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

time enough to switch to a throaty rendition of Def

Lepard's "Pyromania."

The huge, growing spear blew up in a ball of fire. The

force of it knocked Zancresta backward to the floor.

It gave Jon-Tom a moment to check on his companions.

They were unhurt, but there was plenty of blood on the

floor of the aisle. It all came from the same source, and

was sticky with green and blue feathers. A beaked skull

lay sightless in one place, a leg elsewhere, a pair of wings

on a half-empty shelf. More blood stained Roseroar's

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

269

muzzle and claws. Her swords were still sheathed and

clean. She hadn't needed to use them, having dismembered

Corroboc as neatly as Jon-Tom would have a fried chicken.

Mudge stepped forward to fire a single arrow at Zancresta.

The sorcerer raised a hand, uttered one contemptuous

word. The arrow turned rotten before it crumpled against

the ferret's hip. Meanwhile Jon-Tom wondered and wor-

ried about Folly. If only Drom had time enough to reach

her before ...!

Sensing his opponent's lapse of concentration, Zancresta

waved a hand over his head and declaimed stentoriously. A

small black cloud appeared in the air between them.

Thunder rolled ominously.

Jon-Tom barely had the presence of mind to shout the

right words from Procol Harum's "In Held I Was" and

hold up the duar in front of him in time to intercept the

single bolt of lightning that emerged from the cloud. The

instrument absorbed the bolt, though the impact sent him

stumbling. The cloud disintegrated.

Now, for the first time, there was a hint of fear in

Zancresta's eyes. Fear, but not surrender. Not yet. He

stood staring at his opponent, making no effort to draw his

torn and ragged clothes tighter about him.

"Not accident, then," he muttered as he stood there.

"Not just luck. I worried about that, but in the end gave it

little credence. Now I see that I was wrong. You think

you've won, don't you? You think you've beaten me?" He

looked up at the ladder. Snooth stood on it holding the

original container of medicine. Zancresta had been so busy

watching Jon-Tom that he hadn't seen the proprietress

switch it for the smoke bomb.

"You all think you've beaten me. Well, you haven't.

Not Zancresta, you haven't. Because you see, I came

prepared to deal with every possibility, no matter how

remote or unlikely. Yes, I even came prepared to deal with

the chance that this stripling spellsinger might possess

some small smidgen of talent."

270

Alan Dean Foster

"Go ahead and try something." Jon-Tom felt ten feet

tall. He could feel the power surging inside him, could feel

the music fighting to get out. His fingers tingled and the

duar was like a third arm. He was riding high, on the same

kind of high the stars got when they sang in front of

thousands in the big halls and arenas. He stopped just short

of levitating.

"Come on, Zancresta," he taunted the sorcerer, "trot

out anything you can think of, bring forth all your nasti-

ness! I've got a song for every one of 'em, and when

you're finished"—he was already humming silently the last

song he planned to sing this day—"when you're finished,

Jalwar-Zancresta, I've got a final riff for you."

The ferret pursed his lips and shook his head sadiy.

"You poor, simple, unwilling immigrant, do you think I'm

so easily beaten? I know a hundred powerful conjurations

to throw at you, remember a thousand curses. But you are

correct. I know that your music could counter them."

Something was wrong, Jon-Tom thought. Zancresta ought

to have been begging for mercy. Instead, he sounded as

confident as ever.

"Your music is strong, spellsinger, but you are feeble

here." He tapped his head. "You see, as I said, I came

prepared to deal with anything." He looked to his right.

"Charrok, I need you now,"

From behind a partly vacant shelf, a new shape appeared.

Jon-Tom braced himself for anything, his fingers ready on

the duar, his mind full of countering songs. The figure that

emerged did not inspire any fear in him, however. In fact,

it was singularly unimpressive.

The mockingbird stood barely three feet tall, shorter

even than Corroboc. He wore an unusually plain kilt of

black on beige and yellow, a single matching yellow vest

devoid of adornment, and a single yellow cap.

Zancresta gestured at Jon-Tom. "That's the one I told

you about. Do what I paid you to do!"

The mockingbird carefully shook out his wings, then the

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

271

rest of his feathers, put flexible wingtips on his hips and

cocked his head sideways to eye Jon-Tom.

"I hear tell from Zancresta here that you're the best."

"The best what?"

The mockingbird reached back over a shoulder. Roseroar

and Mudge tensed, but the bird produced not an arrow or

spear but a thin wooden box overlaid with three sets of

strings.

"A syreed," murmured Roseroar.

Charrok nestled the peculiar instrument under one wing

and flexed the strong feathers of the other. "Now we're

going to learn who's really the best."

"Bugger me for a mayor's mother!" Mudge gasped.

"The bloody bastard's a spellsinger 'imself!"

XVI

"That," said the mockingbird with obvious pride, "is just

what I am."

"Now, look," said Jon-Tom even as he made sure the

duar was resting comfortably against his ribs, "I don't

know you and I've no reason to fight you. If you've been

listening to what's been going on you know who's on the

side of right here and who on the side of evil."

"Evil-schmieval," said the mockingbird. "I'm just a

country spellsinger. I don't go around making moral judg-

ments. I just make music. The other I leave to solicitors

and judges." Feathers dipped toward multiple strings.

"Let's get to it, man."

The voice that emerged from that feathered throat was

as sweet and sugary as Ion-Tom's was harsh and uneven,

and it covered a range of octaves no human could hope to

match.

Well then, Jon-Tom decided grimly as he saw the smile

that had appeared on the ferret's face, it was up to him to

respond with musical inventiveness, sharper lyrics, and

better playing. If nothing else, he could at least match the

mockingbird in enthusiasm and sheer volume.

272

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

273

The mountain rattled and the shelving shook. The floor

quivered underfoot and stone powder fell from the ceiling

as the two spellsingers threw incisive phrases and devastat-

ing rhymes at each other. Charrok sang of acid tongues

and broken hearts, of mental anguish and crumbling self-

esteem. Jon-Tom countered with appropriate verses by

Queen and the Stones, by Pat Benatar and Fleetwood Mac.

Charrok's clashing chords smashed violently against Jon-

Tom's chords by the Clash. The mockingbird even resorted

to calling up the defeated warriors of the Plated Folk, and

Jon-Tom had to think fast to fight back with the pounding,

sensual New Wave of Adam Ant.

As the two singers did battle, Mudge struggled to get a

clear shot at Zancresta. The wizard had witnessed several

demonstrations of the otter's prowess with the longbow,

however, and was careful not to provide him with a decent

target.

Jon-Tom was finally forced to pause, no matter the

consequences. He was panting hard and his fingers were