Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

onto a wide, gravelly beach formed of wave-polished

agates and jade was one of the happiest of Jon-Tom's life.

Pushing his ram wood staff into the gravel, he hung his

backpack from the knobbed end, sat down, and inhaled

deeply of the sea air. The sharp salty smell was heartbreak-

ingly familiar.

Mudge let out a whoop; threw off his bow, quiver, pack,

and clothes; and plunged recklessly into the warm surf.

Jon-Tom felt the urge to join him, but he was just too

damn tired. Roseroar sat down next to him. Together they

watched the gleeful otter porpoise gracefully through the

waves.

"I wish I had my board," Jon-Tom murmured.

"Yo what?" Roseroar looked down at him.

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"It's a flat piece of fiberglass and epoxy resin. It

floats. You stand on it and let the waves carry you toward

shore."

Roseroar considered, decided. "That sounds like fun.

Do y'all think yo could teach me?"

He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, I don't have my

board with me."

"How big a board do yo need?" Rising, she started

stripping off her armor. "Surely not biggah than this?"

"Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the

water."

"Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah'll race yo to the

beach."

He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though

somone might appear on this deserted section of shore.

What the hell, he told himself.

The clean tropical salt water washed away the last

lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar's back

wasn't as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty

of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress's muscles

shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily

through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no

time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger

was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk

of inanimate resin.

As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm

beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,

Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood

while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-

dance clung to the shore.

The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-

ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,

cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to

fill even the tigress's belly. This time Jon-Tom didn't even

twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon's flank.

Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first

time since they'd fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.

VI

As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and

yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun

was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-

thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night's rest

he'd had in weeks.

He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed

quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.

As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with

beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest

revealed the source of the disturbance.

They were not alone on the beach. A small single-

masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four

large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered

around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them

were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged

mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.

What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of

the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly

voice but a strong one.

There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he

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Alan Dean Foster

rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was

Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.

"What's happening?"

"Nothin', mate. None o' our business, wot? Let's leave

it be. I'm ready for breakfast."

"Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?"

"You do me a wrong, guv'nor. Sometimes 'tis sex,

food, and money. Then again at times 'tis—"

"Never mind," said the exasperated Jon-Tom.

"Foah against one," muttered Roseroar angrily, "and

the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant."

"We've got to do something," Jon-Tom murmured.

"Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left

and cover them from there. I'll make a frontal assault from

here. Roseroar, you..." But the tigress was already over

the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.

So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.

"Come on, Mudge!"

"Now wait a minim, mate." The otter watched Jon-

Tom follow in Roseroar's wake, waving his staff and

yelling at the top of his lungs. "Bloody fools!" He

notched an arrow into his bow and followed.

But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see

all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bear-

ing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit

to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a

concerted rush for the boat.

The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword

range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw-

ing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have

reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in

meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he

was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took

place.

Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the

exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath

the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

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an old one, distant kin to Mudge's line but thinner still.

Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So

was the black mask that ran across the face.

The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore

sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled

in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several

other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All

looked empty.

Gradually the elderly ferret's breathing slowed. He opened

his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.

"Easy, easy, friend. They're gone. We saw to that."

The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his

gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered

leather sacks.

"My stock, my goods!" He broke away from Jon-Tom,

who watched while the oldster went through each sack,

one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack

draped across his lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside.

"Gone." He shook his head sadly. "AH gone."

"Wot's all gone, senior?" Mudge prodded one of the

sacks with a boot.

The ferret didn't look up at him. "My stock, my poor

stock. I am... I was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying

my trade along the shores east of here. I was set upon by

those worthless brigands"—he nodded seaward, to where

the retreating boat had raised sail and was disappearing

toward the horizon—"who stole everything I have man-

aged to accumulate in a short, unworthy life. They kept

me and forced me to do their menial work, to cook and

clean and wash for them while they preyed upon other

unsuspecting travelers.

"They said they would let me go unharmed. Finally

they tired of me, but instead of returning me to a place of

civilization they brought me here to this empty, uninhabited