"The Broken Sphere" - читать интересную книгу автора (Findley Nigel)

Chapter Three

"Well, here it is," Fazin announced. He pushed open a door and stood aside to let Teldin precede him.

For a moment the Cloakmaster hesitated, then he pushed the flash of paranoia aside and stepped into the room.

And stopped. "This is it?" he asked.

Fazin slipped by him. "This isn't all of it, of course," he explained. "This is just what we call the GUI-the Gnome User Interface. The actual workings are down in the basement, where it's cool and where the power supply can't get loose and damage things. Of course," he added, "it's going to be very different when we install the new indexing and retrieval system-"

"Yes, of course," Teldin interrupted distractedly, "Now, er…"

"How does it work?" The gnome pointed to the large chair dominating the small room, its back to the door. "The operator sits in the operator's chair, in front of the workstation." He indicated a desklike surface mounted on the wall directly ahead of the chair. "The operator then enters his search terms-what he wants to find out-through the digitizing tablet." He pointed to a complex contraption on the desktop.

"Digitizing… ?"

"So called because the operator uses his digit to enter information," Fazin elaborated, wiggling his right forefinger.

"Then he pulls the processing lever, there on the wall."

Teldin saw a large leather-handled metal lever mounted in a slot in the wall, within easy reach of the chair. "And that's it?" he asked.

Fazin nodded. "Then the operator just waits for the results to come out of the output slot, there next to the tablet."

"Sounds simple enough." Teldin strode over to the large chair and seated himself. He stared down at the "digitizing tablet," as Fazin had called it. It looked like an open-topped box of dark, small-grained wood, about a foot square and an inch high. In the center of the box was a small ring of silver metal, about the same size as a man's finger ring. Attached to it were a number of slender and delicate leverlike linkages- reminding Teldin uncomfortably of a spider's legs-that disappeared into small holes and slots in the desktop.

Seeing Teldin's confusion, Fazin pointed to the ring. "Put your finger in there," he instructed.

The Cloakmaster hesitated, then did as he was told. The spider legs held the ring about half an inch off the bottom surface of the "box." With the tip of his right index finger resting on the smooth surface, the ring was at a level with the first joint.

"Now move your finger around. You'll see the linkages communicate every movement to the mechanisms in the basement." Fazin smiled. "Cunning, yes?"

Teldin moved his finger in a circle, watching with fascination the way the linkages bent and flexed. They made a faint clicking, whirring sound that he found slightly disturbing, but the resistance to his movements was a lot less than he'd expected. "Cunning, yes," he agreed. "Now what do I do with it?"

"Write the word or the words you want to find information about," Fazin told him, "just as if your fingertip were the nib of a pen. The more words you write, the more precise the search…. but the longer the mechanism will take."

Teldin nodded. "Let's give this a try." Carefully, he used his finger to print the word Spelljammer. He hesitated, then also printed the word Juna. Why not? he told himself. Who knows? Maybe Estriss's guesses about the ancient race were right. Then, for good measure, he added ultimate helm. He glanced over at Fazin. "And now?"

Wordlessly the gnome pointed at the leather-handled lever. Teldin grasped it and pulled it down. With a grinding, clattering sound, the lever slid to the bottom of the slot. When he released it, it rose slowly back to its original position.

"And… ?"

"And now we wait," the librarian answered.

Teldin removed his finger from the digitizing tablet's ring and leaned back in the chair. "How long?"

Fazin shrugged, puffing out his cheeks. "It varies," he said-a little abashedly, Teldin thought.

"By how much?"

"It varies by how much it varies. Sometimes it takes just a few seconds. Other times… longer."

"How much longer?" Teldin pressed. "Minutes?"

"Sometimes."

"Hours?"

"Sometimes."

"Days?"

"No!" Fazin said emphatically. "Never days." Then he added, almost under his breath, "The mechanism always breaks before then." He looked up at Teldin and added firmly, "But that'll all be different when we install-"

"The new indexing and retrieval system, I know." Teldin looked over at the black maw of the output slot. Nothing was being output. For all he could tell, the mechanism in the basement had already broken. But what could he do except wait? "Tell me about the new system," he suggested, more to pass the time than from any real interest.

The gnome's eyes flashed with enthusiasm. "It's wonderful, marvelous," he gushed, "a breakthrough, even if I do say so myself as one of the participants in its design. It'll be a hundred times more efficient, a thousand times, and it'll never, ever, ever-hardly-break." He paused, then asked diffidently, "Would you like to see it?"

Teldin blinked with surprise. "There's something to see?"

"The whole thing," Fazin shot back, "or at least the important part."

The Cloakmaster hesitated. He cast another glance at the output slot-still empty-and sighed. "Why not?" He rose to his feet. "Where is it'"

"Right there." The gnome pointed to Teldin's left.

He looked where Fazin was indicating and saw nothing but a wall. "On the other side of the wall?" he asked.

The gnome shook his head forcefully. "No, no, of course not. On the wall."

Teldin looked again, suddenly feeling a premonition of what the gnome was getting at. Yes, sure enough, there was a square of parchment tacked up on the wall, a parchment bearing about twenty lines of finely scribed words and symbols. "And that's it?" he asked tiredly.

"That's the heart of it," Fazin corrected him. "That's a description of the central search and retrieval algorithm. Of course, we still have to deal with implementation, testing, installation, more testing, and system cut-over. But that's it in a nutshell."

Teldin shook his head slowly. He remembered the "secret weapon" that the gnome Dyffedionizer had brought aboard the experimental warship Perilous Halibut-actually a sheet of parchment with a single line written on it. "Eee mik two," he murmured absently.

"What? What? What?" Fazin sputtered. "What did you say?"

The Cloakmaster looked over, puzzled. The gnome's complexion was gray, as if the blood had drained from his face. "Nothing," Teldin said.

"But where-?"

The gnome's panicked question was cut off by a loud, raucous buzz from the general direction of the output slot. Teldin glanced over. It couldn't actually have worked, could it?

Sure enough, a strip of paper about as wide as his hand and twice as long protruded from the slot. Teldin took the end and pulled. For a moment he felt resistance, then it was gone-as if somebody on the other side of the wall had been holding the paper and had released it the moment he'd taken it. Just how mechanical is this mechanical wonder? he wondered.

Fazin snatched the paper out of his hand, stared in amazement at the half dozen lines of tightly formed text. "By the ineffable mind of Marrak, that was fast," the gnome muttered. Then he shot Teldin a sharp look. "You've used this before," he accused.

Teldin didn't dignify the charge with an answer. "And now… ?"

"And now I go get the books the indexing system specified," Fazin explained, indicating the slip of paper.

The Cloakmaster nodded. "While you do, I'll just run a few more searches."

Fazin sighed. "I have the feeling it's going to be a long afternoon."

*****

Teldin sat back in the large chair, stretched his arms high over his head and heard the cracks and pops as his muscles and joints complained. His right forefinger was sore from using the digitizing tablet, his eyes ached from reading, and his brain felt as if it were full of carded wool. How long have I been here? he wondered. He took in the pile of books on the desktop next to the digitizing tablet, another two on the floor by the chair. His gaze drifted over to Fazin, who sat in an exhausted heap in the corner. I almost wore his legs off, the Cloakmaster thought with a wry smile: ten, or maybe more, trips to and from the stacks, each carrying a couple of heavy books.

It had been nowhere as daunting a process as he'd expected. When Fazin had appeared with the first couple of books-huge, bulky things of several hundred pages, each covered with closely scribed text-he'd felt himself totally out of his depth. While he wasn't illiterate, by no means could he classify himself a confident, practiced reader. As he'd stared at the first page of the first book, and struggled to make out the first sentence, he'd begun to despair.

But then he'd felt the calming influence of the cloak, felt its power insinuate itself into his mind like fine, ice-cool tendrils. The words on the page before him didn't change their appearance in any way; they remained the same dense, cramped hand. Yet now, suddenly, Teldin knew the meaning of every word simply by glancing at it, without having to pick out each letter individually, sound out each syllable. This must be what it's like to be able to read fluently, he told himself. But the power the cloak was bestowing on him was even greater than that. Just as he didn't have to analyze each word, so too he didn't have to attend individually to each sentence, or each paragraph. Simply by passing his eyes over a page, he knew what the text was saying. It wasn't as if he could hear the words in his mind; the effect was much subtler than that. From scanning a page from top to bottom-a process that took a couple of heartbeats, no more-he knew the contents of the text, and the intentions of the author, as well as if he'd been familiar with the material since childhood. With a speed that left Fazin gaping in abject awe, he was able to fly through the first two books… and the three after that, and each subsequent load, absorbing their contents almost faster than the gnome could fetch the books.

He rubbed his tired eyes. The process hadn't been without its cost. By the time he'd finished with all the books the indexing system could list, he felt as tired as if he'd plowed a field without the benefit of a horse. As he let the power of the cloak fade away, he cringed at the onset of a headache that felt like an ice pick driving into his skull over his right eye.

It was worth it, he reminded himself. He had more information on the Spelljammer than he'd been able to get from anywhere else. Even though a handful of the books he'd wanted were missing, he was confident he'd filled in the gaps they'd left from other sources.

Most of the material he'd absorbed had confirmed what he'd already known-that there were hundreds of rumors, many mutually contradictory, about the great vessel, and that nobody knew for sure where it came from or how. But there were some interesting threads that had kept recurring throughout his reading.

First of all, he could finally understand where Estriss had developed his conviction that the Spelljammer and the ancient race known as the Juna were somehow connected. Nowhere in the books Teldin had scanned was there any categorical statement that the Juna had or hadn't created the mysterious ship, or even that there was any linkage. No categorical statement… but there was certainly circumstantial evidence. In more than a dozen retellings of ancient legends-drawn from the mythology of a dozen races, from elvenkind to the insectoid thri-kreen-both the Spelljammer and a mysterious, vanished race appeared in close proximity. Sometimes the race was called the Elders, other times the Ancients. In only one case did Teidin recognize the name-in an elven tale, the race was known as the Star Folk-but he could understand how Estriss had concluded that all the legends referred to the Juna. He could also comprehend how the illithid had decided that proximity implied connection: if the Spelljammer and the Juna were mentioned together often enough-even if no direct link was ever stated-there must be some connection. So the illithid's mind must have worked, at least. Although Teidin himself wasn't convinced, he had to admit the connection was a good hypothesis.

With that established, he'd followed a couple of other leads. First he'd read whatever he could about the Broken Sphere.

There wasn't much, unfortunately-or, at least, much that he didn't know already. There were several dozen legends involving the Broken Sphere, most of which had little or no similarity with each other. Teldin was sure that someone reading the legends normally wouldn't have made any connection between them. Yet the enhanced understanding the cloak gave him let him pick out some basic similarities. Just as it was possible to infer a connection between the Juna and the Spelljammer, he could infer a central thread of truth that formed the basis of all the legends. He thought he could, at least. He didn't understand enough about what the cloak was doing, about its abilities and limitations, to be sure that the central thread existed, and wasn't a product of his own imagination. In any case, he decided to operate on the assumption that his inference was correct.

Apparently the Broken Sphere, in some tellings, was said to be the origin of many races. There had once been a crystal sphere that had ruptured in a cataclysmic explosion… or so Teldin's inference told him. The matter and energy spewed out by this blast had spread throughout space, littering the cosmos with debris and life forms. The legends claimed that many nearby crystal spheres were moving outward from this explosion, away from the remnants of the Broken Sphere. Theoretically, then-or so certain philosophers hinted-it should be possible to locate the Broken Sphere simply by backtracking the movements of related spheres.

Theoretically, perhaps. But half a dozen books written by less philosophical sages and scientists claimed that, practically speaking, it was impossible. Rivers and eddies in the Flow had so disturbed the motions of the spheres that such a simple backtracking was doomed to failure.

Teldin had been surprised to find no linkage between the Broken Sphere and the Spelljammer. No myths or legends made any connection.

What did that mean? The fal, One Six Nine, had been adamant that there was a connection. Was the sluglike sage wrong? Or had he told Teldin something really significant, given him an important lead that he couldn't have found anywhere else? It bore thinking about.

He'd then tried to trace the Juna, to find some hint about whether they still existed. At first he'd found nothing: every mention of the Juna, or the Star Folk, or the Ancients, or whatever, claimed they'd long since vanished from the universe-perhaps died out, perhaps moved on (whatever that might mean). No matter what reference he dug up, the result was the same: the Juna were gone. Oh, their works were still around-on the planet of Radole, for example, they'd crafted huge tunnels and caverns leading deep into the titanic mountain range that girdled the world-and their symbols, the three-petaled flower or the three-pointed star, could be found on a hundred planets. But of the Juna themselves there wasn't a trace.

In a fit of frustration, Teldin had stuck his finger back into the digitizing tablet and quickly traced the trilaterally symmetrical symbol that was woven into the lining of his cloak, then pulled the processing lever. He'd had no idea whether the indexing system could handle symbols as well as words; Fazin hadn't mentioned it, and the gnome had been down in the stacks at the time. For all he knew, he could have broken the temperamental mechanism. When the output slot had disgorged a single reference then, he'd been surprised… and intrigued. And when Fazin had brought him the book…

Teldin patted his belt pouch, felt the stiffness of a piece of parchment. Nex, he thought, the planet Nex.

He felt the excitement in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he had something to go on. If the information he'd copied from the book was right, he might have a lead that would eventually answer all his questions.

He forced himself to relax. No point in getting all keyed up about it now, he told himself. I'll have plenty of time to think about it later.

Time…

"Fazin."

The gnome looked up, an expression of dread on his face. "More books?" he whined.

Teldin chuckled. "Not this time. I've got all I need." He patted the digitizing tablet. "This thing really works," he mused.

Fazin was on his feet in a moment, staring hard at the tablet, as though trying to wrest some secret out of it. "I know," he said darkly. "It's never this efficient. Something must be wrong with it…."

*****

It was full night when Teldin left the Great Archive. He walked quickly through the streets of the city, under guttering oil lamps and the unfamiliar constellations of Heart-space. Retracing his steps was much easier than finding the archive in the first place, so it didn't take him long to find the wineshop where he'd agreed to meet the half-elf Djan.

The tables and chairs that had been on the street were gone, and the place looked closed for the night. Guiltily, Teldin glanced up at the stars, as though they'd be able to tell him the hour, as they would in Ansalon. His ignorance of the local constellations made the gesture useless, of course. Even so, he knew he was late. He pushed open the wineshop's front door-it was open, after all-and stepped inside.

He spotted Djan immediately, sitting at a corner table, immersed in a small book. The half-elf looked up immediately when Teldin cleared his throat, and a broad smile creased his face.

"Well met, Master Brewer," Djan said, rising. He set his book-open, to hold his place-on the table and extended a hand to Teldin. The Cloakmaster took it, returning the half-elf s firm grip. "You had a busy afternoon, I'd guess."

"Sorry I'm late," Teldin started.

Djan waved the apology aside. "No matter," he said lightly. He patted the small leather-bound book. "I put the time to good use. Come, sit." As they both took seats, the half-elf waved to a waiter and requested, "Two glasses of nightwine, late harvest." He leaned toward Teldin mock-con-spiratorially, and whispered, "About the only thing worth drinking on Crescent, I'm afraid."

The two remained silent as the waiter brought their drinks. Teldin found himself a little uncomfortable, sitting here with the amiable half-elf. What does he want from me? he found himself wondering. He's so friendly, so open….

He then realized what it was he was thinking. Am I that cynical? he asked himself. Have I become that closed to people, that I don't feel comfortable around someone who acts friendly toward me? I used to relish that; it was one of the things I most liked about Ansalon. How much I've changed….

Djan raised his crystal glass. Hurriedly, Teldin did the same. "What should we drink to?" the blond man asked. "How about, 'To the successful conclusion of all ventures'?"

"Sounds good to me," Teldin allowed. He took a sip of the straw-colored wine, let it roll around on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. The liquid was sweet, slightly fruity, but with a tantalizing tang to it. From the warmth he felt as he swallowed, he guessed it was quite potent. "This is excellent," he pronounced, setting his glass down.

The half-elf nodded. "I think I'm going to miss it," he admitted.

"Oh?" Teldin glanced at his companion in surprise. "I thought you'd just come home."

"Returned to Crescent," Djan corrected him gently. "I don't think I'll ever be able to consider this world home, not again." He sighed. "It was a good place to grow up, I suppose, all things considered, but once you've seen the greater universe, it's hard to return to a limited, parochial life, don't you think?"

Teldin was silent for a moment, considering the half-elf s words. How true is that? he asked himself. Does that mean I won't be able to go home again? With an effort, he forced his attention back to Djan's words.

"In any case," his companion was saying, "I don't see myself staying here for too much longer. I thought as much when I came back, but I had to be sure. I'll find a ship going somewhere interesting, then shake the dust of Crescent off my feet-probably forever, this time." He smiled at Teldin. "The same for you, I imagine?" he suggested. "If you found what you needed at the Great Archive, of course."

Teldin resisted the urge to pat his belt pouch. "I think so," he said. He was tempted to tell the friendly half-elf exactly what he had found-the problem with operating alone was that he had no one to share his successes with-but he kept silent.

If Djan noticed Teldin's reticence, he gave no sign. "Good, good," he said. "Then you survived the indexing system."

"Barely," Teldin agreed with a laugh. "Gnomes."

Djan chuckled, too, then they sat in companionable silence for a couple of minutes.

As he sipped his nightwine, Teldin surreptitiously examined the half-elf over the rim of his glass. He seems so open, the Cloakmaster found himself thinking, so free of worries and fear, so accepting of whatever Destiny hands him. He doesn't really care where he goes, as long as it's interesting. Interesting, Teldin told himself wryly. His approach to life seems so sane….

"What do you know about spelljamming?" The words were out of Teldin's mouth before he was aware of phrasing the question.

Djan shot him a quizzical smile. "A little, I suppose," he said slowly. "Maybe more than a little. I was second mate aboard a squid ship merchantman out of Mitreland for almost a year." He raised an eyebrow as if to ask why, but he didn't speak the question.

Teldin was silent for a moment. Then, impulsively, he asked, "Would you consider signing on as my first mate?"

Djan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he swirled the nightwine in his glass, watching the slightly viscous liquid form tears on the vessel's inner surface. "What ship?" he asked at last. "And how seasoned is your crew?"

"No ship, and no crew. I came here in a one-man vessel," Teldin elaborated, "but I'm tired of traveling alone. I want to buy a ship and hire a crew."

The half-elf nodded slowly. "And your destination?"

"If you don't mind, I'll tell you once we've set sail," said the Cloakmaster. He smiled tentatively. "I think I can promise you'll find it interesting."

"The finest selling point, Master Brewer," Djan laughed, clapping Teldin on the shoulder. "Or shall I call you 'Captain' now?"

" 'Aldyn' will do," Teldin said carefully, "for now." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

"Ship hunting?" the half-elf guessed.

"Ship hunting," the Cloakmaster confirmed.

*****

Teldin Moore stood on the sterncastle, looking down at the chaos spilling onto the docks from the main deck of the ship.

My ship, he reminded himself, patting the mizzenmast possessively. It wasn't the first ship he'd owned and mastered-the Ship of Fools possessed that dubious honor, or perhaps the elven swan ship Trumpeter, if you followed the letter of maritime law. But he considered this one to be the first ship that was fully his.

It was a squid ship-a big vessel, like the hammership Probe had been-two hundred and fifty feet long, from the tip of its piercing ram to the extremity of its fluked stern. It measured twenty-five feet or so in the beam, with two gaff-rigged masts. Armaments included a heavy catapult in a turret on the forecastle and two aft-pointing medium ballistae mounted just aft of where Teldin stood on the sterncastle. Painted red, like almost all the squid ships Teldin had ever seen, the vessel looked as if it had seen hard use. The decking was scratched and stained, and the planking of the hull showed the many repairs of a ship that had survived its share of battles. The whole vessel was… tired-that's the way it felt to Teldin-and it would take huge amounts of labor to get it shipshape, like the Probe had been under Aelfred Silverhorn.

On the other hand, there was no major damage. Teldin himself had spotted no potential ship-killers-things such as dry rot in the keel, for example, or krajens on the hull-and the more experienced Djan Alantri had confirmed his judgment. The squid ship was spaceworthy.

I wouldn't have managed this so quickly without Djan, Teldin told himself. It was the half-elf who'd picked out the faded red squid ship as a good prospect. It was he who'd handled the negotiations-after Teldin had confirmed to his own satisfaction that the line of credit that Vallus Leafbower had extended to him was accepted on Crescent-and had shaved a good ten to fifteen percent off the price through hard bargaining.

Finally, it was Djan who'd volunteered to handle hiring a crew. Tirelessly he'd done the rounds of the harborside taverns and wineshops, recruiting and interviewing, selecting two dozen or so competent sailors he thought would work together well. Teldin had made sure he'd included primary and backup helmsmen on his "shopping list"-the Cloak-master had no intention of revealing the spelljamming powers of his cloak if he had any alternative-but the half-elf had already covered the requirements.

Teldin-or "Captain Brewer," as everyone called him- stood freely on the sterncastle of his ship, watching his crew load his supplies and prepare the squid ship for space. He shook his head slowly. How I've changed, he told himself. Captain and ship owner? What next?

A quick chill shot through his heart as part of his mind provided an unwanted answer: Nothing different-just a much larger ship.… He took a deep breath, trying to force his sudden anxiety down to a manageable level. Not necessarily, he told himself firmly, the decision's not been made. There are always alternatives….

*****

Before leaving the ship to buy the final, last-minute supplies he'd thought of, Teldin put a few minutes into considering his appearance. For obvious reasons, it wouldn't do to wander the streets of Compact in his black garb. Yet, as "Captain Brewer," master of an armed and provisioned squid ship, the nondescript gray homespun he'd worn to the Great Archive wouldn't do either. After some thought, he compromised, keeping the cut of his real clothes while using the cloak's powers to change them all to gray, and to disguise their costly fabric.

Apparently he'd made the right decision, he decided as he headed back toward the docks. None of the gray-clad Marrakites had cast him so much as a second glance. In the few ship chandleries he'd visited, he'd been treated with some measure of respect-that befitting a ship's captain-yet if the proprietors had labeled him a stranger, they hadn't made an issue of it.

He patted the long rosewood box he carried under his left arm and smiled. After visiting the first two outfitters he'd started to despair of ever finding what he was after. Yet he'd persevered, and at the third establishment the proprietor had responded to his questions, not with a blank look, but by presenting the rosewood box he now carried. The price for the device inside was steep, but Teldin had no doubt it would be worth it.

He'd finally acquired a spyglass, like the one that he'd used aboard the gnomish dreadnought Unquenchable's longboat. He'd thought about the cunning device often, but he'd never had the chance to purchase one until now. He remembered the sense of pleasure he'd felt as he turned it over in his hands in the chandlery, enjoying its substantial weight and its smooth brass finish. He looked forward to showing his new acquisition to Djan.

The blow came out of nowhere, slamming with stunning force into the side of his head. He staggered back as another fist drove into his abdomen. The world spun wildly around him, and his stomach knotted with nausea. Iron-hard hands grabbed his shoulders and upper arms, almost dragging him off his feet. His back, and the back of his head, crashed against something unyielding. The rosewood box containing the spyglass crashed to the road. For an instant he thought he'd fallen backward, but then he realized he'd been driven against a wall. The hands that had grabbed him now released him.

Teldin's vision was still blurred. He raised a hand cautiously to the temple where the first blow had struck, and felt warm wetness on his fingertips. His skull still rang like church bells, but at least his vision was starting to clear, the red-gray fog of pain that had descended fading away. He pushed a lock of hair back from his face and looked at his attackers.

It could almost have been a repeat of his earlier encounter with the angry Marrakites, he thought at first. Facing him were six large men, all dressed in the familiar gray homespun. None had weapons drawn, though most had knives sheathed on their belts. The two who'd dragged him and thrown him against the wall-he could see he'd been pulled off the street a dagger's cast down an alleyway-were backing off from him, watching him carefully.

No, he realized with a chill of fear. No, it wasn't just like the first time. These men didn't have the sullen, disgruntled expressions of the first group. These had expressions that were cold, emotionless. He'd seen that degree of implacable determination before, but only on the faces of professional sellswords-the hirelings of Barrab, who'd tried to capture Teldin and Rianna on the streets of Rauthaven, for example. He let his hand drop to where the hilt of his short sword should be.

Nothing was there, of course. The weapon was safely aboard the squid ship. Confident that his nondescript appearance would be all the protection he needed, the Cloakmaster was armed with nothing more than his boot and belt knives. As smoothly as he could, he changed the reach for the nonexistent weapon into a gesture of defiance. He squared his shoulders and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

"What is your purpose with me?" he asked, injecting a combination of amusement and menace into his quiet voice. Carefully he watched his assailants' faces for their reactions.

If he'd been expecting some decrease in their confidence, he was sorely disappointed. Only one man's expression changed at all, and that was to twist his lips into an unpleasant smile.

The largest of the six men took a step forward. He glared down into the Cloakmaster's face. "You be not welcome here, stranger." The man's voice sounded as cold as a midwinter wind that brings the snow. Yet there was something about the man's tone that set off warning bells in Teldin's mind. The words the man used fit, matching closely what the earlier group of Marrakites had said, but, to the Cloak-master's ear, they sounded somehow rehearsed.

Teldin strove to keep his thoughts and doubts off his face as he returned the man's stare evenly. "I be of Crescent," he said as calmly as he could manage. "I follow the Way of the Plain, is that not so? Step aside and let me pass."

Now all of the men were grinning nastily. "You be plain," the leader said with a grim chuckle, "but you be a stranger. You be not welcome here, stranger. We be here to teach you how unwelcome you be." And with that, he balled his large fists.

It took all of the Cloakmaster's self-discipline to hold his arrogant pose and not reach for the knife sheathed behind his belt buckle. He kept an aloof half smile on his face, as he repeated, "I follow the Way of the Plain. Step aside."

"You be a stranger," the leader snarled, and the others rumbled their agreement.

In an instant, Teldin made his decision. He let his smile broaden. "You believe I'm a stranger, do you?" he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "Then maybe you should see just how right you are."

With the last word, he drew a deep breath and let his awareness expand to include the cloak at his shoulders. He let the disguise fall away from his clothes, allowing them to appear in their stark, striking blackness. Simultaneously, he altered his body-not grossly, but enough to add a dagger's length to the width of his shoulders and a hand to his height. As an afterthought, he changed the lines of his face, enhancing the jaw-tracing beard and darkening and thickening his brows. He glared out of his new face at the men threatening him.

Again, he was disappointed by their reaction… which was no reaction at all. Most people would have shown some response to having the bland-looking, gray-clad man facing them turn into a hard and piratical figure garbed in commanding night black. These six, however, just stared back at him as though they saw this kind of transformation all the time. (Or as though they had expected it, part of his brain added.)

The time for talk-for bluff and counter-bluff-was over. The leader stepped forward, his ham-sized fist drawn back to strike the first blow.

As he drove it forward, Teldin ducked under the man's arm, simultaneously snatching his dagger from its sheath behind his belt buckle. The point of his shoulder slammed into his assailant's chest.

Although staggered by the impact, the big Marrakite's reactions were blindingly fast. Instead of trying for another blow-which was what Teldin had expected-he threw both arms around the Cloakmaster in a great bear hug. Teldin tried to gasp as the air was driven from his lungs and his back bent like a bow. He tried to drive his knife into his assailant's body, but the arms that were killing him also trapped his own arms at his side. In desperation, he brought his knee up with all the force he could muster, driving it into the big man's vitals.

The blow struck home. His assailant made a retching, gasping noise, spewing saliva into Teldin's face. The crushing arms fell away. Even though badly hurt, however, the big man wasn't finished. He made a wild slash at the Cloak-master's neck with a long-bladed knife that had almost magically appeared in his hand. With a spasmodic movement, Teldin was able to parry the thrust, then, instinctively, he riposted. His own attack opened the side of his assailant's throat, and the big man collapsed to the stones of the alley.

The Cloakmaster sucked air hungrily into his aching lungs and steadied himself with his left hand against the wall. His back was on fire, the muscles feeling as though they'd been torn apart, and his vision was faintly blurred. He knew he wasn't injured badly, however, and that he'd be back to normal in only a couple of dozen heartbeats.

But that was time he didn't have. Seeing their leader felled didn't seem to deter the five other large men, and they advanced on the Cloakmaster, keeping a rough semicircle to prevent him from escaping. Their weapons were all drawn now-nothing larger than a belt knife, but since there were five blades to his one, that wasn't overly reassuring. With a harsh cry, Teldin feinted at the face of the man to his far left, then spun and gashed the forearm of the attacker directly before him. The man howled in agony but riposted with his own weapon. Teldin danced aside, feeling the razor-edged blade scribe a line of fire across his ribs, and battle was joined.

A broad-bladed knife stabbed at him from the right. He didn't have time for a proper parry, but he managed to slam the pommel of his own weapon into the attacker's wrist, deflecting the blow. He thought he felt the small bones of the other man's wrist shatter under the impact, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't have time to think about it. He had to fling himself aside to avoid another weapon driving for his heart, and felt a third blade tear the flesh of his left shoulder.

As the pain exploded in his brain, he felt energy bloom behind him. It was the cloak. In an instant, the movements of the five attackers surrounding him slowed as though the men were immersed in thickening molasses. A knife blade glinted in the sunlight as it arced toward his throat in what should have been a blindingly fast killing stroke. Now, however, the Cloakmaster had all the time in the world to raise his own blade in a perfect parry, then riposte and watch the long knife plunge into his attacker's heart. Before the newly dead man had time to fall, Teldin had slammed a blow into another attacker's throat and sidestepped yet another attempt to kill him.

He could see the amazement and horror blossom in slow motion in the remaining attackers' eyes. What must this seem like to them? he wondered with fierce amusement. To them, I'm moving as fast as lightning, as fast as a death god's avatar. They can't touch me, and I can slice them apart at my leisure.

As if to reinforce that thought, he turned to avoid another wild cut at his stomach, stepped inside the aggressor's swing, and drew his blade smoothly across the man's forehead, laying it open to the bone. Before the wounded man's face began to register the pain, the Cloakmaster had backed off again, well out of range of the panicked answering slash.

Two of the attackers' number were dead, and none of the other four was unharmed. Teldin could clearly see the survivors' morale desert them. As one, they flung their weapons to the ground-the Cloakmaster saw them fall with unnatural slowness-and turned to flee. To his magically enhanced senses, it was as if the men were leaving at a saunter, even though he knew they were pelting headlong for safety. It would have been so easy to slay them from behind, but Teldin didn't have it in him to kill anyone so totally defenseless, even though they'd shown no qualms about killing him. He watched them sprint out of the alleyway into the street and disappear around a comer.

With a sigh, he let the power of the cloak slip away. Time resumed its normal speed around him, and as it did he felt-as if for the first time-the fiery throbbing of his multiple wounds. With a tired groan, he reasserted his nondescript appearance and followed the long-departed assailants out of the alley.

*****

Good thing Djan's crew included at least one priest capable of using healing magic, Teldin told himself sourly a couple of hours later. Even though his wounds weren't serious, let alone life-threatening, their pain had been a nagging reminder that something was going on, something that he didn't fully understand. As the magic knitted the sliced and torn flesh and soothed away the pain, he was able to think clearly about what had happened. Teldin was again walking the streets of the city, searching again, but not for a spyglass this time.

The confrontation in the alleyway hadn't been a random event, not like his first run-in with the Marrakites. (And was even that random? he found himself wondering.) Even though at first glance that conclusion might seem paranoid, on closer inspection there was sufficient evidence to support it.

First, his assailants had claimed to know he was a stranger. How? In his visits to the ship chandleries, nobody else had shown any suspicion that he wasn't a native of Crescent. Why pick him out for special attention, when his magically altered appearance was specifically chosen to divert such unwanted attention? The only explanation was that the men knew-somehow, from some source-that Teldin was a stranger.

Second, at the time the Cloakmaster had felt there was something wrong with the encounter, felt that the leader of the attackers was reciting phrases that were rehearsed, that the man was acting out a role in some play.

Third, and perhaps most telling, was the fact that the attackers hadn't shown any reaction when he'd used the cloak's magic to change his appearance. How would most people have responded if the nondescript man they were talking to suddenly changed into a black-clad, piratical-looking figure? With fear and doubt, almost certainly, or at least with shock, but his assailants hadn't shown even the slightest hint of surprise.

What did all that tell him? His assailants had known who he was-if not what he represented-and at least some of what to expect from him. That, in turn, meant that someone had told them, and hired them to make trouble for the Cloakmaster. There was another possibility, though he decided it wasn't likely: that his assailants had set up the whole tiling on their own initiative.

The implication was that there was somebody-or several somebodies-in Compact who had serious interest in the movements of "Aldyn Brewer." The Cloakmaster, in turn, had serious interest in him, or them.

Again he'd disguised his appearance using the cloak, but this time he'd decided to use the full range of the artifact's abilities. He smirked to himself. Let the people who were after him scour Compact for a thirty-something, sandy-haired human of average height. They wouldn't give a second glance to a snowy-haired and bearded dwarf, stooped with age.

Teldin's plan of the moment was simple. By asking around at taverns, ship suppliers, and similar establishments, he would get a line on anyone who'd been showing inordinate interest in the whereabouts or actions of Captain Aldyn Brewer. He'd then track down those people and ask them some hard questions about their interests and intentions.

As he walked along one of the major streets leading to the docks, he wondered again if he should have brought Djan- and maybe some other members of the crew-as reinforcements, or, at the very least, as moral support. No, he thought. This is a task for one.

His plan was working out better than he'd expected. He'd already learned that two individuals had been asking about the "stranger who arrived in the one-man ship." In fact, the second person he'd spoken to about this-the bartender at a dockside tavern-had given him a description of the people involved.

"A woman, one of them," the large man had told Teldin. The man casually breathed a warm reek of sour wine into his face. "Didn't see no face under that cloak of hers, but she sounded real fine. And her bully boy partner-a big sod, couple axe handles across the shoulders, jaw like he could chew granite, and black hair down to his shoulders. Didn't say nothing, he didn't, he just looked like he was thinking bad thoughts." Teldin smiled as he remembered the man's description. Colorful, he thought, and something I'm not likely to forget.

He'd asked similar questions at several more establishments, building up a mental picture of the pair's movements. As he'd expected, they'd been quartering the port area of the city, gathering as much information as they could about "Aldyn Brewer." Now, it seemed, they were heading back toward the docks themselves-specifically to the area of the docks where the Cloakmaster's squid ship was moored. He smiled to himself. If they were still following the pattern he thought he'd established for their movements, he was pretty sure he knew their next destination-a small wineshop called "Curbert's," only a few spear casts from the Cloakmaster's ship. He picked up his pace, cursing for the moment his choice of a dwarf for his disguise; he'd be making much better time if he had longer legs. If his timing was right, he might be able to set up some kind of ambush for the pair when they emerged from the wineshop.

Curbert's was less than a dagger cast ahead of him when he saw the front door open and two figures emerge. He slowed his pace immediately to an apparently aimless stroll. Damn it to the hells, he thought, almost.

It was them all right, the pair that the bartender had described. The woman was short, of relatively light build, but that was all he could make out. She wore an ankle-length cloak of light gray homespun, with the cowl pulled forward over her head. If it weren't for the large figure beside her, Teldin would have paid no more attention to her than to any other Marrakite woman. Her companion was definitely striking, however-striking and familiar. Even though he couldn't see the big man's face, Teldin knew it was the same man he'd seen on the street near the Great Archive-the man who'd prompted that strange, inexplicable reaction in the Cloakmaster.

Mentally, he assessed his emotional reactions, in much the same way he might probe a tooth to see if it ached. This time there was no strange aversion; the figure was just another big man… and a big man who didn't seem to be carrying any weapons, he noted with satisfaction. Teldin let his hand fall to the hilt of his short sword (he'd made sure to bring it this time), which felt more like a broadsword in comparison to his dwarven frame. He picked up his pace, enough to start to close the distance with his quarry but hopefully not enough to draw attention to himself.

The two figures reached the opening of an alleyway that opened to their left, and turned into it. Why? Teldin wondered. To discuss their next step? It really didn't matter. Getting the two of them off the main street so he could talk to them uninterrupted had stood out in his mind as a major problem, one that they'd unknowingly solved for him. He smiled. With them out of his sight-and hence him out of theirs-he could hurry.

He stopped at the opening of the alley and cautiously looked around the corner. The two figures stood close together, not much more than a spear length from the road, apparently engaged in quiet conversation. All the better. He drew his sword and, holding it steady before him, stepped around the corner. "Greetings," he said conversationally.

Two heads snapped around, one framed in curly black hair, the other shadowed. The big man turned an indifferent gaze on Teldin, then his eyes widened and he growled, "It is he!" His voice was rough but emotionless.

Suddenly, Teldin was struck with another mental flash. It wasn't words this time; instead, it was an image as vivid as it was disconcerting. In his mind, the Cloakmaster saw a broad, loose-lipped mouth filled with teeth like daggers. And somehow, he knew that image was associated with the big man before him. Involuntarily, he let his magical disguise fade, revealing his true appearance. He took a step back and leveled his weapon at the man's belly. "Don't move," he barked.

"No."

It was the cloak-enshrouded woman who'd spoken.

Slowly Teldin lowered his blade and turned to the other figure. She'd thrown back her hood, exposing red hair, which shone in the sun like burnished copper. Her white teeth flashed in a smile he hadn't seen since he and Aelfred had set down on the Rock of Bral. Even after all this time, however, all his recollections of this woman-her laugh, her sudden enthusiasm, even the way her hair swung around her neck-were as fresh as if they'd been formed just the day before.

A torrent of conflicting emotions flooded through him: surprise, doubt, excitement, fear, paranoia… but, most of all, a piercing, bittersweet emotion that he tried to suppress before he had to admit its nature.

"I hear you're hiring a crew," the woman said. "Are there any berths still open?"

Schooling his expression to neutrality, he replied, "Let's talk. Come back to the ship with me, Julia."

*****

The large compartment in the "head" of the squid ship was officially the captain's cabin; so Djan had told him. It was so large, however, with two big, circular ports that made up the vessel's "eyes", that Teldin had felt uncomfortable keeping it for his sole use. Against his first mate's suggestions, he'd had the crew move a table in there as well as his personal effects, so it could double as an officers' meeting room. When the arrangements were made, the resemblance to the saloon aboard the Probe was enough to make him smile.

Right now, however, Teldin Moore wasn't smiling. He and Djan sat at one end of the table. Julia-who'd doffed her gray cloak to reveal a green jerkin that perfectly set off the copper of her hair-sat at the other. Behind her and to one side sat the big man, who Julia referred to as Beth-Abz. He was handsome. Broad of shoulders and square of jaw, with thick black, curly hair down to his shoulders, he looked like the very quintessence of the heroic warrior. So far he hadn't said a word aboard the ship and seemed satisfied just to watch everything with calm interest. Every now and again, Teldin shot him a curious look. The strange image of a tooth-filled mouth hadn't recurred, and the Cloakmaster could determine no reason for it to have happened in the first place. He set that train of thought aside and returned his attention to Julia.

The attractive woman shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "I know," she said tiredly, "I know what it looks like, but I didn't follow you here." She opened her hands, palms up. "I didn't even know you were here, Teldin. I heard yesterday at the White Elf tavern that 'Aldyn Brewer' was hiring a crew. Honestly, I'm as surprised as you are."

"You talked to people at other places as well," he said sharply, "not just the White Elf."

"Of course." Her tone was almost impatient. "I wanted to find out as much about what you were up to as possible. I had to…" She paused, looking away uncomfortably. "I had decisions to make."

Teldin was silent for a moment. He wanted to believe her. They'd been friends and comrades aboard the Probe. After the death of the treacherous Rianna Wyvernsbane, there'd been the strong hint they could become considerably more. But then Julia had left the Probe's crew and signed on with another vessel setting sail from the Rock of Bral.

He could understand why; even though she'd never said it straight out, she'd hinted at it often enough. Teldin Moore would never be free to follow his own path, she feared. Even if he didn't subsume his own desires and ambitions to the "enforced destiny" that the cloak seemed to carry with it, the fact that enemies would always be pursuing him implied that he'd always be reacting, not acting. It was a very limited existence; she'd said that often enough. It was also an existence-and this she'd never actually said-that held little space in it for Julia. Unwilling or unable to put herself through what a relationship with Teldin would involve, she'd gone off alone-leaving behind a note reading, "It's better this way," and a lock of copper hair nestled in the fold of the parchment. She'd also left behind a lot of memories, of course.

He wanted to believe her, yet there was still the fact of the six "alley bashers" who'd assaulted him. He was still convinced they'd got their information from someone who knew all too much about Teldin Moore, and here was someone from his past who definitely fit that description. "How did you come to Crescent, Julia?" he asked quietly.

Her hopeful half smile faded. She shrugged. "I signed on with a merchantman setting sail from the Rock to the world of Nivil," she explained, "a safe billet but a dull one. Remember, at the time I didn't really care where I was headed. I just needed to keep myself busy." She shot him a quick glance from under her copper bangs.

"When we set down on Nivil," she continued, "I was offered a commission as second mate, but I knew I'd die of boredom if I took it. So I signed on with a small 'package trader' who was bound for Radole."

Teldin jerked upright in his chair. "Radole?"

Julia sighed. "I know, I know, you visited Radole, too. I know what it sounds like, but I didn't know you were there, Teldin," she went on earnestly. "You'd already left when I arrived."

"But you knew I'd been there," Teldin pointed out sharply.

"Of course I did," Julia admitted sadly. "Everyone did. Just about every rumor I heard on the docks was about the human 'admiral' sailing on an Imperial Fleet vessel… and one that got itself badly chewed up, at that. Not many people knew your name, but they knew enough about the 'admiral' for me to make a good guess as to who it was.

"But I didn't know where you were headed next," she concluded firmly. "Nobody did. You covered your tracks well."

"You're here." Teldin's voice was almost a whisper.

For the first time, Julia's eyes flashed with anger. "I know, damn the gods' eyes," she snapped. "I was planning to stay on Radole for a while, but you screwed that up, even though you weren't there anymore. I had to get busy again. I couldn't give myself time to think that maybe I'd made a wrong decision." She glared at him. "Do you know what I'm saying?"

For a moment Teldin was silent, then, "Yes," he said, nodding, "I know. But, how…"

"How come I'm here?" Julia shrugged again. "There was another merchantman setting sail the next day for Crescent. No other vessel I'd ever consider crewing on was leaving for a week, so I didn't have much choice. I came to Crescent."

Teldin snorted. "So I'm supposed to accept it's just coincidence that you're here? And that you were asking around about me?"

"Coincidence?" Julia bared her teeth in an expression that was more snarl than smile. "I don't think the word has any meaning around you, Teldin Moore," she stated. "I think you make coincidences, because of what's happened to you, and what and who you are. I'm sorry if I'm saying things that you don't want spoken aloud"-she looked meaningfully at Djan-"but I've got to say them. I can't not say them any longer.

"I think you warp the laws of probability, Teldin," she went on, warming to her theme. "You and… what it is that makes you who you are. Think back on all the 'coincidences'-happy and sad-that have happened to you and around you. Do you honestly believe they were caused by pure luck? You'd have to be stupid… and you're not stupid.

"The universe is huge, Teldin Moore, more vast than any of us can imagine. Yet you've kept 'coincidentally' meeting people who've channeled your destiny in new ways, focused them toward a goal. How probable is that, going on chance alone? I know it sounds ridiculous-even I don't believe it all the time-but your destiny might be so strong that it overwhelms the normal laws of chance."

She paused, and Teldin watched as she controlled herself. "So, Teldin," she concluded, "in answer to your question: Yes, it's just purest coincidence that I'm here… for whatever little that word may be worth." With that she sat back in her chair and firmly crossed her arms before her chest.

Teldin was silent for three dozen heartbeats. He didn't know what to make of the woman's statements. Certainly, random events seemed to have conspired to force him along the course he now followed, events that almost seemed tailor-made to guarantee he'd act in a certain way.

But, in some sense, wasn't that a meaning of the word 'coincidence'? Several random events coming together to produce a certain result? Had one of those random events occurred differently, he'd probably have been channeled onto a totally different course. At the end of that course, however, he'd have looked back and remarked on how 'predetermined' his path had been….

For an instant, he wished Estriss were present. He'd know how to deal with this strange philosophy, Teldin told himself… or at least he'd enjoy discussing it, and probably at ridiculous length.

The Cloakmaster suppressed his smile and turned to his first mate. "Djan?"

The half-elf didn't answer right away. His gaze flickered back and forth between Teldin and Julia, and he seemed to be mumbling under his breath.

"An interesting philosophy… Teldin Moore," he said at last, stressing the name. "And one the Marrakites of Crescent would easily understand. The followers of the True Path believe there are some people they term 'verenthestae,' who weave the strands of fortune and destiny in different patterns by their very presence." He smiled mildly. "An interesting question, Aldyn Brewer-or Teldin Moore. Are you verentheslae?" He shrugged. "In any case, my captain, your old friend is speaking the truth as she knows it."

It took Teldin a moment to comprehend what his first mate had just said. Then, "What?"

"She did come to Crescent by chance, my friend," Djan confirmed. "As a Child of the Path, I have some skills in this matter. She was utterly surprised-and both saddened and elated-to find you on Crescent. Her presence here is coincidence"-he chuckled quietly-"for whatever that word is worth in the presence of verenthestae."

Teldin closed his eyes and forced his breathing into a more normal pattern. He realized his hands were clenched into fists and forced them to relax, laying them flat on the table before him. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again and raised his gaze to Julia. With an ultimate effort, he kept his tone light as he said, "It seems we have space in the crew for two more. Would you care to sail with us? We cast off tomorrow."