"I'm willin' enough to entertain alternative suggestions,
m'lord warbler, but you're 'ardly in shape for some straight
arguin'."
"Now, that I won't argue. We'll discuss it in the
morning."
"In the mornin', then. Night to you, mate."
The thunder woke Jon-Tom. He blinked sleepily and
looked up into a gray sky full of massive clouds. He
blinked a second time. White clouds were common
enough in this world, just as they were in his own. But not
with black stripes.
He tried to move, discovered he could not. A huge furry
arm lay half on and half off his chest while another curved
behind his head to form a warm pillow. Unfortunately, it
64
Alan Dean Foster
M
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
65
was also cutting off the circulation to his throbbing left
arm.
He tried to disengage himself. As he did so the thunder
of Roseroar's purring was broken by a coughing snarl. She
stirred, but her arms did not budge.
Another shape moved nearby. Mudge was sitting up on
the bed of leaves he'd fashioned for himself. He looked
over toward Jon-Tom as he stretched.
"Well, don't just sit there, damn it. Give me a hand
here!"
"Wot, and interrupt a charmin' domestic tableau like
that?"
"Don't try to be funny."
"Funnier than that?" He pointed at the helpless spell-
singer. "Couldn't be if I tried, mate."
Glaring at him, Jon-Tom tried again to disengage him-
self, but the weight was too much for him. It was like
trying to move a soft mountain.
"Come on, Mudge. Have a heart."
"Who, me? You know me better than that, mate." As
he spoke Roseroar moved in her sleep, rolling partly across
Jon-Tom's midsection and chest. He gasped and kicked his
legs in a frantic attempt to extricate himself. The tigress
purred thunderously atop him.
Mudge took his time getting to his feet, ambled lazily
over to eye the arrangement thoughtfully. "Our dainty lady
friend sounds 'appy enough. Best not to disturb 'er. I don't
see wot you're fussin' about. It's not like she's got a 'and
over your mouth. From where I stands it looks almost
invitin', though I can't say as 'ow I'd trade places with
you. I'd be lost under 'er."
Jon-Tom put a hand on the tigress's face and pushed.
She stirred, moved slightly, and nearly bit his fingers off.
He withdrew his hand quickly. She'd moved enough for
him to breathe again, anyway.
' 'Any signs of pursuit?''
" 'Aven't smelled or 'card a thing, mate. I think they're
still too disorganized. If they are tookin' fq_r us, you can be
sure 'tis to the south o' Malderpot and not 'ere. Still, the
sooner we're on our way, the better." He turned, began
gathering up his effects.
"Come on now, lad. No time to waste."
"That's real funny, Mudge. How am I supposed to get
her off me?"
"Wake 'er up. Belt 'er one, mate."
"No thanks. I like my head where it is. On my shoul-
ders. I don't know how'd she react to something like that
in her sleep."
Mudge's eyes twinkled. "Be more interestin' to see wot
she might do while she's awake."
There was no need to consider extreme action, however.
All the talking had done its job. Roseroar snorted once and
opened those bottomless yellow eyes.
"Well, good morning, man."
"Good morning yourself. Roseroar, I value your friend-
ship, but you're breaking my arm."
Her expression narrowed. "Suh, are you insinuatin' that
ah am too heavy?"
"No, no, nothing like that." Somewhere off in the
bushes Mudge was attending to necessary bodily functions
while trying to stifle his laughter. "Actually, I think you're
rather svelte."
"Svelte." Roseroar considered the word. "That's nice.
Ah like that. Are you saying I have a nice figure?"
"I never saw a tiger I didn't think was attractive," he
confessed, honestly enough.
She looked mildly disappointed as she rolled off him.
"What the fuzz-ball said is true. Yo ah at least half
solicitah."
Jon-Tom rolled over and tried shaking his left arm,
trying to restore the circulation at the same time as he was
dreading its return. Pins and needles flooded his nerves
and he gritted his teeth at the sensation.
66
AlaA Dean Foster
"I did study some law in my own world. It might be my
profession someday."
- "Spellsinging's better," she rumbled. "Svelte?"
"Yeah." He sat up and began pulling on his boots.
"Nice. Ah think ah like yo, man."
"I like you, too, Roseroar."
"Svelte." She considered the new word thoughtfully.
"Want to know mah word fo yo?" She was putting on her
armor, checking to make sure each catch and strap was
fastened securely. She grinned at him, showing six-inch
fangs. "Cute. Yo ah kind o' cute."
"Gee." Jon-Tom kept his voice carefully neutral as he
replied. "That's nice."
Mudge emerged from the woods, buttoning his shorts.
"Gee, I always thought you were cute, too, mate."
"How'd you like your whiskers shoved up your ass?"
Jon-Tom asked him softly.
"Calm down, mate." Somehow Mudge stifled his laugh-
ter. "Best we get goin' westward. We've given 'em the
slip for the nonce, but sooner o' later the absence o' tracks
o' mention of us south o' 'ere will hit 'im as distinctly
peculiar and they'll start 'untin' for us elsewhere."
Jon-Tom slung the duar over his shoulder and hefted his
staff. "Lead on."
Mudge bowed, his voice rich with mock servility. "As
thy exalted cuteness decrees."
* Jon-Tom tried to bash him with the staff, but the otter
was much too fast for him.
v
It took several days for them to reach the outskirts of the
Moors, a vast and, as far as anyone knew, uninhabited
land which formed the western border of the Bellwoods
and reached south all the way to the northern coast of the
GHttergeist Sea. After a day's march into the Moors'
depths, Mudge felt safe enough to angle southward for the
first time since fleeing the city.
Transportation across the ocean was going to present a
problem. No ports existed where the ocean met the south-
ern edge of the Moors, and Jon-Tom agreed with the otter
that it would be a bad idea to follow the shoreline back
eastward toward the mouth of the Tailaroam. Chenelska
would be sure to be looking for them in ports like Yarrowl.
As for the Moors themselves, they looked bleak but
hardly threatening. Jon-Tom wondered how the place had
acquired its widespread onerous reputation. Mudge could
shed little light on the mystery, explaining only that rumor
insisted anyone who went into the place never came out
again, a pleasant thought to mull over as they hiked ever
deeper into the foggy terrain.
It was a sorry land, mostly gray stone occasionally
67
68
Alan Dean Foster
stained red by iron. There were no trees, few bushes, a
little grass. The sky was a perpetual puffy, moist gray.
Fog and mist made them miserable, except for Mudge.
Nothing appeared to challenge their progress. A few mind-
less hoots and mournful howls were the only indications of
mobile inhabitants, and nothing ever came close to their
camps.
They marched onward into the heart of the Muddletup,
where none penetrated. As they moved ever deeper into
the Moors the landscape began to change, and not for the
better. The last stunted trees disappeared. Here, in a place
of eternal dampness and cloud cover, the fungi had taken
over.