allow him the privilege of begging for his help."
"Clothahump would never do that," Jon-Tom assured
the coati. "He'll spit in Zancresta's face before he asks his
help."
"Then I imagine he will die." The coati spoke without
emotion. "It is of no import to me. I only serve my
master."
"Yes, you're a good slave."
The coati moved closer to the wagon and slapped the
sideboard angrily. "I am no slave!"
"A slave is one who unquestioningly carries out the
orders of his master without considering the possible
consequences."
"I know the consequences of what I do." Chenelska
glowered at him, no longer friendly. "Of one consequence
I am sure. I will emerge from this little journey far better
ofif than you. You think you're smart, man? I was instruct-
ed in all the tricks a spellsinger can play. You can make
only music with your voice and not magic without your
instrument. If I choose to cut your throat, I will be safer
still.
"As for the water rat that accompanies you, it may be
that the master will free him. If he does so, I will be
waiting for him myself, to greet him as is his due." With
that, the coati left them, increasing his stride to again
assume his place at the head of the little procession.
44
Alan Dean Foster
"I'm beginnin' to wish you'd left me at Madam Lorsha's,"
the otter said later that night.
"To Tork's tender mercies?" Jon-Tom snorted. "You'd
be scattered all over Timswitty by now if I hadn't shown
up to save you, and you know it."
"Better to die after three days o' bliss than to lie in
some filthy cell in Malderpot contemplatin' a more mun-
dane way o' passin'."
"We're not dead yet. That's something."
"Is it now? You're a fine one for graspin' at straws."
"I once saw a man start a fire with nothing more than a
blade of dry grass. It kept both of us warm through a night
in high mountains."
"Well 'e ain't 'ere and neither is 'is fire."
"You give up too quickly." Jon-Tom looked ahead, to
where Chenelska strode proudly at the head of his band.
"I could put in for a writ of habeas corpus after we arrive,
but somehow I don't think it would have much sway with
this Zancresta."
"Wot's that, mate? Some kind of otherworldly magic?"
"Yes. We're going to need something like it to get out
of this with our heads in place. And let's not forget poor
Clothahump for worrying about our own skins. He's de-
pending on us."
"Aye, and see 'ow well 'is trust is placed."
They kept to back roads and trails, staying under cover
of the forest, avoiding intervening communities. Chenelska
intended to avoid unnecessary confrontations as well as
keep his not always reliable troops clear of civilization's
temptations. So they made good time and after a number
of days arrived on the outskirts of a town too small to be a
city but too large to be called a village.
A crudely fashioned but solid stone wall encircled it, in
contrast to the open city boundaries of Lynchbany and
Timswitty. It wasn't a very high wall, a fact Jon-Tom
commented on as they headed west.
A small door provided an entrance. The prisoners were
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
45
I
hustled quickly down several flights of stone stairs, past
crackling torches smelling of creosote, and thrust into a
dark, odiferous cell. An obese porcupine turned the large
key in the iron lock and departed, leaving them alone in
the near blackness.
"Still optimistic, mate?" Mudge leaned against a dank
wall and sniffed. "Cast into a dungeon without hope of
rescue to spend our last hours talkin' philosophy."
Jon-Tom was running his fingers speculatively over the
mossy walls. "Not very well masoned or mortared."
"I stand corrected," said Mudge sardonically. "Talkin'
about architecture."
"Architecture's an interesting subject, Mudge. Don't be
so quick to dismiss it. If you know how something is put
together, you might learn how to take it apart."
"That's right, guv'nor. You find us a loose stone in the
wall, take it out, and bring the whole stinkin* city down on
top o' us. Then we'll be well and truly free." He slunk eff
toward a comer.
"Not even a chamber pot in this cesspool. I 'ope they
kill us fast instead o' leavin' us to die with this smell." He
moved back to grab the bars of the cell, shouted toward the
jailer.
"Hey mate, get your fat ass over "ere!"
In no hurry, the porcupine ambled across the floor from
his chair. When he reached the bars he turned his back,
and Mudge backed hastily away from the two-foot-long
barbed quills.
"I will thank you to be a little more polite."
"Right, sure, guv. Take 'er easy. No offense. You can
imagine me state o' mind, chucked in 'ere like an old
coat."
"No, I cannot," said the jaiier. "I do my job and go
home to my family. I do not imagine your state of mind."
"Excuse me," said Jon-Tom, "but have you any idea
how long we are to be held in here?"
"Ah, no."
46
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
47
Slow. Their jailer was a little slow in all areas. It was a
characteristic of all porcupines, and this one was no
exception. That didn't mean he was a moron. Tread
slowly, Jon-Tom warned himself.
"Our possessions have become separated from us," he
went on. "Do you know what was done with them?"
Lazily, the porcupine pointed upward. "They are in the
main guard chamber, to be taken out and sent along with
you when word comes for you to be moved."
"Do you know what's going to happen to us?"
The porcupine shook his head. "No idea. None of my
business. I do my job and stay out of other people's
business, I do."
Mudge instantly divined his companion's intentions,
said sadly, "We were searched before we were sent down
here. I wonder if they found your sack o' gold, mate?"
"Sack of gold?" Evidently the porcupine wasn't all that
slow. For the first time the half-lidded eyes opened fully,
then narrowed again. "You are trying to fool me. Chenelska
would never leave a sack of gold in a place where others
could find it and steal it."
"Yeah, but wot if 'e didn't think to look for somethin'
like that?" Mudge said insinuatingly. "We just don't want
'im to get 'is 'ands on it, after 'im throwin' us down 'ere
and all. If you wanted to find out if we were lyin' or not,
all you'd 'ave to do is go look for yourself, mate. You 'ave
the keys, and we ain't 'ardly goin' to dig our way out o'
this cell while you're gone."
' 'That is true.'' The jailer started for the stairs. ' 'Do not
get any funny ideas. You cannot cut through the bars, and
there is no one else here but me."
"Oh, we ain't goin' anywhere, we ain't," Mudge insisted.
"By the way," Jon-Tom added offhandedly, "as long as
you're going upstairs, maybe you could do something for
us? This is an awfully dank and somber place. A little
music would do a lot to lighten it up. Surely working
down here day after day, the atmosphere must get pretty
depressing after a while."
"No, it does not," said the porcupine as he ascended
the stairs. "I like it dank and somber and quiet, though I
would be interested in hearing the kind of mxisic you could
play. You see, Chenelska told me you were a spellsinger."
Jon-Tom's heart sank. "Not really. I'm more of an
apprentice. I don't know enough yet to really spellsing. I
just like to make music."