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

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,

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'."

12O

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