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

isn’t one of them.”

“Ah well, then.” Mudge leaned back against the hard

back of the bench, put his arms behind his head, and gazed

through the tinkling branches at the morning sun. “If you

don’t trust me, then to ‘ell with you, mate.”

“At least if I end up there it’ll be with our money

intact.”

They stopped for lunch beneath a tree with bell leaves

the size of quart jars. Mudge unpacked snake jerky and

fruit juice. The appearance of the fruit juice made the otter

shudder, but he was intelligent enough to know that he’d

overdone his alcoholic intake just a hair the past week and

that the percentage in his blood could not be raised much

higher without permanent damage resulting. He poured

himself a glass, wincing as he did so.

Something glinted in the glass and he looked sharply to

his right. Nothing amiss. Bell leaves making music with

the morning breezes, flying lizards darting from branch to

branch in pursuit of a psychedelic bee.

Still… Carefully he set down his glass next to the

wagon wheel. The dray lizard snoozed gratefully in a

patch of sunlight, resting its massive head on its forelegs.

Jon-Tom lay in the shade of the tree. All seemed right with

the world.

But it wasn’t.

“Back in a sec, mate.” Mudge reached into the back of

the wagon. Instead of food and drink he grabbed for his

bow and quiver. The crossbow bolt that rammed into the

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

37

wood between his reaching hands gave him pause. He

withdrew them slowly.

“A wise decision,” said a voice from the trees.

Jon-Tom sat up fast. “Who said that?”