Day of Dissonance by Alan Dean Foster

Author:Alan Dean Foster [Foster, Alan Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453211748
Google: dPYgcUw0y0gC
Amazon: B008IR1TEI
Barnesnoble: B008IR1TEI
Goodreads: 35167
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 1984-05-01T07:00:00+00:00

X

The Friends of the Street occupied a complex of stone-and-mortar buildings atop a seaward-facing hillside. It was located in an area of comfortable individual homes and garden plots instead of the slum Jon-Tom expected.

"Whoever endowed this place," he told his companions as they approached the main entrance, "had money."

"And plenty o' it," Mudge added.

Several long, narrow, two-story structures were linked together by protective walls. Blue tile roofs gleamed in the moonlight. Dim illumination flickered behind a couple of windows, but for the most part the complex was dark.

That wasn't surprising. It was late and the occupants should be in bed. Flowery wrought-iron trellises blocked the front doorway, but there was a cord to be pulled.

Jon-Tom tugged on it, heard the faint echo of ringing from somewhere inside. Leaves shuffled in tall trees nearby. The thousand bright stars of Snarken electrified the shoreline far below.

The door opened and a curious lady squirrel peeked out at them. She was elderly and clad entirely in black. Black lace decorated the cuffs of her sleeves. Hanging from her gray neck was a single golden medallion on a gold chain.

Several letters had been engraved on it, but they were too small for Jon-Tom to make out.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Are you the master of this orphanage?" Jon-Tom asked.

"Me?" She did not smile. "No. What do you wish with the Headmaster?" She was watching Roseroar carefully.

"Just a couple of quick questions." He put on his most ingratiating grin.

"Office hours are from mid-morning to nightfall." She moved to shut the door.

Jon-Tom took a step forward, still wearing his grin.

"We have reason to believe that an acquaintance of ours was recently--" he searched for the right word, "enrolled at the orphanage."

"You mean you don't know for certain?"

"No. It would have been within the last day."

"I see. Visiting hours are at nightfall only." Again the attempt to close the door, again Jon-Tom rushed to forestall her.

"Please, ma'am. We have to depart on a long difficult journey tomorrow. I just want a moment to assure myself that your institution is as admirable on the inside as it is from without."

"Well," she murmured uncertainly, "wait here. The Headmaster is at his late-eve devotions. I will ask if he can see you."

"Thanks."

The wait that ensued was long, and after a while he was afraid they'd been given a polite brushoff. He was about to use the bell-pull a second time when she reappeared trailing an elderly man.

As always, Jon-Tom was surprised to see another human in a position of authority, since they didn't seem to be among the more prolific groups here. In Clothahump's world mankind was just one of dozens of intelligent species.

The man was only a few inches shorter than Jon-Tom, which made him unusually tall for a local. With the exception of a radically different cut, his attire was identical with that of the much smaller squirrel: all black with lace cuffs and the same golden medallion. He held his hands clasped in front of his chest. His gray hair was combed neatly back at sides and forehead.

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