Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  increased his pace.

  "Uh, 'ere now, mate, maybe we'd all be better off

  walkin' after all."

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  THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

  247

  "Nonsense. We are still not far enough away from

  Hathcar's troop to chance slowing down."

  "That's debatable. Besides, there's no need for you to

  keep on carryin' us about like this. Don't want to make

  you uncomfortable or nothin'."

  "It sounds to me as though you are the one who is

  feeling uneasy, otter."

  "Wot, me? Not me, guv'nor. It's just that I—"

  "What's wrong with you, Mudge?" Jon-Tom asked

  him. "I thought you'd be glad of the chance to rest your

  precious feet."

  "Relax, otter," the stallion said. "You are not my type.

  Now if you happened to be a Percheron, or a Clydesdale,

  or maybe a shire..." He let the images trail off.

  "If you have to worry about something, think about

  Hathcar," Jon-Tom instructed the otter.

  Mudge did so, though he still kept a wary eye on their

  mount. Later, his confusion was broken by the sound of

  distant thunder. Or perhaps it was only a bellow of

  outrage.

  Silky's parents kept the money already paid to them by

  Hathcar, and as Jon-Tom surmised, the cuscus did not try

  to take it back by force from the heavily defended town.

  There seemed no way for him to vent his rage and

  frustration until it occurred to him that since the girl had

  truly done her best, if anything she actually deserved a

  bonus.

  So it was that while Silky did not get her much-desired

  candy, she was the only girl in the village who could look

  forward to the coming winter confidently, clad as she was

  in her brand-new wolfskin coat.

  The travelers stopped in late afternoon. The roast that

  Mudge had risked his life to salvage was almost gone, but

  Roseroar soon brought in enough fresh food for all. Drom

  nibbled contentedly at a nearby field of petal pedals. Each

  blue-and-pink flower produced a different musical note

  when it was munched.

  Mudge ate close to Jon-Tom. "Don't it bother you,

  mate?"

  "Don't... doesn't what bother me?"

  The otter nodded toward the unicorn. " 'Im."

  Jon-Tom bit into his steak. The meat was succulent and

  rich with flavor. "He saved us once and might save us

  again. As for his personal sexual preferences, I could care

  less. He'd be downright inconspicuous on Hollywood

  Boulevard."

  "Well, maybe you're right. Now, me, I knew it from

  the first. The way 'e minced out of the woods toward us."

  Drom overheard, lifted his muzzle, and said with digni-

  ty, "I do not mince, otter. I prance." He looked at

  Jon-Tom. "You really believe your former acquaintances

  will beat you to Crancularn and to the medicine you have

  come for?"

  "I hope not, but I fear it. They stole our only map."

  "That is a small loss. Do not regret it." The unicorn

  crunched a clump of purple ortnods with petals the shade

  . of enameled amethyst. The flowers hummed as they were

  consumed. "I can guide you there."

  "We were told it moves around."

  "Only in one's imagination. There are those who stum-

  ble through it without seeing it, or circle 'round it as if

  blind. So they say it has moved. It does not move, but to

  find it you must wish to. I know. I was told by those who

  could know. I will lead you to Crancularn."

  "That's bleedin' wonderful," Mudge confessed aloud.

  He was mad at himself. There was no reason for him to be

  nervous or wary in the unicorn's presence. Drom was a

  likable chap, wasn't he, and Mudge didn't look in the least

  like a shire horse, did he? And hadn't he always been told

  never to look a gift unicorn in the mouth? He was upset

  with himself.

  Hadn't the four-legs carried himself and Jon-Tom all this

  way from Hathcar's territory without complaining? Why,

  with him galloping along and the rest of them taking turns

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  riding him, they might yet overtake that prick Jalwar and

  his whore of a helpmate Folly.

  They made rapid progress westward, but still there was

  no sign of their former friends.

  When they finally found themselves on the outskirts of

  Crancularn itself, Jon-Tom found it hard to believe. He'd

  half come to think of the town as existing only in

  Clothahump's imagination. Yet there it was.

  Yes, there it was, and after too many close calls with

  death, after crossing the Muddletup Moors and the Glittergeist

  Sea and innumerable hills and vales, he was more than a

  little discouraged by the sight of it.

  The setting was impressive enough: a heavily forested

  slope that climbed the flank of a slowly smoking volcano.

  The town itself, however, was about as awe-inspiring as

  dirty, homey Lynchbany. Tumble-down shacks and ram-

  shackle two-and three-story buildings of wood and mud

  crowded close to one another as if fearful of encountering the

  sunlight. A dirty fog clung to the streets and the angular,

  slate-roofed structures. As they headed toward the town, a

  familiar odor made his nostrils contract: the thick musk of

  the unwashed of many species mixed with the stink of an

  open sewer system. His initial excitement was rapidly

  fading.

  Massive oaks and sycamores grew within the town

  itself, providing more shade where none was required and

  sometimes even shouldering buildings aside. Jon-Tom was

  about to ask Drom if perhaps they might have come to the

  wrong place when the unicorn reared back on its hind

  hooves and nearly dumped him and Mudge to the ground.

  Roseroar snarled as she assumed a defensive posture.

  Coming straight at them, belching smoke and bellowing

  raggedly, was a three-footed demon. A rabbit rode the

  demon's back. This individual wore a wide-brimmed felt

  hat; a long-sleeved shirt of muslin, open halfway; and a

  short mauve skirt similar to the kilts favored by the

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  249

  intelligent arboreals of this world. His enormous feet were

  unshod.

  The demon slowed as it approached. Jon-Tom drew in a

  deep breath as it stopped in front of him and hastened to

  reassure his companions. "It's all right. It can't harm

  you."

  "How do yo know, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar kept her hands

  on her sword hilts.

  "Because I know what it is. It's a Honda ATC Offroad

  Three-wheeler." He admired the red-painted demon. "Au-

  tomatic too. I didn't know Honda made an ATC with

  automatic."

  "Funny name for a demon," Mudge was muttering.

  "Hiya," said the rabbit cheerfully, revving the engine.

  "Can I help you folks?"

  "You sure can." Jon-Tom pointed at the ATC. "Where'd

  you get that?"

  The rider raced the motor and Drom shied away. "From


  the Shop of the Aether and Neither. Where else?"

  Jon-Tom felt a burst of excitement. Maybe Clothahump

  was right. The inexplicable presence of the ATC in this

  world was proof enough that powerful magic was at work

  here.

  "That's where we want to go."

  "Figures," said the rabbit. "Nice of you to drop in. We

  don't get a lot of visitors here in Crancularn. For some

  reason, travelers avoid us."

  "Might be your wonderful reputation," Mudge told

  him.

  The rabbit eyed them appraisingly. "Strangers. Don't

  know if Snooth will serve you. She don't get much

  business from outsiders." He shrugged. "Ain't none of my

  business, your business."

  "Who's Snooth?" Jon-Tom asked him.

  "The proprietress. Of the Shop of the Aether and

  Neither." He looked back over his shoulder, pointed. "Go

  through town and stay on the north trail that winds around

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  Alan Dean Poster

  the base of the mountain. Snooth's place is around the side

  a ways." He turned back to inspect them a last time.

  "You're a weird-looking bunch. I don't know what

  you've come to buy, but you'll need all the luck you can

  muster to pry anything out of Snooth's stock. And no, you

  can't have one of my feet to help you." He put the

  all-terrain vehicle in gear and roared off into the woods,

  the ATC popping and growling.

  "I still say it were a demon," Mudge muttered.

  "No demon, just a machine. From my world."

  "Ah'd dislike being a resident o' yoah world, then, Jon-

  Tom." Roseroar made a face. "Such noise. And that

  smell!"

  It had to have been conjured, Jon-Tom knew. Conjured

  by a magic even more powerful than Clothahump's. His

  heart raced. If this Snooth could bring something as solid

  as the ATC into this world, something lifted from a

  dealership in Kyoto or L.A. or Toronto, then perhaps she

  could also send things back to such places.

  Things like himself.

  He didn't dare dwell on that possibility as they made

  their way through town. For the most part, the busy, bored

  citizenry ignored them. Many of them were using or

  playing with otherworldly devices. Jon-Tom began to have

  second thoughts about his chances of being sent home.

  Maybe this Snooth was no sorceress but just some local

  shopkeeper who happened to have stumbled onto some

  kind of one-way transdimensional gate or something.

  Mudge pointed out a traveling minstrel. The diminutive

  musical mouse was plinking out a very respectable polka

  not on a duar or handlebar lyre or bark flute but on a

  Casiotone 8500 electronic keyboard. Jon-Tom wondered

  what the mouse was using for batteries.

  Not all the devices in use were recognizably from his

  own world. The sign over a fishmonger's stall was a

  rotating globe of red and white lambent light that spelled

  out the shop's name and alternated it with that of the

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  251

  owner. There appeared to be nothing supporting the globe.

  As they stared, the globe twisted into the shape of a fish,

  then into the outlines of females of various species in

  provocative poses. Sex sells, Jon-Tom reminded himself.

  Even fish. He walked over to stand directly underneath the

  globe. There was no source of support or power, much less

  a visible explanation for its photonic malleability. One

  thing he was sure of: it hadn't come from his own world.

  Neither had the device they saw an old mandrill using to

  cut wood. It had a handle similar to that of a normal metal

  saw, but instead of a length of serrated steel the handle was

  attached to a shiny bar no more than a quarter-inch in

  diameter. The baboon would hitch up his gloves, choose a

  piece of wood, put both hands on the handle and touch the

  thin bar to the log. It would cut through like butter.

  There were other worlds, then, and this Snooth appar-

  ently had access to goods from many of them. As they

  made their way through the town, he thought back to his

  companion's reaction to the ATC. To someone unfamiliar

  with internal combustion devices on a world where magic

  held sway, it certainly must have looked and sounded like

  a demon. Crancularn was full of such alien machines. No

  wonder it had acquired an unwholesome reputation.

  But the townsfolk themselves were open and friendly

  enough. In that they were no different from the inhabitants

  of the other cities and villages Jon-Tom had visited. As for

  their blase" acceptance of otherworldly devices, there was

  nothing very extraordinary about that. People, no matter

  their shape or size or species, were infinitely adaptable.

  Only a hundred years ago in his own world, a hand-held

  television or calculator watch would have seemed like

  magic even to sophisticated citizens, who nonetheless

  would have made use of them enthusiastically.

  For that matter, how many of his contemporaries actual-

  ly understood what made a computer tick or instant replay

  possible? People had a way of just accepting the workings of

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  everyday machinery they didn't understand, whether it was

  powered by alkaline batteries or arcane spells.

  Then they were leaving the town again, fog drifting lazily

  around them. They had attracted no more than an occa-

  sional cursory glance from the villagers. Huge trees hugged

  the fertile lower slopes of the volcano, which simmered

  quietly and unthreateningly above them.

  Inquiries in town had produced no mention of visitors

  resembling Jalwar or Folly. Either the two had lost their

  way or else with Drom's aid they had already passed the

  renegade pair in the woods. Jon-Tom experienced a pang of

  regret. He still wasn't completely convinced of Folly's

  complicity in the theft of the map.

  No time for that now. The rabbit on the ATC implied

  they might have trouble purchasing what they wanted from

  this Snooth. Jon-Tom struggled to compose a suitably ef-

  fective speech. AH they needed was a little bit of medicine.

  Nothing so complex as a malleable globe or toothless saw.

  His hand went to the tiny vial dangling from the chain

  around his neck. Inside was the formula for the desperately

  needed medicine. He hadn't brought it this far to be turned

  away empty-handed.

  There was no sign, no posted proclamations to advertise

  the shop's presence. They turned around a cluster of oaks,

  and there it was, a simple wooden building, one story

  high. It was built up against the rocks. A single wooden

  door was set square in the center of the storefront, which

  was shaded by a broad, covered porch.

  A couple of high-backed rocking chairs sat on the

  porch, unoccupied. Wooden shingles in need of repair

  covered the sloping roof that likewise ran up into the

  rocks. Jon-Tom estimated the entire building enclosed no

&n
bsp; more than a thousand square feet of space. Hardly large

  enough for store and home combined.

  As they drew close, a figure emerged from inside and

  settled into the farther rocking chair. The chair creaked as

  it rocked. The tall kangaroo wore a red satin vest which

  THE DAY op THE DISSONANCE

  253

  blended with her own natural rust color and, below, a kilt

  similar in style to the rabbit's. There were pockets and a

  particularly wide one directly in front to permit the owner

  access to her pouch. Jon-Tom stared at the lower belly but

  was unable to tell if the female was carrying a joey, though

  once he thought he saw something move. But he couldn't

  be sure, and since he was ignorant of macropodian eti-

  quette, he thought it best not to inquire.

  She also wore thick hexagonal granny glasses and a

  heavy necklace of turquoise, black onyx, and malachite. A

  matching bracelet decorated her right wrist, and she puffed

  slowly on a corncob pipe which was switched periodically

  from one side of her mouth to the other.

  He halted at the bottom of the porch steps, "Are you the

  one they call Snooth?"

  "I expect I am," the kangaroo replied, "since I'm the

  only one around here by that name." She took her pipe

  from her lips and regarded them thoughtfully. "You folks

  aren't from around here. What can I do for you?"

  "We've undertaken one hell of a shopping trip," Jon-

  Tom told her.

  She sighed. "I was afraid of that. Just when I got

  myself all nice and comfortable. Well, that's par for the

  course."

  Jon-Tom's eyes grew wide. "That's an expression of

  my world."

  "Is it? I traffic with so many I sometimes get confused.

  Sure as the gleebs are on the fondike."

  Jon-Tom decided to tread as lightly as possible, bearing

  the rabbit's admonition in mind. "We don't want to

  disturb you. We could come back tomorrow." He tried to

  see past her, into the store. "You haven't by any chance

  had a couple of other out-of-town customers in recently,

  have you? An old ferret, maybe accompanied by a human

  female?" He held his breath.

  The kangaroo scratched under her chin with her free

  hand. "Nope. No one of that description. In fact, I haven't

  r

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  had any local out-of-town customers stop by in some

  time."

  Forbearing to inquire into the nature of a local out-of-

  towner, which seemed to Jon-Tom to be a contradiction in