waves.
"I wish I had my board," Jon-Tom murmured.
"Yo what?" Roseroar looked down at him.
80
Alan Dean Foster
"It's a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It
floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward
shore."
Roseroar considered, decided. "That sounds like fun.
Do y'all think yo could teach me?"
He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, I don't have my
board with me."
"How big a board do yo need?" Rising, she started
stripping off her armor. "Surely not biggah than this?"
"Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the
water."
"Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah'll race yo to the
beach."
He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though
somone might appear on this deserted section of shore.
What the hell, he told himself.
The clean tropical salt water washed away the last
lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar's back
wasn't as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty
of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress's muscles
shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily
through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no
time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger
was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk
of inanimate resin.
As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm
beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,
Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood
while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-
dance clung to the shore.
The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-
ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,
cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to
fill even the tigress's belly. This time Jon-Tom didn't even
twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon's flank.
Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first
time since they'd fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.
VI
As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and
yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun
was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-
thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night's rest
he'd had in weeks.
He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed
quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.
As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with
beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest
revealed the source of the disturbance.
They were not alone on the beach. A small single-
masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four
large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered
around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them
were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged
mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.
What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of
the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly
voice but a strong one.
There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he
81
82
Alan Dean Foster
rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was
Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.
"What's happening?"
"Nothin', mate. None o' our business, wot? Let's leave
it be. I'm ready for breakfast."
"Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?"
"You do me a wrong, guv'nor. Sometimes 'tis sex,
food, and money. Then again at times 'tis—"
"Never mind," said the exasperated Jon-Tom.
"Foah against one," muttered Roseroar angrily, "and
the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant."
"We've got to do something," Jon-Tom murmured.
"Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left
and cover them from there. I'll make a frontal assault from
here. Roseroar, you..." But the tigress was already over
the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.
"Come on, Mudge!"
"Now wait a minim, mate." The otter watched Jon-
Tom follow in Roseroar's wake, waving his staff and
yelling at the top of his lungs. "Bloody fools!" He
notched an arrow into his bow and followed.
But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see
all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bear-
ing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit
to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a
concerted rush for the boat.
The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword
range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw-
ing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have
reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in
meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he
was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took
place.
Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the
exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath
the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
83
an old one, distant kin to Mudge's line but thinner still.
Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So
was the black mask that ran across the face.
The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore
sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled
in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several
other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All
looked empty.
Gradually the elderly ferret's breathing slowed. He opened
his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.
"Easy, easy, friend. They're gone. We saw to that."
The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his
gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered
leather sacks.
"My stock, my goods!" He broke away from Jon-Tom,
who watched while the oldster went through each sack,
one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack
draped across his lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside.
"Gone." He shook his head sadly. "AH gone."
"Wot's all gone, senior?" Mudge prodded one of the
sacks with a boot.
The ferret didn't look up at him. "My stock, my poor
stock. I am... I was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying
my trade along the shores east of here. I was set upon by
those worthless brigands"—he nodded seaward, to where
the retreating boat had raised sail and was disappearing
toward the horizon—"who stole everything I have man-
aged to accumulate in a short, unworthy life. They kept
me and forced me to do their menial work, to cook and
clean and wash for them while they preyed upon other
unsuspecting travelers.
"They said they would let me go unha
rmed. Finally
they tired of me, but instead of returning me to a place of
civilization they brought me here to this empty, uninhabited
shore, intending to maroon me in an unknown land where
I might starve. They stole what little I had in this world,
taunted me by leaving my stock bags, and would have
84
Alan Dean Foster
stolen my life as well at the last moment had you not come
along, for I was refusing to be abandoned."
"Don't give us too much credit," Jon-Tom advised
him. "Our being in a position to rescue you was an
accident."
"You can say that again, mate," growled the disgusted
Mudge as he slung his bow back over his shoulder.
Jon-Tom ignored the otter. "We're glad we could help. I
don't like seeing anyone taken advantage of, especially
senior citizens."
"What?"
"Older people."
"Ah. But how can I thank you, sir? How can I show my
gratitude? I am destitute."
"Forget it." The ferret's effusiveness was making Jon-
Tom uncomfortable. "We're glad we could help."
The ferret rose, wincing and putting one hand against
his back. "I am called Jalwar. To whom do I owe my
salvation?"
"I'm Jon-Tom. I'm a spellsinger. Of sorts."
The ferret nodded gravely. "I knew at once you were
mighty ones."
Jon-Tom indicated the disgruntled Mudge. "That ball of
fuzzy discontent is my friend Mudge." The otter grunted
once. "And this tower of cautionless strength is Roseroar."
"I am honored to be in your presence," said the ferret
humbly, proceeding to prostrate himself on the beach and
grasping Jon-Tom's boots. "I have nothing left. My stock
is gone, my money, everything save the clothes I wear. I
owe you my life. Take me into your service and let me
serve you."
"Now, wait a minute." Jon-Tom moved his boots out of
the ferret's paws. "I don't believe in slavery."
" 'Ere now, mate, let's not be 'asty." Mudge was quick
to intervene. "Consider the poor suck—uh, this poor
unfortunate chap. 'E's got nothin', 'e 'asn't. 'E'll need
protection, or the next bunch 'e runs into will kill Mm for
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
85
sure, just for 'is clothes." He eyed the ferret hopefully.
"Wot about it, guv? Can you cook?"
"I have some small talent in the kitchen, good sir."
"Mudge..." Jon-Tom said warningly. The otter ig-
nored him.
"You said you washed clothes."
"That I did, good sir. I have the ability to make even
ancient attire smell sweet as clover again, with the slightest
of cleansing materials. I am also handy at repairing gar-
ments. Despite my age, I am not a weakling. I can more
than carry my weight."
Mudge strutted about importantly. " 'Ere then, friend, I
think we should take pity on you and admit you to our
company, wot"?"
"Mudge, you know how I feel about servants."
"It wouldn't be like that at all, Jon-Tom. 'E does need
our protection, and 'e'll never get out o' this place without
our 'elp, and 'e's more than willin' to contribute 'is
share."
The ferret nodded enthusiastically. "Please accept my
service, good sir... and madame. Allow me to accompany
you. Perhaps being proximate to such mighty ones as your-
selves will improve my own ill fortune."
"I'll bet you were a good trader," Jon-Tom commented.
"Okay, you can come with us, but as an equal. Not as a
servant or slave. We'll pay you a decent wage." He
remembered the purse filled with gold, stolen by Zancresta's
thugs. "As soon as we can afford it, that is."
"Food and shelter and protection is all I ask, great sir."
"And stop calling me sir," said Jon-Tom. "I've intro-
duced you to everyone by name."
"As you wish, Jon-Tom." The ferret turned to look
down the beach. "What do we now? I presume you are
bound to the east, for if one walks long enough one will
come 'round again to the lands bordering the Bellwoods
and the River Tailaroam, where civilization is to be
encountered."
"Don't I wish," Mudge grumbled.
86
Alan Dean Poster
Jon-Tom shook his head. "We don't go to the east,
Jalwar. We go southwest, to Snarken."
' 'Across the Glittergeist? Sir... Jon-Tom... I have lived
long and seen much. The voyage to Snarken is long and
fraught with danger and difficulty. Better to begin the long
trek to the mouth of the Tailaroam. Besides, how could
one take ship from this deserted land? And north of here
lie the Muddletup Moors, where none may penetrate."
"We penetrated," said Mudge importantly.
"Did you? If you say it so, I doubt it not. Still, this far
north places us well away from the east-west trade routes.
We will encounter no vessels here."
"You won't get any arguments from me on that score,
mate," said Mudge. "Best to do as you say, go back to the
Bellwoods and the Tailaroam and start over. Likely
Chenelska's give up on us by now."
"No," said Jon-Tom firmly. "I am not going back and I
am not starting over. We've come too far."
Mudge squinted up at him. "Well now, you've just
'eard this wise old chap. 'Ow do you propose to get us
across that?" He pointed to the broad, sailless expanse of
the Glittergeist. "I like to swim, lad, but I prefer swimmin'
across water I can cross."
"What can yo do, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar asked him.
He stood fuming silently for a moment before blurting
out, "I can damn well conjure us up a boat, that's what!"
"Uh-oh." Mudge retreated toward the trees, searching
for a boulder of appropriate size to conceal himself behind.
" 'Is nibs is pissed off and 'e's goin' to try spellsingin'
again."
Roseroar eyed the otter curiously. "Isn't that his busi-
ness, fuzzball?"
"That may be wot some calls it. Me, I'd as soon brush
a crocodile's teeth than 'elp 'im with 'is work."
"Ah don't understand. Is he a spellsinger or not?"
" 'E is," Mudge admitted. "Of that there's no longer
any doubt. 'Tis just that 'e 'as this disconcertin' tendency
THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE
87
to misfire from time to time, and when it 'appens, I don't
want to be in the line o' fire."
"Go on, Roseroar," Jon-Tom told her. "Get back there
and hide behind a rock with him." He was mad at the
otter. Hadn't he, Jon-Tom, helped to bring about the great
victory at the Jo-Troom Gate? Purely by accident of
course, but still...
"No sun," said the tigress, offended. "If n y'all don't
mind, I'll stand right heah."
"Good for you." Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar, turned
away to confront the open sea, where soon he hoped to see
a proper ship riding empty at anchor. Turning also kept
Roseroar from seeing how nervous he was.
Once before on a far-distant river
he'd tried to bring
forth a boat to carry himself and his companions. Instead,
he'd ended up with Falameezar, the Marxist dragon. That
misplaced conjuration had produced unexpectedly benign
results, but there was no guarantee he'd be as fortunate if he
fouled up a second time.
It was too late to back down now. He'd already made his
boast. He felt Roseroar's gaze on the back of his neck. If
he backed down now he'd prove himself an incompetent to
Mudge and a coward to the tigress. He had to try.
He considered several songs and discarded them all as
unsuitable. He was beginning to grow frantic when a song
so obvious, so simple, offered what seemed like an obvi-
ous way out,
His fingers tested the duar's strings and he began to
sing.
Flecks of light sprang to instant life around him. It was
as though the sand underfoot had come to glowing life.
The lights were Gneechees, those minute ultrafast specks
of existence that were drawn irresistibly to magic in
motion. They coalesced into a bright, dancing cloud around
him, and as usual, when he tried to look straight at any of
them, they vanished. Gneechees were those suggestions of
88
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAT OF THE DISSONANCE
89
something everyone sees out of the corner of an eye but
aren't there when you turn to look at them.
But he sensed their presence. So did Roseroar and the
others. It was a good sign, an indication that the spellsinging
was working. Certainly the tune he played seemed harm-
less enough, even to the wary Mudge, whose opinion of
Jon-Tom's musical tastes differed little from that of the
average PTA president.
The otter had to admit that for a change the otherworldly
ditty Jon-Tom was reciting was easy on the ears, even if
the majority of the words, as was true of all of Jon-Tom's
songs, were quite incomprehensible.
Jon-Tom had chosen the song as much out of despera-
tion as need. The song was "Sloop John 5.," by the
Beach Boys. Given their present needs, it was a logical
enough choice.
Nothing happened right away. But before long, Jalwar
was making protective signs over his face and chest while
cowering close to Mudge for protection, while the otter
waited nervously for the unexpected to manifest itself.
Despite her own awe at what was taking place on the
beach, Roseroar stood her ground.
Mudge was worrying needlessly. For once, for the very
first time, it looked like Jon-Tom's efforts were to be