Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

Aesthetic. He glared at Derek in indignation. “You came in the wrong door! And keep your voice down!”
    “I am sorry, but the matter is urgent. I demand to see Astinus.”
    “Impossible,” Bertrem stated. “The Master sees no one.”
    “He will see me,” said Derek. “Tell Astinus Sir Derek Crownguard, Lord of the Rose, wishes to consult with him on a matter of the utmost importance. It is not too much to say the fate of the Solamnic nation may well rest on this meeting.”
    Bertrem didn’t budge.
    “My friend and I will wait here while you carry my message to Astinus,” Derek said, frowning. “Why do you dawdle, Brother? Didn’t you hear what I said? I need to speak to Astinus!”
    Bertrem looked them up and he looked them down. He was obviously disapproving. “I will go inquire,” he said. “You will remain here , and you will remain quiet!”
    He indicated with a jabbing finger the alcove in which they were standing, then he raised that finger to his lips. Finally he departed, walking off with an air of injured dignity, his sandals slapping the floor.
    Silence settled over them, soothing and tranquil. Brian glanced into one of the large rooms. It was lined floor to ceiling with books and filled with desks and chairs. Several Aesthetics were hard at work, either studying or writing by candlelight. One or two glanced in the direction of the knights, but seeing that Bertrem apparently had the situation under control, they returned to their work.
    “You could have been more polite,” Brian said to Derek in a whisper. “Vinegar and flies and honey and all that.”
    “We are at war for our very survival,” Derek returned, “though one would not think it to judge by this place! Look at them, scratching away, undoubtedly chronicling the life cycles of the ant while good men fight and die.”
    “Isn’t this why we fight and die?” Brian asked. “So that these harmless souls can keep on writing about the ant and not be forced to mine ore in some slave camp?”
    If Derek heard, he paid no heed to Brian’s words. He began to pace the floor, his booted feet ringing loudly on the marble. Several of the Aesthetics raised their heads and glared and one said loudly, “Shush!” Derek glowered, but he ceased his pacing.
    The sound of slapping sandals on marble heralded the return of Bertrem, looking harried.
    “I am sorry, Sir Derek, but the Master is not at liberty to speak to you.”
    “My time is valuable,” said Derek impatiently. “How long am I to be kept waiting?”
    Bertrem grew flustered. “I beg your pardon, Sir Derek, you misunderstand me. There is no need to wait. The Master will not see you.”
    Derek’s face flushed, his brows constricted, his jaw tightened. He was used to snapping his fingers and watching people jump and lately he’d been snapping his fingers only to find people turning their backs on him.
    “You told him who I am?” Derek asked, seething. “You gave him my message?”
    “There was no need,” said Bertrem simply. “The Master knows you and why you have come and he will not see you. He did, however, ask me to give you this.”
    Bertrem handed over what appeared to be a crude map drawn on a bit of paper.
    “What is this?” Derek demanded.
    Bertrem looked down at it and read aloud the notation at the top. “It is a map to the Library of Khrystann.”
    “I can see that! What I meant is what in the Abyss do I want with a map to some blasted library?” demanded Derek.
    “I do not know, my lord,” said Bertrem, shrinking from the knight’s fury. “The Master did not confide in me. He said only that I was to give it you.”
    “Perhaps that’s where you’ll find the dragon orb,” suggested Brian.
    “Bah! In a library?”
    Derek reached for his purse. “How much money will Astinus take to see me?”
    Bertrem drew himself up to his full height, which put him about level with Derek’s chin. The Aesthetic was deeply offended.
    “Put away your money, Sir Knight.