stripping off her armor. "Surely not biggah than this?"
"Now, wait a minute, Roseroar. I thought cats hated the
water."
"Not tigahs, sugah. Come on. Ah'll race yo to the
beach."
He hesitated, glanced up and down the gravel as though
somone might appear on this deserted section of shore.
What the hell, he told himself.
The clean tropical salt water washed away the last
lingering feelings of depression. Though Roseroar's back
wasn't as even as waxed fiberglass, his toes found plenty
of purchase in the thick white fur. The tigress's muscles
shifted according to his instructions as she steered easily
through the waves with powerful arms and legs. It took no
time at all to discover that surfing on the back of a tiger
was far more exhilarating than plying the waves on a hunk
of inanimate resin.
As the afternoon drew to a close, they lay on the warm
beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,
Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood
while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-
dance clung to the shore.
The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-
ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,
cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to
fill even the tigress's belly. This time Jon-Tom didn't even
twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon's flank.
Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first
time since they'd fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.
VI
As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and
yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun
was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-
thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night's rest
he'd had in weeks.
He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed
quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.
As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with
beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest
revealed the source of the disturbance.
They were not alone on the beach. A small single-
masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four
large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered
around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them
were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged
mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.
What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of
the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly
voice but a strong one.
There was a touch on his shoulder. Inhaling sharply, he
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Alan Dean Foster
rolled and reached for his short sword, then relaxed. It was
Jon-Tom, with Roseroar close behind.
"What's happening?"
"Nothin', mate. None o' our business, wot? Let's leave
it be. I'm ready for breakfast."
"Is that all you ever think of? Food, money, and sex?"
"You do me a wrong, guv'nor. Sometimes 'tis sex,
food, and money. Then again at times 'tis—"
"Never mind," said the exasperated Jon-Tom.
"Foah against one," muttered Roseroar angrily, "and
the one looks none too strong. Not very gallant."
"We've got to do something," Jon-Tom murmured.
"Mudge, you sneak around behind the trees off to the left
and cover them from there. I'll make a frontal assault from
here. Roseroar, you..." But the tigress was already over
the hill and charging down the slope on the other side.
So much for careful tactics and strategy, Jon-Tom thought.
"Come on, Mudge!"
"Now wait a minim, mate." The otter watched Jon-
Tom follow in Roseroar's wake, waving his staff and
yelling at the top of his lungs. "Bloody fools!" He
notched an arrow into his bow and followed.
But there was to be no fight. The assailants turned to see
all seven feet and five hundred pounds of white tigress bear-
ing down on them, waving twin swords and bellowing fit
to shake the leaves off the nearby trees. There was a
concerted rush for the boat.
The four paddled like fiends and were out of sword
range before she entered the water in angry pursuit, throw-
ing insults and challenges after them. Mudge might have
reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in
meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he
was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took
place.
Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the
exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath
the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
83
an old one, distant kin to Mudge's line but thinner still.
Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So
was the black mask that ran across the face.
The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore
sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled
in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several
other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All
looked empty.
Gradually the elderly ferret's breathing slowed. He opened
his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.
"Easy, easy, friend. They're gone. We saw to that."
The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his
gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered
leather sacks.
"My stock, my goods!" He broke away from Jon-Tom,
who watched while the oldster went through each sack,
one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack
draped across his lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside.
"Gone." He shook his head sadly. "AH gone."
"Wot's all gone, senior?" Mudge prodded one of the
sacks with a boot.
The ferret didn't look up at him. "My stock, my poor
stock. I am... I was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying
my trade along the shores east of here. I was set upon by
those worthless brigands"—he nodded seaward, to where
the retreating boat had raised sail and was disappearing
toward the horizon—"who stole everything I have man-
aged to accumulate in a short, unworthy life. They kept
me and forced me to do their menial work, to cook and
clean and wash for them while they preyed upon other
unsuspecting travelers.
"They said they would let me go unharmed. Finally
they tired of me, but instead of returning me to a place of
civilization they brought me here to this empty, uninhabited
shore, intending to maroon me in an unknown land where
I might starve. They stole what little I had in this world,
taunted me by leaving my stock bags, and would have
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stolen my life as well at the last moment had you not come
along, for I was refusing to be abandoned."
"Don't give us too much credit," Jon-Tom advised
him. "Our being in a position to rescue you was an
accident."
"You can say that again, mate," growled the disgusted
Mudge as he slung his bow back over his shoulder.
Jon-Tom ignored the otter. "We're glad we could help. I
don't like seeing anyone taken advantage of, especially
senior citizens."
"What?"
"Older people."
"Ah. But how can I thank you, sir? How can I show my
gratitude? I am destitute."
"Forget it." The ferret's effusiveness was making Jon-
Tom uncomfortable. "We're glad we could help."
The ferret rose, wincing and putting one hand against
his back. "I am called Jalwar. To whom do I owe my
salvation?"
"I'm Jon-Tom. I'm a spellsinger. Of sorts."
The ferret nodded gravely. "I knew at once you were