Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

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by Foster, Alan Dean;


  comrade, man?" said a voice Jon-Tom had hoped never to

  hear again. He turned to his right.

  "Corroboc."

  The parrot executed a half bow. ' 'It be right good of you

  to remember me name. That singing magic you worked on

  me ship, that be my fault for not guessing you had more

  than entertainment for old Corroboc in mind. But I'm not

  the one to dwell on old regrets. No, not I, even though me

  worthless crew chose a new captain and set me adrift

  barely within flying range o' the mainland.

  "There I found your strange boat and picked up your

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  trail. I knew o' your aims and thought somehow to follow

  until 1 found a way o' repayin' you all for your kindnesses

  to me. In the forest I saw two of you leave from the rest."

  He nodded toward Jalwar.

  "When I saw the respect with which he were treatin' me

  old friend Folly, I thought to meself, now here be one after

  me own heart. So I settled down for a chat, and after an

  exchange of pleasantries me and the good ferret here, we

  came to an understandin', har."

  "That bird will cut out our hearts and dance on them,"

  Roseroar whispered to Jon-Tom. "We might as well rush

  them now."

  "Steady on, you oversized bit o' fluff," Mudge warned

  her. "All the cards 'aven't been dealt yet, wot?"

  "Whisper all you want," snapped Jalwar. "It will avail

  you naught."

  Corroboc pulled a short, thin sword from the flying

  scabbard slung at his waist. Holes in the blade made it

  light and strong. He caressed the flat side of the blade

  lovingly.

  "Many days have I had to anticipate the pleasures of our

  reunion. I beg you not to provoke me new friend lest he

  put an end to you all too quick. I want our meeting to be a

  memorable experience for all. Aye, memorable! You see,

  I've no ship, no crew anymore. All I have left to me be

  this moment, which I don't want to hurry."

  Realization rushed in on Jon-Tom as he turned on

  Jalwar. "You work for Zancresta, don't you? You've been

  working for Zancresta from the first! Running into you on

  the northern shore of the Glittergeist was no coincidence.

  Those brigands weren't attacking you. It was all a ploy to

  let you worm yourself into our company."

  "An apt metaphor, Jon-Tom," said Roseroar.

  "Tell me something," Jon-Tom went on quietly. "How

  much is Zancresta paying you to keep this medicine from

  Clothahump?"

  The ferret burst out laughing, though the business end of

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  265

  the strange weapon he held did not waver. "Paying me?

  You idiots! Spellsinger? Pah! / am Zancresta! Wizard of

  Malderpot, supreme master of the arcane arts, diviner of

  the unknown and parter of the shrouds! Fools, beggars of a

  humble knowledge, you are blinder than the troglodytes of

  Tatrath and dumber than the molds that grub out an

  existence in the cracks between the stones."

  The ferret seemed to swell in their eyes as they stared,

  though neither his size nor shape actually changed. But the

  curved spine stiffened, the voice was no longer shaky, and

  an inner unholy light emanated from suddenly bottomless

  eyes while a barely perceptible dark aura sprang to malev-

  olent life around him.

  "I didn't think you'd get this far, none of you! But

  where a spellsinger, however inept, is involved, there are

  never any assurances. So when you escaped from Malderpot

  and my servants lost you in the woods, I determined to

  find you myself. Your bold and unforeseen move into the

  Muddletup Moors confused me, I must admit. But only for

  a time, and I was just able to intercept you on the shores of

  the Glittergeist and execute my little charade.

  "I did not think I would be with you long, but luck and

  false fortune seemed to follow you wherever you went.

  Across the ocean, on this kindred spirit's vessel, even into

  the land of the bellicose enchanted folk. When you not

  only managed your release from their hands but induced

  them to assist you with a map, I determined to press on

  ahead on my own to seek out this Shop of the Aether and

  Neither and buy up all the necessary medicine before you

  could arrive.

  "And again you surprised me, not out of cleverness or

  insight, but through blind luck. So Corroboc and I paral-

  leled your progress through this bloated emporium of

  useless goods, he flying above to check periodically on

  your position, until you kindly located the object of the

  quest for me. Which I will now take possession of." He

  glanced up at Snooth.

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  "I do not think she has in hand a device or medicine

  that can save her from the fast-acting effects of hruth

  venom. Once that container has been handed over I will

  relieve you of your weapons and leave you to the tender

  attentions of my patient friend. Perhaps he will grow bored

  before all of you are dead." Corroboc made neat, thin

  slices in one of his own feathers with the razor-sharp

  sword while Zancresta looked suddenly wistful.

  "Ah, the day that I stand at that fat fraud's bedside,

  holding the precious medicine he so desperately requires

  just beyond his feeble reach, making him plead and beg

  for it, that will be a day of triumph indeed."

  "What have you done with Folly!"

  Zancresta came back from his private reverie. "Ah, my

  pack animal and my insurance. I have never feared you,

  spellsinger, but your talents act in ways wayward and

  unpredictable. Sometimes it is awkward to deal with such

  implausibilities, and I do worry some on the impetuous

  nature of your companions.

  "Knowing of your insipidly tender nature, I took care to

  keep the girl tightly under my control, lest she foolishly try

  to run to you for misguided salvation."

  "You hypnotized her?"

  "I am unfamiliar with the term, but if you mean did I

  blur her simple mind in order to make her compliant, yes.

  I no longer have need of her as crude labor or as insurance

  against your actions, however." He pointed down the

  aisle.

  "These shelves reach far back into the mountain, which

  you may have noticed is of volcanic origin. I would

  presume that each aisle ends in a fairly hot place. Perhaps

  the proprietress stores goods back there that require con-

  stant heat. Being of a warm nature myself, I dismissed the

  girl and bid her wander down to the end of the aisle. She

  acquired on Corroboc's ship a dark coloration which I

  venture to say will change rapidly to red as she stumbles

  into the hot center of this mountain."

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  267

  Jon-Tom took a step backward and Zancresta raised his

  peculiar multiple dart-thrower. "Let her go. She is nothing."

  There was a flash of gold from behind Roseroar. Again

>   Zancresta raised the weapon, but a feathery hand came

  down on his arm.

  "Nay, let the horned one go," snarled Corroboc. "I've

  no real quarrel with him. He won't be in time to save the

  girl and I want these three left alive and conscious." He

  started toward the ladder, sword in one hand, the other

  outstretched toward Snooth. "The medicine, if you please,

  hag."

  "As you wish."

  "No!" Jon-Tom shouted. "Don't give it to him!"

  The kangaroo's reply was firm. "I am not a party to

  what is a private quarrel. This is between you and him."

  She handed over the precious container. "Here, catch." At

  the last instant she tossed it toward the pirate captain.

  Corroboc grabbed for the small plastic cylinder and

  missed. It struck the floor, vaporizing instantly and spitting

  out a thick cloud of black smoke.

  Jon-Tom threw himself sideways and down. The dart-

  thrower twanged and something struck his boot while

  others thunked harmlessly into the back of his thick snake-

  skin cape. He heard no screams of pain and prayed that his

  friends had also managed to dodge Zancresta's weapon.

  He started to rise, preparing to do battle with his staff,

  when it occurred to him that in a hand-to-hand fight

  Roseroar's swords and Mudge's bow would be more effec-

  tive, and that, in any case, they had a sorcerer to deal with

  now. So he put the ramwood aside and fumbled with the

  duar. An old Moody Blues tune came to mind, suitable for

  combating evil. He played and sang.

  It had its intended effect. As the smoke began to

  dissipate he could hear the ferret moan, see him staggering

  backwards clutching at his head.

  But Zancresta was not to be so simply vanquished.

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  Gathering his strength, he glared at Jon-Tom and began to

  recite:

  "Nails of rails and coils of toil,

  Come to me now, rise to a boil,

  Become with strength my herpetological foil!"

  The sorcerer's fingers stretched, elongated, became pow-

  erful constrictors that writhed and curled toward Jon-Tom.

  Whether it was out of fear for Folly or for himself or

  sheer anger, he couldn't say, but now the music flowed

  easily through him. Without missing a bar he segued straight

  into a slithering song by Jefferson Airplane. The snakes

  shriveled and shrank to become ferret fingers once more.

  A second time Zancresta threw out his hands toward

  Jon-Tom.

  "Xyleum, phylum, cellulose constrained,

  Hypoblastic hardwood rise up now unrestrained.

  Chlorophyllic transformation make thyself known.

  Long and strong and sharp and straight

  And solid as a stone!"

  The wooden stake that materialized to leap at Jon-Tom's

  chest was the size of a small tree. A few branches erupted

  from its trunk, and it continued to grow even as it flew

  toward him, sending out roots and leaves. He barely had

  time enough to switch to a throaty rendition of Def

  Lepard's "Pyromania."

  The huge, growing spear blew up in a ball of fire. The

  force of it knocked Zancresta backward to the floor.

  It gave Jon-Tom a moment to check on his companions.

  They were unhurt, but there was plenty of blood on the

  floor of the aisle. It all came from the same source, and

  was sticky with green and blue feathers. A beaked skull

  lay sightless in one place, a leg elsewhere, a pair of wings

  on a half-empty shelf. More blood stained Roseroar's

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  269

  muzzle and claws. Her swords were still sheathed and

  clean. She hadn't needed to use them, having dismembered

  Corroboc as neatly as Jon-Tom would have a fried chicken.

  Mudge stepped forward to fire a single arrow at Zancresta.

  The sorcerer raised a hand, uttered one contemptuous

  word. The arrow turned rotten before it crumpled against

  the ferret's hip. Meanwhile Jon-Tom wondered and wor-

  ried about Folly. If only Drom had time enough to reach

  her before ...!

  Sensing his opponent's lapse of concentration, Zancresta

  waved a hand over his head and declaimed stentoriously. A

  small black cloud appeared in the air between them.

  Thunder rolled ominously.

  Jon-Tom barely had the presence of mind to shout the

  right words from Procol Harum's "In Held I Was" and

  hold up the duar in front of him in time to intercept the

  single bolt of lightning that emerged from the cloud. The

  instrument absorbed the bolt, though the impact sent him

  stumbling. The cloud disintegrated.

  Now, for the first time, there was a hint of fear in

  Zancresta's eyes. Fear, but not surrender. Not yet. He

  stood staring at his opponent, making no effort to draw his

  torn and ragged clothes tighter about him.

  "Not accident, then," he muttered as he stood there.

  "Not just luck. I worried about that, but in the end gave it

  little credence. Now I see that I was wrong. You think

  you've won, don't you? You think you've beaten me?" He

  looked up at the ladder. Snooth stood on it holding the

  original container of medicine. Zancresta had been so busy

  watching Jon-Tom that he hadn't seen the proprietress

  switch it for the smoke bomb.

  "You all think you've beaten me. Well, you haven't.

  Not Zancresta, you haven't. Because you see, I came

  prepared to deal with every possibility, no matter how

  remote or unlikely. Yes, I even came prepared to deal with

  the chance that this stripling spellsinger might possess

  some small smidgen of talent."

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  Alan Dean Foster

  "Go ahead and try something." Jon-Tom felt ten feet

  tall. He could feel the power surging inside him, could feel

  the music fighting to get out. His fingers tingled and the

  duar was like a third arm. He was riding high, on the same

  kind of high the stars got when they sang in front of

  thousands in the big halls and arenas. He stopped just short

  of levitating.

  "Come on, Zancresta," he taunted the sorcerer, "trot

  out anything you can think of, bring forth all your nasti-

  ness! I've got a song for every one of 'em, and when

  you're finished"—he was already humming silently the last

  song he planned to sing this day—"when you're finished,

  Jalwar-Zancresta, I've got a final riff for you."

  The ferret pursed his lips and shook his head sadiy.

  "You poor, simple, unwilling immigrant, do you think I'm

  so easily beaten? I know a hundred powerful conjurations

  to throw at you, remember a thousand curses. But you are

  correct. I know that your music could counter them."

  Something was wrong, Jon-Tom thought. Zancresta ought

  to have been begging for mercy. Instead, he sounded as

  confident as ever.

  "Your music is strong, spellsinger, but you are feeble

  here." He tapped his head. "You see, as I said, I came

  prepared to deal with anything." He looked to his right.

/>   "Charrok, I need you now,"

  From behind a partly vacant shelf, a new shape appeared.

  Jon-Tom braced himself for anything, his fingers ready on

  the duar, his mind full of countering songs. The figure that

  emerged did not inspire any fear in him, however. In fact,

  it was singularly unimpressive.

  The mockingbird stood barely three feet tall, shorter

  even than Corroboc. He wore an unusually plain kilt of

  black on beige and yellow, a single matching yellow vest

  devoid of adornment, and a single yellow cap.

  Zancresta gestured at Jon-Tom. "That's the one I told

  you about. Do what I paid you to do!"

  The mockingbird carefully shook out his wings, then the

  THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

  271

  rest of his feathers, put flexible wingtips on his hips and

  cocked his head sideways to eye Jon-Tom.

  "I hear tell from Zancresta here that you're the best."

  "The best what?"

  The mockingbird reached back over a shoulder. Roseroar

  and Mudge tensed, but the bird produced not an arrow or

  spear but a thin wooden box overlaid with three sets of

  strings.

  "A syreed," murmured Roseroar.

  Charrok nestled the peculiar instrument under one wing

  and flexed the strong feathers of the other. "Now we're

  going to learn who's really the best."

  "Bugger me for a mayor's mother!" Mudge gasped.

  "The bloody bastard's a spellsinger 'imself!"

  XVI

  "That," said the mockingbird with obvious pride, "is just

  what I am."

  "Now, look," said Jon-Tom even as he made sure the

  duar was resting comfortably against his ribs, "I don't

  know you and I've no reason to fight you. If you've been

  listening to what's been going on you know who's on the

  side of right here and who on the side of evil."

  "Evil-schmieval," said the mockingbird. "I'm just a

  country spellsinger. I don't go around making moral judg-

  ments. I just make music. The other I leave to solicitors

  and judges." Feathers dipped toward multiple strings.

  "Let's get to it, man."

  The voice that emerged from that feathered throat was

  as sweet and sugary as Ion-Tom's was harsh and uneven,

  and it covered a range of octaves no human could hope to

  match.

  Well then, Jon-Tom decided grimly as he saw the smile

  that had appeared on the ferret's face, it was up to him to

  respond with musical inventiveness, sharper lyrics, and

  better playing. If nothing else, he could at least match the

  mockingbird in enthusiasm and sheer volume.

 

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