you place such store by it."
She nodded thankfully as she scanned the surrounding
woods. "Come the morning ah'll find mahself something
to eat. This appeahs to be good game country. Theah
should be ample meat about."
Jon-Tom was glad she wasn't looking at him when she
said that. "I'm sure we'll run across something edible."
He turned to the otter. "What about our pursuit, Mudge?"
The otter responded with his ingratiating, amused bark.
"Why, them sorry twits will be all night just tryin' t' get
their stories straight. From wot I saw on our way out, most
of 'em were your typical city guard and likely ain't in
Zancresta's personal service. It'd be that arse'ole Chenelska
who'd be put in charge o' organizin' any kind o' formal
chase. By the time 'e gets the word, gets 'is conflictin'
reports sorted out, and puts together anythin' like a formal
pursuit, we'll be well out o' it."
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
63
"Then you don't think they'll be able to track us
down?"
"I've been seein' to the coverin' o' our tracks ever since
we left that cesspool o' a town, mate. They won't find a
sign o' us."
"What if they do come after us, though? We can't
conceal all of Roseroar's petite footprints."
Mudge assumed a crafty mien. "Aye, that they might,
guv. They'll likely comb a wide front to the south, knowin'
that we're to be headin' for the ol' Tailaroam. They can
run up every tree in the Bellwoods without fmdin' sign o'
us, because we ain't goin' t' go south. We'll fool 'em
inside out by goin' west from 'ere. We're so far north o'
the river we might as well do it anyhows."
Jon-Tom struggled to recall what he'd been taught of the
local geography. "If you go far enough west of here, the
forest disappears and you're into the Muddletup Moors."
"You got it, mate. No one would think t'ave a looksee
for us there."
"Isn't that because no one ever does go in there?"
"That's right. Wot better place o' safety t' flee to?"
Jon-Tom looked doubtful as he sat back against a fallen
trunk. "Mudge, I don't know about your thinking."
"I'm willin' enough to entertain alternative suggestions,
m'lord warbler, but you're 'ardly in shape for some straight
arguin'."
"Now, that I won't argue. We'll discuss it in the
morning."
"In the mornin', then. Night to you, mate."
The thunder woke Jon-Tom. He blinked sleepily and
looked up into a gray sky full of massive clouds. He
blinked a second time. White clouds were common
enough in this world, just as they were in his own. But not
with black stripes.
He tried to move, discovered he could not. A huge furry
arm lay half on and half off his chest while another curved
behind his head to form a warm pillow. Unfortunately, it
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M
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
65
was also cutting off the circulation to his throbbing left
arm.
He tried to disengage himself. As he did so the thunder
of Roseroar's purring was broken by a coughing snarl. She
stirred, but her arms did not budge.
Another shape moved nearby. Mudge was sitting up on
the bed of leaves he'd fashioned for himself. He looked
over toward Jon-Tom as he stretched.
"Well, don't just sit there, damn it. Give me a hand
here!"
"Wot, and interrupt a charmin' domestic tableau like
that?"
"Don't try to be funny."
"Funnier than that?" He pointed at the helpless spell-
singer. "Couldn't be if I tried, mate."
Glaring at him, Jon-Tom tried again to disengage him-
self, but the weight was too much for him. It was like
trying to move a soft mountain.
"Come on, Mudge. Have a heart."
"Who, me? You know me better than that, mate." As
he spoke Roseroar moved in her sleep, rolling partly across
Jon-Tom's midsection and chest. He gasped and kicked his
legs in a frantic attempt to extricate himself. The tigress
purred thunderously atop him.
Mudge took his time getting to his feet, ambled lazily
over to eye the arrangement thoughtfully. "Our dainty lady
friend sounds 'appy enough. Best not to disturb 'er. I don't
see wot you're fussin' about. It's not like she's got a 'and
over your mouth. From where I stands it looks almost
invitin', though I can't say as 'ow I'd trade places with
you. I'd be lost under 'er."
Jon-Tom put a hand on the tigress's face and pushed.
She stirred, moved slightly, and nearly bit his fingers off.
He withdrew his hand quickly. She'd moved enough for
him to breathe again, anyway.
' 'Any signs of pursuit?''
" 'Aven't smelled or 'card a thing, mate. I think they're
still too disorganized. If they are tookin' fq_r us, you can be
sure 'tis to the south o' Malderpot and not 'ere. Still, the
sooner we're on our way, the better." He turned, began
gathering up his effects.
"Come on now, lad. No time to waste."
"That's real funny, Mudge. How am I supposed to get
her off me?"
"Wake 'er up. Belt 'er one, mate."
"No thanks. I like my head where it is. On my shoul-
ders. I don't know how'd she react to something like that
in her sleep."
Mudge's eyes twinkled. "Be more interestin' to see wot
she might do while she's awake."
There was no need to consider extreme action, however.
All the talking had done its job. Roseroar snorted once and
opened those bottomless yellow eyes.
"Well, good morning, man."
"Good morning yourself. Roseroar, I value your friend-
ship, but you're breaking my arm."
Her expression narrowed. "Suh, are you insinuatin' that
ah am too heavy?"
"No, no, nothing like that." Somewhere off in the
bushes Mudge was attending to necessary bodily functions
while trying to stifle his laughter. "Actually, I think you're
rather svelte."
"Svelte." Roseroar considered the word. "That's nice.
Ah like that. Are you saying I have a nice figure?"
"I never saw a tiger I didn't think was attractive," he
confessed, honestly enough.
She looked mildly disappointed as she rolled off him.
"What the fuzz-ball said is true. Yo ah at least half
solicitah."
Jon-Tom rolled over and tried shaking his left arm,
trying to restore the circulation at the same time as he was
dreading its return. Pins and needles flooded his nerves
and he gritted his teeth at the sensation.
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AlaA Dean Foster
"I did study some law in my own world. It might be my
profession someday."
- "Spellsinging's better," she rumbled. "Svelte?"
"Yeah." He sat up and began pulling on his boots.
"Nice. Ah think ah like yo, man."
"I like you, too, Roseroar."
"Svelte
." She considered the new word thoughtfully.
"Want to know mah word fo yo?" She was putting on her
armor, checking to make sure each catch and strap was
fastened securely. She grinned at him, showing six-inch
fangs. "Cute. Yo ah kind o' cute."
"Gee." Jon-Tom kept his voice carefully neutral as he
replied. "That's nice."
Mudge emerged from the woods, buttoning his shorts.
"Gee, I always thought you were cute, too, mate."
"How'd you like your whiskers shoved up your ass?"
Jon-Tom asked him softly.
"Calm down, mate." Somehow Mudge stifled his laugh-
ter. "Best we get goin' westward. We've given 'em the
slip for the nonce, but sooner o' later the absence o' tracks
o' mention of us south o' 'ere will hit 'im as distinctly
peculiar and they'll start 'untin' for us elsewhere."
Jon-Tom slung the duar over his shoulder and hefted his
staff. "Lead on."
Mudge bowed, his voice rich with mock servility. "As
thy exalted cuteness decrees."
* Jon-Tom tried to bash him with the staff, but the otter
was much too fast for him.
v
It took several days for them to reach the outskirts of the
Moors, a vast and, as far as anyone knew, uninhabited
land which formed the western border of the Bellwoods
and reached south all the way to the northern coast of the
GHttergeist Sea. After a day's march into the Moors'
depths, Mudge felt safe enough to angle southward for the
first time since fleeing the city.
Transportation across the ocean was going to present a
problem. No ports existed where the ocean met the south-
ern edge of the Moors, and Jon-Tom agreed with the otter
that it would be a bad idea to follow the shoreline back
eastward toward the mouth of the Tailaroam. Chenelska
would be sure to be looking for them in ports like Yarrowl.
As for the Moors themselves, they looked bleak but
hardly threatening. Jon-Tom wondered how the place had
acquired its widespread onerous reputation. Mudge could
shed little light on the mystery, explaining only that rumor
insisted anyone who went into the place never came out
again, a pleasant thought to mull over as they hiked ever
deeper into the foggy terrain.
It was a sorry land, mostly gray stone occasionally
67
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Alan Dean Foster
stained red by iron. There were no trees, few bushes, a
little grass. The sky was a perpetual puffy, moist gray.
Fog and mist made them miserable, except for Mudge.
Nothing appeared to challenge their progress. A few mind-
less hoots and mournful howls were the only indications of
mobile inhabitants, and nothing ever came close to their
camps.
They marched onward into the heart of the Muddletup,
where none penetrated. As they moved ever deeper into
the Moors the landscape began to change, and not for the
better. The last stunted trees disappeared. Here, in a place
of eternal dampness and cloud cover, the fungi had taken
over.
Enormous mushrooms and toadstools dripped with mois-
ture as Jon-Tom and his companions walked beneath
spore-filled canopies. Some of the gnarled, ugly growths
had trunks as thick as junipers, while others thrust deli-
cate, semi-transparent stems toward the sodden sky. There
were no bright, cheerful colors to mitigate the depressing
scene, which was mostly brown and gray. Even the occa-
sional maroon or unwholesomely yellow specimen was a
relief from the monotonous parade of dullness.
Some of the flora was spotted, some striped. One
displayed a checkerboard pattern that reminded Jon-Tom of
a non-Euclidian chessboard. Liverworts grew waist-high,
while lichens and mosses formed a thick, cushiony carpet
into which their boots sank up to the ankles. Clean granite
was disfigured by crawling fungoid corruption growing on
its surface. And over this vast, wild eruption of thallophytic
life there hung a pervasive sense of desolation, of waste
and fossilized hope.
The first couple of days had seen no slowing of their
progress. Now their pace began to degenerate. They slept
longer and spent less time over meals. It didn't matter
what food they took from their packs or scavenged from
the land: everything seemed to have lost its flavor. What-
ever they consumed turned flat and tasteless in their
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
69
mouths and sat heavy in their bellies. Even the water
which fell fresh from the clouds had acquired a metallic,
unsatisfying aftertaste.
They'd been in the Moors for almost a week when
Jon-Tom tripped over the skeleton. Like everything else
lately its discovery provoked little more than a tired mur-
mur of indifference from his companions.
"So wot?" muttered Mudge. "Don't mean a damn
thing."
"Ah'm sitting down," said Roseroar. "Ah'm tired."
So was Jon-Tom, but the sight of the stark white bone
peeping out from beneath the encrusting rusts and mildews
roused a dormant concern in his mind.
"This is all wrong," he told them. "There's something
very wrong going on here."
"No poison, if that's wot you're thinkin', mate." Mudge
indicated the growths surrounding them. "I've been care-
ful. Everythin' local we've swallowed 'as been edible,
even if it's tasted lousy."
"Lucky yo," said Roseroar. "No game at all fo me.
Ah find mahself reduced to eating not just weeds, but this
crap. Ah declah ah've nevah been so bored with eating in
all man life."
"Boring, tired, tasteless.. .don't you see what's hap-
pening?" Jon-Tom told them.
"You're gettin' worked up over nothin', mate." The
otter was lying on a mound of soft moss. "Settle yourself
down. 'Ave a sip o' somethinV
"Yes." Roseroar slipped off her swordbelt. "Let's just
sit heah and rest awhile. There's no need to rush. We
haven't seen a sign of pursuit since we left that town, and
ah don't think we're likely to encounter any now."
"She's right, mate. Pull up a soft spot and 'ave a sit."
"Both of you listen to me." Jon-Tom tried to put some
force into his voice, was frightened to hear it emerge from
his lips flat and curiously empty of emotion. He felt sad
and utterly useless. Something had begun to afflict him
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Alan Dean Foster
from the day they'd first set foot in the Moors. It was
something more than just boredom with their surround-
ings, something far more penetrating and dangerous. It
was a grayness of the heart, and it was digging its
insidious way deeper and deeper into their thoughts, kill-
ing off determination and assurance as it went. Eventually,
it would ruin their bodies as well. The skeleton was proof
enough of that. Whatever was into them was patient and
clever, much too calculating, it occurred to Jon-Tpm, to be
&n
bsp; an accident of the environment.
He tried to find the enthusiasm to fight back as he
turned to scream at the landscape. "Who are you? Why
are you doing this to us? What is it you wan??"
He felt like a fool. Worse, he knew his companions
might think he was becoming unhinged. But they said
nothing. He would've welcomed some outcry of skepti-
cism. Instead, the sense of hopelessness settled ever deeper
around them.
Nothing moved within the Moors. Of one thing he was
fairly confident: this wasn't wizardry at work. It was too
slow. He had to do something, but he didn't know what.
All he could think of was how ironic it would be if, after
surviving Malderpot, they were to perish here from a
terminal case of the blahs.
So he was startled when a dull voice asked, "Don't you
understand it all by now?"
"Who said that?" He whirled, trying to spot the speak-
er. Nothing moved.
"I did."
The voice came from an eight-foot-tall mushroom off to
his left. The cap of this blotchy ochre growth dipped
slightly toward him.
"Not that I couldn't have," said another growth.
"Nor I," agreed a third'.
"Mushrooms," Jon-Tom said unsteadily, "don't talk."
"What?" said the first growth. "Sure, we're not loqua-
cious, but that's a natural function of our existence. There
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
71
isn't much to talk about, is there? I mean, it's not just a
dull life, man, it's boring. B-o-r-i-n-g."
"That's about the extent of it," agreed the giant toad-
stool against which Roseroar rested. She moved away from
it hastily, showing more energy than she had in the
previous several days, and put a hand to the haft of each
sword.
"I mean, give it some thought." The first mushroom
again, which was taking on something of the air of a
fungoid spokesman. Jon-Tom saw no lips or mouth. The
words, the thoughts, came fully formed into his mind
through a kind of clammy telepathy. "What would we talk
about?"
"Nothing worth wasting the time discussing," agreed
another mushroom with a long, narrow cap in the manner
of a morrel. "I mean, you spend your whole existence
sitting in the same spot, never seeing anything new, never
moving around. So what's your biggest thrill? Getting to
make spores?"
"Yeah, big deal," commented the toadstool. "So we
don't talk. You never hear us talk, you think fungoids
don't talk. Ambulatories are such know-it-alls."
Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance Page 8