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

Jon-Tom allowed as how things indeed were different, deferring to the otter’s claims while privately disagreeing. It did not matter who was right, however. All that mattered was that Mudge had agreed to join him.

  Mudge managed to steer them into a tavern in a high-class district. Having already flashed Clothahump’s gold, Jon-Tom couldn’t very well claim he didn’t have the wherewithal to pay. So he went slowly through his own meal while the otter devoured a gigantic banquet more suitable to the appetite of Madam Lorsha’s bouncer. As Mudge explained between mouthfuls, he’d burned up a lot of energy this past week and wanted to make certain he embarked on their long journey at full strength.

  Only when the otter had finished the final morsel did he lean contentedly back in his chair.

  “So you say we’re goin’ to distant Snarken, wot, and beyond, and I say there’s nothin’ beyond. Wot did ’is nibs say it would be like?”

  “He didn’t exactly say.” Jon-Tom picked at a sweet dessert. “Just the town where the store with the medicine is kept.”

  “Yeah, I ’eard you say somethin’ about a town. ’As it got a name?”

  Jon-Tom decided the bittersweet berry dessert was to his taste, finished the last of it. “Crancularn.”

  “WOT?” Mudge suddenly was sitting bolt upright, dribbling the last traces of wrinklerry jelly from his lips as he gaped at the man sitting across the table from him. A few curious diners spared him a glance, returned to their business when they saw no fighting was involved.

  Mudge wiped at his sticky whiskers and spoke more softly, eyeing Jon-Tom sideways. “Wot did you say the name o’ this dump was, guv’nor?”

  “Crancularn. I see you’ve heard of it.”

  “’Eard of it, you’re bloody well right I’ve ’eard of it. That’s a place o’ the dead, mate.”

  “I thought there wasn’t anything beyond Snarken.”

  “Not supposed to be, mate, but then, nobody knows where this Crancularn is supposed to be either, except that it moves about from time to time, like lice, and that anyone who ever gets there never comes back. ’Tis the entrance to ’ell itself, mate. Surely you don’t mean to go there.”

  “Not only do I mean to go there, I intend to make a small purchase and return safely with it. And you’re coming with me. You promised.”

  “’Ere now, mate, when I made this ’ere bargain, weren’t nothin’ said about Crancularn. I’m out.” He stepped off the chair and discovered he was straddling the far end of Jon-Tom’s ramwood staff, which had been slipped under the table earlier.

  “Sit down,” Jon-Tom ordered him. Gingerly, the otter resumed his seat. “You made a promise, Mudge. You agreed to accompany me. In a sense, you accepted the proffered fee. Where I come from an oral contract is enforceable when the details are known to both parties, and in this case the details are now known.”

  “But Crancularn, mate. Can’t this medicine be got anywheres else?”

  Jon-Tom shook his head. “I pressed Clothahump on that point repeatedly, and he never wavered. The only place it can be bought is Crancularn.” He leaned over the table, spoke almost angrily. “Look, do you think I want to go gallivanting halfway across a strange world in search of some old fart’s pills? I like Clothahump, sure, but I have my own life to live. What’s left of it. If he dies leaving me stuck here, I might as well be dead. It’s interesting enough, your world, but I want to go home, damn it! I miss Westwood on the opening night of a Steven Spielberg movie, and I miss the bookstores on Hollywood Boulevard, and the beach, and bagels at the deli, and take-out Chinese food, and—”

  “All right, mate, I believe you. Spare me your memories. So it’s a contract, is it? At least you’re learnin’ ’ow to stick up for your rights.” He smiled and tapped the staff.

  Jon-Tom was taken aback. He’d acted almost exactly the way Mudge would have if their situations had been reversed. The thought was more than a little appalling.

  “You’ll keep your end of the bargain, then?”

  “Aye.” Mudge spoke with obvious reluctance. “I gave me word, so I’m stuck with it. Well, a short life but a happy one, they say. ’Tis better than dyin’ in one’s bed. Alone, anyway.”

  “There’s no need for all this talk of dying.” Jon-Tom sipped at the mug of cold cider in front of him. “We are going to get to Crancularn, obtain the necessary medication, and return here. All we’re doing is running an errand.”

  “That’s right, mate. Just an errand.” He belched derisively, to the unconcealed disgust of the well-dressed diners nearby. “Wot a day it was for me when you tumbled into that glade where I was huntin’ so peaceful. Why couldn’t you ’ave settled on some other poor bloke besides old Mudge?”

  “You were just lucky. As for your ill fortune, we don’t know yet who’s the fool in this play: you for agreeing to come with me or me for wanting you to.”

  “You singe me privates, mate,” said Mudge, looking wounded, an expression he had mastered.

  “A wonder there’s anything left to singe, after three days in that brothel. Finish up and let’s find a place to sleep. I’m bushed.”

  III

  IT TOOK SIX TRIES to finally wake Mudge. After three days of nonstop debauchery and the huge meal of the previous night, the otter had to be helped to the bathroom. He got his pants on backwards and his boots on opposite feet. Jon-Tom straightened him out and together they worked their way through Timswitty in search of transportation.

  From a nervous dealer badly in need of business they rented a low wooden wagon pulled by a single aged dray lizard, promising to drop it off at the port of Yarrowl at the mouth of the Tailaroam. From Yarrowl it should be a simple matter to book passage on a merchantman making the run across the Glittergeist to Snarken.

  They succeeded in slipping quietly out of town without catching the eye of Madam Lorsha or her hirelings and were soon heading south along the narrow trade road. Once within the forest Mudge relaxed visibly.

  “’Peers we gave the old harridan the slip, mate.”

  Jon-Tom’s eyebrows lifted. “We?”

  “Well now, guv’nor, since ’tis we who are goin’ on this little jaunt and we who are goin’ to risk our lives for the sake o’ some half-dotty ol’ wizard, I think ’tis fair enough for me to say that ’tis we who escaped the clutches of her haunches.”

  “Plural good and plural bad, is that it?” Jon-Tom chucked the reins, trying to spur the ancient lumbering reptile to greater speed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Nice of you to agree, mate,” said Mudge slyly. “So ’ow’s about lettin’ me ’ave a looksee at our money?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on our travel expenses, thanks. I need your help with several matters, Mudge, but counting coin isn’t one of them.”

  “Ah well, then.” Mudge leaned back against the hard back of the bench, put his arms behind his head, and gazed through the tinkling branches at the morning sun. “If you don’t trust me, then to ’ell with you, mate.”

  “At least if I end up there it’ll be with our money intact.”

  They stopped for lunch beneath a tree with bell leaves the size of quart jars. Mudge unpacked snake jerky and fruit juice. The appearance of the fruit juice made the otter shudder, but he was intelligent enough to know that he’d overdone his alcoholic intake just a hair the past week and that the percentage in his blood could not be raised much higher without permanent damage resulting. He poured himself a glass, wincing as he did so.

  Something glinted in the glass and he looked sharply to his right. Nothing amiss. Bell leaves making music with the morning breezes, flying lizards darting from branch to branch in pursuit of a psychedelic bee.

  Still … Carefully he set down his glass next to the wagon wheel. The dray lizard snoozed gratefully in a patch of sunlight, resting its massive head on its forelegs. Jon-Tom lay in the shade of the tree. All seemed right with the world.

  But it wasn’t.

  “Back in a sec, mate.” Mudge reached into the back of the wagon. Instead of
food and drink he grabbed for his bow and quiver. The crossbow bolt that rammed into the wood between his reaching hands gave him pause. He withdrew them slowly.

  “A wise decision,” said a voice from the trees.

  Jon-Tom sat up fast. “Who said that?”

  He found himself staring at the business ends of an assortment of pikes and spears, wielded by an unpleasant-looking assortment of furry assailants.

  “Me fault,” Mudge muttered, angry at himself. “I ’eard ’em comin’, I did, but not quite soon enough.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” said the voice which had spoken a moment before. “There are too many of us anyway, and though we are instructed to bring you in alive, it wasn’t specified in what condition.”

  Stepping through the circle of armed warmlanders was a coatimundi nearly as tall as Mudge. His natural black striping had been enhanced with brown decorations painted on muzzle and tail. One front canine was missing, and the remainder of the long, sharp teeth were stained yellow. He rested one paw on the hilt of a thick, curved dagger belted at his waist. The dagger was also stained, but not yellow.

  Jon-Tom thought rapidly. Like Mudge’s bow, his own duar and ramwood staff lay in the bed of the wagon. If he could just get to them… .Well, what if he could? As this apparent leader of their captors had said, they were badly outnumbered.

  “Right. Wot is it you want with us?” Mudge asked. “We’re just a couple of innocent travelers, poor prospects for thieves.”

  The coati shook his head and glared at them over his long snout out of bright black eyes. “I’m not interested in your worldly possessions, whatever they might be. I’ve been ordered by my master to bring you in.”

  “So Lorsha found us out anyway,” the otter muttered. He sounded wistful. “Well, them three days were almost worth dyin’ for. You should’ve been with me, mate.”

  “Well, I wasn’t, and they’re not worth dying for from my viewpoint.”

  “Calm yourselves,” said the coati. “No one’s speaking of dying here. Cooperate and give me no trouble, and I’ll give none back to you.” He squinted at Mudge. “And what’s all this chattering about someone named Lorsha?”

  Mudge came back from his memories and made a face at the coati. “You ain’t ’ere to take us back to Madam Lorsha of Timswitty?”

  “No. I come from Malderpot.”

  “Malderpot?” Jon-Tom gaped at him.

  “Big town,” Mudge informed him, “full of dour folk and little pleasure.”

  “We like it,” said a raccoon hefting a halberd.

  “No offense,” Mudge told him. “Who wants us in Malderpot?”

  “Our master Zancresta,” said the coati.

  “Who’s this Zancresta?” Jon-Tom asked him.

  A few incredulous looks showed on the faces of their captors, including the coati.

  “You mean you’ve never heard of the Master of Darkness and Manipulator of the Secret Arts?”

  Jon-Tom shook his head. “’Fraid not.”

  The coati was suddenly uncertain. “Perhaps we have made a mistake. Perhaps these are not the ones we were sent to fetch. Thile, you and Alo check their wagon.”

  Two of the band rushed to climb aboard, began going through the supplies with fine disregard for neatness. It took them only moments to find Jon-Tom’s staff and duar, which Thile held up triumphantly.

  “It’s the spellsinger, all right,” said the muskrat.

  “Keep a close watch on his instrument and he’ll do us no harm,” the coati instructed his men.

  “I mean you no harm in any case,” said Jon-Tom. “What does your Zancresta want with us?”

  “Nothin’ good. You can be certain o’ that, mate,” said Mudge.

  “So one of you, at least, has heard of our master.”

  “Aye, I’ve ’eard of ’im, though I don’t mean to flatter ’is reputation by it.” He turned to Jon-Tom. “This ’ere Zancresta chap’s the ’ead wizard not only for the town of Malderpot but for much of the northern part o’ the Bellwoods. See, each town or village ’as its own wizard or sorcerer or witch, and each o’ them claims to be better than ’is neighbor at the arts o’ magickin’.”

  “Zancresta is the best,” said the coati. “He is the master.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to argue the point with you,” said Mudge. “I ’ave no interest whatsoever in wizardry debates and functions, for all that I seem to be gettin’ repeatedly screwed by ’em.

  “Now, if it’s the spellsinger ’ere you’re come after, take ’im and let me go. I’m only a poor traveler tryin’ ’is best to make it down the windy road o’ life, and I’ve ’ad a ’ard enough time makin’ ends meet as it is without gettin’ caught up again in the world’s troubles.”

  “It may be true,” said the coati, eyeing him unflatteringly. “But I have my orders. They say I am to bring back the spellsinger known as Jon-Tom and any who travel with him. You will have the chance to plead your case before the master. Perhaps he will let you go.”

  “And if ’e don’t?”

  The coati shrugged. “That’s not my affair.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Mudge grumbled.

  Spears prodded Jon-Tom and Mudge into the back of the wagon, where they sat with their hands tied behind their backs. A couple of the coati’s henchmen took over the reins. The little procession swung back northward, slightly west of Timswitty but also in the opposite direction from Lynchbany and the River Tailaroam.

  “This Zancresta ’as a bad reputation, mate,” Mudge whispered to his companion. “Mind now, I’m not denyin’ ’is abilities. From wot I’ve ’eard ’e ain’t bad at sorcerin’, but ’e’s unscrupulous as ’ell. Cheats on ’is spells and short-changes ’is incantations, but ’e’s too powerful for anyone to go up against. I’ve ’ad no dealin’s with ’im meself, and I stay clear o’ folk from Malderpot. As I said, they ain’t much for partyin’.”

  “From what you tell me about their chief wizard, I can see why they aren’t.”

  “Right.” Mudge nodded past the drivers. “Now, ’tis clear this ’ere ringtail knows nothin’ o’ wot ’is master wants with us. That may be somethin’ we can turn to our advantage. So somehow we ’ave to get clear o’ this charmin’ bunch o’ throat-slitters before we’re brought up before Zancresta himself. If that ’appens, I ’ave this funny feelin’ that we’ll never see the shores o’ the Glittergeist or any other calm water.”

  “Don’t underestimate this one.” Jon-Tom indicated the coati, who strolled along in the lead, talking with a couple of his band. “He seems more than the usual hired thug.”

  “Fancy clothes can’t hide one’s origin,” said Mudge.

  “No harm in trying.” He raised his voice. “Hey, you, leader!”

  “Shut up,” snapped the muskrat from the driver’s bench. He showed a short sword. “Or you will eat your own tongues for breakfast and can see how your words taste then.”

  “I just want a word with your chief. Surely one as illustrious as he can spare a prisoner a few minutes of his time.”

  Evidently the coati’s ears were as sensitive as his nose, because he slowed his pace until he was walking alongside the wagon.

  “I bear you no hatred, spellsinger. What do you wish to talk about? By the way, my name is Chenelska.”

  “Don’t you have any idea what your master wants with us? What use has so great and powerful a wizard for a mere spellsinger like me?”

  Chenelska considered a moment, then glanced past Jon-Tom to Mudge. “Tell me, water rat, is this tall human as ignorant as he appears or is he making fun of me?”

  “No.” Mudge spoke with sufficient conviction to persuade the coati that he was telling the truth. “’E’s as dumb as he looks.”

  “Thanks, Mudge. Nice to know I can rely on your good opinion.”

  “Don’t mention it, mate.”

  “Can it be,” said the dumbfounded Chenelska, “that you have never heard of the rivalry between our master and the one that you ser
ve?”

  “The one I serve? You mean Clothahump? I don’t serve him. I’m not an apprentice or anything like that. He has another who serves him. We’re just friends.”

  “Indeed. Good enough friends that you undertake a long, dangerous mission on his behalf when he lies too ill to travel himself. A mission to cross the Glittergeist in search of a rare and precious medicine he requires to cure himself.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Jon-Tom said angrily.

  The coati grinned and laughed, a single sharp barking. “It seems that this Clothahump does have another who serves him. A true famulus. A fine, intelligent, hardworking apprentice who serves faithfully and well. Except when he’s been treated to a few stiff sips of good belly-warmer.”

  “Sorbl! That stupid big-eyed sot!”

  The coati nodded, still grinning. “Not that we had to work hard at it, you understand. The poor little fellow merely wanted companionship, and other servants of my master provided it, whereupon the turtle’s servant grew extremely talkative.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” Jon-Tom mumbled disconsolately.

  “It has always been a matter of great contention in this part of the world,” the coati explained, “as to who the greater wizard is. Clothahump of the tree or my master Zancresta. It didn’t bother my master when opinion was divided and drifted back and forth. But it has lately become apparent that outside the immediate environs of Malderpot, the consensus is that your Clothahump is the greater.” He moved closer to the wagon and lowered his voice so that his band could not overhear.

  “It’s true that saving the whole world is a tough act to follow. When word came of the victory over the Plated Folk at the Jo-Troom Gate, and the part your master Clothahump played in it, there was very little my master could do to counteract the great shift in public opinion, and he has been in a murderous mood ever since.”

  “As if Clothahump saved all the warmlands just to spite him,” Jon-Tom said disgustedly.

  “Be that as it may, wizards can be very touchy about such things. Zancresta dwells on evil spells and prepares toxic presents and calls down all who cross him. He has been dangerous to approach ever since this happened. The only way for him to regain his self-respect and cancel his shame is to do something to make himself again be considered the equal of the turtle of the tree. Yet he sees no way to do this. This Clothahump refuses all challenges and duels.”