cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him
in this alien otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him
with a glimpse of reality, of home. He felt like a poor kid
forced to stand in front of the main display window at
FA.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas.
Slipping the duar around in front of him, he tried the
song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the
volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and
he could hardly speak. Nothing worked. The song remained
a song and nothing more.
He tried other songs, with the same result. He sang
everything he could remember that alluded however vaguely
to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.
The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running
southwestward under Roseroar's expert guidance. There
was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the dolphins with
their endless corny jokes.
"Sail ahead!" Jalwar yelled from the top of the main-
mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined
Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only
empty horizon. Mudge had no difficulty in matching the
ferret's vision.
"I see 'er, mate."
. "What does she look like?"
"Rigged normal, not like this thing." The last of
Jon-Tom's hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. "Big,
two rows of oars. That I don't like."
"Why not?"
"Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin'
across an ocean. Only a fool... and them that's given no
choice in the business."
The visitor was bearing down on them fast. Soon
Jon-Tom could make out the silhouette. "Can you see a
flag?"
Mudge stared hard. Then he began to shake. "That's all
she wrote, mate. There's a 'eart with a knife through it
flyin' from the yardartn. Pirates." He raced sternward,
Jon-Tom hurrying after him.
"I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist."
"Aye, traders and them that preys on 'em." The otter
was dancing frantically around Roseroar. "Do somethin',
you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!"
Roseroar put the wheel hard over, said evenly, "They've
probably seen us already."
"Jon-Tom, spellsing us out o' 'ere!" By now the huge,
swift shape of the pirate ship was bearing down on then-
stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double rows of
oars dipped in unison.
"There's not enough wind," Roseroar observed. "What
there is, is at our back, but they're supplemental' their
own sails with those oahs."
Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around
his neck. "Our engine's out of diesel." He found himself
eyeing the approaching behemoth in fascination. "Interest-
ing lines."
"Interestin" my arse!" Mudge was saying frantically.
"You'll see 'ow interestin' it can be if they take us!"
"I'm afraid I don't know many songs about boats,"
Jon-Tom muttered worriedly, trying to concentrate, "and
none at all about pirates. See, where I come from they're a
historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contempo-
rary song writers."
"Screw wot's contemporary!" the otter pleaded with
him. "Sing something!"
Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes,
none of which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the
approaching vessel. It was hard to remember anything,
what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to the north
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Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
1O9
and Mudge hopping hysterically all over the boat when he
wasn't screaming in Jon-Tom's face.
Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rum-
bled, "Stand by to repel boarders, y'all!"
Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The
upper deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed
along the rail was the oddest assortment of creatures he'd
encountered since finding himself in this world.
One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood
alongside three vicious-looking pikas armed with four-
foot-long lances. A pair of lynxes caressed chipped battle-
axes and prepared to swing down on ropes dangling from a
boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized
sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.
"Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He
leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over
his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood
staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of
him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.
As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down
a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her
skull with a mace. The tigress's swords flashed in unison.
Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote's limb-
less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood
in all directions. It twitched horribly.
Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers
began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself
backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose
attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly,
a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying
instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.
They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's
blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.
They forced him back toward the railing. The man
jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate
Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and
lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with
the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the carti-
lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face
covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.
Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in
the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back
end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at
him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe
backed off.
Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap-
pling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel,
but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.
Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had
been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a
picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made
a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their
insides spilling all over the deck.
Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen
backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were
aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a
suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.
The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands,
binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure
on her bonds she would only end up chokin
g herself. They
were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.
A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners
were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.
They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for
review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an
unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.
The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was
beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately
worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His
tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last
half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom
decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.
Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around
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THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
111
the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the
muscular arms.
Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in
battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts
from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose
had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the
leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew
murmured restlessly.
"You fought well," their inspector finally growled.
"Very well. Too well, thinks I." He glanced significantly
toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.
Green eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates
for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.
Where do you come from and how come you by such a
peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of
that."
"It's fiberglass."
The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you
the owner of the craft?"
Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am."
Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily
blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came
away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the
leopard's claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A
little lower and he would have lost both eyes.
Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat
while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The
leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It's nose
was almost touching Jon-Tom's.
"I am...sir," it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled
something else, and immediately the leopard's gaze flashed
toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?"
"Wot, me? Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it
were by a hot fight."
" 'Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat
returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding
silently. "Any complaints?"
Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard's face,
feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if
the scarring would be permanent.
"No, sir. No complaints, sir."
The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's
better."
' 'Are you the captain of this ship... sir?''
The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I am
Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped
aside. "Here comes the captain now."
Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear,
perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that
captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as
much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did
not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.
Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with
patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The
missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.
Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather
patch covered the one empty eye socket.
As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this
world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood
red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a
design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike
many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore
no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered
breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.
A member of the crew later informed them that the
captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a
time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak,
and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal
accuracy while balancing on the artificial leg.
The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth
between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the
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Alan Dean Foster
skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were
missing.
"These be all the crew of our prize?" He looked up at
the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the
powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact
with each of his own crew in turn.
"A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty death-dealing
collection... of infants!" His tail quivered with his anger.
"Infants, the lot of you!" Not only Sasheem, but the rest
of the cutthroats were completely cowed by this battered
green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to cross him.
"Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you
are!" He cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prison-
ers. "Now then. Where be you four bound?"
"Just a few days out from the Tailaroam," Mudge
volunteered ingratiatingly. "We were just on a little fishin'
trip, we were, and—"
his short legs. Mudge turned slightly the color of the
captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed on the deck.
Corroboc eyed him indifferently.
"The Emir of Ezon has a tradition of employing eu-
nuchs to guard his palace. I haven't decided what to do
with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you'll
find yourself a candidate for the knife o' the ship's
doctor."
Jon-Tom tried to pick a likely candidate for ship's
physician out of the surrounding collection of cutthroats
and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy
might be, he hadn't taken his internship at the Mayo
Clinic.
Mudge held his peace, along with everything else. The
blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. "Perhaps you be smarter
than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound,
man?"
"Snarken," Jon-Tom replied without hesitation.
Corroboc nodded- "Now, that makes sense, A sensible
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
113
one. You be a strange specimen, tall man. Be you from the
region o' the Bellwoods?"
"I am." He had to risk the falsehood. It was true
enough now, anyway.
The parrot blew his nose on the deck, sniffed. "Fortunately
for you I am in a good humor this morning."
Jon-Tom
decided he did not want to encounter him when he was in
a bad mood. "You two"—he indicated Mudge and Jalwar—
"can start cleaning out the bilges. That's a job long
overdue and one I am certain you'll find to your liking.
Won't you?'*
Uncertain whether to say yes sir, no sir, or nothing at
all, Jalwar stood and shook in terror. Mudge wasn't up to
commenting. Corroboc was apparently satisfied, because
he nodded absently before moving down to stare fearlessly
up at the towering Roseroar.
"As for you, I'd be pleased to make you one of my
crew. Tis plain enough to see you're no stranger to a life
of fighting. You'd make a valuable addition."
"Ah'll think it ovah, sun."
Good girl, Jon-Tom thought. There was no point in
making the pirate parrot mad with an outright refusal,
though he found himself wishing her reply hadn't been
quite so convincing. Surely she wasn't seriously consider-
ing the offer? But why not? Nothing bound her to Jon-
Tom. In fact, she had reason enough to abandon him.
Hadn't he yanked her unwillingly from her homeland and
involved her in dangers in which she had no interest? If
she were forced to throw in with some stranger, why not
this captain as easily as some unsteady, homesick spellsinger?
Spellsinger! He'd almost forgotten his own abilities. Not
a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He
prayed his companions would keep the secret and not blurt
it out in a thoughtless moment. He was particularly wor-
ried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood petrified
and volunteered nothing.
As if reading his thoughts, the pirate captain turned his
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Alan Dean Poster
attention back to him. "And you, tall man. What be you
good for?"
"Well, I can fight, too." Corroboc glanced toward his
First mate.
Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly, "Passing well."
Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, "I am also an
entertainer, a troubadour by trade."
"Huh! Well, 'tis true we could do with a bit o' song on
this scow from time to time." He gave his crew a look of
disgust- "I gets tired o' listening to the drunken prattling
o' this uncultured bunch."
Fighting to conceal his anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. "My
instrument's on board our ship, along with the rest of our
personal effects."
"Is it, now?" Corroboc was sweating him with that one
piercing eye. "I expect we'll find it in due course. You in