“So be it.” He leaned back in the gently swaying basket
chair. Sasheem stood nearby, cleaning his teeth with what
looked like a foot-long icepick. Jon-Tom knew if he sang
anything even slightly suggestive of rebellion or defiance,
that sharp point would go through his offending throat.
He plucked nervously at the duar, and his first words
emerged as a croak. Fresh laughter came from the crew.
Corroboc obviously enjoyed his discomfiture.
“Sorry, sir.” He cleared his throat, wishing for a glass
of water but not daring to chance the request. ‘ “This… this
particular song is by a group of minstrels who called
themselves the Eagles.”
Corroboc appeared pleased. “My cousins in flight, though
I chose to fly clanless. Strong, but weak of mind. I never
cared much for their songmaking, as their voices be high
and shrill.”
“No, no,” Jon-Tom explained. “The song is not by
eagles, but by men like myself who chose to call them-
selves that.”
“Strange choice of names. Why not call themselves the
128
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
129
Men? Well, it be of no matter. Sing, minstrel. Sing, and
lighten the hearts of my sailors and myself.”
“As you command, Captain sir,” said Jon-Tom. And he
began to sing.
The duar was no Fender guitar, but the words came
easily to him. He began with “Take It Easy.” The long
high notes rolled smoothly from his throat. He finished,
swung instantly into the next song he’d carefully chosen.
Corroboc’s eye closed and the rest of the crew started to
relax. They were enjoying the music. Jon-Tom moved on