The Return of Nightfall (31 page)

Nightfall was nursing his second and final mug when the last of the farmers headed home for the night. The others had downed as many drinks as they could for the money he had expended, but Nightfall felt comfortably full from his meal with Billithane and knew better than to addle his wits before confronting the more dangerous denizens of any town. Delfor’s delinquents seemed like kittens compared to the dark and dirty killers haunting the larger cities, especially Nemix and Trillium. Nevertheless, Nightfall intended to face them with his intellect wholly intact.

Once alone, Nightfall moved to a rickety stall in the corner, leaving the enormous table for any group that might arrive in the night. Balancing the need for some change against the suspicion flashing wealth might raise, he broke a second silver on a night’s lodging and another mug. The alcohol stole the sharpest edges of his thinking but also dulled the growing agony in his chest and shoulder. He was paying for the work he had done for Billithane in several ways. Exhaustion further blunted his wits, his muscles ached, and his wound throbbed an irritating and steadily increasing rhythm of pain.

Nightfall knew every man who entered the common room, deftly sorting out the ones he had made acquaintances of in Telwinar guise from those he should pretend were strangers. He dismissed the ignorant thugs, the wanna-be snitches, and the ones focused solely on thieving. That left him with one target, a pudgy, balding, middle-aged punk who had moved from Nemix to Delfor to become a bigger fish in a smaller farm pond. Named Hyrik in Nemix, he now called himself Veil in the apparent hope of sounding mysterious. He ran a junk shop by the river, claiming to buy, sell, and trade anything. Mostly, it served as a fence for thieves, a fact well-known by the overlord’s men who made regular raids, which kept Veil from realizing any significant profit. Always a bit hungry for money, he spilled secrets for the right price.

Veil took a seat at the bar, and Nightfall watched for several moments to see if the Nemixite had business there. Interrupting matters of perceived importance would work against Nightfall. In other guise, he would have bought the man a drink to loosen his tongue and win his favor. He knew how to engage a man’s attention with a glance unnoticed by the other patrons. Several other possibilities crossed his mind, but none of them fit the shambling personality of the Delforian farmer. He had no choice but to stumble through the encounter, in character, and hope for the best.

Scooping up his mug, Nightfall limped to the bar in time to hear the aspiring fence order a meager dinner of whatever his day’s profits might buy him.

“Good eve,” Nightfall greeted.

Veil scarcely bothered to roll an eye in his direction. He grunted a “hello” that barely passed for a greeting. Clearly, he had no interest in making small talk with a poor and grubby farmer.

Under the circumstances, Nightfall thought it best to go right to the point. He might not get another chance. “I was wondering if you might not know something about the king what got snatched in Schiz.”

“I might.”

It was a clear plea for money, which Nightfall ignored. Telwinar would not have the experience to recognize it. “Whatcha know?”

“Depends.”

Nightfall blinked, feigning confusion. “On what?”

“On how much it’s worth to you.”

“Oh.” Nightfall paused, then repeated more thoughtfully, “Oh!” He twirled coppers around his purse with a finger. “I got . . .” He decided something grander might open Veil’s mouth wider. “. . . this.” He flicked the last silver still in Kelryn’s purse to the counter.

Now, he had Veil’s full attention. The man clamped a meaty, short-fingered hand over the coin and turned his gaze fully upon Nightfall.

Nightfall read a mixture of emotion in those eyes: desire and greed mingled with a bit of fear. That last surprised him, though he had grown accustomed enough to recognize it. Telwinar should not frighten anyone.

“The king of Alyndar is dead . . .”

Nightfall felt as if an icy hand clamped onto his heart.

“ . . . murdered by his chancellor who is now on the run from her army.”

Terror drained away, replaced by irritation. Veil had just repeated the official party line. Nightfall clamped his lips in displeasure. “That’s what I get for my money? Unfounded rumor?”

“It’s truth,” Veil insisted. “I swear it. This man, Sudian he’s called, killed the king of Alyndar to take his place on the throne.”

Nightfall had no trouble reading through the lie, though he also realized Veil had told him all he knew about the matter. The fear he had read in the man’s eyes came of the realization that he did not have the answers he had been well paid to give. He had worried not about what Telwinar might do to him, but about losing the silver. Veil was hiding nothing; he simply did not know the facts.

Nightfall wanted to take back his silver, to seize the man by the throat and shake him nearly to death for extracting the coin under false pretenses. Perhaps that might loosen his tongue or, barring that possibility, at least gain Nightfall the name of someone who might actually know something about the matter. He was tired of pussyfooting around people who ought to be groveling at his feet, begging for their lives rather than providing snide looks and answers, wasting his time, taking his money for nothing.
If Nightfall were here . . .
But Nightfall wasn’t there, couldn’t be because of his own vow, his own damnable honor. He discarded a line of thought that gained him nothing. “Thanks,” he finally said, forcing some of the edge from his voice. Sarcasm did not fit the persona. “Thanks for . . .”
Absolute crap.
“. . . telling me what you could.”

With that, Nightfall left the common room and shambled out into the night. He had one more thing to accomplish before leaving the town of Delfor, and he had every intention of making certain it worked out right.

This time.

Chapter 12

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

N
IGHTFALL APPROACHED the enormous, centrally located building housing the healer of Delfor before the first pink rays of dawn touched the sky. The half-moon’s light sparkled from chips of quartz in the tiled roof and highlighted every crack and knothole in the Delforian oak that formed its walls. He had taken the time to change his appearance, though becoming a lone stranger placed him at substantial risk. As Telwinar, he could never talk his way past the guards, and he knew he could not slip into the heavily guarded building in any guise given the state of his left shoulder.

Nightfall resisted the urge to hide beneath a cloak hood or a collar drawn up to hide the shape of his chin. The less furtive he appeared, the more likely the guards would trust his story and see nothing beyond what he presented to them. He kept his hair a standard brown, hiding only the red highlights. He washed away the scars and reworked the shape of face and ears, the way he held himself, scraped off any hint of facial hair. Genevra was no more than twenty-one years old, and he had to appear close in age for his deception to work. He matched his skin to the olive tone of hers.

When Nightfall had come to Delfor with then-Prince Edward, the sickest and lamest beggars mobbed the streets, hoping to ply some rich and sympathetic soul to pay for their healing. They could not have found easier prey than Edward, who blithely tossed away their silvers in a naive attempt to help the downtrodden. His generosity had incited a riot of the destitute, who had torn apart Edward’s belongings, each in a desperate attempt to get his share of the bounty. Now, Nightfall noted, the beggars kept their distance from the healer’s quarters. Either the overlord kept them away to prevent a repeat of what had happened to the prince of Alyndar and his squire, or the beggars had finally come to realize Genevra’s talent only worked on wounds that had not yet scarred.

Nightfall kept his arm flexed, though it ached so badly it interfered with his concentration. He longed to let it dangle limply at his side, but he dared not reveal the injury. The Alyndarian guards had surely mentioned it when they spread his description and offered rewards for his capture throughout the world. Four of the overlord’s men stood at the building’s only entrance, wearing dark blue tunics and breeks beneath tabards of lavender and silver, which identified Delfor as a holding under the high king in Alyndar. On his last visit, they had fawned all over Edward and his squire. This time, they scarcely moved as he approached.

Nightfall cleared his throat. He tried for an aura of confident politeness that might keep him on their good side and also let them know he did not plan to accept a simple “no” as an answer. He adopted Genevra’s Noshtillian accent. “Pardon me, sirs. I need to speak with Genevra.”

The guards exchanged glances, then looked him over in an inappropriately long silence.

Nightfall stood his ground. He had rearranged and augmented his clothing so it displayed neither holes nor an inordinate amount of dirt. The guards would have difficulty placing his status and would, hopefully, deal with him cautiously.

Finally, one spoke, “I’m sorry, sir. The healer is sleeping. Do you have an appointment?” Dark eyes examined him more intently.

Nightfall steeled himself. If he withered under the glare, he risked raising suspicions. “I don’t need an appointment.”

“No appointment from Overlord Pritikis . . .” a second man said gruffly, “. . . no healing.”

Nightfall knew it had far more to do with money than time. Genevra had healed him on his previous visit in apology for the mauling Delfor’s beggars had given his master. Even then, he and Edward had not carried enough silver to buy the healer’s services from Pritikis. He tried to sound outraged. “Do I look like I need healing?”

“No, sir,” the first speaker admitted. “But it doesn’t change the fact that—”

Nightfall did not allow him to finish. “Tell my sister I’m here. I’m sure she’ll see me.”

“Sister?” The gruffer guard’s tone lost its fire. “Genevra never said anything about having a brother.” He studied Nightfall again, clearly seeking a resemblance.

Having gained the upper hand, Nightfall continued, “Tell her her
lavvey
brother has come to see her.” He referred to the language of the Xaxonese streets, a rapid clipped dialect peppered with slang, which they had used to communicate in private the last time they met. Even people who spoke fluent Xaxonese could rarely follow a conversation in
lavvey.

The first guard crinkled his features until his face looked like an old, leather mask. “
Lavvey
brother?”

“Tell her,” Nightfall continued without explaining, “that I have the information she wanted about our . . . sister.” Concerned he might not have given Genevra enough hints to his identity, he added the name, “Kelryn.” It was a dangerous move, depending on whether or not the Alyndarian guards had mentioned her. They would have no reason to do so, since she had not left Alyndar with him; but he was worried about giving the overlord’s men too many clues. He walked a fine and perilous line.

“Genevra has a
sister,
too?” The second man seemed even more surprised at this news.

“Her
lavvey
brother with news about her sister,” the first guard repeated.

“Yes,” Nightfall confirmed. “Named Kelryn.”

“Your name is Kelryn?” The second guard rolled his eyes to the last two guards, still at attention, one of whom loosed a snicker.

“No, no.” Nightfall waved off the second man as too dull for his time, then focused on the first. “Kelryn’s our sister. My name is . . .” He tried not to delay too long, choosing a phrase in
lavvey
that should catch Genevra’s attention. “. . . Hunnidun.” She would recognize it as a shortened form of “The Hunted One,” following the conventions of
lavvey
. He felt certain she would see him inside if she knew him as Sudian, but proper names sounded the same in any language. He hoped she would prove quick enough to decipher his code, or caution would foil his plans. Genevra had every reason to fear strangers, any of whom could turn out to be a sorcerer in disguise.

“But she’s asleep,” the first guard reminded.

“She’ll want to be awakened for this.”

“If not?”

Nightfall let his brows rise in increments.
If not, you stupid bastard, she can go back to sleep.
He swallowed his irritation. Genevra needed and deserved protection, but simply waking her to ask if she wished to visit with him did not put her at any risk. He did not leave room for doubt. “She
will
want to see me.”

The first guard looked at the second, who shrugged and nodded. He opened the door while the other three kept their gazes locked on Nightfall, as if daring him to attempt to follow.

Nightfall remained in place, prepared to run away, if necessary. His injury would slow him down and ban him from most of his ruses, especially those involving climbing; but he still believed he could shake a group of guards. Genevra had seemed intelligent but somewhat guileless when it came to politics and intrigue. As obvious as they seemed to him, she might not put the clues together. If she did, it could place him in even more danger, depending on what the Alyndarian guards might have told her or her entourage.

The door slammed shut. The moments dragged past in an awkward hush broken only by the occasional clinking movement of one of the guards. Nightfall and the overlord’s men avoided one another’s gazes as they waited, their future interactions, as yet, uncertain. No one knew whether to smile or glare, to stare in curt warning or shrug in indecision.

At length, the guard returned. His tone sounded even, with a hint of bewilderment. “She says she’ll see you, Hunnidun.”

Nightfall stopped himself from loosing a pent-up breath and headed matter-of-factly toward the door, trying to look as if he had known the outcome from the start. A sigh of relief or a gloating grin would ruin that image. Instead, he held his neutral look as he trailed the guard into a familiar antechamber, keeping his breathing regular and his muscles limber. The second man followed him, closing the heavy door behind them. Nightfall heard a bolt snap into place.