Spellsinger 03 – The Day of the Dissonance by Foster, Alan Dean

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.

“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