patch of sunlight, resting its massive head on its forelegs.
Jon-Tom lay in the shade of the tree. All seemed right with
the world.
But it wasn't.
"Back in a sec, mate." Mudge reached into the back of
the wagon. Instead of food and drink he grabbed for his
bow and quiver. The crossbow bolt that rammed into the
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
37
wood between his reaching hands gave him pause. He
withdrew them slowly.
"A wise decision," said a voice from the trees.
Jon-Tom sat up fast. "Who said that?"
He found himself staring at the business ends of an
assortment of pikes and spears, wielded by an unpleasant-
looking assortment of furry assailants.
"Me fault," Mudge muttered, angry at himself. "I
'eard 'em comin', I did, but not quite soon enough."
"It wouldn't have mattered," said the voice which had
spoken a moment, before. "There are too many of us
anyway, and though we are instructed to bring you in
alive, it wasn't specified in what condition."
Stepping through the circle of armed warmlanders was a
coatimundi nearly as tall as Mudge. His natural black
striping had been enhanced with brown decorations painted
on muzzle and tail. One front canine was missing, and the
remainder of the long, sharp teeth were stained yellow. He
rested one paw on the hilt of a thick, curved dagger belted
at his waist. The dagger was also stained, but not yellow.
Jon-Tom thought rapidly. Like Mudge's bow, his own
duar and ramwood staff lay in the bed of the wagon. If he
could just get to them.... Well, what if he could? As this
apparent leader of their captors had said, they were badly
outnumbered.
"Right. Wot is it you want with us?" Mudge asked.
"We're just a couple of innocent travelers, poor prospects
for thieves."
The coati shook his head and glared at them over his
long snout out of bright black eyes. "I'm not interested in
your worldly possessions, whatever they might be. I've
been ordered by my master to bring you in."
"So Lorsha found us out anyway," the otter muttered.
He sounded wistful. "Well, them three days were almost
worth dyin' for. You should've been with me, mate."
"Well, I wasn't, and they're not worth dying for from
my viewpoint."
38
Alan Dean Foster
"Calm yourselves," said the coati. "No one's speaking
of dying here. Cooperate and give me no trouble, and I'll
give none back to you." He squinted at Mudge. "And
what's all this chattering about someone named Lorsha?"
Mudge came back from his memories and made a face
at the coati. "You ain't 'ere to take us back to Madam
Lorsha of Timswitty?"
"No. I come from Malderpot."
"Malderpot?" Jon-Tom gaped at him.
"Big town," Mudge informed him, "full of dour folk
and little pleasure."
"We like it," said a raccoon hefting a halberd.
"No offense," Mudge told him. "Who wants us in
Malderpot?"
"Our master Zancresta," said the coati.
"Who's this Zancresta?" Jon-Tom asked him.
A few incredulous looks showed on the faces of their
captors, including the coati.
"You mean you've never heard of the Master of Dark-
ness and Manipulator of the Secret Arts?"
Jon-Tom shook his head. " 'Fraid not."
The coati was suddenly uncertain. "Perhaps we have
made a mistake. Perhaps these are not the ones we were
sent to fetch. Thile, you and Alo check their wagon."
Two of the band rushed to climb aboard, began going
through the supplies with fine disregard for neatness. It
took them only moments to find Jon-Tom's staff and duar,
which Thile held up triumphantly.
"It's the spellsinger, all right," said the muskrat.
"Keep a close watch on his instrument and he'll do us
no harm," the coati instructed his men.
"I mean you no harm in any case," said Jon-Tom.
"What does your Zancresta want with us?"
"Nothin' good. You can be certain o' that, mate," said
Mudge.
"Aye, I've 'eard of 'im, thVmgh I don't mean to flatter
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
39
'is reputation by it." He turned to Jon-Tom. "This 'ere
Zancresta chap's the 'ead wizard not only for the town of
Malderpot but for much of the northern part o' the Bellwoods.
See, each town or village 'as its own wizard or sorcerer or
witch, and each o' them claims to be better than 'is
neighbor at the arts o' magickin'."
"Zancresta is the best," said the coati. "He is the
master."
"I ain't goin' to argue the point with you," said Mudge.
"I 'ave no interest whatsoever in wizardry debates and
functions, for all that I seem to be gettin' repeatedly
screwed by 'em.
"Now, if it's the spellsinger 'ere you're come after, take
'im and let me go. I'm only a poor traveler tryin' 'is best
to make it down the windy road o' life, and I've 'ad a 'ard
enough time makin* ends meet as it is without gettin'
caught up again in the world's troubles."
"It may be true," said the coati, eyeing him unflatteringly.
"But I have my orders. They say I am to bring back the
spellsinger known as Jon-Tom and any who travel with
him. You will have the chance to plead your case before
the master. Perhaps he will let you go."
"And if *e don't?"
The coati shrugged. "That's not my affair."
"Easy for you to say," Mudge grumbled.
Spears prodded Jon-Tom and Mudge into the back of the
wagon, where they sat with their hands tied behind their
backs. A couple of the coati's henchmen took over the
reins. The little procession swung back northward, slightly
west of Timswitty but also in the opposite direction from
Lynchbany and the River Tailaroam.
"This Zancresta 'as a bad reputation, mate," Mudge
whispered to his companion. "Mind now, I'm not denyin'
'is abilities. From wot I've 'eard 'e ain't bad at sorcerin',
but 'e's unscrupulous as 'ell. Cheats on 'is spells and
short-changes 'is incantations, but 'e's too powerful for
anyone to go up against. I've 'ad no dealin's with 'im
40
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
41
tneself, and I stay clear o' folk from Malderpot. As I said,
they ain't much for partyinV
"From what you tell me about their chief wizard, I can
see why they aren't."
"Right." Mudge nodded past the drivers. "Now, 'tis
clear this 'ere ringtail knows nothin' o' wot 'is master
wants with us. That may be somethin' we can turn to our
advantage. So somehow we 'ave to get clear o' this
charmin' bunch o' throat-slitters before we're brought up
before Zancresta himself. If that 'appens, I 'ave this funny
feelin' that we'll never see the shores o' the Glittergeist or
any other calm water."
"Don't underestimate this one." Jon-Tom indicated the
coati, who strolled along in the lead, talking with a couple
of his band. "He seems more than the usual hired thug."
"Fancy clothes can't hide one's origin," said Mudge.
"No harm in trying." He raised his voice. "Hey, you,
leader!"
"Shut up," snapped the muskrat from the driver's
bench. He showed a short sword. "Or you will eat your
own tongues for breakfast and can see how your words
taste then."
"I just want a word with your chief. Surely one as
illustrious as he can spare a prisoner a few minutes of his
time."
Evidently the coati's ears were as sensitive as his nose,
because he slowed his pace until he was walking alongside
the wagon.
"I bear you no hatred, spellsinger. What do you wish to
talk about? By the way, my name is Chenelska."
"Don't you have any idea what your master wants with
us? What use has so great and powerful a wizard for a
mere spellsinger like me?"
Chenelska considered a moment, then glanced past Jon-
Tom to Mudge. "Tell me, water rat, is this tall human as
ignorant as he appears or is he making fun of me?"
"No." Mudge spoke with sufficient conviction to per-
suade the coati that he was telling the truth. " 'E's as
dumb as he looks."
"Thanks, Mudge. Nice to know I can rely on your good
opinion."
"Don't mention it, mate."
"Can it be," said the dumbfounded Chenelska, "that
you have never heard of the rivalry between our master
and the one that you serve?"
"The one I serve? You mean Clothahump? I don't serve
him. I'm not an apprentice or anything like that. He has
another who serves him. We're just friends."
"Indeed. Good enough friends that you undertake a
long, dangerous mission on his behalf when he lies too ill
to travel himself. A mission to cross the Glittergeist in
search of a rare and precious medicine he requires to cure
himself."
"How the hell do you know that?" Jon-Tom said
angrily.
The coati grinned and laughed, a single sharp barking.
"It seems that this Clothahump does have another who
serves him. A true famulus. A fine, intelligent, hard-
working apprentice who serves faithfully and well. Except
when he's been treated to a few stiff sips of good belly-
warmer."
"Sorbl! That stupid big-eyed sot!"
The coati nodded, still grinning. "Not that we had to
work hard at it, you understand. The poor little fellow
merely wanted companionship, and other servants of my
master provided it, whereupon the turtle's servant grew
extremely talkative."
"I'll bet he did," Jon-Tom mumbled disconsolately.
"It has always been a matter of great contention in this
part of the world," the coati explained, "as to who the
greater wizard is. Clothahump of the tree or my master
Zancresta. It didn't bother my master when opinion was
divided and drifted back and forth. But it has lately
become apparent that outside the immediate environs of
42
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
43
Malderpot, the consensus is that your Clothahump is the
greater." He moved closer to the wagon and lowered his
voice so that his band could not overhear.
"It's true that saving the whole world is a tough act to
follow. When word came of the victory over the Piated
Folk at the Jo-Troom Gate, and the part your master
Clothahump played in it, there was very little my master
couid do to counteract the great shift in public opinion,
and he has been in a murderous mood ever since."
' 'As if Clothahump saved all the warmlands just to spite
him," Jon-Tom said disgustedly.
"Be that as it may, wizards can be very touchy about
such things. Zancresta dwells on evil spells and prepares
toxic presents and calls down all who cross him. He has
been dangerous to approach ever since this happened. The
only way for him to regain his self-respect and cancel his
shame is to do something to make himself again be
considered the equal of the turtie of the tree. Yet he sees
no way to do this. This Clothahump refuses all challenges
and duels."
"Clothahump," Jon-Tom explained politely, "doesn't
think much of games."
"Word travels that he does not because he is getting
senile.''
Jon-Tom didn't reply. There was nothing to be gained by
arguing with Chenelska and angering him.
"Therefore, my master is badly frustrated, since there is
no way he can prove that he is truly the most skilled in the
wizardly arts.
"Word arrived recently about this severe sickness
Clothahump is suffering from and that he cannot cure with
his own magic, that he needs medicine obtainable only
from a land beyond Snarken. My master was delighted by
it."
"When we get out of this," Jon-Tom whispered to
Mudge, "I'm going to string Sorbl up by his feet and hang
him beak-first over an open bottle of brandy."
"Mate, I truly 'ope you get that opportunity," said
Mudge.
"Thanks to the information the wizard's famulus pro-
vided, we were able to locate and intercept you," said
Chenelska.
"What does your master intend doing with us?"
"I do not know, man. For now, it would seem sufficient
to prevent you from carrying out your mission and returning
with the necessary medicine. Perhaps after he has weakened
enough my master will take pity on him and travel south to
allow him the privilege of begging for his help."
"Clothahump would never do that," Jon-Tom assured
the coati. "He'll spit in Zancresta's face before he asks his
help."
"Then I imagine he will die." The coati spoke without
emotion. "It is of no import to me. I only serve my
master."
"Yes, you're a good slave."
The coati moved closer to the wagon and slapped the
sideboard angrily. "I am no slave!"
"A slave is one who unquestioningly carries out the
orders of his master without considering the possible
consequences."
"I know the consequences of what I do." Chenelska
glowered at him, no longer friendly. "Of one consequence
I am sure. I will emerge from this little journey far better
ofif than you. You think you're smart, man? I was instruct-
ed in all the tricks a spellsinger can play. You can make
only music with your voice and not magic without your
instrument. If I choose to cut your throat, I will be safer
still.
"As for the water rat that accompanies you, it may be
that the master will free him. If he does so, I will be
waiting for him myself, to greet him as is his due." With
that, the coati left them, increasing his stride to again
assume his place at the head of the little
procession.
44
Alan Dean Foster
"I'm beginnin' to wish you'd left me at Madam Lorsha's,"
the otter said later that night.
"To Tork's tender mercies?" Jon-Tom snorted. "You'd
be scattered all over Timswitty by now if I hadn't shown
up to save you, and you know it."
"Better to die after three days o' bliss than to lie in
some filthy cell in Malderpot contemplatin' a more mun-
dane way o' passin'."
"We're not dead yet. That's something."
"Is it now? You're a fine one for graspin' at straws."
"I once saw a man start a fire with nothing more than a
blade of dry grass. It kept both of us warm through a night
in high mountains."
"Well 'e ain't 'ere and neither is 'is fire."
"You give up too quickly." Jon-Tom looked ahead, to
where Chenelska strode proudly at the head of his band.
"I could put in for a writ of habeas corpus after we arrive,
but somehow I don't think it would have much sway with
this Zancresta."
"Wot's that, mate? Some kind of otherworldly magic?"
"Yes. We're going to need something like it to get out
of this with our heads in place. And let's not forget poor
Clothahump for worrying about our own skins. He's de-
pending on us."
"Aye, and see 'ow well 'is trust is placed."
They kept to back roads and trails, staying under cover
of the forest, avoiding intervening communities. Chenelska
intended to avoid unnecessary confrontations as well as
keep his not always reliable troops clear of civilization's
temptations. So they made good time and after a number
of days arrived on the outskirts of a town too small to be a
city but too large to be called a village.
A crudely fashioned but solid stone wall encircled it, in
contrast to the open city boundaries of Lynchbany and
Timswitty. It wasn't a very high wall, a fact Jon-Tom
commented on as they headed west.
A small door provided an entrance. The prisoners were
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
45
I
hustled quickly down several flights of stone stairs, past
crackling torches smelling of creosote, and thrust into a
dark, odiferous cell. An obese porcupine turned the large
key in the iron lock and departed, leaving them alone in
the near blackness.
"Still optimistic, mate?" Mudge leaned against a dank
wall and sniffed. "Cast into a dungeon without hope of
rescue to spend our last hours talkin' philosophy."
Jon-Tom was running his fingers speculatively over the