The Day of the Dissonance: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Three)

  “Not necessarily. Not if Jalwar had a knife at her throat. Look, I admit it looks like she went with him voluntarily, but I won’t condemn her until we know for sure. She’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  Mudge spat on the ground. “Another o’ your otherworldly misconceptions.”

  “It’s not otherworldly. It’s a universal truism,” Jon-Tom argued.

  “Not in this universe it ain’t.”

  Roseroar let them argue while she assumed the lead, glancing occasionally at the ground to make sure they were still on the trail, scanning the woods for signs of ambush. For the moment she preferred to ignore both of her argumentative companions.

  From time to time Mudge would move up alongside her to dip his nose to the earth. Sometimes the footprints of their quarry would disappear under standing water or mix with the tracks of other creatures. Mudge always regained the trail.

  “Must ’ave took off right after the last o’ us fell asleep,” the otter commented that afternoon. “I guess them to be at least six hours ahead of us, probably more.”

  “We’ll catch them.” Jon-Tom was covering the ground easily with long, practiced strides.

  “Maybe that ferret weren’t so old as ’e made ’imself out to be,” Mudge suggested.

  “We’ll still catch them.”

  But the day went with no sign of girl and ferret. They let Roseroar lead them on through the darkness, until accumulating bumps and bruises forced Jon-Tom to call a halt for the night. They slept fitfully and were up again before the dawn.

  By afternoon the last trees had surrendered to scrub brush and bare rock. Ahead of them a broad, hilly plain of yellow and brown mixed with the pure white of gypsum stretched from horizon to horizon. It was high desert, and as such, the heat was not as oppressive as it might have been. It was merely dauntingly hot. The air was still and windless, and the shallow sand clearly showed the tracks of Jalwar and Folly.

  It was a good thing, because the sand did not hold their quarry’s spoor as well as damp soil, and Mudge had increasing difficulty distinguishing it from the tracks of desert dwellers as they started out across the plain.

  “I ’ope you remember that map well, mate.”

  “This is the Timeful Desert, as I remember it.”

  Mudge frowned. “I thought deserts were supposed to be timeless, not timeful.”

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t name it.” He pointed toward a low dune. “The only sure source of water is a town in the middle of the desert called Redrock. The desert’s not extensive, but it’s plenty big enough to kill us if we lose our way.”

  “That’s a comfortin’ thought to be settin’ out with.” The otter looked up at Roseroar. “Any sign o’ our friends, tall tail?”

  Roseroar’s extraordinary eyesight scanned the horizon. “Nothing but sand. Nothing moves.”

  “Can’t say as ’ow I blame it.” He kicked sand from his boots.

  By the morning of the next day the mountains had receded far behind them. Jon-Tom busied himself by searching for a suggestion of green, a hint of moisture. It seemed impossible that the land could be utterly barren.

  Even a stubby, tired cactus would have been a welcome sight.

  They saw nothing, which did not mean nothing existed in the Timeful Desert. Only that if any life did survive, it did not make itself known to the trio of travelers.

  He felt sure they would overtake Jalwar and Folly, but they did not. Not all that day nor the next.

  It was on that third day that Mudge had them halt while he knelt in the sand.

  “’Ere now, ’ave either of you two noticed this?”

  “Noticed what?” The sweat was pouring down Jon-Tom’s face, as much in frustration at finding no sign of their quarry as from the heat.

  Mudge put a paw flat on the ground. “This ’ere sand. ’Ave a close look.”

  Jon-Tom knelt and stared. At first he saw nothing. Then one grain crept from beneath Mudge’s fingers. A second, a third, moving from west to east. Mudge’s paw hadn’t moved them, nor had the wind. There was no wind.

  At the same time as loose grains were shifting from beneath the otter’s paw, a small rampart of sand was building up against the other side of his thumb. The sand was moving, without aid of wind, from east to west.

  Jon-Tom put his own hand against the hot sand, watched as the phenomenon repeated itself. All around them, the sand was shifting from east to west. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

  “’Tis bloody creepy,” the otter muttered as he rose and brushed sand from his paws.

  “Some underground disturbance,” Jon-Tom suggested. “Or something alive under the surface.” That was not a pleasant thought, and he hastened to discard it. They had no proof that anything lived in this land, anyway.

  “That’s not all.” Mudge gestured back the way they’d come. “There’s somethin’ else mighty funny. See that ’ill we passed the other day?” Jon-Tom and Mudge strained to see the distant relative of a Serengeti kopje. “’Tis lower than it were.”

  “Nothing unnatural about that, Mudge. It’s just shrinking into the distance as we walk.”

  The otter shook his head insistently. “’Tis shrinkin’ too bloomin’ fast, mate.” He shouldered his pack and resumed the march. “One more thing. Don’t it seem to either o’ you that we’re walkin’ downhill?”

  Jon-Tom didn’t try to hide his confusion. He gestured at the western horizon. “We’re on level ground. What are you talking about?”

  “I dunno.” The otter strained to put his feelings into words. “’Tis just that somethin’ don’t feel right ’ere, mate. It just don’t feel right.”

  That night the otter’s nose proved of more help than his sense of balance. They dug a hole through a dark stain in the sand and were rewarded with a trickle of surprisingly clear water. Patience enabled them to top off their water skins and relieve their major anxiety. It was decided unanimously to spend the night by the moisture seep.

  Jon-Tom felt someone shaking him awake, peered sleepily into still solid darkness. Mudge stared anxiously down at him.

  “Got somethin’ for you to ’ave a looksee at, mate.”

  “At this hour? Are you nuts?”

  “I ’ope so, mate,” the otter whispered. “I sincerely ’ope so.”

  Jon-Tom sighed and unrolled himself. As he did so he found himself spitting out sand. The full moon gleamed brightly on their campsite, to reveal packs, weapons, and Roseroar’s feet partially buried in sand.

  “The wind came up during the night, that’s all.” He found he was whispering, too, though there seemed no reason for it.

  “Feel any wind now, mate?”

  Jon-Tom wet a finger, stuck it into the air. “No. Not a breeze.”

  “Then ’ave a look at your own feet, mate.”

  Jon-Tom did so. As he stared he saw sand flowing over his toes. There was no wind at all, and now the sand was moving much faster. He drew his feet up as if the pulverized silica might bite him.

  “Look all around, lad.”

  The sand was crawling westward at an ever more rapid pace. It seemed to accelerate even as he watched. In addition to the steady movement there came the first murmurs of a dry, slithery, rasping sound as grains tumbled over one another.

  The discussion finally woke Roseroar. “What’s goin’ on heah?”

  “I don’t know,” Jon-Tom muttered, eyeing the crawling ground. “The sand is moving, and much faster now than it was yesterday. I’m not sure I want to know what’s making it move.”

  “Should we go back?” The tigress was slipping on her sandals, shaking the grains from the leather.

  “We can’t go back.” He pulled on his boots. “If we go back now, we lose Jalwar, Folly, and likely as not, Clothahump’s medicine. But I won’t force either of you to stay with me. Roseroar, are you listening to me?”

  She wasn’t. Instead, she was pointing southward. “Ah think we might get ourselves a second opinion. We have comp
any, y’all.”

  The line of camels the tigress had spotted was slightly behind them but moving in the same direction. Hastily gathering their equipment, the trio hurried to intercept the column of dromedaries. As they ran the sun began to rise, bringing with it welcome light and unwelcome heat. And all around them, the sand continued to crawl inexorably westward.

  Mounted on the backs of the camels was an irregular assortment of robed rodents—pack rats, kangaroo rats, field mice, and other desert dwellers of related species. They looked to Jon-Tom like a bunch of midget bewhiskered bedouins. He loped alongside the lead camel, tried to bow slightly, and nearly tripped over his own feet.

  “Where are you headed in such a hurry?” The pack rat did not reply. The camel did.

  “We go to Redrock. Everyone goes now to Redrock, man. Everyone who lives in the desert.” The camel’s manner was imperious and wholly typical of his kind. He spat a glob of foul-smelling sputum to his left, making Jon-Tom dodge.

  “Who are you people?” inquired the pack rat in the front. There was room on the camel’s back for several.

  “Strangers in this land.”

  “That is obvious enough,” commented the camel.

  “Why is everyone going to Redrock?” Jon-Tom asked.

  The camel glanced back up at its lead rider and shook its head sadly. The rat spoke. “You really don’t know?”

  “If we did, would we be askin’ you, mate?” said Mudge.

  The rat gestured with both paws, spreading his arms wide. “It is the Conjunction. The time when the threads of magic that bind together this land reach their apogee. The time of the time inversion.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The rat shrugged. “Do not ask me to explain it. I am no magician. This I do know. If you do not reach the safety of Redrock by the time the next moon begins to rise, you never will.” He slapped the camel on the side of its neck. The animal turned to gaze back up at him.

  “Let’s have none of that, Bartim, or you will find yourself walking. I am measuring my pace, as are the rest of the brethren.”

  “The time is upon us!”

  “No less so upon me than thee,” said the camel with a pained expression. He turned to glance back to where Jon-Tom was beginning to fall behind. “We will see you in Redrock, strangers, or we will drink the long drink to your memory.”

  Panting hard in the rising light, Jon-Tom slowed to a walk, unable to maintain the pace. On firm ground he might have kept up, but not in the soft sand. Roseroar and Mudge were equally winded.

  “What was that all about, Jon-Tom?” asked Roseroar.

  “I’m not sure. It didn’t make much sense.”

  “Ah you not a spellsingah?”

  “I know my songs, but not other magic. If Clothahump were here …”

  “If ’is wizardship were ’ere we wouldn’t be, mate.”

  “What do you think of their warning?”

  Sand was building up around the otter’s feet, and he kicked angrily at it. “They were both scared. Wot of I couldn’t say, but scared they were. I think we’d better listen to ’em and get a move on. Make Redrock by nightfall, they said. If they can do it, so can we. Let’s get to it.”

  They began to jog, keeping up a steady pace and taking turns in the lead. They barely paused to eat and made lavish use of their water. The more they drank, the less there was to carry, and if the warning was as significant as it had seemed, they would have to drink in Redrock that night or not drink at all.

  As for the nature of the menace, that began to manifest itself as they ran.

  It was evening, and still no sign of the city, nor of the caravan, which had far outdistanced them. The sand was moving rapidly now, threatening to engulf their feet every time they paused to catch their breath.

  At first he thought he was sinking. A quick glance revealed the truth. The ground behind them was rising. It was as if they were running inland from a beach and the beach was pursuing, a steadily mounting tidal wave of sand. He thought about turning and trying to scramble to the crest of the granular wave. What stopped him was the possibility that on the other side they might find only another, even higher surge.

  So they ran on, their lungs heaving, legs aching. Once Mudge stumbled and they had to pull him to his feet while the sand clutched eagerly at his legs.

  When he fell a second time, he tried to wave them off. It was as if his seemingly inexhaustible energy had finally given out.

  “’Tis no use, lad. I can’t go on anymore. Save yourselves.” He fluttered weakly with a paw.

  Jon-Tom used the pause to catch his wind. “You’re right, Mudge,” he finally declared. “That’s the practical thing to do. I’ll always remember how nobly you died.” He turned to go on. Roseroar gave him a questioning look but decided not to comment.

  A handful of sand struck Jon-Tom on the back of the neck. “Noble, me arse! You would’ve left me ’ere, wouldn’t you? Left poor old Mudge to die in the sand!”

  Jon-Tom grinned, took care to conceal it from the apoplectic otter. “Look, mate. I’m tired, too, and I’m damned if I’m going to carry you.”

  The otter staggered after his companions. “I suppose you think it’s funny, don’t you, you ’ypocritical, angular bastard?”

  Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn’t spare the wind. “Come off it, Mudge. You know we wouldn’t have left you.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t you, now? Suppose I ’adn’t gotten up to follow you, eh? Wot then? ’Ow do I knows you would’ve come back for me?”

  “It’s a moot point, Mudge. You were just trying to hitch a ride.”

  “I admit nothin’.” The otter pushed past him, taking the lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons.

  “A strange one, yoah fuzzy little friend,” Roseroar whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to his.

  “Oh, Mudge is okay. He’s a lazy, lying little cheat, but other than that he’s a prince.”

  Roseroar considered this. “Ah believes the standards o’ yoah world must be somewhat different from mine.”

  “Depends on what part of my culture you come from. Mudge, for example, would be right at home in a place called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would be much in demand.”

  Roseroar shook her head. “Those names have no meanin’ fo me.”

  “That’s okay. They don’t for a lot of my contemporaries, either.”

  The sand continued to rise behind them, mounting toward the darkening sky. At any moment the wave might crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them, swallowing them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of anything except lifting his legs and setting one foot down ahead of the other. When the angle of the dune rising in their wake became sharper than forty-five degrees the sand would be rushing at them so rapidly they would be hard put to keep free of its grasp.

  All around them, in both directions as far as they could see, the desert was climbing for the stars. He could only wonder at the cause. The Conjunction, the pack rat had said. The moon was up now, reaching silvery tendrils toward the panting, desperate refugees. At moonrise, the rat told him. But when would the critical moment come? Now, in minutes, or at midnight? How much time did they have left?

  Then Roseroar was shouting, and a cluster of hills became visible ahead of them. As they ran on, the outlines of the hills sharpened, grew regular and familiar: Redrock, so named for the red sandstone of which its multistoried towers and buildings had been constructed. In the first moonlight and the last rays of the sun the city looked as if it were on fire.

  Now they found themselves among other stragglers—some on foot, others living in free association with camels and burros. Some snapped frantic whips over the heads of dray lizards.

  Several ostrich families raced past, heavy backpacks strapped to their useless wings. They carried no passengers. Nor did the family of cougars that came loping in from the north, running on hind legs like Roseroar. Bleating and barking, honking and complai
ning, these streams of divergent life came together in pushing, shoving lines that struggled to enter the city.

  “We’re going to make it!” he shouted to his companions as they merged with the rear of the mob. He was afraid to look back lest an avalanche of brown-and-yellow particles prove him a fatal liar. His throat felt like the underside of the hood of a new Corvette after a day of drag-racing, but he didn’t dare stop for a drink until they were safely inside the city walls.

  Then the ground fell away beneath him.

  They were on a bridge, and looking down he could see through the cracks in the wood. The lumber to build it must have come from distant mountains. There was no bottom to the moat, a black ring encircling the city.

  His first thought was that Redrock had been built on a hill in the center of some ancient volcanic crater. A glance at the walls of the moat proved otherwise. They were too regular, too smooth, and too vertical to have been fashioned by hand. Something had dug the awesome ring. Who or what, he could not imagine.

  Thick smells and heavy musk filled the air around him. The bridge seemed endless, the gaps between the heavy timbers dangerously wide. If he missed a step and put a leg through, he wouldn’t fall, but he would be trampled by the anxious mass of life crowding about him.

  Once within the safety of the city walls, the panic dissipated. Lines of tall guards clad in yellow shepherded the exhausted flow of refugees into the vast courtyard beyond the gate. There were no buildings within several hundred yards of the wall and the moat just beyond. A great open space had been provided for all who sought shelter from the rising sands. How often did this phenomenon take place? The camel and the pack rat hadn’t said, but it was obviously a regular and predictable occurrence.

  “I have to see what’s going on outside,” he told Roseroar. She nodded, towering above most of the crowd.

  Tents had been set up in expectation of the flood of refugees. Jon-Tom and his companions were among the last to enter, but they had interests other than shelter.

  “This way,” the tigress told him. She took his hand and pulled him bodily through the milling, swarming crowd, a striped iceberg breasting a sea of fur. Somehow Mudge managed to keep up.