Mickey Zucker Reichert

by The Legend of Nightfall

  As night progressed toward day, the number of local Trillians diminished, including the dart-playing youths. Those remaining had drank far more than the three beers Nightfall had nursed through the night. A camaraderie had grown between the remaining bettors, one Nightfall had every intention of exploiting. During the thick of a heated debate over whether the last person entering the tavern had sandy-brown or dirty blond hair, no doubt in order to determine the winner of a silly bet, Nightfall unobtrusively swiped the bug-repelling weed the stable boy had given him against a side of each of his two remaining melon cubes. He waited until the argument subsided, then placed the food in the center of the table, one repellent side up and the other down. He studied the smallest of the Ivralian merchants, a handsomely featured man named Kwybin. Slurring his speech as if from too much drink, he pointed at the melon cubes. "I’ll bet you a silver the next fly that lands picks this one." He pointed at the cube placed repellent-side down.

  Kwybin laughed. "You’ll bet on anything, won’t you?"

  Nightfall seized the opening. "Lost my wife and children in a card game." He met the Ivralian’s gaze directly, giving no clues to indicate he was joking. "And I wasn’t even playing." He gestured the melon cubes briskly to keep the flies from alighting while the merchant decided. "You in or not?"

  Kwybin considered, glancing from cube to cube as if to find some subtle difference in form that would make one more attractive to insects than the other. While he debated, his taller companion, Hyrowith, placed a silver coin on the table. "I’ll take the bet."

  Nightfall sat back, hands clasped in his lap and well away from the melons. The size of the wager, as well as its strangeness kept most of the patrons in place, gawking. Before long, a fly hovered over the fruit, circled twice, then landed on Nightfall’s cube.

  A spattering of applause and sympathetic noises swept through the group. Though he had lost, Hyrowith laughed. "I guess the bugs like you better. I’m not sure that should bother me." The others in the common room laughed.

  Nightfall smiled. He reached for the cubes, rolling them casually as if to return them to his plate. Despite the seeming patternlessness of his gestures, he kept track of the repellent-marked sides at all times. His caution paid off. Kwybin could not resist his part of the action. "My turn." He smacked a silver piece to the tabletop. "I’ll bet on the winning piece." He pointed to the cube on which Nightfall had placed his last wager.

  It proved easy enough to leave the chosen melon repellent-side up this time. Nightfall shrugged. "One’s as good as another." He moved away from the fruit, pushing his newly won silver toward the other. Several moments passed in silence as patrons glanced from melon to air, seeking flies in the quiet stillness of The Thirsty Dolphin. Then, a sweet-fly wove through the onlookers. Delayed by those who tried to bat it toward one cube or another, it gave Nightfall his second win.

  Dawn light touched the windows, the thick glass warping it into a glaze that could not compete against the myriad candles in brackets on the walls. Nightfall finished his cheese, took a last swallow of warm beer, and stretched. "One more," he said cryptically, then explained. "I need one more bet to complete the night, something that every-one who wants to can join." He glanced about the tavern, pretending to seek something on which to pin his money, for dramatic effect alone. He knew precisely where his best bet lay, and he only needed to delay until it came to him.

  Several patrons shouted suggestions, from a personal round with the dart to contests that involved drinking to the point of vomiting. Nightfall dismissed them all as not exciting or chancy enough. Then, he opened the common room door and glanced up and down the city streets. Far in the distance, he saw an approaching wagon, little more than a dot on the roadway. The direction fit perfectly, and the distant, barely audible, clop of hoof on cobble clinched the identity to just short of certainty. He whirled suddenly, as if the almighty Father had tossed the perfect idea from the heavens. "I’ll guess something about whoever next passes this doorway."

  Several patrons crowded to join Nightfall in the entry-way, inadvertently becoming his witnesses that the streets stood empty. "What’ll you guess?" several asked in various fashions.

  Nightfall pretended to consider for some time. "Depends on what comes."

  The last remaining teen from the knife and dart contest spoke next. "I’ll check ahead and let you know." Clearly beer had clouded his judgment enough that he did not worry what his parents would think of his spending the entire night in a tavern. He trotted into the street, glanced up and down the block, then headed toward the dot on the horizon.

  Nightfall tried to elicit interest beyond that already raised by speculation about the grand finale of a servant who had laid money down on everything from strangers’ skill to the preferences of flies. "We’ll make this interesting. A number. Age? Weight?" He discarded the obvious and headed toward the ridiculous. "Number of hairs on his head-”

  The youth returned shortly. "Wagon coming. Melons headed for market.”

  The obvious came to several minds at once, even alcohol-fuddled. One Trillian, a relatively recent comer to the proceedings, started things moving, "I’ll bet three coppers to one you can’t guess the number of melons on that cart at a glance."

  Nightfall pulled at his chin, rough with morning stubble.

  “You wanted a challenge," one reminded.

  “A challenge, yes," Nightfall repeated thoughtfully. He smiled wanly. "All right. What are winnings for but to lose. The thrill of the game and all that." He turned back to the crowd as more patrons filed to the entrance to watch for the coming merchant. "I’ll match every coin placed on that table one for one." He pointed to the table nearest the door. "I win if I guess the number of melons on the cart within two."

  There followed a sudden mad scramble for the table, every man wanting his share of action skewed so far against a gambler who had, apparently, had way too much to drink. A shabbily dressed, young man who had placed no wagers himself, but had rooted for Nightfall from the start, spoke up. "Have you thought about those odds, Sudian? Even three to one wouldn’t hardly seem fair."

  Several patrons glared at the speaker, clearly worried that a shock of common sense might lose them the sure win this bet appeared to be.

  Nightfall again looked out the door, stance light and balanced against the frame. "I either guess right or I guess wrong." He glanced back at the speaker. "Right or wrong. Two possible outcomes. Fifty: fifty." He shrugged. "Even money. Sounds right to me."

  The warped logic brought even the most reticent bettor to the fore. By the time the wagon came up on the Thirsty Dolphin, twelve silvers worth of copper littered the barroom table. Nightfall recognized the dark brown mare hauling the cart as the one he had returned to its owner the previous day. The farmer clutched his horse’s reins, looking startled by the crowd. His gaze fished Nightfall from the others, and he smiled slightly. True to his word, he gave no other gesture or greeting to indicate he had met Edward’s squire before.

  Nightfall fixed his gaze on the cart, bobbing his head as if counting. His scrutiny allowed him to ascertain that few, if any, of the melons had been stolen or bartered since he reloaded the cart. Still, it made sense for him to guess low rather than high. Melons could only diminish, not multiply, in the night. As the cart rattled past, he moved into the road behind it as if to complete his tally. When he turned back toward the tavern, he discovered every eye fixed on him.

  Building tension, he crossed back to the doorway in silence. The patrons moved aside to let him enter, backing away as he took a seat at the money-ladened table. A few more coppers had joined the others while he stood in the roadway.

  Dramatically, Nightfall looked up. "Forty-six," he said, at last.

  "Forty-six. Forty-six. Forty-six?" The number made its rounds through the crowd, and anticipation turned to confusion as the realization sank in fully that there seemed no instantaneous way to determine the victor. After a few moments of discussion, the group chose six men from their
midst to help the farmer unload and tally his product, none of whom had any money at stake nor bore more than a passing relationship to anyone who did. Having recognized two whose honesty Balshaz had trusted as well as the one youth who had cheered him since the start, Nightfall did not protest. He sat quietly, nodding with polite abstraction as the others made comments about his stupidity or luck, depending on their proclivities and confidence.

  The wager itself did not concern Nightfall; he already knew the outcome. He only hoped the counters at the market would hurry, before Prince Edward awakened for his breakfast. Soon enough he would know that his squire had spent much of the night making wagers. Nightfall could soothe and explain easier, if need be, without three quarters of his take displayed across a barroom table.

  Nightfall managed a haggard smile. Once the count came through, he would own a copper total of forty-four silver coins, with a few copper to spare. It seemed a fortune and a pittance at once, more than most men saw in a decade yet less than a sixth of what he needed to buy Edward his land. He doubted he could pass another five nights as successfully at the Thirsty Dolphin, not without placing his honesty too far in doubt or earning the wrath of a victim certain he had been cheated. Even if I could stay awake that long. Already Nightfall felt fatigue gnawing at the edges of his constant and necessary alertness. By the following day, schemers would come, either to quietly study his techniques or to relieve him of his new-found riches. To confront others of his ilk, some of whom specialized in scams while he only dabbled, he would need all his wits about him.

  Nightfall lowered his head and let his thoughts run.

  Chapter 11

  Where Nightfall walks, all virtue dies.

  He weaves a trail of pain and lies.

  On mankind heaps his vilest woes-

  Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

  —"The Legend of Nightfall"

  Nursery rhyme, st. 11

  By the time Nightfall collected his money and rushed back to the inn room, Prince Edward had only just awakened. The prince lay on his back, eyes repeatedly whipping open then drooping shut as he attempted to come fully awake and start the day. He seemed to take no notice of Nightfall’s silent entrance. Playing dutiful squire, Nightfall levered through the drawers, choosing clean silks for his master and unrumpled silver and purple for himself. In Trillium, they would have no trouble finding a washerwoman to clean and press their clothing, though Nightfall would see to it that the process of hiring took time. Focusing the prince on the mundane would leave less chance for idealistic, inciting lectures to slavers and their charges.

  As Edward finally won the battle against his sagging eyelids, he spoke. "Good morning, Sudian."

  "Good morning, Master." Nightfall turned to sorting wrinkled and dirty from passable, the day’s wear already chosen.

  Edward sat, and the blankets fell into a jumble across his legs. “Are you ready for a productive day?"

  Nightfall did not like the sound of that. He looked over, a pair of breeks dangling from his hand. "Productive, Master," he asked, careful to phrase the words like a statement rather than a question.

  “Slaves to liberate. People to educate." Edward shoved aside the blankets. "The Almighty Father’s word to spread. He has given us this day, and we will use it for him."

  Nightfall tossed the breeks onto the dirty pile, mind racing for a distraction. He would need several more days of betting to accumulate the necessary capital to buy land. If Edward insisted on preaching at slavers, they would need luck just to survive until the evening. He failed to find a long enough list of occupying tasks to keep Alyndar’s youngest prince reined, but he did manage to put together words from his lessons on war. He quoted Sharfrindaro, one of Edward’s favorite generals: "The battle doesn’t start until first scouting is done. Strategy without knowledge is doomed to failure."

  Edward corrected the inaccuracies: "The war does not begin until advanced surveillance is completed? He considered. "Why bring that up now?"

  “Well, Master." Nightfall twisted his words to build points rather than questions. The need to concentrate on presentation had the additional effect of making him sound more eloquent than usual. "It seems wise to consider the words of those we admire before taking on a battle no one else has dared to fight."

  Prince Edward reached for the clothing Nightfall had chosen for him, dragging it up beside him on the pallet. “You mean we should study the ways and patterns of slaves and those who keep them before executing the Father’s will."

  Nightfall shrugged, returning to his sorting. "I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just guessing at your plans."

  Apparently, Nightfall had found a positive combination of proposition and modesty, because Edward considered longer as he shed his sleeping gown and flipped his breeks over his feet. "I hadn’t thought of the matter exactly as a war," he admitted. "It’s not as if there’s killing involved." He winced, apparently reconsidering the incident Nightfall had heard about in Alyndar in which Edward had accidentally taken a Hartrinian slave master’s life. "And there are no sides. Once they understand the pain and wrongness of their actions, men who keep slaves will gladly free them."

  And kings will gladly give their castles to the homeless. Nightfall hoped the events of the last few days had given Edward an inkling of reality. At least, I should try to educate the romantic, guileless dizzard while I have him thinking for a change. "If we could gather every man who has owned or thought of owning slaves, I’m certain your silver tongue could carry the truth to them as it has to me. But to bring the message to each, one by one, seems a task that will outlast our lifetime.”

  Prince Edward rose, breeks only halfway in place. The binding cloth spoiled his regal pose, and his partial nakedness stole dignity from his bearing. "I would consider it an honor to live and die serving the Father in this manner.”

  "And I would consider it an honor to live and die serving you." Nightfall exchanged his own tunic from the previous night for the cleaner one he had selected. Alyndar’s purple and silver had grown tediously familiar. “But I’ve done only part of my job if I deflect a knife from killing you that then stabs your foot. Each slave freed may be a victory. But can we really claim success for rescuing three if we could have used the same time and effort for ninety-five?” Nightfall mulled a strategy he had raised and discarded some time ago. Once, he had thought of slaying a king’s enemies one by one, crediting the purge to Prince Edward and, thus, earning his master title and land. He had dismissed the possibility because the sequential murders might require him to become too much Nightfall. He had also abandoned the tactic of encouraging the prince to go on a similar spree based on honorable dueling. First, no matter how competent the prince-or Nightfall’s unobtrusive cheating-the odds would catch up to him in time. Nightfall spoke the second reason aloud. "It would take an eternity to defeat an army, or a cause, man by man."

  Edward adjusted his breeks. He pulled on his tunic, belted it, then added the calf-length over-tunic, its neck and hem decorated with threaded patterns in silver and gold. “Sudian, I’m the scholar of war. You’re coming dangerously close to questioning my judgment.”

  Finished dressing, Nightfall met Edward’s gaze directly, seized with a sudden urge to grab the naive prince by the throat and shake him until sense jarred loose from the cobwebbed corners of his brain. Instead, he funneled his frustration and belligerence into words. "Master, I would question directly if I thought it would serve your cause and lessen the harm to you. I would rather die for the impropriety than let any hurt befall you." Nightfall kept his hands free and his attention alert, hoping Edward would translate this to the significance of his point. "Even good people, like your father and brother, do not see the Father’s light when the best of all men presents it to them. People like Amadan care only about making their own lives easier. Do you think you can convince him, and others like him, to give up their slaves?”

  "There is good in everyone. With the right words, may the Father give the
m to me, I will convince him."

  Nightfall cursed Prince Edward’s boundless innocence and faith.

  Then the prince added another point that made Nightfall wonder if experience had not begun to crack the shell of idealistic ignorance. "If I cannot convince him, then I will buy and free his slaves myself."

  Nightfall had already found the flaw. Paying Amadan for his slaves would only grant the Hartrinian the money to purchase more. In the name of right, the prince would pay an exorbitant sum, and Amadan would wind up with more slaves to brutalize than before the sale. Nightfall swerved with the argument. "There’s another thing to consider.” He continued to hold Edward’s gaze. "I mentioned the possibility of freedom to one of his slaves last night. She refused it."

  Edward’s eyes crunched closed, and his jaw wilted. Though he clearly trusted his squire, he found the incident too impossible not to question. "A misunderstanding, surely."

  Nightfall shrugged and returned to sorting. "You’ve heard the story of the Hartrinian twins and the tiger." He knew the honest prince would deny the assumption, having no way of knowing Nightfall had made up the title and the story on the spur of the moment.