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

drawn wagons piled high with goods clanked and rumbled

all around them. Strange accents and aromas filled the air.

“That bit o’ business do bring one problem to mind,

mate.”

“What’s that, Mudge?”

“Wot are we goin’ to do for money? We can’t keep

tradin’ away ship’s tools.”

Jon-Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Right you are.

We’re going to have to buy supplies for the trek to

Cranculam, too. We’re going to need a lot.”

“I’ll say!” said Folly impatiently. “I need some real

clothes. I can’t walk around in this silly otherworldly stuff.

People will laugh at me. Besides”—she ran her hands over

the too-tight seat of her jeans—”it binds me most strangely.”

Mudge stepped toward her. ” ‘Ere now, luv, let me ‘ave

a looksee. Might be we could loosen this ‘ere….”

She jumped away from his outstretched fingers. “Keep

your hands to yourself, water rat, or you’re liable to lose

them.”

Mudge pursed his lips hurtfully, turned to Jon-Tom.

“Now, ‘ere’s an idea, mate. Why don’t we sell ‘er? That

were probably the best idea that ever occurred to that

rancid bag o’ feathers Corroboc. Now that she’s cleaned

THE DAY OF THK DISSONANCE

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up ‘alfway decent, she’d likely bring a nice bit o’ change.

It would solve two of our problems at once, wot?”

Despite his speed, the otter barely succeeded in ducking

under Jon-Tom’s swing. The chase shifted to a cluster of

big wooden barrels, but Jon-Tom was unable to run the

tireless otter down. He wore him out pretty good, though.

“Take it easy, mate.” Both man and otter fought to

catch their breath. Mudge looked out from behind a barrel.