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

column of dromedaries. As they ran the sun began to rise,

bringing with it welcome light and unwelcome heat. And

all around them, the sand continued to crawl inexorably

westward.

Mounted on the backs of the camels was an irregular

assortment of robed rodents—pack rats, kangaroo rats,

field mice, and other desert dwellers of related species.

They looked to Jon-Tom like a bunch of midget bewhis-

kered bedouins. He loped alongside the lead camel, tried

to bow slightly, and nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Where are you headed in such a hurry?" The pack rat

did not reply. The camel did.

"We go to Redrock, Everyone goes now to Redrock,

man. Everyone who lives in the desert." The camel's

manner was imperious and wholly typical of his kind. He

spat a glob of foul-smelling sputum to his left, making

Jon-Tom dodge.

"Who are you people?" inquired the pack rat in the

front. There was room on the camel's back for several.

"Strangers in this land."

"That is obvious enough," commented the camel.

"Why is everyone going to Redrock?" Jon-Tom asked.

The camel glanced back up at its lead rider and shook its

head sadly. The rat spoke. "You really don't know?"

"If we did, would we be askin' you, mate?" said

Mudge.

The rat gestured with both paws, spreading his arms

wide. "It is the Conjunction. The time when the threads of

magic that bind together this land reach their apogee. The

time of the time inversion."

"What does that mean?"

The rat shrugged. "Do not ask me to explain it. I am no

magician. This I do know. If you do not reach the safety of

Redrock by the time the next moon begins to rise, you

never will." He slapped the camel on the side of its neck.

The animal turned to gaze back up at him.

"Let's have none of that, Bartim, or you will find

yourself walking. 1 am measuring my pace, as are the rest

of the brethren."

"The time is upon us!"

"No less so upon me than thee," said the camel with a

pained expression. He turned to glance back to where

Jon-Tom was beginning to fall behind. "We will see you

in Redrock, strangers, or we will drink the long drink to

your memory."

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Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

213

Panting hard in the rising light, Jon-Tom slowed to a

walk, unable to maintain the pace. On firm ground he

might have kept up, but not in the soft sand. Roseroar and

Mudge were equally winded.

"What was that all about, Jon-Tom?" asked Roseroar.

"I'm not sure. It didn't make much sense."

"Ah you not a spellsingah?"

"I know my songs, but not other magic. If Clothahump

were here ..."

"If 'is wizardship were 'ere we wouldn't be, mate."

"What do you think of their warning?"

Sand was building up around the otter's feet, and he

kicked angrily at it. "They were both scared. Wot of I

couldn't say, but scared they were. I think we'd better

listen to 'em and get a move on. Make Redrock by

nightfall, they said. If they can do it, so can we. Let's get

to it."

They began to jog, keeping up a steady pace and taking

turns in the lead. They barely paused to eat and made

lavish use of their water. The more they drank, the less

there was to carry, and if the warning was as significant as

it had seemed, they would have to drink in Redrock that

night or not drink at all.

As for the nature of the menace, that began to manifest

itself as they ran.

It was evening, and still no sign of the city, nor of the

caravan, which had far outdistanced them. The sand was

moving rapidly now, threatening to engulf their feet every

time they paused to catch their breath.

At first he thought he was sinking. A quick glance

revealed the truth. The ground behind them was rising. It

was as. if they were running inland from a beach and the

beach was pursuing, a steadily mounting tidal wave of

sand. He thought about turning and trying to scramble to

the crest of the granular wave. What stopped him was the

possibility that on the other side they might find only

another, even higher surge.

So they ran on, their lungs heaving, legs aching. Once

Mudge stumbled and they had to pull him to his feet while

the sand clutched eagerly at his legs.

When he fell a second time, he tried to wave them off. It

was as if his seemingly inexhaustible energy had finally

given out.

" 'Tis no use, lad. I can't go on anymore. Save your-

selves." He fluttered weakly with a paw.

Jon-Tom used the pause to catch his wind. "You're

right, Mudge," he finally declared. "That's the practical

thing to do. I'll always remember how nobly you died."

He turned to go on. Roseroar gave him a questioning look

but decided not to comment.

A handful of sand struck Jon-Tom on the back of the

neck. "Noble, me arse! You would've left me 'ere, wouldn't

you? Left poor old Mudge to die in the sand!"

Jon-Tom grinned, took care to conceal it from the

apoplectic otter. "Look, mate. I'm tired, too, and I'm

damned if I'm going to carry you."

The otter staggered after his companions. "I suppose you

think it's funny, don't you, you 'ypocritical, angular bastard?"

Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn't

spare the wind. "Come off it, Mudge. You know we

wouldn't have left you."

"Oh, wouldn't you, now? Suppose I 'adn't gotten up to

follow you, eh? Wot then? 'Ow do I knows you would've

come back for me?"

"It's a moot point, Mudge. You were just trying to hitch

a ride."

"I admit nothin'." The otter pushed past him, taking the

lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons.

"A strange one, yoah fuzzy little friend," Roseroar

whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to his.

"Oh, Mudge is okay. He's a lazy, lying little cheat, but

other than that he's a prince."

Roseroar considered this. "Ah believes the standards o'

yoah world must be somewhat different from mine."

214

Alan Dean Foster

"Depends on what part of my culture you come from.

Mudge, for example, would be right at home in a place

called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would

be much in demand."

Roseroar shook her head. "Those names have no meanuT

fo me."

"That's okay. They don't for a lot of my contemporaries,

either."

The sand continued to rise behind them, mounting

toward the darkening sky. At any moment the wave might

crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them, swallowing

them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of

anything except lifting his legs and setting one foot down

ahead of the other. When the angle of the dune rising in

their wake became sharper than forty-five degrees the sand

would be rushing at them so rapidly they would be hard

put to keep free of its grasp.

All around them, in both directions as far as they could

see, the desert was climbing for the stars. He could only

wonder at the cause. The Conjunction, the pack rat had

said. The moon was up now, reaching silvery tendrils

toward the panting, desperate refugees. At moonrise, the

rat told him. But when would the critical moment come?

Now, in minutes, or at midnight? How much time did they

have left?

Then Roseroar was shouting, and a cluster of hills

became visible ahead of them. As they ran on, the outlines

of the hills sharpened, grew regular and familiar: Redrock,

so named for the red sandstone of which its multistoried