The Broken Sphere

by Nigel Findley

  Fazin snatched the paper out of his hand, stared in amazement at the half dozen lines of tightly formed text. “By the ineffable mind of Marrak, that was fast,” the gnome muttered. Then he shot Teldin a sharp look. “You’ve used this before,” he accused.

  Teldin didn’t dignify the charge with an answer. “And now …?”

  “And now I go get the books the indexing system specified,” Fazin explained, indicating the slip of paper.

  The Cloakmaster nodded. “While you do, I’ll just run a few more searches.”

  Fazin sighed. “I have the feeling it’s going to be a long afternoon.”

  *****

  Teldin sat back in the large chair, stretched his arms high over his head and heard the cracks and pops as his muscles and joints complained. His right forefinger was sore from using the digitizing tablet, his eyes ached from reading, and his brain felt as if it were full of carded wool. How long have I been here? he wondered. He took in the pile of books on the desktop next to the digitizing tablet, another two on the floor by the chair. His gaze drifted over to Fazin, who sat in an exhausted heap in the corner. I almost wore his legs off, the Cloakmaster thought with a wry smile: ten, or maybe more, trips to and from the stacks, each carrying a couple of heavy books.

  It had been nowhere as daunting a process as he’d expected. When Fazin had appeared with the first couple of books – huge, bulky things of several hundred pages, each covered with closely scribed text – he’d felt himself totally out of his depth. While he wasn’t illiterate, by no means could he classify himself a confident, practiced reader. As he’d stared at the first page of the first book, and struggled to make out the first sentence, he’d begun to despair.

  But then he’d felt the calming influence of the cloak, felt its power insinuate itself into his mind like fine, ice-cool tendrils. The words on the page before him didn’t change their appearance in any way; they remained the same dense, cramped hand. Yet now, suddenly, Teldin knew the meaning of every word simply by glancing at it, without having to pick out each letter individually, sound out each syllable. This must be what it’s like to be able to read fluently, he told himself. But the power the cloak was bestowing on him was even greater than that. Just as he didn’t have to analyze each word, so too he didn’t have to attend individually to each sentence, or each paragraph. Simply by passing his eyes over a page, he knew what the text was saying. It wasn’t as if he could hear the words in his mind; the effect was much subtler than that. From scanning a page from top to bottom – a process that took a couple of heartbeats, no more – he knew the contents of the text, and the intentions of the author, as well as if he’d been familiar with the material since childhood. With a speed that left Fazin gaping in abject awe, he was able to fly through the first two books … and the three after that, and each subsequent load, absorbing their contents almost faster than the gnome could fetch the books.

  He rubbed his tired eyes. The process hadn’t been without its cost. By the time he’d finished with all the books the indexing system could list, he felt as tired as if he’d plowed a field without the benefit of a horse. As he let the power of the cloak fade away, he cringed at the onset of a headache that felt like an ice pick driving into his skull over his right eye.

  It was worth it, he reminded himself. He had more information on the Spelljammer than he’d been able to get from anywhere else. Even though a handful of the books he’d wanted were missing, he was confident he’d filled in the gaps they’d left from other sources.

  Most of the material he’d absorbed had confirmed what he’d already known – that there were hundreds of rumors, many mutually contradictory, about the great vessel, and that nobody knew for sure where it came from or how. But there were some interesting threads that had kept recurring throughout his reading.

  First of all, he could finally understand where Estriss had developed his conviction that the Spelljammer and the ancient race known as the Juna were somehow connected. Nowhere in the books Teldin had scanned was there any categorical statement that the Juna had or hadn’t created the mysterious ship, or even that there was any linkage. No categorical statement … but there was certainly circumstantial evidence. In more than a dozen retellings of ancient legends – drawn from the mythology of a dozen races, from elvenkind to the insectoid thri-kreen – both the Spelljammer and a mysterious, vanished race appeared in close proximity. Sometimes the race was called the Elders, other times the Ancients. In only one case did Teidin recognize the name – in an elven tale, the race was known as the Star Folk – but he could understand how Estriss had concluded that all the legends referred to the Juna. He could also comprehend how the illithid had decided that proximity implied connection: if the Spelljammer and the Juna were mentioned together often enough – even if no direct link was ever stated – there must be some connection. So the illithid’s mind must have worked, at least. Although Teidin himself wasn’t convinced, he had to admit the connection was a good hypothesis.

  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 i
nto 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-conspiratorially, 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 exactly 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 vess
el, 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 Cloakmaster 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.