Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  a rush to demonstrate your talents?"

  "At your leisure, sir." Jon-Tom felt the back of his

  indigo shirt beginning to cling damply to his skin. "It's

  only that it's a fine instrument. I'd hate to see one of your

  refined crew reduce it to kindling in hopes of finding gold

  or jewels inside. They wouldn't."

  Corroboc snorted. "Rest assured they'll mind their stink-

  ing manners." He addressed the leopard. "Take 'em

  below and lock 'em in the brig. Let them stew there for a

  bit."

  "These two also?" Sasheem pointed to Jalwar and

  Mudge.

  "Aye, the bilges will wait. Let them share each other's

  filth for a while. By the time I decide to let them out

  they'll be clamorin' to get to work."

  This sophisticated sally brought appreciative laughter

  from the crew as they sloughed away to their posts. The

  pirate ship turned westward with the sloop trailing obediently

  behind it.

  As they were herded below, Jon-Tom had his first

  glimpse of the rowers. Most were naked save for their own

  THE DAY OF THJE DISSONANCE

  115

  fur. They were a cross section of species, from humans to

  rodents. All exhibited the last stages of physical and

  mental degeneration.

  That's where we'll all end up, on the rowing benches,

  he thought tiredly. Unless we can figure out some way out

  of this.

  At the moment, entry into paradise seemed the more

  likely route. If he could only get his hands on his duar,

  there might be a chance. However fickle his spellsinging,

  however uncertain he was of what he might sing, he was

  sure of one thing: he'd fashion some kind of magic. And

  the first try would be his last. He was sure of that much.

  Corroboc wasn't stupid, and the captain would give him

  no second chance to try his hand at wizardry.

  Roseroar suddenly twisted to look back over her shoul-

  der, one paw going to her rump. The first mate was

  grinning back at her.

  "Put yo hands on me like that again, cub, and ah'H

  make music with yo bones."

  "Gentle now, big one," said the amused leopard. "I

  have no doubt you'd do just that if given the chance. But

  you won't be given the chance. It'll go easier on you in the

  long run if you mind your manners and be nice to Sasheem.

  If not, well, we have an ample supply of chain on this

  boat, we do. Your heart may be made of iron, but the rest

  of you is only flesh and bone. Nice flesh it is, too. Think

  over your options.

  "If I ask him nicely, Corroboc will give you to me."

  She glared back at him. "Ah won't be a comforting

  gift."

  Sasheem shrugged. "Comforting or unforgiving, it won't

  matter. I aim to have you. Willingly if possible, otherwise

  if not. You may as well settle your mind to that." They

  were herded into a barred cell. Sasheem favored Roseroar

  with a departing smirk as he joined the rest of his compan-

  ions in mounting the gangway.

  Roseroar sat down heavily, her huge paws clenching and

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  Alan Dean Foster

  unclenching. "That furred snake. Ah'd like to get my

  claws into his—"

  "Not yet, Roseroar," Jon-Tom cautioned her. "We've

  got to be patient. They don't know that I'm a spellsinger.

  If I can just get my hands on my duar, get one chance to

  play and sing, we'll have a chance."

  "A chance at wot, mate?" Mudge slumped dispiritedly

  in a comer. "For you to conjure up some poor dancin' girl

  to take Roseroar's place? To bury this slimy tub in

  flowers?"

  "I'll do something," Jon-Tom told him angrily. "You

  see if I don't."

  "I will that, guv." The otter rolled over, ignoring the

  fact that the floor of their cage was composed of rank straw

  stained dark by the urine of previous captives.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm goin' to 'ave a sleep, mate."

  "How can you sleep now?"

  "Because I'm tired, mate." The otter glanced up at

  him. "I am tired of fightin1, tired with fear, and most of

  all I'm tired o' listenin' to wot a wonderful spellsinger you

  are. When you're ready to magic us out o' this 'ole and

  back to someplace civilized, wake me. If not, maybe I'll

  be lucky and not wake up meself."

  "One should never ride the wave of pessimism," Jalwar

  chided him.

  "Close your cake 'ole, you useless old fart. You don't

  know wot the 'ell you're talkin' about." Hurt, the old

  ferret lapsed into silence.

  Jon-Tom had moved to the barrier and held a cell bar in

  each hand. They were fixed deep into the wood of the

  ship. Small scavenger lizards and dauntingly big bugs

  skittered about in the dark sections of the hold while others

  could be heard using the rafters for pathways.

  Then he turned to walk over to Roseroar and put a

  comforting hand on her head, stroking her between the

  ears. She responded with a tired, halfhearted purr.

  THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

  117

  "Don't worry, Roseroar. I got you into this. Maybe I

  can't get myself home, but I can damn well get you out of

  it. I owe you that much. I owe all of you that much."

  Mudge was already asleep and didn't hear the promise.

  Jalwar squatted in another corner picking resignedly at

  strands of hay.

  I just don't know how I'm going to get you all out of

  this, Jon-Tom mused silently.

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  119

  VIII

  Somehow the concept of "swabbing the deck" was tinged

  with innocence; a reflection of childhood memories of

  stories about wooden ships and iron men.

  The reality of it was something else.

  You rested on your hands and knees on a rough planked

  deck, stripped to the waist beneath a hot sun that blistered

  your neck and set the skin to peeling off your back. Sweat

  flowed in streams from under your arms, from your fore-

  head and your belly. Anything small and solid, be it a

  speck of dust or one of your own hairs, that slipped into

  your eye made you want to run screaming for the railing to

  throw yourself over the side.

  Salt air worsened your situation, exacerbating the sore

  spots, making them fester and redden faster. Splinters

  stung the exposed skin of hands and ankles while your

  palms were raw from pushing the wide brushes soaked

  with lye-based cleaning solution.

  Meanwhile you advanced slowly the length of the deck,

  making sure to remove each bloodstain lest some laughing

  member of the crew remind you of its presence by pressing

  a heavy foot on your raw fingers.

  118

  By midday Jon-Tom no longer cared much if they were

  rescued or if he were thrown over the rail to be consumed

  by whatever carnivorous fish inhabited this part of the

  Glittergeist. He didn't have much hope left. Already he'd

  forgotten about Clothahump's illness, about returning home,

&nb
sp; forgotten about everything except surviving the day.

  By late afternoon they'd finished scrubbing every square

  foot of the main deck and had moved up to the poop deck.

  The helmsman, a grizzled old warhog, ignored them.

  There was no sign of the captain, for which Jon-Tom was

  unremittingly grateful.

  A crude, temporary shelter had been erected off to the

  left, close by the captain's perch. Huddled beneath the

  feeble shade this provided was a girl of sixteen, maybe a

  little older. Once she might have been pretty. Now her long

  blonde hair was so much pale seaweed clinging to her

  face. She was barely five feet tall. Her eyes were a

  washed-out blue. Excepting the heavy steel manacle that

  encircled her neck and was attached to a chain bolted to

  the deck, she was stark naked.

  It provided her with a radius of movement of about ten

  feet. No more. Just enough to get from the shelter to the

  rail, where she would have to perform any personal bodily

  functions in full view of the crew. Jon-Tom had no trouble

  following the whip welts, casual burns, and bruises that

  covered most of her body.

  She sat silently within the shelter, her legs extended to

  one side, and said nothing as they approached. She just

  stared.

  Jon-Tom used a forearm to wipe the sweat from around

  his lips. They were alone on the deck except for the old

  helmsman. He risked whispering.

  "Who are you, girl?" No reply. Only those empty blue

  eyes, staring. "What's your name?"

  "Leave 'er be, mate," said Mudge softly. "Can't you

  see there's not much left o' 'er? She's mad or near enough,

  or maybe they cut out 'er tongue to keep 'er from screamin'."

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  Alan Dean Foster

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  121

  "None of those," said the helmsman. He spoke without

  taking his eyes from the ship's course. "That's Folly, the

  captain's toy. He took her off a ship that sank several

  months ago. She's been nuthin' but trouble since. Uncooper-

  ative, unappreciative when the captain tried bein' nice to

  her. I don't know why he doesn't throw her overboard and

  be done with it. It was folly to bring her aboard, and folly

  to keep her, so Folly's been her name."

  "But what's her real name?"

  A thin, barely audible reply came from within the

  shelter. "I have no name. Folly's as good as any."

  "You can talk. They haven't broken you yet."

  She glared bitterly at Jon-Tom. "What do you know

  about anything? I've been watching you." Her mouth

  twisted. "You're hurting now. I watched when they took

  your boat and brought you aboard. The tigress will be

  around awhile. The old one won't last two weeks. The

  otter a little longer, if he keeps his mouth shut.

  "As for you," she eyed Jon-Tom contemptuously, "you'll

  say the wrong thing and lose your tongue. Or worse."

  "What happened to you?" Jon-Tom was careful to keep

  his voice down and his arms moving lest Sasheem or one

  of the other mates take note of the conversation.

  "What does it matter?"

  "It matters to me. It should matter to you, because

  we're going to get off this ship." If the helmsman over-

  heard he gave no sign.

  The girl laughed sharply. "And you thought I'd gone

  mad." She glanced at Roseroar. "The man is crazy, isn't

  he?" Roseroar made no reply, bending to her work.

  "And you'll come with us," he went on. "I wouldn't

  leave you here."

  "Why not? You've got your own business to attend to.

  Why not leave me here? You don't know me, you don't

  owe me." She spat at the deck. "This is a stupid conversa-

  tion. You're not going anywhere."

  "What happened?" he prodded gently.

  A tiny bit of the hardness seemed to go out of her, and

  she looked away from him. "My family and I were on a

  trading packet bound from Jorsta to the Isles of Durl when

  we ran afoul of these bastards. They killed my father along

  with the rest of the males and later, my mother. Since my

  little sister was too young to be of any use to them, they

  threw her overboard. They killed everyone, except for me.

  For some reason that unmentionable thing they call their

  captain took a fancy to me. I imagine he saw ftiture profit

  in me." She shrugged. "I've taken care to give them

  nothing but trouble since. Hence my name, a gift of the

  crew."

  "Been less troublesome lately," grunted the helmsman

  significantly.

  "Have you tried to escape?"

  "Escape to where? Yes, I tried anyway. Better drowning

  or sharks than this. At least, I tried before they put this

  chain on me. I only tried once. There are worse things than

  being beaten. As you may find out."

  He lowered his voice to make certain the helmsman

  couldn't overhear. "I don't intend to. We're getting off this

  ship. Will you come with us when we do?"

  "No." She stared straight back at him. "No. I won't. I

  don't want to be hurt anymore."

  "That's why I'm taking you with us." She turned away

  from him. "What's wrong?"

  Mudge gave him a gentle nudge. "Watch your mouth,

  lad. 'Tis the captain, may 'e rot in 'is own excrement."

  "How goes she, Pulewine?" Corroboc inquired of his

  helmsman.

  "Steady on course, Captain."

  Jon-Tom kept his attention on his scrub brush, heard the

  thunk of the captain's wooden leg move nearer.

  "And how be our fine cleaning crew this bright morn-

  ing? Are they working like the elegant fighters we brought

  aboard?"

  "No, Captain." The helmsman allowed himself a grunting

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  laugh. "As anyone can see, they're working like the scum

  that they are."

  "That's good." Corroboc walked around Jon-Tom until

  the parrot was standing between him and Folly's shelter.

  He turned his good eye on the man. "Now then, mayhap

  we each understand our place in the order o' things, har?"

  "Yes, Captain," murmured Jon-Tom readily enough.

  "Aye, that be the way to answer. Keep that tone about

  you and you'll live to do more service." He cast a glance

  into the shelter and Jon-Tom went cold as he saw the look

  that came over Folly's face as she drew back into the

  shadows.

  "Chatting with the young she, have you?"

  Since the helmsman had been privy to much of their

  conversation, Jon-Tom could hardly deny it had taken

  place.

  "A word or two, sir. Harmless enough."

  "Har, I be sure o' that! A cute little specimen of her

  species, though not marketable in her present condition,

  fears I. A consequence of noncooperation." Jon-Tom said

  nothing, scrubbed harder, trying to push the brush through

  the wood.

  "That's it, boy. Scrub well and we'll see to giving you a

  chance to entertain us when you've finished." He shared a

  laugh with the helmsman. "Though not the kind you
/>
  think, no. The two of you can entertain us together."

  "I wouldn't get under that whey-faced stringbean if you

  shot me with pins," Folly snapped.

  Corroboc turned that merciless eye on his prisoner.

  "Now, what make you think you'd be having any choice

  in the matter, Folly? It'll be a pleasant thing to work out

  the geometry of it." He lashed out suddenly with his one

  good foot. The sharp claws cut twin bloody gouges up her

  thigh and she let out a soft cry.

  Jon-Tom dug his fingernails into the wood of the brush.

  "That be better now, and we'll be having no more

  arguments, will we?" Folly clung to the shadows and

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  123

  whimpered, holding her injured leg. "You've been disap-

  pointment enough to me. As soon as we make land I'll rid

  myself of you, and I'll make certain your buyer is of a

  similar mind when it comes to staging entertainments.

  Then perhaps you'll yearn for the good old days back

  aboard Corroboc's ship, har?" He turned back to the deck

  cleaners.

  "Keep at it, slime." He addressed his helmsman. "When

  they've finished the deck, run them forward and set them

  to scrubbing the sides. Sling them over in nets. If one of

  them falls through, it will serve as a fine lesson to the

  others."

  "Aye, Captain," said the helmsman.

  Corroboc rose on bright green wings to glide down to

  the main deck. The warthog cast a wizened eye at Jon-

  Tom.

  "Watch thy tongue and mind thy manners and thee

  might live as much as a year." This admonition was

  finished off with a thick, grunting laugh. "Still going to

  escape?"

  You bet your porcine ass we are, Jon-Tom thought

  angrily as he attacked the decking. The wood was the only

  thing he could safely take out his fury on. We'll get out of

  this somehow and take that poor battered girl with us.

  Without his realizing it, the sight of Folly had done

  something their own desperate situation had not: it forced

  him to realize how selfish he'd been these past hours,

  moping around bemoaning his fate. He wasn't the only

  one who had problems. Everyone else was depending on

  him—Mudge and Jalwar and Roseroar, and Clothahump

  sick and hurt back in his tree, and now Folly.

  So he hadn't made it back to his own world. Tough.

  Self-pity wouldn't get him any closer to L.A. He had

  friends who needed him.

  Mudge noticed the change in his friend's attitude imme-

  diately. He scrubbed the deck with renewed enthusiasm.