The Broken Sphere (6 page)

*****

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 Cloakmaster 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.”