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

Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had provided him with

funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach

was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a

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Alan Dean Poster

seat on the boxy contraption. It was pulled by four hand-

some horses and presided over by a couple of three-foot-

tall chimpmunks who cursed like longshoremen. They

wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage

and cartons into the rear of the stage.

Jon-Tom had the wrong notion of who was in charge,

however. As he strolled past the team of four, one of the

horses cocked an eye in his direction.

“Come on, bud, hurry it up. We haven’t got all day.”

“Sorry. The ticket agent told me you weren’t leaving for

another fifteen minutes.”

The mare snorted. “That senile bastard. I don’t know

what the world’s coming to when you can’t rely on your

local service people anymore.”

“Tell me about it,” said the stallion yoked to her.

“Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of

hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving fools with

small brains to handle business details for us.”

“Right on, Elvar,” said the stallion behind him.

The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.

“All aboard?” asked the mare second in harness. “Hold

on to your seats, then.”

The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the

luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their

breath. There was no need for drovers, since the horses

knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders

and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the