The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  "Is that so?" Finndmer said conversationally, his thoughts surely deeper than his look would indicate. Only a hand in a pocket of his sleeping gown betrayed him. His fingers flipped a coin repeatedly, its circular form imprinting the fabric. Nightfall listened for the click of metal against metal, guessing from the sound that the pocket held three coins, copper or silver. It made little sense for Finndmer to carry his assets to bed, so Nightfall guessed he toyed with the presumed-sorcerer’s front fee. Having ascertained that without the need to steal and return the money, Nightfall took his seat.

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  Nightfall met Finndmer’s gaze directly, then glanced away as quickly, trying to look suitably discomfited. “I saw him come here. The man trying to kill my master, I mean. I thought maybe he’d offered you money, too. Usually, he picks grimy, evil-looking people, ones he thinks might have a link with killers and ruffians. I don’t know why he picked you." Nightfall chose his words with care. The sorcerer’s apparent sloppiness, as well as his inadvertent steering of royalty toward Finndmer’s ties to the underground, would bother the woodcutter as few other things could. "Did he come here?”

  Finndmer frowned, keeping his answer vague. "A man visited. I don’t know if he’s your man."

  "Did he ask about us?" Nightfall knew he walked a thin boundary now. If he pressed too hard without payment, he might alienate his informant. However, he had to play his character as well as his knowledge. A squire too streetwise and bribe-competent would draw suspicion.

  Finndmer considered longer than either a direct positive or negative response required. Finally, he slipped into an act of his own. “Please, sir. I’m just a poor woodcutter trying to eke out a living in a harsh and lonely place. Treason? Assassination? I would have no hand in those things, I swear it."

  Nightfall believed him, at least in a general sense. However, simply providing information to the sorcerer in ignorance did not make him an accessory. "I’m sure he promised payment, perhaps even offered some money right away. That’s how he does it."

  Finndmer opened his mouth, presumably to deny the remuneration. Self-consciously, he pulled his hand from his pocket and the coins he had glibly jangled moments before. "Why’s this man after your master? What can he gain from killing a prince, other than a painful execution?"

  "I’m not sure, exactly. My master doesn’t tell me everything." Nightfall leaned closer, as if sharing camaraderie and a secret. “From what I can gather, this man’s some sort of nobility. His family wanted his sister to marry my master, but my master refused. From what I’ve heard, she’s not the kind of woman you’d like to wake up to in your bed."

  Finndmer chose a local euphemism. "If she were a cow, you wouldn’t know which end to milk?"

  "More like the bucket you put the milk in. In shape and complexion.”

  Finndmer assumed an exaggerated expression of revulsion, mouth puckered and eyes crumpled. It brought out every wrinkle on his aging face, crow’s-feet prominent at the corners of his eyes and lips.

  "Anyway, the family handled it well enough, except for the vengeful brother. That’s why I’m prepared to give you this.” He pulled the ring from an inner pocket of his cloak. Gold gleamed in the lantern light, and blue fire seemed to wink from every facet of the sapphire. Nightfall kept his hand moving slightly from the moment he displayed the ring to keep the highlights glittering in a ceaseless dance.

  Finndmer stared, fascinated.

  "All you have to do is convince that man my master and I headed east, toward Tylantis or Shisen, or north back to Alyndar." Nightfall resisted the urge to tack a threat onto the end of his request, a vague vow of retribution should Finndmer go back on his word. The warning would break character, and it also seemed unnecessary. Directing the sorcerer, whether honestly or falsely, might still gain Finndmer the other nine to twelve silver pieces the sorcerer promised, and he would not have to share with Trillium’s network.

  "Done," Finndmer said.

  Nightfall tossed the ring.

  The woodsman’s deeply etched, callused hand flicked out suddenly, catching the offering. He cupped it into his palm, studying it in the lantern light while blue reflections shivered across the walls and ceiling. "Shisen should seem logical enough, what with the tournament there. The event’s still months away, and already droves of royal-born have headed there to get a ‘feel’ for the battlegrounds.” Finndmer shrugged, "Dirt’s dirt to us commoners, you know, but high-bred seem to think it’ll give them an advantage. Of course, I might look for a miniscule edge, too, if I had a chance at a duchy."

  Duchy? Land! Excitement rose in Nightfall, and he praised the sense of obligation that made Finndmer eager to talk after feeling overpaid. "Some duke’s giving away his land?"

  Finndmer laughed. "Of course not. About a year ago, the duke and his wife got killed in a carriage accident. Whole family of bleeders. No heirs. Not even a cousin. King Jolund took back the land for a while, but he’s got enough to deal with. So he set up this tournament to find a strong and competent leader. I think he figured a famous warrior as a duke would attract soldiers to help him fight the border wars.” His eyes narrowed. "I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. Surely, your Prince Edward was invited.”

  Nightfall shrugged. "Not that I’m aware of. Not that he would necessarily tell me." Even when I deliberately asked about ways to get him landed. "How else does a man get landed?” He explained the motive behind his question, finding truth the most appropriate. "We’re on a mission to get my master landed, but neither of us has a real clear idea of what we need to do. Any information you could give us would help." He plucked the stolen wedding ring from his pocket. “I can pay."

  This time, Finndmer took the ring directly from Nightfall’s hand. He seemed eager to carry on the conversation, and that was uncharacteristic enough to set Nightfall’s nerves on edge. He attributed it to the amount of wealth he had flashed so far, though greed did not usually motivate Finndmer to recklessness. He liked his money, but he made a comfortable living already. "The fastest way would be to marry bucket-head."

  "What do you mean?”

  “The sister. If she’s got any holdings, and your master marries her-immediate landing.”

  Nightfall considered what should have seemed obvious. A handsome, young prince who’s gentle and innocent. What woman wouldn’t marry him?

  "It’s not just owning land that makes a man landed. There’s got to be holdings of some sort, a keep or castle, at least a huge home. And, of course, you have to be of the nobility to have holdings."

  Long-trained, Nightfall found the loophole at once. He smoothed wrinkles from his pants with a palm. "To have holdings. But not to have land?"

  "Anyone can buy land. A title is more difficult."

  "Anyone can buy land?"

  Finndmer shrugged, smiling. “Even I own land."

  Nightfall doubted the claim. He knew the same baron who lorded over Trillium had possession of a vast area around the city that included Finndmer’s clearing. “You own this?” He opened his arms to indicate the forest.

  "This?" Finndmer laughed. "No, my land is farther south, past Noshtillan."

  "How much do you own?"

  "Enough to place a castle and some pastures. Of course, I can’t, though. I’m not nobility." Apparently, Nightfall still wore his skeptical look, because Finndmer rose and said, "Stay here. I’ll show you." He headed through the doorway to the kitchen, then disappeared from sight.

  Nightfall yawned, head aching from the need for sleep. His mind remained clear, however, alert for a trap. If Finndmer chose to confine Nightfall for the sorcerer, he would need locks as complex as those in Alyndar’s prison. His mind ticked off one other means of landing that he had heard and forgotten. War. One noble who killed another could usurp his holdings. If Nightfall located a particularly oppressive ruler, he might manage to talk Prince Edward into such a course. Two men against an army. Brilliant. For now, he discarded the possibility, glad, at least, t
hat hearing more options had set his own thoughts in motion.

  Shortly, Finndmer returned clutching a tube made from a hollowed bone and corked at one end. Pulling out the stopper, he shook a piece of paper into his hands, unrolled it, and passed it to Nightfall. "You read, I presume? It’s in the southern language.”

  Nightfall nodded his head absently, taking the paper. "Well enough." He perused the flowery hand and pompous wording, reading for intention rather than specific. It described a chunk of land at the southernmost aspect of the world, directly south of Noshtillan. To Nightfall’s surprise, it seemed like a sizable piece. The name on the deed was Finndmer Smeirnksson, and the signature read King Jolund Kryskan. It seemed authentic, though Nightfall knew too little about deeds to feel wholly convinced. "So how would a man go about buying land such as this?"

  "First . . ." Finndmer reclaimed the deed, rolling it and stuffing it back into its tube. ". . . he’d have to find someone willing to sell. Then, you’d need money. That’s all it takes."

  "And you might know someone willing to sell?" Nightfall studied Finndmer.

  Finndmer smiled. "We’re playing a game now, aren’t we? If you’re asking if I’d sell, the answer is maybe. The land’s not doing me any good since I can’t build there. As old as I am, I’m not likely to get knighted for heroism. But land is land, and there’s status that goes with it. It’d cost three hundred silver, and I don’t bargain.”

  Nightfall suppressed his surprise, though his nostrils flared slightly in response. Three hundred silver exceeded what every craftsman made in Trillium pooled together for a year. He could imagine trying to gather the sum, copper by reluctant copper. After the longest string of Nightfall’s heists, he could never recall having more than fifty silver at once. I can’t gather three hundred silver, no man can. Nightfall considered, the situation becoming nearly as much challenge as need. Put in other terms, three hundred silver seemed a small enough price for his soul, especially since he had already lost the first of his five months to travel. But how am I going to come by three hundred silver honestly? Nightfall squirmed out of the necessity. I don’t have to be honest. I just have to give the appearance of such, especially to Ned. “I’ll get the money somehow. If a scribe hired by me can vouch for the authenticity of that document, you have a deal."

  Finndmer grinned.

  Chapter 9

  Birthed within the black abyss,

  His silent gift, a deadly kiss.

  Gone before the rooster crows-

  Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

  —"The Legend of Nightfall"

  Nursery rhyme, st. 9

  Spring warmth returned and, with it, a dreary fog that intensified Nightfall’s drowsiness. He rode at Prince Edward’s side, for once glad that the prince loved to talk and did not require much response from his audience. This time, he rambled about releasing slaves to help construct the ideal world that existed only in the minds of the naive, a world where people did not exploit one another and all mankind was inherently good. It only convinced Nightfall that he needed to keep Edward from the smaller market in the southwest comer of Trillium, though that did not seem too difficult. The other quarters would surely prove large enough to hold his interest; likely, he would never realize that a piece of the border city had gone unexplored. Instead, the problems would arise when Prince Edward insisted on moving westward, toward Brigg, Hartrin, and Mitano.

  Nightfall would worry about that when the time came. For now, the need for three hundred silver pieces took first priority. Theft seemed a hopeless possibility. Robbing pockets, it would take months or years to acquire the necessary capital; and the sheer volume of victims would almost guarantee at least one arrest. Trouble with the law in Trillium was a matter even Nightfall did not take lightly. Because the constabulary allowed any sale or activity legal in any of the continent’s kingdoms, the universal laws, such as those prohibiting theft, required strict enforcement and extreme punishment. Otherwise, the town could degenerate into rampant chaos. Stealing a small number of expensive objects would require more of Nightfall’s expertise than he believed the oath-bond would allow, and it would set a city-wide search in motion. Somehow, he would have to earn the money in a legitimate fashion that would not upset Prince Edward. At least, Trillium’s broad definition of legality left him lee-way.

  As Edward and Nightfall rode over the crest of a hill, they discovered an overturned wagon on the road. Winter melons lay scattered over the packed earth and into the ditches, their orange-red rinds clearly visible against the greenery. Some had cracked open, revealing pink fruit speckled with seeds. Nearby, a man stomped and lashed his arms through the air, movements jerky with rage. He howled a string of obscenities that carried through the dreary dankness, amplified by humidity.

  "Oh, dear," Edward said simply, continuing toward Trillium, a route that would take them directly to the fallen wagon.

  Nightfall sighed, certain of his fate for the next half an hour, at least. The prince would never let a needy stranger go unhelped, no matter how inconvenient for his squire. The stranger turned and looked up as they approached, mud-streaked cheeks flaring crimson. He fixed dark eyes on the prince apologetically and executed a brief but respectful bow. "I’m sorry for the sharpy-words. Didn’t know you was there, noble sir."

  The farmer’s voice startled the white gelding, and it took several, sudden backward steps. "No offense taken," Prince Edward answered, as if it mattered, pulling his horse back under control. "What happened here?" He gestured at the toppled cart and its scattered cargo.

  Nightfall tried to figure out the answer before it came. The skid marks were not deep enough for a miring in mud to explain the circumstances. The length of the drawing tongues suggested that a horse rather than a human usually hauled the load, consistent with the estimated weight of cart and melons. The sideways twist to the front wheels and bent metal swivel ring confirmed the probability of a horse-related problem.

  The farmer’s response only affirmed what Nightfall had already deduced. "Horse shied at a snake. Took the whole damned wagon over." He made a wordless sound of disgust, accompanied by a wave of dismissal that made Edward’s gelding stiffen and jerk its head. “Damn nervous Suka. Ain’t worth the fur the Father gave her, but she’s all I got." He glanced up the path, empty to its disappearance around a bend. "Or had. Probably to Trillium by now." He looked longingly at Edward’s trio of horses. Nightfall took note of how he gazed most briefly at the high-strung white.

  Nothing like a farmer to spot a good horse by manners instead of breeding. Nightfall suspected he could talk Edward into giving a horse to the farmer, but he doubted the prince would choose his own steed. It seemed far preferable to keep all three than to lose the chestnut or bay. "Master, may I try to catch her?"

  The prince smiled, clearly pleased with his squire’s decision to lend aid. "Certainly."

  Nightfall dug his heels into the bay’s ribs as quickly as the confirmation was spoken. "Yah!” The bay sprang forward, clearing two horse-lengths in an instant, then it shot down the pathway at a drawn-out gallop. Nightfall leaned against its neck, balancing his weight on the withers and holding the reins nearly at the level of its eyes. The speed of its charge and the wind caressing his face made him feel detached from reality and truly free for the first time since the captain’s confrontation on Raven. There was something he could not explain about the raw power beneath him and speed so impressive it created the winds that made even a race for his life seem wondrous. He had stolen and run horses for as long as he could remember, and the sensation of flight never dulled, comparable only to the lurch and roll of a ship in a gale. To control such energy, whether through sail or rein, made him feel invincible.

  Once around the curve, Nightfall discovered a dark brown mare grazing the ditch grass on the more densely forested side of the road. Cued by the sound of pounding hoof beats, it whipped up its head, trailing harness leathers from nose, withers, and rump. Nightfall drew rein, slowing his mount t
o a trot, then a walk. If he continued running, herd instinct might send the mare skittering at random, perhaps injuring a leg in the brush. The idea of chasing her down the path at an open gallop seemed a joy, but he had Edward to tend. At least, the ride had reawakened the stream of consciousness that too little time sleeping had blunted. A series of bets seemed the best way to get money fast, and he only needed to turn the odds a bit into his own favor.

  The darker mare whinnied a cautious welcome that Nightfall’s bay did not bother to answer. Suka approached, neck stretched to meet the newcomer without need to stand too close. The two horses whuffled nostrils for several seconds. Apparently tiring of the game, Nightfall’s mare made a high-pitched snort of challenge, and the dark brown half-reared. It came back down circling; and Nightfall managed, at the length of his reach, to catch the reins. Turning, he ponied the cart horse back to its owner. It followed docilely.

  When Nightfall arrived, he found the farmer replacing melons in the now upright cart. Prince Edward had dismounted, tethering pack and riding horses together to prevent either from frolicking away. He clutched the top of the swivel bolt in one hand, the axle in the other. Eyes closed, muscles straining, he was gradually restoring the shape of the pin. Nightfall could not help feeling impressed, certain his meager strength would have failed him in such an endeavor. At least the royal tutors seemed to have taught some useful skills, and nutritious food from birth had only helped to hone his strength. The bolt would still need replacing, but the cart would carry the farmer to Trillium’s market and home.