mossy walls. "Not very well masoned or mortared."
"I stand corrected," said Mudge sardonically. "Talkin'
about architecture."
"Architecture's an interesting subject, Mudge. Don't be
so quick to dismiss it. If you know how something is put
together, you might learn how to take it apart."
"That's right, guv'nor. You find us a loose stone in the
wall, take it out, and bring the whole stinkin* city down on
top o' us. Then we'll be well and truly free." He slunk eff
toward a comer.
"Not even a chamber pot in this cesspool. I 'ope they
kill us fast instead o' leavin' us to die with this smell." He
moved back to grab the bars of the cell, shouted toward the
jailer.
"Hey mate, get your fat ass over "ere!"
In no hurry, the porcupine ambled across the floor from
his chair. When he reached the bars he turned his back,
and Mudge backed hastily away from the two-foot-long
barbed quills.
"I will thank you to be a little more polite."
"Right, sure, guv. Take 'er easy. No offense. You can
imagine me state o' mind, chucked in 'ere like an old
coat."
"No, I cannot," said the jaiier. "I do my job and go
home to my family. I do not imagine your state of mind."
"Excuse me," said Jon-Tom, "but have you any idea
how long we are to be held in here?"
"Ah, no."
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Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
47
Slow. Their jailer was a little slow in all areas. It was a
characteristic of all porcupines, and this one was no
exception. That didn't mean he was a moron. Tread
slowly, Jon-Tom warned himself.
"Our possessions have become separated from us," he
went on. "Do you know what was done with them?"
Lazily, the porcupine pointed upward. "They are in the
main guard chamber, to be taken out and sent along with
you when word comes for you to be moved."
"Do you know what's going to happen to us?"
The porcupine shook his head. "No idea. None of my
business. I do my job and stay out of other people's
business, I do."
Mudge instantly divined his companion's intentions,
said sadly, "We were searched before we were sent down
here. I wonder if they found your sack o' gold, mate?"
"Sack of gold?" Evidently the porcupine wasn't all that
slow. For the first time the half-lidded eyes opened fully,
then narrowed again. "You are trying to fool me. Chenelska
would never leave a sack of gold in a place where others
could find it and steal it."
"Yeah, but wot if 'e didn't think to look for somethin'
like that?" Mudge said insinuatingly. "We just don't want
'im to get 'is 'ands on it, after 'im throwin' us down 'ere
and all. If you wanted to find out if we were lyin' or not,
all you'd 'ave to do is go look for yourself, mate. You 'ave
the keys, and we ain't 'ardly goin' to dig our way out o'
this cell while you're gone."
' 'That is true.'' The jailer started for the stairs. ' 'Do not
get any funny ideas. You cannot cut through the bars, and
there is no one else here but me."
"Oh, we ain't goin' anywhere, we ain't," Mudge insisted.
"By the way," Jon-Tom added offhandedly, "as long as
you're going upstairs, maybe you could do something for
us? This is an awfully dank and somber place. A little
music would do a lot to lighten it up. Surely working
down here day after day, the atmosphere must get pretty
depressing after a while."
"No, it does not," said the porcupine as he ascended
the stairs. "I like it dank and somber and quiet, though I
would be interested in hearing the kind of mxisic you could
play. You see, Chenelska told me you were a spellsinger."
Jon-Tom's heart sank. "Not really. I'm more of an
apprentice. I don't know enough yet to really spellsing. I
just like to make music."
"Nonetheless, I cannot take the chance."
"Wait!" Jon-Tom called desperately. "If you know
what spellsinging's all about, then surely you know that a
spellsinger can't make magic without his instrument."
"That is so." The porcupine eyed him warily.
"Well then, how about this? You bring down my duar,
my instrument, but after you give it to me you chain my
hands so I can't pull them back through these bars. That
way if I tried to sing anything that sounded dangerous to
you, you could yank the duar away from me before I could
finish and I couldn't do a thing to stop you from doing
so."
The jailer considered, wrestling with unfamiliar con-
cepts. Jon-Tom and Mudge waited breathlessly, glad of the
darkness. It helped to conceal their anxiety.
"Yes, I think that would be safe enough," the jailer said
finally. "And I am curious to hear you sing. I will see if
your instrument is with your other possessions. While I
look for the sack of gold."
"You won't regret it!" Jon-Tom called after him as he
disappeared up the stairway. As soon as he'd left, Mudge
looked excitedly at his friend.
"Cor, mate, can you really do anythin' tied like that?"
"I don't know. I have to try. It's clear he wasn't just
going to hand me the duar without some kind of safeguard.
I just don't know what I could sing that could help us out
of here before he decided it sounded threatening and took
the duar away from me. Not that I ever know what to sing.
48
Alan Dean Foster
I had the same problem in my own world. But it was all I
could think of."
"You better think o' somethin', mate, or it'll be two
worlds that'll be missin' you permanent. I don't know
what this Zancresta has planned for us, but as much as 'e
hates Clothahump, I don't figure on 'im bein' overly polite
to a couple o* the turtle's servants."
"We're not his servants. At least, you're not."
"Aye, an' you saw 'ow far that got me with Chenelska,
I'm stuck with the bedamned label just like you are, like it
or not. So think of somethin'. Somethin' effective, and
fast."
"I don't know." Jon-Tom fought with his memory.
"Practically everything I know is hard rock."
Mudge gestured at the walls. "Strikes me as damned
appropriate."
"Not like that," Jon-Tom explained impatiently. "It's a
name for a kind of popular music. You've heard me sing
it."
"Aye, an1 I don't pretend to understand a word o' it."
"Then you have something in common with my parents."
Footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted them
momentarily.
"You'd better think up somethin' quick, mate."
"I'll try." He stuck his arms out between the bars,
waiting expectantly. His spirits were boosted by the sight
of the undamaged duar dangling from one of the jailer's
paws.
"There was no gold," the porcupine declared sourly.
"Sorry." Mudge sighed fitfully. "About wot one would
expect from a snurge like Zancresta. Still, 'tweren't no
'arm in lookin', were there?"
"What were you two talking about while I was gone? I
heard you talking." The porcupine looked suspicious.
"Nothin' much, mate. Just makin' conversation. We
talk while you're right 'ere, too, don't we?"
"Yes, that is so. Very well." He stepped forward and
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
49
made as if to hand the duar to Jon-Tom, then hesitated. "I
do not know."
"Oh, come on," Jon-Tom urged him, a big smile
frozen on his face. "A little music would be nice. Not
everyone has the chance to hear an apprentice spellsinger
make music just for pleasure."
"That is what concerns me." The jailer stepped back
and rummaged through a wooden chest. When he returned
it was to clap a pair of thick leather cuffs on Jon-Tom's
wrists. They were connected to one another by a chain. He
also, to Jon-Tom's dismay, tied a thick cord around the
neck of the duar.
"There," he said, apparently satisfied, and handed over
the instrument. Jon-Tom's fingers closed gratefully over
the familiar wooden surface, lightly stroked the double set
of strings.
The porcupine returned to his chair, keeping a firm grip
on his end of the cord. "Now if you try anything funny I
don't even have to run over to you. All I have to do is pull
this rope." He gave the cord an experimental yank, and
Jon-Tom had to fight to hold onto the duar.
"I need a little slack," he pleaded, "or I won't be able
to play at all."
"All right." The jailer relaxed his grip slightly. "But if I
think you are trying to trick me I will pull it right out of
your hands and smash it against the floor."
"Don't worry. I wouldn't try anything like that. Would
I, Mudge?"
"Oh, no, sor. Not after you've all but given this
gentlebeing your word." The otter assumed an air of mock
unconcern as he settled down on the floor to listen. "Play
us a lullaby, Jon-Tom. Somethin' soothin' and relaxin' to
'eip us poor ones forget the troubles we face and the
problems o' the world."
"Yes, play something like that," asked the porcupine.
Jon-Tom struggled with himself. Best to first play a
couple of innocuous ditties to lull this sod into a false
SO
Alan Dean Foster
sense of security. The trouble was, being mostly into
heavy metal, he knew about as many gentle tunes as he did
operatic arias. Somehow something by Ozzy Osbourne or
Ted Nugent didn't seem right, nor did anything by KISS.
He considered "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC,
decided quickly that one stanza would cost him control of
the duar permanently.
He decided to take a chance with some golden oldies.
Maybe a few of Roy Orbison's songs, even if his voice
wasn't up to it. It seemed to work. The porcupine lazed
back in his chair, obviously content, but still holding tight
to the cord.
Jon-Tom segued into the part of one song where the
lyrics went "the day you walked out on me" and the jailer
didn't stir, but neither did the walls part to let them
through. Discouraged, he moved on to "America" by Neil
Diamond. A few faint images of the Statue of Liberty and
Ellis Island flickered fitfully in the cell, but Jon-Tom did
not find himself standing safe at either location.
Then he noticed Mudge. The otter sat back in the shad-
ows making long pulling and throwing motions. It took
Jon-Tom a moment to understand what his companion was
driving at. In the middle of humming "Won't Get Fooled
Again," he figured the otter's movements out.
The porcupine had tied the cord to the duar in order to
be able to jerk it quickly out of Jon-Tom's hands. If they
could somehow gain control of the rope, they might be
able to make a small lasso and cast it toward a weapon or
even the big keyring lying on the table.
In order to try that, of course, they had to somehow
incapacitate their jailer. Since he seemed half-asleep al-
ready, Jon-Tom softened his voice as much as possible and
sang the sweetest ballads he could think of, finishing with
"Sounds of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel. That par-
ticularly apt selection set the porcupine to snoozing. To
make sure, he added a relaxing rendition of "Scarborough
Fair."
I
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
51
Carefully, he tugged gently on the cord. Two half-witted
eyes popped wide open and the line went taut.
"I told you not to try anything," the porcupine growled.
For an instant Jon-Tom was sure they'd lose the duar
along with their last hope. "I didn't mean anything!" he
said desperately. "It's only that playing in the same
position all the time hurts my arms. I wasn't doing
anything else."
"Well..." The jailer slumped back in his chair. "See
that you don't do it no more. Please play another song. I
never heard anything like them. Pretty."
Despairingly, Jon-Tom simply sang the first thing that
came to mind, the theme song from one of the Rocky
films. Maybe it was his frustration, perhaps his sudden
indifference. Whatever the reason, he almost thought he
could feel the power running through him. He tried to
focus on it, really working himself into the useless song in
the hope it might lead to something better.
A faint smell of ozone began to filter into the air of the
dungeon. Something crackled near the ceiling. Mudge
scrambled warily back into the farthest comer of the cell.
Jon-Tom jumped as an electric shock ran up his wrists. He
tried to pull back into the cell, found he was trapped
against the bars by the leather wristcuffs and linking chain.
Oh, shit, he mumbled silently. I've gone and done
something weird again.
Only this time he was trapped up against whatever it
was. Something was materializing in the air next to him.
He tugged futilely at the leather cuffs, dropping the duar in
the process. The instrument was glowing brightly as it
bounced around on the floor like a toad at a disco.
The slow-moving porcupine was on his feet and staring.
He'd abandoned the cord in favor of edging 'round toward
the rack of weapons. Selecting a long spear, he aimed it at
the cell. Jon-Tom was uncomfortably aware of the fact that
if the jailer so chose, he could run him through where he
stood.
"What are you doing, spellsinger? Stop it!"
52
Alan Dean Foster
"I'm not doing anything!" Jon-Tom prayed his hysteria
was as convincing as it was heartfelt. "Untie my hands!"
The jailer ignored him, gazing in stupefied fascination at
the slowly rotating cylinder of fluorescent gas that had
gathered inside the cell. "Don't lie to me. Something is
happening. Something is happening!"
"I know something's ha
ppening, you moron! Let me
loose!" He wrenched uselessly at his bonds.
The jailer continued to keep his distance. ' 'I am warning
you, spellsinger. Put an end to this magic right now!"
Keeping his thorny back against the walls, he edged
around until he was standing close to the bars. From there
he was able to prod the prisoner with the tip of his spear. It
was extremely sharp.
"I can't stop it! I don't know what I did and I don't
know what's happening."
"I do not believe you." The jailer's voice had turned
shrill and he was jabbing seriously with the spear.
Suddenly a loud bang came from the cloud of gas. The
glowing cylinder dissipated to reveal a massive, powerful
form at least seven feet tall standing in the center of the
jail cell. It had to crouch to keep from bumping its head
against the ceiling.
Mudge quailed back against the wall while Jon-Tom
thought wildly about his last song. The indifferently sung
song which apparently had been far more effective than all
its anxiety-laden predecessors. The theme song from that
Rocky film ... what was it?
Oh, yeah. The "Eye of the Tiger."
Actually there were two of them, and they glared around
in bewilderment. Jon-Tom had never seen a white tiger
before, much less one that wore armor and stood on two
legs. Leather and brass strips made a skirt which covered
the body from waist to the knees. Additional armor protected
the back of arms and legs, was secured over the legs with
crisscrossing leather straps. A finely worked brass helmet
shielded the head, and an intricate inscription covered the
thin nose guard. Holes cut in the top of the helmet allowed
the ears to protrude.
The huge furry skull glanced in all directions, taking in
unanticipated surroundings. White and black ears flicked
nervously as a quarter ton of tiger tried to orient itself.
Paws dropped to sheaths, and in an instant each one held a
five-foot-long sword with razor-sharp serrated edges.
"By all the nine feline demons, what's going on heah? I
declare I'll have some answers right quick or there'll be
hell to pay." Slitted eyes fixed on the bars. She took a step
forward and glared down at the quivering porcupine.
"You! What is this place? Why am ah locked up? Y'all
53
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Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
55
answer me fast or ah'll make a necklace out of yo
Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance Page 6