The Return of Nightfall (10 page)

Nightfall glanced at the two plush couches facing a matching chair he knew belonged to the duke. He debated taking Varsah’s seat only for a moment. The guard would surely not allow it. Though the arrangement of the furniture would grant the duke some power, it seemed preferable to the superiority he would gain by throwing Nightfall out of his chair. When dealing with crooks and killers, position could spell the difference between obedience and attack, but he doubted royalty worried about such mundane things.

Between the sitting areas, a rectangular table held a chessboard, its ivory and alabaster pieces in their starting positions. Nightfall walked around it to take a seat in the center of one of the couches. He had not bothered to disarm himself this time, and the guard had not asked him to do so. Nevertheless, he became abruptly aware of the many throwing daggers he carried: in wrist and boot sheaths as well as secreted in his clothing. Though Edward had offered it, Nightfall did not carry a sword. He had too little experience with close fighting to bother with something as likely to trip him up as save him. He relied on his wits, his stealth, and his long practiced ability with hurling daggers.

That thought brought memories of Dyfrin. The two had spent countless hours flinging things at one another: initially wooden blades, then blunted ones, then lethally sharpened steel with deadly accuracy. Named “dagger catch,” the game had become their greatest threat and their salvation. At first luck, then skill, had kept them both alive. Nightfall had even discovered a trick Dyfrin could never master, one the older man had labeled the “razor rebound.” It involved Nightfall catching, rather than dodging, a hurled dagger and sending it instantly and precisely back upon its wielder. That move had nearly ended the game, until Dyfrin learned to anticipate it and Nightfall to deliberately miss. It had rescued Nightfall’s soul in an inn in Nemix called Grittmon’s, where he had caught a dagger intended for Edward. Unfortunately, he had grabbed it by the blade, opening a gash in his hand. The next dagger had found him in better position, and he had razor rebounded it, saving both of their lives.

Now, Nightfall opened and closed his left hand in remembrance. The scar had become lost in the normal creases of his hand, though colder mornings reminded him of it with a dull ache. He tossed the thought aside, working to hone his wits to the sharpness of a blade. Against Duke Varsah, words would prove the more important weapons.
Words and knowledge, and I’m pitifully low on ammunition there.
That realization brought Nightfall full circle, and he smiled at another favorite saying of Dyfrin’s: “You know, Marak . . .” He knew Nightfall best in his Nemixite sailor role. “. . . I’m sure we’re learning something useful with this game; but doesn’t it seem foolish to practice disarming ourselves in battle?”

The guard cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sure Duke Varsah won’t be much longer.”

Nightfall waved dismissively. “No hurry. I’m shy on sleep and enjoying just sitting here without demands made on me.” Though based on truth, it was a lie and a dodge. The idea of facing off with the shrewd and loathsome duke kept exhaustion at bay. He dreaded the moment the man walked into the room, and the battle of wills and words that would follow; yet he also wished this business already finished. All he really cared about was finding the king alive. If Duke Varsah could help him reach that goal, he had to think of the old man as an ally.

Figures gathered at two of the entryways, whispering amongst themselves. Apparently, word of his arrival had spread swiftly among the guards and servants.

Nightfall leaned back against the plush cushions of the couch, fighting the urge to rest his boots on the chess table. He had learned highborns considered it rude to place one’s feet, even shod, anywhere except the floor and one’s own pallet.

A pair of guards entered through the empty doorway, taking positions at either side of the duke’s chair. Nightfall’s escort stiffened, which cued Nightfall to stand. A moment later, Duke Varsah appeared between two more of his guards. The duke wore blue silks trimmed with lace, which stood out brilliantly against the guards’ black uniforms and their muted, tawny cuffs. Though approaching seventy, he walked with the straight-backed ease of a much younger man and without the aid of a steadying hand or walking stick. His steel-colored hair lay slicked back so tightly with perfumed oils that Nightfall could barely detect a hint of its usual frizzled texture. Dark eyes burned brightly in a creased and jowly face, full of a learned wisdom Nightfall would never understand. His own came fully of experience and street smarts.

One of the guards introduced him, “Duke Varsah of Schiz.”

Nightfall bowed, as custom demanded. He knew from his previous encounter that the duke expected him to speak his own name and title. “Sudian, adviser to King Edward Nargol of Alyndar.” He finished to find Duke Varsah utterly still.

The duke’s eyes grew wide, and his lids seemed to disappear among the wrinkles. “You!”

Nightfall banished a smile, hardly daring to believe how easily he had gained the upper hand. He turned his attention to the duke, awaiting a command or question.

A heavy silence followed. Nightfall searched his mind for some indication he had missed some obvious detail of manners and protocol. He could think of none but did not trust himself to believe that meant none existed.

Duke Varsah thrust a finger toward Nightfall. “You belong in my dungeon! Not only for insubordination, unbefitting language, and threats against royalty, but for jailbreak and kidnapping as well.”

“Kidnapping?” That one caught Nightfall by surprise.

“You . . . you stole a prince from my confinement.”

“Ah.” Now Nightfall understood. Varsah considered it a crime that he had taken Edward with him when he had escaped the duke’s custody. Since that had been Nightfall’s intention from the start, he found it difficult to tweeze the tidbit from the rest of his crimes.

“I could have you executed!”

Nightfall’s heart rate quickened. He could feel it pounding against his ribs.
Could he?
He had considered many possibilities, but not that particular one. He kept his tone composed, a perfect contrast to Varsah’s puffing, and played a hunch. “No, Lord, you couldn’t.”

The duke took a backward step, clearly unused to being contradicted. “What?”

Nightfall used exactly the same low tenor, “No, you couldn’t.”

“I couldn’t?”

If you could, you obnoxious bastard, you’d already have me in your dungeon.
“I’m not a servant any longer. You’d need Alyndar’s consent to execute the king’s adviser.”

Rumbling laughter erupted from Varsah’s throat. He headed toward his chair, though he did not sit. “If that’s what you believe, you make a poor adviser indeed.”

All right. Missed that one.
Nightfall scrambled to save face. “Duke Varsah, King Edward finds me capable enough.” Another lie. He knew Edward had promoted him from a sense of friendship, gratitude, and loyalty, not because of his ability to evaluate royal situations. When it came to affairs of house or court, Edward turned to wiser consultants; and Nightfall would rather sleep through the boring intricacies of the king’s day. He took another tack. “And how would it look to Alyndar to find the king missing, his guards dead, and the only surviving member of his entourage killed by your hand?”

Duke Varsah went silent, gaze distant. He lowered himself into the plush chair without bothering to glance at it.

Nightfall could practically see the windmills and wa terwheels of the duke’s mind spinning as he contemplated that idea and took it in his own personal directions.
Uh-oh. What did I start?

The duke snapped out of his reverie with a wide flourish of his hand. “Go! Go all of you. I’d like to speak with Sudian in private.”

Nightfall considered swiftly, seeking the motivation behind such an odd decision. It had to bode ill for him. “No!”

The guards paused in mid-scramble. Every gaze snapped to Nightfall.

Varsah licked his lips. “No?” he repeated, his cheeks turning scarlet. “No? Now you also presume to command my guards?”

“No,” Nightfall repeated, though he did not specify whether he had answered the question or merely reinforced his own order. “If they leave, I leave, too.” He did not fear for his physical safety. He could outrun and, certainly, outfight a seventy-year-old man. He guessed the duke had more dangerous intentions. Likely, he would claim Nightfall had done or confessed something during their private conversation that would lead to his imprisonment or city-sanctioned murder. “My lord, with all due respect . . .” It had become Nightfall’s favorite phrase. The highborn seemed to consider it polite, while the word “due” left him license to believe the amount minimal. “My liege is missing, plucked from your city; and you seem to care more for old insults than a king’s disappearance.”

The guards gasped in a nearly collective, audible breath.

Duke Varsah tensed to speak, but Nightfall did not give him the chance, continuing swiftly. He deliberately drew the blame onto himself so the duke could take no offense. “I’m afraid I don’t trust myself alone with you, armed and angry. I might do something we both would regret.” He shook his head while the duke considered his own next words. “No, Lord, your guards must stay, or I must leave.”

Anger flashed through Varsah’s dark eyes. Nightfall had cornered him. “Very well, then.” He made a reluctant gesture. “Stay.” He turned his gaze directly onto Nightfall. “But realize we cannot speak of . . . personal matters.”

Yeah, fine. I’ll keep my bed and toileting habits to myself.
“My lord,” Nightfall started, uncertain of the best way to finish. “I understand. All I really wish to know is what has become of my master.”

Duke Varsah blinked, then formed a tight-lipped smile. “You mean, your liege, don’t you? As you reminded me, you’re not a servant anymore.”

Nightfall made a broad, acknowledging nod. When King Rikard had first placed it in the oath-bond that Nightfall refer to Edward only as “master,” he had despised the very idea. Titles confused him. He was not even sure “lord” was right for a duke, though Varsah had not yet corrected him. Clearly, it was no insult.
Ned
. He pictured the young king, his golden hair flying as he stormed off in pursuit of justice for some overworked slave or underappreciated peasant. He looked every bit the part of a prince: jarringly handsome, his silks and armor always pristine, his head tilted in that faraway position that suggested he always had something of great import on his mind. Though guileless in his simplicity, he had had manners bashed into him since infancy, and he did everything with a clear strength of purpose. Though he preached peace, and meant it, he could hold his own in a battle with the best warriors. That last had caught Nightfall wholly by surprise when he had cheated to try to make Edward the winner of a tournament the young man had then proved he could handle by himself.

Nightfall had once believed himself incapable of trusting anyone. He considered bonds of love and friendship a weakness for enemies to manipulate. Nevertheless, he realized Dyfrin’s kindnesses in his youth had left him vulnerable. He cared what happened to Kelryn and to Edward. He knew a devotion to both of them transcending the boundaries of his previous world: Kelryn as his lover and soon-to-be wife and Edward as a friend as close as any brother. He finally allowed the deeper realization of the king’s disappearance to sink in. He might never see King Edward of Alyndar again. The thought brought deep despair, and all the fatigue he had held at bay seemed to assault him at once. “Please, Duke Varsah. I just want to find my . . . my king.” He looked up, too tired for more games. “Your guards said you might know the best way for me to find him.”

The sudden change in Nightfall’s demeanor seemed to unbalance the duke as well. The rage left his eyes, and he stared in silence at his apparently demoralized visitor. “I . . . it’s . . .” He cleared his throat and started again. “Sudian, it’s surely money his captors want, the treasures of a kingdom. My suggestion: you return to Alyndar and await a demand for ransom. Depending on how long and carefully they planned this, it may already have arrived.”

“Thank you,” Nightfall said, meaning it. The duke’s insight went a long way toward helping him understand this situation. “But, my lord, who would do this?”

The guards shifted, and a few whispers showed that, clearly, they thought the question foolish, the answer obvious.

Nightfall did not agree. If the most notorious criminal in the world had never heard of such a thing, it was clearly not the realm of common thugs.

“Another kingdom?” Duke Varsah guessed. “A barony in need of money? It’s hard to say.”

Stunned, Nightfall had to work to question. “But isn’t that an act of . . . war?”

“Not necessarily. If it’s done without casualties and the prisoner is detained in a way appropriate to his status—”

Apparently shocked beyond thought of consequences, the guard at Nightfall’s side interrupted his leader. “But there are casualties! Ten Alyndarian royal guardsmen—”

Varsah jumped in as quickly, a frown deeply scoring his face. “Yes, this one is different. A war could ensue, but we know Alyndar’s council is wise enough to establish the enemy before risking innocents.”

Now Nightfall finally understood the duke’s discomfort, his need to approach in attack mode. Varsah worried fury might drive Alyndar’s army against the place that had harbored the king at the time of the kidnap, and he might pay dearly for the crimes of a group of vicious killers. Nightfall could not help considering the possibility that Varsah had played a role in the slaughter. It might explain why the witnesses chose silence while in the presence of his guardsmen; yet Nightfall dismissed the possibility. Varsah had every reason to want Edward and his entourage safe, at least until after their meeting. The naive, bachelor king with his guilt-riddled conscience seemed perfect fodder for a wily duke with designs on advancing his lineage to a kingdom, especially since Edward traveled with only his most inexperienced adviser. Nightfall wished Varsah had had a hand in the murders and abduction; it would have meant he could wipe the insolent grin from the duke’s face with the full force of Alyndar behind him. Yet, he felt disappointedly certain of the old man’s innocence.