by David Cook
Gomja hesitated again. “Well, no, sir. It belongs to the dwarves. We – I mean, the giff don’t really have a home. I’ve always lived wherever my sire’s – my father’s – platoon found work. Mostly that was on Dalweor’s Rock, I guess.”
“Does that book say anything about the neogi?” Teldin interrupted. He had not come this far to chat with a curious Aesthetic. He wanted information.
“Nee-ogi?” the monk intoned. He plunged back into the folio’s pages. When he resurfaced a few moments later, his face showed no sign of success. “Astinus says nothing of them here.”
Teldin dropped the question. He did not want to explain who or what the neogi were to this monk. It just did not seem prudent. “So the gnomes of Mount Nevermind might know more about spelljamming?” And my cloak? Teldin thought.
“It would seem so,” Maltor confirmed as he stood to put the book away. “As I said, more than one of these ships has visited there.”
“Where is it?” Teldin demanded, following the librarian.
“Mount Nevermind? Why, on Sancrist Isle. It is the homeland of the gnomes.” Maltor puffed himself up, showing off a little of his own scholarliness. “The gnomes are a remarkable and underrated people – a little impractical, perhaps. They design the most cunning and amazing machines. With that alone, they may be able to help you.”
“There’s nothing else here?” Teldin asked with a slight touch of desperation. He pointed to the rows upon rows of books. Sancrist was a long sea journey away, beyond the shores of Ansalon. Going there would only take him farther from his home.
“Not according to Master Astinus,” the monk replied as he unsteadily climbed the ladder and replaced the book. “You must go. There is nothing more we can do.” Maltor descended again and led the two visitors out of the library’s depths. He went bustling down the hall, frequently checking to see that Teldin and Gomja still followed him. However, the library, with all its side rooms and stacks, no longer interested the farmer. The audience with Astinus and Maltor’s research, however unsatisfying, were all that had interested him. Neither he nor the giff made any attempt to wander.
As they drew closer to the exit, a tall, brown-robed Aesthetic, the first Teldin had seen in the halls on the way out, hurried their way. Instead of passing by on some mysterious errand, however, the man called out as they neared. “Master Maltor!” the tall Aesthetic nearly shouted. “Master Maltor – at the door, more of them!’
“Eh?” remarked Maltor, coming to an abrupt halt. Wiry and nimble, Teldin stepped to the side, barely avoiding a collision. Gomja was not so quick and plowed into Maltor’s back, almost sending the Aesthetic sprawling. The doorkeeper shot Gomja a vituperative look, though his tongue-lashing was stayed by the arrival of his fellow Aesthetic.
“Master doorkeeper,” the newcomer said urgently as he approached, “there are more strangers at the door, demanding admittance. They want to see these two.” The tall man nodded toward Teldin and Gomja. “The strangers even described our visitors!”
“Vandoorm!” Teldin breathed. He looked up at Gomja. The giff nodded in agreement. “Damn, he moves fast!” Teldin could only guess that the captain, once he and his men had recaptured their horses, had ridden the mounts to death to reach Palanthas so quickly. Maltor could not help noticing the urgent looks that passed between his two guests.
“Do they still wait outside?” the doorkeeper inquired of his fellow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell them to wait, then, Tamros,” Maltor explained. “Their friends will be coming soon enough. Send a boy for the city guard. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Tamros said weakly.
Maltor gave the novice a gentle clap on the back. “Good. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Do as I told you.” The lesser Aesthetic nodded and hurried back in the direction from which he had come.
Satisfied that the man was carrying out his orders, Maltor turned back to his guests. “I assume these men are not friends of yours.”
“No, sir,” Teldin practically spat. “Vandoorm’s a mercenary. He and his men tried to kill us last night.” While the farmer spoke, Gomja peered out a window, trying to get a view of the front entrance.
“I see,” mused Maltor, the nervous tic returning to his face. “You understand that I am under no obligation to help you.”
“I am ready to fight them, sir,” Gomja offered, drawing himself up to his full seven-foot height.
Maltor sighed. “This would not be good. If I show you another way out, will you leave and never visit us again?”
“You have my word,” Teldin eagerly accepted.
“Then follow me this way – to the servants’ entrance.” Maltor turned and began walking hack down the hall.
“Come on, Gomja,” Teldin hissed, “and keep the knives put away. There’ll be no fighting today.”
“But, sir!” Gomja protested. “We can still hear them!”
Chapter Eleven
Maltor closed the small gate to the kitchen gardens behind him, leaving Teldin and Gomja standing on a quiet side street well away from the front entrance to the Great Library. The lane was narrow and crooked, lined by courtyard walls occasionally pierced by windows and doors. Somewhere children kicked a ball around the dusty alley, their voices reaching the strange pair by the gate. Carefully looking up and down the small lane, Teldin reassured himself that none of Vandoorm’s men was watching.
“Just where are we going, sir?” Gomja asked. The giff purposely included himself in the question.
Teldin prepared to deny the giff’s implied request, then paused, remembering Gomja’s performance of the previous night. When the giff could have deserted and left Teldin to Vandoorm, he had not. Instead the creature had taken a chance. “We … are going to Mount Nevermind.”
“Where is that, sir? Someplace called Sancrist, didn’t the fat one say?” A pleased grin already began to play across Gomja’s face.
“Sancrist lies west of here, over the ocean – or so I’m told,” Teldin explained. “It’s where a good deal of the Whitestone army came from.”
As they walked, they reached a small well at an alcove, and Teldin stared down at the still water. It had been weeks since he had seen his reflection. Looking at it now, the farmer saw that his sun-bleached brown hair had grown longer and was wild and unruly. Dirt smudged his face and two weeks ‘worth of stubble covered his chin. His good looks were almost obscured by grime. “I’ve heard it by report. Never been there myself,” Teldin added absentmindedly as he rubbed at the dirt on his chin.
“And Mount Nevermind?” Gomja scooped up a dipperful of water and slurped at it noisily. Liquid dribbled out of the corners of his mouth.
Teldin stopped his preening. “A gnome hole, apparently, judging from what the Aesthetic said. I’ve never heard of it. Of course, I never met any gnomes during the war – they mostly kept to themselves, manning the catapults out along the bay.”
Gomja gulped down his water. “I’ve heard they travel among the stars. My sire – I mean, father – once told me ‘Never sign on a gnome ship.’ Their captains are supposed to be mad and their ships —” Gomja paused for a moment, at a loss of words – “are unique.” He grimaced at the thought then, drying his mouth, seemed to wipe the expression from his face.
“It doesn’t sound as if you’ll have much of a choice, and neither will I,” Teldin pointed out. “It’s the gnomes or nothing.”
“Yes, sir,” Gomja answered glumly.
Taking the lead again, Teldin continued toward toward the main street. The children at their game still shouted loudly behind him. “Here’s our plan. First, we get away from here. After all, Vandoorm’s smart enough to look around back. Next, we get a room, because I want to get cleaned up.” Teldin ticked each point off on his fingers. “Third, we go to Sancrist.” The farmer paused at that point. “If I remember rightly, folks got there during the war either by flying or by sailing. Wouldn’t know any dragons would you?” the human sarcastica
lly asked.
“Oh, no, sir,” Gomja answered earnestly. The giff’s face was solemn.
Teldin winced at the alien’s earnest naivete. “Then I guess we sail,” he allowed through chuckles. “To the waterfront, then.” Teldin pointed forward, then suddenly stopped just as they reached the street. “Gomja, make sure that blanket is wrapped tightly around you. We’ve already made things too easy for Vandoorm.”
“I wish I didn’t have to, sir. It’s hot and itchy.” Gomja moaned. There was a touch of a whine in his voice.
“Too bad. It’s an order,” Teldin answered sternly. “Like I said, we’ve already made things too easy for Vandoorm.”
“How so, sir?” Gomja asked, his voice muffled as he pulled the cloth well over his face.
“Well, first we didn’t exactly make it a secret that we were coming to Palanthas to see Astinus. And then I let you parade around the streets instead of keeping you out of sight. A blind child could have found us! From now on we can’t afford the risk of trusting anyone – no matter how well we know them.”
“I don’t know anyone here, sir,” Gomja pointed out.
Teldin ignored the comment and stepped back to look at his partner. “Pull your sleeves down – try to cover your hands as much as possible,” he ordered, tugging things into place. The dark, rough cloth completely concealed Gomja’s features. Once again the giff had been transformed into a gigantic, hulking specter of doom. “It was made for you,” Teldin snidely commented, unable to resist.
“Let’s hurry, sir.” A gigantic sneeze shook the fabric. “It’s hot, and it itches my nose,” complained the voice inside.
“To the waterfront, then,” Teldin said cheerily. “An inn and a ship, in that order. And if all else fails, we can become street comedians!”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” muttered Gomja from deep inside his cowl.
*****
Teldin plopped onto the bed in their room. The hostler of the Golden Dory had been wary of letting his place to such a strange pair. Teldin’s eastern accent easily marked him as a stranger to Palanthas, and the cloaked giff hadn’t made matters any easier. Still, Teldin doubted the innkeeper would have given them a room at all if he had seen Gomja uncovered. As it was, it took some hard bargaining, along with a few well-timed growls from the giff, to secure lodgings. Only the farmer’s assurances and a little extra steel soothed the man’s fears.
Up in the room, the human thought and planned while the giff shrugged his way out of his cloak. With a whooping gasp, like a swimmer breaking the surface, Gomja cast the tentlike mantle into a corner. “Thank the Great Captain!” he cried, glad to be out of his confinement. Gomja carefully unbuckled his sword, then sat on the floor with a resounding thud. “What next sir?”
Teldin looked up, roused from his thoughts. Fingers poised before his lips, he considered their choices. “A bath and a shave, then I’m off to find a ship.” Gomjas mouth opened, ready with an offer to come along, but Teldin cut him off. “You’re staying here. It’ll be easier that way. I’ll arrange for the innkeeper to bring up a meal. Stay in the room. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir” Gomja answered sullenly, his eyes downcast. “But I should go with you – I’m your bodyguard.”
“Since when?” Teldin countered firmly as he pulled off his boots. He did not want an answer, so he continued before the giff could give one. “And if you answer the door, make sure you’re covered up. We don’t want to give some poor servant a fright.” Teldin opened the door and stepped into the hall barefooted. He stuck his head back in the room and added, “Now, I’m going to see about hot baths.”
Later, a clean-shaven and scrubbed Teldin sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. A laundress had even managed to get some of the grime out of his clothes, though his pants were still damp as a result. Going to the table, the farmer studied his reflection in the water basin. Teldin looked unchanged, except for haggard circles under his eyes and a few singes and bruises, as if none of his adventures had ever occurred. He was back, once again, to his handsome self. The farmer finished dressing, then paused and mentally adjusted the cloak, reducing it again to a small collar. Teldin had heard of cursed treasures that plagued their owners and could not be lost or removed. If the cloak was cursed, at least it was accommodating.
“I really should go with you, sir,” protested Gomja for the umpteenth time.
Teldin only shook his head. “You’re too obvious. I’ll have to be on the watch for Vandoorm.” The giff only frowned. “Look, Gomja, if I’m alone, I can avoid him, but you’ll stand out like a torch in the night. Even with the cloak there aren’t many people as tall or as broad as you.
“Then at least take a sword, sir,” Gomja urged.
Again Teldin shook his head no. “I’m no good with them. I’d more likely hurt myself in a fight. Besides, carrying swords in Palanthas makes people nervous.
“Well, at least that’s something I can do,” the giff said with a petulant sigh. “I would be glad to teach you how to fight, sir.”
Teldin rubbed his smooth chin, considering Gomja’s offer. Until last night, the farmer had always assumed he would be able to handle himself in a fight. He could brawl with the best of them, but a real battle, like the previous night’s massacre, showed how much he really needed to learn. The violence of actual bloodletting was frightening. Swordsmanship was not one of the arts he had learned with the Whitestone army. After all, no one expected mule skinners to fight.
“Agreed,” he said, “but not right now.” The giff gave a wan smile, proving he was mollified in some small way.
Teldin finished with his preparations and left the room, pausing outside long enough to be certain that Gomja did not try to follow. Satisfied that the giff was following his instructions, Teldin left the inn and headed for the waterfront. He warily watched along the way for any sign of Vandoorm or his men.
Walking along the quays, Teldiri was amazed by the number and variety of ships. He could hardly tell that Palanthas had suffered through two wars in recent memory. Perversely, those wars, the War of the Lance and the Siege of Palanthas, which had threatened to destroy the city, only managed to bring greater prosperity. During the War of the Lance, the threat of blockade had forced the ruling lord to spend vast sums improving the harbor and its facilities. The second war, marked by Kitiara’s invasion, reinforced the need to maintain the port, and the Lord of Palanthas had paid greater attention to his harbor ever since.
Palanthas had been a large port before, but now it was even larger and busier. Coasters, fat, round-bottomed ships from Kalaman, Caergoth, and Eastport, were tied next to the tall and graceful elven caravels. The shimmering silken banners of the Silvamori ships were, in turn, a contrast to the gaudily decked little cogs from Hylo. That the kender ships, with their crazy patchwork of “borrowed” parts and endless streams of multicolored sails, could float at all seemed like something of a miracle to Teldin.
“How do I know where they sail?” the farmer asked himself. “Or when they sail?” There were so many ships bobbing against the wooden piers that Teldin did not have a notion of how or where to start. He leaned on a piling, elbows resting on top, chin cradled in his hands. During the war it seemed there had never been enough ships coming to Palanthas. The threat of siege had hung over the city. Now there were too many. The port was alive with strange vessels and stranger crews.
“Well, my boy, find a gnomish ship,” Teldin finally resolved. He began walking up and down the quay. He had no idea what kind of ship gnomes would use, but he guessed it would be little. They were not a tall people, so it stood to reason that they would not have a big ship.
Teldin walked the length of the marina without any luck. There were small ships, particularly kender vessels, but they looked distinctly unseaworthy. Teldin didn’t care if those ships were going to Sancrist. He wasn’t about to sail on one of them. Finally he gave up and called to one of the porters hauling a bundle aboard a salt-stained galley. “Where can I find a
ship to Sancrist?” Teldin shouted over the noise of the laborers.
The sweating worker stopped and let his load crash onto the dock. “The Hall of Merchants, where else, ye big lubber!” the man said, pointing toward a large, white marble hall at the far end of the waterfront. “All ships in port register there.” Before Teldin could thank him, the man heaved the bale onto his shoulder and turned away. The farmer ignored the man’s attitude, picked his way through the wagons waiting to be laden, and headed to where the man had indicated.
The Hall of Merchants was a guildhall, the headquarters of the masters who controlled trade in and out of the city. Teldin’s greeting at the hail was barely more courteous than the porter’s. The yeoman felt distinctly out of place and spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon being passed from one apprentice clerk to another. Finally, just before Teldin’s patience gave out, a thin-nosed scribe looked over the top of his dog-eared register and said in answer to Teldin’s inquiry, “I think there is one going for Sancrist tomorrow. Let me see – the Silver Spray, it is.”
“That’s just fine,” Teidin exclaimed with a sigh of relief. “Where can I find it?”
The clerk peered from under his visor to look skeptically at Teldin. “The Silver Spray is an elven ship. I don’t think they will take passengers – at least not you. You are – human.”
“Tell me where to find it,” Teldin demanded. He was in no mood for lectures by an apprentice money-counter.
“Her, not it,” the clerk corrected, tsking under his breath. “The big pier at the end of the main avenue.” He consulted the register before him. “She flies a banner of a silver wave on a field of green.” The apprentice held his hand out, expecting payment for his minor service.
Teldin ignored the man’s greed. Even if he could afford to leave the clerk a gift, he was in no mood to be generous. Without a thanks, he turned and left. Behind him the clerk slammed the register shut, punctuating it with a loud huff that echoed through the marbled hall.
