“You poor, simple, unwilling immigrant, do you think I’m
so easily beaten? I know a hundred powerful conjurations
to throw at you, remember a thousand curses. But you are
correct. I know that your music could counter them.”
Something was wrong, Jon-Tom thought. Zancresta ought
to have been begging for mercy. Instead, he sounded as
confident as ever.
“Your music is strong, spellsinger, but you are feeble
here.” He tapped his head. “You see, as I said, I came
prepared to deal with anything.” He looked to his right.
“Charrok, I need you now,”
From behind a partly vacant shelf, a new shape appeared.
Jon-Tom braced himself for anything, his fingers ready on
the duar, his mind full of countering songs. The figure that
emerged did not inspire any fear in him, however. In fact,
it was singularly unimpressive.
The mockingbird stood barely three feet tall, shorter
even than Corroboc. He wore an unusually plain kilt of
black on beige and yellow, a single matching yellow vest
devoid of adornment, and a single yellow cap.
Zancresta gestured at Jon-Tom. “That’s the one I told
you about. Do what I paid you to do!”
The mockingbird carefully shook out his wings, then the
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
271
rest of his feathers, put flexible wingtips on his hips and
cocked his head sideways to eye Jon-Tom.
“I hear tell from Zancresta here that you’re the best.”
“The best what?”
The mockingbird reached back over a shoulder. Roseroar
and Mudge tensed, but the bird produced not an arrow or
spear but a thin wooden box overlaid with three sets of