she’d bend without breakin’. They make ship’s ribs out o’
this stuff.” He glanced back at Roseroar. “Any time you’re
ready, lass.”
“Yoah sure about this?”
162
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
163
“No, I’m not, but I ain’t doin’ no good sittin’ ‘ere on
me arse talkin’ about it.”
“That ain’t the part that’s goin’ to get smashed,” she
said as she stepped away from the quivering branch.
The wortyle wood whipped upward so fast the air
vibrated in its wake. Mudge was thrown with tremendous
force into the night sky. The otter did a single flip and
described an elegant arc as he began to descend.
As it developed, his judgment was only slightly off. He
didn’t reach the roof, but neither did he smash into the side
of the building. He fell only a little short.
At first it looked as if he was going to land hard on the
cobblestones, but at the last instant he grabbed with his
right hand. Short, powerful muscles broke his fall as his
fingers locked onto the iron grating barring one window.
He hung there for a long moment, catching his breath.
Then he reached up with the other hand and pulled himself
on to the iron.
His companions stood beneath the window, staring up at
him. “Can you get in?” Jon-Tom asked softly.
Mudge responded with a snort of contempt, fiddled with
the grate. Seconds later a metallic click reached Jon-Tom
and Roseroar.
“He’s very clevah, yo friend.”
“He’s had a lot of experience with locks,” Jon-Tom
informed her dryly. Another click from above signified the
opening of the window.
They waited below, feeling exposed standing there on