The Broken Sphere

by Nigel Findley

  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 handspan 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 a
nswered. 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 spelljamming 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.