The Return of Nightfall (24 page)

“Yes, but—”

Charson interrupted with a concern of his own. “Volkmier won’t like the ‘painful execution’ part. The torture . . .”

Nightfall wondered if any of these men had ever so much as heard of a scam. “It doesn’t matter whether the execution is painful or not. So long as the families believe it will be.”

“But, Sire—” Khanwar started again.

Nightfall looked down the carpetway to the great doors, where the guards were leading another chained man down the aisle. “Khanwar, don’t you have a duty to attend?”

Khanwar glanced over his shoulder, then scurried to the foot of the dais. He gestured the party forward, though it was unnecessary. The group had not waited for this formality.

Charson recovered his own composure. “This is Clion, Sire. Caught stealing from an Ivralian ship at the harbor.”

Nightfall studied the man as he paced down the aisle, managing a swagger despite the fetters and chains. He had hair the color of winter weeds, an olive complexion, and green eyes that darted over the assembled nobles. His face seemed inappropriately wide for his medium build and smallish ears. He stopped in front of the dais and dropped to one knee with a brisk and businesslike flourish.

Nightfall stared.

Kelryn reminded in a whisper, “Rise.”

“Rise,” Nightfall said.

The thief did so, leaping to his feet with reasonable grace.

One of the guards explained. “Sire, this man was caught rifling crates at Alyndar port.”

“I do not deny the thievery, Majesty.” Clion executed an elegant bow, though his previous gesture of respect seemed more than enough for the circumstances. The chains clattered as he moved. “But you may wish to reconsider punishing me when you hear what I have to say.”

Nightfall studied the thief. He knew a swindler when he heard and saw one, and Clion’s voice had become perfectly pitched to draw men into a great confidence. He knew Clion would let the pause grow until Nightfall ended it, hoping the suspense would draw out his audience’s curiosity to unbearable lengths, that they might feel honored he would share such a valuable secret. Reserving judgment until he figured out the man’s game, Nightfall encouraged with a simple, “I’m listening.”

“Sire.” Clion glanced around him, as if afraid someone might overhear, though the entire court already had, along with his guards and those closest to Nightfall. Vivarick had kept his presence relatively unnoticed compared to the announcing Khanwar and the ever present Charson, but he now glided to Nightfall’s side to hear and, ostensibly, assist. “I am . . . the notorious . . . villain, Nightfall.”

A rumble of conversation followed the revelation. Nightfall looked at Kelryn.

“He’s lying,” she hissed.

Nightfall blinked. The statement went beyond ludicrous. Even at a whisper, he managed to convey sarcasm. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course, he’s lying,” Charson added. “Nightfall was executed half a year ago. Right here in Alyndar.”

“I know.” Nightfall reassured Charson he would not rise to the bait. Clearing his throat, he addressed Clion aloud. “Are you trying to say our own great King Rikard put the wrong man to death?”

The hum of the spectators grew louder, then dropped as Clion shook his head. They clearly did not want their conversations to drown out his response.

Clion took a step back, appearing horrified. The guards scrambled to move with him. “No, Sire. Certainly not. What I’m saying is that there is a reason the legend of Nightfall has been a part of our society for longer than any man has been alive.” He lowered his voice, forcing the nobility to silence. “Because the mantle, the secrets, have been passed down from one man to the next. I . . .” He paused for effect. “I am the son of the previous Nightfall.”

“And his successor. To me, he taught all of his tricks, the deepest darkest secrets every murderer, assassin, thief, and scammer would never want you to know.” Clion leaned forward conspiratorially. “And, if you spare me, I can reveal them to you.”

Nightfall sat back, amused by the scenario but hoping he looked thoughtful. The crowd remained locked in a hush, clearly as interested in his response as in Clion’s declaration. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could match his ability with timing and bluff against the best.

Apparently believing Nightfall needed advice, Vivarick jumped in to provide it. “Sire, I don’t believe him.”

“I don’t either. I’m just trying to figure out why he’s taking such a risk.”

“Sire?” Charson tried to follow his ruler’s line of thought.

Nightfall kept his gaze on the thief while he addressed his assistants. “If I believe him, I might just as well execute him as accept his counsel. Surely the punishment for simple theft isn’t so severe.”

Kelryn remained silent, allowing the two men to usurp her position without comment. Under the circumstances, Nightfall appreciated her sacrifice. Her words or demeanor could reveal him.

“Not usually, Sire,” Vivarick confirmed, wringing his hands. “But Clion has served three terms in the dungeon already. King Rikard would consider a man like him incorrigible, which would make him eligible for permanent imprisonment or death.”

“Ah.” The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Nightfall sat up. “Well . . . Nightfall.” The name flowed easily off his tongue, though he deliberately added a hint of distaste. He had named himself a stranger on more than one occasion in other guise. “When you use your vast and mysterious talents to escape Alyndar’s dungeon and her ever vigilant prison guards . . .” He glanced at Captain Volkmier who stood at stiff attention, though a smile twitched at the edge of his lips.

Clion paled.

“ . . . please return to me. I will not only accept your generous offer of counsel, I will reward you with an honored position in my service.”

Clion’s chains rattled, betraying trembling he otherwise hid. He gave the only answer he could under the circumstances, though it was surely insincere. “Thank you, Sire.”

As the guards led Clion back up the carpetway, Nightfall addressed the commander of the prison guards. “Does that suit you, Captain Volkmier?”

Directly addressed, the leader of Alyndar’s prison guards turned. He acknowledged the chancellor with a tip of his helmeted head, his face bathed in shadow. “Sire, you will not see this rapscallion again, I assure you.” His voice tightened, and his eyes grew distant. “The man this one claims as predecessor, the one who menaced the world for decades managed to get out of his cell.” His tone grew even more startlingly chill. “But he didn’t escape me. And regardless of what he claims to be, this one won’t either.”

The memory blossomed in Nightfall’s mind against his will. He remembered a dizzying fall from the castle parapets leaving him dazed and battered, a warning crossbow shot that nearly grazed his ear, and looking up to the red-haired commander kneeling on a ledge with crossbow aimed, drawn, and leveled. The same assured and threatening tone touched his voice then as now. “I don’t know what demon blessed you. I don’t know how you survived that fall, and I don’t want to know. The king wants you questioned. Hell take your wicked, ugly, disgusting, murdering soul, I’m going to see that his will is done. But if you so much as quiver . . . if you give me the slightest excuse, I’ll shoot you dead and revel in it.”

Then, Nightfall had lost the battle to the solace of oblivion. This time, he could only stare, a shiver spiral ing through his gut. He dared not even sputter out a meaningless phrase of gratitude, afraid the tremor in his voice might give him away.

For the first time, the audience applauded Nightfall’s decision as well as the bravado of Alyndar’s captain of the prison guards.

Nightfall forced himself to smile.

Chapter 9

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

W
ITH THE HELP of his advisers, including Kelryn, Nightfall’s time in commoners’ court went far smoother than when he had faced the nobility. As the last farmer skipped down the carpetway, a free man, Nightfall collapsed into his seat. Khanwar’s pronouncement that court was adjourned brought a stiff grin to his lips, and he watched the nobles file out without bothering to move. Apparently, propriety allowed them to stand while he remained seated, and he savored the moments snuggled against padding warmed by his body.

Kelryn took Nightfall’s callused hand. “Not so easy being king?”

Nightfall shrugged. He felt weary, but not physically exhausted. He doubted it would have proved nearly as difficult had he not sailed into port just that morning and gotten thrown into unfamiliar territory without a hint of warning. He could see where placating nobles and judging commoners could become routine. He only hoped it would never become
his
routine. Seeing no reason to contradict, he only repeated, “I’m not the king.” Alerted by caution to another presence in the room, he glanced up to see a young page trotting down the carpet. He groaned.

The boy removed his hat and bowed at the foot of the dais.

No one else seemed to notice the newcomer, but Nightfall’s gaze went directly to him. Though he dreaded discovering what matter needed his attention now, he addressed the boy. “What can I do for you?”

The page sprang to an upright position. His voice squeaked over the general din of the advisers’ conversation, “Sire, your immediate presence has been requested in the Strategy Room. The Council awaits you there.”

Nightfall had no intention of going from one stodgy proceeding directly to another. He had not eaten since his arrival in Alyndar. “Tell them I’m not coming.”

The page’s dark eyes widened. He kneaded his hat between his hands.

Khanwar leaped in, “Sire, you can’t do that.”

Nightfall could scarcely believe how many people presumed to order him about like a servant. He had always thought the king had ultimate freedom, and he had never seen people treat Edward in this manner. “I think, Khanwar, I can. I really,
really
think I can.” He dripped a venomous warning into the repetition.

Khanwar swallowed hard.

Kelryn stepped forward to soften the stalemate. “Sir, what I believe the chancellor is trying to say is he would like a chance to relieve himself, to get a bite to eat, to . . . to freshen up first.”

Khanwar opened his mouth, then closed it. He motioned to Charson to take over the explanation.

Charson cleared his throat. “Sire.” He pitched his voice to soothe.

Always willing to listen to his more temperate companion, Nightfall kept his anger in check.

“You may, of course, stop at the garderobe on the way; and the Council never meets without refreshments. They know you have spent the day in court and will see that you are . . . appropriately nourished.”

Nightfall studied Charson. He seemed sincere, and Nightfall trusted a man of Charson’s girth when he said the food would prove adequate.

Kelryn leaned over, as if to kiss Nightfall, then whispered in his ear. “Ransom.”

Nightfall understood. Kelryn had already stressed the significance of the High Council. If they chose to meet with him at such an inopportune time, it surely had something to do with King Edward, probably the arrival of the kidnappers’ demands. “All right, then.”

Khanwar visibly relaxed.

Nightfall sprang from the chair, only to find his muscles stiff from disuse. He stumbled gracelessly, squirming to release the knots from sitting too long in one place. More than emptying his bladder, more than eating, he wanted a rousing dance or a sprint around the palace. His tiredness was entirely mental, and the last thing he wished to do was attempt to match wits with a roomful of Alydarian nobles.
For Ned,
he reminded himself for what seemed like the millionth time. He jumped down from the dais.

The page took several startled steps backward, then scrambled into an awkward bow to the chancellor, who now stood beside him. When he finally managed to speak, he said, “F-f-follow me, please, Lord Chancellor.”

Nightfall did as the boy bade, walking back up the carpetway and out the great doors, surprised to find only the usual two inner guards dogging him. Somehow, he had expected the entire retinue of Castle Alyndar to sew itself to his hips.

 

Nightfall fairly skipped up the carpeted stairs of the West Tower, forcing the page into a short-legged jog and sending his armored, two-guard entourage clomping in their wake. The need for motion, not excitement or interest kept Nightfall moving so swiftly, or so he explained it to himself. He could not admit, even to himself, his eagerness to learn the High Council’s business, to gain some information, no matter how small or bleak, about Edward’s condition.

Though focused on business, Nightfall could not help but notice the cathedral windows on every landing. Shutters and bolts on the first three floors gave way to paned glass on the fourth. He knew from experience the upper floor windows would lie open, essentially safe from prowlers and would-be thieves; but the page stopped at a steel-bound, oak door on the fourth floor guarded by a pair of attentive sentries.

The page gestured at the door with a flourish and bow, then reached for the latch. The guards who had accompanied Nightfall stepped aside, joining their companions stationed beside the door. The page struggled to pull open the heavy, unusually thick panel, managing the feat only by seizing the ring in both hands and grunting with each mincing back step that enlarged the growing crack.

Nightfall waited only until it became an opening he could squeeze through without losing his dignity, then ducked inside the room. Five immaculately clothed men sat around a massive table that took up most of the space, and he recognized all of them from the meeting where Edward had announced his intention to visit Schiz. At the head sat the massive general who had dedicated his men to the king’s security. About a dozen others stood along the walls, wearing tailored linens or fancy silks. Nightfall knew only a few of these, including Captain Volkmier in a gray-and-lavender dress uniform decorated with short ribbons and medals. Maps covered the walls, and Nightfall noticed no windows, which immediately increased his level of alertness. A chandelier hung over the table, holding eight large candles that lit the room in irregular patches and left other parts in dense shadow. The table held papers and two silver trays of food and mugs. The aroma of warm bread, meat pies, fruit, and juice intertwined with several clashing perfumes turned Nightfall’s hunger into nausea.