The Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “You hypnotized her?”

  “I am unfamiliar with the term, but if you mean did I blur her simple mind in order to make her compliant, yes. I no longer have need of her as crude labor or as insurance against your actions, however.” He pointed down the aisle.

  “These shelves reach far back into the mountain, which you may have noticed is of volcanic origin. I would presume that each aisle ends in a fairly hot place. Perhaps the proprietress stores goods back there that require constant heat. Being of a warm nature myself, I dismissed the girl and bid her wander down to the end of the aisle. She acquired on Corroboc’s ship a dark coloration which I venture to say will change rapidly to red as she stumbles into the hot center of this mountain.”

  Jon-Tom took a step backward and Zancresta raised his peculiar multiple dart-thrower. “Let her go. She is nothing.”

  There was a flash of gold from behind Roseroar. Again Zancresta raised the weapon, but a feathery hand came down on his arm.

  “Nay, let the horned one go,” snarled Corroboc. “I’ve no real quarrel with him. He won’t be in time to save the girl and I want these three left alive and conscious.” He started toward the ladder, sword in one hand, the other outstretched toward Snooth. “The medicine, if you please, hag.”

  “As you wish.”

  “No!” Jon-Tom shouted. “Don’t give it to him!”

  The kangaroo’s reply was firm. “I am not a party to what is a private quarrel. This is between you and him.”

  She handed over the precious container. “Here, catch.” At the last instant she tossed it toward the pirate captain.

  Corroboc grabbed for the small plastic cylinder and missed. It struck the floor, vaporizing instantly and spitting out a thick cloud of black smoke.

  Jon-Tom threw himself sideways and down. The dart-thrower twanged and something struck his boot while others thunked harmlessly into the back of his thick snake-skin cape. He heard no screams of pain and prayed that his friends had also managed to dodge Zancresta’s weapon.

  He started to rise, preparing to do battle with his staff, when it occurred to him that in a hand-to-hand fight Roseroar’s swords and Mudge’s bow would be more effective, and that, in any case, they had a sorcerer to deal with now. So he put the ramwood aside and fumbled with the duar. An old Moody Blues tune came to mind, suitable for combating evil. He played and sang.

  It had its intended effect. As the smoke began to dissipate he could hear the ferret moan, see him staggering backwards clutching at his head. But Zancresta was not to be so simply vanquished.

  Gathering his strength, he glared at Jon-Tom and began to recite:

  “Nails of rails and coils of toil, Come to me now, rise to a boil, Become with strength my herpetological foil!”

  The sorcerer’s fingers stretched, elongated, became powerful constrictors that writhed and curled toward Jon-Tom.

  Whether it was out of fear for Folly or for himself or sheer anger, he couldn’t say, but now the music flowed easily through him. Without missing a bar he segued straight into a slithering song by Jefferson Airplane. The snakes shriveled and shrank to become ferret fingers once more.

  A second time Zancresta threw out his hands toward Jon-Tom.

  “Xyleum, phylum, cellulose constrained,

  Hypoblastic hardwood rise up now unrestrained.

  Chlorophyllic transformation make thyself known.

  Long and strong and sharp and straight

  And solid as a stone!”

  The wooden stake that materialized to leap at Jon-Tom’s chest was the size of a small tree. A few branches erupted from its trunk, and it continued to grow even as it flew toward him, sending out roots and leaves. He barely had time enough to switch to a throaty rendition of Def Lepard’s “Pyromania.”

  The huge, growing spear blew up in a ball of fire. The force of it knocked Zancresta backward to the floor.

  It gave Jon-Tom a moment to check on his companions.

  They were unhurt, but there was plenty of blood on the floor of the aisle. It all came from the same source, and was sticky with green and blue feathers. A beaked skull lay sightless in one place, a leg elsewhere, a pair of wings on a half-empty shelf. More blood stained Roseroar’s muzzle and claws. Her swords were still sheathed and clean. She hadn’t needed to use them, having dismembered Corroboc as neatly as Jon-Tom would have a fried chicken.

  Mudge stepped forward to fire a single arrow at Zancresta.

  The sorcerer raised a hand, uttered one contemptuous word. The arrow turned rotten before it crumpled against the ferret’s hip. Meanwhile Jon-Tom wondered and worried about Folly. If only Drom had time enough to reach her before . . .

  Sensing his opponent’s lapse of concentration, Zancresta waved a hand over his head and declaimed stentoriously. A small black cloud appeared in the air between them.

  Thunder rolled ominously.

  Jon-Tom barely had the presence of mind to shout the right words from Procol Harum’s “In Held I Was” and hold up the duar in front of him in time to intercept the single bolt of lightning that emerged from the cloud. The instrument absorbed the bolt, though the impact sent him stumbling. The cloud disintegrated.

  Now, for the first time, there was a hint of fear in Zancresta’s eyes. Fear, but not surrender. Not yet. He stood staring at his opponent, making no effort to draw his torn and ragged clothes tighter about him.

  “Not accident, then,” he muttered as he stood there.

  “Not just luck. I worried about that, but in the end gave it little credence. Now I see that I was wrong. You think you’ve won, don’t you? You think you’ve beaten me?” He looked up at the ladder. Snooth stood on it holding the original container of medicine. Zancresta had been so busy watching Jon-Tom that he hadn’t seen the proprietress switch it for the smoke bomb.

  “You all think you’ve beaten me. Well, you haven’t. Not Zancresta, you haven’t. Because you see, I came prepared to deal with every possibility, no matter how remote or unlikely. Yes, I even came prepared to deal with the chance that this stripling spellsinger might possess some small smidgen of talent.”

  “Go ahead and try something.” Jon-Tom felt ten feet tall. He could feel the power surging inside him, could feel the music fighting to get out. His fingers tingled and the duar was like a third arm. He was riding high, on the same kind of high the stars got when they sang in front of thousands in the big halls and arenas. He stopped just short of levitating.

  “Come on, Zancresta,” he taunted the sorcerer, “trot out anything you can think of, bring forth all your nastiness! I’ve got a song for every one of ‘em, and when you’re finished”—he was already humming silently the last song he planned to sing this day—”when you’re finished, Jalwar-Zancresta, I’ve got a final riff for you.”

  The ferret pursed his lips and shook his head sadly.

  “You poor, simple, unwilling immigrant, do you think I’m so easily beaten? I know a hundred powerful conjurations to throw at you, remember a thousand curses. But you are correct. I know that your music could counter them.”

  Something was wrong, Jon-Tom thought. Zancresta ought to have been begging for mercy. Instead, he sounded as confident as ever.

  “Your music is strong, spellsinger, but you are feeble here.” He tapped his head. “You see, as I said, I came prepared to deal with anything.” He looked to his right.

  “Charrok, I need you now,”

  From behind a partly vacant shelf, a new shape appeared.

  Jon-Tom braced himself for anything, his fingers ready on the duar, his mind full of countering songs. The figure that emerged did not inspire any fear in him, however. In fact, it was singularly unimpressive.

  The mockingbird stood barely three feet tall, shorter even than Corroboc. He wore an unusually plain kilt of black on beige and yellow, a single matching yellow vest devoid of adornment, and a single yellow cap.

  Zancresta gestured at Jon-Tom. “That’s the one I told you about. Do what I paid you to do!”


  The mockingbird carefully shook out his wings, then the rest of his feathers, put flexible wingtips on his hips and cocked his head sideways to eye Jon-Tom.

  “I hear tell from Zancresta here that you’re the best.”

  “The best what?”

  The mockingbird reached back over a shoulder. Roseroar and Mudge tensed, but the bird produced not an arrow or spear but a thin wooden box overlaid with three sets of strings.

  “A syreed,” murmured Roseroar.

  Charrok nestled the peculiar instrument under one wing and flexed the strong feathers of the other. “Now we’re going to learn who’s really the best.”

  “Bugger me for a mayor’s mother!” Mudge gasped.

  “The bloody bastard’s a spellsinger ‘imself!”

  XVI

  “That,” said the mockingbird with obvious pride, “is just what I am.”

  “Now, look,” said Jon-Tom even as he made sure the duar was resting comfortably against his ribs, “I don’t know you and I’ve no reason to fight you. If you’ve been listening to what’s been going on you know who’s on the side of right here and who on the side of evil.”

  “Evil-schmieval,” said the mockingbird. “I’m just a country spellsinger. I don’t go around making moral judgments. I just make music. The other I leave to solicitors and judges.” Feathers dipped toward multiple strings.

  “Let’s get to it, man.”

  The voice that emerged from that feathered throat was as sweet and sugary as Jon-Tom’s was harsh and uneven, and it covered a range of octaves no human could hope to match.

  Well then, Jon-Tom decided grimly as he saw the smile that had appeared on the ferret’s face, it was up to him to respond with musical inventiveness, sharper lyrics, and better playing. If nothing else, he could at least match the mockingbird in enthusiasm and sheer volume.

  The mountain rattled and the shelving shook. The floor quivered underfoot and stone powder fell from the ceiling as the two spellsingers threw incisive phrases and devastating rhymes at each other. Charrok sang of acid tongues and broken hearts, of mental anguish and crumbling self-esteem. Jon-Tom countered with appropriate verses by Queen and the Stones, by Pat Benatar and Fleetwood Mac.

  Charrok’s clashing chords smashed violently against Jon-Tom’s chords by the Clash. The mockingbird even resorted to calling up the defeated warriors of the Plated Folk, and Jon-Tom had to think fast to fight back with the pounding, sensual New Wave of Adam Ant.

  As the two singers did battle, Mudge struggled to get a clear shot at Zancresta. The wizard had witnessed several demonstrations of the otter’s prowess with the longbow, however, and was careful not to provide him with a decent target.

  Jon-Tom was finally forced to pause, no matter the consequences. He was panting hard and his fingers were numb and bloody from nonstop strumming. Worse, his throat stung like cracked suede and he feared creeping hoarseness.

  But the arduous duel had taken its toll on his opponent as well. Charrok no longer fluffed out his feathers proudly between songs, nor did he appear quite as confident as he had when the battle had begun.

  At which point Jon-Tom thought to try another line of attack entirely.

  “That last tune, the one about the drunken elephant with the knife? That was pretty sharp. You got some good riffs in there. I couldn’t do that.”

  “Sometimes,” Charrok croaked, “it’s harder with fingers than with feathers.” He held up his right wing and wiggled the flexible tips for emphasis. “You’re not doing too badly yourself, though. What was that bit about dirty deeds done dirt cheap?”

  “AC/DC,” Jon-Tom replied tiredly. “I thought it might conjure me up a few berserk assassins. No such luck.”

  “Good try, though,” Charrok complimented him. “I could almost feel the knife at my throat.”

  Zancresta stepped forward, careful to keep the body of his hired instrument between himself and Mudge.

  “What is this? I am not paying you to indulge in casual conversation with this man. I am paying you to kill him!”

  Charrok turned. His gaze narrowed as he stared up at the sorceror. “You hold on a minute there, Mr. Zancresta, sir. You hired my spellsinging, not my soul.”

  “Don’t get existential with me, you warbling bumpkin! You’ll do as you’re told!”

  Charrok was unperturbed by the sorcerer’s outburst.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing.” He nodded toward Jon-Tom. “This fella’s mighty damn good. He might, just might, be better than me.”

  “I don’t know who’s best and I don’t care,” Jon-Tom said hastily, “but you sing like a storm and you play like a fiend. I’d appreciate it a lot if you could show me that last song.” He strummed an empty chord on the duar. “Maybe I’ve only got five fingers here, but I’d damn sure like to give it a try.”

  “I don’t know . . . a duar only has two sets of strings and my syreed three. Still, if you dropped a note here and there . . . .” He started to walk over. “Let’s have a looksee.”

  “No fraternizing with the enemy,” Zancresta snapped, putting a restraining paw on the mockingbird’s shoulder.

  Charrok shook it off.

  “Maybe he ain’t my enemy.”

  “Of course I’m not,” said Jon-Tom encouragingly, moving forward himself. “A gig’s a gig, but that shouldn’t come between a couple of professionals.” When Charrok was near enough, Jon-Tom put a comradely arm around the bird’s shoulders, having to bend over to do so. “This isn’t your fight, singer. Two musician-magicians of our caliber shouldn’t be trying to destroy each other. We should be collaborating. Imagine the wizardry we could work! This shouldn’t be a duel, it should be a jam session.”

  “I’d like that,” said Charrok. He searched the aisle beyond. “Where are the berries?”

  “Not that kind of jam. I mean we should play together, make music and magic together.”

  A hand reached out and clutched in frustration at the mockingbird’s vest. “I won’t have this!” The ferret was jumping up and down on short legs. “I tell you, I won’t have it! I’ve paid you well to serve me in this matter. We have a contract! There is too much at stake here.”

  “Yea, including my reputation,” Charrok told him frostily. “But,” he glanced up at Jon-Tom, “that can always be settled between friends. As for your money, you can have it back. I’ve decided I don’t want. . .”

  “Look out, mate!” Mudge yelled. The otter threw himself forward, hit Zancresta just in time to make the subtle knife thrust the ferret had been aiming at Jon-Tom beneath Charrok’s wing miss. The two went rolling over together on the floor.

  “Hold him, sun!” Roseroar thundered as she advanced, ready to remove Zancresta’s head from his neck as easily as she would a stopper from a bottle.

  But the ferret was scrambling to his feet, leaving a bleeding Mudge lying on the floor. Displaying incredible agility, the sorcerer dodged under Roseroar’s wild rush and started climbing up the nearest shelf. Boxes and cartons came flying down at the tigress, who batted the missiles aside impatiently as she tried to locate her quarry. Then she was climbing after him, slowly but relentlessly.

  Jon-Tom was bending over Mudge, whose paws were clasped over the knife wound. The otter’s eyes were half-closed as he stared up at his companion.

  “This is it, guv’nor. I’m on me way out. I’m dyin’. I knew it would come someday, but I never thought it’d be like this, wot? Not in some bloody store ‘alfway across the world. I was meant to die in bed, I was.” The limpid brown eyes were full of sadness and regret. “We ‘ad some good times, though. A few laughs ‘ere, narrow escape there. Cor, ‘twere much to be sung of.” The eyes closed, reopened weakly.

  “Sorry it ‘ad to end like this, mate. If you ‘ave a song left in you to sing you might sing one for old Mudge. Sing me a song o’ gold, spellsinger. If I can’t die in bed maybe I can die under a pile o’ gold. Bury me in the damn stuff and I’ll slip away ‘appily.”

  Jon-Tom knelt al
ongside the limp otter, holding his head up with one hand. “Mudge,” he said quietly, “that knife didn’t go in more than half an inch, and you’re not bleeding that bad. If you want to get gold out of me you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  The otter fixed him with pleading eyes. “Gold? Why, I wouldn’t try to trick you into conjurin’ up me some gold at a time like this, mate. Would I?” Jon-Tom didn’t reply.

  Mudge moved his hands, and his eyes went wide with surprise. “Crikey, would you ‘ave a look at this! It’s ‘ealin’ right over, it ‘tis! Thanks be to your magic, mate. I’ll never forget this, guv, never!”

  “I’ll bet you won’t,” said the disgusted Jon-Tom. He stood, and Mudge’s head bounced off the floor.

  “Ow! Damnit, you bloody smart-arsed, know-it-all, over-sized, shallow-voiced son of a. . . !”

  Jon-Tom didn’t hear the rest. He’d turned to look down the aisle. It was full of smoke from conjured lightning and dust fallen from the ceiling. There was no sign of Zancresta or the vengeful Roseroar. The fight had moved to another aisle, another row of shelving. Snooth had also vanished, which was understandable. The proprietress had retreated to a place of safety to await the outcome of the fight, exactly as Jon-Tom would have done had their positions been reversed.

  “Get up, Mudge,” Jon-Tom said impatiently. “We’ve got to help Roseroar.”

  The otter rose, still holding a paw over the light wound.

  “That she-massif doesn’t need any ‘elp, mate. I’ll ‘elp you look for ‘er, but odds’ll get you she finds that bastard Zancresta first.” He winced, inspected his knife cut.

  “Ruined a good vest, ‘e did.”

  “Wait.” Jon-Tom squinted into the haze that filled the aisle. “I think she’s coming.”

  But it wasn’t Roseroar. It moved on four legs and its golden coat glowed even in the weak light. Clinging to the broad back was the naked form of a young woman toasted pink as a boiled lobster.