Beyong the Moons

Chapter Ten

Gomja clung to the saddle, his legs clamped firmly to the mounts sides, as his horse galloped through the darkness. Aside from being a novice rider, the giff simply wasn t suited to the task. His feet, with their great, round pads, could never fit into the stirrups, nor was his bulk comfortable in the narrow saddle, designed for a human posterior. To make matters worse, the steed labored under Gomja’s weight, barely able to keep up a bone-jarring trot.

Gomja endured this for what seemed like hours. Finally, he shouted to Teldin, who rode ahead, “Sir, requesting orders to dismount and walk!” The giffs words were punctuated by his mare’s jarring steps, each jolt pushing Gomja’s normally deep voice higher.

“Well, I think we’re far enough from Vandoorm to slow down the pace,” Teldin claimed for the sake of his companion. In truth, Teldin was not going to feel comfortable until he was safely within the walls of Palanthas. Vandoorm would catch his horses sooner or later and was bound to come after the cloak.

"If you think so, sir,” Gomja moaned while getting off his horse. Mindful of possible pursuit, though, Teldin rode on at a good pace, forcing Gomja to jog alongside. Still, the giff seemed happier than he ever had while riding.

As the pait continued toward Palanthas, the sky gradually lightened, causing the snowy mountain peaks to glow a rich cerulean. The hues faded and lightened into reds and yellows as the sun rose over the lip of the ridge.

The sun was an hour over the mountains when Palanthas finally came into view. At last feeling safe, Teldin reined in his horse to savor the view of the city from the top of the pass. Teldin had forgotten how — even during the war — Palanthas had been a majestic and inspiring sight.

Nestled in a bowl-shaped valley with its back pressed against the gleaming, blue-green Bay of Branchala, the city had the vague shape of a huge wheel. Concentric streets radiated from the heart, culminating in a massive walled ring pierced by great gates. The wall had long ago proven ineffective at containing Palanthas’s vibrant growth, and the city had tumbled from its confines to climb the surrounding hills and form the maze called the New City.

Teldin pointed to a cathedral-like building standing at the edge of the central square in the middle of the city. “That’s the palace of the lord of Palanthas," Teldin told the giff, indicating one of the sights. "See those low buildings, closer to us, along the road in? That’s the library where the sage Astinus is supposed to stay." Gomja showed only a minor interest in the architecture "The walls are dwarf-built,” Teldin explained tersely. He was slightly vexed that the giff wasn’t paying attention to his descriptions. “They say the walls are among the oldest in the world, built even before the Age of Might.”

“What is that dark tower that stands by itself?” Gomja asked, pointing toward a jet-black structure not far from the palace. The tower was actually one main edifice with two slender supporters, each topped by a blood-red minaret.

Teldiri shuddered as he looked toward where Gomja pointed. He had been unconsciously avoiding the structure. “It’s called the Tower of High Sorcery. Can’t you feel the evil?” The farmer marveled at the way the giff calmly looked at the dark structure.

Gomja shrugged, relatively untroubled by the palpable vileness the tower radiated. “Magic is not the giff way,” was all he could offer by way of explanation.

Teldin accepted the answer and turned his gaze back to Palanthas. He noted, with surprise, a new feature to the landscape. On the far side, outside the city walls, was a huge rock topped by a partial castle. The whole structure sat canted in a field at the edge of the New City. During the war that space had been a drill ground, he recalled. He pointed out the curious structure to the giff, but Gomja only nodded with disinterest.

“It is much like the Rock of Bral,” the giff observed, casually comparing the strange feature to a relic of his home, the void. He looked over the city’s radiating streets. What about inns? Do they have any that serve meals? I don’t think I’ve eaten for days, sir.” Even as he spoke, the blue- skinned alien looked sincerely up at the farmer.

Exasperated but amused, Teldin shook his head. “Yes, of course there’s food.” He rubbed his weary eyes. “To the city then, men!” Teldin finally said brightly, sitting up straight and playfully speaking as if to a thousand men. “First, a horse market to sell this fine steed. Second, breakfast!” Orders given, Teldin led his imaginary army toward the city of Palanthas.

By late morning, Teldin’s purse jingled and Gomja’s belly rumbled pleasantly once again. Vandoorm’s stallion had brought a fine price at the horse fair, though the sale was helped in great part by Teldin’s knowledge of horseflesh and the horse dealers of Palanthas. Years as a mule skinner among the Whitestone forces had not been a total waste, the farmer reflected. The sale provided enough steel for the pair to get by for several weeks, though Teldin was forced to lower the estimate by the time Gomja had finished breakfast. After overcoming their fear of the strange robed figure, the serving wenches had kept the trooper supplied with a seemingly endless flow of fruits and vegetables. Teldin could only take consolation in the fact that at least the giff spurned the more expensive roasts and sausages that were offered.

Teldin fretted as he and Gomja made their way through the streets of the Old City, bound for the Great Library of Palanthas. “How am I going to get in to see Astinus?” he asked himself. “We’re not exactly nobility-we’re not even bathed!”

“Sir?” inquired Gomja.

“Nothing.” Teldin looked up, startled. "I was just thinking. You see, this Astinus, the sage, well, he doesn’t have a reputation for hospitality, and I was just wondering how we were going to get in.”

“Perhaps he will be curious about me, sir.”

“I don’t think the word ‘curious’ applies to Astinus. He probably already knows about you. They say Astinus knows everything and spends all his time writing it down. Supposedly, he wrote all the books in the Great Library.” Teldin shook his head in wonder at the thought. “Not the kind of life I’d want."

“Nor I, sir,” Gomja added. “No fighting. Maybe he will take pity on you, sir.”

“Not likely. The cold fish didn’t lift a hand to help the armies during the war,” Teldin answered with scorn. "He stayed in his library the whole time, writing. You’d think he could have put what he knows to good use.”

Gomja pursed his lips, which were barely noticeable on his heavy jowls. “Bribe?” he finally suggested.

Teldin shook his head. “The Order of Aesthetics, which surrounds him, provides all he needs. We don’t even have enough to bribe the gatekeeper.”

Gomja kept silent, leaving Teldin to his musing, and the two said nothing more until they reached the Great Library. Entering the grounds, they passed through a small park, rich with the growth of late summer. Couples, strolling through the gardens, stopped and gawked at the strange and filthy pair. Teldin paid them no mind; he bore little love for the citizens of Palanthas. He recalled how they had cowered behind their walls while far better men, many his friends, had died defending the city from the dragonarmies. He returned to the problem at hand and headed directly for the main building.

Like nearly all the buildings of the city, the Great Library was a monument of gleaming white marble. It consisted of three wings, long halls whose colonnaded walls were pierced by small windows. Although it stood three stories tall, the library gave the impression of being a low, squat structure. Perhaps this was caused by the broad roof, or possibly the building’s plain front. Save for the columns that graced the entrance there was none of the fanciful ornamentation of which the Palanthians were so fond.

Teldin led the way past a small, unimpressive entrance to the public section of the library and took Gomja to the next door down. This was a grand facade with a curving marble stair and pillared portico. Reaching the top, Teldin took a deep breath, then pounded on the glass-paned door.

For several moments nothing happened, but just as Teldin was about to knock again, the door swung open.

“What do you seek of the Order of Aesthetics?” asked a young man standing in the doorway. Of average height and somewhat plump from a sedentary life, the man wore simple, plain robes. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and his clean-scrubbed face made no attempt to hide the disdain he obviously felt for the grubby vagabond who stood before him.

“My friend and I-” Teldin motioned for Gomja to come forward- “seek an audience with the great sage Astinus.” Teldin kept his voice low and respectful, being genuinely awed by the presence of so much obvious power. Gomja, on his best behavior, stood behind Teldin, his own head rising over the human’s. As the two had agreed beforehand, Gomja pulled back the blanket covering his head. Teldin hoped this would intrigue the monk, and not terrify the man out of his wits. The giff wiggled his ears and even smiled, revealing the gaping extent of his mouth.

The doorman’s eyes widened. The look of scorn vanished and was replaced by dumbfounded amazement. "Wait here,” he squeaked, then scuttled away into the huilding’s dark depths. In his baste, he left the door open.

Just as Teldin was considering slipping through the doorway, the pudgy doorkeeper returned. The man, perhaps guessing Teldin’s intent, officiously blocked the entrance. The doorkeeper gulped but met the giff's glower. “Well- he will not see you,” the Aesthetic pompously answered. His head twitched slightly with a nervous tic.

Teldin looked incredulously at the man. “He’s got to see me. I’ve come a long way and he can’t just turn me away now!” Gomja stepped closer to the door, reasserting Teldin’s words.

The chubby Aesthetic stood firm, momentarily regaining his composure. “Astinus does not have to see anyone, the doorkeeper answered, raising his voice with every word. “In fact, he has only had visitors once, as far as I know.”

“He can’t just turn me away!” Teldin insisted. “What about my friend here? He needs to see Astinus so he can get home.” Teldin laid a hand on Gomja’s arm. The giff stepped just a little closer, stooping to bring himself down to the Aesthetic’s level.

Looking up at the giff, the monk’s nervous tic returned. Still, even with his head jerking slightly, the doorkeeper adamantly refused. “Astinus has given orders not to he disturbed,” he said in a forced voice.

“We could force our way in, sir,” Gomja whispered into Teldin’s ear. The human quickly vetoed the suggestion with a curt shake of his head. While the farmer had little doubt that they could easily overpower the soft, pampered monk, he knew that would not win them an audience with Astinus and would more likely gain them one with the constables of Palanthas. They needed a more persuasive argument that would appeal to the library’s learned monks.

“Books!” Teldin suddenly said, though not too loudly. “Gomja, do you still have those books, those charts we found in the chest?”

“Yes, sir,” the giff answered slowly, not grasping Teldin’s intention. “I think I still have them. . right here.” The last was said with understanding. Gomja hurriedly pawed through his gear and finally produced one slim volume. ‘This is all I have left, sir. I left the others in the mountains last night.” The giff held out the lone folio, a somewhat apologetic look on his face.

Teldin was relieved to see they still had even one of the books. “Don’t worry, Gomja,” he assured. Teldin held the book out to the doorkeeper. “Perhaps the donation of this rare tome would help?”

The doorkeeper, a curious expression on his face, took the slender volume, turned it over in his hands, and carefully opened the covers. A brief glance at the text obviously intrigued him; it was like none he had ever seen. His pudgy hands turned the pages with growing interest. “Wait here. I will check,” the monk finally offered. With that, he hurried away again.

It seemed that the monk was gone for hours, but Teldin did not worry. The monk’s reaction to the book had given him confidence. When the Aesthetic finally returned, Teldin’s patience was rewarded. The man’s manner had changed, for he now was solicitous and slightly amazed by the strange pair at the library’s door. “Astinus says he will give you a brief audience.” Teldin noted the monk’s words, but figured that getting in at all was an accomplishment.

The nervous monk ushered the pair through the door, and they found themselves in a marble corridor that ran along the front of the building. The white stone, age-worn and smooth, gleamed in the morning light, which poured through a bank of windows. Teldin had expected the library to be a dim and gloomy place, and the brightly lit reality was surprising.

The three walked the length of the corridor without encountering a soul. The route was away from the public halls and into the unvisited depths of the building. It made sense to Teldin that Astinus, famed for his privacy, would be found far from the open sections of the Great Library. The way took them past many doors, some closed, others open. At each, Teldin glanced in, not really knowing what he was looking for. Most rooms ontained books, shelved neatly and covered in layers of dust. Teldin marveled at the number of volumes in the library. A single room held more books than he had ever seen, and here there was room after room of musty albums.

Not all the rooms were empty of occupants. At one, Teldin carefully peered through the partially open door to find it filled with members of the Order of Aesthetics. They sat at rows of benches and intently copied texts that were laid out before them. The air was filled with the noise of quill pens on parchment. Teldin softly closed the door and moved on.

Finally, after taking a number of twists and turns, the monk stopped at a plain, unassuming door. Teldin was a little surprised that this was Astinus’s study. For a man of such importance, the farmer assumed his surroundings would be much greater. Tapping lightly, the doorkeeper called softly to the one within, “Master, I have brought them, as you requested.”

“Show them in, Maltor. I will see them for a moment.” The voice was cold and emotionless, showing no trace of either warmth or hostility. Maltor swung the door open with a slight creak, ushered Teldin and Gomja into a small study, and indicated stools where the two were to sit.

A man-young or old, Teldin could not be sure-sat at the desk on the far side of the room, writing carefully on a sheet of parchment spread before him. Every few moments he lifted his hand from the page to dip the quill into an inkwell. With no unnecessary delay he resumed writing, never once stopping to think of a word or puzzle out a phrase. Stacked beside him were two piles of parchment, one clean and untouched, the other carefully filled with lines of immaculate writing. As he finished with the sheet before him, Astinus sprinkled it with white sand to blot the drying ink, carefully set the sheet aside, and laid another clean page before him. Then the quill began its steady course over the page once again.

All during this time, Astinus never looked up to acknowledge his guests’ presence. “Wait outside, Maltor,” Astinus said without stopping the flow of words from pen to page.

"Yes, Master,” the Aesthetic said with a bow. He backed out of the room and quietly shut the door.

Teldin waited for the great sage to speak, to ask a question, but Astinus paid the pair no mind. The ink steadily flowed from his pen. Finally, with a nervous swallow, Teldin spoke, “Lord Astinus, I-,"

“You are Teldin Moore of Kalaman, born the son of Amdar Moore and the woman Shari,” Astinus interrupted, still looking at his page. “Two weeks ago, your farm was destroyed by a ship that fell from the sky. I have made a note of this already. The one with you is called Gomja. He came on the ship. Before this, I knew nothing of him.”

Teldin and Gomja both let their jaws drop; mouths hung slack at the chillingly efficient recital of their histories.

“I know all these things, Teldin Moore of Kalaman, from what I have written,” Astinus continued in his pedantic, matter-of-fact tone. “Right now I am writing that you are here before me because I have become curious"-The sage rolled the word off his tongue with particular distaste-"about your misfortunes.” Astinus paused and finally looked up. A minor flicker of irritation shone in the sage’s eyes. “Ask your questions, and I will write those down, too, just as I will write the answers if I know them.” Without waiting for Teldin to speak, he resumed writing.

Teldin swallowed nervously again. Something about Astinus, his cold self-assurance, perhaps, filled Teldin with

terrified respect. “I was given this cloak and I can’t take it off,” he whispered.

“So I have noted,” Astinus said. “Explanations are unnecessary.

Teldin could not help but stare. It seemed there was nothing the great sage did not already know. It filled him with the hope that Astinus would provide him a solution. “I mean, how do I get it off?”

“I do not know.” Astinus stopped, realizing that he lacked a certain piece of knowledge. The sage closed his eyes and considered the implications. Finally, he spoke again, the faintest tinge of puzzlement in his voice. “The cloak comes from beyond this world, beyond the range of my. . authority.”

Teidin’s shoulders sagged with the sudden failure of his hopes. “Your authority? Then who does know?” he asked weakly, his confidence quickly draining away.

“For that answer you must go outside this sphere,” Astinus answered. He went back to looking at his writing, seemingly forgetting the pair’s presence.

“Sphere? What sphere?” Teldin asked. So far, the great sage Astinus had provided more riddles than answers.

“Your friend did not explain spelljamming?” Astinus asked with only mild interest.

Gomja nervously wetted his lips. “I’ve never understood it very well myself, sir,” the giff admitted.

“Ignorance of the world is no asset,” Astinus humorlessly remarked as he wrote in flowing strokes, “although too much knowledge may also be bad.” Carefully setting his quill into its holder, the impassive sage sprinkled the drying sheet with sand, then gently set it on the top of the stack. After the briefest pause, Astinus took up another sheet and began writing again.

Teldin remembered stories about the sage and his library. It truly was his library, for Astinus’s books were supposed to be the only works found here. According to tales, each day the sage wrote a precise number of pages and each night these were spirited away by his aides, bound into volumes, and shelved in the halls of the Great Library. In his works, the history of all the world was set down.

“You have delayed my work long enough. This audience is over.” The sage’s cold words shocked Teldin from his reverie.

“But our questions! We haven’t learned anything,” the farmer started to argue, half-rising from his chair.

“And how do I get home?” interjected the giff, his deep voice rumbling ominously.

Astinus appeared unmoved by their pleas, and continued his writing unabated. “Maltor,” he smoothly called, summoning the doorkeeper. The pudgy man hurriedly appeared, his nervous tic stronger than before. “Take these two-” Astinus noted that Teldin was ready to argue and rephrased his thought. “Help these two find their answers. Gnome history, one hundred and twenty-three years ago. Mount Nevermind. There ate some passages there that may be of use.”

“Yes, Master,” the Aesthetic answered reverently. He stood waiting for the guests to leave. Sensing that perhaps their visit had not been a complete failure, Teldin rose and motioned Gomja to follow.

Astinus kept scribbling, never once looking to see them depart. The words on the page, meticulously recording every event, told all he ever needed to know.

…the farmer and the creature leave Astinus’s study. Neither says good-bye. Maltor takes them into the stacks of books…

From atop the ladder, Maltor finally sounded a note of triumph. “Ah, here it is!” the Aesthetic told the pair, who waited below. Prying a volume from the tightly packed shelf at the uppermost level of the stacks, where it almost brushed the ceiling, Maltor fastidiously wiped a layer of dust from its edges. The gray powder filtered down through the gloomy aisle like mist. “You have been most favored,” the monk continued as he struggled to lower his fat body down the ladder, book under one arm. “For Astinus to allow you to read one of his books, let alone meet with him, is a great honor.” Blowing out his breath, the Aesthetic reached the floor and led the pair to a bare table lit by a single lamp.

The room was almost solid bookshelves, more books than Teldin had ever imagined existed in all of Ansalon. The neat rows of black and brown bound volumes were crammed tightly onto the shelves, arranged and numbered according to dates and places. Dust seemed to coat everything, including the floor, where the three left their tracks. Teldin wondered how long it would be before those footprints faded. “This must be the Great Library,” he breathed in awe.

“A little of it,” Maltor casually answered. “Covering from five hundred to one hundred thirty-seven years ago. Teldin looked astonished that there could be more books than the hundreds found in just this single, unlit room. “Now, let’s see if I can find what the master intended. What should I look for?” The monk peered up from the densely lettered volume.

Teldin was stumped. Astinus had already declared his ignorance of the cloak, so the farmer really didn’t have any idea what he was looking for. Confused, he looked to the giff for suggestions.

“Spelljamming,” Gomja offered. “How can I go home?”

“Spell-jamming?” the Aesthetic mouthed as a traced his fingers down the page. “What’s that?”

Gomja briefly tried explaining the concept of flying ships and what he knew of space, which was very little indeed. Nonetheless, Maltor seemed to get a rudimentary idea of the process, enough to continue his search.

Teldin and Gomja sat patiently while the monk skimmed the work. The rich smell of burning lamp oil began to fill the stale air, warming the already stuffy chamber. The tired and dispirited farmer began to nod off.

“Ah, here it is,” Maltor said at last, echoing his earlier triumphant tone. “This looks promising. Listen.” The monk bent his nose close to the page, striving to make out the faded, cramped lettering by the lamp’s dim light.

"…this day, as above Afterwatch Hour climbing 10, a vessel arrived to the gnomes of Mount Nevermind. It came from the stars and was greeted by Tuwalricandilifchustra-”

Maltor stopped reading. “There is a very long name here and other details that may not be important. Perhaps it would be better if I summarized the master’s words”

“If you think that’s best,” Teldin allowed with a wave of his hand. Almost instantly he struggled to repress a sneeze brought on by a cloud of dust raised from the table. Maltot nodded quickly, his tic resurfacing. Burying his face in the book, he read on, skimming quickly over the pages.

More time passed as the monk studied the pages. He flipped forward and backward several times, as if puzzling out a strange reference. Teldin and Gomja watched the monk’s every move with eager expectation, as if these actions might in themselves reveal a secret of the universe. After turning through the pages for the fifth or sixth time, the Aesthetic finally pushed the tome aside. He rubbed dust from the corners of his eyes.

“I am not sure I understand what is written here” he offered as a preface. “Astinus knows many things the rest of us will never understand.”

“What does it say?” Teldin asked with an edge of impatience in his voice.

The monk turned the book toward Teldin and pointed to a passage. “As you can see, it seems to explain things right here-”

The farmer pushed the page back. “You explain it. I’m far too tired to read,” he lied. His small skill at letters was no match for the words of Astinus, though Teldin had no desire to let the monk know this.

The doorkeeper blew out a sigh that stirred up another cloud of dust. “Well, according to this, our world-Krynn, that is-is not the only place in the universe. It is one of many places separated from each other by-by nothingness.” The monk’s expression made it clear that he understood none of this.

“I know that,” Gomja muttered in vexation. Teldin hushed the giff and motioned for Maltor to continue.

“From what Astinus writes, Krynn, the moons, even the stars are enclosed in a sphere, one of many such spheres, like a glass ball.” Seeing Teldin’s puzzled look, the monk traced a circle in the dust. “Our world and all these other things are inside, while outside is some kind of a nothing called phlogiston.”

“A nothing with a name?” Teldin asked.

Maltor faltered, groping for just the right way to describe it.

“It is a great ocean of swirling colors, sir,” Gomja offered, based on his own experience. Teldin cocked an eye at the giff, skeptical of the creature’s sudden expertise. “I never knew how to describe it,” the giff explained.

“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!”