Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

by Foster, Alan Dean;

cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him

  in this alien otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him

  with a glimpse of reality, of home. He felt like a poor kid

  forced to stand in front of the main display window at

  FA.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas.

  Slipping the duar around in front of him, he tried the

  song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the

  volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and

  he could hardly speak. Nothing worked. The song remained

  a song and nothing more.

  He tried other songs, with the same result. He sang

  everything he could remember that alluded however vaguely

  to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.

  The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running

  southwestward under Roseroar's expert guidance. There

  was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the dolphins with

  their endless corny jokes.

  "Sail ahead!" Jalwar yelled from the top of the main-

  mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined

  Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only

  empty horizon. Mudge had no difficulty in matching the

  ferret's vision.

  "I see 'er, mate."

  . "What does she look like?"

  "Rigged normal, not like this thing." The last of

  Jon-Tom's hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. "Big,

  two rows of oars. That I don't like."

  "Why not?"

  "Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin'

  across an ocean. Only a fool... and them that's given no

  choice in the business."

  The visitor was bearing down on them fast. Soon

  Jon-Tom could make out the silhouette. "Can you see a

  flag?"

  Mudge stared hard. Then he began to shake. "That's all

  she wrote, mate. There's a 'eart with a knife through it

  flyin' from the yardartn. Pirates." He raced sternward,

  Jon-Tom hurrying after him.

  "I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist."

  "Aye, traders and them that preys on 'em." The otter

  was dancing frantically around Roseroar. "Do somethin',

  you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!"

  Roseroar put the wheel hard over, said evenly, "They've

  probably seen us already."

  "Jon-Tom, spellsing us out o' 'ere!" By now the huge,

  swift shape of the pirate ship was bearing down on then-

  stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double rows of

  oars dipped in unison.

  "There's not enough wind," Roseroar observed. "What

  there is, is at our back, but they're supplemental' their

  own sails with those oahs."

  Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around

  his neck. "Our engine's out of diesel." He found himself

  eyeing the approaching behemoth in fascination. "Interest-

  ing lines."

  "Interestin" my arse!" Mudge was saying frantically.

  "You'll see 'ow interestin' it can be if they take us!"

  "I'm afraid I don't know many songs about boats,"

  Jon-Tom muttered worriedly, trying to concentrate, "and

  none at all about pirates. See, where I come from they're a

  historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contempo-

  rary song writers."

  "Screw wot's contemporary!" the otter pleaded with

  him. "Sing something!"

  Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes,

  none of which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the

  approaching vessel. It was hard to remember anything,

  what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to the north

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  Alan Dean Poster

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  1O9

  and Mudge hopping hysterically all over the boat when he

  wasn't screaming in Jon-Tom's face.

  Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rum-

  bled, "Stand by to repel boarders, y'all!"

  Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The

  upper deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed

  along the rail was the oddest assortment of creatures he'd

  encountered since finding himself in this world.

  One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood

  alongside three vicious-looking pikas armed with four-

  foot-long lances. A pair of lynxes caressed chipped battle-

  axes and prepared to swing down on ropes dangling from a

  boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized

  sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.

  "Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He

  leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over

  his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood

  staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of

  him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.

  As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down

  a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her

  skull with a mace. The tigress's swords flashed in unison.

  Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote's limb-

  less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood

  in all directions. It twitched horribly.

  Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers

  began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself

  backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose

  attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly,

  a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying

  instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.

  They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's

  blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.

  They forced him back toward the railing. The man

  jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate

  Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and

  lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with

  the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the carti-

  lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face

  covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.

  Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in

  the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back

  end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at

  him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe

  backed off.

  Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap-

  pling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel,

  but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.

  Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had

  been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a

  picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made

  a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their

  insides spilling all over the deck.

  Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen

  backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were

  aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a

  suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.

  The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands,

  binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure

  on her bonds she would only end up chokin
g herself. They

  were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.

  A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners

  were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.

  They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for

  review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an

  unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.

  The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was

  beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately

  worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His

  tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last

  half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom

  decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.

  Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around

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  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  111

  the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the

  muscular arms.

  Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in

  battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts

  from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose

  had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the

  leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew

  murmured restlessly.

  "You fought well," their inspector finally growled.

  "Very well. Too well, thinks I." He glanced significantly

  toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.

  "Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize."

  Green eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates

  for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.

  Where do you come from and how come you by such a

  peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of

  that."

  "It's fiberglass."

  The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you

  the owner of the craft?"

  Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am."

  Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily

  blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came

  away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the

  leopard's claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A

  little lower and he would have lost both eyes.

  Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat

  while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The

  leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It's nose

  was almost touching Jon-Tom's.

  "I am...sir," it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled

  something else, and immediately the leopard's gaze flashed

  toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?"

  "Wot, me? Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it

  were by a hot fight."

  " 'Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat

  returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding

  silently. "Any complaints?"

  Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard's face,

  feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if

  the scarring would be permanent.

  "No, sir. No complaints, sir."

  The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's

  better."

  ' 'Are you the captain of this ship... sir?''

  The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I am

  Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped

  aside. "Here comes the captain now."

  Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear,

  perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that

  captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as

  much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did

  not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.

  Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with

  patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The

  missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.

  Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather

  patch covered the one empty eye socket.

  As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this

  world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood

  red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a

  design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike

  many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore

  no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered

  breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.

  A member of the crew later informed them that the

  captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a

  time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak,

  and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal

  accuracy while balancing on the artificial leg.

  The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth

  between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the

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  skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were

  missing.

  "These be all the crew of our prize?" He looked up at

  the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the

  powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact

  with each of his own crew in turn.

  "A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty death-dealing

  collection... of infants!" His tail quivered with his anger.

  "Infants, the lot of you!" Not only Sasheem, but the rest

  of the cutthroats were completely cowed by this battered

  green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to cross him.

  "Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you

  are!" He cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prison-

  ers. "Now then. Where be you four bound?"

  "Just a few days out from the Tailaroam," Mudge

  volunteered ingratiatingly. "We were just on a little fishin'

  trip, we were, and—"

  The wooden leg was a blur. It caught the otter between

  his short legs. Mudge turned slightly the color of the

  captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed on the deck.

  Corroboc eyed him indifferently.

  "The Emir of Ezon has a tradition of employing eu-

  nuchs to guard his palace. I haven't decided what to do

  with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you'll

  find yourself a candidate for the knife o' the ship's

  doctor."

  Jon-Tom tried to pick a likely candidate for ship's

  physician out of the surrounding collection of cutthroats

  and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy

  might be, he hadn't taken his internship at the Mayo

  Clinic.

  Mudge held his peace, along with everything else. The

  blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. "Perhaps you be smarter

  than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound,

  man?"

  "Snarken," Jon-Tom replied without hesitation.

  Corroboc nodded- "Now, that makes sense, A sensible

  THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

  113

  one. You be a strange specimen, tall man. Be you from the

  region o' the Bellwoods?"

  "I am." He had to risk the falsehood. It was true

  enough now, anyway.

  The parrot blew his nose on the deck, sniffed. "Fortunately

  for you I am in a good humor this morning."
Jon-Tom

  decided he did not want to encounter him when he was in

  a bad mood. "You two"—he indicated Mudge and Jalwar—

  "can start cleaning out the bilges. That's a job long

  overdue and one I am certain you'll find to your liking.

  Won't you?'*

  Uncertain whether to say yes sir, no sir, or nothing at

  all, Jalwar stood and shook in terror. Mudge wasn't up to

  commenting. Corroboc was apparently satisfied, because

  he nodded absently before moving down to stare fearlessly

  up at the towering Roseroar.

  "As for you, I'd be pleased to make you one of my

  crew. Tis plain enough to see you're no stranger to a life

  of fighting. You'd make a valuable addition."

  "Ah'll think it ovah, sun."

  Good girl, Jon-Tom thought. There was no point in

  making the pirate parrot mad with an outright refusal,

  though he found himself wishing her reply hadn't been

  quite so convincing. Surely she wasn't seriously consider-

  ing the offer? But why not? Nothing bound her to Jon-

  Tom. In fact, she had reason enough to abandon him.

  Hadn't he yanked her unwillingly from her homeland and

  involved her in dangers in which she had no interest? If

  she were forced to throw in with some stranger, why not

  this captain as easily as some unsteady, homesick spellsinger?

  Spellsinger! He'd almost forgotten his own abilities. Not

  a one of this band of murderers knew of his avocation. He

  prayed his companions would keep the secret and not blurt

  it out in a thoughtless moment. He was particularly wor-

  ried about the elderly Jalwar, but the trader stood petrified

  and volunteered nothing.

  As if reading his thoughts, the pirate captain turned his

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  attention back to him. "And you, tall man. What be you

  good for?"

  "Well, I can fight, too." Corroboc glanced toward his

  First mate.

  Sasheem muttered an opinion, reluctantly, "Passing well."

  Corroboc grunted and Jon-Tom added, "I am also an

  entertainer, a troubadour by trade."

  "Huh! Well, 'tis true we could do with a bit o' song on

  this scow from time to time." He gave his crew a look of

  disgust- "I gets tired o' listening to the drunken prattling

  o' this uncultured bunch."

  Fighting to conceal his anxiety, Jon-Tom went on. "My

  instrument's on board our ship, along with the rest of our

  personal effects."

  "Is it, now?" Corroboc was sweating him with that one

  piercing eye. "I expect we'll find it in due course. You in