strings.
“A syreed,” murmured Roseroar.
Charrok nestled the peculiar instrument under one wing
and flexed the strong feathers of the other. “Now we’re
going to learn who’s really the best.”
“Bugger me for a mayor’s mother!” Mudge gasped.
“The bloody bastard’s a spellsinger ‘imself!”
XVI
“That,” said the mockingbird with obvious pride, “is just
what I am.”
“Now, look,” said Jon-Tom even as he made sure the
duar was resting comfortably against his ribs, “I don’t
know you and I’ve no reason to fight you. If you’ve been
listening to what’s been going on you know who’s on the
side of right here and who on the side of evil.”
“Evil-schmieval,” said the mockingbird. “I’m just a
country spellsinger. I don’t go around making moral judg-
ments. I just make music. The other I leave to solicitors
and judges.” Feathers dipped toward multiple strings.
“Let’s get to it, man.”
The voice that emerged from that feathered throat was
as sweet and sugary as Ion-Tom’s was harsh and uneven,
and it covered a range of octaves no human could hope to
match.
Well then, Jon-Tom decided grimly as he saw the smile
that had appeared on the ferret’s face, it was up to him to
respond with musical inventiveness, sharper lyrics, and
better playing. If nothing else, he could at least match the
mockingbird in enthusiasm and sheer volume.
272
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
273
The mountain rattled and the shelving shook. The floor
quivered underfoot and stone powder fell from the ceiling
as the two spellsingers threw incisive phrases and devastat-
ing rhymes at each other. Charrok sang of acid tongues