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

Chapter Two

I must be getting jaded, Teldin told himself. A year ago- even a few months ago-I'd have been so overwhelmed I couldn't move. Now? I'm taking all this in stride.

"This" was the world of Crescent, of course. As the Fool approached the small planet, it appeared to live up to its name: a bright arc of silver against the black backdrop of wildspace. At first, Teldin assumed the world appeared this way because the sun was lighting it from an angle-for the same reason that the familiar moons of Krynn showed different phases. But now, as he drew closer, he realized how appropriate the small world's name really was.

Crescent actually was a crescent-a curved piece of a world, like a fireapple with a huge bite taken out of it. The two pointed ends of the strange planet-the "horns," he termed them-seemed fixed in space, as though attached to a single axis. The rest of the world rotated around that axis, as though, he realized after a moment, the arc of rock were still part of a spherical planet.

According to his chart, the planet's entire population was concentrated on the curved inner surface of the arc. Bringing the Fool in closer, Teldin could see why. The outer surface of Crescent was the most rugged, inhospitable-looking environment he'd ever seen-and that included hellholes such as the goblinoid planet of Armistice. The land surface was all mountains and craters, split with great cracks and fractures leagues wide, as though the world had been struck with a cosmic hammer until it had shattered. There weren't many clouds, but those he could see were moving incredibly fast across the landscape, hinting at ship-killing winds. The Cloakmaster found himself shuddering just thinking about trying to make a landing there.

In contrast, the inner surface was downright inviting. There were mountain ranges, certainly, large enough to be seen from space, but the individual peaks looked immeasurably older, weathered into smooth, rolling shapes quite different from the knife-edged, needle-summited monstrosities on the other side of the world. The inner surface was a land of blurred greens and browns, reminding Teldin strongly of his last view of Ansalon from space, and even of the terrain around Rauthaven and Evermeet on Toril.

What was that? It seemed that there was some feature on the planet's surface that looked much sharper, more vivid than the blurred surroundings. It looked like a sharp black dot….

It took his mind a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. The black dot wasn't on the planet's surface at all. It was a ship of some kind, climbing rapidly out of the atmosphere. He watched it for a few score heartbeats, expecting it to "drift" across the planet's surface in one direction or another. But no drift was visible, as the ship expanded in his vision-no longer a dimensionless dot, but a shape with length and breadth. No drift, he told himself. That meant it was heading directly for the Fool.

He felt warmth at his back, like the heat of the noonday sun beating down onto his shoulders. He knew that the ultimate helm was flaring with power, reacting to his thoughts and his subconscious fears. The ship-whatever it was-was coming straight toward him. While he knew the unarmed Fool could outrun and outmaneuver virtually any other ship, that advantage could help him only if he used it….

He frowned at the course his thoughts were taking. Paranoid, he chided himself. You're starting to see enemies everywhere.

The ship continued to draw nearer. Now he could make out its configuration, the angular, hunchbacked shape of a wasp. Again he felt the cloak flare to life. No wonder, he told himself. The last time I saw a wasp ship close up was when the pirates attacked the Unquenchable just off Krynn. He forced himself to release his control over the ultimate helm's power. No, he ordered himself sharply. If I run every time a ship closes with me, I'll never get anywhere.

If there was ever any doubt over the wasp's destination, it was gone now. The brutal-looking ship-painted an unrelieved, drab gray-had slowed and was edging directly toward the Fool. From this distance, about a spear cast away, Teldin could see motion on the angular vessel's deck. Standing exposed on deck, he felt vulnerable-a single, well-aimed shot from the wasp's heavy ballista would put an end to him, and there was little the cloak could do to save him- but he brutally suppressed those fears. He stood at the rail, feet braced, hands on his hips, and waited.

The two vessels were close enough now that their atmosphere envelopes had merged. Teldin heard a voice ring across the open space between them. The language was the Common tongue, but the accent was unfamiliar. "Permission to come alongside?" the voice called.

Teldin cupped his hands around his mouth. "What vessel are you?" he hollered back.

"We are the Pathwalker," the voice rang out from the wasp, "of the Crescent Peace Force. Permission to come alongside."

"What's your purpose?" Teldin called.

"Routine inspection of incoming ships," the answer came back immediately. "Please stand to. Permission to come alongside, third request." This time the "request" for permission wasn't even phrased as a question.

Teldin hesitated. From the way the man aboard the wasp had specified this was the third time he'd asked, the Cloakmaster had to assume some official policy would come into play if he didn't respond correctly. He glanced nervously at the weapon platform filling the bow of the angular ship. A ballista shot into the hull, perhaps? "Permission granted," he yelled back quickly.

He watched tensely as the wasp maneuvered closer, side on to the Fool. Now he could see a small white insignia painted on the hull near the vessel's widest point-a simple crescent with a seven-pointed star framed between its "horns." The ballista, set on a swivel mount on the ship's upper weapon deck, was trained out over the starboard rail, pointing directly at the Cloakmaster's smaller ship. The weapon was cocked and loaded, Teldin could see, and armed with a full crew of four. They wore gray uniforms of a severe, militaristic cut, and looked-to his partially experienced eye-chillingly disciplined and competent. How competent do they have to be, after all? he asked himself wryly. At this range, even I couldn't miss….

The Pathwalker edged nearer. The wasp's crewmen were definitely competent, he had to admit-neither that or suicidal and phenomenally lucky. Huge wings of fragile, translucent material extended from the top of the ship's hunched back, with a total span easily equal to the wasp's eighty-foot length. If that weren't enough, the six slender, jointed legs- the craft's landing gear-extended down and outward from the keel. If anyone had asked him, the Cloakmaster would have stated-categorically and without doubt-that it would be patently impossible for the wasp to come close alongside the Fool without either driving one of its legs through the smaller ship's hull or shearing off one of its fragile wings.

Yet that was exactly what the Pathwalker's captain had in mind, it seemed. The wasp's starboard wings loomed over the Fool's deck, while three sharply pointed legs extended only a couple of feet below the river trader's keel. For an instant, Teldin was uncomfortably reminded of when the Probe had been grappled by a neogi deathspider soon after his departure from Krynnspace.

The wasp finally finished its delicate maneuver, hanging in space-totally motionless relative to the Fool-with the rail of its foredeck no more than a man's height from the smaller ship's hull. Fancy ship-handling, Teldin admitted grudgingly. If I'd. tried that-even with the ultimate helm- I'd probably have holed both hulls.

As he watched, a figure emerged from a hatch onto the open foredeck. He was tall and slender, Teldin noted, much the same build as the Cloakmaster but perhaps half a hand-span taller. Even though the man wore a uniform similar to those worn by the weapon crew, Teldin recognized at once he was looking at an officer.

The man looked across the six-foot gap at the Cloakmaster, nodded briskly, and made a curt gesture that Teldin took to be a form of salute. "Permission to come aboard."

Teldin hesitated only long enough for a quick glance at the ballista-now at absolute point-blank range-before he answered, "Permission granted."

These people are good at this, the Cloakmaster told himself. Within heartbeats of his giving his permission, three more gray-clad crew members appeared on the wasp's foredeck. From below the rail-out of Teldin's view-they produced a broad wooden plank, which they quickly swung into place between the two ships. The officer stepped lightly onto the plank and, as casually as if he were walking on a town's street, crossed the gap. He stepped down onto the river trader's deck and repeated his earlier salute.

The Cloakmaster inclined his head in a sketchy half bow. "Welcome aboard,… ?"

"Lieutenant Commander Gorase," the man said briskly. From inside his gray jacket he withdrew a small, hand-sized slate and a sharpened piece of chalk. "Ship's name?" he asked.

"Uh, the Ship of Fools."

Gorase raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, scrawling a notation on the slate. "Master's name?"

Teldin hesitated for a moment. Then, "Aldyn Brewer," he said, offering the same pseudonym he'd used in Rauthaven.

"Brewer," the officer muttered as he made another notation on the slate. Then he glanced up at Teldin from under thick, dark brows. "Brewer?" he repeated, pitching the word as a question.

The Cloakmaster felt a sudden flash of fear. Were people on the lookout for "Aldyn Brewer"? He felt a cold prickling along his hairline, and his chest was suddenly tight.

But, no, he told himself firmly, that's ridiculous. I'm how many months away from Rauthaven? How could anyone be looking for me here, under that name? He felt the officer's gaze on him, his clear eyes clouding with growing suspicion. "That's right," Teldin said quickly, "Aldyn Brewer."

Gorase shook his head. "No, I meant 'are you a brewer?' It was a small joke." He looked levelly at Teldin for a long moment, then glanced down to write something else on his slate. When he looked up again, his face was even more carefully expressionless than normal. "Arid what is your trade, sir?" he asked.

Teldin shrugged. "Traveler."

"Not a merchant?"

"No," the Cloakmaster replied.

"No trade goods aboard?"

"None."

Gorase's chalk screeched against the slate, raising the hackles on the back of Teldin's neck. "No trade goods," the officer mumbled. He fixed the Cloakmaster once more with his cool stare. "Then what is your purpose for coming to Crescent, if I may ask?"

"The Great Archive," Teldin replied at once, and truthfully.

The officer nodded slowly. "So you come seeking knowledge," he said emotionlessly. "What knowledge, specifically?"

Again Teldin hesitated. This wasn't going well, he recognized. If Gorase hadn't been suspicious of him-for whatever reason-when he first came aboard, there was no doubt he was now. Teldin's fumbling of the name issue had seen to that. The best way to divert that suspicion was to tell the truth-free and full disclosure.

But he couldn't do that, could he? Admitting he was looking for information on the Spelljammer was just too risky.

"Just some old spacefaring legends," the Cloakmaster said vaguely, "travelers' myths, that kind of thing." He winced mentally; his explanation sounded dubious to his own ears.

It didn't sound much better to Gorase, either, judging by the man's sharp-eyed look. The officer didn't say anything for almost a minute, simply watching Teldin steadily. The Cloakmaster knew the officer was waiting for him to babble on, just to fill the silence, and maybe incriminate himself in so doing. It was all he could do to hold his tongue, and wait the man out. Difficult though it was, he instinctively knew that was his best course.

Finally, Gorase glanced away from Teldin's face, to scratch another note on the slate. "Travelers' myths," he mumbled to himself. "And no trade goods." He looked up again. "Then you wouldn't mind showing me belowdecks, I suppose," he said guilelessly.

Teldin led him into the small main cabin, watched the officer's cold eyes flick around him, apparently itemizing mentally all the compartment's contents. "What's back here?" Gorase asked, indicating the small door at the aft of the main cabin.

"The helm," Teldin answered. He swung the door open to let Gorase look into the cramped compartment, little larger than the minor helm it housed. Lucky I didn't remove the helm the way I was thinking of doing, the Cloakmaster told himself. That would have fired up the officer's curiosity if nothing else had-a spacegoing vessel without a spell-jamming helm….

Gorase spared the helm compartment only the briefest of glances. "And the cargo hold, please," he said.

The Cloakmaster led the way back on deck and indicated the closed hatch near the bow. Without waiting to be asked, he opened the securing bolt and swung back one side of the hatch cover. Gorase crouched down beside the opening, craning over for a better view into the hold. He cleared his throat, and Teldin clearly heard the sound echo in the emptiness.

Gorase stood again, indicating that Teldin could close the hatch cover once more. The officer scratched away at his slate for a few more seconds, then nodded briskly. "You're free to proceed, Master Brewer of the Ship of Fools," he said officiously. "As a visitor to Crescent, your first landfall must be made at the city of Compact. Landing anywhere else is strictly forbidden and will be considered evidence of intent to smuggle. Do you understand?" He waited for Teldin's nod. "Do you have any questions?"

"Just one," the Cloakmaster said slowly. He walked to the rail and looked downward to the planet below. "Just where is Compact? If I land anywhere else, it'll be evidence of getting lost."

For the first time, Gorase's thin lips twisted in what could almost have been a smile. "I think I can see my way free to selling you a planetary chart, Master Brewer," he said wryly.

*****

Gorase's chart had more than paid for itself, Teldin had to admit later. As he'd brought the Fool spiraling down into the atmosphere, he'd compared the geographical features he could see on the world below with the chart. With that chart showing him where to look, he'd managed to pick out the world's major city-Compact, home of the Great Archive. Without that guidance, he'd have spotted the metropolis only by purest luck, or after an extensive search. Even though Compact was said to be huge, and Crescent itself was only a small world, the scales-human and planetary- were so far apart that the city could just as well have been invisible from orbit.

Once he'd known what to look for, however-and once he'd brought the Fool down to a low enough altitude-it had been easy to spot Compact. It had looked to be a huge metropolis, spread three-quarters of the way around a large lake of azure-blue water. As large as Rauthaven, if not larger, Compact had none of that port city's beauty. Instead of the pure white walls and bright red tile roofs, this city had seemed to be all grays, the only bright color being the lake itself.

Teldin had shrugged. It's not as if I'm here for the scenery, he'd reminded himself, and brought the Ship of Fools in on its final approach to the lake.

He now walked the narrow streets of Compact-a strange name, he found himself thinking. I wonder where it came from? From the ground, the city was even more drab than it had looked from space. There were no colors anywhere that he could see. Everything, from the streets, to the walls of the buildings, to the clothing of the citizenry, was rendered in different shades of gray. No colors-not even any black. Even the inhabitants' skin had a gray tinge, Teldin thought wryly.

The people of Compact were an incredibly somber lot, he decided. The expressions of the men looked as drab as their clothes, framed by simple haircuts that looked as if they'd been done with gardening shears. As for the women, he couldn't tell what their expressions were; they wore ground-length cloaks-of gray, of course-with cowls pulled forward over their heads, concealing their faces. Passersby rarely looked up from the ground in front of their feet- except to cast suspicious glances his way, he noticed-and they never smiled.

They didn't seem to talk, either, other than in whispers. Even the children-of which there were many in the streets-were unnaturally silent. Instead of running and playing, laughing and yelling, the way kids were supposed to do, they walked soberly around like smaller versions of adults. What a depressing place to grow up, Teldin mused, remembering his own boisterous childhood. I'm sure my father wished I'd been like these little zombies, but-thank the gods-that's not the way it worked out.

After a few minutes of walking through the streets, Teldin thought he could pick out some people who didn't look as if they really belonged. Certainly, they wore the same unrelieved gray clothing, and they kept their eyes down and mouths shut. But there was something about their expressions-a hint of interest, perhaps, or vitality-that set them apart. They're visitors, too, the Cloakmaster realized with surprise. They knew what to expect, and took on the dress and mannerisms of the locals so they wouldn't stand out the way I do. He frowned. I should have done more research before coming here, he admitted to himself. There's definitely something to be said for not drawing attention to yourself.

The situation wasn't permanent, however. Using the cloak's shapechanging powers, it would be only a moment's work to turn himself into a gray-clad drone. Of course, undergoing the change on a crowded street wouldn't be the smartest idea. He glanced around him. All he needed was a deserted alley and a couple of seconds to remedy his error. But then his eyes lit on a group of burly men across the street, and he realized he might not have a couple of seconds to do anything.

There were five of them, all large and broad-shouldered, the smallest about Teldin's height and the largest a head taller. They wore the gray clothes and had the severe haircuts that marked them as Compact locals, but their eyes were fixed on the Cloakmaster, not the ground, and their expressions were hard and angry.

Teldin stopped in his tracks. He couldn't even guess at what the gray-clad men might be angry about, but he was in no mood for any kind of confrontation. Quickly he glanced around him, looking for some way of avoiding them, somewhere to duck out of sight. He was in the middle of the street, though, and there was no alley, or even an open doorway, within a dozen yards.

It wouldn't have helped him if there had been. The largest of the five men was already striding toward Teldin, with the others following behind.

With no option but confrontation, Teldin drew himself up to his full height and fixed an expression on his face that he hoped conveyed determination and confidence. He brushed his cloak back and planted his fists on his hips. For a moment he silently berated himself for leaving his sword aboard the Fool and trusting only to his knives, but then he pushed the thought aside as useless.

The big man stopped a pace in front of him and glared down into Teldin's face. The other four spread out on either side of him a half pace or so farther back. For a moment there was silence as the five men looked him up and down. Then, "Well?" Teldin asked coldly.

"You be a big fancy-man, don't you be?" the leader demanded, his voice like gravel. "Walking here in your devil's colors, not following the Way of the Plain."

Teldin didn't answer at once. Then he shrugged, as though the big man's anger meant nothing to him. "I wear what I usually wear," he said at last, his voice reasonable. "I don't know your 'Way of the Plain,' but I intend no insult." And with that, he turned aside, ready to walk away.

But the leader grabbed his shoulder with a hand the size of a feast day ham and jerked him back. He glared down at Teldin from a handspan away, breathing his sour breath right into the Cloakmaster's face. "The Way of the Plain be the law," he growled. "You come here to break that law. What other laws you be here to break, then?"

The man's grip on Teldin's shoulder was tight enough to hurt-obviously too tight for the smaller man to pull free easily. Quickly, the Cloakmaster considered his options. For a moment he considered trying to break free, but immediately realized that would just further enrage the man.

With an effort, he schooled his expression to calm, and said quietly, "I'm not here to break any of your laws."

"But you be breaking one, don't you be?" the gray-clad man demanded harshly. "He do be, right, lads?" The others growled and grunted their agreement. "What do we with lawbreaker, then?" the leader asked.

Teldin looked quickly from face to face, saw the same thing written in all five expressions. They're working themselves up, he recognized, working themselves into a state to do something. The question was, how far would they go? He let his right hand creep closer to the hilt of the small knife sheathed behind the buckle of his broad belt. "I mean you no harm," he said as calmly as he could manage. He wasn't really afraid for his life-he didn't think the men looked like trained warriors, and he could probably hold his own against five street fighters-but there was always the chance one of his foes would get lucky and injure him, perhaps badly. Even if he escaped unscathed, the fight would attract entirely too much attention to the "black-clad stranger," and could prevent him from reaching the archive.

"You harm by your presence, lawbreaker," the man grunted. He tightened his grip on Teldin's shoulder, then drew back his other rock-hard fist to drive it into the smaller man's face.

Teldin brought up his left forearm to deflect the coming blow. With his right hand he snatched the knife from its concealed sheath and poised the slender blade to strike.

"Hold" The sharp command echoed through the street.

The six men froze, forming a strange tableau. Teldin looked around wildly for the one who'd spoken.

"Hold, I say," the voice repeated.

Now Teldin could see the speaker. He was a slender man an inch or two taller than Teldin and, judging by his face, a couple of years younger. He wore the same nondescript gray garb as the Cloakmaster's assailants, and his hair-gossamer-thin, and so blond as to be almost white-was cut in the same straightforward style. His pale, gray-blue eyes were steady, his face expressionless.

The man holding Teldin glared at the new arrival. "You defend the lawbreaker?" he snarled.

"He breaks the law only because he doesn't know the law," the newcomer pointed out reasonably. His voice had lost its snap of command, and was now soft, almost musical. "What does the True Path say about ignorance?"

The large man hesitated. His hand loosened its grip on Teldin's shoulder, then fell away entirely. He glanced at the comrades at his sides, doubt in his eyes." 'Ignorance is the greatest crime…'" he said slowly.

"'… but a crime to be corrected, not punished,'" the newcomer concluded. "Am I right? Our friend"-he indicated Teldin-"comes to the Great Archive for knowledge, in respect and reverence as he should. He knows not our customs, it's true, but the fault lies equally with you for not enlightening him."

Teldin's erstwhile foe dropped his gaze. His comrades had already taken a couple of steps back, as though they were trying to fade into the crowd around them.

The big man managed to generate one last burst of bravado. "And who be you," he demanded of the newcomer, "to lecture me on the True Path?"

"I am a Child of the Path," the new arrival said quietly. He held something out toward the man. Teldin couldn't see details, but it looked like a silver disk a couple of inches across, carved with complex symbols.

It didn't mean anything to Teldin, but his foe recognized it instantly. The big man's grayish complexion paled even further, and he lowered his gaze once more. "I beg forgiveness, Worthy One," he mumbled, jerkily touching the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. "I-"

The newcomer cut him off. "Enough," he said sharply. "'Think on what I've said… but do it somewhere else."

Teldin watched as his erstwhile opponent vanished into the crowds, followed by his companions… then started slightly as the newcomer spoke to him.

"You won't be needing that, I think."

Teldin's cheeks burned with embarrassment as he realized he was still holding his knife, ready to strike at a foe who wasn't there. He hastily returned the blade to its sheath. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I didn't know how best to handle that."

"You handled it the only way you could have," the other said with a shrug. "They were out to 'discipline' an unbeliever-probably after a few hours in a wineshop, building up their courage." He smiled.

Teldin didn't return the smile. There hadn't been any smell of alcohol on the man's breath, had there? What did that mean? Did it mean anything at all, or was Teldin's paranoia acting up again?

"In any case," the young man went on, "it's not an uncommon problem in Compact. One of the disadvantages of living in a theocracy is that sometimes the faithful let their fervor get a little out of hand." He shrugged again. "The True Path is supposed to be one of peace, but people sometimes forget that it extends to unbelievers as well."

"You keep mentioning that," Teldin pointed out. "What is the True Path?" He hesitated, then added tentatively, "If you've got the time to talk."

The man flashed Teldin a disarming grin. "I've got the time," he confirmed. He glanced up at the sun, which hung, bloated and red, in the sky, to judge the hour. "Have you eaten highsunfeast?" he asked.

"No," Teldin replied, "and I'd be glad to buy you a meal. Or"-he quirked an eyebrow wryly-"would that be against the Way of the Plain?"

*****

The blond man seated himself across the small table from Teldin. The place he'd selected reminded the Cloakmaster of the wineshops he'd seen on the Rock of Bral, except that it had small tables right out on the street, where the patrons could watch the passersby. It was one of these outdoor tables that the stranger had chosen.

As his new acquaintance arranged his chair to his liking, Teldin examined him a little more closely. The first thing he realized was that he could well be as much as a decade off in his estimate of the man's age. His face was smooth and unlined, and could belong to a man of barely thirty summers. Yet his eyes belied that impression. They seemed calmer, more perceptive-wiser-than the eyes of a thirty-year-old had any right to be.

The only individuals Teldin had ever seen with that combination of apparent youth and rare wisdom had been elves. Trying not to display his interest, he scrutinized the man's ears. Yes, they did seem to have the points typical of the elven race-though, granted, they weren't as pronounced as, say, Vallus Leafbower's.

The newcomer smiled across the table at Teldin. "I have to say something before we take our meal," he said lightly. "Call it a tradition." Teldin's reaction must have shown in his face, because the blond man chuckled. "No," he reassured him, "it's nothing like the Way of the Plain. It's just that I never let someone buy me a meal unless I know his name."

Teldin felt his own face relax into a smile. "Aldyn Brewer," he said deciding to stick with the pseudonym-at least for the moment.

The blond nodded graciously. "Well met, Aldyn Brewer. My name is Djan"-he pronounced it DYE-un. "Djan Alantri, of Crescent."

Teldin shot him a surprised glance. "Of Crescent?" he echoed.

Djan chuckled again. "Yes," he confirmed, "I was born here. My father was a priest of the True Path-that makes me a Child of the Path, as I told that lout earlier, and worthy of respect."

He shrugged. "Unfortunately, my father had the, urn, marginal judgment to fall in love with someone who wasn't 'of the blood'-which makes me worthy of disrespect. It almost evens out."

"You're a half-elf, then," Teldin stated. Djan nodded. "And that's a problem here?"

Djan gestured around them. "Look at their faces," he suggested. "Notice anything unusual?"

Teldin did as he was told. It took him a moment to realize what the half-elf was getting at. "They're all human," he said slowly.

Djan nodded. "Blood is very important to the followers of the True Path," he explained. "If I weren't a Child of the Path, my life might have ended long ago." He smiled, as if what he'd just said didn't worry him at all. "In any case, I followed in my father's footsteps-I trained for the priesthood. But the ongoing prejudice got on my nerves. I quit, and I even left Crescent." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "You know the kind of thing: leave home, see the universe. I only arrived home a couple of weeks ago."

Teldin nodded slowly. That made a lot of sense. Even though Djan dressed like a local, and obviously knew much about the culture, there was something about him very different from those who'd lived their lives on Crescent. "Do you still follow the True Path?"

"In my heart," Djan replied quietly.

"And?"

The half-elf s smile was back. "And what is the True Path?" he finished for Teldin. "It's the religion of Crescent, the worship of the god Marrak, Master of All Knowledge." He shrugged. "The faith itself is based around a reverence for knowledge and learning-an admirable tenet, if you ask me.

Unfortunately, the Church of the True Path-that's the organized, bureaucratic religion that's grown up around the Marrakite faith-has made some changes. According to the Church, knowledge is to be revered… and just about everything else is to be repressed.

"That's where the 'Way of the Plain' came from," Djan went on, "and all the other repressive trappings of the religion."

"I don't know how I feel about organized religions," Teldin said quietly, honestly, "but I think I'd like one that put a high priority on knowledge." He gestured around him. "Crescent must be a dynamic place," he remarked, "always learning something new, always-"

Djan cut him off with a snort. "Maybe that's the way it should be," he said dryly, "but that's not the way it is. That's something else the Church has changed. According to Church doctrine, the only knowledge that counts is old knowledge. Everything that's important-everything that's real-has already been discovered. There's no need to try to discover anything more. Anything you think you find out that's beyond the 'true knowledge' is just lies, created by the Great Deceiver to lead us astray." He snorted again. "Nonsense, of course, and that's another reason I left Crescent: I realized it was nonsense.

"But at least there's the Great Archive," he went on in a less cynical tone. "At least the Church has done something right, though maybe for the wrong reasons. They think they're protecting the purity of the Truth. What they're actually doing is providing an incredible service to scholars from all over the universe. Such as yourself, hm?" he added, smiling at Teldin.

The Cloakmaster felt an icy chill in his stomach. "That's the second time you've said-or implied-I'm going to the archive," he pointed out, trying to keep his voice light, but doubting that he was succeeding. "How do you know?"

The half-elf smiled broadly, disarmingly. "Why else would you have come to Crescent, by the mind of Marrak?" he asked. "To learn from our sense of fashion, perhaps?" He placed his gray-garbed arm next to Teldin's black-clad one, and flicked, the silver button on the cuff.

Teldin had to laugh, his suspicions dispelled by his companion's easy manner. "Well said, Djan Alantri," he said with a smile. "So just where is this Great Archive of yours?"

"We're not far from it," Djan answered. "Head up this street here. When you reach the main square, turn right. You can't miss it." He paused. "If you like," he suggested, "after our meal I can take you there. Perhaps even help you find whatever it is you need. The filing system is… interesting."

Teldin hesitated. It was a kind offer, and a valuable one, too. He'd already been worrying about how he'd find the information he needed-considering the fact that he wasn't the most accomplished reader-even without hearing about the "interesting" filing system. But he instinctively wanted to avoid telling anyone that he was looking for information about the Spelljammer.

"Thanks for your offer," he said, "but I can't tie up that much of your time." He hesitated again! "But," he added impulsively, "if you'd like to meet me for a glass of wine- here-after evenfeast…"

The half-elf's smile broadened. "I would be honored, Aldyn Brewer," he replied politely.

*****

I should have known better, Teldin told himself wryly. Anytime someone says "You can't miss it," you're going to have the Dark Queen's own time finding what you're looking for. He chuckled dryly. The half-elf, Djan, had neglected to point out that Compact had several large courtyards that a visitor could mistake for the "main square." Teldin had based his search on one of those, and it had taken him almost an hour to literally stumble across the Great Archive.

At least his wanderings hadn't been interrupted by any more fervent Marrakites out looking for unbelievers to discipline. As soon as he'd left Djan at the wineshop, he'd ducked into a deserted side street and seen to his appearance. He looked down at his garb, simple breeches and jerkin of rough-looking gray homespun. If this doesn't follow the Way of the Plain, I don't know what does, he mused. Taking a fold of fabric between his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed the cloth. Although it looked like homespun, it still felt like the smooth, expensive fabric of his black outfit. He shook, his head in puzzlement. Sometimes when he used the cloak-now shrunk to the size of a necklace-to change his appearance, all details were changed, including, texture. Other times, however, there were surprising inconsistencies-like now. The results seemed totally unpredictable.

Oh, well, he thought with a shrug, it won't matter for the moment. All I have to do is stay away from suspicious tailors.

The Great Archive was one block ahead of him. He could see it clearly now. The street he was on was narrow, which surprised him a little. Shouldn't a thoroughfare leading to one of the city's most significant features be wider, more prominent? It wasn't even as busy, as crowded, as the other streets he'd wandered down, lost. He was surrounded by gray-clad natives of Compact, but no more than a dozen. He shrugged. It didn't really matter, did it? He headed toward the archive.

And that's when he saw the figure ahead of him. It was a large man, dressed in sand-brown sheepskin and leathers. He was broad and muscular, with curly black hair that fell to his shoulders. The man looked as out of place among the smaller, drably clad Marrakites as a wolf among lambs. He had his back turned to Teldin as he looked out over the small square in front of the archive. As Teldin watched, he started to turn.

He's dangerous. Very dangerous. The thought flashed into Teldin's mind without warning, with the intensity and suddenness of a mental shout. He had no idea where the thought came from, but that very fact made it impossible to ignore. Without hesitation, Teldin stepped off the road, into a narrow alleyway-quickly, before the curly haired man could turn and spot him. He flattened against the rough brick wall of a building. His heart pounded a triphammer beat in his ears. He held his breath….

Just what the hell do I think I'm doing? he asked himself. Where did that reaction come from?

Who was that man to drive him to hide? Nobody that Teldin knew-just another stranger to the city of Compact. The Cloakmaster had reacted to the mental warning of danger… but where had that warning come from, and why should he trust it? With a muttered curse, he stepped out from the alley again, and looked around for the broad-shouldered figure. But the man was gone, without any clue of the direction he had taken.

Teldin cursed again. What in the Abyss had just happened? he asked himself again. Where had that sensation of danger come from? From the cloak? Certainly, the ultimate helm sometimes fed him information, or enhanced his senses-he recalled how it had let him see through the magical disguise of Celestial Nightpearl, the radiant dragon-but had this been an example of the same kind of thing?

Or had his mind started to play tricks on him? Was this the first sign of the onset of paranoia? He definitely had reason enough to distrust strangers, considering his recent experience….

No. He shook his head firmly. Smoothing his drab gray attire, he strode down the last block, crossed the small courtyard to the Great Archive, and climbed the marble steps toward the big double door.

The archive was a huge building, sprawling over two city blocks. Constructed of finely dressed blocks of gray-white marble, it seemed to combine half a dozen architectural styles. Tall and narrow archways opened into broad, squat-looking colonnades. Pillars of several different styles flanked the stairway, and mismatched carvings and bas-reliefs covered the front facade. In any other setting, the mismatch of techniques would have looked chaotic, even ugly. The sheer size of the Great Archive made it all right, however. While Teldin would have found fault with a smaller building, the archive was so daunting that he simply accepted it: the archive was, and that's all there was to it. He hesitated a moment, then pushed open one of the huge, blackened oak doors and stepped inside.

He wasn't exactly sure what he'd been expecting. If he'd been pressed for an answer, he'd probably have expected the Great Archive to consist of small, claustrophobic rooms lined, floor to ceiling, with shelves of leather-bound books and carefully rolled scrolls. But nothing's ever quite what I expect it to be, is it? he asked himself silently.

The double doors opened onto a great circular hall, at least a dagger cast across. It looked totally empty: no people, no shelves of books. Around the periphery he saw arched doorways, leading off into the depths of the building. Right across from him, diametrically opposite the door, was a large, ornate wooden structure, like a huge magistrate's bench. It, too, seemed empty. He took a couple of steps across the polished marble floor toward the bench, his footsteps echoing hollowly, and stopped.

The hall was almost as high as it was wide, walls and columns stretching up, ten times or more the height of a man, to a hemispherical dome above. The dome had windows set into it, windows formed of many small, irregularly shaped pieces of crystal, each a different color. The ruddy light of Crescent's sun shone down through them, its beams scattering into fragments and spears of a hundred hues, each dazzling his eyes as the multicolored stars of wildspace did.

It took him a few moments of staring to realize that the colored glasses actually formed pictures. Men and women, three times life-size, strolled through forests of emerald green, under impossibly blue skies, or sat around tables in rooms hung with crimson and gold curtains. In a dozen frames, people dressed in flowing robes of luminous colors did incomprehensible things.

Something tapped Teldin's left hip. With a start, he looked down.

A small figure, dressed in gray shirt and baggy gray pantaloons, stood beside him, staring up at him. Brilliant green eyes flashed out of a weather-tanned face, framed with tightly curling brown hair. The figure was a gnome, quite obviously.

"Are you here for the tour?" the small figure asked, his voice so fast-paced the words almost ran together. "If you are here for the tour, I'm very sorry to tell you there is no tour. There used to be a tour," he went on, without even a breath, "but so few people took the tour that we decided there was little reason to have a tour anymore. So if you're looking for a tour-"

"No," Teldin said sharply, cutting off the torrent of words.

The gnome's eyes opened wide, apparently startled by Teldin's brusqueness.

"No, thank you, Master Gnome," the Cloakmaster went on, less forcefully. "I'm not here for a tour."

The gnome looked relieved. "That's good, because we don't have a tour anymore, but if you'd like to hear more about the stained crystal windows above you, I can certainly tell you. They represent the Golden Age of Learning, when Marrak-may His wisdom always be praised-walked the face of the world, before the Great Truths were all learned, and before…"

Teldin held up his hands, palms out.

The gnome's words trailed off, and he looked puzzled. "You don't want to know about the stained crystal windows?" he asked after a moment. "Then what do you want?"

"I want some books."

The gnome blinked. "Ah, books, is it?" His face suddenly brightened again. "Well, you've come to the right place. As you may or may not know, this is the Great Archive of Crescent, and…"

Again Teldin cut him off. "I know," he said evenly. "That's why I'm here."

"Ah," the gnome repeated. "Ah. Yes. Well." The gnome blew out his cheeks. "What kind of books?"

Teldin sighed. This conversation was going the way all his conversations did when gnomes were involved. "Maybe I should speak to someone in charge," he suggested carefully. "A librarian."

"That's me," the gnome announced with a huge grin, hooking a small thumb toward his chest. "Second Assistant Third Backup Vice-Librarian's Aide (Day) Fazinaleantin Mememelnisikian. You may call me Fazin if you like."

"Fazin," Teldin started, struggling mightily to keep his voice steady, "you're the Second Assistant Third Librarian's Aide-"

"Second Assistant Third Backup Vice-Librarian's-"

"Whatever," Teldin cut him off. Fazin's face fell. "Where's the First Assistant whatever the rest of it was? Or, better yet, the real librarian?"

"I can tell you where they all are," Fazin pointed out.

"Can you do it in five words or less?"

The gnome hesitated for a moment, then started counting on his fingers. "They're… not… on… duty… today-and-they-won't-be-on-duty-for-another-week-or-thereabouts-but-if-you-want-to-come-back-then-you-can-talk-to-them,"he finished in a breathless rush.

Teldin didn't trust himself to speak for a few moments. Although he recognized he was getting much better at talking to gnomes-a very specialized skill, if one wanted to avoid homicide-he still found it rather more taxing than mortal combat. "Can you help me find some books?" he asked at last.

"That's my job."

The Cloakmaster sighed. "Take me to them," he suggested.

*****

Instead of taking Teldin to the shelves of books as the Cloakmaster expected, Fazin led him to a small but comfortable waiting room off the circular hall. The gnome pointed to a small box containing square pieces of paper, a quill pen, and an inkwell. "You write down on the paper the subjects you want to read about," Fazin explained. "Then I go to the indexing system and locate the appropriate books. Then I bring them to you here. It's an efficient process, much better than you trying to use our indexing system yourself. After all," he added with a quick grin, "I've been studying it for six years now, and sometimes it still surprises me. When we get the new indexing system working, things'll be much better, but…" Apparently he saw the impatience in Teldin's face, because he slid the box of papers across the tabletop toward the human. "There," he suggested, "just write down what you want to know."

Teldin looked down at the pen and paper. "Can't I just tell you?" he asked.

Fazin looked scandalized. "You have to write it. That's the system, and the system won't work if you don't follow it."

"Why?"

The gnome was silent for a moment. Then, "I don't know," he admitted, "but that's the system, and I'm sure there's a very good reason for it. There's always a very good reason…" He trailed off, then took a deep breath. "Why don't you just tell me?" he capitulated. "What do you want to know?"

It was Teldin's turn to take a deep breath, to try to relieve the sudden tension he felt in his chest. "The Spelljammer," he breathed. "Get me what you have on the Spelljammer."

Fazin's green eyes opened as wide as they'd go. "You mean the one-and-only-Spelljammer-not-the-lesser-vessels-that-are-also-known-as-spelljammers? Yes, of course you do. Well." He grabbed a piece of paper from the box, scrawled a few indecipherable words on it. "Got to follow the system," he remarked conspiratorially to Teldin. "Would you like them all at once?"

"What?"

"All the books," Fazin explained patiently. "Would you like them all at once, or maybe an easy hundred at a time?"

"What?" Teldin demanded again.

Fazin shrugged. "I assume you want all the information we have on the one-and-only-Spelljammer," he pointed out. "All the books and scrolls in the archive that mention the one-and-only-Spelljammer, well, there must be thousands of them. Now, would you like them all at once?"

"No, no, no," Teldin almost shouted, raising his hands. He struggled to calm himself. "Look," he went on more quietly, "I know there are lots of rumors about the Spelljammer- rumors, myths, legends… What I'm looking for is the truth. Do you have anything like that? Like maybe…"-he gestured vaguely-"like maybe a single book that lists all the things about the Spelljammer that are most likely to be true?"

"An interesting request," Fazin mumbled. "A very interesting request. You know…" His face suddenly lit up. "Do you know, I recall someone making a similar request, oh, it must be almost two years ago now. A purple gentleman with things on his face." He put his hand against his chin with his fingers pointed down, and wiggled them.

Teldin stared, then he smiled. "Did the gentleman give you a name?"

Fazin shook his head quickly. "I think he was in too much of a hurry," he said, "and I didn't want to press him, if you know what I mean."

Teldin nodded slowly. So Estriss was here, almost two years ago, he mused, researching the Spelljammer.

Or, at least, some illithid was, he quickly corrected himself. The odds favored Estriss. From what others had told him about run-of-the-mill mind flayers, another illithid would probably have just taken what it wanted and killed Fazin in the process. But it wouldn't do to count on that fact.

"Did the gentleman find the books he wanted?" the Cloak-master asked.

Fazin nodded. "Two of them," he confirmed. "He was quite impressed with them." He shrugged. "He read many more as well-he was quite a demanding patron, I'll tell you that-but I recall he, um, 'said' that only two were worth the parchment they were scribed on."

That sounded promising, Teldin thought. "Could you please bring me those two books, then?" he asked.

"Certainly, certainly, right away." Fazin indicated a leather-upholstered wingback chair. "Make yourself comfortable. This won't take long." And with that he turned and scurried away.

Teldin watched his retreating back with a half smile. Gnomes, he thought. They'll do anything for you… if you can get them to do anything at all. He settled himself down in the chair Fazin had indicated-it was surprisingly comfortable, he found-and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. He guessed it was less than five minutes before the gnome reappeared in the doorway… empty-handed.

Teldin sighed. "What else do you need me to write down?" he asked tiredly.

Fazin looked confused for a moment, then shook his head. "No, it's not like that at all," he explained. "The books you wanted aren't in the stacks." Teldin blinked. "Not on the shelves where they're supposed to be," the gnome elaborated.

"Has someone borrowed them?"

"Borrowed them?" Fazin asked in outrage. "Let people borrow them? Never. All the books here are so important we'd never let them outside the building, no matter how much people requested us to change our policies-"

"Anyway," Teldin interjected forcefully.

Fazin stopped and visibly changed mental tracks. "Anyway," he said, "the books are missing. Stolen, probably, or maybe lost."

Probably the latter, Teldin corrected mentally. "Do you often lose books?"

"Not often," the gnome stated. "Misplace, yes. Lose, no. And the number of misplaced books will go down when we bring in the new indexing and retrieval system-"

"But at the moment," Teldin cut him off, "the books are…"

"Gone," Fazin finished for him. "Not here. Not available. So sorry."

"Both of them?"

"Both of them."

Teldin thought about that in silence. How likely was it- really-that both of the most valuable books about the Spell-jammer were accidentally missing, and simultaneously at that? It was remotely possible, but far from probable. How much more likely that somebody who was also searching for the mysterious ship had decided owning the books would be much more convenient than reading them in some library waiting room? He slumped in his seat. He'd put so much hope in his quest to Crescent, he realized, even more than he'd thought. After all, wasn't the Great Archive supposed to be the largest repository of knowledge anywhere? And now the two books he wanted were missing….

Wait a moment, he thought. Paladine's blood, two books Two books out of the greatest library of them all? That shouldn't be catastrophic, should it? Books were often written based on information taken from other books; Sylvie had told him that once. Mightn't he be able to find the earlier books on which these had been based? Why not? Anything was possible; and anything was better than just giving up.

He jumped to his feet. "Take me to the indexing system," he told Fazin.

The gnome twitched as though he'd been pinched. "The indexing system? That's off-limits, it's not allowed, it's against all the rules, and for good reason, too…."

"Where is it?" Teldin demanded. He strode toward the door. "I know it's through here somewhere."

Fazin darted around Teldin's legs and stopped in front of him, drawing himself up to his full height of three and a half feet. "No, you can't," he said firmly. "It's more than my job is worth."

Teldin hesitated. For a moment he considered just pushing the gnome out of the way, but then he crouched down so his cornflower eyes were on a level with Fazin's green ones. He rested a hand heavily on each of the gnome's shoulders. "I need to see the indexing system," he said quietly. "Now, will you take me to it, or do I have to tear this place apart until I find it myself?" .

For a moment, Teldin thought the gnome was going to resist, but then he saw all the fight drain out of the Second Assistant Third Backup Vice-Librarian's Aide (Day). "I'll take you," he sighed. "Just don't cause any trouble. It's getting so a gnome can't get through a day without someone coming in here and throwing his weight around. I tell you, this job is harder than ever I thought…" Without any break in his monologue he turned around and led Teldin deeper into the labyrinthine Great Archive.