The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 4

Toward evening, clouds scudded across the sky, muting it to steely gray. Prince Edward studied his squire. "Where are you from, Sudian?”

"Alyndar," Nightfall replied easily.

Edward’s brow crinkled. "That’s odd."

Suddenly alert, Nightfall feigned calm. “Hmmm?”

“My father said you were from outside the country. That you knew some of the lands down south."

Thanks, Rikard, real subtle. Give me a history but don’t bother to tell me. "He’s right." Nightfall covered deftly, aside from forgetting the customary "master." "I was raised in Mitano, but I was born in Alyndar." It was a lie. Nightfall’s mother had worked and borne him in Keevain, and he had lived his early childhood there. But he had enough knowledge of the other countries and cities to claim a youth in any of them.

"Oh." Prince Edward fingered the tightening scab on his face. Pinched creases appeared around his eyes. "That’s slave land." His voice filled with accusation. "Did you ever keep slaves?”

Despite his composure, the question took Nightfall aback. "Me? Keep slaves? I was lucky not to be one." He regained his respectful demeanor. Not wanting to talk about a past he would rather forget, Nightfall channeled the questions back toward subjects he knew Edward could not resist. Restoring Edward’s attention to vast and vague principles would also direct him away from chasing unidentified highwaymen. “Master, I understand that slavery is cruel. Forgive the question, but why do you hold this cause so important?" Nightfall watched trees glide past on either side of the dusty roadway, knowing the threatening rain would soon turn the path to mud.

"Alyndar doesn’t have slavery. And, surely, you’ve never been kept."

Prince Edward grimaced, pale eyes blazing. “Anyone can champion a cause that’s hurt him in the past or one that makes his own life richer or easier." His gelding snagged a leafy branch, tearing it free. The wood swung from its mouth as it chewed. "Every time my father makes a law or proposal, every noble has to consider how it will help him, forgetting that the Father and the lesser gods want us to help one another the way He helps us all." Edward leaned across the horse’s neck and untangled the limb from its bit. “Every life has equal value in the gods’ eyes. There are no commoners on a baron’s council. Who would speak for the slaves if I didn’t‘?"

"I don’t know, Master." Nightfall had to admit that Prince Edward had a point, albeit a childishly uninformed one. Beaten and worked, yes. But, at least, the slaves get fed, clothed, and sheltered. Let free, they’d starve or die at the hands of stranger survivors on the streets.

The clouds bunched tighter, blotting evening into shadow.

"Holy beard of the Father!" Edward drew up his gelding.

Nightfall had never heard Edward blaspheme before. Alarmed, he followed the prince’s gaze to the chestnut packhorse. "What’s wrong, Master?"

"The spade." Edward clambered down from his saddle and headed for the packhorse. "The spade is missing.”

For the last ten leagues, at least. Respectfully, Nightfall dismounted also, trailing Prince Edward to the chestnut. For lack of anything better to say, he made a general noise of dismay.

Edward examined the packs and the ropes, then the place at the top where the spade should sit.

Nightfall held his breath, waiting for the prince to notice the numerous and sundry other missing items.

"Sudian, these knots are barely tight. We’re lucky we didn’t lose everything.”

Lightning flashed a zigzag path across the sky, followed by the raw boom of thunder.

Luck, Nightfall thought, is a matter of opinion. "I’m sorry, Master. They must have worked loose while we rode.” The first raindrops fell like cold pinpoints against Nightfall’s scalp.

Prince Edward hauled down the chestnut’s packs. "I don’t believe this carelessness!" He whirled on Nightfall. "From now on, you’re going to have to check the ties every time we stop. For now, there’s only one thing to do."

Push on to Nemix before we get drenched. Nightfall nodded his agreement.

“You’re going to go back and find that spade." Edward dragged the heaviest pack toward a clearing beneath intertwined branches that blocked undergrowth and light. It would shield him from the rain as well.

Go back? Nightfall’s jaw sagged. For several moments he could not speak. This time, no clever lies could save him, and annoyance got the best of him. "Master, Nemix is just ahead. If we push on, we could reach it tonight. Surely they have spades. Don’t you think it would be wiser to spend a dry night there?”

Prince Edward dropped the pack. “Sudian! I don’t like your tone. ..”

And I don’t like your person, but you don’t see me sending you out in the rain to find a heavy tool we don’t need. Wisely, Nightfall chose stony silence.

"… and we already talked about questioning me. Don’t. You got careless, and it cost us the spade." He placed his hands on his hips as rain dropped from the heavens in a sudden barrage, drumming onto the umbrella of leaves. "Accident or not, you need to learn from it. That’s one of the reasons you’re with me, you know; and I intend to be a good teacher."

Surprised, Nightfall found himself without a reply. Is that what you were told? You’re supposed to teach me? Teach me what? How to preach? How to infuriate my own relatives into sending me off on a fool’s mission? How to build a camp for two using moats, palisades, and wooden stake defenses?

Apparently accepting Nightfall’s silence as acquiescence, Prince Edward continued. "I’ll set up the camp while you’re gone."

Visions of a warm inn room and ale floated from Nightfall’s mind, leaving an aching aggravation in its wake. Thinking it better in his current mood to leave Edward and spend some time alone, Nightfall unfastened the pack from his mare and lowered it to the ground. Springing into the saddle, he headed back the way they had come. Even thieves are smart enough to stay in from the rain. Ned is safe from everyone but himself. He kicked the bay toward the open pathway. The horse shied from the pelting rain then, at Nightfall’s urging, lowered its head and braved the storm.

Once beyond Prince Edward’s hearing, Nightfall muttered a string of frustrated obscenities. He hunched into himself, trying to protect his face and chest from the damp. The wind turned each patch of wet clothing into icy misery, and the horse snorted its dissatisfaction with every step. I brought it on myself. Nightfall saw neither means nor reason to place the blame elsewhere. I knew he’d eventually notice some items missing, but I figured he’d learn we didn’t need them, not send me back on this stupid errand.

Quickly soaked, Nightfall ceased to care about the rain. Water trickled from his hair, down the neck of his tunic, the wetter areas now warmer than the damp ones that the wind could easily dry. It came to him that he had become angry beyond reason. I ’m losing the character of Sudian, and I should appreciate the chance to be free of that moron for a bit. Rankelle’s only a few more strides down the side road, and I won’t even need to pass the thieves’ den again.

Knowing himself well, Nightfall searched for the cause of his instability and discovered it near the surface of his thoughts. Kelryn. He knew he would find her in the dance hall in Nemix, and the idea of her twirling and capering as if nothing had changed stoked his imitation into fury. Marak is dead, murdered by her betrayal. Yet, for her, life simply goes on. He pictured her giggling in the arms of a young punk. The image would not come, and resentment faded with the failure. Whether I like it or not, Kelryn’s got better taste than that. He sincerely believed that, despite the fact that she had been courted by the most notorious criminal in Nemix. Now, he envisioned her with a handsome, young courtier, anger freshly piqued by a picture that came easily. He recognized jealousy as the cause of the annoyance, and that flared his mood back to rage. Maybe this time, she’ll only take his money instead of his freedom and his life.

Despite bitter thoughts, Nightfall could not help remembering small details: the way the dance hall lights sparked from hair white as an elder’s, the time he had rasped the skin from his knuckles while sharpening a dagger and she had dabbed at and bandaged the wound with a caring that could not have been feigned, the way just looking at her had sparked the need to protect her from the world’s ugliness and pain. She betrayed me. Rage died, replaced by a grief that hollowed him to the core. I will kill her. The pronouncement brought the familiar calm that accompanied a finished and irrevocable decision.

Nightfall headed toward Rankelle, aware the steward’s stolen coins would buy him good food, beer, and a warm night of rest. Thanks for the lesson, Ned. I feel wiser already.

Nightfall returned late in the morning to find Prince Edward slumped over his pack. Alarmed, Nightfall crouched, gaze scanning the clearing for enemies or movement. A pile of partially burnt sticks lay heaped in the center, all that remained of a poorly fashioned campfire. A sagging lean-to graced the opposite side of the meadow. Near it, the horses grazed on leaves and vines.

The previous night, while surrounded by inn walls, spiced food, and ale, Nightfall had briefly considered staying in Rankelle. Then, the oath-bond had torn through his guts with a pain that doubled him, as if to split his physical body apart and scrape the soul from the deepest part of his being. He had stumbled from the tavern to vomit, vowing to return to Prince Edward, until the agony subsided. Now, the magic tingled, but he suffered none of the previous night’s pain. If Edward is dead, at least the bond doesn’t hold me responsible.

Seeing no signs of a struggle and hearing nothing to indicate nearby interlopers, Nightfall approached the prince. As he came closer, he could tell Edward was breathing deeply and regularly, and he saw no evidence of wounds. A book lay pinned beneath Edward’s arm, its opened pages crinkled. Nightfall studied the words, upside-down and partially blocked by Edward’s sleeve: "… for smaller camps, the great armies…"

Nightfall stopped reading. Quietly, he walked to the lean-to. Finding the other packs protected by the canvas roof, he set to work preparing breakfast and getting ready for another day of travel. I wonder how long he stayed awake trying to build the fortress this time? Nightfall shook his head. Much as I hate to admit it, the young fool means well. And I have to give him credit for stamina. For a pampered prince, he handles pain and work better than I ever expected. Finished with the food and packs, Nightfall rearranged the wood into an efficient pattern, placed the frog candle stolen from the steward amid the sticks, and lit it with the steward’s tinderbox. As the wax melted, the fire roared to life.

Nightfall turned his attention to Prince Edward, sprawled over his pack, muscled limbs still and hair covering his face like a golden veil. He sleeps like a dead man. And, in these parts, there’s a fine gap between sleeping like one and becoming one. "Master?" he called tentatively.

When Prince Edward did not respond, Nightfall came directly beside him. "Master!"

Edward did not stir.

Nightfall prodded Edward’s belly with the toe of one boot. "Master, wake up."

Edward made a raucous noise, then dropped back to sleep.

Oh, for the sake of the gods. Exasperated, Nightfall backed away. He hefted a rock, studied Edward, then wisely exchanged the stone for a pine cone. Lobbing it in a gentle arc, he let it fall onto the prince’s face.

Prince Edward jerked, opened his eyes, and sat up. He scratched at the cheek where the pine cone had landed, then traced the route of the object from his face to where it lay in the grass. He looked up into the tree that must have dropped it, frowning.

Nightfall thought it best to distract Edward before his sleep-numbed mind worked through the realization that pine cones do not fall in the spring. "Master, breakfast is ready."

"Sudian." The prince rose with a swiftness that had to aggravate sinews cramped from his awkward position as well as the riding soreness. "How long have you been back?"

"Not long." Nightfall simulated the clumsiness that accompanies fatigue. "I retraced our steps as far as l could."

"And?” Prince Edward covered a yawn, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. His gaze found and locked on the crumpled book.

"I didn’t find the spade.”

Edward scooped the book into his lap, watching Nightfall grimly.

"I think a bear must have eaten it, Master."

“A bear?" Prince Edward studied Nightfall dubiously, as if to figure out whether he was being mocked. "Bears eat meat."

Nightfall kept a sincere expression on his face. "I’ve seen them chew branches and eat berries, Master. I thought they might eat spade handles, too."

Thoughtfully, Edward smoothed the wrinkled page, then leafed through, presumably seeking details about the eating habits of bears.

Nightfall turned back to the fire to hide his jaded grin. I’ll bet nobles can’t shit without looking up how some great king or general used to do it. Gathering the first of the packs, he headed for the horses, his thoughts shifting toward the coming journey. Nemix by midday. And either Kelryn or I won’t live to see the dawn.

Prince Edward Nargol and Nightfall reached the city of Nemix in late morning. Mud sucked at the horses’ hooves, and the white gelding pranced around puddles, spooking the packhorse behind it. Edward steadied it with weight shifts and tugs on the reins, but even he seemed to be wearying of the constant struggle with a poorly trained horse.

Cottages lined Nemix’ earthen roadways, unevenly spaced and diversely built; obviously, homes had been squeezed between existing dwellings as the city grew. Stone walkways fringed the streets, and people whisked about their business on these, avoiding the rain-muddied paths. A few stopped to stare at the radiant, if tired, prince and his single escort in Alyndar’s colors. Travelers came often to the city, bearing trade goods or wearing weapons and odd clothing; but royalty was scarce anywhere. And, though he displayed no sigil and rode with no armies, Ned’s beauty and bearing proclaimed his nobility as surely as if he had announced it.

Nightfall traversed the familiar roadways with trepidation. Riding through Marak’s city as Sudian felt wrong, like invading a rival’s territory or committing a crime in the name of honest Balshaz instead of Nightfall. The feeling was compounded by Prince Edward’s tendency to keep heading toward the scummier side of town, despite Nightfall’s subtle attempts to change direction.

At length, tired of riding in zigzags, Prince Edward drew up before a cottage. A woman chased a pig from the doorway with a broom, and the squealing animal disrupted a flock of chickens pecking seeds between stones in the walkway. The birds erupted into a flapping, clucking disarray. Startled, Prince Edward’s horse whipped into a rear, twisting in midair to bolt back the way it had come.

For an instant, Edward teetered. Then, his arms flailed the air, and he fell gracelessly into a puddle. Breath hissed between his teeth. Mud splattered his silks and turned the white horse into a spotted parody.

"Master, are you hurt?" Playing the dedicated squire, Nightfall leapt from his saddle and rushed to Edward’s side.

The pattern of the pedestrians slowed as they paused to stare at the grounded prince. Attention of any kind unsettled Nightfall, and he could not help feeling embarrassed for Ned.

"I’m fine." Edward lunged to his feet. "Catch Snow, Sudian."

Nightfall blinked, trying to figure out if the prince’s phrase was some new form of dismissal. "Catch snow, Master?"

"Catch Snow!" Edward repeated, making an abrupt gesture toward the white gelding trotting toward the border. "Before he gets away."

The horse. He’s named a damned horse. Nightfall sprang onto his bay and dug his heels into its ribs. The mare whipped into a gallop, charging after the fleeing gelding. Citizens drew up along both sides of the roadway, meticulously avoiding the street.

The gelding broke into a run as the mare pulled up alongside it, but not quickly enough. Nightfall inched ahead, then twisted the mare into a sudden turn that blocked the white’s escape. The gelding pulled up suddenly, reversed direction toward Ned, then dropped to a walk.

By the time Nightfall returned, dismounted, and caught both riding horses by the bridles, he found a dripping Edward receiving the final directions to the one place in all Nemix from which he wanted to divert the prince: Grittmon’s Inn and Tavern. Though the closest place to rest and clean, Grittmon’s honest business was a front for a myriad of illegal rackets. In the locked back room, Nightfall had bought numerous pieces of information, received jobs and messages, and met a motley assortment of sociopaths and bodyguards. City guardsmen received their beer free at certain times, and were strangely absent at others. Once, paid directly by Grittmon, Nightfall had poisoned a rival criminal lord. The man had crumpled in plain sight of two dozen patrons. Yet the corpse had been disposed of without fuss; not even a whisper of the crime infiltrated the street gossip.

Prince Edward took the white gelding’s bridle from Nightfall, leading the horse down the roadway. "Come on, Sudian."

Nightfall trotted after, leading the bay and the chestnut. "Master, there’s a good inn down this way." He pointed in the opposite direction.

Edward did not break stride. "Thank you, Sudian, but there’s a closer one over here."

"But it’s not nearly as nice." Nightfall glared at the nearby spectators. With the action finished, they started to disperse. "And the food-"

"Food doesn’t matter." Edward tugged at his clinging undergarments irritably, his walk awkward. "Right now, I just want to wash and sleep."

And live until tomorrow. That’s important, too. "But, Master. Grittmon’s isn’t good enough for you."

"Sudian." Prince Edward swung around suddenly. "I’m covered with filth. I smell like a barn, and I saw the dawn before I fell asleep this morning. I couldn’t sleep for worrying, when you didn’t return, that I had sent my squire off to die." He turned back, continuing his march toward Grittmon’s Inn. "I’m getting a bath as soon as possible if I have to use a cow trough."

Last night he worried about me? Nightfall fell into shocked silence, too familiar with Ned’s sincerity to doubt the sentiment. The babe in the woods alone at night worried about the demon. I don’t believe this. Only two people in Nightfall’s life had ever seemed concerned for him. Kelryn’s betrayal negated her affection; surely her concern for him had been as fake as her love. And Dyfrin was the kind of friend that came once in a lifetime, if ever, the sort who not only worried for him but seemed to read his every mood. Suspicions raised, Nightfall tried to guess what Prince Edward wanted from him. I have little to offer except my service and loyalty. And he knows he already has those.

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 brushed 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.

"I’m really sorry," the man repeated, again shuffling toward Nightfall.

“Get away from me," Nightfall said, trying to sound indignant rather than frightened. He could still feel the place where the sorcerer had grabbed him, and it made him feel unclean in a way no plague-ridden beggar ever had. He fingered the tear in his linens with dismay, softening the demand. "Please. With all respect, lord, I think I was better balanced alone.” I have to presume he staged the fall to test me, because he wasn’t certain of what he felt. So it probably wasn’t the oath-bond. The idea soothed his raw-edged nerves. In that case, my allowing him to knock me down might well have convinced him he was mistaken. Dodging around his benefactor, Nightfall continued down the street, attuned to sounds of pursuing footsteps beneath the stomp, click, and chatter of other passersby, headed from the market square. He heard nothing to suggest the man had followed. The wary prickle at his back disappeared.

With the immediate threat removed, Nightfall pushed the incident to the back of his mind. For now, he could do nothing but hope he had passed the sorcerer’s test and stay alert for future experiments or confrontations. He turned a corner, stealing a glance in the direction from which he had come. The stranger had turned and was now retreating back toward the market square.

Relieved, Nightfall turned his concentration to the Nemixian dance hall. Just as quickly, doubts suffused him, wildly out of place in the mind of the night-stalking demon that had stolen the unstealable, swindled wise men, and shattered the sleep of the brave. Memory stole his composure, flinging him back to lazy summer Sundays spent meandering between stands, Kelryn’s presence a warm constant beside him, her laughter like music in his ear.

Nightfall walked the last few blocks, haunted by images of that past, alternately mourning the potential eternity of love and happiness that Kelryn’s betrayal had mangled to nightmare and despising the woman who had stolen everything he could give her: trinkets, his loyalty, his dignity, and his life. For every act I did, I thought of how it might affect her. Everywhere I went, I looked for things that might please her. She meant everything to me, yet my love and myself meant nothing to her. Turning the v last corner, Nightfall approached the dancer’s quarters.

The mid-afternoon sun sparkled from the polished brass hinges. Nightfall raised his fist to knock still with some trepidations, and that uncertainty bothered him. Since the first time, when he had raised a knife against his mother’s murderer, he had never felt a qualm about those he chose to kill. In all cases, he had deemed a client’s security or vengeance more sacred than the rights of the victim. Yet now that it came time to avenge his own life, reservations descended upon him.

It’s the time of day, Nightfall guessed, at once aware that the need to work in broad daylight was only a contributing factor to his discomfort. Always before, he had performed his crimes at night and in the guise of Night- fall; but this would not be the first time he had used another persona for innocent, daytime scouting. He reviewed his rationalization for using a direct approach, but this failed to dispel his apprehension. The method was not what bothered him.

It’s Kelryn. Nightfall shook with anger, missing the steadying composure that usually filled him before a kill. Gods! What is it about that traitor bitch that cripples me? He tossed the thought aside. Once he faced her, the strength would come. If it didn’t, he was dead.

Nightfall rapped on the iron-bound wooden door.

Several seconds passed in silence. Then, the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears, followed by the squeal of the door being opened. Cyriwan, the dance hall proprietor, studied Nightfall through the opening crack, his crusty, bearded face somber. “Can I help you?"

"I’m looking for a woman." Cyriwan scratched at his beard, and dirt flaked to the floor. "Any woman in particular? Or just your general woman?"

"I’m looking,” Nightfall said carefully, trying to see around Cyriwan without success, "for the most graceful dancer I’ve ever seen. She’s got short, white hair like this." He combed his mahogany locks into feathers with his fingers. “Small, hazel eyes, a straight nose with a flat tip, and a gorgeous body."

"White hair?" Cyriwan squinted, glancing up and down Nightfall as if to identify his colors. All humor left him. "You mean Kelryn. And she don’t work here no more."

Nightfall naturally fell into Cyriwan’s speech pattern. "She don’t‘?"

“Good day." Cyriwan backed to close the door.

"Wait." Nightfall edged forward, trying to look childishly eager, and scuffing a toe into the crack as if by accident. It had been decades since he had needed to do anything for his information except ask. "Why don’t she work here no more?"

"There needs to be a reason‘?"

"No, I don’t suppose so." Nightfall made contrived nervous gestures that placed his boot more solidly in the path of the door. "Is there one?"

"Not this time." Cyriwan tried to pull the panel closed, but it struck Nightfall’s foot. The proprietor frowned.

Nightfall shifted his weight, making certain the coins in his pocket clinked. As Sudian, it would seem odd to suggest a bribe, but he knew Cyriwan well enough to suspect that the proprietor would request one. "Where is she working now?”

Cyriwan pressed his toe against Nightfall’s, calmly edging it away. “Who are you? And why do want to know?"

"My name is Sudian. I saw her dance some time ago, and I can’t get her out of my mind. Please, I have to see her."

Cyriwan shook his head. “I don’t know where she’s gone." Circumstance and the look on his face told Night- fall it was a blatant lie.

Hastily, Nightfall removed his foot from the door, feigning self-conscious apology. The maneuver had bought him some time, but to carry it too far would arouse Cyriwan’s suspicions. Since the proprietor still had not brought up the topic of payment, Nightfall tried, aware Cyriwan could never resist a shiny coin. "Would it help if I gave you some money?" He pulled out a silver, displaying it in his palm in the manner of a man unused to buying his information.

Cyriwan licked his lips. Sweat beaded his forehead, but he did not reach for the coin. "You could give me your money, and I’d take it. But I still couldn’t tell you where Kelryn’s at. I don’t know."

You know, you slob. But I haven’t the faintest idea why you aren’t telling. The Cyriwan that Nightfall had known would have sold anyone for a handful of copper. It’s not ethics. Cyriwan wouldn’t know a moral it danced a jig around him, pounded him dizzy, then throttled him dead. Even Grittmon didn’t approve of the incident in his doorway, there’s no way word could have beaten me here. The only possibility is that someone who can keep tabs on this fool threatened his life or promised him huge sums of money for his silence. But why?

Cyriwan continued to stare at the coin. "Perhaps I could interest you in another woman to take your mind off Kelryn? My girls are just dancers, but some of them do other things to earn a little spending money on the side." He winked. “If you know what I mean."

Nightfall knew. But playing the part of the innocent, young squire, he hesitated in consideration. "I think so.”

"That silver will buy you the name of one who does." Cyriwan reached for the coin.

Though a silver should have bought him the name of every woman in Nemix who did, Nightfall allowed the proprietor to take it, then his arm, and lead him through the doorway. Cyriwan closed the panel behind him, taking Nightfall through his front office and into the familiar corridor lined with doors.

Needing facts, and finding them more difficult to obtain than expected, Nightfall took a chance. "Since I can’t see Kelryn, do you think maybe I could…" He lowered his face abashedly. "… um. .. have…" He stumbled over the euphemism. "… the little redhead she kept talking to between performances?” He alluded to Kelryn’s roommate, Shiriel. If anyone might know where Kelryn’s gone, she would. And if I can get a look at the room, I should be able to tell if Kelryn’s things are still there.

Cyriwan caught the description. Again, he studied Nightfall.

Nightfall tried to look embarrassed by the scrutiny. He avoided the proprietor’s piercing, dark gaze. His walk grew tight and awkward.

Cyriwan’s lips twitched into the toothy, knowing grin of a man condescending to a child. "I can try. But it’ll cost you an extra silver to ask for some girl, specific."

"Oh." Though he kept his head lowered, Nightfall memorized a hallway he already knew by heart. "Oh." He let thoughtful disappointment leech into his tone, followed by consideration.

Cyriwan stopped before the fourth door on the left, awaiting an answer.

Though he knew it was Kel1yn’s and Shirie1’s room, Nightfall shuffled past it at the same speed so as not to broadcast his knowledge. Now a half step beyond Cyriwan, he halted and turned to face the proprietor. "Well, my master did say I could spend my money any way I wanted."

Cyriwan held out a hand laced with grime.

Nightfall plucked another silver from the dwindling horde he had taken from the Alyndarian steward. Two silver for a copper’s worth of information. If that doesn’t convince him I’m an ignorant galley-clod, nothing will. Concealing the callused palms that years of labor as Etan had gained him, he dropped the coin into Cyriwan’s hovering fingers.

The silver disappeared into Cyriwan’s fist like a meat scrap tossed to a starving dog. He knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" Shiriel’s familiar alto drifted through the wood. Small and frail, she tended toward quiet shyness except when discussing a topic about which she held a strong opinion. Then, she could become passionately shrewd, strong-wi1led, and clever.

"It’s me," Cyriwan answered gruffly. "I have someone with me."

Nightfall shifted from foot to foot.

A moment passed in silence. Then Shiriel opened the door. She wore a patched but flattering dress over her slight form, and her red hair fanned about her shoulders.

"Shiriel, this is Sudian. He wants to discuss a business proposition with you.” Cyriwan nodded encouragingly, though whether at him or the woman, Nightfall could not tell.

Shiriel looked Nightfall over.

Nightfall held his breath. This would be Sudian’s first inspection by someone who had known Marak well.

But Shiriel gave no sign of recognition. Apparently finding Nightfall adequate, she stepped back to let him enter.

The cubicle beyond lay in comfortable disarray. A single pallet covered a rectangle of floor, its head against the middle of the far wall. To Nightfall’s left, a familiar night table and matching chair sported a jumble of cosmetics and clothing. All of the colors suited Shiriel. An open closet to his right held several outfits, including familiar dancing costumes, though none in Kelryn’s larger size.

Shiriel closed the door. Turning to face the bed, she began unlacing her bodice.

"Don’t do that." Nightfall placed a hand on Shiriel’s shoulder, and she felt coiled beneath his touch. Shiriel whirled, back-stepping until she stood against the pallet. The loosened fabric revealed the edge of each, tiny breast, "lf you’ve got something sleazy in mind, you can leave now. I don’t got to do this, you know. It’s just a way to make extra money."

"How much do you charge?" Nightfall enjoyed a good session of sex as much as any man, but not when he was working. And not with Kelryn’s roommate. The idea made him ill.

“Five coppers." Shiriel glared defiantly, her chest heaving and her demeanor stiff. The straight, red hair formed a cape about her shoulders, making her look more vulnerable.

”Here." Nightfall tossed her the last silver, leaving him only the one Prince Edward had given him and the coppers in Myar’s purse.

Shiriel caught the coin in a small hand, bobbled it once, then studied it. Placing it into her cleavage, she gave her full attention to Nightfall. "What do you want? And I’m still not doing anything sleazy."

"Tie that thing back up." Nightfall tried to look flustered. "I just want to talk.”

"Talk?" Brow crinkled, Shiriel retied her bodice. "Talk about what?"

Nightfall moved Shiriel’s undergarments from the chair to the table. Turning the chair to face her, he sat. "Another woman who works here, name Kelryn." As he moved, he caught a glimpse of an object he had missed on previous inspection. Among the vials and jars sat a too familiar glass figurine of a swan. Its neck stretched delicately upward, ending in a finely-shaped head. The wings were spread in a feathered detail Nightfall had never seen on a trinket, before or since he’d set eyes on this one nearly a year ago. Marak had discovered it displayed in a glassblower’s shop. It had cost him a week of dinners; but, at the time, it had seemed well worth the cost. Apparently, it meant nothing more to Kelryn than the life of the man who gave it to her. He had rehearsed the presentation, and the words returned to him now, ugly, empty, and hollow: "Finally, Kelryn, I’ve found a piece of art worthy of your beauty. But, even should this creature come alive, you would put its grace to shame."

Shiriel’s eyes narrowed suddenly. "Kelryn don’t work here no more."

Nightfall met Shiriel’s gaze, careful not to rivet on the swan. "That’s what the guy said." He pointed to the door to indicate Cyriwan. "Where does she work now?"

"That depends."

Now it was Nightfall’s turn to look confused. "Depends on what?"

Shiriel shook her head, sending the fine locks into a shimmery dance. "Depends on why it’s worth a silver to you.”

Nightfall sighed. He stared at a water spot on the ceiling, and a slight smile curled about features more primed for a glower. Thoughts of Kelryn made him savagely angry. But for now he feigned infatuation. "I watched her dance once. She’s the most beautiful woman I ever saw. Ever." He met Shiriel’s green eyes earnestly. "Please. I have to find her."

Shiriel looked skeptical. Her drawn face took on a look of calculated doubt. "You don’t know, do you?"

"Know what‘?" Nightfall added a note of concern to his curiosity. Idly, he fiddled with the disarray on Shiriel’s table.

Shiriel leaned forward, lowering her voice. "I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. Kelryn has…” She dropped to a whisper. "… clap."

Nightfall suppressed a laugh, inhaled a lungful of saliva, and coughed violently. Well, at least I spread that rumor thoroughly. The hoarseness of his voice only added to his sincerity. "That doesn’t matter; Shiriel, I love this woman. I have to see her.”

Shiriel sat on the pallet with a sigh. She drew muscle- thick legs to her chest, staring at Nightfall. "You’re from Alyndar, right?"

Nightfall nodded. Emblazoned with the country’s colors and in the prince’s service, he could hardly deny it. His hand drifted naturally toward the glass swan.

"So what do you people want with Kelryn?"

The question caught Nightfall off his guard. He blinked, his fingers closing over the figurine, his bewildered gaze diverting Shiriel’s attention from the action. "Us people? What people'? What are you talking about?"

"Look." Shiriel went straight to the point. “Kelryn never did anything wrong in her life. She’s a damn good dancer and an honest one. She didn’t know."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about." The expression of confusion on Nightfall’s face deepened. He slipped the swan into his pocket, drawing his whole per- son inward to mask the movement. "But you’re starting to scare me. Is Kelryn in some kind of trouble?"

Shiriel seemed to take no notice of the theft. Her scrutiny of Nightfall’s face intensified. Apparently, she was trying to read his expression and his sincerity. "That murderer they killed up there a few weeks ago."

"You mean Nightfall?" he supplied.

Shiriel nodded briskly. “She called him Marak, but they said he was the same person. It’s no secret around here that she was his girlfriend.”

Nightfall tried to look suitable agitated. "You’re lying! You have to be lying."

“But she didn’t know he was a killer." Shiriel defended Kelryn. “She didn’t know she was seeing Nightfall. And, of course, she never committed any c1imes." She wrung her hands, hugging her knees to her chest. “So, go away. Leave her alone."

Nightfall met Shiriel’s intense expression with one of his own. "Have others from Alyndar come looking for her before me?"

"No," Shiriel admitted. "You’re the first."

Nightfall rolled his eyes in exasperation. He relaxed a bit, idly drumming his fingers on the single, narrow drawer in the front of the desk. "Do I look like a king’s executioner to you? A guard captain?" He spread his arms to emphasize his delicate frame.

Shiriel’s scrutiny became intense. Suddenly, Nightfall regretted his bold plea for attention. A close look might give me away. Then again, I suppose this is one of the safer places to test the new “disguise."

After a few moments, Shiriel sat back, still without recognition. "No," she admitted. "But you could still be one. Or you could be working for one."

Nightfall snorted. He worked his fingers into the drawer, idly opening and closing it against his knuckles. He tried to sound like a youth in love. "Your loyalty is wonderful and makes sense to me. If I had the chance, I’d be just as protective of her. But Nightfall’s dead." Spoken aloud, the words sounded strange in his ears. "King Rikard has no use or interest in the man’s girlfriend. And even if he did, he’s a king. He’d have just sent over a bunch of guards and taken her, not some stumbling squire who can’t even keep his balance in the street." Removing one hand from the drawer, he fingered the hole in his britches.

Shiriel’s features crinkled in thought, then relaxed at the obvious sense of his explanation. “He’s the one who gave her the clap, you know."

Her words seemed like a complete non sequitur. Nightfall levered the drawer partway open to reveal a gem-studded pair of earrings and a scattering of cheap bracelets. A sheet of papyrus lay over an old brush with bent bristles wound through with strands of white and red hair. "What? The king gave someone the clap?”

"Not the king." Shiriel seemed to notice Nightfall’s interest in her things for the first time. She watched his hands, as if to make certain he kept away from her jewelry, blithely unaware that the most expensive item in the room was already in his possession. "Marak. Nightfall. He gave Kelryn the clap."

Oh, great. Nightfall did not appreciate the slur, though he could not dismiss the irony. Actually, though, she’s right. I spread the rumor. So, in a manner of speaking, I did give Kelryn the clap.

The conversation seemed to be going nowhere. Aware he could only safely leave Prince Edward alone at Grittmon’s Tavern until evening, Nightfall tried to speed things along by returning to the point. "Look, I think it’s clear that no one in Alyndar wants to hurt Kelryn. And, even if they did, why would they send a spy wearing their colors? I just think she’s beautiful. I can’t get her out of my mind." He adopted the nervous look of a youth forced to share his deepest secrets with his mother. "I just want a chance to meet her. Won’t you give that to me?" He turned Shiriel the most desperate, sincere expression he could muster.

Shiriel stared back. Her face betrayed only thoughtfulness, but her hesitation revealed that she was considering the possibility.

Still playing his role, Nightfall let his gaze fall to his hands. Again, he saw the brush with as many of Kelryn’s hairs as Shiriel’s, and his glance slid naturally to the sheet of papyrus. Runes scrawled across the surface.

But before he could focus on them closely enough to make sense of the writing, Shiriel lurched to her feet. She cleared the distance between them in two running steps and slammed the drawer shut on Nightfall’s fingers.

"Ow!" Nightfall leapt backward, clasping his throbbing knuckles. The drawer rebounded partway open. An earring bounced from the confines, skittering across the floor. "Why did you do that? Why in hell did you do that?" His pained indignation did not need to be feigned. An answer came to him before she could say a word. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. I have to assume it was the note. He tried t0 reconstruct a picture of the letter in his mind.

"Get out of here.” Shiriel stabbed a finger toward the door.

Nightfall backed away in defensive surprise, an image filling his mind’s eyes. Now that he considered it, the letter had two sets of handwriting on it, not an unusual feature. Commonly, illiterates or those with less than perfect penmanship would hire a scribe, then authenticate or personalize the note with their own signature. “What did I do? Why are you mad at me?"

"Kelryn’s like a sister to me." Shiriel made another abrupt, hostile gesture at the door. "I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone where she went, and you damn near got me to break that promise."

In a cowering slouch, Nightfall moved toward the exit, still certain the letter, not a promise, was the source of Shiriel’s rage. Now on track of the handwriting, he knew he had seen both sets sometime in the past. Kelryn can’t write. From Shiriel’s reaction, I have to guess that the signature was Kelryn s. But the other hand seemed just as familiar Why? The answer remained maddeningly just beyond reach.

Shiriel opened the door.

Nightfall stepped up beside her, trying to look pained and innocently confused. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm."

Shiriel’s anger seemed to melt away. She started to say something, then quietly motioned him out instead.

Nightfall passed into the corridor, hearing the door whisk shut behind him, feeling the breeze of its movement. He headed for Cyriwan’s office and the exit of the building, his mind still worrying the problem. The parchment came from reeds, not bark. That means it’s of southern origin. He considered southern scribes. Three of his personae, Balshaz, Frihiat, and Marak, had been literate; and the first two lived in the south. Among them, he had sent or seen enough messages to know the local scribes. He tried to match the writing to a name.

But Nightfall had only caught a few glimpses of the parchment. The scribe’s identity did not come to mind. Nightfall knocked on Cyriwan’s office door, frustrated by a glimpse of writing that would not focus clearly in his thoughts.

Cyriwan opened the door. "Ah! Finished so soon?"

Nightfall nodded, gaze on the door to the outside, concerned that casual conversation might wipe the image completely from his memory.

Cyriwan ushered Nightfall to the opposite end of the room. "I trust Shiriel took good care of you.”

Nightfall made a noncommittal noise. He grasped the doorknob, twisted, and opened the panel onto gathering grayness. He knew he still had a few hours before sun- down, but Edward would have tended to his personal needs by now and was probably wondering what was keeping his squire. Nightfall stepped out into the street.

Cyriwan called after him, cheerily. "Come back again." Then the door clicked closed behind him.

Nightfall hurried back toward Grittmon’s Tavern, taking a new tack with his scribe search. Rather than trying to remember details of writing he had barely seen, he ran through the list of individual scribes. And this strategy brought an answer where the other had not. Sperra. And yet the solution seemed only slightly less frustrating than the question. Nightfall recalled that the kind and elderly scribe had a habit of moving his quarters three or four times a year, to cities that needed his services most.

Nightfall probed his last silver. I hope Edward doesn’t ask me to return his money. I’ll need the coin, plus the coppers I took from the pickpocket, to get the information I need. The thought made him irritable. Decades had passed since Nightfall had needed to pay for his knowledge. I know just where to find out what I need to know. And luckily, I have reason to be there. Heading toward Grittmon’s Tavern, Nightfall quickened his pace.