Nigel Findley - Into the Void

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 elf 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.

Teldin searched for some trace of the vanished elf, but with no success. He gave up and took a few moments to think matters through. He had no reason to trust Vallus- By the Abyss, he thought, I've got no reason to trust anybody anymore-but the elf s words made sense. Barrab and crew must have realized Teldin would have to follow a major road to the harbor, and the downhill end of the sloping marketplace would be one of the natural "choke points" to guard. Then he wondered why the elf was trying to help him. He obviously knew about the cloak, and just as obviously wanted it for his own people. Why didn't he just take it himself? Did he doubt his own ability to do so, even with his considerable magical abilities? Or was he just channeling Teldin toward an ambush where he and some comrades could take the cloak more easily, at less risk? If so, following the elf s directions would be fatal.

He shook his head in disgust. That way lies paranoia, he thought, echoing the words of Aelfred after the neogi attack against the Probe. The choice was basically simple: stick to the crowded thoroughfare, even though his own logic the way would be guarded, or trust the elf. Put that way, the choice was easier. He set off deeper into the alley.

As Vallus had said, the alleyway soon joined a narrow road, much less traveled than the major thoroughfare. The few people that passed were all intent on their own business and didn't even spare him a glance. That was good. Even better, this road, too, led downhill. He turned right, as instructed.

This route was much less direct than the main road through the marketplace. It wound back and forth and intersected other roads, but the continuous throbbing pain in Teldin's knee told him it was always heading downhill. His level of paranoia was still high, and he kept a sharp lookout for anything that might be the elf s ambush, but he saw nothing to cause him any alarm. After a dozen minutes, he reached the harbor area.

He stopped in the mouth of a narrow street, staying as much in the shadows as possible while still keeping a reasonable field of view. He was looking out at what Aelfred had facetiously called the "Widow's Walk." This was the wide seawall that ran around the harbor, traditionally the place where sailors' wives-"sea widows," as Aelfred called them-watched for their husbands' return. By day, it was a hive of activity: longshoremen loading and unloading cargo, hawkers selling their wares from barrows, ships' crews seeking taverns or other diversions, and those whose livelihood came from offering those diversions. At night the traffic thinned out somewhat, though the wandering sailors and the women who beckoned to them never seemed to leave. From his position of shelter, Teldin tried to get his bearings.