present problem.
Something shattered and there was another high-pitched
curse. He held his ramwood staff protectively in front of
him as he emerged into the storeroom.
It was as spacious as Clothahump's bedroom and the
other chambers which somehow managed to coexist within
the trunk of the old oak. Pots, tins, crates, and beakers full
of noisome brews were carefully arranged on shelves and
workbenches. Several bottles lay in pieces on the floor.
Standing, or rather weaving, in the midst of the break-
age was Sorbl, Clothahump's new famulus. The young
great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He
wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule
Clan.
He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on
his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible
wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were
exquisitely bloodshot.
"Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?"
The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his
feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of
'the workbench.
6
Alan Dean Foster
"Shure I remember you," he said thickly. "You... you're
that spielsunger... spoilsanger. ..."
"Spellsinger," Jon-Tom said helpfully.
"Thas what I said. You're that what I said from another
world that the master brought through to hulp him against
the Pleated Filk."
"The master is not feeling well." He put his staff aside.
"And you're not looking too hot either."
"Hooo, me?" The owl looked indignant, walked away
from the bench wavering only slightly. "I am perfectly
fine, thank you." He glanced back at the bench. "Is just
that I was looking for a certain bottle."
"What bottle?"
"Not marked, thish one." Sorbl looked conspiratorial
and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye.
"Medicinal liquid. Not for his ancientness in there. My
bottle," he finished, suddenly belligerent. "Nectar."
"Nectar? I thought owls liked mice."
"What?" said the outraged famulus. For an instant
Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents here-
abouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other
citizens of this world. "If I tried to take a bite out of a
mouse, his relatives would come string me up. I'll stick to
small lizards and snakishes. Listen," he continued more
softly, "it's hard working for this wizard. I need a lil'
lubrication now and then."
"You get any more lubricated," Jon-Tom observed
distastefully, "and your brains are going to slide out your
ass."
"Nonshensh. I am in complete control of myself." He
turned back toward the bench, staggered over to the edge,
and commenced a minute inspection of the surface with
eyes that should have been capable of spotting an ant from
a hundred yards away. At the moment, however, those
huge orbs were operating at less than maximum efficiency.
Jon-Tom shook his head in disgust and returned to the
wizard's bedside.
THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE 7
"Well," asked Clothahump meaningfully, "what is your
opinion of my new famulus?"
"I think I see what you're driving at. I didn't notice any
of the qualities you said he possesses. I'm pretty sure he
was drunk."
"Really?" said Clothahump dryly. "What a profound
observation. We'll make a perceptive spellsinger out of
you yet. He is like that too much of the time, my boy. I am
blessed with a potentially brilliant famulus, a first-rate,
worthy assistant. Sadly, Sorbl is also a lush. Do you know
that I have to make him take a cart into town to buy
supplies because every time he tries to fly in he ends up by
running head-first into a tree and the local farmers have to
haul him back to me in a wagon? Do you have any idea
how embarrassing that is for the world's greatest wizard?"
"I can imagine. Can't you cure him? I'd think an
anti-inebriation spell would be fairly simple and straight-
forward."
"It is a vicious circle, my boy. Were I not so sick I
could do so, but as it stands I cannot concentrate. Past two
hundred the mind loses some of its resilience. I tried just
that last week. All those methyl ethyl bethels in the spell
are difficult enough to get straight when you're at the top
of your form. Sick as I was, I must have transposed an -yl
somewhere. Made him throw up for three days. Cured his
drinking, but made him so ill the only way he could cure
himself was by getting falling-down-drunk again.
"I must have that medicine, lad, so that I can function
properly again. Otherwise I'm liable to try some complex
spell, slip an incantation, and end up with something
dangerous in my pentagram. It's hard enough making sure
that idiot in there passes me the proper powders. Once he
substituted lettuce for liverwort, and I ended up with a
ten-foot-tall saber-toothed rabbit. Took me two hasty re-
traction spells to bunny it down."
"Why don't you just conjure the stuff up?"
"I do not possess the necessary ingredients," Clothahump
8
Alan Dean Foster
explained patiently. "If I did, I could just take them, now,
couldn't I?"
"Beats me. I've seen you make chocolate out of garbage."
"Medicine is rather more specific in its requirements.
Everything must be so precise. You can make milk choco-
late, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, semisweet
chocolate: it's still all chocolate. Alter the composition of
a medicinal spell ever so slightly and you might end up
with a deadly poison. No, it must be brought whole and
ready, and you must bring it to me, my boy." He reached
out with a trembling hand. Jon-Tom moved close, sitting
down again on the edge of the soft bed.
"I know I did a bad thing when I reached out into the
beyond and plucked you hence from your own comfortable
world, but the need was great. In the end, you vindicated
my judgment, though in a fashion that could not have been
foreseen." He adjusted his glasses. "You proved yourself
in spite of what everyone thought."
"Mostly by accident." Jon-Tom realized that the wizard
was flattering him in order to break down his resistance to
making the journey. At the same time he felt himself
succumbing to the flattery.
"It need not be by accident any longer. Work at your
new profession. Study hard, practice your skills, and heed
my advice. You can be more than a man in this world. I
don't know what you might have been in your own, but
here you have the potential to be a master. // you can
wrestle your strengths and talent under control."
"With your instruction, of course."
"Why not learn from the best?" said Clothahump with
typical immodesty. "In order for me to train you I need
many years. One does not master the arcane arts of
spellsinging in a day, a week, a year. If you do not fetch
this medicine that can cure this bedamned affliction, I will
not be around much longer to help you.
"I need only a small quantity. It will fit easily into a
THE DAY OF THE DISSOJVAWCE 9
pocket of those garish trousers or that absurd purple shirt
that foppish tailor Carlemot fashioned for you."
"It's not purple, it's indigo," Jon-Tom muttered, looking
down to where it tucked into the pants. His iridescent
green lizard-skin cape hung on a wall hook. "From what
I've seen, this qualifies as subdued attire here."
"Go naked if you will, but go you must."
"All right, all right! Haven't you made me feel guilty
enough?''
"I sincerely hope so," the wizard murmured.