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.