Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance
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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
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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."
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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
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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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"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
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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!"
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"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.