The Return of Nightfall (23 page)

Volkmier stepped back, hands spread in innocent apology. “For the moment, Sire, you are the king. Provisional king, if you prefer; but, for all intents and purposes, you currently rule Alyndar.”

Nightfall sucked in a deep breath. It did no good to take out his frustrations on Volkmier. He wanted the loyal and competent commander on his side, if at all possible. “What did I do wrong?”

The question did not follow the course of the conversation. “Excuse me, Sire?”

“The last judgment. The one with the tariffs, with Hartrin.” Nightfall placed a foot on the garderobe seat and balanced a hand on his knee. “It seemed so straightforward, yet Khanwar sounded ready to gut me over the end result.”

Volkmier gave the standard response. “Sire, I would not presume to judge the presiding ruler—”

Nightfall could not stand it. “Don’t play games with me, Volkmier! And don’t throw me tired servant lines. I saw you defy King Rikard, and I know you don’t hold me in higher esteem than you did him.”

Caught, Volkmier turned Nightfall a crooked smile. “All right, Sire. As I understand it from listening to King Rikard and Prince Leyne . . .” He made a religious gesture to honor the dead. “. . . King Idinbal is both shrewd and frugal. He likes to get the best of every deal, at least monetarily.”

Nightfall nodded. He knew that from his merchanting days.

“Hartrin has better ships, and they trade in textiles, spices, and perfumes. Most of their goods come to us in the spring and summer, when the Klaimer Ocean is free of ice.”

Nightfall nodded again, this time to encourage the guard to continue.

“Alyndar sells Hartrin furs and lobsters, cold weather goods. Overland.”

Understanding clicked into place. “With winter coming, raising tariffs hurts Alyndar more than Hartrin.”

“Correct, Sire.” Volkmier seemed pleased Nightfall had caught on so quickly. “And you’ll recall the Hartrinian emissary spoke of ending the increased tariffs in half a year.”

“When Hartrin’s trade becomes more profitable.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah.” Now Nightfall knew what to expect from Khanwar’s scolding, though he had no way to counter it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sire.” Volkmier bowed. “You know, Sire, it is my job to protect you . . .”

The words made Nightfall cringe, reminding him of his own botched security that had resulted in Edward’s capture. “. . . even from tongue lashings.”

Volkmier shrugged, the grin on his face turning evil. “And, if you like, Sire, I won’t tell them where I found you.”

Nightfall appreciated that. Aside from the oddity of choosing a narrow ledge for a resting place, he suspected they would not like the thought he could have spied on them performing a bodily function most people preferred to do in private. “Let’s just say I was outside enjoying the rain.”

“Indeed, Sire.”

The two men walked together toward the staging room, joined by a growing entourage of palace guards and proper escorts. Once inside the room, the guards separated to take their places in the Great Hall, while the advisers, Charson, Khanwar, and Vivarick, remained behind. Having arrived before them, Kelryn also waited.

Volkmier departed last, explaining as he left, “You know, Sire, if you must take a break during the proceedings, you should simply tell Lord Khanwar. You shouldn’t suppress a physical need until it impairs your judgment.”

The senior adviser gave Volkmier’s back a dark look. Clearly, Khanwar worried Nightfall would use that information to his advantage, calling for a rest between every case to hide from his duties.

Nightfall had no intention of doing any such thing, as it would drag court out to an even more interminable length. Only the realization that it would vex Khanwar even made him consider it. “Thank you, Captain.” He added pointedly, “I wish someone had let me know earlier.”

Volkmier waved over his shoulder, then disappeared through the curtain.

Khanwar rounded on Nightfall again. “So, Sire, would you like me to tell you what you did?”

Armed with knowledge, Nightfall confronted his steward in a placid manner pitched to irritate. “Oh, I know what I did, Lord Khanwar.”

Khanwar crooked a brow and folded his arms across his chest.

Nightfall had rehearsed the words during his walk to the staging room, believing he had them exactly right, “I pleased King Idinbal by granting him temporary economic advantage over Alyndar, thereby resolving any rancor King Edward’s last political interaction with them might have raised.”

Khanwar’s jaw sagged.

“It really doesn’t matter whether His Majesty of Hartrin believes I tendered him the victory out of courtesy or ignorance. He will feel better for having won, and his outlook toward Alyndar will improve.”

“Y-yes, Sire.” Khanwar had no choice but to execute a respectful bow. He scurried to attend his duties.

Kelryn hugged Nightfall. “Very nice,” she whispered directly into his ear. “How?”

She did not need to finish the question; Nightfall understood. He made a slight gesture to indicate he would explain the details to her later.

“Are you ready?” Vivarick asked.

“Almost.” Nightfall disengaged himself from Kelryn. “Now I’m ready.” But he was not and felt certain he never would be. He whispered his doubts to Kelryn as they walked through the curtained entry, keeping his voice almost inaudible as he remembered the court would go dead silent the moment he entered the room. “How can I pass sentence on people for crimes I’ve committed, unpunished, myself?”

The moment the question left his lips, Nightfall wished he had never asked it. Doing so placed Kelryn in the awkward position of having to justify the evil he had done. She might feel obligated to explain that he had never killed for pleasure or at random, that he had stolen mostly from necessity. But, in truth, his motives spanned a gamut. Even had he committed every crime for altruistic reasons, and he could not honestly say he had, to justify them made him a hypocrite of the worst kind. He despised men who ridiculed fallen women while breaking the vows of their own marriages or those who lambasted drunkards on their way to the tavern. Somehow, people found twisted ways to justify in themselves the weaknesses they most reviled in others.

Kelryn surprised Nightfall with a simple answer. “You’ll do what you have to do. For Ned.”

For Ned.
A phrase that once meant less than nothing had come to encompass his world.
For Ned.
The words inspired fresh prickles of guilt. He could do so much more for the young monarch were he not trapped in Alyndar performing his duties.

This time, Nightfall did not hesitate before taking his place on the high seat of Alyndar’s court. Less full, the courtroom itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as every constituent took his seat on the spectator benches.

Charson remained standing directly at Nightfall’s right hand. Again in front of the dais, Khanwar made a gesture toward the far side of the room. This time, he did not announce the participants in the case. Commoners did not warrant that formality.

Charson explained the upcoming situation in low tones, his gaze on the shackled man staggering down the carpetway, sandwiched between two guards. “Sire, this is Griflin Fodor’s son, accused of the crime of murder. It’s a straightforward case. He doesn’t deny the charge. King Edward would place him in the dungeon lifelong, but you have the option of execution if you prefer, Sire.”

Nightfall looked helplessly at Kelryn, who shrugged.

“They bring the worst crimes first,” she explained, “working down to the trivial.”

Misreading Nightfall’s discomfort, Charson added in less formal tones, “Don’t worry, Sire. This is the only murderer you’ll see today.”

The guards brought Griflin to the base of the dais. He sank to his knees, head low, hands weighted by chains. Another man headed down the aisle, also accompanied by guards, though unfettered. As he drew near, Griflin watched his advance with clear hatred twisted across his features.

The second man also knelt and bowed his head, revealing a mop of hair the color and texture of straw.

“Tell them to rise,” Kelryn instructed.

“Rise,” Nightfall repeated. Then, as it sounded inadequate, he tacked on, “please.”

Both men stood, Griflin with more effort.

As soon as he did so, the second man spat out, “That . . .
animal
. . . killed my father.”

Nightfall turned his attention back to Griflin, who stood between the guards in stony silence. If he felt any remorse, he did not show it.

Charson prodded now, talking from the side of his mouth. “I believe he will confess, Sire, if you ask him.”

Nightfall doubted it. To do so might prove sure suicide. “Is what this man says true?”

“No, Sire.” Griflin finally raised his head. “I’m not an animal.” His dark eyes blazed. “But I did kill the old man.”

“Sentence him,” Charson whispered. “If you’re not sure, you can always imprison him until the king’s return.”

Nightfall ran a hand through his hair. He had to ask, “Why?”

Griflin swallowed. “Sire, his brother killed my father.”

Nightfall waited for more, but it did not come. His brows rose in slow increments. “
His
brother . . .” He pointed at Griflin’s accuser. “. . . killed
your
father?”

“Yes, Sire.”

The straw-haired man broke in, “The reason doesn’t matter! He slaughtered my . . . !”

The guard to his right shook his arm in warning, and the man broke off in mid shout.

Nightfall still did not wholly understand. “So why didn’t you kill his
brother
?”

Even Griflin seemed taken aback by the question. “I . . . I couldn’t, Sire. He’s in your dungeon.”

“So you killed his father instead?”

“He killed
my
father.”

Even with a guard gripping his forearm, the other man could not hold his tongue any longer. “Because his father killed my uncle.”

Nightfall muttered at Charson, “What in bloody hell is going on here?”

“A feud, Sire,” the adviser whispered. “Two families killing one another’s men in revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

“Does it matter, Sire, what the original slight was? They may not even remember.”

Nightfall studied the two men in front of him. Their hatred for one another felt tangible, hot, beyond reason. “You know I can order your execution.”

Griflin did not even flinch at the pronouncement. “Better that, Sire, than to die at the hands of his slimy, pigshit-eating family.”

“Hey!” A guard nudged the prisoner with a booted foot.

His accuser bared his teeth. “You deserve nothing better. Your family—”

The guard gave his arm a heavier shake. “You’re in the presence of royalty.”

That snapped the man free of hate-inspired rudeness. “Apologies, Majesty.” He bent into a deep bow. “Please forgive my disrespect.”

Nightfall rolled his eyes, ready to rule. “Imprison the murderer. In the cell beside his father’s killer.”

Now, Volkmier jerked his head toward the dais, shaking it in obvious counsel.

Nightfall ignored the chief of the prison guards. “Their sentences will be . . .” He sought a word to explain his arrangement, not knowing whether he had invented it or if such a system already existed. “. . . circumstantial.”

Charson shifted from foot to foot. “What are you doing, Sire?” Though polite and very soft, the words held an undertone of warning.

“If any relation of Griflin’s kills any relation of . . .” He waved at the other man, who supplied his name.

“Lanier, Sire.”

“. . . Lanier, then Griflin’s sentence will be converted to execution.” Nightfall added to strengthen his point. “Painful execution.”

Lanier smiled. “Thank you, Sire.”

Nightfall met his gaze. “Oh, don’t thank me.”

Lanier paled, withered.

“What’s your brother’s name? The one in the dungeon.”

“Forly, Sire.”

“If any relative of Lanier’s kills any relative of Griflin, then Forly will be executed. By torture.”

Charson’s brow beetled in clear puzzlement, but Kelryn nodded. The strategy was not lost on her or, Nightfall believed, on Lanier and his kin. If one of them chose revenge, he would have to live with the realization he had killed Forly as well. And if one of Griflin’s relatives continued the feud, he would have to take direct responsibility for costing Griflin his life.

Nightfall finished, “We will reevaluate this case in five years, with the possibility of a pardon if no further murders have occurred within these two families.”

Silence followed Nightfall’s sentencing. When it became clear he had finished, a murmur rose, then a hum, as the nobles discussed the judgment, its complexity, and its meaning. The case had seemed simple. Surely, they had only wondered if the acting ruler would have the courage to inflict a capital punishment in the absence of a king who never would. Now, they had to figure out exactly what he had accomplished and why.

As the guards led Griflin and Lanier away, even Khanwar had to huddle with Nightfall. “Sire, are you certain that was wise?” His inflection implied he already knew the answer, and it did not fall in Nightfall’s favor.

Nightfall had no idea whether his plan would work, but a straightforward sentencing would only have resulted in more murders. He supposed the nobility would just as soon see these two common families totally annihilate one another. “I’m not certain of anything, except I’d rather not preside over a murder every day. If this gets them to think before attempting revenge, then I’ve accomplished something.”

“And if not?” Khanwar had to ask.

“If not?” Nightfall shrugged. “Then we are no worse off than if I’d sentenced him to death in the first place, which I understand was perfectly within my rights.”