“As he said,” continued Maltor, “there are other spheres floating in this phlogiston, but each sphere is supposed to be separate from the others. It says here that each is like a crystal orb, enclosed and independent, with whole worlds to themselves.” At this point, even Maltor could not suppress a tone of skepticism about his master’s words.
“So how does Astinus know all this?” Teldin demanded. The whole explanation sounded cockamamie to his ears.
Maltor threw up his hands. “How does Master Astinus know anything? He just does-but, from my reading, it seems the spheres beyond our own are unknown to my master. Of these other worlds he apparently knows only what has been reported by travelers.”
Teldin’s mind was starting to reel with confusion. He pushed away from the table and ambled a little way down the dust-clogged aisle. “Travelers? More than just Gomja?"
“Quite a few, from these records,” Maltor noted by tapping at a page. Apparently this was not the first ship to visit the gnomes of Mount Nevermind. The place is something like a port on an ocean. These travelers reach Krynn by the method your companion called spelljamming- sailing among the stars and through the phlogiston. The ship that crashed on your farm was such a ship-magically powered to fly through the sky.”
“Like the flying citadels during the war?” Teldin offered.
“I guess, but probably more so,” Maltor speculated. The monk’s scholarly interest was being excited by the very bizarreness of the research. “These ships travel beyond our sky even into the airless reaches of space. However it may be, your companion was part of a spelljamming ship.” The Aesthetic looked at Gomja with renewed wonder, just realizing the implications of his own conclusions. “Where do you come from?”
The giff started, taken aback by the monk’s sudden inquisitiveness. He answered slowly, as if fearful of betraying a secret. “I-uh-signed on at Dalweor’s Rock, sir.” The giff shifted uneasily from side to side.
Maltor seemed to make a mental note of this. “Dalweor’s Rock is your home, then? I am only asking for Astinus’s sake. I mean, just in case he wants to know.” The monk clumsily covered his own curiosity with this excuse.
Gomja hesitated again. “Well, no, sir. It belongs to the dwarves. We-I mean, the giff don’t really have a home. I’ve always lived wherever my sire’s-my father’s-platoon found work. Mostly that was on Dalweor’s Rock, I guess."
“Does that book say anything about the neogi?” Teldin interrupted. He had not come this far to chat with a curious Aesthetic. He wanted information.
“Nee-ogi?” the monk intoned. He plunged back into the folio’s pages. When he resurfaced a few moments later, his face showed no sign of success. “Astinus says nothing of them here.”
Teldin dropped the question. He did not want to explain who or what the neogi were to this monk. It just did not seem prudent. “So the gnomes of Mount Nevermind might know more about spelljamming?” And my cloak? Teldin thought.
“It would seem so,” Maltor confirmed as he stood to put the book away. “As I said, more than one of these ships has visited there.’’
“Where is it?” Teldin demanded, following the librarian.
“Mount Nevermind? Why, on Sancrist Isle. It is the homeland of the gnomes.” Maltor puffed himself up, showing off a little of his own scholarliness. “The gnomes are a remarkable and underrated people-a little impractical, perhaps. They design the most cunning and amazing machines. With that alone, they may be able to help you."
“There’s nothing else here?” Teldin asked with a slight touch of desperation. He pointed to the rows upon rows of books. Sancrist was a long sea journey away, beyond the shores of Ansalon. Going there would only take him farther from his home.
“Not according to Master Astinus,” the monk replied as he unsteadily climbed the ladder and replaced the book. “You must go. There is nothing more we can do.” Maltor descended again and led the two visitors out of the library’s depths. He went bustling down the hall, frequently checking to see that Teldin and Gomja still followed him. However, the library, with all its side rooms and stacks, no longer interested the farmer. The audience with Astinus and Maltor’s research, however unsatisfying, were all that had interested him. Neither he nor the giff made any attempt to wander.
As they drew closer to the exit, a tall, brown-robed Aesthetic, the first Teldin had seen in the halls on the way out, hurried their way. Instead of passing by on some mysterious errand, however, the man called out as they neared. “Master Maltor!” the tall Aesthetic nearly shouted. “Master Maltor-at the door, more of them!’
“Eh?” remarked Maltor, coming to an abrupt halt. Wiry and nimble, Teldin stepped to the side, barely avoiding a collision. Gomja was not so quick and plowed into Maltor’s back, almost sending the Aesthetic sprawling. The doorkeeper shot Gomja a vituperative look, though his tongue-lashing was stayed by the arrival of his fellow Aesthetic.
"Master doorkeeper,” the newcomer said urgently as he approached, “there are more strangers at the door, demanding admittance. They want to see these two.” The tall man nodded toward Teldin and Gomja. “The strangers even described our visitors!”
“Vandoorm!” Teldin breathed. He looked up at Gomja. The giff nodded in agreement. “Damn, he moves fast!” Teldin could only guess that the captain, once he and his men had recaptured their horses, had ridden the mounts to death to reach Palanthas so quickly. Maltor could not help noticing the urgent looks that passed between his two guests.
“Do they still wait outside?” the doorkeeper inquired of his fellow.
‘‘Yes, sir.
“Tell them to wait, then, Tamros,” Maltor explained. “Their friends will be coming soon enough. Send a boy for the city guard. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Tamros said weakly.
Maltor gave the novice a gentle clap on the back. “Good. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Do as I told you.” The lesser Aesthetic nodded and hurried back in the direction from which he had come.
Satisfied that the man was carrying out his orders, Maltor turned back to his guests. “I assume these men are not friends of yours.”
“No, sir,” Teldin practically spat. ‘Vandoorm’s a mercenary. He and his men tried to kill us last night.” While the farmer spoke, Gomja peered out a window, trying to get a view of the front entrance.
“I see,” mused Maltor, the nervous tic returning to his face. “You understand that I am under no obligation to help you.”
“I am ready to fight them, sir,” Gomja offered, drawing himself up to his full seven-foot height.
Maltor sighed. “This would not be good. If I show you another way out, will you leave and never visit us again?”
“You have my word,” Teldin eagerly accepted.
“Then follow me this way-to the servants’ entrance.” Maltor turned and began walking hack down the hall.
“Come on, Gomja,” Teldin hissed, “and keep the knives put away. There’ll be no fighting today.”
“But, sir!” Gomja protested. “We can still heat them!”
Maltor closed the small gate to the kitchen gardens behind him, leaving Teldin and Gomja standing on a quiet side street well away from the front entrance to the Great Library. The lane was narrow and crooked, lined by courtyard walls occasionally pierced by windows and doors. Somewhere children kicked a ball around the dusty alley, their voices reaching the strange pair by the gate. Carefully looking up and down the small lane, Teldin reassured himself that none of Vandoorm's men was watching.
"Just where are we going, sir?" Gomja asked. The giff purposely included himself in the question.