"The Broken Sphere" - читать интересную книгу автора (Findley Nigel)

Chapter One

Teldin Moore's shoulders slumped. He opened his eyes. True vision replaced the magical, mental vision that had possessed him for the past-what?-hour?-two? The light faded in his small ship's cabin; the brilliant glare of molten bronze that had reflected off the few metal fittings dimmed, leaving nothing but the light of a small, guttering oil lamp. Teldin knew that bronze light well, knew it came from the traveling cloak around his shoulders. He'd seen it many times over the past weeks.

He stretched muscles sore from holding the same position for so long. Cupped in both hands on the table before him, he held a simple bronze amulet. He opened his hands and let it fall to the scarred tabletop. He'd received the amulet… when? In Herdspace, he thought, that strange crystal sphere where monstrous "megafauna" strolled around the inside of the sphere, and more familiar races made their homes around the great beasts' footprints, or even on their gargantuan bodies. Hadn't Gaye given it to him?

Gaye. He sighed. Gaeadrelle Goldring, the childlike kender. Whenever he thought about her flashing eyes, her lustrous hair, or her quick laugh, he felt a sick emptiness inside-a sense that he'd lost something important to him, but that he'd never known he'd had. Isn't that always the way? he asked himself cynically. You never recognize the value of something until it's gone.

But just what had he lost' he asked himself again. There'd never been anything between the two of them, anything significant… had there? He couldn't recall any words of endearment, any moments of connection.

He couldn't remember anything consciously, at least. But sometimes, when he slept, his dreams contained tantalizing images: a conversation in his cabin, where words were spoken that he couldn't remember while awake, and a realization that there was something between them after all.

Teldin shook his head in frustration. Why don't I remember all that now? he demanded of himself. It's not something I'm likely to forget, is it? It was much more likely that the images were created by some part of his mind, manifestations of some hidden desire-probably to have someone to trust, he admitted wryly. That was a luxury that had been all too rare recently.

Still, Gaye was gone. He'd left her behind in Herdspace- at her own request, he amended quickly. To the best of his knowledge, she was still alive-and he couldn't say that of many people he'd come to care about over the last months. Who knew? Maybe he'd eventually see her again. The universe was vast, but destiny seemed to enjoy loading the cosmic dice so that absurd coincidences came up from time to time, particularly around Teldin Moore.

He held up the amulet, twisted the chain between his thumb and forefinger so the bronze disk turned slowly.

Outwardly, it was so simple a thing, no more ornate than the cloak he wore. Yet both-amulet and cloak-were apparently objects of immense magical power. The cloak- the Cloak of the First Pilot, an ultimate helm-bestowed upon him magical abilities he'd only just started to explore. Most important among these-if the elves, and the fal named One Six Nine were to be believed-was that it would allow him to control the Spelljammer, the greatest of all spacefaring vessels and the object of a kind of cosmic scavenger hunt that included most of the spacefaring races Teldin had ever heard of (and probably some he hadn't). Apparently the cloak-given to him by a dying reigar, whose spelljamming vessel had crashed on his farm in Ansalon-marked him as a candidate to be the Spelljammer's next captain.

All he had to do was find the great ship.

That's where the amulet came in. Again, according to One Six Nine and the elves of Evermeet, it allowed Teldin to "see through the eyes of the Spelljammer"-to see what the vast ship was picking up with its strange senses. In the times he'd used the amulet, he'd experienced wondrous things: suns and worlds beyond imagining, all perceived with senses quite different from-and more sensitive than-gross human sight. This time he'd seen crystal spheres packed so closely that they looked in danger of touching, and a sun that had apparently blown up like a cask of smoke powder. Eventually, Teldin hoped, he'd see something he recognized through the Spelljammer's vision-some sphere or world he'd already visited-and then he'd know where the mysterious ship was.

He rubbed his tired eyes again. That wasn't all that came through the mental link. Sometimes-usually when he was tired, such as now-he felt emotions coming through the link. They were strong emotions, but alien ones, difficult to understand.

Emotions. The concept worried him on a profound level. Emotions are a characteristic of sentience, of self-awareness, aren't they? he asked himself. How can the Spelljammer be sentient? Certainly, One Six Nine and others had told him that the vast vessel was alive, but how could a ship be sentient, and intelligent, aware of its own existence, with feelings, hopes, and fears of its own? Impossible. He just couldn't make that intellectual leap.

Anyway, he reminded himself, one of the emotions I sometimes feel is fear. What could the Spelljammer have to fear?

No, he decided firmly, the emotions he felt weren't coming from the ship, but from a much more immediate source. Obviously the amulet was picking up his own emotions- and only when he was tired, at that, and his mental guard was down. That made a lot more sense. The senses of longing, of loss, of fear-all were his.

But, then, what about the dreams? part of his mind asked. On a couple of occasions he'd dreamed of the Spelljammer, and he'd felt emotions then, too. In one case, he'd even "heard" words associated with those emotions. Something about "others on a ribbon," and great need, wasn't it? Rightly or wrongly, he found he associated those words directly with the Spelljammer.

He shook his heard firmly, banishing those thoughts. They were just dreams, and what do dreams have to do with reality? Exactly nothing, that's what, he told himself.

He stood and stretched, felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck pop as he did so. Tired, he told himself again, too tired for such deep thoughts. Deep thoughts so easily become unsupported fantasies if you're not paying attention.

As he stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror mounted on the bulkhead. His lips quirked up in a smile.

What would Grandfather say if he saw the way I dressed now? he wondered. Or, may the gods forbid, my father? He ran his hands down the sides of his night-black jerkin, felt the soft nap of the velvet caress his skin. Close-tailored trousers of black cotton disappeared into the tops of black, glove-soft boots. The cloak-which manifested the most unpredictable color changes-was now black, too, matching the rest of his ensemble. The unrelieved black of his garb was broken only by the flash of silver: the lion's-head clasp of the cloak, the jerkin's buttons, the buckle of his broad leather belt-black, too, of course-and two totally useless buckles on the boots. He had a pair of black gloves-more gauntlets, actually, reaching halfway up his forearms-to complete the outfit, but they were somewhere in his cabin with his short sword and scabbard, and the three knives he'd taken to sheathing behind his belt buckle and in his boot tops when he went groundside.

With a wry smile, he recalled the way he always used to dress: simple, homespun jerkin and breeches, usually in earth tones, and practical, hard leather boots with stout souls. The dress of a farmer.

But, then, Vallus Leafbower-mage and representative of the elven Imperial Fleet-had equipped him with well-tailored black garb for his meeting with the rulers of Evermeet on Toril. At the time he'd thought the getup was ludicrous for someone of his station and background. In retrospect, though, he'd wondered whether the elves would have shown him the same respect and honor if he'd been dressed as a dirt-kicking farmer, rather than the wildspace rake he'd considered himself at the time. Probably not, he'd decided wryly. Accordingly, at his last landfall, he'd picked up a new wardrobe.

He examined his image in the glass again, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. His new beard-closely trimmed, little more than a narrow band of sandy hair following the line of his jaw-still felt strange to his fingers.

But it certainly goes with the clothes, he had to admit. With his light brown curls cropped in what he thought of as a "helmet cut"-short, to fit under an armored helmet-and the beard, plus the black clothes, he looked quite piratical. Teldin Moore, wildspace pirate, cutlass-for-hire. He snorted.

Still and all, he told himself, I wear the Cloak of the First Pilot, as the elves call it. Why not dress the part? He flipped his mirror image a mocking salute.

For a moment, he considered going out on deck for a breath of fresh air. The one-compartment cabin of his ship was small, not much larger than the sail locker he'd shared with the gnomes aboard the Probe. Sometimes he regretted his decision to set sail alone in a ship tiny enough to be crewed by one man. While he relished the privacy, and the chance to think without interruption, he frequently suspected the tradeoffs had been too great. Space was a major issue, but even more important was the fact that he couldn't put an end to his privacy when he was done thinking his deep thoughts.

Still and all, he reminded himself, you've made your bed and now you've got to lie in it.

After parting with Vallus Leafbower, the bionoid Hectate, and the other members of his last crew, Teldin had looked into acquiring a private ship. At first he'd balked at the staggering prices of even the smallest spelljamming vessel. But then he'd discovered, through conversation with a minor ship broker, that money was the least of his problems. Apparently-thanks to one "Master Captain Leafbower"-Teldin had a line of credit, backed by the Imperial Fleet, sufficient to buy outright anything up to the size of a hammership, like the late Aelfred Silverhorn's Probe, or even larger.

A ship that size wasn't what Teldin wanted, however. It hadn't taken him long to spot the vessel that matched his needs perfectly. The ship broker had acted as though Teldin had taken leave of his senses when he pointed it out, but that didn't matter. There was something about the old river trader-converted for spelljamming travel through the addition of a battered minor helm-that called to him. The ship's background, he'd thought, was probably very much like his: spending the majority of its existence in some peaceful, bucolic-and definitely terrestrial-setting, and only lately being thrust into the confusing reality of wildspace, the Flow, and the greater universe.

The trader was short and beamy-not more than thirty feet from prow to stern, and more than half that in width- with a single square-rigged mast. It had a single communal cabin, with a small, closed room for the helm at the stern, plus a surprisingly large cargo hold. In answer to Teldin's question, the broker had reluctantly admitted that the ship could be handled by a single person-though at much reduced speed and maneuverability-and that had sealed the matter in the Cloakmaster's mind.

The deal was settled, and the next day at dawn he'd set off. With his cloak-the ultimate helm-glowing sunrise pink at his back, Teldin had listened to the water hissing from the ship's hull as he climbed away from the harbor. A few quick experiments had confirmed that the decreases in speed and maneuverability arising from a crew of one were more than compensated for by the incredible control the cloak gave him. The ship was unarmed, but the Cloakmaster was confident he'd be able to evade all but the swiftest vessels that might come after him.

And so he'd taken to wildspace in his own vessel-which he named the Ship of Fools, even though he now was the only fool aboard, alone and-for the first time in a long time-free.

But I'm not really free, am I? he asked himself, stroking the smooth fabric of the cloak. Not while I'm wearing this.

No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he was still bound, his actions constrained. He'd never been one to bow to the dictates of destiny without some kind of a struggle, and that wasn't going to change now. But what could he do? He couldn't remove the cloak; that was part of its magic. And even if he could, would he? Should he? There were many others in the universe who wanted to command the Spelljammer-who'd kill for the immense power it represented. Yet he found that he didn't trust anyone who wanted to be the next captain of the Spelljammer….

Paladine! he cursed through clenched teeth. He hated this. Since he'd first set eyes on the triple-damned cloak, his actions had been severely limited. While he had, theoretically, freedom to choose at each decision point, he was still being forced along a particular course by his own ethical and moral outlook.

Will I always be trapped like this? he asked himself. When do I say "consequences be damned," and act in my own best interest? He crossed his arms before his chest, his jaw set angrily.

And then he caught another glimpse of himself in the glass. The image brought a half smile to his lips. Tough-talking Teldin Moore, he chided himself. At least I'm not losing my sense of humor.

*****

He woke with a muzzy head and a foul taste in his mouth. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his right eye, and his stomach burned with acid.

Again, he thought disgustedly. This is getting much too familiar.

He looked at the earthenware jug on the nightstand beside his cot. He'd neglected to put the cork back in it, and the pungent aroma of sagecoarse filled the cabin. With hands that could be steadier, he restoppered the jug. The smell of the strong liquor was still in the air, of course, and continued to make his stomach churn.

This isn't the way it should be, he told himself.

Not too long ago, Teldin had rather prided himself on the fact that he didn't drink hard liquor. While sailing aboard the hammership Probe with Aelfred Silverhorn, he'd developed a taste for sagecoarse, but had felt no need to drink more than an occasional small cup. But now?

He picked up the jug and swirled it, estimating its contents by feel. About a third gone, he guessed, and it was full yesterday. Is it any wonder I feel like scavver dung?

Even worse, this wasn't the first time. He'd started having trouble sleeping while he was still on Radole, soon after his parting of the ways with Vallus Leafbower. Even though his body was dead tired, he'd found he couldn't turn his mind off." Lying in bed, he found himself replaying in his brain all the major decision points in the course that had taken him from Ansalon to here, trying to find some alternative choices that would have made things turn out better. Eventually-sometimes hours later-he'd sunk into a fitful sleep racked by nightmares. He'd awakened unrefreshed, tangled in sheets that his thrashing had turned into sweat-soaked ropes.

He'd weathered almost a week like this, growing steadily more and more tired, his gritty-feeling eyes becoming ever more sunken. One night, in desperation, he'd bought a flask of sagecoarse from the inn where he was staying, and had used it to drink himself into oblivion. Surprisingly, he'd felt better rested the next day (even though the resulting hangover had been epic). Better yet, he'd seemed to have broken the cycle. The next several nights he'd managed to sleep without taking a drink and had thought he was over his problems.

No such luck. The nightmares had come back, as had the hours of staring at the ceiling, second-guessing everything he'd done since leaving his farm. Again he'd had to turn to the bottle when he couldn't handle the sleeplessness any further. By this time, he was aboard the Ship of Fools and in space. Fortunately, he'd had the forethought to include some jugs of sagecoarse among his traveling supplies.

That had been-what?-three weeks ago now, give or take. While he'd tried to use the liquor sparingly, only when he felt he couldn't handle the insomnia any longer, his self-control had been slowly slipping. For the last three-or was it four? or even more?-nights running, he'd hit the sagecoarse hard. He shook his head carefully, so as not to aggravate the dull ache. This isn't the way it should be, he repeated.

Slowly he swung himself out of bed. Not bothering to dress, he expanded the cloak to its full size and wrapped it around his body. He headed out onto the deck, stopping only at the water barrel to wash the sour, dead taste out of his mouth.

Wildspace in this crystal sphere was cool but not cold.

The air was brisk on his skin through his cloak and cotton undergarments. Although it made his headache spike momentarily, the relative chill seemed to clear the cobwebs from his brain, giving his thoughts more clarity. He removed the starchart from its tube and unrolled it, comparing what it showed him with what he could see over the Foots railing.

This was the major problem with traveling alone, he admitted to himself. Even using the cloak, he could control the ship only for limited periods before he grew too exhausted to continue. At first he'd managed only four or five hours before his thoughts started to fog up and his control of the vessel started to slip. With practice, though, he'd brought himself along so he could helm the Fool at full speed-more than four times normal spelljamming speed, he guessed, even without additional crew-for more than twelve hours. In that time, he figured-based on what Sylvie, the late navigator for the Probe, had once told him- the small vessel could travel more than a hundred million leagues. A literally unimaginable distance, he thought for the thousandth time, particularly for a know-nothing farmer. That was a distance equivalent to traveling around Krynn's equator more than seven thousand times in a single day. How could people ever take spelljamming travel for granted?

Anyway, helming the ship accounted for twelve hours of every twenty-four. The rest of the day was taken up with the maintenance chores that every ship requires, with charting and checking his course, but mainly with sleep. During that time the Fool simply drifted. In wildspace, it usually-and "usually" was the key word-kept to roughly the same course it had held when under power, and maintained a decent speed. Travel in the Flow was quite another matter, there were rivers, eddies, even whirlpools, in the phlogiston that could catch the drifting ship and fling it in totally unpredictable directions. Considering, Teldin was surprised he'd ended up at the crystal sphere he'd wanted to reach.

It had been worth the inefficiency, and the risks, however.

On first leaving Radole, he hadn't had any real plans. He'd just wanted to get away-away from the elves, away from the bionoid Hectate, away from everyone and everything that reminded him of the burden on his shoulders. His first couple of days in space he'd spent mired in self-pity, alternately cursing himself and the fate that had seen fit to afflict him with the ultimate helm. Eventually, he'd rid himself of these negative feelings as he'd known he would, and was able to concentrate on finding a solution, rather than just dwelling on the problem.

If he'd hoped to come up with the answer, the one, simple key that would solve everything, he'd have been disappointed. What he did find, however, was a new way of looking at the matter. Plainly put, he didn't have to make a decision now-at least, not the central decision, whether or not to become the Spelljammer's next captain. Even if he were to decide-either in the affirmative or the negative- exactly how would that change things here and now? If he chose "no," he had to learn how to be rid of the cloak, and how to keep it out of the hands of those who'd use the Spelljammer for ill. If "yes," he had to track down the ship. Either course required that he learn a lot more than he currently knew.

Which, of course, nicely defined his next move. He had to find out as much as he could about both the Spelljammer and the ultimate helm. The question, then, was how?

For a while he'd considered returning to Herdspace to question One Six Nine again, but he'd eventually discarded that idea. How could he be sure the giant slug-sage was telling him the truth, and not shading his answers to manipulate Teldin into doing what the fal wanted him to do? Certainly, One Six Nine didn't seem to have any personal interest in the cloak-and Teldin couldn't envision the creature wearing it-but did that reflect reality, or just the Cloak-master's ignorance of the situation?

The same argument held for the elves, the gnomes… and everyone else, for that matter. For all he knew, any sage he approached might have some hidden agenda concerning the ultimate helm and the Spelljammer itself. No, he had to find some totally objective, uninvolved source of information: a library-a daunting conclusion for a barely literate farmer, but one he couldn't avoid.

While on the Rock of Bral, Teldin had heard stories about a massive library or archive, allegedly the greatest repository of knowledge in the universe, located on a world called Crescent in the crystal sphere known as Heartspace. He'd brought the Fool in for a landing at Remagin, a small port on the world of Whyst in the same sphere as Radole, to learn more.

Most people had heard at least something about the Great Archive on Crescent, but didn't know where in the universe it could be found. It took Teldin almost two days to track down a sage who not only described the way to reach Heartspace, but also sold him a starchart for that distant crystal sphere. Armed with the information he needed, Teldin took to the spaceways again, setting a course for Heartspace.

He rerolled the chart and inserted it back into its protective tube. Allowing himself a tight smile of satisfaction, he rested his hands on the rail, looking forward along the Foots course.

Directly ahead of the small vessel was the sun of Heart-space, the fire body at the center of the crystal sphere. It was much dimmer than the sun of Krynnspace-so much so that Teldin could stare directly at it without pain-and it had a cool, brick-red color to it. From what the chart told him, the sun-predictably called "the Heart"-was more than ten times bigger than Krynn's own sun, a bloated, tenuous thing reaching the end of its natural lifespan, destined to become a solar cinder in "only" a few more million years. At this distance, though, it looked only a little larger than the midsummer sun had from Teldin's north field.

He watched the sun for a few minutes, trying to detect the slight changes in size that gave the Heart-and, hence, the entire crystal sphere-its name. According to what the Whyst sage had told him, the Heart "beat" slowly, expanding and contracting by a slight but noticeable margin over a cycle of a few hours. What must it be like living here, the erstwhile farmer asked himself, under a sun that's not a constant thing?

If he gave himself enough time, he knew, he'd be able to see the Heart change size. But he didn't have the patience for that, not now. According to the chart and his own admittedly inaccurate observations, he was less than a day's travel from Crescent, with the ultimate helm powering the Fool.

Excitement tingled in his chest. If the Great Archive was as wonderful as everyone had claimed, he should be able to find out-for himself, without any intermediary to distort the information-more about the mighty Spelljammer. Maybe he'd find what he needed to know to make the grave decision that was always weighing on him… and further, what he needed to know to actually implement the decision once he'd made it.

With a final glance at the sun of Heartspace, he turned to go below deck again-to dress, and get his small vessel underway toward distant Crescent.