The Day of the Dissonance
Alan Dean Foster
For my cousin Adam Carroll,
An idle evening’s read to sandwich in between
Business Week and Forbes.
With much affection.
Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
I
“I’M DYING,” CLOTHAHUMP WHEEZED. The wizard glanced to his left. “I’m dying and you stand there gawking like a virginal adolescent who’s just discovered that his blind date is a noted courtesan. With your kind of help I’ll never live to see my three-hundredth birthday.”
“With your kind of attitude it’s a wonder you’ve managed to live this long.” Jon-Tom was more than a little irritated at his mentor. “Listen to yourself: two weeks of nonstop griping and whining. You know what you are, turtle of a wizardly mien? You’re a damned hypochondriac.”
Clothahump’s face did not permit him much of a frown, but he studied the tall young human warily. “What is that? It sounds vaguely like a swear word. Don’t toy with me, boy, or it will go hard on you. What is it? Some magic word from your own world?”
“More like a medical word. It’s a descriptive term, not a threat. It refers to someone who thinks they’re sick all the time, when they’re not.”
“Oh, so I’m imagining that my head is fragmenting, is that what you’re saying?” Jon-Tom resisted the urge to reply, sat his six-feet-plus frame down near the pile of pillows that served the old turtle for a bed.
Not for the first time he wondered at the number of spacious rooms the old oak tree encompassed. There were more alcoves and chambers and tunnels in that single trunk than in a termite’s hive.
He had to admit, though, that despite his melodramatic moans and wails, the wizard didn’t look like himself. His plastron had lost its normal healthy luster, and the old eyes behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from the pain. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so abrupt. If Clothahump couldn’t cure himself with his own masterly potions and spells, then he was well and truly ill.
“I know what I am,” Clothahump continued, “but what of you? A fine spellsinger you’ve turned out to be.”
“I’m still learning,” Jon-Tom replied defensively. He fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic through the use of song. One might think it a dream come true for a young rock guitarist-cum-law student, save for the fact that he didn’t seem to have a great deal of control over the magic he made.
Since the onslaught of Clothahump’s pains, Jon-Tom had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and good feelings. None had produced the slightest effect with the exception of his spirited rendition of the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” That bit of spellsinging caused Clothahump to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and potions flying and cracking his glasses.
Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his hands off the duar and made no further attempts to cure the wizard.
“I didn’t really mean to imply that you’re faking it,” he added apologetically. “It’s just that I’m as frustrated as you are.”
Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of the constant pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness.
“I did the best I could,” Jon-Tom murmured.
“I know you did, my boy. I know you did. As you say, there is much yet for you to learn, many skills still to master.”
“I’m just bulling my way through. Half the time I pick the wrong song and the other half it has the wrong result. What else can I do?”
Clothahump looked up sharply. “There is one chance for me, lad. There is a medicine which can cure what ails me now. Not a spell, not a magic. A true medicine.”
Jon-Tom rose from the edge of the pile of pillows. “I think I’d better be going. I haven’t practiced yet today and I need to …”
Clothahump moaned in pain and Jon-Tom hesitated, feeling guilty. Maybe it was a genuine moan and maybe it wasn’t, but it had the intended effect.
“You must obtain this medicine for me, my boy. I can’t trust the task to anyone else. Evil forces are afoot.”
Jon-Tom sighed deeply, spoke resignedly. “Why is it whenever you want something, whether it’s help making it to the bathroom or a snack or someone to go on a dangerous journey for you, that evil forces are always afoot?”
“You ever see an evil force, boy?”
“Not in the flesh, no.”
“Evil forces always go afoot. They’re lousy fliers.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Doesn’t matter what you meant, my boy. You have to run this errand for me. That’s all it is, a little errand.”
“Last time you asked me to help you run an errand we ended up with the fate of civilization at stake.”
“Well, this time it’s only my fate that hangs in the balance.” His voice shrank to a pitiful whisper. “You wouldn’t want me to die, would you?”
“No,” Jon-Tom admitted. “I wouldn’t.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Because if I die it means the end of your chances to return to your own world. Because only I know the necessary, complicated, dangerous spell that can send you back. It is in your own interest to see that I remain alive and well.”
“I know, I know. Don’t rub it in.”
“Furthermore,” the wizard went on, pressing his advantage, “you are partly to blame for my present discomfort.”
“What!” Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. “I don’t know what the hell you’ve got, Clothahump, but I certainly didn’t give it to you.”
“My illness is compounded of many factors, not the least of which are my current awkward living conditions.”
Jon-Tom frowned and leaned on his long ramwood staff. “What are you talking about?”
“Ever since we returned from the great battle at the Jo-Troom Gate my daily life has been one unending litany of misery and frustration. All because you had to go and turn my rude but dutiful famulus Pog into a phoenix. Whereupon he promptly departed my service for the dubious pleasures his falcon ladylove could bestow on him.”
“Is it my fault you’ve had a hard time replacing him? That’s hardly a surprise, considering the reputation you got for mistreating Pog.”
“I did not mistreat Pog,” the wizard insisted. “I treated him exactly as an apprentice should be treated. It’s true that I had to discipline him from time to time. That was due to his own laziness and incompetence. All part of the learning process.” Clothahump straightened his new glasses.
“Pog spread the details of your teaching methods all over the Bellwoods. But I thought the new famulus you finally settled on was working out okay.”
“Ha! It just goes to show what can happen when you don’t read the fine print on someone’s résumé. It’s too late now. I’ve made him my assistant and am bound to him, as he is to me.”
“What’s wrong? I thought he was brilliant.”
“He can be. He can be studious, efficient, and eager to learn.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Unfortunately, he has one little problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
Clothahump’s reply was interrupted by a loud, slurred curse from the room o
ff to the left. The wizard gestured with his head toward the doorway, looked regretful.
“Go see for yourself, my boy, and understand then what a constant upset my life has become.”
Jon-Tom considered, then shrugged and headed under the arched passageway toward the next chamber, bending low to clear the sill. He was so much taller than most of the inhabitants of this world that his height was an ever-present problem.
Something shattered and there was another high-pitched curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of him as he emerged into the storeroom.
It was as spacious as Clothahump’s bedroom and the other chambers which somehow managed to coexist within the trunk of the old oak. Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.
Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the breakage was Sorbl, Clothahump’s new famulus. The young great horned owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule Clan.
He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were exquisitely bloodshot.
“Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?”
The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of the workbench.
“Shure I remember you,” he said thickly. “You … you’re that spielsunger … spoilsanger… .
“Spellsinger,” Jon-Tom said helpfully.
“Thas what I said. You’re that what I said from another world that the master brought through to hulp him against the Pleated Filk.”
“The master is not feeling well.” He put his staff aside. “And you’re not looking too hot either.”
“Hooo, me?” The owl looked indignant, walked away from the bench wavering only slightly. “I am perfectly fine, thank you.” He glanced back at the bench. “Is just that I was looking for a certain bottle.”
“What bottle?”
“Not marked, thish one.” Sorbl looked conspiratorial and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye. “Medicinal liquid. Not for his ancientness in there. My bottle,” he finished, suddenly belligerent. “Nectar.”
“Nectar? I thought owls liked mice.”
“What?” said the outraged famulus. For an instant Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents hereabouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other citizens of this world. “If I tried to take a bite out of a mouse, his relatives would come string me up. I’ll stick to small lizards and snakishes. Listen,” he continued more softly, “it’s hard working for this wizard. I need a lil’ lubrication now and then.”
“You get any more lubricated,” Jon-Tom observed distastefully, “and your brains are going to slide out your ass.”
“Nonshensh. I am in complete control of myself.” He turned back toward the bench, staggered over to the edge, and commenced a minute inspection of the surface with eyes that should have been capable of spotting an ant from a hundred yards away. At the moment, however, those huge orbs were operating at less than maximum efficiency.
Jon-Tom shook his head in disgust and returned to the wizard’s bedside.
“Well,” asked Clothahump meaningfully, “what is your opinion of my new famulus?”
“I think I see what you’re driving at. I didn’t notice any of the qualities you said he possesses. I’m pretty sure he was drunk.”
“Really?” said Clothahump dryly. “What a profound observation. We’ll make a perceptive spellsinger out of you yet. He is like that too much of the time, my boy. I am blessed with a potentially brilliant famulus, a first-rate, worthy assistant. Sadly, Sorbl is also a lush. Do you know that I have to make him take a cart into town to buy supplies because every time he tries to fly in he ends up by running head-first into a tree and the local farmers have to haul him back to me in a wagon? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is for the world’s greatest wizard?”
“I can imagine. Can’t you cure him? I’d think an anti-inebriation spell would be fairly simple and straightforward.”
“It is a vicious circle, my boy. Were I not so sick I could do so, but as it stands I cannot concentrate. Past two hundred the mind loses some of its resilience. I tried just that last week. All those methyl ethyl bethels in the spell are difficult enough to get straight when you’re at the top of your form. Sick as I was, I must have transposed an yl somewhere. Made him throw up for three days. Cured his drinking, but made him so ill the only way he could cure himself was by getting falling-down-drunk again.
“I must have that medicine, lad, so that I can function properly again. Otherwise I’m liable to try some complex spell, slip an incantation, and end up with something dangerous in my pentagram. It’s hard enough making sure that idiot in there passes me the proper powders. Once he substituted lettuce for liverwort, and I ended up with a ten-foot-tall saber-toothed rabbit. Took me two hasty retraction spells to bunny it down.”
“Why don’t you just conjure the stuff up?”
“I do not possess the necessary ingredients,” Clothahump explained patiently. “If I did, I could just take them, now, couldn’t I?”
“Beats me. I’ve seen you make chocolate out of garbage.”
“Medicine is rather more specific in its requirements. Everything must be so precise. You can make milk chocolate, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, semisweet chocolate: it’s still all chocolate. Alter the composition of a medicinal spell ever so slightly and you might end up with a deadly poison. No, it must be brought whole and ready, and you must bring it to me, my boy.” He reached out with a trembling hand. Jon-Tom moved close, sitting down again on the edge of the soft bed.
“I know I did a bad thing when I reached out into the beyond and plucked you hence from your own comfortable world, but the need was great. In the end, you vindicated my judgment, though in a fashion that could not have been foreseen.” He adjusted his glasses. “You proved yourself in spite of what everyone thought.”
“Mostly by accident.” Jon-Tom realized that the wizard was flattering him in order to break down his resistance to making the journey. At the same time he felt himself succumbing to the flattery.
“It need not be by accident any longer. Work at your new profession. Study hard, practice your skills, and heed my advice. You can be more than a man in this world. I don’t know what you might have been in your own, but here you have the potential to be a master. If you can wrestle your strengths and talent under control.”
“With your instruction, of course.”
“Why not learn from the best?” said Clothahump with typical immodesty. “In order for me to train you I need many years. One does not master the arcane arts of spellsinging in a day, a week, a year. If you do not fetch this medicine that can cure this bedamned affliction, I will not be around much longer to help you.
“I need only a small quantity. It will fit easily into a pocket of those garish trousers or that absurd purple shirt that foppish tailor Carlemot fashioned for you.”
“It’s not purple, it’s indigo,” Jon-Tom muttered, looking down to where it tucked into the pants. His iridescent green lizard-skin cape hung on a wall hook. “From what I’ve seen, this qualifies as subdued attire here.”
“Go naked if you will, but go you must.”
“All right, all right! Haven’t you made me feel guilty enough?”
“I sincerely hope so,” the wizard murmured.
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into these things.”
“You have the misfortune to be a decent person, a constant burden in any world. You suffer from knowing right from wrong.”
“No I don’t. If I knew what was right, I’d be long gone from this tree. But you did take me in, help me out, even if you did use me for your own ends. Not that I feel used. You used everyone for your own ends.”
“We saved the world
,” Clothahump demurred. “Not bad ends.”
“You’re also right about my being stuck here unless you can work the spell to send me home someday. So I suppose I have no choice but to go after this special medicine. It’s not by any chance available from the apothecary in Lynchbany?”
“I fear not.”
“What a lucky guess on my part.”
“Tch. Sarcasm in one so young is bad for the liver.” Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table that doubled as a bedside desk. He scribbled with a quill pen on a piece of paper. A moment passed, he cursed, put a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed writing.
When he finished, he rolled the paper tight, inserted it into a small metal tube which hung from a chain, and handed it to Jon-Tom.
“Here is the formula,” he said reverently. “She who is to fill it will know its meaning.”
Jon-Tom nodded, took the chain, and hung it around his neck. The tube was cool against his chest.
“That is all you need to know.”
“Except how to find this magician, or druggist, or whatever she is.”
“A store. Nothing more.” Clothahump’s reassuring tone immediately put Jon-Tom on his guard. “The Shop of the Aether and Neither. It lies in the town of Crancularn.”
“I take it this Crancularn isn’t a hop, skip, and a jump from Lynchbany?”
“Depends on your method of locomotion, but for most mortals, I would say not. It lies well to the south and west of the Bellwoods.”
Jon-Tom made a face. He’d been around enough to have picked up some knowledge of local geography. “There isn’t anything well to the southwest of here. The Bellwoods run down to the River Tailaroam which flows into …” he stopped. “Crancularn’s a village on the shore of the Glittergeist?”
Clothahump looked the other way. “Uh, not exactly, my boy. Actually it lies on the other side.”