where she was taken. I expect she'll be okay. From what I
hear it's a well-run, sober, clean place."
Mudge put a consoling paw on Jon-Tom's arm. "See,
mate? Tis all worked out for the best."
"Yes," growled Roseroar. "Let's get on with this quest
of yours, Jon-Tom. The girl's in the kind of place best
suited to he I pin' her."
Jon-Tom listened to all of them, surprised Jalwar by
asking for his opinion.
"Since you request the thoughts of a humble servant, I
have to say that I agree with your friends. Undoubtedly the
young woman is now among those her own age, being
cared for by those whose business it is to succor such
unfortunates. We should be about our business."
Jon-Tom nodded. "You're probably right, Jalwar." He
looked at Mudge and Roseroar. "You're probably all
right." He eyed the senior of the two cops. "You're sure
this is a decent place?"
"The streets of Snarken are full of homeless youth. We
bag 'em all the time. So there are many orphanages. Some
are supported by taxes, others are private. If I remember
aright, the Friends of the Street are among the private
organizations."
"Okay, okay," Jon-Tom grumbled, out-reasoned as well
as outvoted.
"So when do we leave, mate?"
"Tomorrow morning, I suppose, if you think you can
lay in enough supplies by tonight."
"Cor, can a fish fry? Leave 'er to me, mate. You and
the cat-mountain and the old bugger get yourselves back to
the inn. Relax and suck in the last o' the sea air. Leave
everythin' to ol' Mudge."
Jon-Tom did so, and was rewarded that evening by the
sight of not one but two large, comfortable wagons tied up
outside the inn. They were piled high with supplies and
THE DAY OF TOR DISSONANCE
151
yoked to two matched horned lizards apiece, the kind of
dray animals who could handle smooth roads or rough
trails with ease.
"You've done well," Jon-Tom complimented the otter.
Mudge appeared to be undergoing the most indescrib-
able torture as he reached into a pocket and handed over
three gold coins. "And 'ere's the change, mate."
Jon-Tom hardly knew what to say. "I didn't think
there'd be this much. You're changing, Mudge."
"Please don't say anythin', mate," said the tormented
otter. "I'm in pain enough as it is."
"Did you ever think of setting yourself up as a legiti-
mate merchant, Mudge."
"Wot, me?" The otter staggered. "Why, I'd lose me
self-respect, not to mention me card in the Lynchbany
Thieves' Guild! It'd break me poor mother's 'eart, it
would."
"Sorry," Jon-Tom murmured. "I won't mention it again.
Roseroar was giving the loads a professional inspection.
"Ah take back everything ah said about yo, ottah. Yo've
done a fine job o1 requisitionin'." She turned to Jon-Tom.
"Theah's mo than enough heah to last us fo a journey of
many months. He spent the gold well."
Mudge executed a low bow. "Thanks, tall, luscious,
and unattainable. Now 'ow about a last decent meal before
we're back to eatin' outdoor cooking?" He headed for the
inn entrance.
Jon-Tom held back, spoke sheepishly. "Look, I under-
stand how you all feel and 1 respect your opinions, and
you're probably all right as rain and I'm probably wrong.
I'll understand if you all want to go in and eat and go to
bed, but I'm not tired. I know it doesn't make any sense,
but I'm going up to this Friends of the Street place to
make a last check on Folly."
Mudge threw up his hands. " 'Umans! Now, wot do you
want to go and waste your time with that for, mate? The
girl's a closed chapter, she is."
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Alan Dean Foster
"A closed chapter," Jalwar agreed, "with a happy
ending. Leave it be. Why aggravate yourself?"
"I won't aggravate myself. It'll just take a minute." He
plucked one string of his duar. "I owe her a farewell song
and I want to let her know that we'll probably be coming
back this way, in case she wants to see us or anything."
"Pitiful," Mudge mumbled. "Plumb pitiful. Right then,
"You don't have to come," Jen-Tom reminded him.
"What about your big supper?"
"It'll keep." He took the man's arm and urged him up
the street. They climbed the first hill.
"Look at it, mate. The night's as black as the inside of
a process-server's 'eart." He stared up the narrow, winding
avenue. "You sure we can find this place?"
Jon-Tom nodded. "It's atop a hill. We can always ask
directions. We're not helpless."
"No," said a new voice, startling them, "not now
you're not."
"Roseroar... you're not hungry either?"
"Ah've got a beilyfull of thunder," she shot back, "but
ah figured ah'd better come along to make sure you two
don't end up in an alley somewheres. Those muggahs may
still be working this area."
"We can take care of ourselves, luv," said Mudge.
"Ah'm sure you can, but you can take better care o'
yourselves with me around."
Jon-Tom looked past her. She noticed the direction of
his gaze. "Jalwah wanted to come, too, bless his heart,
but there's climbing to do and he's more than a little worn
out. He'll wait fo us and keep a watch on our supplies."
"Fine," said Jon-Tom, turning and starring to climb
again. "We'll be back soon enough."
"Aye, right quick," Mudge agreed.
But they were both wrong.
x
The Friends of the Street occupied a complex of stone-and-
mortar buildings atop a seaward-facing hillside. It was
located in an area of comfortable individual homes and gar-
den plots instead of the slum Jon-Tom expected.
"Whoever endowed this place," he told his companions
as they approached the main entrance, "had money."
"And plenty o' it," Mudge added.
Several long, narrow, two-story structures were linked
together by protective walls. Blue tile roofs gleamed in the
moonlight. Dim illumination flickered behind a couple of
windows, but for the most part the complex was dark.
That wasn't surprising. It was late and the occupants
should be in bed. Flowery wrought-iron trellises blocked
the front doorway, but there was a cord to be pulled.
Jon-Tom tugged on it, heard the faint echo of ringing from
somewhere inside. Leaves shuffled in tall trees nearby. The
thousand bright stars of Snarken electrified the shoreline
far below.
The door opened and a curious lady squirrel peeked out
at them. She was elderly and clad entirely in black. Black
lace decorated the cuffs of her sleeves. Hanging from her
153
154
Alan Dean Poster
gray neck was a single golden medallion on a gold chain.
Several letters had been engraved on it, but they were too
small f
or Jon-Tom to make out.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Are you the master of this orphanage?" Jon-Tom
asked.
"Me?" She did not smile. "No. What do you wish with
the Headmaster?" She was watching Roseroar carefully.
"Just a couple of quick questions." He put on his most
ingratiating grin.
"Office hours are from mid-morning to nightfall." She
moved to shut the door.
Jon-Tom took a step forward, still wearing his grin.
"We have reason to believe that an acquaintance of ours
was recently—" he searched for the right word, "enrolled
at the orphanage."
"You mean you don't know for certain?"
"No. It would have been within the last day."
"I see. Visiting hours are at nightfall only." Again the
attempt to close the door, again Jon-Tom rushed to fore-
stall her.
"Please, ma'am. We have to depart on a long difficult
journey tomorrow. I just want a moment to assure myself
that your institution is as admirable on the inside as it is
from without."
"Well," she murmured uncertainly, "wait here. The
Headmaster is at his late-eve devotions. I will ask if he can
see you."
"Thanks."
afraid they'd been given a polite brushoff. He was about to
use the bell-pull a second time when she reappeared
trailing an elderly man.
As always, Jon-Tom was surprised to see another human
in a position of authority, since they didn't seem to be
among the more prolific groups here. In Clothahump's
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
155
world mankind was just one of dozens of intelligent
species.
The man was only a few inches shorter than Jon-Tom,
which made him unusually tall for a local. With the
exception of a radically different cut, his attire was identi-
cal with that of the much smaller squirrel: all black with
lace cuffs and the same golden medallion. He held his
hands clasped in front of his chest. His gray hair was
combed neatly back at sides and forehead. A gray goatee
protruded from his chin, and he wore thin wire glasses
with narrow lenses. To Jon-Tom he resembled a cross
between Colonel Sanders and a contrabassoon.
His smile and words both spoke of kindly concern,
however. "Greetings. Welcome, strangers, to Friends of
the Street." He gestured toward the squirrel. "Ishula tells
me you have a friend among our flock?"
"We think so. Her name's Folly."
The Headmaster frowned. "Folly. I don't know that we
have anyone staying with us by that... oh, yes! The young
woman who was brought in the previous evening. She told
us her terrible tale of being captured by pirates on the high
seas. You are the ones she described as her rescuers, are
you not?"
"That's right."
"To think that such awfulness is abroad in the world."
The Headmaster shook his head regretfully. "The poor girl
has endured more than any intelligent creature should
suffer."
Jon-Tom had to admit that so far all of his concerns and
fears looked unjustified. Still, he couldn't leave satisfied
without at least a fast look at the facilities.
"I know it's late, and it's cold out here. We have to
leave on a long trip tomorrow, as I told your assistant.
Could we come in for a moment and have a look around?
We just want to make sure that Folly's going to be well
looked after. We place no claim on her and I'm sure she'll
be much better off here than with us."
156
Alan Dean Foster
"Why, certainly, do come in," said the Headmaster.
"My name is Chokas, by the way. Ishula, the gate."
The squirrel unlocked the iron grille as Jon-Tom made
his own introductions.
"Delighted, ah am sure," said Roseroar as she ducked
through the opening.
They found themselves in a long white hallway. Chokas
led them down the tiled corridor, chatting effusively and
not at all upset by their presence or the lateness of the
hour. The squirrel trailed behind, occasionally pausing to
dust a bench or vase with her tail.
Jon-Tom made polite responses to the Headmaster's
conversation, but he was only paying partial attention. The
rest of him searched for indications of subterfuge or
concealed maleficence. He was not rewarded.
The corridor and the rooms branching off it were spot-
less. Decorative plants occupied eaves and niches or hung
in planters from the beamed ceiling. There were skylights
to admit the warmth of day. Without being asked, Chokas
volunteered a further tour of the Friends of the Street.
Beginning to relax, Jon-Tom accepted.
Padded benches paralleled clean tables in the dining
room, and the kitchen was as shiny as the hallway.
"We pride ourselves on our hygiene here," the Head-
master informed him.
The larder was filled to overflowing with foodstuffs of
every kind, suitable for sustaining the energetic offspring
of many races. Beyond, the reason for the interlocking
architecture became apparent. It circled to enclose a
broad courtyard. Play areas were marked out beneath
several bubbling fountains, and tall trees shaded the grounds.
Roseroar bent to whisper to him. "Come, haven't y'all
seen enough? The girl will be well cared fo heah."
"I have to admit it's not the kind of place I expected,"
he confessed. "Hell, I'd be half-tempted to move in
myself." He raised his voice as he spoke to the Headmas-
ter. "Terrific-looking place you run here, Chokas."
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
157
The man nodded his thanks. "We are privileged to serve
as guardians and protectors of the homeless and those who
have lost their way at a tender age. We take our responsi-
bilities seriously."
"What sort o' schooling do they get?" Roseroar asked.
"Histories, geographies, mathematics, training in the
social verities, domestic subjects such as cooking and
sewing. Physical education. Instruction in discipline and
courtesy. A well-rounded curriculum, we believe."
"I've seen enough." Jon-Tom glanced toward the second-
floor dormitories. "So long, Folly. It was interesting know-
ing you. Have a full and happy life and maybe we'll meet
again someday." He turned back toward the entry hall.
"Thanks again for the tour, Chokas."
"My pleasure. Please come visit us anytime, sir. The
Friends of the Street encourages visitation."
The front door closed quietly behind them, leaving the
trio standing on the cobblestone avenue outside. Roseroar
started down the hill.
"That's done. Now we can get down to mo important
business."
"I admit she's better off here than with us," Jon-Tom
said. "Certainly it's a more stable environment than any
alternative we could come up with."
&n
bsp; "Hang on a minim, you two." Jon-Tom and Roseroar
turned, to see Mudge inspecting the entrance.
"What's the matter, Mudge?" Come to think of it,
Jon-Tom hadn't heard a single comment from the otter
during the tour. "I'd think that you, of any of us, would
be anxious to get back to the inn."
"That I am, mate."
"Come on, then, ottah," said Roseroar impatiently.
"Don't tell me you miss the cub? You liked her no mo
than did ah."
"True enough, mistress of massive hindquarters. I thought
'er obstinate, ignorant, and nothin' but trouble, for all that
she went through. Life's tough and I ain't me sister's
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Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE
159
keeper. But I wouldn't leave a slick, slimy salamander
who'd ooze all over me in a place like this."
"You saw something, Mudge?" Jon-Tom moved to
stand next to him. "I thought it was neat, clean, and
well-equipped."
"Bullocks," snapped the otter. "We saw what they
wanted us to see, nothin' more. That Chokas chap's as
slick as greased owl shit and I'd trust 'im about as far as I
can piss." He turned to face them both. "I don't suppose
either o' you sharp-eyed suckers 'appened to note that there
are no windows on the first floor anywheres facin' the
streets?"
Jon-Tom looked left, then right, and saw that the otter
was correct. "So? I'm sure they have their reasons."
"I'll bet they do. Notice also that all the second-story
windows are barred?"
"More decorative wrought iron," murmured Jon-Tom,
his eyes roving over the upper floors.
"Decorative is it, mate?"
"This is a rough city," said Roseroar. "Orphans are
vulnerable. Perhaps the bans are to keep thieves from
breakin1 in and stealing youngsters to sell into slavery."
"If that's the case then the 'Friends' of the Street 'ave
done a mighty professional job o' protectin' their charges
from the outside. Observe that none of these trees over-
hang any part of any of the buildin's."
That was true. A cleared expanse of street formed an
open barrier between the nearest orchard and the outermost
structures.
"But what does all of it prove?" Jon-Tom asked the
otter.
"Not a bloody thing, mate. But I've been around a bit,
and I'm tellin' you that my gut tells me somethin' 'ere
ain't right. Me, I'd be curious to *ave a little chat with one
or two o' the occupants without that piranha-faced squirrel