The corridor was dark as Teldin made his way back toward the cabin he shared with the gnomes. Normally corridors and companionways were lit by small oil lamps mounted in brackets on the bulkheads, but now the brackets were empty. The only light came through open doors, and that was the shifting, colored light of the flow flooding in through portholes. Teldin wasn't sure if it was this dim but constantly changing illumination or his own weakness that made him sway almost drunkenly as he walked.
He could hear the conversation before he reached the cabin and found himself grinning. Although he couldn't distinguish the words, he recognized the tune. Dana's voice dominated, and from her tone he could tell she was voicing her displeasure about something aboard the Probe. Maybe it was the food again, or the way the ship's weapons master wouldn't let her adjust the action of the heavy ballista, or maybe it was something new. He had to give Dana credit: she had a gods-given ability to find something wrong with everything.
Rather surprisingly, the conversation cut off as he opened the door. The two hammocks were occupied by Miggins and Dana, while Horvath sat cross-legged on a cushion of folded canvas. Teldin stifled a sigh. The way his body felt right now, he needed a rest, and sacking out on the floor just wasn't comfortable, but what could he do?
Before he could lower himself to the deck, however, Dana had swung herself out of her hammock… anticipating by an instant Miggins's attempt to do the same thing. The younger gnome shrugged and resettled himself comfortably.
Dana flopped down on a bundle of sails in the corner. "Take it," she said gruffly, indicating the hammock. Not once did she look up or meet his eyes.
Wordlessly, Teldin clambered into the hammock and relaxed with a sigh. He didn't know what to make of Dana's actions, but as a farmer he knew the inadvisability of looking a gift horse in the mouth. He glanced surreptitiously over to Miggins, hoping the boy would give him some clue, but the youth's smug smile didn't tell him anything-or, at least, anything he wanted to know, part of his mind admitted. He shook his head as if to clear it.
The chaotic light of the flow poured into the cabin, washing the bulkheads with ever-changing veneers of color. Under other circumstances, Teldin might have found it beautiful, even somewhat hypnotic. Now, however, it made him feel edgy and a little claustrophobic. Looking around, he saw that the cabin's single oil lamp wasn't burning-why should it be?- but at least it hadn't been removed like the ones in the corridor. "Can't we cover the portholes?" he said a little peevishly. "Here, I'll light the lamp." He reached for the steel and flint he always kept in his belt pouch….
He didn't even see the gnome move, but suddenly Horvath's hand was like a steel band around his wrist. "No!" Horvath said sharply. "No fire."
Teldin looked at the other gnomes. They were all staring at him in horror. "All right," he said reasonably, "no fire, but why?"
Horvath still held his wrist, but the grip had loosened from its initial viselike tightness. "We're in the flow," he explained in a tone he'd reserve for a child or a congenital idiot. "We're in the phlogiston. Don't you know what that means?"
"Obviously not," Teldin replied. The gnome's manner irritated him somewhat, but he was sensible enough to realize that he'd been about to make some major mistake. "What's-" he stumbled over the word "-flegisten?"
"Phlogiston" Horvath repeated. He finally released his grip, leaving Teldin to rub his bruised wrist. "The flow is phlogiston."
"Which is… ?" Teldin prompted.
"Merely the most flammable substance in existence," Horvath said heavily, "flammable and explosive. Why do you think there isn't a light burning in the entire ship?"
Teldin didn't answer. Instead, he remembered Aelfred's actions on the bridge when the Probe had been preparing to move through the open portal. The first mate had said something about "flow stations"… then he'd extinguished the lantern over the chart table. At the time, Teldin hadn't attached any significance to it.
Horvath wasn't finished. "Do you know what would have happened if you'd struck a spark just now?"
Teldin felt a cold stirring in the pit of his stomach'. "What?" "You might well have blown your hand off," the gnome told him flatly. "At the very least, you'd have suffered a nasty burn, at the worst killed yourself, depending on how good your steel and flint are. That's why, when a ship's about to enter the flow, an officer always goes around to make sure everything's at 'flow stations'-no lights, nothing burning. Spacefarers are full of tales about ships being destroyed because the cook didn't know the ship was leaving wildspace and hadn't quenched his stove."
"I've got an idea for a flow-stove…." Miggins piped up, but immediately fell silent again under Horvath's harsh glare. Dana snorted. "That oversized lout of a first mate didn't believe we understood about flow stations."
Horvath's hard expression softened slightly. "Nobody told you that?"
"No," Teldin said, shaking his head vigorously. "I suppose they assumed I already knew it."
Horvath frowned. "Sloppy, that was," he said. "Never assume anything with dirtkickers." He patted Teldin's wrist reassuringly. "My apologies for my anger, Teldin. The fault was theirs-and, I suppose, ours-not yours."
Teldin shook his head. So close… "The phlogiston is really that flammable?" he asked.
"All that and more," Horvath assured him. "Why, my father was trying to invent a phlogiston bomb, a sealed flask of phlogiston with a fuse attached. Never managed it, may his soul rest in caverns of gold." The gnome placed a respectful hand on his chest.
With supreme effort, Teldin choked bad a chuckle. He tried to keep his voice casual and amusement-free as he asked, "Did the bomb work too well?"
Horvath shot him a hard look, then his eyes twinkled and a grin split his face. "No, that's not the way of it. The bomb proved impossible simply because you can't bring phlogiston inside a crystal sphere, no matter what you do. No, my father died well, may the gods rest him, of old age with his family around him."
"I'm sorry," Teldin told him.
The gnome shrugged. "Why?" he asked, a little surprised. "My father's free of the troubles of the world. It's us that have to face them still. I only hope my end is as peaceful." He patted Teldin's wrist again. "Now, you came here to sleep, I warrant, and we're keeping you awake with our talk. We're on watch again soon, so we'll just leave you now." He winked knowingly. "Enjoy it while you can. I hear you'll be back on duty again tomorrow."
*****
As the Probe cruised silently through the chaos of the flow, Teldin slept fitfully. His dreams were short, transitory things, but nonetheless disturbing. Night-black scavvers the size of the ship hurtled at him, or tore at the bodies of Aelfred Silverhorn, Sylvie, or the gnomes. Lort, the crewman devoured by the monster, stood before him, sheathed in his own blood, silently reproachful. Estriss, the mind flayer, stood on the forecastle, silhouetted against the brilliance of the phlogiston, trying to strike a light with Teldin's flint and steel.
In his hammock, Teldin writhed and moaned.
Finally, though, the images faded as he sank deeper and deeper into the well of sleep. Both his body and mind became still….
*****
Space. Velvet blackness and distant stars. Teldin felt as though he were hanging motionless in the darkness of the wildspace the Probe had recently left. He had no body; there was nothing corporeal about him. There was no consciousness of physical existence, not even of thought in the normal sense. He was simply untrammeled perception. Experience impinged on his senses, and he recorded it but felt none of the normal process of analyzing that experience-nor any need for such. He was alone.
Then no longer. With senses more acute than those any corporeal being could ever possess, he saw…
Something-a Presence-was moving against the blackness, eclipsing the stars. It was as black as the backdrop of space, without any discernible boundaries. The only way he could even be sure of its presence was the way in which stats winked out of existence as it moved before them, then reappeared after its passage. There was no way he could gauge the size of the Presence, out here with nothing to measure it against. As with the portal that had opened before the Probe, it could be something small nearby, or of unimaginable size at great distance.
For an unmeasurable time, sight was the only sense to which the Presence registered. There was no sound, no awareness of heat or cold. Then, as though his incorporeal body had somehow been granted another, more delicate sense, he felt something.
There was a sense of questing, as if a powerful intelligence were seeking something.
The capacity for thought returned, and with it came fear. Never had Teldin felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Was the Presence seeking him, he wondered. How could he shield himself from so great a creature?
As suddenly as it had come into being, the new sense was stripped from him. Only sight remained, then even that seemed to be wrenched away. The stars vanished from around him, and absolute darkness enfolded him….
*****
In his hammock aboard the Probe, Teldin flinched as his eyes sprang open. His body was cold, his clothes damp with sweat. His labored breathing rasped loudly through his dry throat. The terror from his dream remained, but the details of what he'd experienced instantly faded. Within a few pounding heartbeats, he could remember nothing. He'd been in space-he remembered that much-but what then? Nothing; he could recall nothing….
He looked around him to find the cabin empty. The rainbow light of the flow still washed in through the porthole. How long had he been sleeping? He had no way of telling. It could have been hours, or only minutes. His mind wasn't rested, he knew that, but at least his body felt stronger than it had since the fight on the forecastle. He settled his head back down and closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep a little more, clear the quickly fading tendrils of fear and confusion from his thoughts.
But it was no good, he decided almost immediately. Sleep had flown, and he knew enough about the way his body and mind worked to realize that it would be useless to pursue it.
A little cautiously he swung himself from his testing his balance. There was no trace of dizziness, he noted with relief. Whatever treatment the crew of the Probe had given him had certainly been effective. He left the cabin and made his way on deck.
By the time he was outside, even the remnants of fear left by the dream had gone. He remembered being afraid, bur no amount of mental searching could bring back any recollection of what he'd been afraid of.
The main deck was empty, but he saw movement on the sterncastle. Probably just the catapult crew… but right now he felt the need for conversation with someone, anyone. He started to walk aft, but a booming call stopped him.
"Hoi, Teldin!"
He turned. Aelfred Silverhorn stood on the forecastle, silhouetted against the nightmarish sky of the flow.
"Just what the hell are we going to do about those gnomes of yours?" Aelfred bellowed down at him good-naturedly. "I caught that young one putting a lock on my cabin door, because he figured as first mate I deserved one." The warrior snorted. "Not too unreasonable an idea, but when he was trying it out, he locked himself in and had to take the door off its hinges to get back out."
Teldin stifled a chuckle. "So, how's the lock?" he asked innocently.
"I don't know," Aelfred shot back, "he didn't finish it. He got interested in 'improving' the door hinges he'd removed, and that's when I kicked him out of there. I had to get one of my own artificers to hang the bloody door again." He barked with laughter. "Now I know why you arranged for those pirates, just to get you away from the gnomes. Want to come up?"
Teldin grinned. "On my way." He went up the ladder to the forecastle fast, testing his level of fitness. He was gratified that he felt no reaction to the exertion.
Aelfred nodded approvingly, obviously understanding what Teldin had done. He slapped the smaller man heartily on the shoulder. "Feeling fit again?"
Teldin nodded with a smile. "Aye," he said, mimicking his large friend's boisterous manner. "Got any scavvers you need dealt with?"
"Scavvers, is it?" Aelfred laughed. "Well, maybe you can kill us two or three for dawnfry. If you're feeling frisky, there's something more important for you to do." His bantering manner faded. "What's your experience with the short sword?"
Teldin shrugged-a little warily, because he thought he knew where the burly warrior was leading. "Some, when I was in the army."
The mate snorted. "Everybody who's ever joined an army gets 'some' experience with the sword. Any training?"
"Some," Teldin repeated. "I learned some simple moves, mainly from bored soldiers who had nothing better to do than teach a novice some of their skills. Are you feeling bored, Aelfred?"
Aelfred chuckled dryly. "Bored enough," he answered.
"Bored enough to teach you some real swordplay, something that'll maybe save your precious skin." He slapped at his left and for the first time Teldin noticed that the big man had on sword sheathed at his side. Aelfred noticed his glance. "Oh, aye, the deck crew's all armed now. Void scavvers don't often travel in schools, but it does happen." He turned and bellowed to one of the crewmen who was oiling the windlass ranked back the heavy ballista. "Hoi, Gendi. Toss me your weapon." The man in the turret hesitated. "Come on, toss it here," Aelfred repeated. "You don't have to worry about scavvers with Teldin around."
The man smiled and drew his sword. He gripped it by the thick forte of the blade and with an easy underarm toss lofted it, hilt first, toward Aelfred. The polished steel reflected a riot of colors. With the utmost nonchalance, Aelfred reached up, and the hilt slapped into his hand. He reversed the weapon and held it out, grip toward Teldin.
"Take it," he instructed. "Well, take it." Teldin grasped the proffered weapon. "Now look at it. Closely. Feel it."
Teldin followed his friend's instruction. He adjusted his hand around the grip. It felt quite different from the sword- Lort's sword-he'd driven into the scavver. That weapon had possessed a smooth grip, wrapped in something that felt somehow both smooth and rough-perhaps sharkskin, which he'd heard was a common wrapping for sword hilts. This weapon's grip was metal, the same golden metal as the pommel and guard-probably bronze, he thought. It was ridged, worked into a complex pattern of scrolls and leaves. While he thought that it might become uncomfortable in protracted use, he had to admit that the ridges made for a sure grip and that the depressions would probably be good to prevent sweat or blood from making the hilt slippery. The cross-guard-or quillions, sprang the word from some deep recess of his memory-curved forward and branched. The inner branches came within a finger's span of the blade's edges, presumably to trap or break an opponent's blade and, so, disarm him. The blade itself was oiled steel, shiny and clean, with a razor-sharp edge along almost the full length. The blade thickened and became blunt only within a hand's span of the quillions. The thick portion of the blade-the forte-was etched with a delicate pattern similar to that on the grip. Toward the extreme point, the blade thickened slightly, but the point itself looked as sharp as a needle. He swung the weapon back and forth gently, using only his wrist. He guessed it weighed two or three pounds, with the balance point way back in the forte, near the grip. Finished with his examination, he looked expectantly up at Aelfred.
The warrior had drawn his own weapon, holding it lightly, with a loose wrist. "Two things to remember about the short sword," Aelfred said. "First, it's a thrusting weapon, more precise than a broadsword. It doesn't have the heft to just hack away, like with a meat-axe, but if you put your weight behind the point, it'll go through most armor like it's soft cheese. Second, the point is mightier than the edge… but the short sword does have an edge. If you get an opening for a cut, take it, but keep it small, controlled. Like this." With the speed of a striking snake, Aelfred straightened his wrist from its partially bent position. Steel flashed like quicksilver in a short arc-a total distance less than the length of Teldin's forearm-and stopped as sharply as if it had struck a solid object. In even that short swing, the blade whistled. "See?" Aelfred asked. "Short, controlled. With a good edge, that's enough to split a man's skull. Try it."
Teldin gave the weapon a flip with his wrist, trying to imitate the big man's motion. The blade moved, but not nearly as fast, and it didn't stop sharply but continued its swing almost a hand's breadth beyond where Teldin wanted the swing to end. He felt his cheeks tingle a little in embarrassment. With his hours behind the plow and hewing wood on the farm, he figured his wrist should have been strong enough to do better. Aelfred didn't notice his discomfiture-or if he did, the warrior chose to ignore it. "It's leverage," he explained. "That sword doesn't weigh much, but it's spread over two feet of blade. Does your wrist hurt?"
Teldin flexed the wrist experimentally. Yes, it did, he noted with surprise-and even more embarrassment. The tendons along the side of the wrist, the ones that continued down from his little finger, were slightly sore.
"There's not much the average person does that uses the same muscles swordplay does," Aelfred continued. "You want to know how to tell a swordsman? Look at my wrist." Transferring his sword to his left hand, he extended his right arm to Teldin.
Teldin looked. The tendons of the warrior's wrist were thick and ridged, even with his hand relaxed. Aelfred clenched his big fist, and the tendons stood out like ropes of steel. He turned his hand so Teldin could better see the side of his wrist. From the edge of his hand down into his forearm, the ligaments and muscles under the skin showed pronouncedly, as hard as rock.
"All it takes is lots of work," Aelfred grinned. "If you want, I'll show you some exercises later. For now, defend yourself."
Standing square to Aelfred, Teldin bent his knees slightly in what he thought might look something like a fighter's crouch. A little self-consciously, he lifted the sword and held it out directly in front of his chest.
So fast that he hardly saw the big man move, Aelfred shot his empty right arm forward and poked Teldin painfully in the center of the chest with a thick finger. Instinctively Teldin brought up his empty left hand to block the thrust, but much too late. Aelfred's arm flashed again, this time grabbing Teldin's left hand in an immobilizing grip. The warrior looked down at the hand he held in feigned amazement.
"What's this?" he asked scathingly. "Trying to stop a thrust with a bare hand? Are you so tired of that hand that you want it chopped off? Well, you're run through the heart, so it doesn't matter anyway." He let Teldin's hand go with the same revulsion he'd show for a dead fish.
Teldin's face burned with embarrassment. "I didn't want to hurt you," he muttered.
"I wouldn't have let you. Trust me on that."
"All right," Teldin said with a sigh. "What am I doing wrong?"
Aelfred laughed. "What aren't you doing wrong? First, your stance is too open. You' re giving me your whole chest and belly to rip open if I want to. Turn like this." His hard hands took Teldin's shoulders and turned him until he was side-on. "There," he went on. "Smaller target area, right? Oh, aye, you'd fight more open if you had a dagger in your offhand, but one thing at a time, eh?" He grasped Teldin's right wrist and started to move the arm. "Relax," he growled. "Don't fight me. Bring your elbow down more. There." He stood back to examine his handiwork.
Teldin's elbow was lower, close against his right side. "Forearm parallel with the ground," Aelfred instructed. "Wrist straight and strong." The warrior's empty hand flashed again, dealing Teldin a stinging slap on the back of his left hand. "And get that left hand back. You're just asking to have it cut off. Tuck it under your belt if you have to."
Teldin nodded. With his forearm level and his wrist straight, the sword's blade angled upward and out, with the point on a level with his eyes. The position was very natural, he found, even comfortable. For the first time he started to feel like a swordsman… or at least a reasonable facsimile.
Aelfred stood back, appraising him. After a moment, the big man nodded his satisfaction. "Good," he growled. "Now the thrust. It's like this." With the sword back in his right hand, he lunged with a speed that belied his size. His sword point flicked out fast and hard as he took a short step forward. He recovered instantly, returning to the ready position so fast that it almost looked as though his arm had stretched. The fluid grace of the movement astounded Teldin.
"Watch the footwork this time," Aelfred instructed. "Watch the step forward." He repeated the motion. "The step extends your reach, but it also puts your weight behind the point. Got it?"
Teldin nodded.
"You try it, slowly. I'll talk you through it." He stood beside Teldin and took the smaller man's right wrist in his big hand. "Start with the wrist like this. Extend the arm, but keep the wrist straight." Teldin tried to relax, to let the seemingly inexorable force move his sword hand forward. "As it comes forward, you take a short step forward flow. Got it? See how it makes you shift your weight so it's behind the blade?"
Teldin could feel the logic behind the moves. Even in slow motion, he felt the weight of his torso reinforcing the movement of his arm. "I've got it," he said.
Aelfred released him. "Have you, now?" he asked ironically. "Then I want you to kill the mainmast."
"What?"
"Do it!" Aelfred barked. "It's going to tear your face off and eat it for dawnfry. Kill it!"
Teldin heard a muffled chuckle from the crewman who'd lent him the sword but forced himself to ignore it. He stepped toward the mainmast until he was what he felt to be the right distance away and lunged.
It felt like he was doing everything right. The sword struck the thick mast… but not with the point. The blade had turned slightly out of true, and the flat of the blade glanced along the side of the mast. The impact-heavy, with his full weight behind it-bent his wrist back painfully, and the sword clattered to the deck.
"What happened?" Aelfred sneered. "Did the mast disarm you? No. Did you keep your wrist straight like I told you?"
"No," Teldin mumbled, cradling his sore wrist against his belly. "I bent it."
"Too bloody right, you bent it," Aelfred roared. "Pick up your sword and do it right. Pick it up!"
With a muttered curse, Teldin picked up the word. He knew that Aelfred's feigned anger was a tactic used by military trainers everywhere, but that didn't mean it stung him any less. He dropped back into the ready position and poised on the balls of his feet. The weight of the sword hurt his wrist, but he tried to force the pain from his mind. He tried to concentrate, tried to slip into the state of focus he'd felt before, but it wouldn't come. Why not? he found himself wondering. If Estriss was right, and the concentration was some power of the cloak, why couldn't he summon it now? Was it something that happened only when he was in real danger? Or had it nothing to do with the cloak at all?
"What are you waiting for?" Aelfred asked, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Waiting for the mast to come up and impale itself? Do id"
Teldin took a deep breath and lunged. At the last instant he remembered: straight mist. His arm shot out, backed by the full weight of his body. At the moment of impact he expected a jolt of agony in his wrist, but it never came. Straight and firm, the joint took the impact with no pain or problem. With a solid thunk the sword drove deep into the mast.
The lunge had felt good, he realized. Everything worked, and it felt smooth, almost natural. He looked at the sword, buried in the mast at chest-height. A full hand's breadth of the blade had sunk into the seasoned ironwood. He let go of the sword-giving the handle a slight tug to the side as he did so, so that the weapon quivered and sang. He pulled himself to rigid attention and snapped Aelfred a perfect salute the way he'd learned in the army. "The mast is dead, sir," he barked.
He held the salute while Aelfred struggled vainly not to laugh. The warrior slapped him on the shoulder. "Good for you, lad," he chuckled. "Nice thrust. We'll do some more work on this later." He paused. "Tell you what, head on down to the officers' saloon. I'll join you as fast as I can. I feel the urge to buy you a drink." In perfect parade-ground style, he returned Teldin's salute and barked, "Dismissed," then he turned to the crewman who'd been watching everything with some amusement. "Well, Gendi? Aren't you going to come and get your sword?"
*****
Teldin had come to appreciate the officers' saloon as a place to relax and to think. It was a comfortable room, much more so than any other cabin aboard the Probe. There was a single central table, large and circular, built out of a slice from the trunk of a great tree. The pale orange wood had, been oiled and polished to bring out the complex grain structure, and Teldin found it beautiful. All his life he'd had an appreciation for the carpenter's art and enjoyed the feel, of good wood and carving tools in his hands. At times he'd wished that his circumstances had been different, that he'd had time to devote to honing his skills. When-if-he ever returned home, he firmly intended to make himself a table like the one in the saloon.
The chairs that surrounded the table were covered in rich burgundy leather. The seats and backs were only slightly padded-probably with horsehair, he imagined-but their angle and form made them more comfortable than some of the deeply padded chairs he'd seen on his travels. There was a two-seat couch of the same construction against the forward bulkhead, and a small liquor cabinet-locked, with the only keys in the possession of the senior officers-in the corner just aft of the door.
The main feature of the officers' saloon, and the thing that attracted Teldin most of all, was the huge oval porthole mounted in the outboard bulkhead. This porthole filled the entire length of the bulkhead, more than the height of a man, and rose from the deck to the overhead. The crystal that filled it was quite different from the glass he'd seen in some windows on Krynn. While that glass had been rippled and uneven, distorting the view through it, this was smooth and uniform. It was thick, though; he could tell that from the fact that everything seen through it took on the faintest tinge of green. The crystal didn't feel like glass, either. A glass window would have been slightly chill to the touch. This, in contrast, seemed to have no temperature at all, and when he ran his hands over it, they left no streaks or fingerprints. The port was divided into panes: a central circle, like the pupil of an eye, surrounded by half a dozen curved segments.
During the voyage through wildspace before reaching the crystal shell, Teldin had found himself drawn to the saloon. He had often come here and drawn up one of the chairs in front of the port. Sometimes for hours he'd sat there, staring out on the blackness of space and the stats, given the faintest green tint by the crystal. There was beauty out there, he found. Not the beauty of the rugged mountains or rolling, golden-waved plains that he'd known on Krynn, but a pristine, crystal cleat beauty that he found endlessly fascinating.
There was peace out there, too, peace for a troubled soul. There was danger in wildspace, he knew-the gnomes and Estriss had told him so, and he'd seen it for himself-but when he looked out on its perfection, that danger seemed less emotionally burdensome. Seated here, with the stars spread out before him like a mighty tapestry, he could think and he could remember without the pangs of fear and sorrow that so often almost overwhelmed him. Particularly when he was supposed to be sleeping.
Sometimes when he'd come here, there had been others in the room: officers sitting around in low-voiced discussion. All had been friendly enough, even when it was apparent that he didn't want to join their conversation, and they'd had the sensitivity not to disturb him when he drew up his chair and turned his back to them. Perhaps they felt the same wonder he did. In fact, he was sure that another-perhaps more than one-did much the same as he did. When he was done with his introspection, he'd always returned his chair to its original spot. Sometimes when he had entered the saloon, one of the chairs had already faced the port.
He was well familiar with the officers' saloon and approved of Aelfred's suggestion of it as a place to talk.
When he entered the saloon now, however, there was already a figure there. Estriss sat alone at the table, a goblet set before him. Teldin knew that the mind flayer didn't drink alcohol or even fruit juice, so he assumed the goblet contained either water or some illithid concoction. Teldin opened his mouth to greet the captain, but the creature beat him to it.
Welcome, Estriss said. Come, join me. He indicated a chair. I saw your practice on the forecastle, the creature continued as Teldin took the offered seat. Aelfred Silverhorn is a good instructor, and you will gain much from his tutelage.
"I need to," Teldin admitted.
The illithid's facial tentacles moved in a sinuous pattern that Teldin had tentatively identified as equivalent to a smile. Perhaps. Estriss raised his goblet into the midst of the tentacles, and Teldin heard a slurping sound. I thought perhaps we might continue our earlier conversation, the mind flayer continued. You must have questions.
Teldin hesitated. There was one thing he'd been wondering about…. Since he had come aboard the Probe, Teldin had referred to Estriss as "he," though he was never really sure of the creature's gender. "Are you male?" he blurted.
There was a booming laugh from the doorway. Both human and illithid turned.
Aelfred Silverhorn stood in the doorway, a broad grin on his face. "When I saw you were both here, I figured you were talking of weighty matters," he said, "and I walk in on this." He paused, then replied to a silent comment from Estriss, "Don't mind if I do. One for Teldin, too?" He sauntered over to the liquor cabinet and unlocked it. "Pray continue. Don't let me interrupt you."
From the burning in his cheeks, Teldin knew he was blushing furiously. Estriss seemed unaffected… but how could Teldin recognize embarrassment-or outrage-in a mind flayer? "No offense," he muttered.
None taken, Estriss replied immediately. Curiosity is understandable. You wonder, quite naturally, about my sex. Simply put, I have none, not in the biological sense. Any individual of my race can bring forth young, and with no participation from another individual. I have often thought that this is the single knot that most sets my race apart from yours. Think how much of your culture derives born sexual origins, from the necessary interaction between males and females. My culture has none of this. The illithid paused. But I digress. In answer to your question, strictly, I am not male. Neither am I female. But, since I am not currently generating an offspring, and will not consider it in the foreseeable future, you may think of me as a male.
"Except in one important point," Aelfred cut in as he set a pewter goblet down in front of Teldin. "Estriss won't try to steal your girl." He settled his bulk into a chair and lifted his booted feet up onto the table. He raised his own goblet. "Health, to both of you."
"Health." Teldin echoed the toast and took a tentative sip from the goblet. The sharp, somehow smoky taste and the tingling of his tongue identified the drink at once. It was a liquor called sagecoarse, distilled-so Aelfred had told him-from an extract of the plant bearing the same name. Neither drink nor plant was native to either Toril or Krynn. Apparently the burly first mate had discovered the liquor on some backwater world in another sphere, had developed a taste for it, and had ever since made sure he had a good supply available.
"It's an acquired taste," Aelfred had told him when he'd first poured him a sample, on Teldin's second day aboard the Probe. Teldin could easily accept that, but had wondered why anybody would bother. Now, however, after a few more opportunities to sample the liquor, Teldin found he didn't mind the flavor and rather enjoyed the sharp, tingling sensation it caused on his tongue. He'd never had any great penchant for hard liquor, though, and that attitude certainly wasn't going to be changed by sagecoarse. Whether or not it was unsophisticated-as Aelfred jokingly claimed-he still preferred a foaming tankard of good ale.
The mind flayer's silent words brought him back to the present. Teldin wished to discuss the arcane, Estriss said. He has-the illithid paused-a curiosity about the other races of the universe, as he has just shown. Estriss fixed Teldin with a white-eyed look.
The significance of neither the pause nor the look was lost on Teldin. Estriss was clearly leaving it up to him whether or not he told Aelfred anything about the cloak. Teldin hesitated. He trusted Aelfred, but if he broached the subject now, he'd be bogged down in what, at the moment, were irrelevancies. He could always tell Aelfred later. "That's right," Teldin said smoothly, "I'm curious. Tell me about the arcane."
It was Aelfred who answered first. "Merchants," he grunted. "Traders. Gypsies of space. It doesn't matter who the customers are. If there's money in it, they'll deal."
Stripped of the negative emotion, Estriss continued, the statements are accurate. The arcane are a race of humanoids- blue of skin and perhaps twice your height, but otherwise not that different in appearance from humans.
"Maybe to an illithid," Aelfred snorted, but his quick smile robbed the words of any offense. "Wait till you see one, Teldin."
They are traders, Estriss continued patiently. It is the arcane who are the suppliers of virtually all spacefaring technology used by my race, by yours, and by most other races in the universe. They build ships for the beholder nations, passage devices for the lizard men, planetary locators for the Elven Imperial Navy, and spelljamming helms for all and sundry.
Teldin tried to keep his bewilderment from showing on his face. Estriss had casually tossed out names and concepts as though they were well known… which they probably were to people familiar with spacefaring. Teldin had heard legends about beholders and could-with a mental stretch-imagine the eye tyrants cruising the universe in ships of their own. But an Elven Imperial Navy? There was no way he could reconcile so grand a concept with the few soul-weary refugees from Silvanesti that he'd met. The rest-passage devices and all- were just so many meaningless words.
If he were to show his confusion, he knew Estriss would quite likely explain each concept in detail and never get around to the arcane. He kept his peace.
As Aelfred has stated, Estriss was continuing, if their price is met, the. arcane will deal with anyone… with one exception. They will not trade with the neogi. He paused as if waiting for a response.
"Well, that's reassuring," Teldin offered weakly.
"Oh, aye," Aelfred said sarcastically. "The arcane won't trade with neogi, but they will trade with others, knowing full well that their customers are going to turn around and sell the goods to the neogi. I have no love for the arcane, I'll tell you that." He sighed, and his anger faded. "But it's true that we depend on them. Where do you think people like us buy the helms to run our ships? From the arcane. It's the only place you can get 'em. The blue ones are a necessary evil."
Teldin digested this for a moment, then asked, "Where's their home? Do they have their own planet?" He looked meaningfully at Estriss.
We presume they must have, the mind flayer answered, or that they once did have, but its location-or perhaps its fate- is known only to the arcane….
"And they're not telling," Aelfred finished. "Oh, various groups have tried to find out. Some want to know just because they're curious, others because they think the knowledge will give them power. Maybe they think they can blackmail the arcane or something like that. Others, I'm sure, want to find it so they can conquer it, and then they'll own all the arcane'; technology or magic or whatever it is that lets them create spelljamming helms. I like that one," he scoffed. "As if a race with that much power is going to let anyone just waltz in and take over."
"So the arcane are powerful at magic?" Teldin speculated.
Aelfred shrugged. "I guess they'd have to be. Spelljamming helms aren't technological, not the way you're probably thinking. If the arcane can create them-which, I suppose, isn't a sure thing-that means they're capable of enchanting powerful artifacts."
Teldin found himself fingering the hem of the cloak. He took his hand away quickly. "The arcane's world," he went on. "Nobody's found it?"
"Not even a clue," Aelfred said positively. "Nobody even knows what crystal shell it's in, or even if it exists anymore. There are legends, of course. Just about every group that's ever had dealings with the arcane has some kind of folk tale about them."
"Tell me some," Teldin said.
"Well…" The warrior thought for a moment. "There's one that the arcane's world isn't in a crystal sphere at all, and that they've hidden it off somewhere in the flow. Impossible, of course. Then there's the one I like. According to a thri-kreen legend, the arcane traded their home world to some elder god for the Spelljammer-you've heard of the Spelljammer?" Teldin nodded, controlling his impulse to look at Estriss. "Well, the legend goes on that the arcane couldn't control the Spelljammer and that they somehow caused their world to fall into its sun, destroying it. That's why they're interstellar vagabonds."
"Do you believe that?" Teldin asked.
Aelfred looked a little scornful. "Of course I don't. It's just a good story."
Teldin allowed himself a sidelong glance at Estriss. "So where would you go if you want to meet an arcane?" he asked casually.
"Anywhere," Aelfred replied offhandedly. "You're as likely-or as unlikely-to find a space-gypsy in any port city on any world in any crystal sphere as… Or, at least, any world that knows about spelljamming," he amended.
"How about on Toril?" Teldin suggested.
It was Estriss who answered him. There are probably many arcane on Toril. I have met one in Calimport and another in Waterdeep. I hear rumors that they run an open trading post at a place called the Dock in the Wu Pi Te Shao Mountains, but I doubt this is true. He paused. Since they almost invariably work through human intermediaries, and reveal their presence only when it suits them to do so, there may be arcane in many cities of Toril.
Teldin digested that for a moment. "What about… where is it we're going?"
Rauthaven, the illithid responded, then paused. I have heard from travelers that at least two arcane dwell on the Beacon Rocks, northeast of the city, in the Great Sea. I am almost certain that there will be an arcane in Rauthaven, if only temporarily.
"Why?" Teldin wondered.
Because of the auction I wish to attend. It seems likely that the arcane will be interested in many of the same artifacts as I am, and that they will send at least one representative to view them… and perhaps bid to acquire them.
"They're interested in the Juna, too?" Teldin asked in surprise. Before Estriss could answer, he went on, puzzled, "But I thought you said the arcane inherited their powers from the Juna in the first place. If that's true, why would they be interested in old stuff that a collector's had for years?"
Estriss was silent for a moment. His facial tentacles writhed, seemingly about to tie themselves in knots… and Teldin realized he now knew what illithid embarrassment looked like. That is my theory, about the origin of the mane's knowledge, Estriss admitted finally, but the arcane I have spoken with deny it, though such a secretive race would probably deny it even if it were true. In fact… The illithid's mental voice slowed down, as if he were unwilling to go on. In fact, the arcane I have spoken with claim to consider all my theories about the Juna as so much foundationless speculation. There was no such race as the Juna, they claim. He raised a three-fingered hand as if to forestall Teldin's next question. Certainly, I believe that if there is an arcane in attendance at the auction, it will lend some credence to my beliefs.
Teldin shook his head. He was convinced there was a logical flaw in the illithid's argument somewhere, but he didn't feel the urge to pursue it. Estriss was entitled to his own beliefs-even to his own monomania, because that's what his research was starting to sound like-and while Teldin found the theories interesting on a casual level, the main issue came down to finding an arcane.
That, Teldin was sure, was very important. Despite the illithid's apparent belief to the contrary, Teldin was more and more of the opinion that the arcane were the "creators" he'd been sent to find. The only way he could think of to confirm this was to talk to an arcane-a situation that would represent its own risks and problems, of course. If Estriss was right, there would be an arcane in Rauthaven… and it might be better if he let the mind flayer think that's what Teldin expected. If not, it shouldn't be too difficult to get passage to the Beacon Rocks. After all, after a voyage from one world to another, how difficult could it be to get to some islands? And if the tales of arcane on the Beacon Rocks proved false, then Aelfred should be able to tell him how to get to Calimport or Waterdeep.
His reflections were interrupted by the loud clanging of a bell, apparently from on deck. He heard running footsteps in the corridor.
Aelfred catapulted out of his chair and flung open the saloon door. "What?" he bellowed.
A crewman who'd been running by-it was the old man, Shandess, Teldin saw-stopped to answer. "Ship ahoy, sir, approaching fast."
"What ship?" Aelfred demanded.
"Lookout says deathspider, sir."
Aelfred nodded. "Battle stations," he ordered. As Shandess ran on, Aelfred turned to Estriss. "Captain?"
Illithid and human left the saloon together. Teldin sat alone in the wash of flow-light, a cold fist of fear tightening on his heart.