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

and the cityfolk filled the air, replacing the roar of the

tower. A glance revealed that the bottomless moat was

empty once again.

Beyond the wall, beyond the moat, the Timeful Desert

once more was as it had been. All was still. The absence

of life there despite the presence of water was now explained.

"Great magic," said Roseroar solemnly.

"Lethal magic." Mudge twitched his nose. "If we'd

been a few minutes longer we'd be out there somewhere

with our 'earts stopped and our guts full o' sand."

Jon-Tom stopped a passing fox. "Is it over? What

happens now?"

"What happens now, man," said the fox, "is that we

sleep, and we celebrate the end of another Conjunction.

Tomorrow we return to our homes." She pushed past him

and started down the stairs.

Jon-Tom resorted to questioning one of the guards. The

muskrat was barely four feet tall and wore his fur cut

fashionably short.

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219

"Please, we're strangers here." He nodded toward the

desert. "Does this happen every year?"

"Twice a year," the guard informed him, bored. "A

grand sight the first time, I suppose."

"What's it for? Why does it happen?"

The muskrat scratched under his chin. "It is said that

these are the sands of time. All time. When they have run

their course, they must be turned to run again. Who turns

them, or why, no one knows. Gods, spirits, some great

being somewhere else who is bored with the task, who

knows? I am no sorcerer or scholar, visitor." He turned to

leave.

"Let 'im go, mate/' said Mudge. "I don't care wot it's

about. Runnin' for me life always tires me out. Me for a

spot o' sleep and somethin' to drink." He started down the

stairs. Jon-Tom and Roseroar followed.

"What do yo think happens heah?" the tigress asked

him.

"I imagine it's as the guard told us. The desert is some

kind of hourglass, holding all time within it." He gazed

thoughtfully at the sky. "I wonder: if you could stop the

mechanism somehow, could you stop time?" He turned

toward the glassy tower. "I'd sure like to have a look

inside that."

"Best not to," she told him. "Yo might find something.

Yo might find your own time."

He nodded. "Anyway, we have other fish to fry."

"Ah beg yo pahdon?"

"Jalwar and Folly. If everyone else is forced to seek

sanctuary here from the Conjunction, they would also. If

they weren't caught by the sand, they should be some-

where here in the city."

"Ah declah, Jon-Tom, ah hadn't thought o' that!" She

scanned the courtyard below.

"Unless," he went on, "they were far enough ahead of

us to have already crossed the desert."

"Oh," She looked downcast, then straightened. "No

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mattah. We'll find them." She began looking for an empty

place among the crowds. Probably the few city inns were

already full to overflowing with the wealthy among the

refugees. The city gates were open and some were already

filing back out into the desert.

"Yo know, somethin' just occurred to me, Jon-Tom.

This old Jalwah, ah'm thinkin' we've been underestimatin'

him all along. Do yo suppose he deliberately led us out

heah into this desert knowin' we didn't know about this

comin' Conjunction thing, and hopin' we might get oah-

selves killed?"

Jon-Tom considered only a moment. "Roseroar, I think

that's a very good possibility, just as I think that the next

time we meet up with our ferret friend, we'd better watch

our step very carefully indeed."

XIII

Inquiries in the marketplace finally unearthed mention of

Folly and Jalwar's passing. They were indeed several days

ahead of their pursuers, and yet they had rented no riding

animals. Apparently Jalwar was not only smarter than

they'd given him credit for, he was also considerably

stronger. The merchant who provided the information did

not know which way the ferret and the girl had gone, but

Jon-Tom remembered enough of the map to guess.

The desert reaches were much more extensive to north

and south. There was no way back to Snarken except via

Redrock. Therefore their earlier suppositions still held

true. Jalwar was making for Crancularn as fast as possible.

Roseroar's search for nighttime lodging was terminated.

There was no time to waste. Jon-Tom reluctantly allowed

Mudge to scavenge for supplies, and the travelers then beat

a hasty retreat from Redrock before their unwilling vict-

ualers could awaken to the discovery of their absent

inventory.

"Of course, we'll pay for these supplies on our way

back," Jon-Tom said.

"And 'ow do you propose we do that?" Mudge labored

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under his restocked pack. The desert was oddly cool

underfoot, the sand stable and motionless once again. It

was as though the grains had never been displaced, had

never moved.

"I don't know, but we have to do something about this

repeated steali—"

"Watch it, mate."

"About this repeated foraging of yours. Why do you

insist on maintaining the euphemisms, Mudge?"

The otter grinned at him. "For appearances' sakes,

mate."

"It troubles me as well," Roseroar murmured, "but we

must make use of any means that we can to see this thing

through."

"I know, but I'll feel better about it if we can pay for

what we've 'borrowed' on our way back."

Mudge sighed, shook his head resignedly. " 'Umans,"

he muttered.

Despite Jon-Tom's expectations, they did not catch up

to their quarry. They did encounter occasional groups of

nomads returning to their campsites, sometimes sharing

their camps for the night. All expressed ignorance when

asked if they had seen any travelers fitting Jalwar's or

Folly's description.

On the third day they had their first glimpse of the

foothills which lay beyond the western edge of the Timeful

Desert. On the fourth they found themselves hiking among

green grass, cool woodlands, and thick scrub. Mudge

luxuriated in the aroma and presence of running water,

while Roseroar was able to enjoy fresh meat once more.

On their first day in the forest she brought down a

monitor lizard the size of a cow with one swordthrust.

Mudge joined her in butchering the carcass and setting the

steaks to cook over a blaze of thin, white-barked logs.

"Smells mighty good," commented a strange voice.

Roseroar rose to a sitting position. Mudge peered around

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223

the cookfire while Jon-Tom put aside the duar he'd been

strumming.

Standing at the edge of their little clearing in the trees

was a five-foot-tall cuscus, a bland expression on his pale

face. He was dressed in overlapping leather strips and

braids, snakeskin boots of azure hue, and short brown

pants. A single throwing knife was slung on each hip, and

he was scratching himself under the chin with his furless,

prehensile tail. As he scratched he leaned on the short staff

he carried. Jon-Tom wondered if, like his own, the visi-

tor's also concealed a short, deadly length of steel in the

unknobbed end. The visitor's fur was pale beige mottled

with brown.

He was also extraordinarily ugly, a characteristic of the

species, though perhaps a female cuscus might have thought

otherwise of the newcomer. He made no threatening ges-

tures and waited patiently.

"Come on in and have a seat." Jon-Tom extended the