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

numb and bloody from nonstop strumming. Worse, his

throat stung like cracked suede and he feared creeping

hoarseness.

But the arduous duel had taken its toll on his opponent

as well. Charrok no longer fluffed out his feathers proudly

between songs, nor did he appear quite as confident as he

had when the battle had begun.

At which point Jon-Tom thought to try another line of

attack entirely.

"That last tune, the one about the drunken elephant with

the knife? That was pretty sharp. You got some good riffs

in there. I couldn't do that."

"Sometimes," Charrok croaked, "it's harder with fin-

gers than with feathers." He held up his right wing and

wiggled the flexible tips for emphasis. "You're not doing

too badly yourself, though. What was that bit about dirty

deeds done dirt cheap?"

274

Alan Dean Poster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

275

"AC/DC," Jon-Tom replied tiredly. "I thought it might

conjure me up a few berserk assassins. No such luck."

"Good try, though," Charrok complimented him. "I

could almost feel the knife at my throat."

Zancresta stepped forward, careful to keep the body of

his hired instrument between himself and Mudge.

"What is this? I am not paying you to indulge in casual

conversation with this man. I am paying you to kill him!"

Charrok turned. His gaze narrowed as he stared up at

the sorceror. "You hold on a minute there, Mr. Zancresta,

sir. You hired my spellsinging, not my soul."

"Don't get existential with me, you warbling bumpkin!

You'll do as you're told!"

Charrok was unperturbed by the sorcerer's outburst.

"That's what I've been doing." He nodded toward Jon-

Tom. "This fella's mighty damn good. He might, just

might, be better than me."

"I don't know who's best and I don't care," Jon-Tom

said hastily, "but you sing like a storm and you play like a

fiend. I'd appreciate it a lot if you could show me that last

song." He strummed an empty chord on the duar. "Maybe

I've only got five fingers here, but I'd damn sure like to

give it a try."

"I don't know ... a duar only has two sets of strings and

my syreed three. Still, if you dropped a note here and

there...." He started to walk over. "Let's have a looksee."

"No fraternizing with the enemy," Zancresta snapped,

putting a restraining paw on the mockingbird's shoulder.

Charrok shook it off.

"Maybe he ain't my enemy."

"Of course I'm not," said Jon-Tom encouragingly,

moving forward himself. "A gig's a gig, but that shouldn't

come between a couple of professionals." When Charrok

was near enough, Jon-Tom put a comradely arm around

the bird's shoulders, having to bend over to do so. "This

isn't your fight, singer. Two musician-magicians of our

caliber shouldn't be trying to destroy each other. We

should be collaborating. Imagine the wizardry we could

work! This shouldn't be a duel, it should be a jam

session."

"I'd like that," said Charrok. He searched the aisle

beyond. "Where are the berries?"

"Not that kind of jam. I mean we should play together,

make music and magic together."

A hand reached out and clutched in frustration at the

mockingbird's vest. "1 won't have this!" The ferret was

jumping up and down on short legs. "I tell you, I won't

have it! I've paid you well to serve me in this matter. We

have a contract! There is too much at stake here."

"Yea, including my reputation," Charrok told him frosti-

ly. "But," he glanced up at Jon-Tom, "that can always be

settled between friends. As for your money, you can have

it back. I've decided I don't want.. ."

"Look out, mate!" Mudge yelled. The otter threw

himself forward, hit Zancresta just in time to make the

subtle knife thrust the ferret had been aiming at Jon-Tom

beneath Charrok's wing miss. The two went rolling over

together on the floor.

"Hold him, sun!" Roseroar thundered as she advanced,

ready to remove Zancresta's head from his neck as easily

as she would a stopper from a bottle.

But the ferret was scrambling to his feet, leaving a

bleeding Mudge lying on the floor. Displaying incredible

agility, the sorcerer dodged under Roseroar's wild rush and

started climbing up the nearest shelf. Boxes and cartons

came flying down at the tigress, who batted the missiles

aside impatiently as she tried to locate her quarry. Then

she was climbing after him, slowly but relentlessly.

Jon-Tom was bending over Mudge, whose paws were

clasped over the knife wound. The otter's eyes were

half-closed as he stared up at his companion.

"This is it, guv'nor. I'm on me way out. I'm dyin'. I

knew it would come someday, but 1 never thought it'd be

like this, wot? Not in some bloody store 'alfway across the

276

Alan Dean Foster

world. I was meant to die in bed, I was." The limpid

brown eyes were full of sadness and regret. "We 'ad some

good times, though. A few laughs 'ere, narrow escape

there. Cor, 'twere much to be sung of." The eyes closed,

reopened weakly.

"Sorry it 'ad to end like this, mate. If you 'ave a song

left in you to sing you might sing one for old Mudge. Sing

me a song o' gold, spellsinger. If I can't die in bed maybe

I can die under a pile o' gold. Bury me in the damn stuff

and I'll slip away 'appily."

Jon-Tom knelt alongside the limp otter, holding his head

up with one hand. "Mudge," he said quietly, "that knife

didn't go in more than half an inch, and you're not

bleeding that bad. If you want to get gold out of me you're

going to have to do better than that."

The otter fixed him with pleading eyes. "Gold? Why, I

wouldn't try to trick you into conjurin' up me some gold at

a time like this, mate. Would I?" Jon-Tom didn't reply.

Mudge moved his hands, and his eyes went wide with

surprise. "Crikey, would you 'ave a look at this! It's

'ealin' right over, it 'tis! Thanks be to your magic, mate.

I'll never forget this, guv, never!"

"I'll bet you won't," said the disgusted Jon-Tom. He

stood, and Mudge's head bounced off the floor.

"Ow! Damnit, you bloody smart-arsed, know-it-all,

over-sized, shallow-voiced son of a... !"

Jon-Tom didn't hear the rest. He'd turned to look down

the aisle. It was full of smoke from conjured lightning and

dust fallen from the ceiling. There was no sign of Zancresta

or the vengeful Roseroar. The fight had moved to another

aisle, another row of shelving. Snooth had also vanished,

which was understandable. The proprietress had retreated

to a place of safety to await the outcome of the fight,

exactly as Jon-Tom would have done had their positions

been reversed.

"Get up, Mudge," Jon-Tom said impatiently. "We've

got to help Roseroar."

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

277

The otter rose, still holding a paw over the light wound.

"That she-massif doesn't need any 'elp, mate. I'll 'elp you

look for 'er, but odds'll get you she finds that bastard

Zancresta first." He winced, inspected his knife cut.

"Ruined a good vest, 'e did."

"Wait." Jon-Tom squinted into the haze that filled the

aisle. "I think she's coming."

But it wasn't Roseroar. It moved on four legs and its

golden coat glowed even in the weak light. Clinging to the

broad back was the naked form of a young woman toasted

pink as a boiled lobster.

Drom trotted to a halt beside them. He was foaming at

the mouth and soaked with lather.