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

team, who, after all, did the real work of pulling the stage.

This would have been fine as far as Jon-Tom and the

other passengers were concerned except that the horses had

an unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped,

and while their voices were strong and clear, not a one of

them could carry a tune in a bucket. So the passengers

were compelled to suffer a series of endless, screeching

songs all the way through to Timswitty.

When one passenger had the temerity to complain, he

was invited to get out and walk. There were two other

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

19

unscheduled stops along the way as well, once when the

team got hungry and stopped to graze a lush meadow

through which the road conveniently cut, and again when

the two mares got into a heated argument about just who

boasted the daintier fetlocks.

It was dark when they finally pulled into Timswitty.

“Come on,” snapped the lead stallion, “let’s get a

move on back there. Our stable’s waiting. I know you’re

all stuck with only two legs, but that’s no reason for

loafing.”

“Really!” One of the outraged travelers was an elegantly

attired vixen. Gold chains twined through her tail, and her

elaborate hat was badly askew over her ears from the

jouncing the stage had undergone. “I have never been

treated so rudely in my life! I assure you I shall speak to

your line manager at first opportunity,”

“You’re talking to him, sister,” said the stallion. “You

got a complaint, you might as well tell me to my face.”

He looked her up and down. “Me, I think you ought to