The Return of Nightfall (11 page)

Either because he guessed the natural direction of Nightfall’s thoughts, or simply to accentuate his own, Varsah added, “Alyndar must understand we had no role in these terrible events, nor did we have any foreknowledge of them. If we had, we would have done everything possible to protect King Edward Nargol.”

Though he preferred to let Duke Varsah suffer, Nightfall spoke the words he needed to. “Lord, I know.” Even as he appeased the duke, Nightfall continued to work through the problem. No logical mind could have predicted Edward’s abrupt and emphatic decision to ride to Schiz and personally apologize to a duke who better deserved a punch in his arrogant, jowly face. Edward’s entourage had stopped in several towns along the way, yet news could travel only so fast compared to a mounted party. Killing ten of Alyndar’s most able soldiers and capturing her warrior king required coordinating a vast number of swift and skilled assassins, as well as time to organize and practice the blitz. Nightfall knew enough about crime, both major and petty, to feel certain the kidnappers had to have known the destination of the king and his escort at least a week or two in advance.

Nightfall frowned. The entire trip had only taken a fortnight, which meant the killers’ information could have come from only one source: Castle Alyndar.
A traitor?
Nightfall pursed his lips, suddenly afraid for those loyal to King Edward, but none so much as his betrothed. A rational portion of his mind urged him to stay in Schiz, to explore every possibility while the trail of the missing king remained warm, but his heart overrode all other necessity. He could not leave Kelryn in possible danger.

Clearly unnerved by Nightfall’s long silence, Varsah leaned forward. “When your king is ransomed and restored, I pray he will return to the duchy and enjoy the comforts of my guest room.”

It occurred to Nightfall that Duke Varsah had become more helpful and direct after Nightfall had dared to reveal some weakness. All of his life, he had associated power with strength and control. When he needed information, he bullied it from its sources. When he wanted something, he took it by stealth or force. He had brought it all together into a single black-eyed stare of the demon, known to turn violent men into obedient informants. The legends far exceeded his dangerousness, but those who believed needed no demonstration. Knowing Varsah awaited a more substantial reassurance, Nightfall complied. “I’ll let those in charge know of your regret and, when I can, inform His Majesty of your invitation.”

“Thank you.” Duke Varsah smiled, but his eyes revealed calculation. “I’ll send two parties to Alyndar: one by sea, which is faster, and the other by land to return Alyndar’s horses. You can choose which group to join. My men will help carry belongings and see to it you arrive safely.” He added, as if in afterthought, “And I’ll table the king’s past crimes, and your own, until his return visit.”

Weighted by exhaustion, tired of the game, Nightfall saw how he could end it with a simple nod. He had disposed of Varsah’s notion of execution, of turning a few moments of private conversation into some world-shattering and horrendous lie. They had even chatted calmly, each daring to expose a bit of vulnerability to the other. For now, that should have been enough; and yet, to Nightfall’s mind, it was not. “Lord, I appreciate the escort, and I’m sure Alyndar’s . . .” Forgetting the term the duke had used for the gathering of highborns, he substituted, “. . . gentry will appreciate your efforts.” He left his tone open for a challenge. “I hesitate to contradict . . .”

The wrinkles deepened on Varsah’s hoary face, and all sign of worry and weakness disappeared.

“ . . . but I believe, given the circumstances and location of King Edward’s kidnapping . . .”

The red circles reappeared at the duke’s cheeks, and a vessel pulsed in his temple.

“ . . . that all of our so-called ‘past crimes’ . . .”

The duke’s fists clenched, and the scarlet gained an edge of violet.

“ . . . should be put to rest.” Nightfall added, in case his attempt at flowery language had not been completely clear, “Forgiven. Forever.” Then, as it seemed a long time since he had spoken a title, he added, “Duke Varsah.”

The duke looked about ready to explode. Veins now pounded at both of his temples, and his face had gone positively dark, his eyes narrowed and his brows arched low. He ground his teeth, saying nothing.

Politely, Nightfall waited. The last time the duke had looked like this, Nightfall had wound up imprisoned. Then, Varsah had called him ill-mannered and lowly bred, some of the truest words ever spoken. Now, however, the tables had turned. Whatever Nightfall’s past, he walked in royal circles, trusted by a king. The city of Schiz needed to curry favor with Alyndar. It was one thing for Nightfall to return with the news that the mission which had sent them to Schiz never got completed, quite another for him to report that, despite the king’s kidnapping, Duke Varsah had refused it. Almost by accident, he had cornered the duke and earned himself a strong enemy in the process.

“Without restitution? Without a wedding for my humiliated and violated daughter?”

Nightfall knew he could tell the duke’s men to bring the loaded chest to Varsah, knew that would placate some of the man’s anger. But, at the moment, he savored Varsah’s discomfort. Nightfall had despised the duke when the first condescending words dropped from his lips at their original meeting. He had wanted to best the obnoxious duke of Schiz since the idea of marrying Willafrida to Alyndar’s king had first crossed the old bat’s mind. Dyfrin would advise him otherwise; Edward would revile his tactics. This time, however, Nightfall stayed true to himself, turning the words of those highly ethical examples against Varsah. “A man of principle needs neither blood nor money to do what’s right.”

Varsah’s fists cinched the plush arms of his chair so tightly, he left indentations in the shape of every finger. “Very well,” he spat. “You’re free to go, and my men will join you in the morning for the journey back to Alyndar.” He leaned forward, brown eyes seeking Nightfall’s attention.

Nightfall let him have the full effect of his evil blue-black stare.

“Sudian . . . if I never see you in my court again, it will be sooner than I care to do so.”

It was a clear threat, softened by the fact that the glare did its work.

Duke Varsah looked away first.

Chapter 3

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

A
HALF-DAY’S JOURNEY brought Nightfall and the duke’s men to the Hartrinian port city known as Brigg. Though none of his personae had based themselves here, Nightfall knew it reasonably well from his time as Marak the sailor and as Balshaz the merchant. Those two traveled in very different circles, allowing him to familiarize himself with all parts of the city. As Marak, he had stuck to the northern half, concentrating on the docks and the nearby businesses that sprang up around them: mostly rundown shops, inns, taverns, and bawdy houses. Balshaz had claimed the more civilized southern areas housing the richer folk, a higher class of accommodations, and more expensive goods. The jew elers kept their best wares here: the perfect diamonds, rubies, and sapphires in settings of finely polished metals, while the dock shops sported the cheaper uncut, flawed, or lesser valued stones. He had learned to find bargains near the docks as well, where even the freshest food, the finest wares, could not command as high a price.

Nightfall had gotten to know his Schizian escort mostly indirectly. A host of ten guards answered to a nobleman of uncertain rank whom they addressed as Sir Ragan or, simply, sir. He wore silks of olive green with a ghastly orange trim at hem, collar, and cuffs; and tooled leather shoes swaddled his feet. To Nightfall, he looked like a field of autumn gourds. His hair nearly matched the trim, its color only a bit more natural and cut into a layered style that scarcely managed to thicken it. He bore a nobleman’s proper girth, and he buried a rash of freckles beneath a heavy coating of too-pale cosmetics.

The guards spanned a broad spectrum, from their massive leader with his shock of russet hair to a scrawny blond with the bleached skin and soft hands of a noble’s son, which he probably was. The group kept to themselves, speaking to Nightfall only when absolutely necessary and with the utmost respect. They called him “lord” as often as “sir,” and some bowed when addressing him, dodging eye contact. So far, Nightfall appreciated their distance. Left alone, he had time to sort through the crush of emotions he had earlier kept at bay, to think about how best to address King Edward’s disappearance, and to handle his own situation. As a servant, he had appreciated that same lack of interaction, yet he found a major difference here. The guards did not talk freely around him as they would around a stable boy. Instead, they clung to silence in his presence or to conversations lacking any depth or opinion. If he wanted to know their gripes, thoughts, and intentions, he would have to actively snoop for them.

A handsome bay mule hauled a cart on which the men had placed the remaining effects of Alyndar, including the chest of gold and jewels intended for Duke Varsah. As this left little room for supplies, the men carried their own in worn leather packs slung across their backs. Aside from a single change of clothes, Nightfall’s minimal things fit on his person; he kept the ring he had rescued from the thief in a close and secure inner fold of whatever he was wearing at the time. Ragan had strapped his pack across the withers of the mule.

A lanky guard with a hawklike nose and huge gaps between his teeth dipped his head at Nightfall. “Sir, we’ve a ship waiting for us at the docks. Does it suit you well enough to eat on board?”

Nightfall saw no reason to act disagreeable. Marak had always been his favorite personae, the one in which he knew Dyfrin and Kelryn. Dining on deck seemed as familiar as on land. “Certainly.” He tried to recall where he had seen this man before.

Leaning against the cart, Ragan apparently overheard. “Sudian, have you ever dined on a ship before?”

Nightfall considered briefly. Overseas travel tended to be expensive and dangerous. Pirates ruled the seas; and one could get anywhere, albeit more slowly, overland. The pirates had learned to leave the military ships alone, and most of the regular merchants paid for their safety. Any other ship was an open target. “No,” he lied, as much from curiosity as consistency with his character. He wondered if Ragan’s response would display some empathy he had, thus far, wholly concealed.

But the nobleman simply nodded and turned as if to leave.

Nightfall gave the sneering noble a second chance. “Why do you ask?”

Ragan stepped back around to face Nightfall, but he said nothing. He appeared to be thinking.

Nightfall knew what the other man ought to say. Many became ill just climbing aboard a ship; the rocking motion of an unstable bow caused vertigo, nausea, or both. Eating usually worsened the effect. Even those not prone to seasickness tended to slop food over themselves with every unexpected movement. “Perhaps you were going to warn me about the differences between eating aboard and on land?”

Prompted, Ragan managed a smile, though crooked and unfriendly. “Differences, yes. I just wanted you to know that sailors can get a bit coarse with their language. And the fare will tend toward fish, sea plants, and suchlike.”

“I like those,” Nightfall said, still waiting for Ragan to mention the ill effects of traveling by ocean. Even those who had never set foot upon a deck had heard tales of men green-faced and vomiting over the rails. Nightfall had seen it firsthand many times. Sometimes an experienced sailor, who had weathered many meals in motion, could grow queasy or muddleheaded on a particularly stormy voyage or on a day when he could not quite center his balance. Nightfall had never personally suffered that fate. His natal weight-shifting ability allowed him to adjust his mass to every subtle movement. Instinct and time had trained him to do so in a manner that kept his step light and his faculties fully under his control. “And I’ve heard more than a few rude words in my lifetime.”

“I’m sure you have.” Though muttered darkly, Ragan’s words were still faintly audible to Nightfall. He cleared his throat and spoke more directly. “Then, it shouldn’t be a problem. I just thought you ought to know.” Once again, he turned on his heel; and, this time, Nightfall watched him go.

Nightfall looked at the hawk-nosed guard who had remained quiet throughout the nobles’ conversation. “It doesn’t take the great brain of Harandy to figure out he doesn’t like me.”

The guard nodded briskly, flushing at the address, “No, sir.” As his head descended, Nightfall remembered where he had previously seen the man. When he had dodged and darted through the duke’s defenses seeking Prince Edward, he had flung himself on top of the dungeon cells to avoid a mass of pursuing guards, including this one.

Nightfall smiled. “Drop the ‘sir,’ please. We’re old friends.”

The corners of the guard’s lips twitched despite a clear attempt to hold any expression from his face. “Old . . . friends . . . sir?”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten. You can’t chase some lunatic through the duke’s dungeons every day.”

No longer able to hold his emotions at bay, the guard smiled broadly, fully revealing the checkerboard of gaps and yellowed teeth. “What . . .” He studied Nightfall’s face as he spoke, clearly worried to overstep his boundaries. “What were you thinking?”

Nightfall encouraged the man with a grin of his own. If the noble who led this expedition had decided to hate him, he would need the goodwill of the guards. Too many things could “accidentally” happen to him on a five-day sea voyage. “I’m a promoted lowborn, new to the quirks of nobles. Didn’t realize highborns consider a plush room an adequate prison for one of their own.” He winked at the guard. “It’s a wonder they’re not committing crimes all the time.”