Into the Void s-2

by Nigel Findley

  The sellswords hadn't looked Teldin's way yet. He had a moment or two to react.

  He took the opportunity that Rianna had given him at such cost. He turned and ran down a narrow alley to the left.

  Never had he felt quite so terrified. There was something almost paralyzing about turning his back on people who'd willingly kill him. As he ran, he braced himself to hear the pounding of pursuing footsteps or feel the bite of Spak's next thrown dagger in his back. The urge to look around, to at least face his death, was almost overpowering.

  The narrow alleyway forked, then forked again. Both times, he took the left-hand path. Then he crossed another, wider alley. He flung himself around the corner to the right. Still he ran, and still he expected death to strike him in the next instant.

  He didn't know how far he'd run. His lungs were on fire, and the blood was pounding so loudly in his ears that he wouldn't be able to hear pursuit even if it were right on his heels. He was lost now. He turned another comer, deeper into a twisted warren of narrow streets and alleys. His foot caught on something, and he fell forward. His knee hit the ground with a sickening crack and he howled with the pain. He jammed a fist into his mouth and gnawed on the knuckle to silence himself. For a time there was nothing he could do but lie there, huddled in on himself, engulfed in the waves of agony from his knee. If Barrab and his sellswords found him now, Teldin knew, he'd be helpless whether they wanted to drag him away or slit his throat where he lay.

  It felt like years later, but eventually the tide of torment ebbed. When his vision finally cleared, he saw he was huddled in a garbage-strewn alley so narrow he'd be unable to He full-length across it.

  It took him a moment, but he eventually realized that one of the piles of garbage was watching him with rheumy and none-too-steady eyes. What he'd taken for a discarded cloak or a pile of cast-off rags was actually a wizened old man, squatting with his back to the alley wall. The figure was enveloped in a huge traveling cloak-or, more correctly, what once had been a traveling cloak-supplemented by other tattered rags. The only bare skin exposed to the elements was the man's lined face, and even that was partially shrouded by the cloak's hood and a scarf made from some other nondescript cloth. Beside the man was a small earthenware jug. Teldin sniffed. The alley reeked of urine and garbage, but mostly of soured wine.

  He nodded in comprehension.

  Teldin started to climb to his feet, then hesitated. Might as well cover my tracks while I've got the chance, he thought. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. He let the image of the feral sellsword, Spak, take shape in his mind, then he superimposed that face over his….

  It took only a moment. When he raised a hand to his face, he felt a sharp nose, thin lips. He looked up and stared steadily at the wizened heap against the alley wall. The old man quailed visibly. Teldin could understand that: he'd been on the receiving end of Spak's killing glares himself.

  Teldin held the stare for several heartbeats, plenty long enough for the old man to remember the face. Then he extracted a coin from his belt pouch-a Krynnish coin, but the derelict probably would neither know nor care. He flipped it to the old man, who picked it out of the air with surprising dexterity. Rheumy eyes struggled to focus on the glitter of metal-polished steel, though the derelict probably assumed it was silver-then opened wide with shocked recognition. Frantically, before his feral-faced benefactor could change his mind, the tramp stuffed the coin into the folds of his cloak and struggled to his feet. He snatched up his earthenware jug, tucked it under one arm, and hurried away down the alley-no doubt heading for the nearest wine shop for a refill, Teldin reflected. The whole exchange had cost him one coin, probably valueless here, and no more than a minute-which was time well spent to allow his knee to settle down. What had it gained him? If his pursuers questioned the derelict-the only possible witness to Teldin's flight-he'd probably get a story about an evil-eyed man who gave him money… and nothing that Barrab could reasonably associate with Teldin. It might not help that much, but it certainly couldn't hurt.

  Teldin took a few moments to change his magical disguise once more. If he ended up running into the sellswords, he definitely didn't want to be wearing Spak's face. He visualized the plump, florid-faced man who'd sat next to him at the auction and had complained so vociferously about T'k'Pek's bidding tactics. This time, he gave special attention to the body. Both Teldin and "Aldyn" were slender; if he made sure that his new body was fat, the chances of recognition would be that much lower.

  It was a strange feeling as his clothes-normally comfortably loose-seemed to tighten around his belly and thighs. He had no mirror to check his appearance but guessed from feeling alone that he'd changed his build sufficiently. He climbed to his feet….

  And almost cried out from the flash of agony through his knee. The joint felt swollen, not so much outside as inside. It felt as if there were a small sac or balloon behind his kneecap that was inflated with hot liquid. He couldn't straighten the leg fully or bend it past a right angle. Any attempt to do so put pressure on the "balloon" and sent lightning bolts of torment through his leg.

  Using the alley wall for support, he steadied himself and slowly put weight on the injured leg. As long as he kept the knee partially bent and applied pressure slowly, the pain was manageable, but if he transferred his weight too fast, or if he turned quickly and applied even the gentlest twisting force to the knee, the blast of agony was enough to blur his vision and wrench a whimper from his throat.

  No running, he realized with a cold chill, not even a fast walk. He'd have to depend on his disguise and on luck.

  He started down the alley in the direction the old derelict had run. It took him a dozen steps and several painful experiments to strike the right balance between a conspicuous hobble and blinding agony. Finally, though, he found a gait that wouldn't attract too much attention and that he thought he could keep up long enough to…

  He stopped so suddenly that his knee erupted with pain. Long enough to what? Where in the Abyss was he going? Back to the harbor and the Probe! He was totally lost. In his blind flight through the alleyways, he'd lost track of direction and distance. He had no idea of which way led to the harbor. Certainly, it lay generally downhill-Rauthaven was built on the inner slopes of the hills that surrounded the bay-but in this maze of narrow streets and alleys he had no feel for the slope at all. The only way to regain his sense of direction would be to find a major street, something like the Processional, that was wide and long enough to let him see the lay of the land. Of course, if Barrab had any sense at all, that's where he would have positioned his sellswords.

  Even if he did find his way, his enemies knew where he was going. Barrab knew that Teldin Moore-or Aldyn Brewer, if the difference still mattered-was staying aboard the hammership Probe. He cursed himself for a fool. He'd been so proud of his plan to manipulate Barrab. Now he realized that his cleverness might well kill him. Barrab would make sure that the harbor was watched, and anyone trying to reach the Probe would be detained.

  With an effort, Teldin calmed the panicked flow of his thoughts. Barrab's only got four bravos. Three. Rianna's magical fire killed one, didn't it? How close a watch can he keep with three men? he thought.

  His relief lasted no more than a heartbeat before logic crushed it. Barrab's got money, he realized, lots of money, if he was staying at the Edgewood. How much would it cost to hire three sellswords, or another score, if that's what he needs? No, Teldin understood, the cordon at the harbor would be as tight as Barrab wanted it to be, plenty tight enough to check every tender that was ferrying people to ships at anchor. If he was caught in that cordon, on his way to the Probe, he'd be detained, possibly killed, whether or not he was disguised.

  Then there was the problem that Estriss had put into words when they'd discussed the cloak's powers. There might well be magical means for tracking the cloak. If that were true, then capture certainly spelled disaster, because he definitely couldn't get rid of the cloak.

  What c
ould he do? He had to get out of the city somehow. Or he could go to ground, but how would that help in the long run? His only chance of survival was to get the cloak to "the creators" and have them remove it from his shoulders. Hiding out in Rauthaven-assuming that he could find sanctuary-wouldn't get him any closer to that goal.

  He settled back against one wall of the alley and slid down into a sitting position. He stretched his leg out as far as he could-hot too far-and rubbed the damaged knee gently. The pain was still there, and the sense of internal swelling, but at least both were becoming more manageable. Most importantly at the moment, they didn't interfere with his thinking.

  All right. The goal, then, was to get the cloak to "the creators." From what Estriss had told him, it seemed most likely that the cloak had been created by the arcane. T'k'Pek had claimed the same thing and had shown at least some proof in the form of the tripartite flower on his ring. At the time, Teldin's gut reaction had been not to trust the blue-skinned giant, but now, with the current turn of events, how much faith could he put in as unsubstantiated a feeling as that? Wasn't this just like not buying a horse because you don't like the color of the trader's eyes? Logically, he had no reason to doubt T'k'Pek's words. Everything the creature had told him made sense and was internally consistent. Why should he expect the arcane to instantly and instinctively know every power and attribute of any particular item created by his race?

  Teldin felt familiar doubts churning in his stomach, but ruthlessly forced them down. I've got no proof against T'k'Pek's story, he told himself, and some font. I'm not going to get myself killed over a feeling. That was it, then. The cloak had to go to the arcane.

  But how? The momentary relief he'd felt from that decision vanished. He still had the major problem: how to avoid Barrab and his bravos while reaching T'k'Pek. The arcane had left the auction as soon as he had acquired the sword he had come for. He probably would have returned immediately to the Nebulon.

  How could Teldin reach the ship? There was the ship's boat, the dragonfly, but presumably the first trip up had been arranged through Barrab. Teldin had no way of summoning the craft, of forcing the crew to take him to the Nebulon, or of flying the ship without them.

  That left the Probe. The question had come full circle. How could he get to the hammership?

  Swim? Maybe, as a last resort. The hammership was anchored a good distance offshore, and Teldin wasn't a particularly strong swimmer…. No, trying to swim would more than likely prove just an uncomfortable method of suicide.

  On balance, the only reasonable option was to head for the harbor and hope that he spotted one of the Probe's crew- Aelfred Silverhorn, by choice-before Barrab s men spotted him. Aelfred and Estriss probably still thought that he'd gone to a meeting with T'k'Pek, but wouldn't they wait for him on the seawall? Or at least leave some crewmen to wait for him? There was Rianna-assuming she was still alive, he thought grimly. Would she be looking for him, or would she have gone to ground to save her own life? She loved him, he was sure of that, so he assumed the former, but even if he could make contact with her, could she help him? Thinking logically, if she knew she was helpless, she wouldn't try to make contact until she figured there was some value in the meeting.

  Since he was already making so many assumptions, Teldin assumed that Barrab and crew couldn't detect the cloak. If he was wrong on that score, he was dead no matter what he did. A better disguise was in order. He looked down at his clothes. The cloak was already reduced to its smallest dimensions, making it difficult to notice for one who didn't know exactly what to look for. Barrab knew what die rest of his outfit looked like, though, so that had to change.

  With a sigh, he struggled back to his feet. Clothes, then, were the first order of business, then the harbor. He looked at the sky. The sun was near the zenith, giving him precious little sense of direction. He shrugged and continued down the alley the same way the derelict had gone. One direction was as good as another, and if he just kept going straight, he'd eventually have to strike a major street.

  It wasn't easy to keep straight through the rat's nest of streets and alleys, Teldin quickly found. Gazing down on Rauthaven from the descending Probe, he'd thought that the orderly-looking city must have been laid out by a geometer. If that's the case, he must have done this section on the morning after a major wine binge, Teldin grumbled to himself, or left it to his assistant, who happened to be insane. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the arrangement. Mazy streets started with no apparent purpose and ended for no readily discernible reason. There were doors in the low buildings, but no windows.

  There, was virtually no one around. Those few people who Teldin spotted looked little better off than the derelict to whom he'd tossed his coin. They all watched him with interest and undisguised hostility-or was that just his paranoia talking?

  Whether he was overreacting or not, he decided against asking for directions. What better way to draw attention to myself, he thought with wry amusement, than go up to somebody and ask, "Excuse me, but how do I get to that big piece of water where they keep all the boats?"

  At least his immediate problem solved itself quickly. Laundry habits in this part of town included hanging wet clothes on the sills of windows to dry in the sun. It was a matter of minutes only to snatch a new jerkin from here, a pair of leggings from there, and duck into a noisome alley long enough to put them on.

  Eventually, as he knew it would, the winding street he was following disgorged into a major road-not the Processional, but something very much like it. The wide thoroughfare led very noticeably downhill, and he could even see the reflection of sunlight off water in the distance.

  For the first time, Teldin was almost thankful for his injured knee. Without it, the temptation to burst from the alley and sprint down to the harbor probably would have proven irresistible. Instead, though, he stayed within the mouth of the alley, looking cautiously left and right. It was near noon, and the street was crowded. That was good. He'd have a much better chance of not being spotted if he could lose himself in a crowd. But, of course, the crowd also made it more difficult for him to spot anyone who was looking for him.

  The first step out of the alley's relative safety was the hardest. It took him a minute to get up the nerve, his heartbeat sounding like a drum's tattoo in his ears. He felt drained of energy. Before, in the alleyways, his fear had driven his flight, but now it seemed to sap his will. He took one final deep, calming breath and walked out into the street.

  The crowd engulfed him. Hemmed in on all sides with bodies, he felt paranoia and claustrophobia surge within him, but he drove the fears down into the depths of his mind. For a moment he wished for the crystal clarity of thought-and the lack of emotion-that the cloak had bestowed in the past, but it didn't come. He forced himself to walk downhill toward the harbor.

  He concentrated on his gait, trying to minimize the limp. His knee burned. In fact, he found that walking downhill, even on this gentle slope, put additional stress on the joint and increased the pain. Paradoxically, he found that the pain helped keep his mind clear. He walked on.

  A hundred yards or so downhill, the road widened into a square. Stalls were everywhere around the marketplace and spreading into the central space. Buyers milled around them, and the cries of hawkers filled the air. It was so much like market day at home that his throat tightened with sudden homesickness. He forced himself to keep walking.

  The fringe of the marketplace seemed less crowded than the center. He stayed to the left, keeping to the less-packed areas. Many of the stalls were selling cooked goods and sweetmeats. The smell of unfamiliar spices assaulted his nostrils.

  As he walked, his eyes flicked back and forth, looking for familiar faces-friends or foes. He kept his head forward, however; obvious rubbernecking might attract attention.

  He almost yelled out as a firm hand fell on his shoulder. He spun away, expecting to be faced by Barrab, or maybe Spak….

  It was Vallus Leafbower, the Probe's Helmsman. The e
lf was standing in the mouth of a small alley between two stalls, both selling smoked sausages. Teldin stepped back in fear. How in the Abyss had the elf recognized him? How? There was something very wrong here. He should have been thinking of the elf as an ally, a savior. Instead, he found he was terrified of the aloof figure. How did he know?

  The elf didn't say a word, just beckoned to him. Teldin hesitated, then realized that he was attracting attention just standing there. He moved his right hand to the hilt of his sword-not actually touching the grip, but near. Vallus beckoned again and stepped farther into the shelter of the narrow alley. Cautiously, Teldin stepped toward him.

  As soon as he saw that Teldin was following, Vallus turned away and walked deeper into the alley. He turned his back on my sword, Teldin noted. A sign of trust, or of unshakable confidence? He followed slowly, tensed and ready for anything.

  When they were a dozen paces from the alley's mouth, Vallus turned back to face him. The elf s hands were empty, held palms-up at waist level. Maybe it was supposed to reassure Teldin. Teldin kept his own hand near his weapon.

  The elf spoke quietly. "Those who search for you are waiting at the north entrance to the marketplace," he said tersely. "You must take another route. Down this alley, then turn right on the next road. It, too, leads to the harbor, though not directly, and I think nobody watches it yet."

  Teldin's thoughts were in chaos; questions tumbled over questions. The elf stood silently, waiting for him to respond. Finally he forced his mouth to work. "How?"

  The elf shook his head. "No time to talk," he said. "You must go now. Don't trust to your disguise. I sense it for what it is. Others can, too."

  "The cloak…"

  "The cloak is of elven creation," Vallus cut him off. "You must protect it. That is paramount. Take it to the elves of Evermeet. The imperial fleet can be your only safety." He must have seen Teldin's confusion, because he amplified, "The island of Evermeet, some seven hundred leagues north of here, the home of Toril's elves. You must take the cloak there. Now, go." He pointed deeper down the alley. "Go." With no sound or warning, the elf bunked out of existence. Apart from Teldin, the alleyway was empty.