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.