The Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Thanks.”

  The wait that ensued was long, and after a while he was 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 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 identical 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.”

  “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 spotless. 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 Headmaster 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 Headmaster. “Terrific-looking place you run here, Chokas.”

  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 responsibilities 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 knowing 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.”

  “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 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 breakin 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 overhang 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 o’ our charmin’ guide Chokas about. I’ve ‘eard descriptions o’ orphanages, and this place makes the best o’ them look like that dungeon we fled in Malderpotty. That’s wot bothers me, mate.” He gazed up at the sil
ent walls. “It’s too sweet.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Look, guv. Cubs is dirty. They make filth the way I makes sweat. ‘Tis natural. This place is supposed to be full o’ cubs and it’s as clean as milady’s intimates.”

  Roseroar spoke softly as she studied the barred upper windows. “Ah did think it uncommon neat fo such an establishment. Almost like a doctah’s office.”

  “You too, Roseroar?” Jon-Tom said in surprise.

  “Me too what? What the ottah says makes sense. Ain’t no secret ah’ve little love fo the cub, but ah’d sleep easier knowin’ she’s been properly cared fo.”

  “If you both feel that way, then we need to talk with her before we go.” Jon-Tom started back for the entrance.

  Mudge held him by an arm.

  “Slow there, spellsinger. Ol’ Chokas were friendly enough because we didn’t ask no awkward questions or try to poke into places ‘e didn’t want us to see. If ‘e’d wanted us to meet any o’ ‘is kids ‘e’d ‘ave brought ‘em down to us. I don’t think ‘e’ll be likely to accede to our little request.”

  “He has a good reason. They’re likely to all be asleep. It’s late.”

  “All of ‘em?” wondered Mudge. “I doubt it. Wot about those offspring of the night-lifers? The gophers and the moles?”

  “Maybe they have separate quarters so they can be active at night without disturbing the others,” Jon-Tom suggested. “If they’re nocturnal, they wouldn’t need lights in their rooms.”

  “There’d still be some hint o’ activity. Remember, mate, we’re talkin’ about a bunch o’ young cubs.”

  Jon-Tom chewed his lower lip. “It was awfully quiet in there, wasn’t it?”

  “Like a tomb, mate. Tell you wot. Why don’t you spellsing the lot o’ them to sleep the way you did that bunch on the pirate ship?”

  “Wouldn’t work. On the ship, everyone was within range of the duar and of my voice. Too many walls here.”

  Mudge nodded. “Right then. My turn to perform a little magic.”

  “You?”

  The otter grinned, his whiskers twitching. “You ain’t the only master o’ strange arts around ‘ere, mate.”

  They followed him around the side, until they were far from the entrance. As they walked Jon-Tom noted that no other doors were visible in the complex. There was only the single entrance. Still, there might be other doors around the back. And the Friends of the Street were not constrained by, say, the Los Angeles Fire Code.

  Mudge halted near a tree that grew closer to the build-

  ings than any of the others.

  “Now then, my petite purr-box, I ‘ave a little job for you.” He pointed up into the tree. “See that branch there?

  “The second one up?” She nodded.

  “Can you climb up there and then climb out along it?”

  She frowned. “What foah? It won’t hold mah weight.”

  “That’s precisely the idea, luv.”

  Jon-Tom immediateiy divined the otter’s intent. “It’s no good, Mudge. That branch’ll throw you headfirst into the wall. I’ll end up with a furry Frisbee on my hands instead of a valuable friend.”

  “Don’t worry about me, guv. I knows wot I’m about. We otter folk are born acrobats. Most o’ the time there’s nothin’ more to it than play, but we can get serious with it if we need too. Let me give ‘er a try.”

  “One try is all you’ll get.” He swing the duar around until it rested against his chest. “Why don’t I try spellsinging you onto the roof?”

  Mudge looked unwilling. “That would work fine, wouldn’t it, mate? With you standin’ ‘ere below these barred windows caterwaulin’ fit to shiver a bat’s ears.”

  “Ah resent the comparison, watah rat.” Roseroar advanced up the tree trunk.

  Mudge shrugged. “Don’t matter ‘ow you describe it. You’d wake the ‘ole place.”

  “I could try singing quietly.”

  “Aye, and likely catapult. . .sorry again, Roseroar. .me into the middle o’ some far ocean. No offense, mate, but you know well as I that there be times when your spellsingin’ don’t quite strike the mark. So if it’s all the same, I’d rather take me chances with the tree.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jon-Tom muttered.

  A glance showed Roseroar already crawling carefully out onto the chosen limb. “Go ahead, but I think you’re nuts.”

  “Why, guv, I didn’t think me mental condition were a matter o’ dispute anymore. An’ the proof of it’s that I’m standin’ ‘ere askin’ you to let me catapult meself toward a stone wall instead o’ lying in a soft bed somewhere back in the Bellwoods.”

  He moved aside as the thick branch began to bend toward the ground beneath Roseroar. She kept crawling along it until she couldn’t advance any more, then swung beneath and continued advancing toward the end of the limb hand-over-hand. Seconds later the leaves were brushing the street.

  Mudge nestled himself into a crook between two smaller branches near the end. “Wot’s your opinion o’ this, luv?”

  Roseroar had to use all her weight to hold the branch down. She studied the distant roof speculatively. “A lot to miss and little to land on. Wheah do y’all wish the remains sent?”

  “Two optimists I’m blessed with,” the otter mumbled, “I thank the both o’ you for your encouragin’ words.” He patted the wood behind him. “Wortyle wood. I thought she’d bend without breakin’. They make ship’s ribs out o’this stuff.” He glanced back at Roseroar. “Any time you’re ready, lass.”

  “Yoah sure about this?”

  “No, I’m not, but I ain’t doin’ no good sittin’ ‘ere on me arse talkin’ about it.”

  “That ain’t the part that’s goin’ to get smashed,” she said as she stepped away from the quivering branch.

  The wortyle wood whipped upward so fast the air vibrated in its wake. Mudge was thrown with tremendous force into the night sky. The otter did a single flip and described an elegant arc as he began to descend.

  As it developed, his judgment was only slightly off. He didn’t reach the roof, but neither did he smash into the side of the building. He fell only a little short.

  At first it looked as if he was going to land hard on the cobblestones, but at the last instant he grabbed with his right hand. Short, powerful muscles broke his fall as his fingers locked onto the iron grating barring one window.

  He hung there for a long moment, catching his breath.

  Then he reached up with the other hand and pulled himself on to the iron.

  His companions stood beneath the window, staring up at him. “Can you get in?” Jon-Tom asked softly.

  Mudge responded with a snort of contempt, fiddled with the grate. Seconds later a metallic click reached Jon-Tom and Roseroar.

  “He’s very clevah, yo friend.”

  “He’s had a lot of experience with locks,” Jon-Tom informed her dryly. Another click from above signified the opening of the window.

  They waited below, feeling exposed standing there on the otherwise empty, moonlit street. Minutes passed. A pink rope snaked down from the open window. Jon-Tom reached up to take hold of the chain of knotted bedsheets.

  “They’ll support me,” he told Roseroar. “I don’t think they’ll hold you.”

  “Nevah mind. Y’all are just goin’ to spend a few minutes talkin’ to the girl-cub anyways.” She nodded toward the nearby grove. “Ah’ll wait foah y’all up in the same tree. Ain’t nobody goin’ to spot me up theah. If I see anyone comin’ this way and it looks tricky, I’ll whistle y’all a warnin’.”

  As she stood there in the pale light Jon-Tom was conscious of her strength and power, but her words struck him as odd. “I didn’t know tigers could whistle.”

  “Well, ah’ll let ya’all know somehow.” She turned and loped toward the trees.

  Jon-Tom braced his feet against the wall and pulled himself up. Mudge was waiting to help him inside.

  Jon-Tom found
himself standing in near blackness. “Where are we?” he whispered.

  “Some sort o’ storage closet, mate.” Mudge’s night vision was several cuts above his friend’s.

  But as they moved cautiously through the darkness Jon-Tom’s eyes adjusted to the weak illumination, and he was able to make out buckets, pails, piles of dust rags, curry combs, and other cleaning supplies. Mudge stopped at the door and tried the handle.

  “Locked from the other side.” The otter hunted through the darkness, came back holding something that looked like an awl. He inserted it into the door lock and jiggled delicately. Though Jon-Tom heard nothing, the otter was apparently satisfied by some sound. He put the awl aside and pushed.

  The door opened silently. Mudge peered into a dark dormitory. Against opposite walls stood beds, cots, mats, and diverse sleeping stations for children of different species. On the far wall windows looked down into the courtyard with the trees and fountains. Unlike those on the outside, these were not barred.

  They tiptoed out of the closet and found themselves walking between rows of silent youngsters. All of them appeared to be neatly groomed and squeaky clean. There wasn’t a hair or patch of fur out of place. The dormitory itself was comfortably cool and as spotless as the dining room and entry hall had been.

  “I don’t see any indications of abuse here,” Jon-Tom whispered as they went from bed to bed.

  Mudge was shaking his head doubtfully. “Too neat, mate. Too perfect.” They reached the end of the long chamber without finding Folly. The door at the end was also locked from the outside. “And another thing, mate. Too many locks ‘ere.” He used the tool to pick it.

  Beyond was a short hall. A stairway led downward off the the left. Mudge picked the lock on the door across the hall and they entered a second dorm.

  Grunts and whistles and snores covered their footsteps as they commenced an inspection of the new group of beds. Halfway down the line they found Folly. Jon-Tom shook her gently awake. She rolled over, woke up.

  She was gasping with fright. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, the tenseness of her body, the expression on her face. It reminded Jon-Tom a little of the look she’d display on the pirate ship whenever Corroboc appeared.