The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 8

An evening spent landing the Healer slipped into a fitful night of plotting and rage. Kelryn’s scheme appalled even Nightfall; beguiling innocents to an agony beyond death seemed leagues more evil than all his crimes together. He had stolen to survive and murdered from necessity, and every kingdom reviled him as a hellish and remorseless demon. Yet, Kelryn continued her dance, seducing young men as fodder for hunters who preyed on pain and souls. Women like Genevra appreciated her gentle sweetness and men her grace, never knowing that both hid a cruelty that revolted Nightfall himself. And even I fell for her act.

The latter thought intrigued as well as sickened. Nightfall had always prided himself on reading others motivations and seeing through their chosen shrouds. Yet he could not deny that he had bought into Kelryn’s tender concern for him as completely and easily as any of her lambish victims. He had approached the relationship as he did all others, with paranoid caution. She had won him over with a candor and intimate sincerity that had penetrated defenses more solid and sturdy than any fortress. Even now, knowing what he did, Nightfall could not shake memories of her smile and the glitter in her dark eyes that told him she truly loved him, without conditions, and that her devotion would outlast eternity. Now Nightfall wondered how many others that game of hers had snared.

Nightfall rolled silently, his caution more habit than necessity. Prince Edward’s snores had continued uninterrupted even through the clatter of a stack of dinner dishes dropped in the common room below and a heated argument between a serving woman and a cleaning boy over a copper piece. Nightfall’s anger degenerated into sorrow. Me in love. The idea seemed more ludicrous than the rumor that he heard all pleas for murder whispered on the wind. That alone should have cued me to her deceit. A few women had sought out Nightfall in the darkest, ugliest corners of the universe. These, he discovered, wanted notoriety after finding no glory of their own. Somehow, sleeping with the demon or, better, carrying his baby would bring them the attention they craved and change, if not raise, their station. He had never raped a woman, nor even slept with one in Nightfall’s guise, yet at least three claimed their offspring as his. But love? Never. How could any woman love what even my mother could not?

Undoing the past had become an unproductive pastime that Nightfall believed he had long abandoned. He pushed away thoughts of his shortcomings as a child, the common sense that had failed him when it came to what his mother had called "following gods" instead of falling prey to the "demon’s influence." In the end, the demon had done him better. Nightfall stared at the Delforian wall, the wood scarred by gouges and dents from carelessly flung gear. He had worked with many thieves, informants, and killers without so much as a twinge of conscience; and he wondered why Kelryn’s scam bothered him so much. A good swindler, when cheated by a better one, soon learned to turn his thoughts toward education rather than vengeance. He understood that women used flirtation as a weapon because few things disarmed a man more completely. But there were unwritten laws even among killers and thieves, ones that the sane fell into without need for understanding them or even knowing of their existence. A competent hoax relied on the greed of its victim. Thieves gravitated to the rich who could better afford their crime; it made little sense to risk freedom or life for a single worn copper. No assassin Nightfall knew chose victims indiscriminately. Usually, they found themselves hunting others of their ilk, slayers on either side of the law. And therein lay the root of Nightfall’s aversion. Kelryn sacrificed innocents to creatures more terrible than any mythical demon, committing them to an eternal torment that made the gods’ hell seem benign.

On the inn room floor, Nightfall flopped into a new position, finding it no more comfortable than any of the dozen others. This time, however, he found sleep.

The morning dawned in quiet glory, unusually cool for spring. Nightfall awakened as the first sun rays crept past the window, and he set to work at once. Anticipation of the prince’s wants reinforced the image of attentive squire with a steadfast devotion to duty and also kept him from the need to chatter mindlessly. By the time Prince Edward joined him in the common room, he had reclaimed their now-clean clothing and prepared the horses for travel.

Aside from the inn staff, only three other people had appeared for breakfast, a trio of well-armed Ivralian men, minor nobility who had arrived in Delfor the same night as Edward and his squire. From conversation overheard, Nightfall discovered they headed for Mezzin for some sort of special martial training. They talked loudly, assuming rugged postures to impress the farmers, but Nightfall doubted they posed the prince any threat. Beneath their need for peasants’ adulation, they seemed reasonably mannered.

"Good morning, Sudian." Edward greeted his squire with a broad grin.

Nightfall rose from his seat at a corner table, straightening another chair for the prince. He waited for Edward to take the proffered seat before returning to his own. "Good morning, Master."

Prince Edward immediately raised the conversation from the previous night, though they had already taken it beyond its natural conclusion into the realm of extraneous repetition. "Fine work that Healer does. I hope we never have need of her services again, but it’s good to know she’s here.”

"Yes, Master. It is." Nightfall gave the expected response, though it seemed unnecessary as well as nonsensical. His casual discussion with the guards on his return to the inn had revealed that, had the beggars not mobbed Edward, the prince probably could not have afforded the healing, even on the allowance his father had granted him. That idea triggered one more sobering. We’ve got a total of four silvers, including the one he gave me for the spade in Nemix, along with six coppers remaining from what I took from Myar. That’s supposed to last months. The amount sounded huge to Nightfall. He and his mother had lived on far less for years, yet they had not needed inn rooms, washed silk, horses, or gratuities for information. And neither of us treated money like spit. Still, Nightfall took some solace from the fact that he carried backup wealth in the form of the sea captain’s sapphire and the Alyndarian steward’s wedding rings. If needed, he would have to find a way to use those that did not require an implausible or embarrassing explanation to Prince Edward.

A serving maid arrived, setting warm, buttered bread and bowls of cornmeal in front of Prince Edward and Nightfall. She also left them each a spoon and a cup of milk.

"Thank you," Nightfall said.

The woman smiled, then whisked back toward the kitchen.

Prince Edward stirred bread through the meal. "It’s good to see the farmers getting something special to balance their hard work."

Nightfall had lost the thread of the conversation. “Something special, Master?"

"I mean the Healer."

Nightfall thought it best not to tell the prince that Genevra’s services existed for the overlord, his men, and wealthy travelers. No farmer he knew could afford her services. Mouth full, he measured the expectation of a prompt answer against manners and decided to chew and swallow before responding. "Yes, Master. It’s good."

"Today, we’ll start looking around and talking to people." The prince explained between bites. "In order to help those people, we’ll have to find out what they need."

Nightfall froze in place but not quickly enough to keep his eyes from flicking suddenly to Edward. "I’ve got the horses all loaded and ready to go." He added swiftly, "Master."

"Go?" Prince Edward fixed his squire with a harsh stare."Go? We’re not going anywhere. There’s so much work that needs doing here." He made abroad gesture like a dancer at a grand recital.

The implications of that decision came in a wild rush. We could stay here for months. Years. And not accomplish much more than assisting a farmer or two with spring planting and harvest. The thought brought a reemergence of the oath-bond, a dull ache that seemed to span Nightfall’s body. “But, Master, we’ve lost our money. How long can we impose on the innkeeper’s hospitality?”

Nightfall knew the overlord, not the owner of the inn had paid for their stay so far; but he guessed it would grind on Edward’s conscience more to believe he burdened a working man.

Edward continued his meal. "We’ll work. We’ll make our money the way the citizens do."

And won’t it surprise you to learn that sitting around looking pretty and preaching morality to men with broken backs doesn’t pay? Not to mention there’s almost no coinage in a village this small. Nightfall had no patience for explaining apprenticeships or barter. "Master, forgive my ignorance, but I don’t understand. How will working in Delfor get you landed?"

"Landed?" Prince Edward expelled a deep-throated laugh. "Of what significance is one man’s landing when so many others live in poverty and sin? Landing is my father’s goal. The divine Father has other plans for me. He wants me to elevate the downtrodden. He wants me to give every man and woman the life in freedom he intended. He wants me to rescue the enslaved and champion the meek." Caught up in his own grandeur, Prince Edward rose. "The Father lives within every man, a loving presence who guards his children and his flocks. By his sanction, l will see to it that everyone walks proud in the Father’s shadow!" His last words echoed through the Delforian common room.

The innkeeper leaned over his counter, a smile of amusement breaking the contours of a face pocked by weather and prior disease. The serving maid stared unabashedly. The three Ivralians applauded.

Apparently not recognizing the Ivralians’ sarcasm, Prince Edward executed a stiff head bow that acknowledged their "appreciation." Nightfall despised direct attention, and the Ivralians’ performance embarrassed him in the prince’s stead. He kept his voice low but still managed to convey having become swept up in the fervor. "Then away to the south we go!"

"South?" Edward paused, the glowing excitement of his features gradually replaced by wrinkles of curiosity. "Away to the south?"

"Slave country, Master."

"Slave country," Edward repeated with such concentration Nightfall half expected him to tack on the "master" as well. "We can always come back here, but there’re grander matters to hand. Sudian, prepare the horses."

Grabbing the last of his bread, Nightfall scurried to obey a command he had fulfilled an hour previously. He did not dare to smile. For now, he had achieved his goal, but it had only opened the potential for a million more massive problems in the south. How do I land a noble who doesn’t care to be landed? Nightfall scoured his mind for sources between Delfor and Trillium who might give him the answer.

Nightfall suffered the consequences of whipping Prince Edward to a moralistic frenzy on the southward ride from Delfor. From the moment city limits turned to alternating squares of farm field, Edward ranted philosophy until Nightfall thought his ears would take flight of his head to escape the repetition. Soon, fertile crop lands gave way to the more familiar forest, and Nightfall welcomed the change. The trees provided cover that even the prince’s loud voice could not fully ruin. The trunks scattered sound, and most bandits had only scant experience with following bouncing echoes. Once they left the main road to camp, Nightfall doubted anyone would bother them, even should they have anything besides horses, tack, and clothing worth stealing.

Gradually, litany gave way to more normal discussions about weather and supplies. Prince Edward did not mention his missing money, though whether from ignorance, bland indifference to its loss, or because he did not see it as his squire’s concern, Nightfall could not guess. Nobles’ relationships with servants seemed distant and rampant with strange customs and manners he had no interest in trying to understand. At least the oath-bond-inspired need to fling his person between Edward and danger had kindled some loyalty in return. The prince forgave or explained away many of Nightfall’s improprieties.

They set up camp in a clearing strewn with a damp carpet of leaves. Mushrooms poked their caps through the mulch, some like wrinkled umbrellas, some like plates, and others orange and white domes towering over tiny stalks. From long habit, Nightfall visually sorted edible from poisonous, smashing a patch of toadstools with the chestnut’s pack. With the horses set to graze and bedding spread, the prince and his squire enjoyed a sparse meal of jerky and mushrooms. The silence seemed heavy after Edward’s cheerful, if tedious, lecturing. Nightfall concentrated on the crackle of the flames and the distant noises of animals in the brush. An occasional fox call whirred through the night, and the polecats screeched at intervals, sounding much like human babies.

Nightfall needed information. Soon enough, he would find a source he trusted. In the meantime, he had little choice but to use what he had. He sat up straight in front of the fire, shadow striping the ground behind him. "Master, how do you get landed?"

Edward turned his head, expression open, obviously surprised. Clearly, it was one of those things gentry seemed to know at birth and assumed others did as well. "I’ll have to perform some grand and heroic deed so noble that a king chooses to knight me and grant land."

Nightfall considered, trying to sort his confusion as much as possible before interrogating Edward again. It made no sense for a prince to become knighted. Why trade a higher title for one lower? The answer dawned slowly. Because he’s a prince of Alyndar, and he’s certainly not getting his property from King Rikard. He’ll need a title in the kingdom where he’s landed. Nightfall knew boundaries well; awareness of where one man’s jurisdiction began and another’s ended had helped him evade pursuit on more than one occasion. Alyndar’s kingdom borders had remained relatively stable for centuries. The rulers in Shisen and Ivral waffled between war and peace. Kings Jolund and Idinbal seemed constantly in dispute over the southern triple cities, and Trillium had been occupied by Shisen, Hartrin, and Ivral on various occasions. Still, Edward’s claim did not gibe with Nightfall’s observations. Many who seemed to have no grasp of heroism owned territory; several bore titles other than knight and some had been born to their nobility in other kingdoms than their land.

After a brief pause, Prince Edward clarified his statement, though he still addressed none of Nightfall’s doubts and questions. "I could oust a threat: a crazed wolf mangling citizens, a plague of rats, an army…"

… an assassin terrorizing the king and his family. The idea, and its subsequent arrangement, entered Nightfall’s mind for only a moment before inciting agony from the oath-bond. Pain doubled him over, and he gasped desperately for air. His thoughts scurried for the cure. No terror. No assassin. Nightfall is dead. The magic receded, the abrupt change from torture to ache so sudden he had to fight down the contents of his stomach.

"Sudian? Sudian!" Edward knelt at Nightfall’s side, steadying him with broad, strong hands. "Are you well?"

"Fine, Master," Nightfall wheezed, seized by a mixture of frustration and anger. He felt like a helpless prisoner, as kept as any slave by a magic that would, in time, claim his soul as well. He wondered if that same incapacitating pain would always accompany the shreds of spirit Gilleran claimed from him or only when the sorcerer chose to use Nightfall’s natal gift. The consideration threw him over the edge. He rose, pulling free of Edward, and staggered past the clearing to vomit as far from the camp as possible. Fear raged to fury. The oath-bond constrained him too tightly to create a situation that might get Edward his land. That, he guessed, had been the intention. The king gets his son killed without doing the deed himself and rids the world of a demon. The sorcerer gets my soul. The perfect arrangement. And yet, Nightfall still saw flaws in the plan. Again, simpler arrangements could have achieved the same results. They could have executed me and sent Ned out with some bumbling squire. Left on his own on foreign soil, the prince would surely enrage the wrong person and wind up dead.

Nightfall considered the possibilities again as the oath-bond waned to its normal tingle. It occurred to him that King Rikard might prove his better when it came to clever strategy. Alone, Prince Edward would have lost all his money in Grittmon’s Inn, but his life would not have become endangered. He probably would have returned home for money or given up his quest. Perhaps the king realized that his innocent younger son needed an experienced traveler to get him even beyond the borders of Alyndar. Perhaps he trusted Nightfall to drag the boy to the nasty and dangerous haunts that the prince could never have found alone. Perhaps he just figured I’d get so frustrated with the colts abrasive innocence I’d just kill him quickly and have done with it all. These thoughts charged Nightfall to determined rage. I’ll get him landed, all right. And once I do, I ’m free. Then the demon will exact his own payment.

An image of Dyfrin came to Nightfall’s pain-dulled defenses like a fever dream. His mouth pressed to a grim line beneath a small nose and a shock of sandy hair. "Vengeance serves no master. Its rage steals even the most ingrained judgment, and it consumes the one it claims to serve." But, for now at least, the promise of revenge seemed more attractive than giving in to despair.

Prince Edward crashed through the brush to stop at Nightfall’s side. "Do I need to take you back to the Healer?"

Nightfall shook his head, dispelling the fierce reverie, the idea of returning to Delfor intolerable. "No, thank you, Master. She only heals wounds. She couldn’t help with this?

“What is this? What can I do?"

Edward’s sincere concern seemed nonsensical. Why does he care? Damn it, why does he have to care so much? “I must have gotten a bad mushroom in with the others." He tried to turn the devotion back in the proper direction. "Oh, Master, what if I poisoned you, too?"

"Poisoned? Don’t be ridiculous, Sudian. I feel fine." Prince Edward assisted his squire to stand, though he no longer needed the help. He led Nightfall back to the clearing and pressed him down onto the thicker pile of blankets.

The prince’s strength surprised Nightfall. He did not resist physically, continuing to pretend to feel the weak shakiness that he had suffered only too honestly before. "Master, this is your bed."

"Mine, yours, what does it matter?" Edward’s eyes glistened with welling tears. "Get some sleep."

Nightfall closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. He had wanted the prince to trust him implicitly, yet he had never anticipated the protective concern that accompanied that trust. As much as he hated the idea, he could not help liking Alyndar’s prince.

Prince Edward and Nightfall followed the woodland path just off the Klaimer shoreline. Two weeks’ journey along the coastal bend brought them within a half day’s ride of the city of Trillium. This time, they straggled off the path westward to camp in a ragged cove well-hidden from wind, wave, and bandits. Nightfall knew the haven well. He had used it as a bolt hole as well as a temporary shelter. It gave him access to city, ocean, and forest near a grove of walnut trees and berry copses that attracted prey of many kinds. A cabin in this area of plentiful food housed a hermit named Finndmer whom Nightfall knew well. The grizzled loner logged for construction lumber and firewood that he sold in Trillium. He also hauled in loads of walnuts and berries, or hunted depending on the season. These pursuits paid for his necessities; but his other escapades covered the women and the niceties that made a two-story cottage, plain from the outside, a veritable palace within. Many times, Nightfall had pitted his glare against the older man’s bulk and experience; and the other had always cracked first.

Finndmer served as the area fence for merchandise, his location just beyond the continent’s largest city enviable. Whatever a man’s need, Finndmer knew where to find the goods or information, if he could not supply them himself. However, caution kept him mostly silent around those he did not know and trust. Sudian did not seem the best character for breaching a hard-headed thug’s defenses, but Nightfall knew better than to even consider using a disguise. Just the vague thought churned the oath-bond to a pain that reminded him vividly of its danger.

Nightfall waited until Prince Edward settled for the night, his snores forming a duet with their own echoes. Bellies filled with grass, two of the horses lay on the cove stone, forelegs tucked beneath their chests. The packhorse remained standing, head contentedly bowed. The prince’s safety seemed sure. In Nightfall’s years of using the cove, he had never once seen evidence that anyone else knew of its existence. Any major threat would cause the horses to panic, and their banging and cries would carry through the woodland hush.

Nightfall slipped from the camp. Waves slammed the cliffs with a whooshing sound that turned to a gulping suck as water siphoned back from between the rocks. Moonlight drew glittering crests on every ripple, and stars speckled the night sky. Nightfall took the looping path back to the main road. It was easy enough to access the cove; the zigzagging back-tracks had proven no difficulty even for the horses. Nightfall attributed the success of his hiding place more to people’s natural tendency to choose woodlands over rocks for camping and to spiral in the other direction when coming to look upon the sea. Most people timed their travels to arrive in Trillium rather than camp so near its borders, and Nightfall suspected that same feature as the reason for the location of Finndmer’s cottage.

Nightfall pushed through a press of spring growth to the main road, using natural landmarks to orient. A few strides toward Trillium, he found the crude path of ruts from Finndmer’s wood-laden cart. He approached with caution, aware that anyone might come to see Finndmer. Nighttime only made it more likely that a visitor might choose to slaughter a small stranger to keep his whereabouts a secret. Though Nightfall had few doubts he could hold his own against such an attack, it seemed wiser to avoid confrontation. As much as possible, he wanted to play the selflessly faithful squire and avoid the need to justify his wandering to Prince Edward or to anyone else.

The crushed stems smelled of new growth and dampness. Nightfall followed a curve in the trail, and Finndmer’s cottage suddenly became visible through the trees, a hulking shadow etched against leafy branches. Nightfall paused, scanning the surrounding clearing for movement. A pyramid of logs filled a corner of the yard, the cart beside it stacked to overflowing. A few logs had spilled to the ground near its wheels. A horse rested in a split rail corral, sprawled like a dog on its side. Night stole color vision, and Nightfall could tell only that it bore a dark color from ears to tail, interrupted by white patterns on the nose and feet. It seemed strange to see a horse in its position, but he knew from experience that secure livestock often slept in such a fashion.

Nightfall smiled at a memory that came unbidden. He recalled Dyfrin’s first horse, given to him by a grateful friend rescued from slavery years earlier. Dyfrin had proudly taken Nightfall to see his new possession, only to find it lying still on its side, its eyes closed and no part of it moving. Nightfall remembered Dyfrin’s gasp of horror, apparently the horse’s first warning of their approach. It had scrambled to its feet, ungainly as a new foal, clearly startled. The withering look it had given Dyfrin remained indelibly etched in Nightfall’s mind.

The moments Nightfall wasted on reflection brought a misplaced sound to his ears. Instantly, his mind refocused on it, sorting direction before bothering to try to identify it. Apparently, someone was headed up the pathway toward Finndmer’s home, approaching from behind him. Methodically, Nightfall ducked below the level of the creeping vines, careful not to rustle leaves with his movement. He crouched, utterly still.

Shortly, a man approached and passed, his unfaltering footsteps suggesting he had noticed nothing amiss. Nightfall waited until the other had fully passed, alert for signs of pursuit or sounds of an accomplice or bodyguard. He heard nothing to imply that the passerby had a companion. Only then did Nightfall sneak a look. By tread and dress, the other was a man; and his demeanor identified him, at once, as a predator. A killer, Nightfall suspected, though whether guard or assassin he could not guess. His dress seemed nonspecific, and it did not reveal his origin. Nightfall discovered a familiarity that suggested he had met this man before, though he could not quite figure out whether appearance or movement had tipped the recognition. Quietly, he followed.

The man marched directly to Finndmer’s door. He glanced to the right and left with a nervousness that suggested a first visit. Though no stranger to murder by Nightfall’s accounting, the man lost the calm self-assurance he had displayed during his walk, which told Nightfall that he did not seek informants often. This killer preferred to work alone. The man raised his hand, moonlight glinting off a pair of golden rings, and he knocked in cadence to the first two lines of a well-known tavern song. That code told Finndmer and Nightfall that the bartender in the Thirsty Dolphin had sent him.

A light appeared in the upstairs room that Nightfall knew as Finndmer’s sleeping quarters. Shortly, it disappeared, and Nightfall followed the woodcutter’s route by the shift of lantern glaze past windows. At length, the door opened on silent hinges. Light bathed the area around the door, giving Nightfall a clear view of Finndmer and his customer. The glow revealed features Nightfall recognized at once as belonging to the man who had assisted him when he stumbled in Nemix, the one he believed to be a sorcerer. The men exchanged a few words, then Finndmer gestured the other inside. The door swung shut, plunging the forest back into darkness.

Sorcerer. Nightfall crawled from brush into shadow, crossing the clearing with an animal silence. Experience told him Finndmer would take his client to the back room to chat. He also knew a crack in the mud chinking would reveal most of the conversation. A hole in planking beneath roof-thatch would allow him vision if he chose it over hearing. For now, understanding the sorcerer’s intentions took precedence, and he slipped into listening position.

The familiar, mellow voice of the sorcerer wafted to him, its softness rendering some words incomprehensible. “… can’t mistake him. Large, blond as a whore… silks and tailored linens and… royal lineage. He rides a white… or gelding, I think. His squire wears Alyndar’s colors." Leather scuffed against wood as the sorcerer apparently turned away from the wall, and his volume and clarity decreased. "A small… young… hair. Built like…" The rest trailed into obscurity, to Nightfall’s annoyance. The ability of this sorcerer to describe would tell much about him. In his experience, few people went beyond estimated age, hair color, deformities, and general body type, all of which could be easily altered when the necessity arose.

Finndmer’s response seemed booming in contrast. "I won’t assist in or sanction harm to a prince. I’m an honest man. I won’t become accessory to assassination.”

"Assassination?" The word remained muffled, but the sudden whisk of foot on floorboards cued Nightfall that the sorcerer had turned again. The loud distinctness of his words confirmed the thought. “Dear me, no. I mean the prince no harm. Ever. The squire, Sudian." A choked quality entered the sorcerer’s voice, a good approximation of grief. "He slaughtered my brother in a tavern in Nemix."

Nightfall felt certain none of the hoodlums in Grittmon’s Inn bore any relationship to the regal and dignified sorcerer. He continued to listen, enraged that one man might turn personal desires into a manhunt that would require all of Nightfall’s skill and guile to avoid.

"I have a right to blood price, if not vengeance; but the prince will come to no harm." A pause followed, then Nightfall heard the muffled clink of coins through the fabric of a purse. "Have you seen them?”

"No."

"There’s three times more if you do and word gets to me. Assuming I catch up to them, of course."

"Of course."

"I mean no harm to the squire either. I want to talk to him; he’s worth nothing to me dead."

"Detainment?”

"Worth double if he’s delivered to me."

A prolonged pause followed, eventually broken by Finndmer. "Anything more?"

"No,” the other replied. "Just that. Nothing more."

Footsteps clomped, gradually receding. Nightfall faded into the brush. On occasion, Finndmer became suspicious enough to patrol the area around his cottage. This time, however, the sorcerer left alone. The door slammed shut, and Nightfall watched the progression of the lantern up the stairs and back into Finndmer’s bedroom. The light winked out.

Nightfall crouched in the silent darkness considering options. Cold night remained a familiar friend that kept loneliness at bay. He had never considered his contacts anything more than business associations, yet now the chains and communication nets he had discovered and, at times, enriched and developed would likely prove his undoing. The people of his new world saw him as a witless servant, those of his old as a security threat. Even Dyfrin would not trust his connections to Alyndar’s law, and the oath-bond would prevent revealing his true self to his oldest friend. Dyfrin might recognize me, though. He’s the only one who knew me as a child.

Nightfall considered his options as the night progressed. To do nothing assured that his description became the business of every silver-grubbing beggar and street thief in Trillium. He had no choice but to confront either sorcerer or woodcutter before they spread the word. When it came to spreading news, at least, the sorcerer seemed the lesser danger. People who elicited information from bartenders usually did so because they had no specific contacts, and Nightfall doubted the man knew other ways than Finndmer to infuse his offer through darker channels. Anyone offering large sums of money to enough people on the streets might penetrate the underground eventually, if not killed for his proclaimed wealth first; but Nightfall doubted the sorcerer would dare to draw that much attention to himself. His proposition would reach guards, other sorcerers, and wizard-haters as quickly as criminals; and few working for the law in any country would allow designs against a prince or his squire.

Nightfall sighed. His usual methods of silencing threats would fail here. In “demon" guise, he would have bullied Finndmer into a hush he would not have the courage to break. If the need seemed enough, he might have resorted to murder, though it would not have gone wholly unavenged. Finndmer had long ago proven himself a vital link in the illegal communication and fencing chain.

As the buzz of the oath-bond intensified, Nightfall shifted his contemplation, trying to think like Dyfrin, a personality that suited Sudian better than any of Nightfall’s own. No doubt, Dyfrin would recommend gentle discussion first; but Nightfall suspected he could not win Finndmer’s trust fast enough and the sorcerer was a hopeless cause. So what would Dyfrin do next?

Only one answer came. Money. Finndmer had remained in power because the thieves and murderers he serviced could trust him, at least to a point. Outlaw honor ran high when the price for disloyalty usually meant a gruesome death that would provide an example to others who considered using contacts and the net to serve their own causes alone. Still, the sorcerer was as much an outsider as Sudian. Finndmer had made no specific promise to do as the other bid, only listened to his proposition. In this case, allegiance might shift to the highest bidder without concern for reaction from Trillium’s nastiest.

Nightfall left his hiding place with caution, though all his senses assured him the sorcerer had taken leave without doubling back. His consideration continued as he approached the door. Nightfall had his own personal knock that he would not use here. To do so, he believed, would violate the oath-bond as surely as introducing himself as the demon for which the populace had named him. He saw advantage to using a different code, one that suggested a dangerous colleague of Finndmer’s had sent him; but the strategy would surely backfire. Finndmer would likely check on the source and discover the lie. He would naturally conclude Alyndar’s royalty had beaten the pat tern of knocks from Nightfall. Prince Edward and his squire would become the target of an organized mob far larger and more competent than the one in Nemix, and Nightfall would look like a weak-willed traitor.

Nightfall simply chose to tap out the triple beat that most people routinely used. When no answer came after several seconds, he repeated the sequence louder. Finndmer’s voice wafted through the window. "Who is it?” He sounded appropriately annoyed for a man awakened from sleep.

Nightfall glanced about, trying to look nervous. He kept his voice low, just in case he had misjudged the sorcerer’s ability for ruse. "My name is Sudian, sir. I came-"

"Your name is what?" Finndmer bellowed. “Speak up, child. I can’t hear you."

Child? Nightfall let the comment go unchallenged. His discomfort might make him sound younger, and the cut of his squire’s livery seemed more suitable to a boy. "Sudian, sir. I came-"

"Just a moment. I still can’t hear you. I’ll come down." Nightfall listened intently beneath the stomp of Finndmer’s feet on the staircase. Wind ruffled the pliant, spring leaves, the noise higher-pitched and lighter than in the other seasons. He heard nothing that sounded like deliberate movement and felt none of the wary prickling sensation he invariably knew when unseen eyes studied him. Nightfall mentally traced Finndmer’s route, and the door swung open on-time with his speculation. The fence had not delayed long enough to gather devices for detainment or capture; apparently he would give Nightfall a chance to tell his side.

Finndmer stood in the doorway, clutching his lantern and squinting in the sparse light it shed. "Well, come in, young man. What brings you to an old woodcutter’s home in the middle of the night?" He did not wait for Nightfall to answer but backed away to give him space to enter. When he obliged, Finndmer closed the door and headed from the entry hall into a sitting room filled with padded benches. Linen covers tacked to the wood concealed pillows cut to fit the bench tops, and embroidered forest scenes paraded across the fabric. Shelves held bric-a-brac from every comer of the continent, mostly small craftworks like painted thimbles, mugs, and statuettes. Though many bore the shapes of animals, none rivaled the glass swan Nightfall had given to Kelryn, taken from her roommate and now carried always in a box on his person. Finndmer gestured at one of the benches then sat on another, within comfortable speaking distance. He waited.

"Well, sir," Nightfall started, not needing to feign difficulty finding his words. "I’m not sure how to explain this."

Finndmer made a vague, yet benign, gesture to continue. He yawned, hiding it behind a hand, but the message came through clearly to Nightfall. He had not yet given the fence a reason to listen.

Nightfall rose and paced. The position of the benches kept him too far from Finndmer to discover how much the sorcerer had paid, and movement would better mask any thieving he might need to do to find the answer. With only four silver coins and a handful of copper, Nightfall dared not misjudge the sorcerer’s resources. He suspected he would need the captain’s sapphire ring now. Though he hated the thought of sacrificing his last ditch security wealth so soon, gaining Finndmer’s goodwill would mean the difference between freedom and a constant need to dodge and hide, exactly the sort of situation for which he had saved it. Given Prince Edward’s regal presence and open outspokenness, and his own need to wear Alyndar’s colors, Nightfall felt certain violence would become a daily occurrence if he did not settle the matter now.

"There’s a man." Nightfall turned and headed toward Finndmer, gauging reaction by facial features. "He’s followed me and my master, Prince Edward Nargol, since we left Alyndar. He keeps promising people money to hold us for him. Then, when he catches up with us, he tries to kill my master." Nightfall spun again, assessing Finndmer. The woodcutter sat in silent contemplation, his expression revealing nothing. "He started a big fight in a Nemixian bar that got a whole bunch of people killed. We wound up paying restitution and blood price, and the man who instigated it all never even paid the money he promised."

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

"Why are you telling me this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finndmer stared, fascinated.

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

"Done," Finndmer said.

Nightfall tossed the ring.

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

"Anyone can buy land?"

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

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

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

"How much do you own?"

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

Nightfall yawned, head aching from the need for sleep. His mind remained clear, however, alert for a trap. If Finndmer chose to confine Nightfall for the sorcerer, he would need locks as complex as those in Alyndar’s prison. His mind ticked off one other means of landing that he had heard and forgotten. War. One noble who killed another could usurp his holdings. If Nightfall located a particularly oppressive ruler, he might manage to talk Prince Edward into such a course. Two men against an army. Brilliant. For now, he discarded the possibility, glad, at least, that hearing more options had set his own thoughts in motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finndmer grinned.