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

“Smells mighty good,” commented a strange voice.

Roseroar rose to a sitting position. Mudge peered around

THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE

223

the cookfire while Jon-Tom put aside the duar he’d been

strumming.

Standing at the edge of their little clearing in the trees

was a five-foot-tall cuscus, a bland expression on his pale

face. He was dressed in overlapping leather strips and

braids, snakeskin boots of azure hue, and short brown

pants. A single throwing knife was slung on each hip, and

he was scratching himself under the chin with his furless,

prehensile tail. As he scratched he leaned on the short staff

he carried. Jon-Tom wondered if, like his own, the visi-

tor’s also concealed a short, deadly length of steel in the

unknobbed end. The visitor’s fur was pale beige mottled

with brown.

He was also extraordinarily ugly, a characteristic of the

species, though perhaps a female cuscus might have thought

otherwise of the newcomer. He made no threatening ges-

tures and waited patiently.

“Come on in and have a seat.” Jon-Tom extended the

invitation only after Roseroar had climbed to her feet and

Mudge had moved close to his bow.

“That is right kind of you, sir. I am Hathcar.” Jon-Tom

performed introductions all around.

Roseroar was sniffing the air, glanced accusingly down

at the visitor. “You are not alone.”

“No, large she, I am not. Did I forget to mention it? I

am sorry and will now remedy my absentmindedness.” He

put his lips together and emitted a sharp, high-pitched

whistle.

With much rustling of bushes a substantial number of