Nigel Findley: The Broken Sphere

The people of Compact were an incredibly somber lot, he decided. The expressions of the men looked as drab as their clothes, framed by simple haircuts that looked as if they'd been done with gardening shears. As for the women, he couldn't tell what their expressions were; they wore ground-length cloaks-of gray, of course-with cowls pulled forward over their heads, concealing their faces. Passersby rarely looked up from the ground in front of their feet- except to cast suspicious glances his way, he noticed-and they never smiled.

They didn't seem to talk, either, other than in whispers. Even the children-of which there were many in the streets-were unnaturally silent. Instead of running and playing, laughing and yelling, the way kids were supposed to do, they walked soberly around like smaller versions of adults. What a depressing place to grow up, Teldin mused, remembering his own boisterous childhood. I'm sure my father wished I'd been like these little zombies, but-thank the gods-that's not the way it worked out.

After a few minutes of walking through the streets, Teldin thought he could pick out some people who didn't look as if they really belonged. Certainly, they wore the same unrelieved gray clothing, and they kept their eyes down and mouths shut. But there was something about their expressions-a hint of interest, perhaps, or vitality-that set them apart. They're visitors, too, the Cloakmaster realized with surprise. They knew what to expect, and took on the dress and mannerisms of the locals so they wouldn't stand out the way I do. He frowned. I should have done more research before coming here, he admitted to himself. There's definitely something to be said for not drawing attention to yourself.

The situation wasn't permanent, however. Using the cloak's shapechanging powers, it would be only a moment's work to turn himself into a gray-clad drone. Of course, undergoing the change on a crowded street wouldn't be the smartest idea. He glanced around him. All he needed was a deserted alley and a couple of seconds to remedy his error. But then his eyes lit on a group of burly men across the street, and he realized he might not have a couple of seconds to do anything.

There were five of them, all large and broad-shouldered, the smallest about Teldin's height and the largest a head taller. They wore the gray clothes and had the severe haircuts that marked them as Compact locals, but their eyes were fixed on the Cloakmaster, not the ground, and their expressions were hard and angry.

Teldin stopped in his tracks. He couldn't even guess at what the gray-clad men might be angry about, but he was in no mood for any kind of confrontation. Quickly he glanced around him, looking for some way of avoiding them, somewhere to duck out of sight. He was in the middle of the street, though, and there was no alley, or even an open doorway, within a dozen yards.

It wouldn't have helped him if there had been. The largest of the five men was already striding toward Teldin, with the others following behind.

With no option but confrontation, Teldin drew himself up to his full height and fixed an expression on his face that he hoped conveyed determination and confidence. He brushed his cloak back and planted his fists on his hips. For a moment he silently berated himself for leaving his sword aboard the Fool and trusting only to his knives, but then he pushed the thought aside as useless.

The big man stopped a pace in front of him and glared down into Teldin's face. The other four spread out on either side of him a half pace or so farther back. For a moment there was silence as the five men looked him up and down. Then, "Well?" Teldin asked coldly.

"You be a big fancy-man, don't you be?" the leader demanded, his voice like gravel. "Walking here in your devil's colors, not following the Way of the Plain."

Teldin didn't answer at once. Then he shrugged, as though the big man's anger meant nothing to him. "I wear what I usually wear," he said at last, his voice reasonable. "I don't know your 'Way of the Plain,' but I intend no insult." And with that, he turned aside, ready to walk away.

But the leader grabbed his shoulder with a hand the size of a feast day ham and jerked him back. He glared down at Teldin from a handspan away, breathing his sour breath right into the Cloakmaster's face. "The Way of the Plain be the law," he growled. "You come here to break that law. What other laws you be here to break, then?"

The man's grip on Teldin's shoulder was tight enough to hurt-obviously too tight for the smaller man to pull free easily. Quickly, the Cloakmaster considered his options. For a moment he considered trying to break free, but immediately realized that would just further enrage the man.

With an effort, he schooled his expression to calm, and said quietly, "I'm not here to break any of your laws."

"But you be breaking one, don't you be?" the gray-clad man demanded harshly. "He do be, right, lads?" The others growled and grunted their agreement. "What do we with lawbreaker, then?" the leader asked.

Teldin looked quickly from face to face, saw the same thing written in all five expressions. They're working themselves up, he recognized, working themselves into a state to do something. The question was, how far would they go? He let his right hand creep closer to the hilt of the small knife sheathed behind the buckle of his broad belt. "I mean you no harm," he said as calmly as he could manage. He wasn't really afraid for his life-he didn't think the men looked like trained warriors, and he could probably hold his own against five street fighters-but there was always the chance one of his foes would get lucky and injure him, perhaps badly. Even if he escaped unscathed, the fight would attract entirely too much attention to the "black-clad stranger," and could prevent him from reaching the archive.

"You harm by your presence, lawbreaker," the man grunted. He tightened his grip on Teldin's shoulder, then drew back his other rock-hard fist to drive it into the smaller man's face.

Teldin brought up his left forearm to deflect the coming blow. With his right hand he snatched the knife from its concealed sheath and poised the slender blade to strike.

"Hold" The sharp command echoed through the street.

The six men froze, forming a strange tableau. Teldin looked around wildly for the one who'd spoken.

"Hold, I say," the voice repeated.

Now Teldin could see the speaker. He was a slender man an inch or two taller than Teldin and, judging by his face, a couple of years younger. He wore the same nondescript gray garb as the Cloakmaster's assailants, and his hair-gossamer-thin, and so blond as to be almost white-was cut in the same straightforward style. His pale, gray-blue eyes were steady, his face expressionless.

The man holding Teldin glared at the new arrival. "You defend the lawbreaker?" he snarled.

"He breaks the law only because he doesn't know the law," the newcomer pointed out reasonably. His voice had lost its snap of command, and was now soft, almost musical. "What does the True Path say about ignorance?"

The large man hesitated. His hand loosened its grip on Teldin's shoulder, then fell away entirely. He glanced at the comrades at his sides, doubt in his eyes." 'Ignorance is the greatest crime…'" he said slowly.

"'… but a crime to be corrected, not punished,'" the newcomer concluded. "Am I right? Our friend"-he indicated Teldin-"comes to the Great Archive for knowledge, in respect and reverence as he should. He knows not our customs, it's true, but the fault lies equally with you for not enlightening him."

Teldin's erstwhile foe dropped his gaze. His comrades had already taken a couple of steps back, as though they were trying to fade into the crowd around them.