The Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I pray it is so,” whispered Jalwar, “or we are well and truly doomed.”

  “ ‘Alf a chance,” Mudge muttered. “That’s all ‘e needs is ‘alf a chance.”

  “They may not give it to him,” commented Roseroar.

  While his companions slept the sleep of the exhausted that night, Jon-Tom planned and schemed. Corroboc was going to let him sing, out of curiosity if naught else. Songs would have to be chosen carefully, with an eye toward suppressing any suspicions the captain might have. Jon-Tom had no doubt that the homicidal parrot would watch him carefully.

  His recital should be as bland and homogenous as possible. Somehow he would have to find an effective tune that would have the hoped-for results while sounding perfectly innocent. The lyrics would have to be powerful but nonthreatening.

  Only when he’d arranged a program in his mind did he allow himself to fall into a troubled, uneasy sleep.

  The first mate had them scrubbing the base of the mainmast the next morning. Corroboc strolled past without looking at the work, and Jon-Tom turned slowly toward him, keeping his tone deferential.

  “Your pardon, Captain.”

  The parrot turned, wingtips resting on slim bird hips.

  “Don’t waste my time, boy. You’ve plenty to do.”

  “I know that, Captain sir, but it’s very much the wrong kind of work. I miss my chosen avocation, which is that of minstrel. My knowledge of songs of far lands is unsurpassed.”

  “Be that so, boy?”

  Jon-Tom nodded vigorously. “I know wondrous chords and verse of great beauty, can bring forth the most mellifluous sounds from my instrument. You would find that they fall lightly on the ears and sometimes, I am embarrassed to say it, risquely.” He risked a knowing wink.

  “I see,” was all Corroboc said at first. Then, “Can it be that after only a day you know where your true interests lie? Har, truth and a little sun can do that to one. You’d rather sing for your supper now than scrub for it, har?”

  “If you would allow me, Captain.” Jon-Tom tried to look hopeful and compliant at the same time.

  “Far lands, you say? Tis been a longish time since there’s been any music aboard this tub other than the screaming of good citizens as they made their way over the side.” He glanced to his left. Mudge, Jalwar, and Roseroar had been set to varnishing the railings.

  “And what of your mates? How do you think they’ll react if they have to do your labor as well as their own?”

  Licking his lips, Jon-Tom stepped forward and smiled weakly, concealing his face from sight of his companions.

  “Look, sir, I can’t help what they think, but my back’s coming apart. I don’t have any fur to protect me from the sun the way they do, and they don’t seem to care. So why should I care what they think?”

  “That be truth, as ‘tis a poor naked-fleshed human you be. Not that it matters to me. However—” he paused, considering, while Jon-Tom held his breath, “we’ll give you a chance, minstrel. Har. But,” he added dangerously, “if you be lying to me to get out of a day’s work, I’ll put you to polishing the ship’s heads from the inside out.”

  “No, Captain, I wouldn’t lie to you, no sir!” He added disingenuously, “If I weren’t a minstrel, what would I be doing carrying a musical instrument about?”

  “As a master practitioner of diverse perversions I might suggest any number of things, har, but I can see you haven’t the necessary imagination.” He turned and shouted.

  “Kaskrel!” A squirrel with a ragged tail hurried to obey.

  “Get belowdecks and fetch the instrument from my cabin. The one we took from this man’s prize.”

  “Aye sir!” the squirrel squeaked, disappearing down a hatch.

  “Come with me, tall man.” Jon-Tom followed Corroboc up onto the poop deck. There the captain settled himself into a wicker chair that hung from a crossbeam. The top of the basket chair doubled as a perch, offering the captain a choice of resting positions. This time he chose to sit inside the basket.

  The squirrel appeared momentarily, carrying Jon-Tom’s duar. He tried not to look at the instrument with the longing he felt, particularly since a curious Sasheem had followed the sailor up the ladder. The squirrel handed it over and Jon-Tom caressed it lovingly. It was undamaged.

  He was about to begin playing when a new voice interrupted him.

  At first he thought both of the dog’s ears had been cropped. Then he saw that they were torn and uneven, evidence of less refined surgery. The dog limped and leaned on a crutch. Unlike Corroboc he still had the use of both legs. It was just that one was a good foot shorter than the other. Jowls hung loosely from the canine face.

  “Don’t do it, Cap’n.”

  Corroboc eyed the arrival quizzically. “Now what be your objection, Macreeg?”

  The old dog looked over at Jon-Tom. “I don’t like it, sir. Better to keep this one swabbing the decks.”

  Corroboc kicked out with his wooden leg. It caught the sailor’s crutch and sent him stumbling in pursuit of new support, only to land sprawling on his rump, accompanied by the derisive laughter of his fellow sailors.

  “Har, where be your sense of refinement, Macreeg?

  Where be your feeling for culture?”Neither perturbed nor intimidated, the old sailor slowly climbed back to his feet, stretching to his full four and a half feet of height.

  “I just don’t trust him, Cap’n. I don’t like the look of him and I don’t like his manner.”

  “Well, I be not in love with his naked features either, Mister Macreeg, but they don’t upset me liver. As for his manner”—he threw Jon-Tom one of his disconcertingly penetrating glances—”what of your manner, man?”

  “Anything you say, Captain sir,” replied Jon-Tom as he dropped his eyes toward the deck.

  The parrot held the stare a moment longer. “Har, that be adequate. Not quite servile enough yet, but that will come with time. You see?” He looked toward the old sailor.

  “There be nothing wrong in this. Music cannot harm us. Can it, tall man? Because if I were to think for one instant that you were trying to pull something peculiar on me. . .”

  “I’m just a wandering minstrel, sir,” Jon-Tom explained quickly. “All I want is a chance to practice the profession for which I was trained.”

  “Har, and to save your fragile skin.” Corroboc grunted.

  “So be it.” He leaned back in the gently swaying basket chair. Sasheem stood nearby, cleaning his teeth with what looked like a foot-long icepick. Jon-Tom knew if he sang anything even slightly suggestive of rebellion or defiance, that sharp point would go through his offending throat.

  He plucked nervously at the duar, and his first words emerged as a croak. Fresh laughter came from the crew.

  Corroboc obviously enjoyed his discomfiture.

  “Sorry, sir.” He cleared his throat, wishing for a glass of water but not daring to chance the request. ‘ “This. . . this particular song is by a group of minstrels who called themselves the Eagles.”

  Corroboc appeared pleased. “My cousins in flight, though I chose to fly clanless. Strong, but weak of mind. I never cared much for their songmaking, as their voices be high and shrill.”

  “No, no,” Jon-Tom explained. “The song is not by eagles, but by men like myself who chose to call themselves that.”

  “Strange choice of names. Why not call themselves the Men? Well, it be of no matter. Sing, minstrel. Sing, and lighten the hearts of my sailors and myself.”

  “As you command, Captain sir,” said Jon-Tom. And he began to sing.

  The duar was no Fender guitar, but the words came easily to him. He began with “Take It Easy.” The long high notes rolled smoothly from his throat. He finished, swung instantly into the next song he’d carefully chosen.

  Corroboc’s eye closed and the rest of the crew started to relax. They were enjoying the music. Jon-Tom moved on to “Best of My Love,” then a medley of hits by the Bee Gees.

  Nearby, Mudge blinke
d as he slapped varnish on wind-scoured wood. “Wot’s ‘e tryin’ to do?”

  “Ah don’t know,” said Roseroar. “Ah heah no mention of powerful demons oah spirits.”

  Only Jalwar was smiling as he worked. “You aren’t supposed to, and neither are the ruffians around us. Listen! Don’t you see what he’s up to? Were he to sing of flight or battle that leopard would lay open his throat in an instant. He knows what he’s doing. Don’t listen to the words. They’re doing as he intends. Look around you. Look at the crew.”

  Mudge peered over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

  “Blimey, they’re fallin’ asleep!”

  “Yes,” said Jalwar. “They wait ready for the slightest hint of danger, and instead he lulls them with lullabies. Truly he is a master spellsinger.”

  “Don’t say that, mate,” muttered Mudge uneasily. “I’ve seen ‘is nibs go wrong just when ‘e thought ‘e ‘ad it right.” But though he hardly dared believe, it was looking more and more as if Jon-Tom was going to bring it off.

  The spellsinger was now wending his lilting way through “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”See,” whispered Jalwar excitedly through clenched, sharp teeth, “even the armpit of a captain begins to go!”

  No question but that Corroboc was slumped in the chair.

  Sasheem yawned and sat down beside him. They made an unlovely couple.

  All around the deck the crewmembers were blinking and yawning and falling asleep where they stood. Only the three prisoners remained awake. “We are aware of what he is doing,” Jalwar explained, “and in any case the magic is not directed at us.”

  “That’s good, guv’nor.” Mudge had to work to stifle a yawn, blinked in surprise. “Strong stuff ‘e’s workin’.”

  By the time Jon-Tom sang the final strains of “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” the pirate ship was sailing aimlessly. Its bloodthirsty crew lay snoring soundly on the deck, in the hold below, and even up in the rigging. He took a step toward Corroboc and ran his eyes over the captain’s attire without finding what he was hunting for. Then he joined his friends.

  “Did any of you see where he put his keyring?”

  “No, mate,” Mudge whispered, “but we’d best find ‘em fast.”

  Jon-Tom started for the door leading to the captain’s cabin, then hesitated uncertainly. Once inside, where would he look? There might be a sealed chest, many drawers, a hidden place beneath a nest or mattress, and the keyring might not even be kept in the cabin. Maybe Sasheem had charge of the keys, or maybe one of the other ship’s officers.

  He couldn’t go looking for them and still sing the sleep spell. Already some of the somnolent crew were beginning to stir impatiently. And he didn’t have the slightest idea how long the spellsong would remain in effect.

  “Do somethin’, mate!” Mudge was tugging uselessly on his own ankle chains.

  “Where should I look for the keys? They’re not on the captain.” Suddenly words in his mind, suggestive of something once remembered. Not suggestions of a place to hunt for keys, but snatches of a song.

  A song about steel cat eyes and felines triumphant.

  About “The Mouse Patrol That Never Sleeps,” a lethal little bloodthirsty ditty about an ever-watchful carnivorous kitty. Or so he’d once described it to a friend.

  He sang it now, wishing Ian Anderson were about to accompany him on the flute, the words pouring rapidly from his lips as he tried to concentrate on the tune while keeping a worried eye on the comatose crew.

  The section of anchor chain that had been used to bind Roseroar suddenly cracked and fell away. She looked in amazement at the broken links, then up at Jon-Tom.

  Wordlessly, she went to work on the much thinner chains restraining her companions. Mudge and Jalwar were freed quickly as immense biceps strained. They vanished below-decks as she worked on Jon-Tom’s bindings. By the time she’d finished freeing him, the otter and ferret had reappeared.

  Mudge’s longbow was slung over his shoulder and his face was almost hidden by the burden of the tigress’s armor.

  Jalwar dragged her heavy swords behind him, panting hard.

  They turned and raced for the tow rope attached to the John B. Only Jon-Tom lingered.

  “Come on,” Roseroar called to him. “What ah yo waitin’ fo?”

  He whispered urgently back to her. “The girl! I promised.”

  “She don’t care what yo do. She’ll only be trouble.”

  “Sorry, Roseroar.” He turned and rushed for the nearest open hatch.

  “Damn,” the tigress growled. She pushed past him, vanished below. While he waited he sang, but the spellsong was beginning to surrender its potency. Several sailors rolled over in their sleep, snuffling uneasily.

  Then a vast white-and-black shape was pushing past him, the limp naked form of Folly bouncing lightly on one shoulder like a hunting trophy. Jon-Tom’s heart stopped for a second, until he saw that her condition was no different from that of the rest of die ship’s complement. His spellsinging had put Folly to sleep also.

  “Satisfied?” Roseroar snarled.

  “Quite.” He muffled a grin as he raced her to the stern.

  Mudge and Jalwar were just boarding the sloop, Mudge having negotiated the short swim with ease, while Jalwar displayed typical ferret agility by walking the swaying tow rope all the way down to the boat. Roseroar was about to step over the side when she saw Jon-Tom hesitate for the second time.

  “Now what’s the mattah?”

  “I’ve done a tot of running, Roseroar, and I’m a pretty good swimmer, but the sea’s rough and my shoulders are so sore from pushing that damn scrub brush that I’m not sure if I can make it. You go on. I’ll try and catch up. When you cast off the line you can swing her ‘round and pick me out of the water.”

  She shook her head. “Ah declah, ah nevah heard anyone, not even a human, talk so damn much. Grab hold.”

  She turned her back to him.

  Deciding this wasn’t the time to salvage whatever remained of his already bruised male ego, he put both arms around her neck, using one to help balance Folly. Roseroar ignored her double burden as she went hand over hand down the towrope until all of them were standing safe on the deck of the John B.

  “Cast off!” Jon-Tom shouted at Mudge as he ran for the stern. “I’ll take the wheel. Roseroar, you run the sails up.”

  “With pleasure.” She dumped Folly’s unconscious form onto the deck. Jon-Tom winced as it hit, decided that one more black and blue mark wouldn’t show up against the background of bruises that covered the girl’s entire body.

  Roseroar worked two winches at once while Mudge hacked away with his short sword at the thick hauser linking them to the pirate ship. In seconds the sloop swung clear. Her sails climbed the mast, caught the wind. Jon- Tom turned her as confused shouts and cries of outrage began to sound from the deck of the larger vessel.

  “Not a moment too soon.” Jalwar spoke admiringly from his position atop the center cabin. “You have the gift, it is certain.”

  Jon-Tom shrugged off the compliment and concentrated on catching as much wind as possible. “I didn’t study for it and I didn’t plan on it. It’s just a lucky combination of my musical training and something I’ve picked up in this world.”

  “Nonetheless, it cannot be denied. You have the gift.”

  For an instant it was as if the years had left the ferret and a different being entirely was standing next to the mainmast looking down at Jon-Tom. He blinked once, but when he looked again it was just the same Jalwar, aged and stooped and tired. The ferret turned away and stumbled toward the bow to see if he could help Mudge or Roseroar.

  The tigress had the rigging well in hand, and at Jon-Tom’s direction, Mudge was breaking out the sloop’s spinnaker. Behind them, furious faces lined the port side of the pirate ship. Rude gestures and bloodthirsty curses filled the air. Above all sounded a thunderous cackling from Corroboc. The faces fled the railing, to reappear elsewhere on the ship as the crew swarmed up the masts.
>
  Oars began to dip as dull-eyed galley slaves took up the cue provided by whip and drum. The big ship began to come about.

  But this time the sloop was sailing with the wind to port. The square-rigged pirate craft could not tack as well as the modern, fore-rigged sloop, nor could it overtake them on oar power. Still, with the galley slaves driven to collapse, it looked for a moment as if Corroboc might still close the distance between vessels. Then Mudge finally puzzled out the rigging that lifted the spinnaker. The racing sail ballooned to its full extent, filled with wind, and the sloop fairly leaped away from its pursuers.

  “We made it, we’re away!” Jon-Tom shouted gleefully.

  Mudge joined him in the stern. The otter balanced precariously on the bobbing aft end railing, turned his back to the pirate ship, and pulled down his pants. Bending over, he made wonderfully insulting faces between his legs. The pirates responded with blood-chilling promises of what they’d do if they caught the sloop, but their words, like their ship, were rapidly falling astern.

  “Yes, we made it.” Jalwar glanced speculatively up at the billowing sails. “If the wind holds.”

  As soon as his audience had dropped out of sight, Mudge ceased his contortions and jumped to the deck, buttoning his shorts.

  “We’ll make it all right, guv’nor.” He was smiling broadly as he gave Jon-Tom a friendly whack on the back.

  “Bake me for a brick, mate, but you sure ‘ad me fooled! ‘Ere I was expectin’ you to conjure up somethin’ like a ten-foot-tall demon to demolish them bastards, and instead you slickered me as well as them.”

  “I knew that if I tried anything overt, Corroboc would have me riding a pike before the day was out.” Jon-Tom adjusted their heading.

  “Aye, that ‘e would. Crikey but that were a neat slip o’ thought, puttin’ ‘em all gentle to beddy-bye like you did, and then freein’ up the monster missus there.” He nodded in Roseroar’s direction.

  “Actually I’d intended to go looking for the key,” Jon-Tom told him, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  “When I realized I didn’t have the slightest idea where Corroboc’s keyring was hidden I knew the only chance we had left was to free Roseroar.”