The Broken Sphere s-5

by Nigel Findley

  With that established, he'd followed a couple of other leads. First he'd read whatever he could about the Broken Sphere.

  There wasn't much, unfortunately-or, at least, much that he didn't know already. There were several dozen legends involving the Broken Sphere, most of which had little or no similarity with each other. Teldin was sure that someone reading the legends normally wouldn't have made any connection between them. Yet the enhanced understanding the cloak gave him let him pick out some basic similarities. Just as it was possible to infer a connection between the Juna and the Spelljammer, he could infer a central thread of truth that formed the basis of all the legends. He thought he could, at least. He didn't understand enough about what the cloak was doing, about its abilities and limitations, to be sure that the central thread existed, and wasn't a product of his own imagination. In any case, he decided to operate on the assumption that his inference was correct.

  Apparently the Broken Sphere, in some tellings, was said to be the origin of many races. There had once been a crystal sphere that had ruptured in a cataclysmic explosion… or so Teldin's inference told him. The matter and energy spewed out by this blast had spread throughout space, littering the cosmos with debris and life forms. The legends claimed that many nearby crystal spheres were moving outward from this explosion, away from the remnants of the Broken Sphere. Theoretically, then-or so certain philosophers hinted-it should be possible to locate the Broken Sphere simply by backtracking the movements of related spheres.

  Theoretically, perhaps. But half a dozen books written by less philosophical sages and scientists claimed that, practically speaking, it was impossible. Rivers and eddies in the Flow had so disturbed the motions of the spheres that such a simple backtracking was doomed to failure.

  Teldin had been surprised to find no linkage between the Broken Sphere and the Spelljammer. No myths or legends made any connection.

  What did that mean? The fal, One Six Nine, had been adamant that there was a connection. Was the sluglike sage wrong? Or had he told Teldin something really significant, given him an important lead that he couldn't have found anywhere else? It bore thinking about.

  He'd then tried to trace the Juna, to find some hint about whether they still existed. At first he'd found nothing: every mention of the Juna, or the Star Folk, or the Ancients, or whatever, claimed they'd long since vanished from the universe-perhaps died out, perhaps moved on (whatever that might mean). No matter what reference he dug up, the result was the same: the Juna were gone. Oh, their works were still around-on the planet of Radole, for example, they'd crafted huge tunnels and caverns leading deep into the titanic mountain range that girdled the world-and their symbols, the three-petaled flower or the three-pointed star, could be found on a hundred planets. But of the Juna themselves there wasn't a trace.

  In a fit of frustration, Teldin had stuck his finger back into the digitizing tablet and quickly traced the trilaterally symmetrical symbol that was woven into the lining of his cloak, then pulled the processing lever. He'd had no idea whether the indexing system could handle symbols as well as words; Fazin hadn't mentioned it, and the gnome had been down in the stacks at the time. For all he knew, he could have broken the temperamental mechanism. When the output slot had disgorged a single reference then, he'd been surprised… and intrigued. And when Fazin had brought him the book…

  Teldin patted his belt pouch, felt the stiffness of a piece of parchment. Nex, he thought, the planet Nex.

  He felt the excitement in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he had something to go on. If the information he'd copied from the book was right, he might have a lead that would eventually answer all his questions.

  He forced himself to relax. No point in getting all keyed up about it now, he told himself. I'll have plenty of time to think about it later.

  Time…

  "Fazin."

  The gnome looked up, an expression of dread on his face. "More books?" he whined.

  Teldin chuckled. "Not this time. I've got all I need." He patted the digitizing tablet. "This thing really works," he mused.

  Fazin was on his feet in a moment, staring hard at the tablet, as though trying to wrest some secret out of it. "I know," he said darkly. "It's never this efficient. Something must be wrong with it…."

  *****

  It was full night when Teldin left the Great Archive. He walked quickly through the streets of the city, under guttering oil lamps and the unfamiliar constellations of Heart-space. Retracing his steps was much easier than finding the archive in the first place, so it didn't take him long to find the wineshop where he'd agreed to meet the half-elf Djan.

  The tables and chairs that had been on the street were gone, and the place looked closed for the night. Guiltily, Teldin glanced up at the stars, as though they'd be able to tell him the hour, as they would in Ansalon. His ignorance of the local constellations made the gesture useless, of course. Even so, he knew he was late. He pushed open the wineshop's front door-it was open, after all-and stepped inside.

  He spotted Djan immediately, sitting at a corner table, immersed in a small book. The half-elf looked up immediately when Teldin cleared his throat, and a broad smile creased his face.

  "Well met, Master Brewer," Djan said, rising. He set his book-open, to hold his place-on the table and extended a hand to Teldin. The Cloakmaster took it, returning the half-elf s firm grip. "You had a busy afternoon, I'd guess."

  "Sorry I'm late," Teldin started.

  Djan waved the apology aside. "No matter," he said lightly. He patted the small leather-bound book. "I put the time to good use. Come, sit." As they both took seats, the half-elf waved to a waiter and requested, "Two glasses of nightwine, late harvest." He leaned toward Teldin mock-con-spiratorially, and whispered, "About the only thing worth drinking on Crescent, I'm afraid."

  The two remained silent as the waiter brought their drinks. Teldin found himself a little uncomfortable, sitting here with the amiable half-elf. What does he want from me? he found himself wondering. He's so friendly, so open….

  He then realized what it was he was thinking. Am I that cynical? he asked himself. Have I become that closed to people, that I don't feel comfortable around someone who acts friendly toward me? I used to relish that; it was one of the things I most liked about Ansalon. How much I've changed….

  Djan raised his crystal glass. Hurriedly, Teldin did the same. "What should we drink to?" the blond man asked. "How about, 'To the successful conclusion of all ventures'?"

  "Sounds good to me," Teldin allowed. He took a sip of the straw-colored wine, let it roll around on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. The liquid was sweet, slightly fruity, but with a tantalizing tang to it. From the warmth he felt as he swallowed, he guessed it was quite potent. "This is excellent," he pronounced, setting his glass down.

  The half-elf nodded. "I think I'm going to miss it," he admitted.

  "Oh?" Teldin glanced at his companion in surprise. "I thought you'd just come home."

  "Returned to Crescent," Djan corrected him gently. "I don't think I'll ever be able to consider this world home, not again." He sighed. "It was a good place to grow up, I suppose, all things considered, but once you've seen the greater universe, it's hard to return to a limited, parochial life, don't you think?"

  Teldin was silent for a moment, considering the half-elf s words. How true is that? he asked himself. Does that mean I won't be able to go home again? With an effort, he forced his attention back to Djan's words.

  "In any case," his companion was saying, "I don't see myself staying here for too much longer. I thought as much when I came back, but I had to be sure. I'll find a ship going somewhere interesting, then shake the dust of Crescent off my feet-probably forever, this time." He smiled at Teldin. "The same for you, I imagine?" he suggested. "If you found what you needed at the Great Archive, of course."

  Teldin resisted the urge to pat his belt pouch. "I think so," he said. He was tempted to tell the friendly half-elf exa
ctly what he had found-the problem with operating alone was that he had no one to share his successes with-but he kept silent.

  If Djan noticed Teldin's reticence, he gave no sign. "Good, good," he said. "Then you survived the indexing system."

  "Barely," Teldin agreed with a laugh. "Gnomes."

  Djan chuckled, too, then they sat in companionable silence for a couple of minutes.

  As he sipped his nightwine, Teldin surreptitiously examined the half-elf over the rim of his glass. He seems so open, the Cloakmaster found himself thinking, so free of worries and fear, so accepting of whatever Destiny hands him. He doesn't really care where he goes, as long as it's interesting. Interesting, Teldin told himself wryly. His approach to life seems so sane….

  "What do you know about spelljamming?" The words were out of Teldin's mouth before he was aware of phrasing the question.

  Djan shot him a quizzical smile. "A little, I suppose," he said slowly. "Maybe more than a little. I was second mate aboard a squid ship merchantman out of Mitreland for almost a year." He raised an eyebrow as if to ask why, but he didn't speak the question.

  Teldin was silent for a moment. Then, impulsively, he asked, "Would you consider signing on as my first mate?"

  Djan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he swirled the nightwine in his glass, watching the slightly viscous liquid form tears on the vessel's inner surface. "What ship?" he asked at last. "And how seasoned is your crew?"

  "No ship, and no crew. I came here in a one-man vessel," Teldin elaborated, "but I'm tired of traveling alone. I want to buy a ship and hire a crew."

  The half-elf nodded slowly. "And your destination?"

  "If you don't mind, I'll tell you once we've set sail," said the Cloakmaster. He smiled tentatively. "I think I can promise you'll find it interesting."

  "The finest selling point, Master Brewer," Djan laughed, clapping Teldin on the shoulder. "Or shall I call you 'Captain' now?"

  " 'Aldyn' will do," Teldin said carefully, "for now." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

  "Ship hunting?" the half-elf guessed.

  "Ship hunting," the Cloakmaster confirmed.

  *****

  Teldin Moore stood on the sterncastle, looking down at the chaos spilling onto the docks from the main deck of the ship.

  My ship, he reminded himself, patting the mizzenmast possessively. It wasn't the first ship he'd owned and mastered-the Ship of Fools possessed that dubious honor, or perhaps the elven swan ship Trumpeter, if you followed the letter of maritime law. But he considered this one to be the first ship that was fully his.

  It was a squid ship-a big vessel, like the hammership Probe had been-two hundred and fifty feet long, from the tip of its piercing ram to the extremity of its fluked stern. It measured twenty-five feet or so in the beam, with two gaff-rigged masts. Armaments included a heavy catapult in a turret on the forecastle and two aft-pointing medium ballistae mounted just aft of where Teldin stood on the sterncastle. Painted red, like almost all the squid ships Teldin had ever seen, the vessel looked as if it had seen hard use. The decking was scratched and stained, and the planking of the hull showed the many repairs of a ship that had survived its share of battles. The whole vessel was… tired-that's the way it felt to Teldin-and it would take huge amounts of labor to get it shipshape, like the Probe had been under Aelfred Silverhorn.

  On the other hand, there was no major damage. Teldin himself had spotted no potential ship-killers-things such as dry rot in the keel, for example, or krajens on the hull-and the more experienced Djan Alantri had confirmed his judgment. The squid ship was spaceworthy.

  I wouldn't have managed this so quickly without Djan, Teldin told himself. It was the half-elf who'd picked out the faded red squid ship as a good prospect. It was he who'd handled the negotiations-after Teldin had confirmed to his own satisfaction that the line of credit that Vallus Leafbower had extended to him was accepted on Crescent-and had shaved a good ten to fifteen percent off the price through hard bargaining.

  Finally, it was Djan who'd volunteered to handle hiring a crew. Tirelessly he'd done the rounds of the harborside taverns and wineshops, recruiting and interviewing, selecting two dozen or so competent sailors he thought would work together well. Teldin had made sure he'd included primary and backup helmsmen on his "shopping list"-the Cloak-master had no intention of revealing the spelljamming powers of his cloak if he had any alternative-but the half-elf had already covered the requirements.

  Teldin-or "Captain Brewer," as everyone called him- stood freely on the sterncastle of his ship, watching his crew load his supplies and prepare the squid ship for space. He shook his head slowly. How I've changed, he told himself. Captain and ship owner? What next?

  A quick chill shot through his heart as part of his mind provided an unwanted answer: Nothing different-just a much larger ship.… He took a deep breath, trying to force his sudden anxiety down to a manageable level. Not necessarily, he told himself firmly, the decision's not been made. There are always alternatives….

  *****

  Before leaving the ship to buy the final, last-minute supplies he'd thought of, Teldin put a few minutes into considering his appearance. For obvious reasons, it wouldn't do to wander the streets of Compact in his black garb. Yet, as "Captain Brewer," master of an armed and provisioned squid ship, the nondescript gray homespun he'd worn to the Great Archive wouldn't do either. After some thought, he compromised, keeping the cut of his real clothes while using the cloak's powers to change them all to gray, and to disguise their costly fabric.

  Apparently he'd made the right decision, he decided as he headed back toward the docks. None of the gray-clad Marrakites had cast him so much as a second glance. In the few ship chandleries he'd visited, he'd been treated with some measure of respect-that befitting a ship's captain-yet if the proprietors had labeled him a stranger, they hadn't made an issue of it.

  He patted the long rosewood box he carried under his left arm and smiled. After visiting the first two outfitters he'd started to despair of ever finding what he was after. Yet he'd persevered, and at the third establishment the proprietor had responded to his questions, not with a blank look, but by presenting the rosewood box he now carried. The price for the device inside was steep, but Teldin had no doubt it would be worth it.

  He'd finally acquired a spyglass, like the one that he'd used aboard the gnomish dreadnought Unquenchable's longboat. He'd thought about the cunning device often, but he'd never had the chance to purchase one until now. He remembered the sense of pleasure he'd felt as he turned it over in his hands in the chandlery, enjoying its substantial weight and its smooth brass finish. He looked forward to showing his new acquisition to Djan.

  The blow came out of nowhere, slamming with stunning force into the side of his head. He staggered back as another fist drove into his abdomen. The world spun wildly around him, and his stomach knotted with nausea. Iron-hard hands grabbed his shoulders and upper arms, almost dragging him off his feet. His back, and the back of his head, crashed against something unyielding. The rosewood box containing the spyglass crashed to the road. For an instant he thought he'd fallen backward, but then he realized he'd been driven against a wall. The hands that had grabbed him now released him.

  Teldin's vision was still blurred. He raised a hand cautiously to the temple where the first blow had struck, and felt warm wetness on his fingertips. His skull still rang like church bells, but at least his vision was starting to clear, the red-gray fog of pain that had descended fading away. He pushed a lock of hair back from his face and looked at his attackers.

  It could almost have been a repeat of his earlier encounter with the angry Marrakites, he thought at first. Facing him were six large men, all dressed in the familiar gray homespun. None had weapons drawn, though most had knives sheathed on their belts. The two who'd dragged him and thrown him against the wall-he could see he'd been pulled off the street a dagger's cast down an alleyway-were backing off from hi
m, watching him carefully.

  No, he realized with a chill of fear. No, it wasn't just like the first time. These men didn't have the sullen, disgruntled expressions of the first group. These had expressions that were cold, emotionless. He'd seen that degree of implacable determination before, but only on the faces of professional sellswords-the hirelings of Barrab, who'd tried to capture Teldin and Rianna on the streets of Rauthaven, for example. He let his hand drop to where the hilt of his short sword should be.

  Nothing was there, of course. The weapon was safely aboard the squid ship. Confident that his nondescript appearance would be all the protection he needed, the Cloakmaster was armed with nothing more than his boot and belt knives. As smoothly as he could, he changed the reach for the nonexistent weapon into a gesture of defiance. He squared his shoulders and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

  "What is your purpose with me?" he asked, injecting a combination of amusement and menace into his quiet voice. Carefully he watched his assailants' faces for their reactions.