When one passenger had the temerity to complain, he
was invited to get out and walk. There were two other
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
19
unscheduled stops along the way as well, once when the
team got hungry and stopped to graze a lush meadow
through which the road conveniently cut, and again when
the two mares got into a heated argument about just who
boasted the daintier fetlocks.
It was dark when they finally pulled into Timswitty.
"Come on," snapped the lead stallion, "let's get a
move on back there. Our stable's waiting. I know you're
all stuck with only two legs, but that's no reason for
loafing."
"Really!" One of the outraged travelers was an elegantly
attired vixen. Gold chains twined through her tail, and her
elaborate hat was badly askew over her ears from the
jouncing the stage had undergone. "I have never been
treated so rudely in my life! I assure you I shall speak to
your line manager at first opportunity,"
"You're talking to him, sister," said the stallion. "You
got a complaint, you might as well tell me to my face."
He looked her up and down. "Me, I think you ought to
thank us for not charging you for the extra poundage."
"Well!" Her tail swatted the stallion across the snout as
she turned and flounced away to collect her luggage.
Only the fact that his mate restrained him kept him from
taking a bite out of that fluffy appendage.
"Watch your temper, Dreal," she told him. "It doesn't
do to bite the paying freight. Rotten public relations."
"Bet all her relations have been public," he snorted,
pawing the ground impatiently. "What's slowing up those
striped rats back there? I need a rubdown and some sweet
alfalfa."
"I know you do, dear," she said as she nuzzled his
neck, "but you have to try and maintain a professional
-attitude, if only for the sake of the business."
"Yeah, I know," Jon-Tom overheard as he made his
way toward the depot. "It's only that there are times when
I think maybe we'd have been better off if we'd bought
ourselves a little farm somewhere out in the country and
20
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSOKAWCE
21
hired some housemice and maybe a human or two to do
the dirty work."
He was the only one in the office. The fox and the other
passengers already had destinations in mind.
"Can I help you?" asked the elderly marten seated
behind the low desk. With his long torso and short waist,
the clerk reminded Jon-Tom of Mudge. The marten was
slimmer still, and instead of Mudge's jaunty cap and bright
vest and pantaloons he wore dark shorts and a sleeveless
white shirt, a visor to shade his eyes, and bifocals.
"I'm a stranger in town."
"I suspect you're a stranger everywhere," said the
marten presciently.
Jon-Tom ignored the comment. "Where would a visitor
go for a little harmless fun and entertainment in Timswitty?"
"Well now," replied the marten primly, "I am a family
man myself. You might try the Golden Seal. They offer
folksinging by many species and occasionally a string trio
from Kolansor."
"You don't understand." Jon-Tom grinned insinuatingly.
"I'm looking for a good time, not culture."
"I see." The marten sighed. "Well, if you will go down
the main street to Born Lily Lane and follow the lane to its
end, you will come to two small side streets leading off
into separate cul-de-sacs. Take the north close. If the smell
and noise isn't enough to guide you further, look for the
small sign just above an oil lamp, the one with the carving
of an Afghan on it."
"As in canine or cloth?"
The marten wet his lips. "The place is called the
Elegant Bitch. No doubt you will find its pleasures suita-
ble. I wouldn't know, of course. I am a family man."
"Of course," said Jon-Tom gravely. "Thanks."
As he made his solitary way down the dimly lit main
street, he found himself wishing Talea was at his side.
Talea of the flame-red hair and infinite resourcefulness.
Talea of the blind courage and quick temper. Did he love
her? He wasn't sure anymore. He thought so, thought she
loved him in return. But she was too full of life to settle
down as the wife of an itinerant spellsinger who had not
yet managed to master his craft.
Not long after the battle of the Jo-Troom Gate, she had
regretfully proposed they go their separate ways, at least
for a little while. She needed time to think on serious
matters and suggested he do likewise. It was hard on him.
He did miss her. But there was the possibility she was
simply too independent for any one man.
He held to his hopes, however. Perhaps someday she
would tire of her wanderings and come back to him. There
wasn't a thing he could do but wait.
As for Flor Quintera, the cheerleader he'd inadvertently
brought into this world, she had turned out to be a major
disappointment. Instead of being properly fascinated by
him, it developed that she lusted after a career as a
sword-wielding soldier of fortune and had gone off with
Caz, the tall, suave rabbit with the Ronald Colman voice
and sophisticated manners. Jon-Tom hadn't heard of them
hi months. Flor was a dream that had brought him back to
reality, and fast.
At least this was a fit world in which to pursue dreams.
At the moment, though, he was supposed to be pursuing
medicine. He clung to that thought as he turned down the
tiny side street.
True to the marten's information he heard sounds of
singing and raucous laughter. But instead of a single small
oil lamp there were big impressive ones flanking the door,
fashioned of clear beveled crystal.
Above the door was a swinging sign showing a finely
coiffed hound clad in feathers and jewels. She was gazing
back over her furry shoulder with a distinctly come-hither
look, and her hips were cocked rakishly.
There was a small porch. Standing beneath the rain
shield, Jon-Tom knocked twice on the heavily oiled door.
It was opened by a three-foot-tall mouse in a starched suit.
22
Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
23
Sound flooded over Jon-Tom as the doormouse looked him
over.
"Step inside and enjoy, sir," he finally said, moving
aside.
Jon-Tom nodded and entered. The doormouse closed the
door behind him.
He found himself in a parlor full of fine furniture and a
wild assortment of creatures representing several dozen
species. All were cavorting without a. care as to who they
happened to be matching up with. There were several
humans in the group, men and women. They moved freely
among their intelligent furry counterparts.
Jon-Tom noted the activity, lis
tened to the lascivious
dialogue, saw the movement of hands and paws, and
suspected he had not entered a bar. No question what kind
of place this was. He was still surprised, though he
shouldn't have been. It was a logical place to look for
Mudge.
Still, he didn't want to take the chance of embarrassing
himself. First impressions could be wrong. He spoke to the
doormouse.
"I beg your pardon, but this is a whorehouse, isn't it?"
The mouse's voice was surprisingly deep, rumbling out
of the tiny gray body. "All kinds we get in here," he
muttered dolefully, "all kinds. What did you think it was,
jack? A library?"
"Not really. There aren't any books."
The doormouse showed sharp teeth in a smile. "Oh, we
have books, too. With pictures. Lots of pictures, if that's
to your taste, sir."
"Not right now." He was curious, though. Maybe later,
after he'd found Mudge.
"You look like you've been a-traveling, sir. Would
you like something to eat and drink?"
"Thanks, I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm looking for a
friend."
"Everyone comes to the Elegant Bitch in search of a
friend.''
"You misunderstand. That's not the way I mean."
"Just tell me your ways, sir. We cater to all ways here."
"I'm looking for a buddy, an acquaintance," Jon-Tom
said in exasperation. The doormouse had a one-track
mind.
"Ah, now I understand. No divertissements, then? This
isn't a meeting house, you know."
"You're a good salesman." Jon-Tom tried to placate
him. "Maybe later. I have to say that you're the smallest
pimp I've ever seen."
"I am not small and I am not a pimp," replied the
doormouse with some dignity. "If you wish to speak to the
madam..."
"Not necessary," Jon-Tom told him, though he won-
dered not only what she'd look like but what she'd be.
"The fellow I'm after wears a peaked cap with a feather in
it, a leather vest, carries a longbow with him everywhere
he goes, and is an otter. Name of Mudge."
The doormouse preened a whisker, scratched behind one
ear. For the first time Jon-Tom noticed the small earplugs.
Made sense. Given the mouse's sensitivity to sound, he'd
need the plugs to keep from going deaf while working
amid the nonstop celebration.
"I recognize neither name nor attire, sir, but there is one
otter staying with us currently. He would be in room
twenty-three on the second floor."
"Great. Thanks." Jon-Tom almost ran into the mouse's
outstretched palm. He placed a small silver piece there and
saw it vanish instantly.
"Thank you, sir. If there is anything I can do for you
after you have met with this possible friend, please let me
know. My name is Whort and I'm the majordomo here."
"Maybe later," Jon-Tom assured him as he started up
the carved stairway.
He had no intention of taking the doormouse up on his
24
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
25
offer. Not that he had anything against the house brand of
entertainment. His long separation from Talea plagued him
physically as well as mentally, but this wasn't the place to
indulge in any lingering fancies of the flesh. It looked
fancy and clean, but you never could tell where you might
pick up an interesting strain of VD, and not only the
human varieties. In the absence of modern medicine he
didn't want to have to count on curing a good dose of the
clap with a song or two.
So he restrained his libido as he mounted the second-
floor landing and hunted for the right door. He was
interrupted in his search by a sight that reminded him this
was a real place and not a drug-induced excursion into a
dreamland zoo.
A couple of creatures had passed him, and he'd paid
them no mind. Coming down the hall toward him now was
an exceptionally proportioned young woman in her early
twenties- She was barely five feet tall and wore only a
filmy peach-colored peignoir. The small pipe she smoked
did little to blur the image of prancing, bouncing femininity.
"Well, what are you staring at, tall-skinny-and-hand-
some?"
It occurred to Jon-Tom this was not intended as a
rhetorical question, and he mumbled a reply that got all
caught up in his tongue and teeth. Somehow he managed
to shamble past her. Only the fact that Clothahump lay
dying in his tree along with any chance Jon-Tom had of
returning home kept him moving. His head rotated like a
searchlight, and he followed the perfect vision with his
eyes until she'd disappeared down the stairs.
As he forced himself down the hall, that image lingered
on his retinas like a bright light. Sadly, he found the right
door and knocked gently, sparing a last sorrowful glance
for the now empty landing.
"Mudge?" He repeated the knock, was about to repeat
the call, when the door suddenly flew open, causing him to
step back hastily. Standing in the opening was a female
otter holding a delicate lace nightgown around her. Her
eyebrows had been curled and painted, and the tips of her
whiskers dipped in gold. She was sniffling, an act to which
Jon-Tom attached no particular significance. Otters sniffled
a lot.
She took one look at him before dashing past his bulk
down the hallway, short legs churning.
second fur of the night came out, accompanied by an
equally distraught third otter. They followed their sister
toward the stairs. Shaking his head, he entered the dark
room.
Faint light flickered from a single chandelier. Golden
shadows danced on the flocked wallpaper. Nothing else
moved. Two curved mirrors on opposing walls ran from
floor to ceiling. An elegant china washbasin rested on a
chellow-wood dresser. The door to the John stood half-
agape.
A wrought-iron bed decorated with cast grapevines and
leaves stood against the far wall. The headboard curved
slightly forward. A pile of sheets and pillows filled the
bed, an eruption of fine linen. Jon-Tom guessed this was
not the cheapest room in the house.
From within the silks and satins came a muffled but still
familiar voice. "Is that you, Lisette? Are you comin' back
to forgive me, luv? Wot I said, that were only a joke.
Meant nothin' by it, I did."
"That would be the first time," Jon-Tom said coolly.
There was silence, then the pile of sheets stirred and a head
emerged, black eyes blinking in the darkness. "Cor, I'm
'aving a bloody nightmare, I am! Too much bubbly."
"I don't know what you've had," Jon-Tom said as he
moved toward the bed, "but this is no nightmare."
Mudge wiped at his eyes with the backs of his paws.
"Right then, mate, it is no nightmare.
You're too damned
big to be a nightmare. Wot^the 'ell are you doin' 'ere,
anyways?"
"Looking for you."
26
Alan Dean Poster
"You picked the time for it." He vanished beneath the
linens. "Where's me clothes?"
Jon-Tom turned, searched the shadows until he'd located
the vest, cap, pants and boots. The oversized bow and
quiver of arrows lay beneath the bed. He tossed the whole
business onto the mattress.
"Here."
"Thanks, mate." The otter began to flow into the
clothes, his movements short and fast. " 'Tis a providence,
it is, wot brings you to poor oF Mudge now."
"I don't know about that. You actually seem glad to see
me. It's not what I expected."
Mudge looked hurt. "Wot, not 'appy to see an old
friend? You pierce me to the quick. Now why wouldn't I
be glad to see an old friend?"
Something funny going on here, Jon-Tom mused warily.
Where were the otter's usual suspicious questions, his
casual abusiveness?
As if to answer his questions the door burst inward.
Standing there backlit by the light from the hall was a sight
to give an opium eater pause.
The immensely overweight lady badger wore a bright
red dress fringed with organdy ruffles. Rings dripped from
her manicured fingers, and it was hard to believe that the
massive gems that encircled her neck were real. They
threw the light back into the room.
A few curious customers crowded in behind her as she
raised a paw and pointed imperiously at the bed.
"There he is!" she growled.
"Ah, Madam Lorsha," said Mudge as he finished his
dressing in a hurry, "I 'ave to compliment you on the
facilities of your establishment."
"That will be the last compliment you ever give any-
one, you deadbeat. Your ass is a rug." She snapped her
fingers as she stepped into the room. "Tork."
Bending to pass under the sill was the largest intelligent
warmlander Jon-Tom had yet encountered. It was a shock
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
27
to see someone taller than himself. The grizzly rose at
least seven and a half feet, wore black-leather pants and
shirt. He also wore what appeared in the bad light to be
heavy leather gloves. Their true nature was revealed all too
quickly.
Now, Jon-Tom did not know precisely what had tran-
spired in the elegant room or beyond its walls or between
his furry friend who was slipping on his boots in a