The Return of Nightfall (17 page)

Nightfall assumed an air of aloof confidence as he clambered down the rope ladder toward the tranquil sea below. Though devoid of storm swells and wind-whipped wavelets, its dark depths hid the dangers living below: tides that could suck a man to the core of the world, the sharks, massive-jawed fish, and giant Alyndarian lobsters that would feast on his remains. He deliberately avoided staring at the pirates, trying to look unconcerned. If they did anything dangerous, he felt certain the men aboard
The Sharius
would warn him.

The odor of salt grew thicker as Nightfall descended, and a light breeze threw pinpoints of water into his face. As he came nearly to the level of the ocean, he finally glanced casually toward the longboat. It sat exactly where he had last seen it, the length of two men from his own current position. Hanging on with one hand and both feet, he glanced expectantly at the pirates, who made no move to row nearer.

For several moments, they waited in perfect stalemate, Nightfall clinging to the ladder while the longboat remained too far away to board. A murmur rose from
The Sharius
, but no one shouted anything coherent toward the pirates. Nightfall glanced between the pirates and the water separating him from them, trying to understand their motivation.

The bald pirate showed a gap-toothed smile. He jerked his head to beckon Nightfall to the longboat.

Nightfall looked at the dark ocean directly beneath him. He could swim, and it seemed unlikely a predator could find him in the time it would take to reach and board the small craft; but he had no intention of drenching himself again or of giving the pirates the upper hand. “Come closer.”

The bald pirate laughed, and the wheaten-haired one grinned now, too. “Swim.”

“I don’t swim.” Nightfall kept his point vague. The pirates had no way of knowing whether he meant he could not or chose not to swim. Surely, they would not let him drown.

The pirates conversed briefly. Still grinning, they both called out, “Then, jump, nobleman.” They spat out the last word like a dire insult. “Jump!”

“Jump,” Nightfall muttered.

“Bastards!” someone shouted from above.

Nightfall jerked his head in warning to the guardsmen and crew above.
Let me handle this.
He cleared his throat. “Jump?” he repeated.

The pirates laughed hoarsely. “Yeah, jump. Jump, silversucker.” The bald man used a harsh term for the upper class, derived from their use of rare precious metals for such everyday items as tableware. “Jump!”

Be careful what you ask for . . .
Nightfall grasped a rung of the rope ladder in both hands, freeing his feet to plant them against the hull. Dropping his weight, he pushed off with his legs. The rope swung easily on its cleats, building momentum, rocking him back toward
The Sharius
. Keeping his hold, Nightfall shoved himself from the planking again, adjusting the height and distance of his arc from long practice. Releasing the rope, he drove his weight upward, enhancing a somersault that should have launched him to a perfect landing in the longboat.

Instead, Nightfall careened toward the pirates, balance disrupted by the mass of coins and jewels he had forgotten to take into account. Instead of alighting as delicately as a cat amid the pirates, he plowed into the younger blond with enough force to send him tumbling over the side. Flailing wildly, the pirate crashed into the water with a splash that soaked his companion and Nightfall simultaneously.
So much for staying dry.
Nightfall rescued his balance before his own graceless maneuver carried him over the side as well.

Sputtering, the younger pirate flung water from his hair and swam a single stroke back to the longboat. He tossed an arm over the bow. “You hell-damned, dirty, silversucking, son of a—”

The bald man laughed as hard at his companion’s dilemma as he had at Nightfall’s, though he did catch the other pirate’s hand. “You did tell him to jump, Paskhon.”

“So did you, ya scurvy bastard; but I don’t see you floundering.” The younger pirate’s epithets turned to grumbles as he lurched back into the craft. It swayed dangerously sideways, saved by a sudden movement by Nightfall. He kept his expression innocent, giving no indication he gained the slightest amusement from the antics he had accidentally caused at their command.

Paskhon made a sudden motion that sent Nightfall’s hand instinctively to one of his knives, though he resisted the urge to draw it. He should not need to defend himself. The other pirate would have no choice but to protect their charge from violence.

But no weapon appeared in Paskhon’s hand. Instead, he howled a wordless noise of rage, his face captured by a blood wrath that turned it nearly scarlet. “You ugly, spoiled little
bastard
!” He glanced over the side at the unforgiving ocean. “You lost me my best sword! I ought to fling you to the bottom of the sea to fetch it!” He lunged toward Nightfall, only to leap nearly into the bald man’s arms. “Arturo, get out of my way! Don’t make me have to kill both of you!”

“Control your temper, Paskhon.” Arturo spoke softly but with impressive force. He jerked his head toward
The Sharius.

Paskhon finally deigned to look over his shoulder. The armored guards aboard the ship looked down on them with leveled bows.

Nightfall had never seen any of them use a bow. He had not even known they traveled with quivers in their packs, and he hoped none of them would have to shoot. He doubted he would survive the barrage, either.

Paskhon grunted and sat in his proper seat, a scowl pasted on his broad lips and his arms folded across his chest. Nightfall remained still as Arturo returned to his seat, opening the way for Paskhon to attack again. Instead, the angry blond snatched up his share of the oars, and the two pirates rowed back toward their ship. He dodged Nightfall’s gaze until they had paddled beyond the range of
The Sharius.
“You owe me a sword,” he finally grumbled.

Nightfall kept his cool. It would not do to allow himself to share the pirate’s anger, nor to antagonize him; but he did need to show strength to gain the advantage. “And you owe me my dignity. I’d consider us even.”

It was a subtle self-insult, but Paskhon clearly failed to see the humor. “You’re just lucky the crew needs you alive.”

“Paskhon,” Arturo warned.

The younger man turned on his companion. “Don’t ‘Paskhon’ at me, Artu. You didn’t get kicked ass over scuppers! Your cutlass isn’t rusting in the ocean.”

Nightfall turned his attention to the approaching pirate ship, allowing the bald man to handle his seething companion. A ragtag lot of men studied them over the rail and gunwales, dressed in everything from silks to shreds depending on their picks from the spoils, and covered with rings, necklaces, and earrings. Most wore beards, though none were long enough to trip them up or offer a handhold in battle. Rags ringed most of their brows, and many bore battle scars on their faces and hands, including a few with a patch or empty socket and one missing his right arm at the elbow. A hatchwork of riggings ran up the side of the ship.

Arturo continued to chide his crewmate. “He’s worth more than a rusty old cutlass, I’d warrant. Killing him won’t bring it back, nor dry you any. It’ll just keep you from getting a share to buy yourself a new blade. And if you deny the others their shares . . .” He did not have to go on. Nightfall, and certainly Paskhon, knew what would happen if his irritation and impatience cost them a treasure.

Paskhon did not reply, but he did work well in tandem with Arturo to bring the smaller boat against the side of the ship. This time, they pulled up expertly to the ropes. Clearly, these two had practiced the maneuver many times and could have easily saved Nightfall the jump and them all a soaking. Lines weighted with hooks flew toward them, hurled from above. Nightfall threw up an arm to protect his head as the pirates reached to catch them as they fell. Paskhon snatched one from the air, but Arturo missed; and the hunk of iron flailed around in reckless ovals until the bald man finally seized it. Each pirate snapped a hook around an iron ring on his seat, holding the longboat in place and allowing a means to pull it back up onto the deck when the time came.

“You first.” Arturo gestured for Nightfall to climb.

Though worried about a jab in the back, Nightfall obeyed, scurrying up the rope rungs. Before he reached the top, a sea of arms descended toward him. He dodged the first few, but they came at him in numbers he could not avoid forever. He had to assume they intended to help him aboard, so he forced himself still and allowed the greasy fingers to close around his wrists, fingers, and forearms. They hauled him upward and deposited him on the deck.

Nightfall managed to keep his feet on the gently rolling planks, though he dared not rely on his talent. With so many men touching him, one might detect the change. Even a grubby pirate could be a sorcerer, and sorcerers trained themselves to notice the subtlest of oddities. His own instincts bent toward thievery, and he could not help admiring the brilliant rubies, emeralds, and diamonds strung from metal chains or embedded into rings. He could swipe a few with ease and live in luxury for months, even were he not bound for his quarters in a castle with a chest load of precious metal and jewels already in his possession.

The pirates surrounded Nightfall, turning their backs to the two men who had brought him, forcing Arturo and Paskhon to drag their own weary, sodden selves up the ropes and over the railing without assistance. Nightfall counted at least thirty pirates, nearly all grim-faced and leather-skinned, men scarred inside and out. He already knew fighting men outnumbered seasoned sailors: the planks needed caulking, the canvas was in need of cleaning, and the decks had gone slimy with the blood of what he hoped were fish. The pirates formed a human wall, all but two taller than him. Most, however, seemed leaner, especially with his pockets stuffed with treasure. They muttered to each other in a colorful dialect filled with swear words and gutturals, akin to the clipped and rapid slang spoken on the Xaxonese streets. Nightfall pretended not to understand.

A few of the pirates stepped aside to allow a single man through. The newcomer was strikingly handsome, thick with muscles despite a flat stomach and a lack of fat pads around his cheeks. A rag tied back a cascade of soft ebony hair, highlighting rugged features with a strong chin and straight nose. Eyes like clear sky held a light that hinted of a quick and deadly temper. Clothed like a noble, he wore cream-colored silks bound with an intensely blue sash; and fine boots enclosed his feet and legs, nearly to the knee. Brilliant copper buckles held them firmly in place. Like the others, he wore several rings; but his did not clash. Every deep blue gem sat in a solid gold setting. His necklace and earrings also held sapphires. Without introduction, Nightfall knew he had met the captain.

“Sit!” the captain said.

Nightfall glanced around for a box or other object on which to set his hind end. Finding nothing within the circle of pirates, he lowered himself to a low crouch on the deck.

The captain watched his every movement. “Introduce yourself, silversucker.”

Nightfall met the stormy eyes with unabashed courage. “Sudian,” he said. “Sudian
Silversucker,
adviser to King Edward of Alyndar.” Since he had no given surname or father to credit with his birth, the insult seemed as good as any name.

The pirates sniggered. Even the captain smiled, revealing a row of straight, brilliantly white teeth. “Ah. A noble with a sense of humor.”

Nightfall relished the irony. These killers found pleasure in a wit Edward and his ilk usually dismissed as sarcastic insolence.

The captain continued to do all the talking for the pirates. “Are you not also Alyndar’s lord chancellor?”

Nightfall doubted a truthful, “I’m not exactly sure,” would satisfy them. “I’ve never called myself that, but I believe it’s my title.”

Murmurs rose among the pirates, silenced by the captain’s upraised hand. He had large, callused palms with deeply set lines. “Well, Lord Chancellor of Alyndar, why don’t you tell us why we shouldn’t simply kill you?”

It was a dangerous question, and Nightfall considered his answer as long as he dared. Most men would embellish their worth in response to such a query, pleading for their lives by overemphasizing their significance to their kingdoms, their families, and the world. Having done so, they would find it impossible to backpedal when it came time to put gold behind their words and barter for their lives. The truth would not serve him here. With Edward gone, Nightfall was worth nothing to anyone except Kelryn, and few would assign much value to the love of a bawdy house dancer. “Under ordinary circumstances, I’m not sure the other nobles of Alyndar would miss me at all.”

The murmurs grew louder. Nightfall could read some increasing tension in the demeanors around him. The pirates were hungry for money and blood, and he did not want to stoke their fire for either. “But,” he added loudly over them, and the volume of their discussions decreased. “But with the king taken and me the only survivor of his kidnap, they won’t take kindly to anyone preventing them from questioning me.” He reminded warningly, “Alyndar does have a substantial navy.” He hoped that answer would satisfy the pirates enough to keep him alive without costing him every coin and trinket aboard
The Sharius
.

A spark of emotion flashed through the captain’s eyes. Though unsure, Nightfall thought he read the same admiration one con man has for another who bests him. Nothing of that nature, however, leaked into the captain’s tone. “So, Chancellor, how much money is your life worth?”

The pirates cheered, the sound thunderous enough to carry to the men aboard
The Sharius
. They broke into an awkward chant that gained in timbre and volume. “What you worth? What you worth? What you worth?” The circle tightened, nooselike. They stomped their feet in rhythm with their mantra, the sound echoing and re-echoing against planking.