a rush to demonstrate your talents?"
"At your leisure, sir." Jon-Tom felt the back of his
indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. "It's
only that it's a fine instrument. I'd hate to see one of your
refined crew reduce it to kindling in hopes of finding gold
or jewels inside. They wouldn't."
Corroboc snorted. "Rest assured they'll mind their stink-
ing manners." He addressed the leopard. "Take 'em
below and lock 'em in the brig. Let them stew there for a
bit."
"These two also?" Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and
Mudge.
"Aye, the bilges will wait. Let them share each other's
filth for a while. By the time I decide to let them out
they'll be clamorin' to get to work."
This sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter
from the crew as they sloughed away to their posts. The
pirate ship turned westward with the sloop trailing obediently
behind it.
As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his first
glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own
THE DAY OF THJE DISSONANCE
115
fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to
rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and
mental degeneration.
That's where we'll all end up, on the rowing benches,
he thought tiredly. Unless we can figure out some way out
of this.
At the moment, entry into paradise seemed the more
likely route. If he could only get his hands on his duar,
there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging,
however uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was
sure of one thing: he'd fashion some kind of magic. And
the first try would be his last. He was sure of that much.
Corroboc wasn't stupid, and the captain would give him
no second chance to try his hand at wizardry.
Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her shoul-
der, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was
grinning back at her.
"Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah'H
make music with yo bones."
"Gentle now, big one," said the amused leopard. "I
have no doubt you'd do just that if given the chance. But
you won't be given the chance. It'll go easier on you in the
long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem.
If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this
boat, we do. Your heart may be made of iron, but the rest
of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it is, too. Think
over your options.
"If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you to me."
She glared back at him. "Ah won't be a comforting
gift."
Sasheem shrugged. "Comforting or unforgiving, it won't
matter. I aim to have you. Willingly if possible, otherwise
if not. You may as well settle your mind to that." They
were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar
with a departing smirk as he joined the rest of his compan-
ions in mounting the gangway.
Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and
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Alan Dean Foster
unclenching. "That furred snake. Ah'd like to get my
claws into his—"
"Not yet, Roseroar," Jon-Tom cautioned her. "We've
got to be patient. They don't know that I'm a spellsinger.
If I can just get my hands on my duar, get one chance to
play and sing, we'll have a chance."
"A chance at wot, mate?" Mudge slumped dispiritedly
in a comer. "For you to conjure up some poor dancin' girl
to take Roseroar's place? To bury this slimy tub in
flowers?"
"I'll do something," Jon-Tom told him angrily. "You
see if I don't."
"I will that, guv." The otter rolled over, ignoring the
fact that the floor of their cage was composed of rank straw
stained dark by the urine of previous captives.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm goin' to 'ave a sleep, mate."
"How can you sleep now?"
"Because I'm tired, mate." The otter glanced up at
him. "I am tired of fightin1, tired with fear, and most of
are. When you're ready to magic us out o' this 'ole and
back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I'll
be lucky and not wake up meself."
"One should never ride the wave of pessimism," Jalwar
chided him.
"Close your cake 'ole, you useless old fart. You don't
know wot the 'ell you're talkin' about." Hurt, the old
ferret lapsed into silence.
Jon-Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in
each hand. They were fixed deep into the wood of the
ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big bugs
skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others
could be heard using the rafters for pathways.
Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar and put a
comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the
ears. She responded with a tired, halfhearted purr.
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
117
"Don't worry, Roseroar. I got you into this. Maybe I
can't get myself home, but I can damn well get you out of
it. I owe you that much. I owe all of you that much."
Mudge was already asleep and didn't hear the promise.
Jalwar squatted in another corner picking resignedly at
strands of hay.
I just don't know how I'm going to get you all out of
this, Jon-Tom mused silently.
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
119
VIII
Somehow the concept of "swabbing the deck" was tinged
with innocence; a reflection of childhood memories of
stories about wooden ships and iron men.
The reality of it was something else.
You rested on your hands and knees on a rough planked
deck, stripped to the waist beneath a hot sun that blistered
your neck and set the skin to peeling off your back. Sweat
flowed in streams from under your arms, from your fore-
head and your belly. Anything small and solid, be it a
speck of dust or one of your own hairs, that slipped into
your eye made you want to run screaming for the railing to
throw yourself over the side.
Salt air worsened your situation, exacerbating the sore
spots, making them fester and redden faster. Splinters
stung the exposed skin of hands and ankles while your
palms were raw from pushing the wide brushes soaked
with lye-based cleaning solution.
Meanwhile you advanced slowly the length of the deck,
making sure to remove each bloodstain lest some laughing
member of the crew remind you of its presence by pressing
a heavy foot on your raw fingers.
118
By midday Jon-Tom no longer cared much if they were
rescued or if he were thrown over the rail to be consumed
by whatever carnivorous fish inhabited this part of the
Glittergeist. He didn't have much hope left. Already he'd
forgotten about Clothahump's illness, about returning home,
&nb
sp; forgotten about everything except surviving the day.
By late afternoon they'd finished scrubbing every square
foot of the main deck and had moved up to the poop deck.
The helmsman, a grizzled old warhog, ignored them.
There was no sign of the captain, for which Jon-Tom was
unremittingly grateful.
A crude, temporary shelter had been erected off to the
left, close by the captain's perch. Huddled beneath the
feeble shade this provided was a girl of sixteen, maybe a
little older. Once she might have been pretty. Now her long
blonde hair was so much pale seaweed clinging to her
face. She was barely five feet tall. Her eyes were a
washed-out blue. Excepting the heavy steel manacle that
encircled her neck and was attached to a chain bolted to
the deck, she was stark naked.
It provided her with a radius of movement of about ten
feet. No more. Just enough to get from the shelter to the
rail, where she would have to perform any personal bodily
functions in full view of the crew. Jon-Tom had no trouble
following the whip welts, casual burns, and bruises that
covered most of her body.
She sat silently within the shelter, her legs extended to
one side, and said nothing as they approached. She just
stared.
Jon-Tom used a forearm to wipe the sweat from around
his lips. They were alone on the deck except for the old
helmsman. He risked whispering.
"Who are you, girl?" No reply. Only those empty blue
eyes, staring. "What's your name?"
"Leave 'er be, mate," said Mudge softly. "Can't you
see there's not much left o' 'er? She's mad or near enough,
or maybe they cut out 'er tongue to keep 'er from screamin'."
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Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
121
"None of those," said the helmsman. He spoke without
taking his eyes from the ship's course. "That's Folly, the
captain's toy. He took her off a ship that sank several
months ago. She's been nuthin' but trouble since. Uncooper-
ative, unappreciative when the captain tried bein' nice to
her. I don't know why he doesn't throw her overboard and
be done with it. It was folly to bring her aboard, and folly
to keep her, so Folly's been her name."
"But what's her real name?"
A thin, barely audible reply came from within the
shelter. "I have no name. Folly's as good as any."
"You can talk. They haven't broken you yet."
She glared bitterly at Jon-Tom. "What do you know
about anything? I've been watching you." Her mouth
twisted. "You're hurting now. I watched when they took
your boat and brought you aboard. The tigress will be
around awhile. The old one won't last two weeks. The
otter a little longer, if he keeps his mouth shut.
"As for you," she eyed Jon-Tom contemptuously, "you'll
say the wrong thing and lose your tongue. Or worse."
"What happened to you?" Jon-Tom was careful to keep
his voice down and his arms moving lest Sasheem or one
of the other mates take note of the conversation.
"What does it matter?"
"It matters to me. It should matter to you, because
we're going to get off this ship." If the helmsman over-
heard he gave no sign.
The girl laughed sharply. "And you thought I'd gone
mad." She glanced at Roseroar. "The man is crazy, isn't
he?" Roseroar made no reply, bending to her work.
"And you'll come with us," he went on. "I wouldn't
leave you here."
"Why not? You've got your own business to attend to.
Why not leave me here? You don't know me, you don't
owe me." She spat at the deck. "This is a stupid conversa-
tion. You're not going anywhere."
"What happened?" he prodded gently.
A tiny bit of the hardness seemed to go out of her, and
she looked away from him. "My family and I were on a
trading packet bound from Jorsta to the Isles of Durl when
we ran afoul of these bastards. They killed my father along
with the rest of the males and later, my mother. Since my
little sister was too young to be of any use to them, they
threw her overboard. They killed everyone, except for me.
For some reason that unmentionable thing they call their
captain took a fancy to me. I imagine he saw ftiture profit
in me." She shrugged. "I've taken care to give them
nothing but trouble since. Hence my name, a gift of the
crew."
"Been less troublesome lately," grunted the helmsman
significantly.
"Have you tried to escape?"
"Escape to where? Yes, I tried anyway. Better drowning
or sharks than this. At least, I tried before they put this
chain on me. I only tried once. There are worse things than
being beaten. As you may find out."
He lowered his voice to make certain the helmsman
couldn't overhear. "I don't intend to. We're getting off this
ship. Will you come with us when we do?"
"No." She stared straight back at him. "No. I won't. I
don't want to be hurt anymore."
"That's why I'm taking you with us." She turned away
from him. "What's wrong?"
Mudge gave him a gentle nudge. "Watch your mouth,
lad. 'Tis the captain, may 'e rot in 'is own excrement."
"How goes she, Pulewine?" Corroboc inquired of his
helmsman.
"Steady on course, Captain."
Jon-Tom kept his attention on his scrub brush, heard the
thunk of the captain's wooden leg move nearer.
"And how be our fine cleaning crew this bright morn-
ing? Are they working like the elegant fighters we brought
aboard?"
"No, Captain." The helmsman allowed himself a grunting
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Alan Dean Foster
laugh. "As anyone can see, they're working like the scum
that they are."
"That's good." Corroboc walked around Jon-Tom until
the parrot was standing between him and Folly's shelter.
He turned his good eye on the man. "Now then, mayhap
we each understand our place in the order o' things, har?"
"Yes, Captain," murmured Jon-Tom readily enough.
"Aye, that be the way to answer. Keep that tone about
you and you'll live to do more service." He cast a glance
into the shelter and Jon-Tom went cold as he saw the look
that came over Folly's face as she drew back into the
shadows.
"Chatting with the young she, have you?"
Since the helmsman had been privy to much of their
conversation, Jon-Tom could hardly deny it had taken
place.
"A word or two, sir. Harmless enough."
"Har, I be sure o' that! A cute little specimen of her
species, though not marketable in her present condition,
fears I. A consequence of noncooperation." Jon-Tom said
nothing, scrubbed harder, trying to push the brush through
the wood.
"That's it, boy. Scrub well and we'll see to giving you a
chance to entertain us when you've finished." He shared a
laugh with the helmsman. "Though not the kind you
think, no. The two of you can entertain us together."
"I wouldn't get under that whey-faced stringbean if you
shot me with pins," Folly snapped.
Corroboc turned that merciless eye on his prisoner.
"Now, what make you think you'd be having any choice
in the matter, Folly? It'll be a pleasant thing to work out
the geometry of it." He lashed out suddenly with his one
good foot. The sharp claws cut twin bloody gouges up her
thigh and she let out a soft cry.
Jon-Tom dug his fingernails into the wood of the brush.
"That be better now, and we'll be having no more
arguments, will we?" Folly clung to the shadows and
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
123
whimpered, holding her injured leg. "You've been disap-
pointment enough to me. As soon as we make land I'll rid
myself of you, and I'll make certain your buyer is of a
similar mind when it comes to staging entertainments.
Then perhaps you'll yearn for the good old days back
aboard Corroboc's ship, har?" He turned back to the deck
cleaners.
"Keep at it, slime." He addressed his helmsman. "When
they've finished the deck, run them forward and set them
to scrubbing the sides. Sling them over in nets. If one of
them falls through, it will serve as a fine lesson to the
others."
"Aye, Captain," said the helmsman.
Corroboc rose on bright green wings to glide down to
the main deck. The warthog cast a wizened eye at Jon-
Tom.
"Watch thy tongue and mind thy manners and thee
might live as much as a year." This admonition was
finished off with a thick, grunting laugh. "Still going to
escape?"
You bet your porcine ass we are, Jon-Tom thought
angrily as he attacked the decking. The wood was the only
thing he could safely take out his fury on. We'll get out of
this somehow and take that poor battered girl with us.
Without his realizing it, the sight of Folly had done
something their own desperate situation had not: it forced
him to realize how selfish he'd been these past hours,
moping around bemoaning his fate. He wasn't the only
one who had problems. Everyone else was depending on
him—Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar, and Clothahump
sick and hurt back in his tree, and now Folly.
So he hadn't made it back to his own world. Tough.
Self-pity wouldn't get him any closer to L.A. He had
friends who needed him.
Mudge noticed the change in his friend's attitude imme-
diately. He scrubbed the deck with renewed enthusiasm.