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
the trunk of the old oak. Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full
of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and
workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.
Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the break-
age was Sorbl, Clothahump's new famulus. The young
great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He
wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule
Clan.
He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on
his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible
wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were
exquisitely bloodshot.
"Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?"
The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his
feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of
'the workbench.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Shure I remember you," he said thickly. "You... you're
that spielsunger... spoilsanger. ..."
"Spellsinger," Jon-Tom said helpfully.
"Thas what I said. You're that what I said from another
world that the master brought through to hulp him against
the Pleated Filk."
"The master is not feeling well." He put his staff aside.
"And you're not looking too hot either."
"Hooo, me?" The owl looked indignant, walked away
from the bench wavering only slightly. "I am perfectly
fine, thank you." He glanced back at the bench. "Is just
that I was looking for a certain bottle."
"What bottle?"
"Not marked, thish one." Sorbl looked conspiratorial
and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye.
"Medicinal liquid. Not for his ancientness in there. My
bottle," he finished, suddenly belligerent. "Nectar."
"Nectar? I thought owls liked mice."
"What?" said the outraged famulus. For an instant
Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents here-
abouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other
citizens of this world. "If I tried to take a bite out of a
mouse, his relatives would come string me up. I'll stick to
small lizards and snakishes. Listen," he continued more
softly, "it's hard working for this wizard. I need a lil'
lubrication now and then."
"You get any more lubricated," Jon-Tom observed
distastefully, "and your brains are going to slide out your
ass."
"Nonshensh. I am in complete control of myself." He
turned back toward the bench, staggered over to the edge,
and commenced a minute inspection of the surface with
eyes that should have been capable of spotting an ant from
a hundred yards away. At the moment, however, those
huge orbs were operating at less than maximum efficiency.
Jon-Tom shook his head in disgust and returned to the
wizard's bedside.
THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE 7
"Well," asked Clothahump meaningfully, "what is your
opinion of my new famulus?"
"I think I see what you're driving at. I didn't notice any
of the qualities you said he possesses. I'm pretty sure he
was drunk."
"Really?" said Clothahump dryly. "What a profound
observation. We'll make a perceptive spellsinger out of
you yet. He is like that too much of the time, my boy. I am
blessed with a potentially brilliant famulus, a first-rate,
worthy assistant. Sadly, Sorbl is also a lush. Do you know
that I have to make him take a cart into town to buy
supplies because every time he tries to fly in he ends up by
running head-first into a tree and the local farmers have to
haul him back to me in a wagon? Do you have any idea
how embarrassing that is for the world's greatest wizard?"
"I can imagine. Can't you cure him? I'd think an
anti-inebriation spell would be fairly simple and straight-
forward."
"It is a vicious circle, my boy. Were I not so sick I
could do so, but as it stands I cannot concentrate. Past two
hundred the mind loses some of its resilience. I tried just
are difficult enough to get straight when you're at the top
of your form. Sick as I was, I must have transposed an -yl
somewhere. Made him throw up for three days. Cured his
drinking, but made him so ill the only way he could cure
himself was by getting falling-down-drunk again.
"I must have that medicine, lad, so that I can function
properly again. Otherwise I'm liable to try some complex
spell, slip an incantation, and end up with something
dangerous in my pentagram. It's hard enough making sure
that idiot in there passes me the proper powders. Once he
substituted lettuce for liverwort, and I ended up with a
ten-foot-tall saber-toothed rabbit. Took me two hasty re-
traction spells to bunny it down."
"Why don't you just conjure the stuff up?"
"I do not possess the necessary ingredients," Clothahump
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Alan Dean Foster
explained patiently. "If I did, I could just take them, now,
couldn't I?"
"Beats me. I've seen you make chocolate out of garbage."
"Medicine is rather more specific in its requirements.
Everything must be so precise. You can make milk choco-
late, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, semisweet
chocolate: it's still all chocolate. Alter the composition of
a medicinal spell ever so slightly and you might end up
with a deadly poison. No, it must be brought whole and
ready, and you must bring it to me, my boy." He reached
out with a trembling hand. Jon-Tom moved close, 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