"I don't know how I let you talk me into these things."
"You have the misfortune to be a decent person, a
constant burden in any world. You suffer from knowing
right from wrong."
"No I don't. If I knew what was right, I'd be long gone
from this tree. But you did take me in, help me out, even
if you did use me for your own ends. Not that I feel used.
You used everyone for your own ends."
"We saved the world," Clothahump demurred. "Not
bad ends."
"You're also right about my being stuck here unless you
can work the spell to send me home someday. So 1
suppose I have no choice but to go after this special
medicine. It's not by any chance available from the apoth-
ecary in Lynchbany?"
"I fear not."
"What a lucky guess on my part."
"Teh. Sarcasm in one so young is bad for the liver."
Clothahump raised himself slowly, turned to the end table
that doubled as a bedside desk. He scribbled with a quill
pen on a piece of paper. A moment passed, he cursed, put
a refill cartridge in the quill, and resumed writing.
When he finished, he rolled the paper tight, inserted it
into a small metal tube which hung from a chain, and
handed it to Jon-Tom.
"Here is the formula," he said reverently. "She who is
to fill it will know its meaning."
10
Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom nodded, took the chain, and hung it around his
neck. The tube was cool against his chest.
"That is all you need to know."
"Except how to find this magician, or druggist, or
whatever she is."
"A store. Nothing more." Clothahump's reassuring tone
immediately put Jon-Tom on his guard. "The Shop of the
Aether and Neither. It lies in the town of Crancularn."
"I take it this Crancularn isn't a hop, skip, and a jump
from Lynchbany?"
"Depends on your method of locomotion, but for most
mortals, I would say not. It lies well to the south and west
of the Bellwoods."
Jon-Tom made a face. He'd been around enough to have
picked up some knowledge of local geography. "There
isn't anything well to the southwest of here. The Bellwoods
run down to the River Tailaroam which flows into..." he
stopped. "Cranculara's a village on the shore of the
Glittergeist?"
Clothahump looked the other way. "Uh, not exactly, my
boy. Actually it lies on the other side."
"The other side of the river?"
"Noooo. The other side of the ocean."
Jon-Tom threw up his hands in despair. "And that's the
last straw,"
"Actually, lad, it's only the first straw. There are many
more to pass before you reach Crancularn. But reach it you
must," he finished emphatically, "or I will surely perish
from the pain, and any chance you have of returning home
will perish with me."
"But I don't even know how big the Glittergeist is."
"Not all that big, as oceans go." Clothahump strove to
sound reassuring. "It can be crossed in a few weeks. All
you have to do is book passage on one of the many ships
that trade between the mouth of the Glittergeist and distant
Snarken."
"I've heard of Snarken. Big place?"
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
11
"A most magnificent city. So I have been told, never
having visited there myself. Grander than Polastrindu.
You'd find it fascinating."
"And dangerous."
"No journey is worthwhile unless it is dangerous, but
we romanticize. I do not see any reason for anticipating
trouble. You are a tourist, nothing more, embarked on a
voyage of rest, relaxation, and discovery."
"Sure. From what I've seen of this world it doesn't treat
tourists real well."
"That should not trouble an accomplished spellsinger
like you."
The wizard was interrupted by the sound of another
crash from the nearby storeroom, followed by a few
snatches of drunken song.
"You also have your ramwood staff for protection, and
you no longer are a stranger to our ways. Think of it as a
holiday, a vacation."
"Why do I have this persistent feeling you're not telling
me everything?"
"Because you are a pessimist, my boy. I do not criti-
cize. That is a healthy attitude for one embarked on a
career in magic. I am not sending you after trouble this
time. We do not go to battle powerful invaders from the
east. I am asking you only to go and fetch a handful of
powder, a little medicine. That is all. No war awaits. True,
it is a long journey, but there is no reason why it should
be an arduous one.
"You leave from here, proceed south to the banks of the
Tailaroam, book passage downstream. At its mouth where
the merchant ships dock you, board a comfortable vessel
heading for Snarken. Thence overland to Crancularn. A
short jaunt, I should imagine."
"Imagine? You mean you don't know how far it is from
Snarken to Crancularn?"
"Not very far."
"For someone who deals in exact formulas and spells,
12
Alan Dean Foster
you can be disconcertingly nonspecific at times, Clotha-
hump.''
"And you can be unnecessarily verbose," the turtle shot
back.
"Sorry. My pre-law training. Never use one word where
five will fit. Maybe I would've ended up a lawyer instead
of a heavy-metal bass player."
"You'll never know if you don't return to your own
world, which you cannot do unless ..."
"I know, I know," Jon-Tom said tiredly. "Unless 1
make the trip to this Crancularn and bring back the
medicine you need. Okay, so I'm stuck."
"I would rather know that you had undertaken this
journey with enthusiasm, willingly, out of a desire to help
one who only wishes you well."'
"So would I, but you'll settle for my going because I
haven't got any choice, won't you?"
"Yes," said Clothahump thoughtfully, "I expect that 1
will."
II
He wasn't in the best frame of mind the morning he set
off. Not that anything was keeping him occupied else-
where, he told himself sourly. He had no place in this
world and certainly no intention of setting himself up in
practice as a professional spellsinger.
For one thing, that would put him in direct competition
with Clothahump. Although the wizard thought well of
him, Jon-Tom didn't think Clothahump would take kindly
to the idea. For another, he hadn't mastered his odd
abilities to the point where he could guarantee services for
value received, and might never achieve that degree of
expertise. He preferred to regard his spellsinging as a
talent of last resort, choosing to rely instead on his staff
and his wits to keep him out of trouble.
In fact, the duar provided him with far more pleasure
when he simply played it for fun, just like his battered old
Fender guitar back home. Now he played it to ease his
mind as he walked into town, strumming a few snatches of
very unmagical Neil Diamond while wishing he had Ted
Nugent's way with strings. At the same time he had to be
careful in his selections. Diamond was innocuous enough.
13
14
Alan Dean Poster
If he tried a little Nugent—say, "Cat Scratch Fever" or
"Scream Dream"—there was no telling what he might
accidentally conjure up.
At least the weather favored his journey. It was early
spring- Deep within the Bellwoods, so named for the
bell-shaped leaves which produced a tinkling sound when
the wind blew through them, there was the smell of dew
and new blossoms on the air. Glass butterflies flew every-
where, their stained-glass wings sending shafts of brilliant
color twinkling over the ground. Peppermint bees striped