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

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?”