Teldin spoke for the first time. "This isn't necessary," he said, struggling to keep his voice even, his tone reasonable. "I'm willing to meet with T'k'Pek…." His voice trailed off.
Barrab's harsh laughter confirmed what he'd just realized. "I'm not working for the blue-skin anymore," the fat man amplified. "The head-eaters from Falx pay much better."
Rianna gasped. Barrab's words obviously meant more to her than they did to Teldin. "You treacherous bastard," she spat. "I hope you get your throat ripped out."
Barrab chuckled again. "Doubtful," he remarked casually. "The money this'll net me will take me a long way from here."
The bravos-even the rabid-looking killer-listened to this exchange with some interest, and even amusement. Their stares were on their employer and the woman, not on Teldin. He edged slowly to his left, where there was a slight opening. If he moved fast enough, maybe slashing the nearby bravo with his sword as he went past… That should distract them enough for Rianna to get free as well. He knew it was a desperate idea, but he had little choice. He tensed, ready to bolt.
The bravos' attention might have been distracted, but not Barrab's. At Teldin's first subtle move, he responded. "Oh, no," he snapped. The bravos' eyes were instantly back on Teldin, colder and crueller than before. The rabid one smiled, and his eyes looked like death.
Teldin froze. Again he slowly and obviously moved his hand away from his sword hilt. The other bravos relaxed a little. The rabid one, however, was still tense, ready to attack. Teldin's throat felt like a cylinder of solid ice. He's insane, he told himself.
"Relax, Spak," Barrab snapped at the feral bravo. "Relax, I said."
The rabid one seemed to quiver with internal conflict. I can't believe how much he wants to kill me, Teldin thought. Spak shot Barrab a speculative look, as though the killer were considering slaughtering him as well, then, with a visible effort, Spak lowered his sword and left his poised half-crouch. Teldin started to breathe again.
Barrab looked hardly less relieved, he noticed. The fat man's authority over the bravo had held-just- but he might not win another battle of wills like that.
The arcane's representative spoke to the other bravos. "Enough of this, like them," he ordered, pointing at Teldin, "but don't harm him." He grinned nastily. "I'm not concerned about her welfare."
Smiling like wolves, the bravos stepped forward. "No!" Rianna shouted in outrage. She flung her knife at the nearest bravo-an underhand cast, neither accurate nor powerful, but the hired swordsman had to block it. That gave Rianna an instant of freedom.
Her hands swept through a complex gesture, and she barked a harsh syllable. Fire bloomed, a gout of flame that burst into existence right in front of Barrab and spread with a dull roar. "Run, Teldin!" Rianna screamed.
Teldin threw himself back from the fire, shielding his eyes with his cloaked arm. Even so, heat washed over his face and he felt his skin tighten with it. His eyes stung with tears and with smoke, and the air was heavy with the smell of burning cloth and flesh.
The roaring fire was gone as quickly as it had sprung into being. Barrab was reeling, screaming and slapping at small flames that still burned on his clothing. Much of his hair was gone, and his exposed skin was an angry red. One of the bravos was down, blackened and unmoving. The other sellswords were wiping streaming eyes or covering blistered faces.
Rianna was simply gone. No, there she was, sprinting down the alley, heading for the corner and safety. She'd almost made it when Spak, the feral bravo, opened his scorched eyes and saw her. With an animal snarl, he snatched a dagger from his boot and flung it with frightening force. The dagger caught the sunlight as it turned end for end-once, twice-and tore into the fleeing woman's shoulder. Teldin heard her scream in agony, but she kept running, and an instant later was around the corner. The bravos might still pursue, but she'd gained a good head start.
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.