He examined his image in the glass again, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. His new beard-closely trimmed, little more than a narrow band of sandy hair following the line of his jaw-still felt strange to his fingers.

But it certainly goes with the clothes, he had to admit. With his light brown curls cropped in what he thought of as a "helmet cut"-short, to fit under an armored helmet-and the beard, plus the black clothes, he looked quite piratical. Teldin Moore, wildspace pirate, cutlass-for-hire. He snorted.

Still and all, he told himself, I wear the Cloak of the First Pilot, as the elves call it. Why not dress the part? He flipped his mirror image a mocking salute.

For a moment, he considered going out on deck for a breath of fresh air. The one-compartment cabin of his ship was small, not much larger than the sail locker he'd shared with the gnomes aboard the Probe. Sometimes he regretted his decision to set sail alone in a ship tiny enough to be crewed by one man. While he relished the privacy, and the chance to think without interruption, he frequently suspected the tradeoffs had been too great. Space was a major issue, but even more important was the fact that he couldn't put an end to his privacy when he was done thinking his deep thoughts.

Still and all, he reminded himself, you've made your bed and now you've got to lie in it.

After parting with Vallus Leafbower, the bionoid Hectate, and the other members of his last crew, Teldin had looked into acquiring a private ship. At first he'd balked at the staggering prices of even the smallest spelljamming vessel. But then he'd discovered, through conversation with a minor ship broker, that money was the least of his problems. Apparently-thanks to one "Master Captain Leafbower"-Teldin had a line of credit, backed by the Imperial Fleet, sufficient to buy outright anything up to the size of a hammership, like the late Aelfred Silverhorn's Probe, or even larger.

A ship that size wasn't what Teldin wanted, however. It hadn't taken him long to spot the vessel that matched his needs perfectly. The ship broker had acted as though Teldin had taken leave of his senses when he pointed it out, but that didn't matter. There was something about the old river trader-converted for spelljamming travel through the addition of a battered minor helm-that called to him. The ship's background, he'd thought, was probably very much like his: spending the majority of its existence in some peaceful, bucolic-and definitely terrestrial-setting, and only lately being thrust into the confusing reality of wildspace, the Flow, and the greater universe.

The trader was short and beamy-not more than thirty feet from prow to stern, and more than half that in width- with a single square-rigged mast. It had a single communal cabin, with a small, closed room for the helm at the stern, plus a surprisingly large cargo hold. In answer to Teldin's question, the broker had reluctantly admitted that the ship could be handled by a single person-though at much reduced speed and maneuverability-and that had sealed the matter in the Cloakmaster's mind.

The deal was settled, and the next day at dawn he'd set off. With his cloak-the ultimate helm-glowing sunrise pink at his back, Teldin had listened to the water hissing from the ship's hull as he climbed away from the harbor. A few quick experiments had confirmed that the decreases in speed and maneuverability arising from a crew of one were more than compensated for by the incredible control the cloak gave him. The ship was unarmed, but the Cloakmaster was confident he'd be able to evade all but the swiftest vessels that might come after him.

And so he'd taken to wildspace in his own vessel-which he named the Ship of Fools, even though he now was the only fool aboard, alone and-for the first time in a long time-free.

But I'm not really free, am I? he asked himself, stroking the smooth fabric of the cloak. Not while I'm wearing this.

No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he was still bound, his actions constrained. He'd never been one to bow to the dictates of destiny without some kind of a struggle, and that wasn't going to change now. But what could he do? He couldn't remove the cloak; that was part of its magic. And even if he could, would he? Should he? There were many others in the universe who wanted to command the Spelljammer-who'd kill for the immense power it represented. Yet he found that he didn't trust anyone who wanted to be the next captain of the Spelljammer….

Paladine! he cursed through clenched teeth. He hated this. Since he'd first set eyes on the triple-damned cloak, his actions had been severely limited. While he had, theoretically, freedom to choose at each decision point, he was still being forced along a particular course by his own ethical and moral outlook.

Will I always be trapped like this? he asked himself. When do I say "consequences be damned," and act in my own best interest? He crossed his arms before his chest, his jaw set angrily.

And then he caught another glimpse of himself in the glass. The image brought a half smile to his lips. Tough-talking Teldin Moore, he chided himself. At least I'm not losing my sense of humor.

*****

He woke with a muzzy head and a foul taste in his mouth. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his right eye, and his stomach burned with acid.

Again, he thought disgustedly. This is getting much too familiar.

He looked at the earthenware jug on the nightstand beside his cot. He'd neglected to put the cork back in it, and the pungent aroma of sagecoarse filled the cabin. With hands that could be steadier, he restoppered the jug. The smell of the strong liquor was still in the air, of course, and continued to make his stomach churn.

This isn't the way it should be, he told himself.

Not too long ago, Teldin had rather prided himself on the fact that he didn't drink hard liquor. While sailing aboard the hammership Probe with Aelfred Silverhorn, he'd developed a taste for sagecoarse, but had felt no need to drink more than an occasional small cup. But now?

He picked up the jug and swirled it, estimating its contents by feel. About a third gone, he guessed, and it was full yesterday. Is it any wonder I feel like scavver dung?

Even worse, this wasn't the first time. He'd started having trouble sleeping while he was still on Radole, soon after his parting of the ways with Vallus Leafbower. Even though his body was dead tired, he'd found he couldn't turn his mind off." Lying in bed, he found himself replaying in his brain all the major decision points in the course that had taken him from Ansalon to here, trying to find some alternative choices that would have made things turn out better. Eventually-sometimes hours later-he'd sunk into a fitful sleep racked by nightmares. He'd awakened unrefreshed, tangled in sheets that his thrashing had turned into sweat-soaked ropes.

He'd weathered almost a week like this, growing steadily more and more tired, his gritty-feeling eyes becoming ever more sunken. One night, in desperation, he'd bought a flask of sagecoarse from the inn where he was staying, and had used it to drink himself into oblivion. Surprisingly, he'd felt better rested the next day (even though the resulting hangover had been epic). Better yet, he'd seemed to have broken the cycle. The next several nights he'd managed to sleep without taking a drink and had thought he was over his problems.

No such luck. The nightmares had come back, as had the hours of staring at the ceiling, second-guessing everything he'd done since leaving his farm. Again he'd had to turn to the bottle when he couldn't handle the sleeplessness any further. By this time, he was aboard the Ship of Fools and in space. Fortunately, he'd had the forethought to include some jugs of sagecoarse among his traveling supplies.