Nigel Findley - The Cloakmaster Cycle 05 - The Broken Sphere

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THE BROKEN SPHERE
Nigel Findley
Copyright 1993 TSR, Inc.
Cover art by Michael Scott.
First Printing: May 1993
Library of Congress Dialog Card Number: 92-61087
ISBN: 1-56076-596-8
Scanned, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: July, 20, 2004
Nigel Findley was born in Venezuela and grew up in countries such as Spain, France, England, and
Nigeria. After years of working as a senior marketing executive, he eventually settled in Vancouver,
Canada, and became a full-time freelance writer. He has published game material for TSR, contributes
regularly to various business and high-tech magazines, and writes screenplays. He wrote Into the Void,
the first book in the Cloakmaster Cycle. The Broken Sphere is his second published novel.
Prologue
The colors of the phlogiston were particularly chaotic in this part of the universe. They rippled and
ran, curdled and swirled like oil paints boiling together in a stewpot, a million million vibrant hues most of
which could only be named by the gods themselves.
In this part of the universe, the crystal spheres—each a "bubble cosmos"—clustered close together.
They bobbed and shifted on the phlogiston tides, too slow to see their motion, yet frenetically rapidly as
these things are usually measured, as if they were the iridescent glass net-floats used by fishermen on a
thousand thousand worlds. They were like pearls of incalculable price catching and reflecting back the
strange light of the Flow.
The pearls were tightly packed here, sometimes separated by less than the diameter of a single
sphere, sometimes by much less.
What would happen if they collided? Many sages of many races had asked that question, yet
nobody could give a good answer. Could they collide, or were they kept apart by some negative
analogue of gravity? Would they bump, then bounce apart like balls in the game known as "pockets,"
played on several planets? And, if so, how would that affect the suns and planets—and the possible
civilizations on those planets—within the spheres? Would the result be planetary catastrophe? Or would
the inhabitants even notice?
Or, perhaps, would the spheres shatter on impact? Few sages supported this latter view... though
many myths included some discussion of a broken sphere...
And through this crowded space, a ship moved, a dark mass against the surrealistic background of
the Flow. The streamers, blebs, and rivers of phlogiston parted before it— unwillingly, it
seemed—flowing back around it, yet giving it respectful berth, before closing once more behind it. The
multicolored phlogiston—or, more correctly, where the phlogiston wasn't—formed a uniform, ovoid
bubble of clear air around the ship. Although the ship moved smoothly, it moved almost unimaginably
fast.The ship was huge, a massive, curved thing, winged like a manta ray the size of a small world, with a
long tail upswept to poise above the great ship's upper surface. Here in the chaotic light of the phlogiston,
it was impossible to tell the ship's color, or even if it had a color. It was like a sharply bounded shadow,
a shape of impenetrable blackness.
The Spelljammer.
That was the name originally given to the great ship by the elves—if the elves could be trusted to
speak truly, on a matter as important as this—and the name subsequently given to all lesser ships that
sailed the spaceways. The Spelljammer—subject of countless legends, myths, and barroom tales, most
of them conflicting. It was the greatest spacefaring ship ever built—if, indeed, it was built—and the
fastest, created by the gods as a test for the faithful, or a scourge for the unbeliever. Or perhaps it had
been built by a mysterious race, long vanished from the universe, or created by a fiend from the Lower
Planes, traded to an ambitious race in return for their collective soul. Or maybe it had been spawned in
an entirely different universe, with its own array of crystal spheres. It was captained and crewed by...
Who knew? On this topic, too, the legends contradicted each other. Was it captained by a god, with
lesser immortals as its crew? By a demon? By a mortal, who'd won the honor through epic feats of
bravery? Or was the mighty ship without captain and crew, and with no need of them?
Serenely unconcerned by the confusion and discord centering around it, the Spelljammer cruised
silently on.
The massive manta craft changed course, pointing its bow toward the nearest of the crystal spheres.
As it drew closer, the scale of the scene became apparent. The Spelljammer, the largest vessel in
creation and bigger than some worlds, seemed to shrink in comparison to the sphere. First it appeared
like a bird next to a mighty castle, then like a fly to a mountain, finally like a gnat to a whole world. Ahead
of the great ship, the surface of the crystal sphere seemed to be a flat wall of mother-of-pearl, extending
to infinity in every direction, without even a hint of curvature. Here, among the tight-packed crystal
spheres, the scale of mortals and the scales of the gods came into perspective.
A point of brilliance burst into life on the iridescent gray wall before the Spelljammer. Like a star,
impossibly burning here in the phlogiston, it waxed in brilliance, quickly becoming intolerable. It seemed
to expand, though whether that was the case or not, or whether the great ship was diving toward it, was
incidental. From a dimensionless point it became a small disk of actinic light, growing instant by instant.
Then, at its center, a point of blackness appeared, at first almost invisible in the heart of the radiance, but
swelling rapidly. In an eye blink it became a broad annulus of scintillating light around a disk of blackness
now bespecked with stars.
The Spelljammer plunged through the center of the black disk, out of the Flow and into wildspace.
Here, inside the sphere, were none of the curdled colors of the phlogiston. The darkness of the
space that "planet-siders" call "real" enveloped the huge ship. At immense speed it hurtled away from the
inner surface of the crystal sphere, which now appeared as endless black emptiness studded with alien
stars.
In the center of the sphere—countless millions of leagues from the Spelljammer—there was a sun...
or, more properly, something that had been a sun. Now it was the torn and shattered body of a star,
ripped apart from within by catastrophic forces. Concentric rings of gas expanded out from where the
sun had been. Even though the scale was so great that actual movement was imperceptible— would be
on any time scale measured in less than centuries—the feeling of speed, of inconceivable violence, was
inescapable. Lashed by radiation that sages could only guess at, the gas fluoresced in eye-piercing greens
and violets.
About a quarter of the way out from the center of the nebula were two tiny white blobs, each only
the smallest fraction of the size of the gas clouds. Before the star had torn itself apart and vented its fury
on its children, these two blobs had been planets, the largest of thirteen. Now only the two
remained—the others had vaporized almost instantly— and even they were burned to cinders, scoured
of all life.
And, at the very heart of the nebula, there was something else. Detectable only by senses more
precise than sight, it lurked like a ghost among the radiation-lashed gases: the tiny corpse of the
destroyed star.
The Spelljammer cruised far from the fury of the crystal sphere's center, out where there was
nothing but light and lingering gravity-wave echoes of the star's self-immolation. With mysterious senses,
it scanned the area—searching, always searching.
Myriad thoughts flickered through what some might call the ship's mind, thoughts coupled with
emotions that bore only the barest resemblance to those felt by humans. Sadness, that was the core
emotion, sadness tinged by a sense of loss. There was an overtone of incompleteness, of yearning.
And a strong undercurrent of fear.
Chapter One
Teldin Moore's shoulders slumped. He opened his eyes. True vision replaced the magical, mental
vision that had possessed him for the past—what?—hour?—two? The light faded in his small ship's
cabin; the brilliant glare of molten bronze that had reflected off the few metal fittings dimmed, leaving
nothing but the light of a small, guttering oil lamp. Teldin knew that bronze light well, knew it came from
the traveling cloak around his shoulders. He'd seen it many times over the past weeks.
He stretched muscles sore from holding the same position for so long. Cupped in both hands on the
table before him, he held a simple bronze amulet. He opened his hands and let it fall to the scarred
tabletop. He'd received the amulet... when? In Herdspace, he thought, that strange crystal sphere where
monstrous "megafauna" strolled around the inside of the sphere, and more familiar races made their
homes around the great beasts' footprints, or even on their gargantuan bodies. Hadn't Gaye given it to
him?Gaye. He sighed. Gaeadrelle Goldring, the childlike kender. Whenever he thought about her flashing
eyes, her lustrous hair, or her quick laugh, he felt a sick emptiness inside—a sense that he'd lost
something important to him, but that he'd never known he'd had. Isn't that always the way? he asked
himself cynically. You never recognize the value of something until it's gone.
But just what had he lost' he asked himself again. There'd never been anything between the two of
them, anything significant... had there? He couldn't recall any words of endearment, any moments of
connection.
He couldn't remember anything consciously, at least. But sometimes, when he slept, his dreams
contained tantalizing images: a conversation in his cabin, where words were spoken that he couldn't
remember while awake, and a realization that there was something between them after all.
Teldin shook his head in frustration. Why don't I remember all that now? he demanded of himself.
It's not something I'm likely to forget, is it? It was much more likely that the images were created by some
part of his mind, manifestations of some hidden desire—probably to have someone to trust, he admitted
wryly. That was a luxury that had been all too rare recently.
Still, Gaye was gone. He'd left her behind in Herdspace— at her own request, he amended quickly.
To the best of his knowledge, she was still alive—and he couldn't say that of many people he'd come to
care about over the last months. Who knew? Maybe he'd eventually see her again. The universe was
vast, but destiny seemed to enjoy loading the cosmic dice so that absurd coincidences came up from time
to time, particularly around Teldin Moore.
He held up the amulet, twisted the chain between his thumb and forefinger so the bronze disk turned
slowly.
Outwardly, it was so simple a thing, no more ornate than the cloak he wore. Yet both—amulet and
cloak—were apparently objects of immense magical power. The cloak— the Cloak of the First Pilot, an
ultimate helm—bestowed upon him magical abilities he'd only just started to explore. Most important
among these—if the elves, and the fal named One Six Nine were to be believed—was that it would allow
him to control the Spelljammer, the greatest of all spacefaring vessels and the object of a kind of cosmic
scavenger hunt that included most of the spacefaring races Teldin had ever heard of (and probably some
he hadn't). Apparently the cloak—given to him by a dying reigar, whose spelljamming vessel had crashed
on his farm in Ansalon—marked him as a candidate to be the Spelljammer's next captain.
All he had to do was find the great ship.
That's where the amulet came in. Again, according to One Six Nine and the elves of Evermeet, it
allowed Teldin to "see through the eyes of the Spelljammer"—to see what the vast ship was picking up
with its strange senses. In the times he'd used the amulet, he'd experienced wondrous things: suns and
worlds beyond imagining, all perceived with senses quite different from—and more sensitive than—gross
human sight. This time he'd seen crystal spheres packed so closely that they looked in danger of touching,
and a sun that had apparently blown up like a cask of smoke powder. Eventually, Teldin hoped, he'd see
something he recognized through the Spelljammer's vision—some sphere or world he'd already
visited—and then he'd know where the mysterious ship was.
He rubbed his tired eyes again. That wasn't all that came through the mental link.
Sometimes—usually when he was tired, such as now—he felt emotions coming through the link. They
were strong emotions, but alien ones, difficult to understand.
Emotions. The concept worried him on a profound level. Emotions are a characteristic of sentience,
of self-awareness, aren't they? he asked himself. How can the Spelljammer be sentient? Certainly, One
Six Nine and others had told him that the vast vessel was alive, but how could a ship be sentient, and
intelligent, aware of its own existence, with feelings, hopes, and fears of its own? Impossible. He just
couldn't make that intellectual leap.
Anyway, he reminded himself, one of the emotions I sometimes feel is fear. What could the
Spelljammer have to fear?
No, he decided firmly, the emotions he felt weren't coming from the ship, but from a much more
immediate source. Obviously the amulet was picking up his own emotions— and only when he was tired,
at that, and his mental guard was down. That made a lot more sense. The senses of longing, of loss, of
fear—all were his.
But, then, what about the dreams? part of his mind asked. On a couple of occasions he'd dreamed
of the Spelljammer, and he'd felt emotions then, too. In one case, he'd even "heard" words associated
with those emotions. Something about "others on a ribbon," and great need, wasn't it? Rightly or wrongly,
he found he associated those words directly with the Spelljammer.
He shook his heard firmly, banishing those thoughts. They were just dreams, and what do dreams
have to do with reality? Exactly nothing, that's what, he told himself.
He stood and stretched, felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck pop as he did so. Tired, he told
himself again, too tired for such deep thoughts. Deep thoughts so easily become unsupported fantasies if
you're not paying attention.
As he stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror mounted on the bulkhead. His lips
quirked up in a smile.
What would Grandfather say if he saw the way I dressed now? he wondered. Or, may the gods
forbid, my father? He ran his hands down the sides of his night-black jerkin, felt the soft nap of the velvet
caress his skin. Close-tailored trousers of black cotton disappeared into the tops of black, glove-soft
boots. The cloak—which manifested the most unpredictable color changes—was now black, too,
matching the rest of his ensemble. The unrelieved black of his garb was broken only by the flash of silver:
the lion's-head clasp of the cloak, the jerkin's buttons, the buckle of his broad leather belt—black, too, of
course—and two totally useless buckles on the boots. He had a pair of black gloves—more gauntlets,
actually, reaching halfway up his forearms—to complete the outfit, but they were somewhere in his cabin
with his short sword and scabbard, and the three knives he'd taken to sheathing behind his belt buckle
and in his boot tops when he went groundside.
With a wry smile, he recalled the way he always used to dress: simple, homespun jerkin and
breeches, usually in earth tones, and practical, hard leather boots with stout souls. The dress of a farmer.
But, then, Vallus Leafbower—mage and representative of the elven Imperial Fleet—had equipped
him with well-tailored black garb for his meeting with the rulers of Evermeet on Toril. At the time he'd
thought the getup was ludicrous for someone of his station and background. In retrospect, though, he'd
wondered whether the elves would have shown him the same respect and honor if he'd been dressed as
a dirt-kicking farmer, rather than the wildspace rake he'd considered himself at the time. Probably not,
he'd decided wryly. Accordingly, at his last landfall, he'd picked up a new wardrobe.
He examined his image in the glass again, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. His new beard—closely
trimmed, little more than a narrow band of sandy hair following the line of his jaw—still felt strange to his
fingers.
But it certainly goes with the clothes, he had to admit. With his light brown curls cropped in what he
thought of as a "helmet cut"—short, to fit under an armored helmet—and the beard, plus the black
clothes, he looked quite piratical. Teldin Moore, wildspace pirate, cutlass-for-hire. He snorted.
Still and all, he told himself, I wear the Cloak of the First Pilot, as the elves call it. Why not dress the
part? He flipped his mirror image a mocking salute.
For a moment, he considered going out on deck for a breath of fresh air. The one-compartment
cabin of his ship was small, not much larger than the sail locker he'd shared with the gnomes aboard the
Probe. Sometimes he regretted his decision to set sail alone in a ship tiny enough to be crewed by one
man. While he relished the privacy, and the chance to think without interruption, he frequently suspected
the tradeoffs had been too great. Space was a major issue, but even more important was the fact that he
couldn't put an end to his privacy when he was done thinking his deep thoughts.
Still and all, he reminded himself, you've made your bed and now you've got to lie in it.
After parting with Vallus Leafbower, the bionoid Hectate, and the other members of his last crew,
Teldin had looked into acquiring a private ship. At first he'd balked at the staggering prices of even the
smallest spelljamming vessel. But then he'd discovered, through conversation with a minor ship broker,
that money was the least of his problems. Apparently—thanks to one "Master Captain
Leafbower"—Teldin had a line of credit, backed by the Imperial Fleet, sufficient to buy outright anything
up to the size of a hammership, like the late Aelfred Silverhorn's Probe, or even larger.
A ship that size wasn't what Teldin wanted, however. It hadn't taken him long to spot the vessel that
matched his needs perfectly. The ship broker had acted as though Teldin had taken leave of his senses
when he pointed it out, but that didn't matter. There was something about the old river trader—converted
for spelljamming travel through the addition of a battered minor helm—that called to him. The ship's
background, he'd thought, was probably very much like his: spending the majority of its existence in some
peaceful, bucolic—and definitely terrestrial—setting, and only lately being thrust into the confusing reality
of wildspace, the Flow, and the greater universe.
The trader was short and beamy—not more than thirty feet from prow to stern, and more than half
that in width— with a single square-rigged mast. It had a single communal cabin, with a small, closed
room for the helm at the stern, plus a surprisingly large cargo hold. In answer to Teldin's question, the
broker had reluctantly admitted that the ship could be handled by a single person—though at much
reduced speed and maneuverability—and that had sealed the matter in the Cloakmaster's mind.
The deal was settled, and the next day at dawn he'd set off. With his cloak—the ultimate
helm—glowing sunrise pink at his back, Teldin had listened to the water hissing from the ship's hull as he
climbed away from the harbor. A few quick experiments had confirmed that the decreases in speed and
maneuverability arising from a crew of one were more than compensated for by the incredible control the
cloak gave him. The ship was unarmed, but the Cloakmaster was confident he'd be able to evade all but
the swiftest vessels that might come after him.
And so he'd taken to wildspace in his own vessel—which he named the Ship of Fools, even though
he now was the only fool aboard, alone and—for the first time in a long time—free.
But I'm not really free, am I? he asked himself, stroking the smooth fabric of the cloak. Not while I'm
wearing this.
No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he was still bound, his actions constrained. He'd never
been one to bow to the dictates of destiny without some kind of a struggle, and that wasn't going to
change now. But what could he do? He couldn't remove the cloak; that was part of its magic. And even
if he could, would he? Should he? There were many others in the universe who wanted to command the
Spelljammer—who'd kill for the immense power it represented. Yet he found that he didn't trust anyone
who wanted to be the next captain of the Spelljammer....
Paladine! he cursed through clenched teeth. He hated this. Since he'd first set eyes on the
triple-damned cloak, his actions had been severely limited. While he had, theoretically, freedom to
choose at each decision point, he was still being forced along a particular course by his own ethical and
moral outlook.
Will I always be trapped like this? he asked himself. When do I say "consequences be damned," and
act in my own best interest? He crossed his arms before his chest, his jaw set angrily.
And then he caught another glimpse of himself in the glass. The image brought a half smile to his lips.
Tough-talking Teldin Moore, he chided himself. At least I'm not losing my sense of humor.
*****
He woke with a muzzy head and a foul taste in his mouth. A dull headache had taken up residence
behind his right eye, and his stomach burned with acid.
Again, he thought disgustedly. This is getting much too familiar.
He looked at the earthenware jug on the nightstand beside his cot. He'd neglected to put the cork
back in it, and the pungent aroma of sagecoarse filled the cabin. With hands that could be steadier, he
restoppered the jug. The smell of the strong liquor was still in the air, of course, and continued to make
his stomach churn.
This isn't the way it should be, he told himself.
Not too long ago, Teldin had rather prided himself on the fact that he didn't drink hard liquor. While
sailing aboard the hammership Probe with Aelfred Silverhorn, he'd developed a taste for sagecoarse, but
had felt no need to drink more than an occasional small cup. But now?
He picked up the jug and swirled it, estimating its contents by feel. About a third gone, he guessed,
and it was full yesterday. Is it any wonder I feel like scavver dung?
Even worse, this wasn't the first time. He'd started having trouble sleeping while he was still on
Radole, soon after his parting of the ways with Vallus Leafbower. Even though his body was dead tired,
he'd found he couldn't turn his mind off." Lying in bed, he found himself replaying in his brain all the major
decision points in the course that had taken him from Ansalon to here, trying to find some alternative
choices that would have made things turn out better. Eventually—sometimes hours later—he'd sunk into
a fitful sleep racked by nightmares. He'd awakened unrefreshed, tangled in sheets that his thrashing had
turned into sweat-soaked ropes.
He'd weathered almost a week like this, growing steadily more and more tired, his gritty-feeling eyes
becoming ever more sunken. One night, in desperation, he'd bought a flask of sagecoarse from the inn
where he was staying, and had used it to drink himself into oblivion. Surprisingly, he'd felt better rested
the next day (even though the resulting hangover had been epic). Better yet, he'd seemed to have broken
the cycle. The next several nights he'd managed to sleep without taking a drink and had thought he was
over his problems.
No such luck. The nightmares had come back, as had the hours of staring at the ceiling,
second-guessing everything he'd done since leaving his farm. Again he'd had to turn to the bottle when he
couldn't handle the sleeplessness any further. By this time, he was aboard the Ship of Fools and in
space. Fortunately, he'd had the forethought to include some jugs of sagecoarse among his traveling
supplies.
That had been—what?—three weeks ago now, give or take. While he'd tried to use the liquor
sparingly, only when he felt he couldn't handle the insomnia any longer, his self-control had been slowly
slipping. For the last three—or was it four? or even more?—nights running, he'd hit the sagecoarse hard.
He shook his head carefully, so as not to aggravate the dull ache. This isn't the way it should be, he
repeated.
Slowly he swung himself out of bed. Not bothering to dress, he expanded the cloak to its full size
and wrapped it around his body. He headed out onto the deck, stopping only at the water barrel to wash
the sour, dead taste out of his mouth.
Wildspace in this crystal sphere was cool but not cold.
The air was brisk on his skin through his cloak and cotton undergarments. Although it made his
headache spike momentarily, the relative chill seemed to clear the cobwebs from his brain, giving his
thoughts more clarity. He removed the starchart from its tube and unrolled it, comparing what it showed
him with what he could see over the Foots railing.
This was the major problem with traveling alone, he admitted to himself. Even using the cloak, he
could control the ship only for limited periods before he grew too exhausted to continue. At first he'd
managed only four or five hours before his thoughts started to fog up and his control of the vessel started
to slip. With practice, though, he'd brought himself along so he could helm the Fool at full speed—more
than four times normal spelljamming speed, he guessed, even without additional crew—for more than
twelve hours. In that time, he figured—based on what Sylvie, the late navigator for the Probe, had once
told him— the small vessel could travel more than a hundred million leagues. A literally unimaginable
distance, he thought for the thousandth time, particularly for a know-nothing farmer. That was a distance
equivalent to traveling around Krynn's equator more than seven thousand times in a single day. How
could people ever take spelljamming travel for granted?
Anyway, helming the ship accounted for twelve hours of every twenty-four. The rest of the day was
taken up with the maintenance chores that every ship requires, with charting and checking his course, but
mainly with sleep. During that time the Fool simply drifted. In wildspace, it usually—and "usually" was the
key word—kept to roughly the same course it had held when under power, and maintained a decent
speed. Travel in the Flow was quite another matter, there were rivers, eddies, even whirlpools, in the
phlogiston that could catch the drifting ship and fling it in totally unpredictable directions. Considering,
Teldin was surprised he'd ended up at the crystal sphere he'd wanted to reach.
It had been worth the inefficiency, and the risks, however.
On first leaving Radole, he hadn't had any real plans. He'd just wanted to get away—away from the
elves, away from the bionoid Hectate, away from everyone and everything that reminded him of the
burden on his shoulders. His first couple of days in space he'd spent mired in self-pity, alternately cursing
himself and the fate that had seen fit to afflict him with the ultimate helm. Eventually, he'd rid himself of
these negative feelings as he'd known he would, and was able to concentrate on finding a solution, rather
than just dwelling on the problem.
If he'd hoped to come up with the answer, the one, simple key that would solve everything, he'd
have been disappointed. What he did find, however, was a new way of looking at the matter. Plainly put,
he didn't have to make a decision now—at least, not the central decision, whether or not to become the
Spelljammer's next captain. Even if he were to decide—either in the affirmative or the negative—
exactly how would that change things here and now? If he chose "no," he had to learn how to be rid of
the cloak, and how to keep it out of the hands of those who'd use the Spelljammer for ill. If "yes," he
had to track down the ship. Either course required that he learn a lot more than he currently knew.
Which, of course, nicely defined his next move. He had to find out as much as he could about both
the Spelljammer and the ultimate helm. The question, then, was how?
For a while he'd considered returning to Herdspace to question One Six Nine again, but he'd
eventually discarded that idea. How could he be sure the giant slug-sage was telling him the truth, and not
shading his answers to manipulate Teldin into doing what the fal wanted him to do? Certainly, One Six
Nine didn't seem to have any personal interest in the cloak—and Teldin couldn't envision the creature
wearing it—but did that reflect reality, or just the Cloak-master's ignorance of the situation?
The same argument held for the elves, the gnomes... and everyone else, for that matter. For all he
knew, any sage he approached might have some hidden agenda concerning the ultimate helm and the
Spelljammer itself. No, he had to find some totally objective, uninvolved source of information: a
library—a daunting conclusion for a barely literate farmer, but one he couldn't avoid.
While on the Rock of Bral, Teldin had heard stories about a massive library or archive, allegedly the
greatest repository of knowledge in the universe, located on a world called Crescent in the crystal sphere
known as Heartspace. He'd brought the Fool in for a landing at Remagin, a small port on the world of
Whyst in the same sphere as Radole, to learn more.
Most people had heard at least something about the Great Archive on Crescent, but didn't know
where in the universe it could be found. It took Teldin almost two days to track down a sage who not
only described the way to reach Heartspace, but also sold him a starchart for that distant crystal sphere.
Armed with the information he needed, Teldin took to the spaceways again, setting a course for
Heartspace.
He rerolled the chart and inserted it back into its protective tube. Allowing himself a tight smile of
satisfaction, he rested his hands on the rail, looking forward along the Foots course.
Directly ahead of the small vessel was the sun of Heart-space, the fire body at the center of the
crystal sphere. It was much dimmer than the sun of Krynnspace—so much so that Teldin could stare
directly at it without pain—and it had a cool, brick-red color to it. From what the chart told him, the
sun—predictably called "the Heart"—was more than ten times bigger than Krynn's own sun, a bloated,
tenuous thing reaching the end of its natural lifespan, destined to become a solar cinder in "only" a few
more million years. At this distance, though, it looked only a little larger than the midsummer sun had from
Teldin's north field.
He watched the sun for a few minutes, trying to detect the slight changes in size that gave the
Heart—and, hence, the entire crystal sphere—its name. According to what the Whyst sage had told him,
the Heart "beat" slowly, expanding and contracting by a slight but noticeable margin over a cycle of a few
hours. What must it be like living here, the erstwhile farmer asked himself, under a sun that's not a
constant thing?
If he gave himself enough time, he knew, he'd be able to see the Heart change size. But he didn't
have the patience for that, not now. According to the chart and his own admittedly inaccurate
observations, he was less than a day's travel from Crescent, with the ultimate helm powering the Fool.
Excitement tingled in his chest. If the Great Archive was as wonderful as everyone had claimed, he
should be able to find out—for himself, without any intermediary to distort the information—more about
the mighty Spelljammer. Maybe he'd find what he needed to know to make the grave decision that was
always weighing on him... and further, what he needed to know to actually implement the decision once
he'd made it.
With a final glance at the sun of Heartspace, he turned to go below deck again—to dress, and get his
small vessel underway toward distant Crescent.
Chapter Two
I must be getting jaded, Teldin told himself. A year ago— even a few months ago—I'd have been so
overwhelmed I couldn't move. Now? I'm taking all this in stride.
"This" was the world of Crescent, of course. As the Fool approached the small planet, it appeared
to live up to its name: a bright arc of silver against the black backdrop of wildspace. At first, Teldin
assumed the world appeared this way because the sun was lighting it from an angle—for the same reason
that the familiar moons of Krynn showed different phases. But now, as he drew closer, he realized how
appropriate the small world's name really was.
Crescent actually was a crescent—a curved piece of a world, like a fireapple with a huge bite taken
out of it. The two pointed ends of the strange planet—the "horns," he termed them—seemed fixed in
space, as though attached to a single axis. The rest of the world rotated around that axis, as though, he
realized after a moment, the arc of rock were still part of a spherical planet.
According to his chart, the planet's entire population was concentrated on the curved inner surface of
the arc. Bringing the Fool in closer, Teldin could see why. The outer surface of Crescent was the most
rugged, inhospitable-looking environment he'd ever seen—and that included hellholes such as the
goblinoid planet of Armistice. The land surface was all mountains and craters, split with great cracks and
fractures leagues wide, as though the world had been struck with a cosmic hammer until it had shattered.
There weren't many clouds, but those he could see were moving incredibly fast across the landscape,
hinting at ship-killing winds. The Cloakmaster found himself shuddering just thinking about trying to make
a landing there.
In contrast, the inner surface was downright inviting. There were mountain ranges, certainly, large
enough to be seen from space, but the individual peaks looked immeasurably older, weathered into
smooth, rolling shapes quite different from the knife-edged, needle-summited monstrosities on the other
side of the world. The inner surface was a land of blurred greens and browns, reminding Teldin strongly
of his last view of Ansalon from space, and even of the terrain around Rauthaven and Evermeet on Toril.
What was that? It seemed that there was some feature on the planet's surface that looked much
sharper, more vivid than the blurred surroundings. It looked like a sharp black dot....
It took his mind a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. The black dot wasn't on the
planet's surface at all. It was a ship of some kind, climbing rapidly out of the atmosphere. He watched it
for a few score heartbeats, expecting it to "drift" across the planet's surface in one direction or another.
But no drift was visible, as the ship expanded in his vision—no longer a dimensionless dot, but a shape
with length and breadth. No drift, he told himself. That meant it was heading directly for the Fool.
He felt warmth at his back, like the heat of the noonday sun beating down onto his shoulders. He
knew that the ultimate helm was flaring with power, reacting to his thoughts and his subconscious fears.
The ship—whatever it was—was coming straight toward him. While he knew the unarmed Fool could
outrun and outmaneuver virtually any other ship, that advantage could help him only if he used it....
He frowned at the course his thoughts were taking. Paranoid, he chided himself. You're starting to
see enemies everywhere.
The ship continued to draw nearer. Now he could make out its configuration, the angular,
hunchbacked shape of a wasp. Again he felt the cloak flare to life. No wonder, he told himself. The last
time I saw a wasp ship close up was when the pirates attacked the Unquenchable just off Krynn. He
forced himself to release his control over the ultimate helm's power. No, he ordered himself sharply. If I
run every time a ship closes with me, I'll never get anywhere.
If there was ever any doubt over the wasp's destination, it was gone now. The brutal-looking
ship—painted an unrelieved, drab gray—had slowed and was edging directly toward the Fool. From this
distance, about a spear cast away, Teldin could see motion on the angular vessel's deck. Standing
exposed on deck, he felt vulnerable—a single, well-aimed shot from the wasp's heavy ballista would put
an end to him, and there was little the cloak could do to save him— but he brutally suppressed those
fears. He stood at the rail, feet braced, hands on his hips, and waited.
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 hand-span 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.
摘要：

THEBROKENSPHERENigelFindleyCopyright1993TSR,Inc.CoverartbyMichaelScott.FirstPrinting:May1993LibraryofCongressDialogCardNumber:92-61087ISBN:1-56076-596-8Scanned,formattedandproofedbyDreamcityEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:July,20,2004NigelFindleywasborninVenezuelaandgrewupincountriessuchasSpain,France,En...

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