her hips were cocked rakishly.

There was a small porch. Standing beneath the rain

shield, Jon-Tom knocked twice on the heavily oiled door.

It was opened by a three-foot-tall mouse in a starched suit.

22

Alan Dean Poster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

23

Sound flooded over Jon-Tom as the doormouse looked him

over.

"Step inside and enjoy, sir," he finally said, moving

aside.

Jon-Tom nodded and entered. The doormouse closed the

door behind him.

He found himself in a parlor full of fine furniture and a

wild assortment of creatures representing several dozen

species. All were cavorting without a. care as to who they

happened to be matching up with. There were several

humans in the group, men and women. They moved freely

among their intelligent furry counterparts.

Jon-Tom noted the activity, listened to the lascivious

dialogue, saw the movement of hands and paws, and

suspected he had not entered a bar. No question what kind

of place this was. He was still surprised, though he

shouldn't have been. It was a logical place to look for

Mudge.

Still, he didn't want to take the chance of embarrassing

himself. First impressions could be wrong. He spoke to the

doormouse.

"I beg your pardon, but this is a whorehouse, isn't it?"

The mouse's voice was surprisingly deep, rumbling out

of the tiny gray body. "All kinds we get in here," he

muttered dolefully, "all kinds. What did you think it was,

jack? A library?"

"Not really. There aren't any books."

The doormouse showed sharp teeth in a smile. "Oh, we

have books, too. With pictures. Lots of pictures, if that's

to your taste, sir."

"Not right now." He was curious, though. Maybe later,

after he'd found Mudge.

"You look like you've been a-traveling, sir. Would

you like something to eat and drink?"

"Thanks, I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm looking for a

friend."

"Everyone comes to the Elegant Bitch in search of a

friend.''

"You misunderstand. That's not the way I mean."

"Just tell me your ways, sir. We cater to all ways here."

"I'm looking for a buddy, an acquaintance," Jon-Tom

said in exasperation. The doormouse had a one-track

mind.

"Ah, now I understand. No divertissements, then? This

isn't a meeting house, you know."

"You're a good salesman." Jon-Tom tried to placate

him. "Maybe later. I have to say that you're the smallest

pimp I've ever seen."

"I am not small and I am not a pimp," replied the

doormouse with some dignity. "If you wish to speak to the

madam..."

"Not necessary," Jon-Tom told him, though he won-

dered not only what she'd look like but what she'd be.

"The fellow I'm after wears a peaked cap with a feather in

it, a leather vest, carries a longbow with him everywhere

he goes, and is an otter. Name of Mudge."

The doormouse preened a whisker, scratched behind one

ear. For the first time Jon-Tom noticed the small earplugs.

Made sense. Given the mouse's sensitivity to sound, he'd

need the plugs to keep from going deaf while working

amid the nonstop celebration.

"I recognize neither name nor attire, sir, but there is one

otter staying with us currently. He would be in room

twenty-three on the second floor."

"Great. Thanks." Jon-Tom almost ran into the mouse's

outstretched palm. He placed a small silver piece there and

saw it vanish instantly.

"Thank you, sir. If there is anything I can do for you

after you have met with this possible friend, please let me

know. My name is Whort and I'm the majordomo here."

"Maybe later," Jon-Tom assured him as he started up

the carved stairway.

He had no intention of taking the doormouse up on his

24

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

25

offer. Not that he had anything against the house brand of

entertainment. His long separation from Talea plagued him

physically as well as mentally, but this wasn't the place to

indulge in any lingering fancies of the flesh. It looked

fancy and clean, but you never could tell where you might

pick up an interesting strain of VD, and not only the

human varieties. In the absence of modern medicine he

didn't want to have to count on curing a good dose of the

clap with a song or two.

So he restrained his libido as he mounted the second-

floor landing and hunted for the right door. He was

interrupted in his search by a sight that reminded him this

was a real place and not a drug-induced excursion into a

dreamland zoo.

A couple of creatures had passed him, and he'd paid

them no mind. Coming down the hall toward him now was

an exceptionally proportioned young woman in her early

twenties- She was barely five feet tall and wore only a

filmy peach-colored peignoir. The small pipe she smoked

did little to blur the image of prancing, bouncing femininity.

"Well, what are you staring at, tall-skinny-and-hand-

some?"

It occurred to Jon-Tom this was not intended as a

rhetorical question, and he mumbled a reply that got all

caught up in his tongue and teeth. Somehow he managed

to shamble past her. Only the fact that Clothahump lay

dying in his tree along with any chance Jon-Tom had of

returning home kept him moving. His head rotated like a

searchlight, and he followed the perfect vision with his

eyes until she'd disappeared down the stairs.

As he forced himself down the hall, that image lingered

on his retinas like a bright light. Sadly, he found the right

door and knocked gently, sparing a last sorrowful glance

for the now empty landing.

"Mudge?" He repeated the knock, was about to repeat

the call, when the door suddenly flew open, causing him to

step back hastily. Standing in the opening was a female

otter holding a delicate lace nightgown around her. Her

eyebrows had been curled and painted, and the tips of her

whiskers dipped in gold. She was sniffling, an act to which

Jon-Tom attached no particular significance. Otters sniffled

a lot.

She took one look at him before dashing past his bulk

down the hallway, short legs churning.

Jon-Tom stared after her, was about to go in when a

second fur of the night came out, accompanied by an

equally distraught third otter. They followed their sister

toward the stairs. Shaking his head, he entered the dark

room.

Faint light flickered from a single chandelier. Golden

shadows danced on the flocked wallpaper. Nothing else

moved. Two curved mirrors on opposing walls ran from

floor to ceiling. An elegant china washbasin rested on a

chellow-wood dresser. The door to the John stood half-

agape.

A wrought-iron bed decorated with cast grapevines and

leaves stood against the far wall. The headboard curved

slightly forward. A pile of sheets and pillows filled the

bed, an eruption of fine linen. Jon-Tom guessed this was

not the cheapest room in the house.

From within the silks and satins came a muffled but still

familiar voice. "Is that you, Lisette? Are you comin' back

to forgive me, luv? Wot I said, that were only a joke.

Meant nothin' by it, I did."

"That would be the first time," Jon-Tom said coolly.

There was silence, then the pile of sheets stirred and a head

emerged, black eyes blinking in the darkness. "Cor, I'm

'aving a bloody nightmare, I am! Too much bubbly."

"I don't know what you've had," Jon-Tom said as he

moved toward the bed, "but this is no nightmare."

Mudge wiped at his eyes with the backs of his paws.

"Right then, mate, it is no nightmare. You're too damned

big to be a nightmare. Wot^the 'ell are you doin' 'ere,

anyways?"

"Looking for you."

26

Alan Dean Poster

"You picked the time for it." He vanished beneath the

linens. "Where's me clothes?"

Jon-Tom turned, searched the shadows until he'd located

the vest, cap, pants and boots. The oversized bow and

quiver of arrows lay beneath the bed. He tossed the whole

business onto the mattress.

"Here."

"Thanks, mate." The otter began to flow into the

clothes, his movements short and fast. " 'Tis a providence,

it is, wot brings you to poor oF Mudge now."

"I don't know about that. You actually seem glad to see

me. It's not what I expected."

Mudge looked hurt. "Wot, not 'appy to see an old

friend? You pierce me to the quick. Now why wouldn't I

be glad to see an old friend?"

Something funny going on here, Jon-Tom mused warily.

Where were the otter's usual suspicious questions, his

casual abusiveness?

As if to answer his questions the door burst inward.

Standing there backlit by the light from the hall was a sight

to give an opium eater pause.

The immensely overweight lady badger wore a bright

red dress fringed with organdy ruffles. Rings dripped from

her manicured fingers, and it was hard to believe that the

massive gems that encircled her neck were real. They

threw the light back into the room.

A few curious customers crowded in behind her as she

raised a paw and pointed imperiously at the bed.

"There he is!" she growled.

"Ah, Madam Lorsha," said Mudge as he finished his

dressing in a hurry, "I 'ave to compliment you on the

facilities of your establishment."

"That will be the last compliment you ever give any-

one, you deadbeat. Your ass is a rug." She snapped her

fingers as she stepped into the room. "Tork."

Bending to pass under the sill was the largest intelligent

warmlander Jon-Tom had yet encountered. It was a shock

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

27

to see someone taller than himself. The grizzly rose at

least seven and a half feet, wore black-leather pants and

shirt. He also wore what appeared in the bad light to be

heavy leather gloves. Their true nature was revealed all too

quickly.

Now, Jon-Tom did not know precisely what had tran-

spired in the elegant room or beyond its walls or between

his furry friend who was slipping on his boots in a

veritable frenzy and the badger who was clearly the owner

of the house of ill repute, but he suspected the sight of the

full-grown grizzly adjusting the brass knuckles over his

immense paws did not bode well for the future.

"I understand your concern, luv," said Mudge as he

casually recovered his bow and quiver, "but now that me

mate's 'ere everything will be squared away."

"Will it, now?" she said. The grizzly stood rubbing one

palm with a massive fist and grinning. His teeth were very

white. The badger eyed Jon-Tom. "Does he mean to say

that you'll pay his bill?"

"Pay his bill? What do you mean, pay his bill?"

"He's been up here for three days without coming

down, enjoying my best liquor and girls, and now he tells

them he hasn't got a silver to his bastard name."

Jon-Tom glared back at Mudge. The otter shrugged,

didn't appear in the least embarrassed. "Hey, at least I was

honest about it, mate. I told 'em I was broke. But it's all

right, ain't it? You'll pay for me, won't you?"

"You are his friend?" inquired the badger.

"Well, yeah." He brought out the purse Clothahump

had given him and jiggled it. The gold inside jingled

musically, and the badger and the bear relaxed.

She smiled at him. "Now that's more like it.. .sir. I

can see that you are a gentleman, though I don't think

much of your choice of friends." Mudge looked wronged.

"How much does he owe you?"

She didn't even have to think. "Two hundred and fifty,

sir. Plus any damages to the linen. I'll have to check."

28

Alan Dean Poster

"I can cover it," Jon-Tom assured her. He turned to

look darkly at Mudge, hefting his ramwood staff. "If

you'd be kind enough to give me a moment alone with

him, I intend to take at least some of it out of his hide."

The badger's smile widened. "Your pleasure is mine,

sir." Again she snapped her fingers. The grizzly let out a

disappointed grunt, turned, and ducked back through the

doorway.

"Take your time, sir. If you need anything helpful—

acid, some thin wooden slivers, anything at all—the house

will be delighted to supply it."

The door closed behind her. As soon as they were alone,

Jon-Tom began to search the room. There was only one

window, off to the left. He tried to open it, found it

wouldn't budge.

" 'Ere now, mate," said Mudge, ambling over, "wot's

the trouble? Just pay the old whore and let's be gone from

'ere."

"It's not that simple, Mudge. That money is from

Clothahump, to pay for our passage at least as far as

Snarken. And I lied about the amount. No way is there

two hundred and fifty there."

Mudge took a step backward as Jon-Tom strove to

puzzle out the window. "Just a minute there, mate. Wot's

that about payin' our way? Snarken, you said? That's all

the way across the Glittergeist, ain't it?"

"That's right." Jon-Tom squinted at the jamb. "I think

this locks from the outside. Clever. Must be a way to

break through it."

Mudge continued backing toward the bed. "Nice of you

to come lookin' for me, mate, but I'm afraid I can't go

with you. And you say 'is wizardship is behind it?"

"That's right. He's sick and I have to go get him some

medicine."

"Right. Give the old reptile me best wishes, and I 'ope he

makes a speedy recovery. As for me, I've some (ravelin' to do

for me 'ealth, and salt air doesn't agree with me lungs."

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

29

"You're not going anywhere unless it's with me,"

Jon-Tom snapped at him. "You take one step out that door

and I'll call the madam. I saw the look in her eyes. She'd

enjoy separating your head from the rest of you. So would

that side of beef that came in with her."

"I ain't "afraid of no bag of suet wot communicates in

grunts," Mudge said.

Jon-Tom turned from the window. "Then maybe I ought

to call them. I can always find someone else to accompany

me."

Mudge rushed at him. "Take it easy, mate, 'old on. To

Snarken, you say?"

"Maybe beyond."

"Ain't no place beyond Snarken."

"Yes there is. Little town not too far inland from

there." He fumbled between the windowpanes, was rewarded

by a double clicking sound. "Ah,"

He lifted the window slowly. Halfway up, something

loud and brassy began to clang inside the building.

"Shit! There's an alarm spell on this thing!" The

sounds of pounding feet came from the hall.

"No time for regrets, mate, and you'd best not stand

there gawkin'." Mudge was over the sill in a flash and

shinnying down the rainpipe outside. Jon-Tom followed

more slowly, envying the otter his agility.

By the time they reached the pavement, faces had

appeared at the open window.

"You won't get away from me, otter!" Madam Lorsha

yelled, shaking her fist at them as they ran up the side

street. At any moment Jon-Tom expected to hear the

grizzly's footsteps behind them, feel huge paws closing

around his throat. "I'll hunt you to the ends of the world!

No one runs out owing Madam Lorsha!"

"Funny what she said about the ends of the world,"

Jon-Tom murmured as he followed the otter down endless

alleyways and turns. He was sure Mudge had memorized

30

Alan Dean Foster

this escape route before stepping inside the brothel. "That's

where we're going."

"There you go again, mate," said Mudge, "usin' them

words like we and us."

"I need your help, Mudge."

They reached a main street and slowed to a walk as they

joined the crowd of evening strollers. Timswirty was a

good-sized town, much bigger than Lynchbany. It was

unlikely Madam Lorsha's thugs would be able to find

them. Jon-Tom tried to hunch over and mask his excep-

tional height.

"Clothahump is deathly ill, and we must have this

medicine. I'm not any happier about making this trip than

you are."

"You must be, mate, because I'm not goin' to make it.

Don't get me wrongo. You just 'elped me clear out of a

bad spot. 1 am grateful, I am, but she weren't worth

enough to make me put me life on the line for you, much

less for that old word-poisoner."

They edged around a strolling couple. "I need someone

who knows the way, Mudge."

"Then you needs some other bloke, mate. I ain't never

been to Snarken."

"I mean someone who knows the ways of the world,

Mudge. I've learned a lot since I've been here, but that's

nothing compared to what I don't know. I need your good

advice as well as your unconventional knowledge."

"Sure you do." Mudge puffed up importantly in spite of

knowing better. "You think you can flatter me into goin',

is that it? Or did you think I'd forgotten your intentions to

be a solicitor in your own world? Don't take me for a fool,

mate."

"I have to have someone along I can trust," Jon-Tom

went on. The otter's expression showed that was one ploy

he wasn't expecting.

"Now that ain't fair, guv'nor, and you knows it."

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

31

"There will also," Jon-Tom added, saving the best for

last, "be a good fee for helping me."

That piqued the otter's interest. " 'Ere now, why didn't

you come out and say that t' begin with instead of goin' on

with all this twaddle about *ow 'is poor old 'ardheaded

curmudgeonly 'oiiness was 'aving an attack of the gout or

whatever, or 'ow badly you need me unique talents." He

moved nearer and put a comradely arm around Jon-Tom's

waist, as high as he could comfortably reach.

"You 'ave a 'ell of a lot to learn about life, guv'nor."

He rambled on as the evening fog closed in comfortingly

around them, explaining that though he didn't know how it

was in Jon-Tom's world, here it was gold that spoke

clearest and bought one's trust. Not words.

Jon-Tom allowed as how things indeed were different,

deferring to the otter's claims while privately disagreeing.

It did not matter who was right, however. All that mattered

was that Mudge had agreed to join him.

Mudge managed to steer them into a tavern in a high-

class district. Having already flashed Clothahump's gold,

Jon-Tom couldn't very well claim he didn't have the

wherewithal to pay. So he went slowly through his own

meal while the otter devoured a gigantic banquet more

suitable to the appetite of Madam Lorsha's bouncer. As

Mudge explained between mouthfuls, he'd burned up a lot

of energy this past week and wanted to make certain he

embarked on their long journey at full strength.

Only when the otter had finished the final morsel did he

lean contentedly back in his chair.

"So you say we're goin' to distant Snarken, wot, and

beyond, and I say there's nothin' beyond. Wot did 'is nibs

say it would be like?"

"He didn't exactly say." Jon-Tom picked at a sweet

dessert. "Just the town where the store with the medicine

is kept."

"Yeah, I 'eard you say somethin' about a town. 'As it

got a name?"

32

Alan Dean Poster

Jon-Tom decided the bittersweet berry dessert was to his

taste, finished the last of it. "Cranculam."

"WOT?" Mudge suddenly was sitting bolt upright,

dribbling the last traces of wrinklerry jelly from his lips as

he gaped at the man sitting across the table from him. A

few curious diners spared him a glance, returned to their

business when they saw no fighting was involved.

Mudge wiped at his sticky whiskers and spoke more

softly, eyeing Jon-Tom sideways. "Wot did you say the

name o' this dump was, guv'nor?"

"Crancularn. I see you've heard of it."

" 'Hard of it, you're bloody well right I've 'card of it.

That's a place o' the dead, mate."

"I thought there wasn't anything beyond Snarken."

"Not supposed to be, mate, but then, nobody knows

where this Crancularn is supposed to be either, except that

it moves about from time to time, like lice, and that

anyone who ever gets there never comes back. 'Tis the

entrance to 'ell itself, mate. Surely you don't mean to go

there."

"Not only do I mean to go there, I intend to make a

small purchase and return safely with it. And you're

coming with me. You promised."

"'Ere now, mate, when I made this 'ere bargain,

weren't nothin' said about Cranculam. I'm out." He stepped

off the chair and discovered he was straddling the far end

of Jon-Tom's ramwood staff, which had been slipped

under the table earlier.

"Sit down," Jon-Tom ordered him. Gingerly, the otter

resumed his seat. "You made a promise, Mudge. You

agreed to accompany me. In a sense, you accepted the

proffered fee. Where I come from an oral contract is

enforceable when the details are known to both parties,

and in this case the details are now known."

"But Crancularn, mate. Can't this medicine be got