The Day of the Dissonance Page 11

  Unintentionally and quite without intending to do so, he’d spellsung himself home.

  VII

  He clung desperately to that thought as day gave way to night. Still no sign of Nassau or any of the Bahamas. No hint of pleasure boats plying the placid Caribbean. No lights on shore to guide them in. Only the ever-present fog and an occasional glimpse of a half-moon glittering on high, keeping a watchful silver eye on his waning hopes.

  He was still at the wheel the next morning. The fog had fled from the sky only to settle heavily inside his heart.

  You could see for miles in every direction. None yielded a glimpse of a coconut palm, a low-lying islet, or the warm glass-and-steel face of a Hilton Hotel. Only when the diesel finally sputtered to a halt, out of fuel, did he sit away from the helm, exhausted.

  Worst of all, he was sober. Desperation and despair had driven the spellsong-induced drunkenness from his body. It was sour irony: he had regained the use of his senses when he no longer had need of them.

  Roseroar assumed the wheel again, said nothing. With the disappearance of the fog had come the return of the wind. The sails filled.

  “Wheah shall I set course for, Ion-Tom?” she asked gently. He didn’t reply, stared blankly over the side.

  Mudge watched him closely. “Snarken, luv. You know the way.” Roseroar nodded, swung the wheel over.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Mudge replied thoughtfully. “ ‘E believed for a few minutes last night ‘e might ‘ave been ‘ome, back in ‘is own world. Now, me, I don’t believe we went from one world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar boat full of mighty odd-lookin’ ‘umans. The birds were sharp enough lookin’, though. I’ll give ‘em that.”

  Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. “ Y’ all are disgustin’. Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy little degenerate pervert, is intercourse.”

  “Blow it out your striped arse, you self-righteous bitch! I’d swear on me mother’s ‘ead that ‘alf an army’s done proper work under that tail.”

  Roseroar lunged for the otter. A ghost of a voice made her pause.

  “Don’t. Please.” For the first time in days a familiar face swung around to face both of them. “It’s not worth it. Not on my behalf.”

  Roseroar reluctantly returned to her station behind the wheel. “Blimey, mate,” said Mudge softly, “you really do think we went over into your world, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “It was in the song. I didn’t mean it to happen that way, but yes, I think we crossed over. And I was too drunk to do anything about it.”

  “Maybe we’re still in yo world,” said Roseroar.

  Mudge noticed movement in the water. “ ‘Ang on. I think I know ‘ow to find out.” He headed toward the bow.

  Jon-Tom rose, swayed slightly. Roseroar put out a hand to steady him but he waved her off with a smile. “Thanks.

  I’m okay now. Stone-cold sober.”

  “Yo drunkenness did come from yo song, then?”

  “Something else I didn’t plan on. It’s worn off. That’s why I don’t think we’re still in my world. The good wears off along with the bad.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I was home, Roseroar! Home.”

  “Ah am sorry fo yo, Jon-Tom. Ah really and truly am.”

  “You’ve got a big heart, Roseroar. Along with everything else.” He smiled at her, then walked toward the front of the boat. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was still a chance, however faint that seemed now.

  The otter was leaning over the side. “How are you going to find out where we are?” Jon-Tom asked.

  Mudge glanced up at him. “That’s easy enough, guv’nor. All you ‘ave to do is ask.” He turned his face to the water racing past the prow and shouted, “Hey, you, where are we?”

  Jon-Tom peered over the railing to see the playful, smooth, gray-backed shapes sliding easily through the water, hitching a free ride on the boat’s bow-wave. One of them lifted its bottle-nose clear of the surface and squeaked a reply.

  “You’re at half past a quarter after.” Giggles rose from around the speaker as the rest of the dolphins vented their appreciation of the little joke.

  Mudge gave Jon-Tom an apologetic look. “Sorry, mate, but tain’t easy gettin’ a straight answer out o’ this bunch o’ sea-goin’ comedians.”

  “Never mind,” Jon-Tom sighed. “The fact that it answered at all is proof enough of which world we’re in.”

  “Hey:ya,” said another of the slim swimmers, “have you guys heard the one about the squid and the Third Mistress of Pack Thirty?”

  “No.” Mudge leaned forward, interested.

  The dolphin now speaking sidled effortlessly up to the side of the speeding sloop. “It seems she. . .” Jon-Tom abandoned the ongoing display of oceanic vulgarity and climbed the central cabin to contemplate the horizon.

  No, he wasn’t home anymore. Maybe he’d hallucinated the whole incident. Maybe there’d been no ski boat full of stoned stockbrokers from New York. Maybe the entire episode was nothing more than the result of his drunkenness.

  Except that Mudge and Roseroar and Jalwar had seen them also.

  The last vestiges of inebriation left him frighteningly cold inside. It was bad enough that fate had dumped him in this alien otherworld. Now it had chosen to tease him with a glimpse of reality, of home. He felt like a poor kid forced to stand in front of the main display window at F.A.O. Schwarz the night before Christmas.

  Slipping the duar around in front of him, he tried the song again, tried altering the inflection in his voice, the volume of each stanza. Tried until his throat was dry and he could hardly speak. Nothing worked. The song remained a song and nothing more.

  He tried other songs, with the same result. He sang everything he could remember that alluded however vaguely to going home, to returning home, to longing for home.

  The sloop John B. cut cleanly through the waves, running southwestward under Roseroar’s expert guidance. There was no sign of land to cheer him. Only the dolphins with their endless corny jokes.

  “Sail ahead!” Jalwar yelled from the top of the main-mast. Jon-Tom shoved his own concerns aside as he joined Mudge near the bowsprit. Stare as he might, he saw only empty horizon. Mudge had no difficulty in matching the ferret’s vision.

  “I see ‘er, mate.”

  . “What does she look like?”

  “Rigged normal, not like this thing.” The last of Jon-Tom’s hopes vanished. Not a speedboat, then. “Big, two rows of oars. That I don’t like.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think about it, mate. Only a fool would try rowin’ across an ocean. Only a fool. . . and them that’s given no choice in the business.”

  The visitor was bearing down on them fast. Soon Jon-Tom could make out the silhouette. “Can you see a flag?”

  Mudge stared hard. Then he began to shake. “That’s all she wrote, mate. There’s a ‘eart with a knife through it flyin’ from the yardartn. Pirates.” He raced sternward, Jon-Tom hurrying after him.

  “I thought only traders traveled the Glittergeist.”

  “Aye, traders and them that preys on ‘em.” The otter was dancing frantically around Roseroar. “Do somethin’, you bloody great caricature of a courtesan!”

  Roseroar put the wheel hard over, said evenly, “They’ve probably seen us already.”

  “Jon-Tom, spellsing us out o’ ‘ere!” By now the huge, swift shape of the pirate ship was bearing down on their stern. Strange figures lined the rails and the double rows of oars dipped in unison.

  “There’s not enough wind,” Roseroar observed. “What there is, is at our back, but they’re supplemental’ their own sails with those oars.”

  Jon-Tom was trying to untangle his duar from around his neck. “Our engine’s out of diesel.” He found himself eyeing the approaching behemoth in fascination. “Interesting lines.”

  “Interestin” my arse!” Mudge was saying frantically.

  “You’ll see ‘ow
interestin’ it can be if they take us!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know many songs about boats,”

  Jon-Tom muttered worriedly, trying to concentrate, “and none at all about pirates. See, where I come from they’re a historical oddity. Not really a valid subject for contemporary song writers.”

  “Screw wot’s contemporary!” the otter pleaded with him. “Sing something!”

  Jon-Tom tried a couple of hasty, half-remembered tunes, none of which had the slightest effect on the John B. or the approaching vessel. It was hard to remember anything, what with Jalwar moaning and genuflecting to the north and Mudge hopping hysterically all over the boat when he wasn’t screaming in Jon-Tom’s face.

  Then there was no time left to think as Roseroar rumbled, “Stand by to repel boarders, y’all!”

  Jon-Tom put the duar aside. No time for playing. The upper deck of the pirate ship loomed over them. Arrayed along the rail was the oddest assortment of creatures he’d encountered since finding himself in this world.

  One massive dirty-furred polar bear missing an ear stood alongside three vicious-looking pikas armed with four-foot-long lances. A pair of lynxes caressed chipped battle-axes and prepared to swing down on ropes dangling from a boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.

  “Take “em!” snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom’s ramwood staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.

  As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her skull with a mace. The tigress’s swords flashed in unison.

  Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote’s limb-less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood in all directions. It twitched horribly.

  Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly, a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.

  They didn’t move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom’s blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.

  They forced him back toward the railing. The man jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the cartilage give under his weight. As the sloth went down, its face covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.

  Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back end of the shaft to slide into the sloth’s throat. It looked at him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe backed off.

  Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grappling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel, but they couldn’t do that and defend themselves as well.

  Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their insides spilling all over the deck.

  Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.

  The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands, binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure on her bonds she would only end up choking herself. They were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.

  A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.

  They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.

  The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.

  Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around the upper part of the big cat’s waist. No armor covered the muscular arms.

  Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew murmured restlessly.

  “You fought well,” their inspector finally growled.

  “Very well. Too well, thinks I.” He glanced significantly toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.

  “Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize.”

  Green eyes flashed. “I don’t believe in trading good mates for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.

  Where do you come from and how come you by such a peculiar vessel? ‘Tis not fashioned of wood. I’m sure of that.”

  “It’s fiberglass.”

  The leopard’s eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. “Are you the owner of the craft?”

  Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. “I am.”

  Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the leopard’s claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A little lower and he would have lost both eyes.

  Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It’s nose was almost touching Jon-Tom’s.

  “I am. . .sir,” it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled something else, and immediately the leopard’s gaze flashed toward the otter. “Did you say something, dung-eater?”

  “Wot, me? Just clearin’ me throat. . . sir. Dried out it were by a hot fight.”

  “ ‘Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I.” The big cat returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding silently. “Any complaints?”

  Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard’s face, feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if the scarring would be permanent.

  “No, sir. No complaints, sir.”

  The leopard favored him with a thin smile. “That’s better.”

  ‘ ‘Are you the captain of this ship. . . sir?”

  The leopard threw back his head and roared. “I am Sasheem, first mate.” He looked to his right, stepped aside. “Here comes the captain now.”

  Jon-Tom didn’t know what to expect. Another bear, perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.

  Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.

  Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather patch covered the one empty eye socket.

  As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.

  A member of the crew later informed them that the captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak, and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal ac
curacy while balancing on the artificial leg.

  The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were missing.

  “These be all the crew of our prize?” He looked up at the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the powerful leopard flinch back. Corroboc made eye contact with each of his own crew in turn.

  “A brave bunch you are. A bloodthirsty death-dealing collection. . . of infants!” His tail quivered with his anger.

  “Infants, the lot of you!” Not only Sasheem, but the rest of the cutthroats were completely cowed by this battered green bird. Jon-Tom determined not to cross him.

  “Four against nearly a hundred, was it? A fine lot you are!” He cocked his head sideways to gaze at the prisoners. “Now then. Where be you four bound?”

  “Just a few days out from the Tailaroam,” Mudge volunteered ingratiatingly. “We were just on a little fishin’ trip, we were, and—”

  The wooden leg was a blur. It caught the otter between his short legs. Mudge turned slightly the color of the captain as he grabbed himself and collapsed on the deck.

  Corroboc eyed him indifferently.

  “The Emir of Ezon has a tradition of employing eunuchs to guard his palace. I haven’t decided what to do with any of you yet, but one more lie like that and you’ll find yourself a candidate for the knife o’ the ship’s doctor.”

  Jon-Tom tried to pick a likely candidate for ship’s physician out of the surrounding collection of cutthroats and failed, though he imagined that whoever that worthy might be, he hadn’t taken his internship at the Mayo Clinic.

  Mudge held his peace, along with everything else. The blue eye fastened on Jon-Tom. “Perhaps you be smarter than your sour-whiskered companion. Where be you bound, man?”

  “Snarken,” Jon-Tom replied without hesitation.

  Corroboc nodded- “Now, that makes sense, A sensible one. You be a strange specimen, tall man. Be you from the region o’ the Bellwoods?”