Prince Edward turned a corner, entering the business district. Citizens paced the walkways, laden with baskets of fruit and vegetables, laundry, or personal crafts. A cart approached from the opposite direction. Edward and Nightfall drew the horses aside to let it pass before continuing onward.
Soon, Grittmon’s stone and wood tavern came into sight, its green sign matching its cheerily painted trim. Smoke fluttered from the chimney. The odor of hay and manure wafted from the attached stables, liberally mixed with the pleasant, distinctive smell of horses.
Prince Edward stopped, smiling his relief. "Sudian, I’ll get the room. You take care of the horses, then head out to market and find a spade."
Gods! Not the damned spade thing again. Nightfall opened his mouth to protest, then changed his mind. Arguing would only irritate Ned. Grittmon’s would not become dangerous until after sundown. In the meantime, he was free to handle his business with Kelryn while Edward tended to his personal hygiene.
Wanting to smooth Prince Edward’s transition to a world where he had to pay for his comforts, Nightfall seized the horses’ bridles and tugged them toward the stables. Drawn by the aroma of hay and water, the animals followed without much coaxing, trotting eagerly after Nightfall.
A stable boy in tattered, filthy homespun met him at the entrance. He wiped a runny nose on the back of his sleeve. “Can I help you, sir?"
"Here." Nightfall rummaged through the purse he had stolen from the steward, emerging with a silver coin. He offered it to the boy.
The child’s gaze locked on the silver, but his hands reached for the bridles instead. "You pay inside, sir."
"No, this is for you." Nightfall pressed the coin into the boy’s hand. "You’ll get two more if the horses and tack are well cared for and here when it’s time for us to leave."
The boy stared at the coin in his fist.
Nightfall unlashed his own pack as well as Prince Edward’s, letting them slide gently to the ground. "Any gear l leave with the horses is welcome to disappear." With that, he shouldered up the prince’s heavy pack and his lighter one, and chased after his master.
Nightfall caught sight of Prince Edward as he was entering Grittmon’s. A lean, handsome pickpocket named Myar caught the door as Edward stepped to the threshold, holding the panel for the prince’s entrance.
Always suspicious of politeness, especially from a thief, Nightfall watched Myar’s free hand dip into the prince’s pocket and deftly flick the purse from Edward’s possession to his own.
"Thank you," Edward said.
"My pleasure," Myar replied honestly.
Though crushed beneath the weight of Prince Edward’s armor and effects, Nightfall rushed to the door before Myar could let it swing shut. "Master, wait!” Aware the pickpocket would be more attuned to cunning movements than gross effrontery, Nightfall crashed into Myar with enough force to drive him against the door.
Breath rushed from Myar’s mouth in a startled cry. The packs teetered in Nightfall’s grip, but he still managed to reappropriate Edward’s purse, along with another in Myar’s possession, and slip both into his own pocket. “I’m sorry. I’m so sor1y." Nightfall fawned over the pickpocket, now dropping both packs in awkward apology. The heavy pack clanked onto Myar’s toe.
Myar bellowed in pain, half-staggering, half-hopping out the door. Wedged in the door frame, the packs kept the panel from closing, and Nightfall tripped after Myar, wringing his hands and ceaselessly berating his clumsiness. "I really am sorry. I didn’t mean-"
"Stupid!" Myar lashed a hand across Nightfall’s face with a suddenness that surprised even the squire. Stumbling backward, he tripped over the pack. He caught his balance naturally, then thinking better of a blatant display of grace, sprawled to the barroom floor. His cheeks felt on fire, more from rising rage than the force of the blow. Not since his mother’s death had anyone struck Nightfall, and it was all he could do to keep from leaping to his feet and jamming a dagger between the pickpocket’s ribs. Instead, he pretended grogginess, rolling to his hands and knees. He gained a strange view of the common room, a sea of table, chair, and human legs.
"Witless servant." Myar pursued, aiming a kick at Nightfall’s ribs. "Clumsy bastard."
Accustomed to acting, Nightfall kept his temper, cringing from the blow he knew must land. But Prince Edward stepped between them, seizing Myar’s, leg in mid-stroke with a quickness Nightfall would not have thought possible from one so inexperienced. "Don’t hit my squire! No one hits my squire. Not even I hit my squire." He tossed down the captured leg.
Nightfall had never seen Edward angry before, and the prince’s size and golden presence made him glad Edward chose not to hit his squire. It felt strange to let the prince protect him, yet it fit the act and he knew Edward was in little danger. Few thieves were killers and few killers thieves, and he knew Myar was no exception. Quietly, while all attention fixed on the exchange between Myar and Edward, Nightfall rose and slipped the purse back into the prince’s pocket.
Myar retreated, glaring at Nightfall around his master. "Yeah. Well, maybe if you did hit him, he wouldn’t be such an oaf." Spinning on his heel, Myar stormed off into the street.
Prince Edward turned, concern clearly etched on his features. "Are you hurt, Sudian?" He hefted his own pack, then took Nightfall’s in the other hand.
"No, Master. Thank you, Master. You are, as the gods told me in my dreams, the most wonderful of all masters. And I am proud to serve you." Nightfall reached to take the gear, but Edward did not relinquish it.
"And I’m honored to have you, Sudian." He fumbled through his purse, passing Nightfall a silver coin, blithely unaware he had not had possession of his money just moments ago. "I’ll take care of our things and the room. You get the spade."
I don’t believe this. We just had a double robbery, an assault, and a shouting match in a barroom doorway, and he’s still thinking about that damned spade. Nightfall accepted the silver, thinking it safer in his own pocket than Edward’s. With it, he could buy a gross of spades.
The oath-bond buzzed through Nightfall, and he examined the inn’s common room for evidence of danger. In broad daylight, few men patronized Grittmon’s; and, at the present time, every customer watched Prince Edward. Four men sat in the far corner, the cards in their fists temporarily forgotten for the action in the doorway. Nearer, a pair of leather—clad city guardsmen exchanged relieved glances, apparently pleased that the conflict had not flared into a fight. A plump, aging barmaid sprawled at a table near the card players, chewing kommi and studying Edward with a look that expressed interest and an attitude that revealed doubt. Windows in the walls on either side of the door gave a view of surrounding streets. An elaborate stairway at the farther end of the room led to a cat-walk. From previous experience, Nightfall knew that around the back side of the stairs, a door led into Grittmon’s private room.
Looks safe enough. It occurred to Nightfall to worry about Edward’s purse as well as his person, but he dismissed the thought. I can’t sew myself to his side. Maybe a robbery might give him a taste of reality. The thought made him smile. Ned’s innocence made life so simple for Nightfall, he hated the idea of corrupting it. Besides, he’s so cute when he’s being childishly noble. "I’ll be back shortly, Master." Turning, he strode from the bar onto Nemix’s streets.
The oath-bond quivered within Nightfall like-a chill. He paused, moving slowly to see if it worsened, not wanting to lose his soul over a missing spade. But the feeling remained constant, apparently just a warning that he had left the prince alone and not in the safest place. I’ll be back before dusk. I can’t be with him while he bathes, and no one who saw him work Myar will stand against him.
The oath-bond eased, apparently satisfied with the rationalization. Nightfall headed toward the Nemixian dance hall. Now, to take care of my own business.
Nightfall negotiated the streets and alleyways from habit, too familiar with his route to pay it any heed. Fully adopting his persona as Sudian, he bru
shed between the pedestrians with the nervous curiosity of a young, foreign servant. The act came naturally, from years of practice at playing roles, and he trusted the quiet, brooding portion of his mind that functioned, even in sleep, to alert him to any threat. It left him free to plot.
In my real appearance, I’m established as a naive and fiercely loyal squire. A perfect disguise. Yet a thought that should have pleased Nightfall made him frown instead. His own words rang false. There’s no costume more vulnerable and dangerous than one well-anchored and based on natural looks. If things go wrong, ditching Sudian would cost me my soul. And from now on, if caught, I always run the risk of being stripped down to the face too many people know as Sudian, Edward’s squire.
Nightfall wandered through the market square, his eyes seeing everything, but his mind filtering out the confused hubbub of merchants and patrons that bore him no threat. From recollection, he knew that the building that served as quarters for the dancers had no windows, only a pair of doors at either end of a long corridor. Two other means of entry came to mind. A chimney rose from the common room at one end of the hallway, but it would prove a tight and grimy portal; gaining access to it would require him to climb the building. In broad daylight, no less. If I got caught, it would be impossible to explain. The other entryway, the kitchen chute used for grocery deliveries seemed equally unsuitable. Too many people around this time of day. And, again, there would be no sensible alibi.
It was not the first time Nightfall had found a straight-forward, simple plan the most practical. His agility, training and weight-shifting skill seemed to work best with unexpected contingencies or after his scouting revealed useful details less practiced spies might miss. My best strategy, as Sudian, is to walk right in the front door and gather as much information about Kelryn’s patterns and protections as I can. Then, if I see a way to kill her and make it look accidental, my job is finished. If not, I’ll have to find a way to come back in the night. A comfortable familiarity pervaded the thought.
Suddenly, pain bore through Nightfall’s abdomen, sharp as embedded talons. Caught by surprise, he whirled before he realized that the agony came from within him. The movement splashed dizziness through his head, stealing his usual dexterity and pounding him to the walkway. Instinctively, he lowered his weight to minimize the fall. Then, feeling a hand on his arm, he restored his mass with a thought.
The oath-bond. Nightfall resisted the urge to concentrate on the benefactor who steadied him, aware he needed to appease the magic first. I won’t go out at night unless I ’m certain Ned is safe.
The pain eased only slightly. Vertigo still crippled Nightfall, and he let the stranger brace a solid proportion of his weight, fighting the urge to lessen it again.
"Are you well?" The unfamiliar male voice sounded distant through the buzzing in Nightfall’s ears.
Still concentrating on the oath-bond, he tried to guess what other condition of the magics he might stand on the verge of violating. Only one possibility presented itself. And if I go out to kill Kelryn at night, I won’t take the guise of Nightfall.
The oath-bond retreated further, and Nightfall ran with the thought. Nightfall is officially dead, and I can’t even raise the hint of a rumor that he’s still alive. Even at it didn’t violate my oath, it would be foolish.
The pain fell away. And though he had done nothing to recuperate, just the absence of the pain made him feel restive and alert. He riveted his attention on the man beside him.
Keen, dark eyes studied Nightfall from a face a few years older than his own. Light brown curls and a manicured beard framed tanned checks and an expression of concern. "Boy, are you well?"
Nightfall could not recall the last time anyone had called him “boy." Even knowing he looked far younger than his age, he believed he should have enough years to avoid the slur. It’s the livery. It’s the damned squire livery. And I’d better get used to it. Nightfall’s mind clicked naturally to the next step. Perhaps even take advantage of it. "I’m all right just a touch of vertigo." Logic told Nightfall that this man had simply happened along at the crucial moment, that if a youngster near himself had stumbled, he would have helped as well. Still, his mother’s drastic personality changes had given him cause to learn to judge mood and intention from distant glimpses and to catch the slightest cues that warned of an approaching transition. He had come to know from her face and posture when running to her arms would earn him a hug and when it would earn him a slap. And when taking the blow was preferable to fueling her anger by hiding or dodging.
The skill had served Nightfall well in later years. Reading expressions had become as ingrained as a swords-man’s riposte to a sparring mate’s favorite attack. At a glance, he could tell which sources to trust and which to challenge. To an outsider, the skill might seem uncanny. Nightfall knew it was the cause of the rumors that stated he knew, without words, who wanted his services and that to lie to Nightfall was suicide. It had always pleased him that gentle threat had proved enough; he had not needed to actually kill to support the tales.
Now Nightfall’s ability kicked in without need for concentration. And though his benefactor had a softness of features that encouraged trust, Nightfall saw through the facade. The man’s eyes revealed the hard glimmer of one who has taken enough lives to no longer see the value in any single one. Several possibilities rose to Nightfall’s mind. A mercenary, perhaps. A soldier. A guard. The occupation made no difference to Nightfall; the mind-set was all that mattered.
The man continued to hold Nightfall’s arm, as if searching for something. "Are you sure you’re well? Do you need me to take you to a healer?"
"No," Nightfall said politely, trying to think of an equally decorous means of freeing his arm. This is odd. What does he want from me? Nightfall considered quickly. His skill at reading emotion and intention helped little with deeper motivation, especially that of a stranger. "I’m fine now. Thank you." He glanced in the direction he had been headed, letting his gaze rove to the passing pedestrians as a hint.
Still, the man did not release Nightfall.
"Lord, thank you. I’m well." Nightfall made a sudden movement that freed him from the stranger’s hold. "Excuse me, please. My master expects me back shortly."
The stranger fell into step with Nightfall. “Yes, of course. I’m headed this direction anyway. Let me just walk a little way with you to make sure you’ve got your equilibrium back."
Nightfall continued walking, cursing his need to play the subordinate. "Whatever you wish, lord. But I assure you it’s unnecessary," he said, hoping his tone conveyed discomfort. This stranger’s concern for another man’s squire seemed too peculiar to pass unchallenged. He combed his thoughts for some way to identify this man, some mistake he might have made to reveal his own alter ego. But Nightfall’s experience made him certain no one could see through the change, except perhaps his old friend, Dyfrin, whose talent for reading people made Nightfall’s look amateurish. And this man is decidedly not Dyfrin.
The stranger slipped into casual conversation. "Those are Alyndar’s colors you’re wearing aren’t they? Who is your master?"
Nightfall could not help wondering why this stranger insisted on asking his questions in pairs, especially when Nightfall kept deigning to answer only the second. Still uncertain of the man’s interest, Nightfall’s first instinct was to avoid the query. But the need to keep his role as loyal squire intervened. He squared his shoulders, adopting a posture of visible pride. "I am the squire to Younger Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar.”
"Ah," the man said. "A position of honor." Something preoccupied in his tone made it clear that this was not the information he was seeking.
That fact and the quiet stillness of the oath-bond, eased Nightfall’s mind, though not his guard. It’s not Ned. It’s me he wants. But why?
The two men approached a crossroad. Nightfall debated whether to turn left, toward the dance hall, or continue straight until he got a better feel for his unwelcome companion.
But before he could make a decision, the stranger stumbled over an irregularity in the stone walkway. He flailed, catching a sudden hold on Nightfall’s forearm, as if to steady himself. But the motion seemed too clumsy to be anything but exaggerated, perhaps even staged.
Cued, Nightfall barely resisted the urge to triple his weight and save them both a fall. The stranger crashed to the walkway. Nightfall landed on his hands and knees, the stone tearing a flap from his britches, bruising his knee, and abrading his palms. The impact jarred him free of the other’s grip. He wanted me to fall. But why? Nightfall’s mind raced, racking his thoughts for some action of his that might have drawn the attention of a killer. Is he a guard? A hired assassin?
Neither idea seemed likely. I haven’t done anything illegal or suspicious, except rob Myar. Nightfall rose, studying the stranger with an expression of veiled annoyance and surprise. Myar would be a fool to report a crime that would implicate himself. Besides, it would take time. And, surely, a servant would not attract the attention of murderers and thieves. Sudian hasn’t existed long enough to have made enemies. Trusting his instincts, Nightfall knew the stranger had not been trailing him. The first touch was coincidence. But something about it made him curious about me. He forced his thoughts back to the original encounter.
The bearded man clambered to his feet, looking sheepish. "I’m so sorry." He took a step toward Nightfall as if to help him up, though the squire had risen first. Afternoon sunlight sparkled from eyes dark as the muddy roadway, enhancing the predatory glare that made Nightfall edgy. It went beyond the haunted look of one who has killed from necessity to a selfish disdain for lesser men’s lives. Nightfall had seen the expression only once before, in the face of King Rikard’s adviser.
Gilleran. Gilleran the sorcerer. The answer kicked in with shocking abruptness, bringing terror with it. Could this man be a sorcerer? Nightfall backed away in revulsion. He recalled the brief moment when he had dropped his weight, before he had recognized a stranger’s hand upon his arm. I used my talent for only an instant. He couldn’t have possibly discovered it. Could he? Surely, no normal man would have noticed such a thing. Yet, Nightfall had to guess that this sorcerer spent much of his time looking for excuses to touch and observe strangers, trying to spot that one out of every thousand people with a special, congenital ability. If I can identify the contents of a man’s purse with a touch, why do I doubt a sorcerer could recognize magic as quickly? A more horrifying thought followed. Can he sense the oath-bond? If so, I ’m going to be running from every sorcerer in the world.
The Legend of Nightfall Page 11