already full to overflowing with the wealthy among the
refugees. The city gates were open and some were already
filing back out into the desert.
"Yo know, somethin' just occurred to me, Jon-Tom.
This old Jalwah, ah'm thinkin' we've been underestimatin'
him all along. Do yo suppose he deliberately led us out
heah into this desert knowin' we didn't know about this
comin' Conjunction thing, and hopin' we might get oah-
selves killed?"
Jon-Tom considered only a moment. "Roseroar, I think
that's a very good possibility, just as I think that the next
time we meet up with our ferret friend, we'd better watch
our step very carefully indeed."
XIII
Inquiries in the marketplace finally unearthed mention of
Folly and Jalwar's passing. They were indeed several days
ahead of their pursuers, and yet they had rented no riding
animals. Apparently Jalwar was not only smarter than
they'd given him credit for, he was also considerably
stronger. The merchant who provided the information did
not know which way the ferret and the girl had gone, but
Jon-Tom remembered enough of the map to guess.
The desert reaches were much more extensive to north
and south. There was no way back to Snarken except via
Redrock. Therefore their earlier suppositions still held
true. Jalwar was making for Crancularn as fast as possible.
Roseroar's search for nighttime lodging was terminated.
There was no time to waste. Jon-Tom reluctantly allowed
Mudge to scavenge for supplies, and the travelers then beat
a hasty retreat from Redrock before their unwilling vict-
ualers could awaken to the discovery of their absent
inventory.
"Of course, we'll pay for these supplies on our way
back," Jon-Tom said.
"And 'ow do you propose we do that?" Mudge labored
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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.
"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
creatures stepped out into clear view, forming a line behind
the cuscus. They were an odd assortment, from the more
familiar rats and mice to bandicoots and phalangers. There
was even a nocturnal aye-aye, who wore large, dark
sunglasses and carried a short, sickle-shaped weapon.
Their clothes were on the ragged side, and their boots
and sandals showed signs of much usage. Altogether not a
prosperous-looking bunch, Jon-Tom decided. The presence
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Alan Dean Foster
of so many weapons was not reassuring. These were not
kindly villagers out for a daily stroll.
Still, if all they wanted was something to eat....
"You're welcome to join us," he told Hathcar. "There's
plenty for all."
Hathcar looked past him, to where Mudge was laboring
with the cooking. His tongue licked black lips.
"You are kind. Those of us who prefer meat haven't
made such a grand catch in many a day." He smiled as
best he could.
Jon-Tom gestured toward Roseroar. "Yes, she's quite
the huntress."
"She sizes the part. Still, there is but one of her and
many of us. How is it that she has been so successful and
we have not?"
"Skill is more important than numbers." One huge paw
caressed the hilt of a long sword.
Hathcar did not seem impressed. "Sometimes that can
be so, unless you are a hundred against one lizard."
"Sometimes," she agreed coolly, "but not always."
The cuscus changed the subject. ' 'What seek you strang-
ers in this remote land?"
"We're on a mission of importance for a great and
powerful wizard," Jon-Tom told him, "We go to the
village of Crancularn."
"Crancularn." Hathcar looked back at his colleagues,
who were hard-pressed to restrain their amusement. "That's
a fool's errand."
Jon-Tom casually let his fingers stray to his staff. He'd
had just about enough of this questioning, enigmatic visi-
tor. Either they wanted something to eat or they didn't,
and double-talk wasn't on the menu.
"Maybe you think we look like fools," Hathcar said.
All hints of laughter fled from the gang standing behind
him. Jon-Tom didn't reply, waited for what might come.
The cuscus's smile returned, and he moved toward the
fire. "Well, you have offered us a meal. That's a wise
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
225
decision. Certainly not one to be made by fools." He
pulled a throwing knife. "If I might try a bite? It looks