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

  Then they found themselves by the city wall, followed it until they came to stone stairs leading upward. Jon-Tom let loose of Roseroar’s paw and led the way.

  Would the sand wave fill the moat? If so, what would happen afterward?

  A few others already stood watching atop the wall. They were calm and relaxed, so Jon-Tom assumed there was no danger. Everyone in the city was handling the situation too well for there to be any danger.

  One blasé guard, a tall serval wearing a high turban to protect his delicate ears, stood aside to let them pass. “Mind the vibration, visitors,” he warned them

  They reached the top and stared out over the desert. Beyond the moat, the world was turning upside down.

  There was no sign of the far mountains they had left many days ago. No sign of any landmark. Not a rock protruded from the ground. There was only the sand sea rising and rushing toward the city in a single wave two hundred feet high, roaring like a billion pans of frying bacon. Jon-Tom wanted to reach back and put his hand on the guard, to ask what was going to happen next. Since none of the other onlookers did so, he held his peace and like them, simply stood and gaped.

  The massive wave did not fall forward to smash against the puny city walls. It began to slide into the dark moat, pouring in a seemingly endless waterfall into the unbelievable excavation. The wave was endless, too. As they watched it seemed to grow even higher, climbing toward the clouds as its base disappeared into the moat.

  The thunder was all around him, and he could feel the sandstone blocks quivering underfoot. Jon-Tom turned. Across the roofs of the city, in all directions, he could see the wave. The city was surrounded by rushing sand hundreds of feet high and inestimable in volume, all of it cascading down into the depths which surrounded Redrock.

  Thirty minutes passed. The wave began to shrink. Uncountable tons of sand continued to pour into the moat, which still showed no sign of filling up. Another thirty minutes and the torrent had slowed to a trickle. A few minutes more and the last grains tumbled into the abyss.

  Beyond, the moon illuminated the skeleton of the desert. Bare rock stood revealed, as naked as the surface of the moon. Between the city and the mountains, nothing lived, nothing moved. A few hollows showed darkly in the rock, ancient depressions now emptied of sand and gravel.

  A soft murmur rose from the onlookers as they turned away from the moat and the naked desert to face the center of the city. Jon-Tom and his companions turned with them.

  In the exact center of Redrock a peculiar glassy tower stood apart from the sandstone buildings. All eyes focused on the slim spire. There was a feeling of expectation.

  He was about to give in to curiosity and ask the guard what was going to happen when he heard something rumble. The stone under his feet commenced quivering. It was a different tremor this time, as though the planet itself were in motion. The rumbling deepened, became a roaring, then a constant thunder. Something was happening deep inside the earth.

  “What is it, what’s going on?” Roseroar yelled at him. He did not reply and could not have made himself heard had he tried.

  Sudden, violent wind blew hats from heads and veils from faces. Jon-Tom’s cape stretched out straight behind him like an iridescent flag. He staggered, leaned into the unexpected hurricane as he tried to see the tower.

  The sands of the Timeful Desert erupted skyward from the open mouth of the glass pillar, climbing thousands of feet toward the moon. Reaching some predetermined height, the silica geyser started to spread out beneath the clouds. Jon-Tom instinctively turned to seek shelter, but stopped when he saw that none of the other pilgrims had moved.

  As though sliding down an invisible roof, the sand did not fall anywhere within the city walls. Instead, it spread out like a cloud, to fall as yellow rain across the desert. It continued to fall for hours as the tower blasted it into the sky. Only when the moon was well past its zenith and had begun to set again did the volume decrease and finally peter out.

  Then the geyser fell silent. The chatter of the refugees and the cityfolk filled the air, replacing the roar of the tower. A glance revealed that the bottomless moat was empty once again.

  Beyond the wall, beyond the moat, the Timeful Desert once more was as it had been. All was still. The absence of life there despite the presence of water was now explained.

  “Great magic,” said Roseroar solemnly.

  “Lethal magic.” Mudge twitched his nose. “If we’d been a few minutes longer we’d be out there somewhere with our ’earts stopped and our guts full o’ sand.”

  Jon-Tom stopped a passing fox. “Is it over? What happens now?”

  “What happens now, man,” said the fox, “is that we sleep, and we celebrate the end of another Conjunction. Tomorrow we return to our homes.” She pushed past him and started down the stairs.

  Jon-Tom resorted to questioning one of the guards. The muskrat was barely four feet tall and wore his fur cut fashionably short.

  “Please, we’re strangers here.” He nodded toward the desert. “Does this happen every year?”

  “Twice a year,” the guard informed him, bored. “A grand sight the first time, I suppose.”

  “What’s it for? Why does it happen?”

  The muskrat scratched under his chin. “It is said that these are the sands of time. All time. When they have run their course, they must be turned to run again. Who turns them, or why, no one knows. Gods, spirits, some great being somewhere else who is bored with the task, who knows? I am no sorcerer or scholar, visitor.” He turned to leave.

  “Let ’im go, mate,” said Mudge. “I don’t care wot it’s about. Runnin’ for me life always tires me out. Me for a spot o’ sleep and somethin’ to drink.” He started down the stairs. Jon-Tom and Roseroar followed.

  “What do yo think happens heah?” the tigress asked him.

  “I imagine it’s as the guard told us. The desert is some kind of hourglass, holding all time within it.” He gazed thoughtfully at the sky. “I wonder; if you could stop the mechanism somehow, could you stop time?” He turned toward the glassy tower. “I’d sure like to have a look inside that.”

  “Best not to,” she told him. “Yo might find something. Yo might find your own time.”

  He nodded. “Anyway, we have other fish to fry.”

  “Ah beg yo pahdon?”

  “Jalwar and Folly. If everyone else is forced to seek sanctuary here from the Conjunction, they would also. If they weren’t caught by the sand, they should be somewhere here in the city.”

  “Ah declah, Jon-Tom, ah hadn’t thought o’ that!” She scanned the courtyard below.

  “Unless,” he went on, “they were far enough ahead of us to have already crossed the desert.”

  “Oh.” She looked downcast, then straightened. “No mattah. We’ll find them.” She began looking for an empty place among the crowds. Probably the few city inns were already full to overflowing with the wealthy among the refugees. The city gates were open and some were already filing back out into the desert.

  “Yo know, somethin’ just occurred to me, Jon-Tom. This old Jalwah, ah’m thinkin’ we’ve been underestimatin’ him all along. Do yo suppose he deliberately led us out heah into this desert knowin’ we didn’t know about this comin’ Conjunction thing, and hopin’ we might get oah-selves killed?”

  Jon-Tom considered only a moment. “Roseroar, I think that’s a very good possibility, just as I think that the next time we meet up with our ferret friend, we’d better watch our step very carefully indeed.”

  XIII

  INQUIRIES IN THE MARKETPLACE finally unearthed mention of Folly and Jalwar’s passing. They were indeed several days ahead of their pursuers, and yet they had rented no riding animals. Apparently Jalwar was not only smarter than they’d given him credit for, he was also considerably stronger. The merchant who provided the information did not know which way the ferret and the girl had gone, but Jon-Tom remembered enough of the map to guess.

  The desert reaches were muc
h more extensive to north and south. There was no way back to Snarken except via Redrock. Therefore their earlier suppositions still held true. Jalwar was making for Crancularn as fast as possible.

  Roseroar’s search for nighttime lodging was terminated. There was no time to waste. Jon-Tom reluctantly allowed Mudge to scavenge for supplies, and the travelers then beat a hasty retreat from Redrock before their unwilling victualers could awaken to the discovery of their absent inventory.

  “Of course, we’ll pay for these supplies on our way back,” Jon-Tom said.

  “And ’ow do you propose we do that?” Mudge labored under his restocked pack. The desert was oddly cool underfoot, the sand stable and motionless once again. It was as though the grains had never been displaced, had never moved.

  “I don’t know, but we have to do something about this repeated steali—”

  “Watch it, mate.”

  “About this repeated foraging of yours. Why do you insist on maintaining the euphemisms, Mudge?”

  The otter grinned at him. “For appearances’ sakes, mate.”

  “It troubles me as well,” Roseroar murmured, “but we must make use of any means that we can to see this thing through.”

  “I know, but I’ll feel better about it if we can pay for what we’ve ‘borrowed’ on our way back.”

  Mudge sighed, shook his head resignedly. “’Umans,” he muttered.

  Despite Jon-Tom’s expectations, they did not catch up to their quarry. They did encounter occasional groups of nomads returning to their campsites, sometimes sharing their camps for the night. All expressed ignorance when asked if they had seen any travelers fitting Jalwar’s or Folly’s description.

  On the third day they had their first glimpse of the foothills which lay beyond the western edge of the Timeful Desert. On the fourth they found themselves hiking among green grass, cool woodlands, and thick scrub. Mudge luxuriated in the aroma and presence of running water, while Roseroar was able to enjoy fresh meat once more.

  On their first day in the forest she brought down a monitor lizard the size of a cow with one swordthrust. Mudge joined her in butchering the carcass and setting the steaks to cook over a blaze of thin, white-barked logs.

  “Smells mighty good,” commented a strange voice.

  Roseroar rose to a sitting position. Mudge peered around the cookfire while Jon-Tom put aside the duar he’d been strumming.

  Standing at the edge of their little clearing in the trees was a five-foot-tall cuscus, a bland expression on his pale face. He was dressed in overlapping leather strips and braids, snakeskin boots of azure hue, and short brown pants. A single throwing knife was slung on each hip, and he was scratching himself under the chin with his furless, prehensile tail. As he scratched he leaned on the short staff he carried. Jon-Tom wondered if, like his own, the visitor’s also concealed a short, deadly length of steel in the unknobbed end. The visitor’s fur was pale beige mottled with brown.

  He was also extraordinarily ugly, a characteristic of the species, though perhaps a female cuscus might have thought otherwise of the newcomer. He made no threatening gestures and waited patiently.

  “Come on in and have a seat.” Jon-Tom extended the invitation only after Roseroar had climbed to her feet and Mudge had moved close to his bow.

  “That is right kind of you, sir. I am Hathcar.” Jon-Tom performed introductions all around.

  Roseroar was sniffing the air, glanced accusingly down at the visitor. “You are not alone.”

  “No, large she, I am not. Did I forget to mention it? I am sorry and will now remedy my absentmindedness.” He put his lips together and emitted a sharp, high-pitched whistle.

  With much rustling of bushes a substantial number of creatures stepped out into clear view, forming a line behind the cuscus. They were an odd assortment, from the more familiar rats and mice to bandicoots and phalangers. There was even a nocturnal aye-aye, who wore large, dark sunglasses and carried a short, sickle-shaped weapon.

  Their clothes were on the ragged side, and their boots and sandals showed signs of much usage. Altogether not a prosperous-looking bunch, Jon-Tom decided. The presence of so many weapons was not reassuring. These were not kindly villagers out for a daily stroll.

  Still, if all they wanted was something to eat … .

  “You’re welcome to join us,” he told Hathcar. “There’s plenty for all.”

  Hathcar looked past him, to where Mudge was laboring with the cooking. His tongue licked black lips.

  “You are kind. Those of us who prefer meat haven’t made such a grand catch in many a day.” He smiled as best he could.

  Jon-Tom gestured toward Roseroar. “Yes, she’s quite the huntress.”

  “She sizes the part. Still, there is but one of her and many of us. How is it that she has been so successful and we have not?”

  “Skill is more important than numbers.” One huge paw caressed the hilt of a long sword.

  Hathcar did not seem impressed. “Sometimes that can be so, unless you are a hundred against one lizard.”

  “Sometimes,” she agreed coolly, “but not always.”

  The cuscus changed the subject. “What seek you strangers in this remote land?”

  “We’re on a mission of importance for a great and powerful wizard,” Jon-Tom told him. “We go to the village of Crancularn.”

  “Crancularn.” Hathcar looked back at his colleagues, who were hard-pressed to restrain their amusement. “That’s a fool’s errand.”

  Jon-Tom casually let his fingers stray to his staff. He’d had just about enough of this questioning, enigmatic visitor. Either they wanted something to eat or they didn’t, and double-talk wasn’t on the menu.

  “Maybe you think we look like fools,” Hathcar said. All hints of laughter fled from the gang standing behind him. Jon-Tom didn’t reply, waited for what might come.

  The cuscus’s smile returned, and he moved toward the fire. “Well, you have offered us a meal. That’s a wise decision. Certainly not one to be made by fools.” He pulled a throwing knife. “If I might try a bite? It looks well done. My compliments to the cook.” Mudge said nothing.

  Jon-Tom watched the visitor closely. Was he going to cut meat with it … or throw it? He couldn’t decide.

  Something came flying through the air toward him. He ducked and rolled, ending up on his feet holding the ramwood staff protectively in front of him. Mudge picked up his bow and notched an arrow into the string. Roseroar’s longswords flashed as they were drawn. All within a couple of seconds.

  Hathcar was careful not to raise the knife he now held. Behind him, his colleagues gripped their own weapons threateningly. But the cuscus was not glaring at Jon-Tom. His gaze was on the creature who had come flying through the air to land heavily next to the tall human.

  The mongoose was clad entirely in black. It lay on its belly, moaning. Strange marks showed on its narrow backside.

  “Faset,” Hathcar hissed, “what happened?” The mongoose rolled to look at him, yelped when its bruised pelvis made contact with the ground.

  “I happened.” Everyone turned toward the voice.

  The unicorn strolled casually into the clearing. It was gold. Not the light gold of a palomino but a pure metallic gold like the color of a coin or ring, except for white patches on its forehead and haunches. It might have risen from a vat of liquid gold except that Jon-Tom could clearly see that the color was true, down to the shortest hair.

  In its mouth it carried a small crossbow. This it dropped at Jon-Tom’s feet. Then it nodded meaningfully toward the still groaning mongoose. Jon-Tom now recognized the marks on the mongoose’s pants. They were hoofprints.

  Hathcar was beside himself as he glared furiously at the unicorn. “Who the hell are you, four-foot? And who asked you to interfere? This is none of your business.”

  The unicorn gazed at him out of lapis eyes, said coolly, “I am making it my business.” He smiled at Jon-Tom. “My name’s Drom. I was grazing back in the woods when I
heard the talk. Ordinarily I would have ignored it, as I ignored your presence.” He nodded toward the mongoose, who was trying to crawl back to its comrades while avoiding Hathcar.

  “However, I happened to chance upon this ebon worm as he was aiming his little toy at your back.” Drom raised a hoof, brought it down on the crossbow. There was a splintering sound. “The unpleasant one there,” and he nodded toward Hathcar, “was right. This was none of my business. I don’t trouble to involve myself in the affairs of you social types. But I can’t stand to see anyone backshot.” He turned his magnificent head, the thin golden goatee fluttering, and glared back at Hathcar.

  “Yo ah a true gentlemale, suh,” said Roseroar approvingly.

  “You should have stayed out of this, fool.” Hathcar moved quickly to join his gang. “Anyway, he lies. No doubt this insect,” and he kicked at the miserable Faset, “was trying to put a bolt through you. But that has nothing to do with me.”

  “You called him by name,” Jon-Tom said accusingly.

  “A casual acquaintance.” Hathcar continued to retreat. His backers muttered uneasily.

  “Glad you don’t know ’im, friend.” Mudge’s arrow followed the cuscus’s backpedaling. “I’d ’ate to think you ’ad anything to do with ’is little ambushcade.”

  “What about your invitation?” Hathcar wanted to know.

  “I think we’d rather dine alone.” Jon-Tom smiled thinly. “At least until we can sort things out.”

  “That’s not very friendly of you. It’s not polite to withdraw an invitation once extended.”

  “My back,” the mongoose blubbered. “I think my back is broken.”

  “Shut up, asshole.” Hathcar kicked him in the mouth and blood squirted. The cuscus tried to grin at the tall man. “Really, this thing has nothing to do with me.” His band was beginning to melt into the forest. “Always hanging around, looking for sympathy. Sorry our visit upset you. I understand.” Then he too was gone, swallowed by the vegetation.

  Roseroar’s ears were cocked forward. “They’re still movin’ about,” she murmured warily.