The Return of Nightfall (21 page)

As Charson and Vivarick scurried to Khanwar’s aid, Nightfall released his victim and schooled his expression back to calmness.

Khanwar sprang backward, gasping in a sharp breath and readjusting his clothing. “You . . .” he sputtered. “He . . .”

Nightfall turned his back on the fuming noble, though he measured every movement by sound. He knew he should apologize, that a man of high upbringing would do so, no matter how justified he felt; but he could not bring himself to speak. If he so much as looked at Khanwar, he might do the man serious bodily harm.

Clearly trying to defuse the situation, Charson guided Nightfall toward the exit. “Time for you, too, Sire. Do you feel ready?”

To play king? Never.
Nightfall doubted, if he sat upon Alyndar’s throne for a hundred years, he would ever feel like more than a poor substitute for Edward. Accustomed to lying, he said easily, “Ready.”

Accompanied by all three members of his escort, one looking mightily ruffled, Nightfall stepped through the curtain and onto the dais.

The conversations cut off as if choked, most in mid sentence or even mid word. Nightfall looked down over a courtroom packed with standing nobles. Usually, only the front two benches were occupied. Now, all seven rows held at least a few onlookers on both sides of the aisle. Many had come to see how a mysterious commoner turned acting-king would handle the requests of regal nobility forced to kowtow to the title such a man should never hold, to see how he judged Alyndar’s peasants, or to find entertainment in his many mistakes. Nightfall’s gaze went to the high peaked windows hovering above the outer aisles, the stretches between them thick with paintings and tapestries of myriad colors. A massive shield hung over the great doors, through which those who came before him would enter, striding or being dragged down the long, carpeted hallway. Nightfall had once taken the walk down that carpet to stand before King Rikard, accused of murdering his eldest son.

Guards lined the outer walls and pathway, Alyndar’s colors sharp over the bulges of their mail. Three stood at the edges of the dais, including Captain Volkmier, the only one wearing the more subdued gray and lavender of the prison guards. The compact redhead looked as intent and serious as any of the standard guards, and Nightfall swallowed a lump that appeared suddenly in his throat.
Bring our king safely home,
Volkmier had warned him, the words gentle but the tone heavy with threat. Nightfall dreaded his next private run-in with the chief of the prison guards.

Charson gave Nightfall a gentle nudge. “Sire, no one can sit until you do.”

Really?
The conventions of the royals seemed nonsensical to him. He glanced over at Kelryn, smiling at him from in front of the chancellor’s seat, then drifted toward the only other chair on the dais, the high-backed plush throne. Just the idea of placing his lowly rear end into the king’s place alarmed him. A man could get executed for such an audacious act.

Kelryn lowered her head slowly, as if controlling his motion with her own. Trusting her cue, he sat on the very edge of the chair, his back unsupported and his feet still in contact with the floor.

As soon as Nightfall did so, the nobles followed suit, benches creaking and groaning beneath the sudden massive shift of weight. Kelryn also took her seat. Her attendants had not followed them through the curtain. Charson stepped to the far right front edge of the dais, Vivarick to the left, beyond Kelryn. Seemingly in full control of his composure once more, Khanwar strode from the dais to the floor, standing in front of the waiting nobles. “Alyndar’s court will now come to order!”

Even the sounds of the benches desisted.

“In the absence of King Edward Nargol, our Lord Chancellor-on-high, Sudian . . .” Khanwar pronounced the name with an unmistakable hint of distaste.

Kelryn glanced at Nightfall in question, and he shrugged in response. He knew exactly why Khanwar disliked him.

“ . . . will preside over the process.” Khanwar made a grand gesture. “Admit the first case, please.”

As if controlled by Khanwar and his words, the great doors opened to admit two well-dressed men escorted by members of Alyndar’s guard. One strode down the purple carpetway, glancing neither right nor left, while the other paused to greet some of the nobles on the benches. Nightfall watched both of them, learning much simply by the way they moved toward him. Both carried extra years and weight. He guessed they were in their late forties or early fifties, and neither wanted for meals. The cut and material of their clothing, the extra buttons and trim, made it clear they came from the upper classes. The first wore a look of somber determination; he would allow nothing to interfere with his mission, whatever it might prove to be. The second seemed less comfortable in court, his friendliness an attempt to hide nervousness.

Khanwar announced, “Sir Broward Arnsbok.”

The man in the lead stopped at the foot of the dais, where the carpet ended, and bowed deeply to Nightfall, removing a poofy velvet hat as he did so. The gesture revealed a prominent bald spot and wisps of graying sandy hair.

Though the second man had not yet made his way to the foot of the dais, Khanwar also announced him, “And Sir Reginald Pinkard.”

Reginald increased his pace, making several dipping bows as he walked.

“Land dispute.”

Land dispute.
Nightfall wondered what exactly that meant. Only nobility had the right to own property, and he knew from experience that it was expensive. Beyond that, he understood nothing.

Kelryn whispered, “Say something.”

Broward bounced on his heels restively, his face scarlet with need.

Nightfall glanced at his chosen adviser.

“Say something,” she repeated. “Before he explodes.”

Nightfall cleared his throat. “Do you . . . ?” he started, uncertain where to go from there. “Do you need to . . . relieve yourself, sir?”

The stands burst into laughter. Kelryn winced.

“Relieve myself?” Broward seemed as put off by the laughter. He glanced around the nobility, cheeks returning to their normal color, then flushing again as he caught the meaning of Nightfall’s words. “No, Sire. I just wish to state my case.”

Nightfall realized his mistake. Apparently, Broward’s discomfort came from a less primal unsatisfied need. Just as the spectators could not sit before Nightfall did, he had waited to speak his long-rehearsed piece until the man on the throne spoke first.

Sir Broward cleared his throat as he drew a piece of parchment from his pocket and began to read: “The Northwest Quarter of the Southwest Quarter of Section Twenty-three in the area Seventy-six North, Range Four West of the Fifth Principal Meridian excepting therefrom . . .”

The words flowed around Nightfall.

“ . . . a parcel of land situated at the Southwest Quarter of Section Twenty-three in the area . . .”

Nightfall heard little more. He wondered where Edward was right now, whether he was in pain or imprisoned, and why he, himself, had bothered to return to Alyndar at all. He had worried about a traitor; but, since the moment Kelryn had forced him to realize he stood next in line for the throne, he found the possibility more difficult to accept. Surely no one would rather see Nightfall rule Alyndar than Edward.
Unless they plan to eliminate me, too.
It seemed foolish for anyone to make such a grand and bold overthrow attempt so soon after Gilleran’s had failed, while the castle and its security remained at the height of alertness.
Or, perhaps, it’s the best time, given the chaos inherent in reshuffling priorities and command, the uncertainty about Edward’s ability to lead a country.
Nightfall needed to find out who would inherit rulership of Alyndar in the event of his own disappearance, but he doubted the guilty party would prove so obvious or simple to find. It seemed just as likely that whoever had alerted the kidnappers to the king’s destination might have done so for the same basic reason as Danyal: monetary reward, or the promise of it. One thing seemed certain:
sellout or betrayer, Kelryn was never in danger.

Nightfall had also believed Duke Varsah, or wanted to, that a ransom letter might already have arrived in Alyndar. He understood too little of the way royalty worked to follow his own instincts in such a matter. Yet, now, he realized he had made a mistake that might cost Edward his life. Nightfall should have remained in Schiz, should have followed every lead he could uncover. Now, the trail had grown cold, and it seemed as if he had trapped himself into waiting and wondering, into the same helplessness as the rest of Edward’s men.
I should have pressed. I should have done something. I never should have come home.
Nightfall wriggled on the chair.
Edward’s ass should warm this padding, not mine.

Kelryn hissed, “At least pretend to pay attention.”

Nightfall straightened with a start.

“ . . . commencing at the Northwest corner of the Southwest Quarter of said Section Twenty-three thence North 90 00” East (assumed bearing) 1159.02 King Leordin feet along the North line of the Southwest Quarter of said . . .”

“I would, if he’d use one of the known languages,” Nightfall whispered back. “I don’t understand a word he’s saying.”

Kelryn kept her words as low as possible. “He’s describing the outlines of a piece of land, I think.”

Nightfall glanced to the right and caught Charson’s eye. He gestured subtly with his head, and the steward came casually toward him.

Nightfall waited until Charson reached whispering distance before asking,“What, exactly, is this dispute about?”

Charson kept his voice as soft as Kelryn’s and Nightfall’s as Broward continued his description. “It’s complicated—”

“Make it simple.”

“. . . East 180.45 feet along the North line of said Southwest Quarter and centerline of the Road to the intersection of the centerlines of two Roads: thence South 22 25’58” West 282.16 . . .”

Charson lowered his head in thought, then licked the tip of one finger. Finally, he said, “The man in front says the man in back built a sheep fence on his property. The other man says it’s on his own property.”

Nightfall bobbed his head. At least now he had an idea of what was happening, even if he knew he would never manage to figure out the answers from the description of the parcel. “How much land are we talking about?”

Charson raised a hand, spreading his thumb and forefinger to about the width of a thin loaf of bread.

Nightfall blinked. “Really?”

Charson dropped his hand. “That wide, sir. Quite long.”

The length seemed insignificant. A ribbon of nothing still added up to nothing. “They’re fighting over this much land?” He spread his own fingers the appropriate distance.

“Yes, Sire.”

Nightfall looked at Kelryn to see if she found the situation as ridiculous as he did. She chewed her lower lip, displaying no emotion.

“Why?”

“It’s land, Sire. It’s important to them.”

Kelryn released her lip, her expression now one of stern warning. “Sudian, remember this is still Edward’s kingdom. You mustn’t make rash decisions.”

Sir Broward continued, undaunted by the hushed conversation, “. . . along the arc of a ten-degree curve to the left side 123.16 feet, the chord of which bears South 16 16’30” West 122.92 feet through a central angle of . . .”

Nightfall guessed, “So I should rule in favor of the one more important to Alyndar?”

“Ned wouldn’t do that,” Kelryn reminded.

Nightfall groaned. If he had to rule the way King Edward would in any given situation, he would have to overcome too many years of experience and accumulated wisdom. “You mean I have to rule in the most guileless—”

“Sudian!” This time, Kelryn spoke loud enough to interrupt the man at the foot of the dais.

Broward looked up at Nightfall, who waved at him to continue. So long as the noble droned onward, he did not have to make any ruling at all.

“Don’t say it,” Kelryn warned more softly.

Nightfall understood. It was treason to speak against the king under normal circumstances. With Edward’s fate unclear, it was also unseemly. Not that he meant anything insulting by the comment. Everyone knew the current king of Alyndar was a naive young man with aspirations that seemed impossible to fulfill.
Wrong, Demon,
Nightfall corrected himself.
The current king of Alyndar is . . . you.
“So I should rule for the one who needs the land the most?”

Charson shuffled his feet. “Why not rule for the one who’s right?”

You mean it’s possible to tell?
Nightfall shifted his attention to the other man. “And that is?”

“I don’t know,” Charson admitted. “But the royal surveyor can go out there and work with the written description.”

Broward finally stopped talking, leaving the three in quiet discussion while the nobles shifted on the benches below them.

“Is that really necessary?” Kelryn asked.

“No.” Charson glanced out at the silent hall, then turned his back on it. “And it’s costly, too. But neither will believe he got a fair ruling unless it’s done.”

Nightfall let the two talk, as they seemed to be accomplishing more than he could.

“A contingency ruling?” Kelryn suggested, and Nightfall hoped she would define what she meant.

Charson stroked his chin. “Yes. The loser pays the surveyor’s expenses; and for dismantling and rebuilding the fence, if necessary.”

They both looked at Nightfall, who tried to return both stares simultaneously. “What?”

Charson smiled. “Well, Sire. You’re the one who has to deliver the verdict.”

“Of course.” Nightfall cleared his throat, glad for his two advisers and hoping he had it right. Hesitantly, and with prompting, he managed to deliver the agreed-upon decision.

 

A parade of nobles followed the first, their concerns mostly childish or incomprehensible to Nightfall. When he thought “yes,” the best answer was nearly always “no.” When he thought “wrong,” Kelryn steered him to