Benner gave him a pained look. "Luck with your master. Hope you don’t git in too much trouble for what happened."
"My master’s fair." Nightfall had only a vague idea how Edward would react when propriety clashed with morality and loyalty. He believed King Rikard’s assessment that Edward would not hit him, at least not without just cause; the prince’s actions so far had assured him of that. Yet, he wondered how the prince, being ignorant of the oath-bond, expected to keep Nightfall obedient and tractable without some show of dominance. As Nightfall, he had gotten his way on most occasions by the threat of danger alone; his reputation precluded the need for violence.
Nightfall considered his early years, before he had a reputation or even a name. Then, he had proven his prowess well enough, not by random beatings but by demonstrating his agility or his skill with knives. He recalled a day, years ago, when he, as Marak the sailor, served as a crew member of a merchant ship that pirates commandeered halfway across its route. An image of the sea filled his mind, a rickety, flagless ship low in the water from the weight of catapults and stolen cargo. His nose wrinkled from the remembered odors of salt, unwashed flesh, and blood. He had watched the pirates slaughter his crewmates gleefully, one by one; and, by the time they came to him, he had already unknotted his bonds. He recalled ducking beneath the ax stroke meant to decapitate him, the moans of the dying, planks washed red and slick with blood. He had made it to the railing, stealing three daggers from pirates en route. "Kill me and lose the best man you ever had." From the upper deck, he had pointed to the captain below. "That knothole beside your captain has drawn its last breath.” It had seemed a desperate bet, an impossible throw that required perfect judgment of gravity, angle, and backspin. A miss would have assured humiliation as well as death. Had he accidentally struck captain or crewman, he would have met a prolonged agony of torture. But the stolen knife had flown true, and he alone survived the pirate’s capture.
Nightfall recalled his own reaction to his mother’s ferocity, the love/hate relationship she had inspired. A stranger, who inflicted her sessions on him would meet a swift death, but the ties of blood had crippled him from any consideration of vengeance. He wondered why slaves did not revolt and kill masters like this merchant, and many answers came without need for consideration. Fear of punishment. Fear of starvation. Fear perhaps, of freedom itself. The unknown. Still, Prince Edward’s compassion did not seem the answer either. Without the oath-bond, Nightfall would never have served him, and even the younger prince’s family seemed little pleased by the need to associate with him at all.
"Maybe Amadan’ll let the whole thing go. Maybe he won’t tell your master."
Nightfall doubted the merchant would allow the matter to drop, even for a few moments. It did seem better to allow the stranger to present his version of the story with-out interruption and give Edward at least a few moments to consider it before Nightfall defended his actions. “Good eve."
"Good eve,” Benner returned, though the afternoon sun still hovered halfway between midday and sundown. Despite Nightfall’s bold dismissal, the boy cringed before turning to continue his work. Clearly, his master would not prove as gentle under the same circumstances.
Nightfall stepped back out into Trillium’s streets, immediately lost amid the broad mixture of racial dress and features. Dumping the coins loose into his pocket, he ditched the merchant’s purse in an empty alleyway, grinding the fabric into the dirt. An attack he could explain away as self-defense, a theft he could not. Hugging the packs more tightly, he took a deep breath and headed back toward the Thirsty Dolphin.
Prince Edward Nargol drank a mediocre-tasting beer at a table in the common room, watching the Thirsty Dolphin fill with patrons that spanned a wide variety of features and dress. Males outnumbered females by a vast majority, and the latter seemed mostly to take the secondary roles: barmaids and servants. A few young ones slunk from table to table, gyrating hips and jiggling breasts as they walked. These would speak with men in soft tones until one rose and accompanied her through the back doorway that led to the inn rooms. Edward wondered about the purpose of these meetings, though the demeanor of those involved suggested something clandestine or sexual. The seductive dress and sinuous movements of the women excited Edward, despite his best attempts to keep his mind elsewhere, and made him long for a girlfriend of his own. For a fleeting moment, he envied his brother, wishing he could drop his crusade, stay home, and find a woman to mutually please. He stifled the idea, appalled and embarrassed at once. The Father had given him a mission, a gift and an honor too few men received. If he remained a virgin until he completed the god’s bidding, heroes had made greater sacrifices.
An adolescent girl a few years younger than himself shimmied by, clothing so tight he could see the outline of her nipples, distinct against the fabric. He sipped his beer, trying politely not to stare. Yet, against his will, his mind undressed her, flashing him an image of naked flesh that stimulated him to erection.
Eyes locked on the passing beauty, Edward did not notice the stranger standing over him until the other made a cautious noise of greeting.
Mortified, the prince tore his gaze from the girl and placed it squarely on the man before him, a stout, middle-aged stranger. Edward blushed, feeling as if he had broadcast all of his unholy thoughts to every person in the common room. Yet, only the man studied him.
"May I buy your drink, good Prince?" the man said, his dress revealing high station short of nobility.
Prince Edward found his thoughts difficult to focus. "Excuse me?"
"May I buy your drink?" he repeated.
The request confused Edward. "Well, I suppose so. If you wish." He set down the mug. "But wouldn’t you rather have one of your own?"
The man stared, as taken aback as the prince. "Are you Prince Edward Nargol from Alyndar?"
"I am."
"Noble sir, my name is Amadan Vanardin’s son. I’m a merchant. Is it all right if I join you?" He gestured at a chair.
"Certainly."
Amadan sat. “And I’d like to pay for your drink for you, sir. Would you mind?"
"Mind? Certainly not." Edward found the request odd, but he appreciated it. No one had ever offered to finance his beer before. “What a nice thing to do. Thank you."
Amadan gestured at a barmaid, then returned to the conversation. "How’s the beer, sir?"
"Lousy," the prince admitted. "But it did take the edge from my hunger while I’m waiting for dinner."
"Then it served some purpose, at least." The merchant smiled to indicate a joke, but his hands moved constantly from flat on the tabletop to clasped to his lap, as if he could not figure out where to place them.
Prince Edward could not fathom a man so nervous in his presence. He grinned back, trying to place the other at ease.
A barmaid hastened over, dress fluttering, long dark hair in disarray. Though harried, she still managed a smile for the attractive, young prince. "Is this the gentleman you were waiting for, noble sir?"
Edward thought he sensed disappointment or displeasure in her tone; but, as that made no sense, he dismissed it. "No. He’ll be along soon."
She turned her attention to Amadan, and all of the breezy friendliness left her. "What can I get for you, sir?”
“Beer," Amadan said, then glanced at Edward. "Do you need another?"
Edward shook his head without bothering to assess how much of his drink remained. It would be impolite to impose on this stranger’s generosity.
The barmaid spun on her heel, striding back into the crowd.
Amadan replaced his hands on the table, tapping them. He wore two silver rings on one finger, the inner one loose, and these rang together with every movement. "I need to talk about a sl . . ." He caught himself, ". . . a servant of yours."
"A servant of mine? Sudian?"
"He’s a servant, lord. I didn’t ask his name."
“I have only one servant here." Edward sipped his beer. "Go on."
A
madan’s gaze dodged Edward’s. "I don’t know how to tell you this, except to just tell you." Now, he met the prince’s soft, blue eyes. "Lord, your servant threw me down on the ground, held a knife to my throat, and threatened my life."
Edward could not have been more surprised had the merchant told him his squire had sprouted wings and flown to the moon. Confusion kept emotion at bay.
"Sudian?"
The merchant stared, mouth a grim line. Clearly, he had expected more reaction. "He named you as his master. And he wore your colors."
Prince Edward needed confirmation of what he believed he had misheard. "Sudian threw you on the ground, held a knife to your throat, and threatened to kill you?"
"Yes, lord."
The next question followed naturally. "What did you do to him?”
Amadan blinked, now looking as bewildered as Edward felt. Then, apparently believing he had misunderstood the intention of the question, he twisted it to cover consequences rather than motivation. "I hit him, of course, lord. As I would punish any impertinent slave. But certainly not hard enough to make up for-"
Rage boiled up in Edward. "You hit him?" He slammed his mug to the tabletop. Beer sloshed over his fist. "You hit my squire! How dare you hit my squire!"
"I don’t believe this!" Amadan leapt to his feet. "Your slave tries to murder gentry, and you’re yelling at me?"
Edward kept his head low, trying to control his temper, the memory of the dead slaver still as fresh a reminder as the scar the whip had left on his face. “That is the second and last time you refer to my squire, or any servant of Alyndar, as a slave." He flicked his gaze up to the merchant without moving his head. "Sudian’s been with me a long time." Even as he said the words, the prince realized that he had misspoken. Little longer than a month had passed since the squire had joined him in the courtyard. It only seemed long because of Sudian’s fierce loyalty and all that had happened since leaving Alyndar. "He wouldn’t harm anyone unless he saw them as a threat to me."
Amadan seized the back of his chair and leaned toward Edward. "Lord, if he thinks I’m such a threat to you, why isn’t he here now defending you?"
"Then he saw you as a threat to him. It’s one and the same to his thinking.” He quoted Nightfall. "You see, if he’s dead, he can’t protect me."
"A threat to him?" The merchant resumed shouting. "He’s a servant, by the great Father’s beard! Of course I’m a threat to him. If one of my slaves did what he did, I’d have them publicly flogged to death."
The idea shuddered horror through Edward, and he cringed at the image of every lash. He despised the thought of any person owning another, but the idea of one so brutal doing so enraged him to the edge of violence. His hand blanched on the mug. He had vowed to free the slaves, and this seemed as good a place as any to start. "Are these slaves of yours here?"
Amadan made a vague gesture into the crowded barroom. "All three, lord."
"How much would it cost to buy them from you?"
Amadan stared, clearly surprised and ruffled by the diversion. "I didn’t bring them to sell, Lord. It’s easy enough to buy some of your own. What I want to know is . . ." He leaned closer, gray eyes boring into Edward’s blue, ". . . how are you going to punish that snotty, little bastard who doesn’t know his place?"
The insults shoved Edward over the edge. Control lost, he rose, his massive shadow spanning the table. "I’m going to tell the ‘snotty, little bastard’ that the next time a merchant brutalizes him, he shouldn’t threaten to kill him." His voice deepened, gaze unwavering. “He should just kill him.”
"You’re joking."
“Hit my squire again and find out if I’m joking." Having spoken his piece, Edward retook his seat, seeking the self-control he had lost in the Hartrinian camp in Alyndar . . . and now once again. As much as he wanted to free the man’s slaves, he had no intention of murdering anyone to do so. The god-given right to dignity extended to slavers as well as to slaves, to evil as well as to good. Edward wished slaves and masters could trade places one day each week, to see the world from the other side every time they raised a whip. Then, he guessed, every man would feel as strongly about freedom and self-respect as he did. "Now, how much would it cost to purchase your slaves?"
Amadan curled his lower lip, his face a study in hostility. "More than you’ll ever have." He whirled, storming deeper into the common room.
As Prince Edward watched Amadan go, he noticed for the first time that the conversations at every nearby table had ceased. The eyes that did not follow the blustering merchant fixed directly on Edward. He smiled politely, noticing that each patron glanced away when their gazes met, embarrassed to be caught staring. Gradually, the dull hum of conversation resumed at its normal background volume. Nevertheless, Edward noticed when Amadan returned to his table and his slaves. In a bold display obviously intended for the prince, he grabbed the one female of the three by the hair and a breast, jerked back her head, and planted a sloppy kiss directly on her mouth. She quivered but did not resist.
The sight left Edward cold even to the cultivated allure of the barflies and prostitutes for the rest of the night. Tears filled his eyes, and he cried for the pain of those three and so many others.
Chapter 10
Counting years like grains of sand.
Countless fall beneath his hand.
Time, his minion; night, his clothes-
Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.
—"The Legend of Nightfall"
Nursery rhyme, st. 10
The inn room in the Thirsty Dolphin seemed sparse but adequate. Little space separated the two sleeping pallets, though they seemed far preferable to the scattered hay on the floor that served as beds in smaller towns. A table in the opposite corner, near the door, stood firmly on squat legs. A tub across from it held all the basins and pitchers necessary to draw water and bathe, an uncommon luxury; and a drain hole opened onto conduits that carried the dirty water into the sewage gutters lining the larger streets. A chest of drawers, scarred with nicks and dents, lined the wall near the table. One drawer sagged open while Nightfall crouched on the floor, transferring garments from Prince Edward’s pack.
The door latch clicked.
Nightfall paused, a folded tunic in his hands, taking note of the sound. Whoever had come, presumably Edward, had made no attempt to do so quietly.
The door swung open, the hinges squeaking mildly. Prince Edward stepped through, closing the panel behind him. The bolt slammed into place.
The small, windowless room made Nightfall feel suffocated as tight places never had before Alyndar’s guards locked him in their dungeon. Fear flashed through him, suppressed only by the rationalization that he still had control. From the inside, opening the now-locked door required just one more movement. "Master, hello. Did you need something?"
"We have to talk, Sudian."
Nightfall lowered the garment to his lap, certain the topic involved a certain incident outside the Thirsty Dolphin’s stable. He fixed his gaze attentively on Edward.
"There’s a man here named Amadan Vanardin’s son. He says you held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him."
Nightfall said nothing, awaiting a direct question, though he knew an explanation was expected.
“Did you?” Edward pressed.
“Yes, Master. I did." Nightfall refolded the tunic and placed it atop the others in the drawer. He kept his manner and his tone matter-of-fact.
Prince Edward sighed. He sat on the edge of his pallet beneath the room’s only lantern, Light splashed white lines and golden glitters through his hair. His hands slid into his lap, and he stared at his fingers for several moments.
Nightfall drew a shirt from the pack, more uncomfortable with Edward’s silence than his lectures. The others had amused him. This quiet seemed abnormal.
Finally, Edward looked up. Nightfall thought he had gathered the necessary words; but, when the prince spoke, he used only one. “Why?”
Nightfall s
et his work aside. Though it seemed unnatural, he stepped into the semicircle of light. He plucked off his purple and silver shirt so Edward could clearly see the darkening bruise the merchant’s boot had gouged against his chest and the abrasions the road had slivered from his arm and side. In the light, he believed the prince could also tell where Amadan had struck him in the face.
Prince Edward winced, and Nightfall replaced his clothing. "Is that why?” the prince asked.
Though Nightfall knew the reason would probably suffice, he found a better one. "No. He also pounded on the stable boy. Master, I only did what you would have done. I know you believe in defending the downtrodden. You wouldn’t have let him hurt that boy."
"I wouldn’t," Prince Edward admitted. He studied Nightfall for some time before finishing. “But I’m a prince. I can do that. I can’t let my servant threatening a highborn’s life go unpunished.”
Nightfall froze, believing he had finally found a transgression that would earn him Edward’s wrath. Magic or none, he would not stand still for any man to batter him. The defiance raised a pounding wave of nausea and agony from the oath-bond that told him he would. Survival took precedence over any need to dodge pain or humiliation. Vengeance, if necessary, could come later. What he could not avoid, Nightfall would take bravely, but he would see to it that the prince suffered as much for the pain. From experience, Nightfall knew that, for Edward, that meant a direct attack to the conscience, "I understand. Beat me however for as long as you feel it’s necessary." Kneeling, he lowered his head, fighting down every instinct that told him to close his defenses.
"Beat you?" Edward’s missing strength returned and flared to annoyance. "I’m not going to beat you." He shivered distastefully at the thought. "What’s that going to teach you except more violence?"
Nightfall had to concede that Prince Edward had a point, although he had already received all the lessons he ever needed about brutality. And learned them well.
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