captors.”
“You ingratiate yourself, mate. Me, I’m for some sleep.”
Jon-Tom didn’t doubt that the otter could sleep on the
bare rock. If Mudge were tossed out of a plane at twenty
thousand feet, the otter could catch twenty winks before
awakening to open his parachute. It was a talent he often
envied.
“Sleeping won’t solve our problem.”
“It’ll solve me immediate one, mate. I’m pooped.”
192
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
193
“Perhaps yoah magic will work against the enchanted
folk,” Roseroar said hopefully.
“I don’t know.” Jon-Tom tapped the wood of the duar,
was rewarded with a melodious thumping sound. The
moon was shining down into the narrow defile, illuminat-
ing the dense woods surrounding them. “I’m going to hold
off till the last possible moment to find out.”
The tigress was slipping out of her armor and using it to
make a crude pillow. “Ah don’t know.” She rested her
massive head on black and white paws. “It seems to me
that we’re already theah.”
Grelgen and the rest of the fairy council came for them
in the morning. Their principal nemesis had changed into a
flowing gown of orange chiffon. The bright pastel attire
had not softened her disposition, however.
“We’ve been considering what to do with you bums
most of the night,” she informed them brusquely.
Jon-Tom stretched, pushed at his tower back, and wished1,
he’d had the sense to use Roseroar for a cushion. He was
stiff and sore from spending the night on the hard ground.
“All I can tell you is that we’re innocent of any charges
you discussed. So what are you going to do now?”