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

his whore of a helpmate Folly.

They made rapid progress westward, but still there was

no sign of their former friends.

When they finally found themselves on the outskirts of

Crancularn itself, Jon-Tom found it hard to believe. He'd

half come to think of the town as existing only in

Clothahump's imagination. Yet there it was.

Yes, there it was, and after too many close calls with

death, after crossing the Muddletup Moors and the Glittergeist

Sea and innumerable hills and vales, he was more than a

little discouraged by the sight of it.

The setting was impressive enough: a heavily forested

slope that climbed the flank of a slowly smoking volcano.

The town itself, however, was about as awe-inspiring as

dirty, homey Lynchbany. Tumble-down shacks and ram-

shackle two-and three-story buildings of wood and mud

crowded close to one another as if fearful of encountering the

sunlight. A dirty fog clung to the streets and the angular,

slate-roofed structures. As they headed toward the town, a

familiar odor made his nostrils contract: the thick musk of

the unwashed of many species mixed with the stink of an

open sewer system. His initial excitement was rapidly

fading.

Massive oaks and sycamores grew within the town

itself, providing more shade where none was required and

sometimes even shouldering buildings aside. Jon-Tom was

about to ask Drom if perhaps they might have come to the

wrong place when the unicorn reared back on its hind

hooves and nearly dumped him and Mudge to the ground.

Roseroar snarled as she assumed a defensive posture.

Coming straight at them, belching smoke and bellowing

raggedly, was a three-footed demon. A rabbit rode the

demon's back. This individual wore a wide-brimmed felt

hat; a long-sleeved shirt of muslin, open halfway; and a

short mauve skirt similar to the kilts favored by the

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

249

intelligent arboreals of this world. His enormous feet were

unshod.

The demon slowed as it approached. Jon-Tom drew in a

deep breath as it stopped in front of him and hastened to

reassure his companions. "It's all right. It can't harm

you."

"How do yo know, Jon-Tom?" Roseroar kept her hands

on her sword hilts.

"Because I know what it is. It's a Honda ATC Offroad

Three-wheeler." He admired the red-painted demon. "Au-

tomatic too. I didn't know Honda made an ATC with

automatic."

"Funny name for a demon," Mudge was muttering.

"Hiya," said the rabbit cheerfully, revving the engine.

"Can I help you folks?"

"You sure can." Jon-Tom pointed at the ATC. "Where'd

you get that?"

The rider raced the motor and Drom shied away. "From

the Shop of the Aether and Neither. Where else?"

Jon-Tom felt a burst of excitement. Maybe Clothahump

was right. The inexplicable presence of the ATC in this

world was proof enough that powerful magic was at work

here.

"That's where we want to go."

"Figures," said the rabbit. "Nice of you to drop in. We

don't get a lot of visitors here in Crancularn. For some

reason, travelers avoid us."

"Might be your wonderful reputation," Mudge told

him.

The rabbit eyed them appraisingly. "Strangers. Don't

know if Snooth will serve you. She don't get much

business from outsiders." He shrugged. "Ain't none of my

business, your business."

"Who's Snooth?" Jon-Tom asked him.

"The proprietress. Of the Shop of the Aether and

Neither." He looked back over his shoulder, pointed. "Go

through town and stay on the north trail that winds around

25O

Alan Dean Poster

the base of the mountain. Snooth's place is around the side

a ways." He turned back to inspect them a last time.

"You're a weird-looking bunch. I don't know what

you've come to buy, but you'll need all the luck you can

muster to pry anything out of Snooth's stock. And no, you

can't have one of my feet to help you." He put the

all-terrain vehicle in gear and roared off into the woods,

the ATC popping and growling.

"I still say it were a demon," Mudge muttered.

"No demon, just a machine. From my world."

"Ah'd dislike being a resident o' yoah world, then, Jon-

Tom." Roseroar made a face. "Such noise. And that

smell!"

It had to have been conjured, Jon-Tom knew. Conjured

by a magic even more powerful than Clothahump's. His

heart raced. If this Snooth could bring something as solid

as the ATC into this world, something lifted from a

dealership in Kyoto or L.A. or Toronto, then perhaps she

could also send things back to such places.

Things like himself.

He didn't dare dwell on that possibility as they made

their way through town. For the most part, the busy, bored

citizenry ignored them. Many of them were using or

playing with otherworldly devices. Jon-Tom began to have

second thoughts about his chances of being sent home.

Maybe this Snooth was no sorceress but just some local

shopkeeper who happened to have stumbled onto some

kind of one-way transdimensional gate or something.

Mudge pointed out a traveling minstrel. The diminutive

musical mouse was plinking out a very respectable polka

not on a duar or handlebar lyre or bark flute but on a

Casiotone 8500 electronic keyboard. Jon-Tom wondered

what the mouse was using for batteries.

Not all the devices in use were recognizably from his

own world. The sign over a fishmonger's stall was a

rotating globe of red and white lambent light that spelled

out the shop's name and alternated it with that of the

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

251

owner. There appeared to be nothing supporting the globe.

As they stared, the globe twisted into the shape of a fish,

then into the outlines of females of various species in

provocative poses. Sex sells, Jon-Tom reminded himself.

Even fish. He walked over to stand directly underneath the

globe. There was no source of support or power, much less

a visible explanation for its photonic malleability. One

thing he was sure of: it hadn't come from his own world.

Neither had the device they saw an old mandrill using to

cut wood. It had a handle similar to that of a normal metal

saw, but instead of a length of serrated steel the handle was

attached to a shiny bar no more than a quarter-inch in

diameter. The baboon would hitch up his gloves, choose a

piece of wood, put both hands on the handle and touch the

thin bar to the log. It would cut through like butter.

There were other worlds, then, and this Snooth appar-

ently had access to goods from many of them. As they

made their way through the town, he thought back to his

companion's reaction to the ATC. To someone unfamiliar

with internal combustion devices on a world where magic

held sway, it certainly must have looked and sounded like

a demon. Crancularn was full of such alien machines. No

wonder it had acquired an unwholesome reputation.

But the townsfolk themselves were open and friendly

enough. In that they were no different from the inhabitants

of the other cities and villages Jon-Tom had visited. As for

their blase" acceptance of otherworldly devices, there was

nothing very extraordinary about that. People, no matter

their shape or size or species, were infinitely adaptable.

Only a hundred years ago in his own world, a hand-held

television or calculator watch would have seemed like

magic even to sophisticated citizens, who nonetheless