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

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Alan Dean Poster

under his restocked pack. The desert was oddly cool

underfoot, the sand stable and motionless once again. It

was as though the grains had never been displaced, had

never moved.

“I don’t know, but we have to do something about this

repeated steali—”

“Watch it, mate.”

“About this repeated foraging of yours. Why do you

insist on maintaining the euphemisms, Mudge?”

The otter grinned at him. “For appearances’ sakes,

mate.”

“It troubles me as well,” Roseroar murmured, “but we

must make use of any means that we can to see this thing

through.”

“I know, but I’ll feel better about it if we can pay for

what we’ve ‘borrowed’ on our way back.”

Mudge sighed, shook his head resignedly. ” ‘Umans,”

he muttered.

Despite Jon-Tom’s expectations, they did not catch up

to their quarry. They did encounter occasional groups of

nomads returning to their campsites, sometimes sharing

their camps for the night. All expressed ignorance when

asked if they had seen any travelers fitting Jalwar’s or

Folly’s description.

On the third day they had their first glimpse of the

foothills which lay beyond the western edge of the Timeful

Desert. On the fourth they found themselves hiking among

green grass, cool woodlands, and thick scrub. Mudge

luxuriated in the aroma and presence of running water,

while Roseroar was able to enjoy fresh meat once more.

On their first day in the forest she brought down a

monitor lizard the size of a cow with one swordthrust.

Mudge joined her in butchering the carcass and setting the

steaks to cook over a blaze of thin, white-barked logs.