"Foster, Alan Dean - Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

The Day of Dissonance
Spellsinger 03
FOSTER, Alan Dean

"I'm dying," Clothahump wheezed. The wizard glanced to his left. 'Tm dying and you stand there gawking like a virginal adolescent who's just discovered that his blind date is a noted courtesan. With your kind of help I'll never live to see my three-hundredth birthday."

"With your kind of attitude it's a wonder you've managed to live this long." Jon-Tom was more than a little irritated at his mentor. "Listen to yourself: two weeks of nonstop griping and whining. You know what you are, turtle of a wizardly mien? You're a damned hypochondriac.''

Clothahump's face did not permit him much of a frown, but he studied the tall young human warily. "What is that? It sounds vaguely like a swear word. Don't toy with me, boy, or it will go hard on you. What is it? Some magic word from your own world?"

"More like a medical word. It's a descriptive term, not a threat. It refers to someone who thinks they're sick all the time, when they're not."

"Oh, so I'm imagining that my head is fragmenting, is that what you're saying?" Jon-Tom resisted the urge to reply, sat his six-feet-plus frame down near the pile of pillows that served the old turtle for a bed.

Not for the first time he wondered at the number of spacious rooms the old oak tree encompassed. There were more alcoves and chambers and tunnels in that single trunk than in a termite's hive.

He had to admit, though, that despite his melodramatic moans and wails, the wizard didn't look like himself. His plastron had lost its normal healthy luster, and the old eyes behind the granny glasses were rheumy with tears from the pain. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so abrupt. If Clothahump couldn't cure himself with his own masterly potions and spells, then he was well and truly ill.

"I know what I am," Clothahump continued, "but what of you? A fine spellsinger you've turned out to be."

"I'm still learning," Jon-Tom replied defensively. He fingered the duar slung over his shoulder. The peculiar instrument enabled him to sing spells, to make magic through the use of song. One might think it a dream come true for a young rock guitarist-cum-law student, save for the fact that he didn't seem to have a great deal of control ' over the magic he made.

Since the onslaught of Clothahump's pains, Jon-Tom had sung two dozen songs dealing with good health and good feelings. None had produced the slightest effect with the exception of his spirited rendition of the Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations." That bit of spellsinging caused Clothahump to giggle uncontrollably, sending powders and potions flying and cracking his glasses.

Following that ignominious failure, Jon-Tom kept his hands off the duar and made no further attempts to cure the wizard.

"I didn't really mean to imply that you're faking it," he added apologetically. "It's just that I'm as frustrated as you are."

Clothahump nodded, his breath coming in short, labored gasps. His poor respiration was a reflection of the constant pain he was suffering, as was his general weakness.

"I did the best I could," Jon-Tom murmured.

"I know you did, my boy. I know you did. As you say, there is much yet for you to learn, many skills still to master."

"I'm just bulling my way through. Half the time I pick the wrong song and the other half it has the wrong result. What else can I do?"

Clothahump looked up sharply. "There is one chance for me, lad. There is a medicine which can cure what ails me now. Not a spell, not a magic. A true medicine."

Jon-Tom rose from the edge of the pile of pillows. "I think I'd better be going. I haven't practiced yet today and I need to..."

Clothahump moaned in pain and Jon-Tom hesitated, feeling guilty. Maybe it was a genuine moan and maybe it wasn't, but it had the intended effect.

"You must obtain this medicine for me, my boy. I can't trust the task to anyone else. Evil forces are afoot."

Jon-Tom sighed deeply, spoke resignedly. "Why is it whenever you want something, whether it's help making it to the bathroom or a snack or someone to go on a dangerous journey for you, that evil forces are always afoot?"

"You ever see an evil force, boy?"

"Not in the flesh, no."