The Return of Nightfall (33 page)

Almost as quickly as he spoke, Nightfall wished he had not. If she asked him to sleep with her, he could hardly refuse under the circumstances; though doing so could strain or destroy his relationship with Kelryn. If the current state of affairs had not intervened, he would already be a married man.
When did I develop scruples?
Yet, Nightfall realized, when it came to Kelryn, he had always had them.

Genevra did not look up from her work, nor did she seem to notice Nightfall’s discomfort. “Just keep Kelryn happy. She deserves it.”

“I’ll try,” Nightfall promised earnestly, feeling as if he had dodged another crossbow bolt.

“And . . . and maybe stop in now and again. Bring me some news of the outside world.”

“I will.” Nightfall pitied the trade-off Genevra had made: security for imprisonment. Yet, she had made it clear the last time she preferred it to spending her life running from sorcerers. “I can’t afford the overlord’s fee, but you can leave word to let your brother visit.”

“My
lavvey
brother,” Genevra reminded. Though she kept her head low, Nightfall could see a hint of her smile by the set of her cheeks. “Hunnidun.”

“Yes.” The last thing Nightfall needed was another permanent personality to add to his list. “Or your sister, Kelryn.” Caught up in the idea of exchanging news, Nightfall could not help begging a favor of his own. “Genevra, do your clients . . . tell you things?” He hated the word “clients,” the same term his mother had used for her lovers.

“Of course. Sitting in silence makes most people uncomfortable.”

“If you just happen to find out anything about the king or his disappearance, could you get that information to . . .” Nightfall could think of only one safe delivery point. “. . . Kelryn? In Alyndar?”

Beads of perspiration formed on Genevra’s brow, and she sat back, releasing Nightfall. “I’ll do that.”

Nightfall glanced at the place where the wound had been. Barely a shade lighter than his normal skin, the scar had edges as sharp and wild as starlight. He tested his arm, stretching it in all directions at the shoulder. For the first time since he had awakened in Alyndar’s tower prison, it did not hurt. “Thank you,” he said again, more from relief than gratitude. Excitement filled him; and, with it, a strange desire to clamber and scamper like a monkey to assess her handiwork. “Thank you so much.”

Genevra reached out her hand and brushed the wound with a finger, more in the manner of a family member than a healer. Leaning forward, she kissed it gently.

Again, Nightfall’s nose filled with the clean, pleasant aroma of spices. Knowing what she wanted, he drew Genevra into his arms and pressed his lips to the top of her head. She leaned into him, eyes closed, clearly enjoying the contact. He felt enormous and powerful with her small body crushed up against his naked chest, overwhelmed by the need to protect her.

For a long time, they sat this way before Genevra’s soft voice broke the silence. “If you didn’t have Kelryn, do you think we . . . the two of us . . . could have . . . ?”

Genevra did not need to finish the question, and Nightfall knew there was only one right answer. Nevertheless, he considered. To do otherwise might belittle it, making it seem forced and trite. A lot of problems came along with Genevra, owned as she essentially was by the overlord. Her own request had doomed her to a very circumscribed life that did not allow for long walks, the wind in her face, running through the rain. Her duties and obligations did not end at any set time. Injuries could occur day or night. Pritikis could not hold her husband to her bondage, but he could make his coming and going difficult. Yet, such a marriage would have conveniences, too. At least, Genevra’s husband would never have to worry about her safety or her location and so could leave for long periods of time to pursue his own ventures. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather marry, aside from Kelryn, of course. I know of many men who would treasure a wife like you, if only they had the opportunity to meet you.”

“Perhaps,” Genevra whispered. “Perhaps you can send them my way?”

Nightfall ignored the double meaning buried in her request. She surely did not realize she all but begged him to assault the nicest, richest men. “I’ll do my best.”

Genevra rose with clear reluctance. “I guess you’d better be on your way, Sudian.”

Nightfall also stood, carefully replacing every layer of clothing. “Hunnidun,” he corrected, knowing the importance of training the mind when it came to keeping up a disguise. If Genevra slipped and someone made the connection between the two men, his next visit would prove his last. Though he knew her loneliness, not his winning looks or personality, made him so appealing, it still felt good to be desired. He also suspected his use of
lavvey
at their first meeting, which had turned their conversation private and personal, also helped make him special in her eyes. Few of her clients would bare their souls in front of her valiant protectors. “I really do need to keep moving. At least until I vindicate myself.”

Nightfall walked to the door and opened it, immediately confronted by the two guards, who snapped to attention.

“I’m fine,” Genevra called out to reassure them. “My brother and I had a lovely visit. Thank you so much.”

The guards made no replies other than a few curt nods before returning Nightfall to the night. Feeling infinitely better, he savored the crisp air and disappeared as swiftly as he could without appearing practiced at it or guilty. He could hardly wait to catch a few good hours of sleep.

Chapter 13

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

A
FTER HIS VISIT to the Delforian healer, Nightfall discovered an intense clarity of mind he had not even realized he missed. He could not wholly credit the absence of pain’s distraction; Genevra had told him his wound had festered. A fever he had not even realized he had had affected his mind as well. With those burdens lifted, he felt like a free man, triumphant and ready to face whatever obstacles Alyndar’s guards placed in his way.

Nightfall also knew he would need all his wits about him. Moving swiftly along the coast, the journey from Delfor to Trillium took two weeks. Autumn and its encroaching cold made food more scarce, but he still managed to catch small, young lobsters, made sluggish by the dwindling temperature of the water. They huddled beneath stones near the shore where they could feast upon minnows, safe from the larger fish in deeper waters that found the tiny lobsters a particularly tasty snack. Many men, it seemed to him, led the same kind of life: hiding from larger predators in the shoals, biding their time until the quarry became large and dangerous enough to stalk the hunters.

Nightfall made the decision to avoid Trillium while he walked. The city existed on land jointly owned by three of the world’s four kingdoms, though most people considered it utterly independent, lawless, and ripe for any perversion or trade. Anything legal anywhere else in the world was considered fair game in Trillium, and that opened the way for a flourishing black market as well. If any place held the information he needed, Trillium did; yet Nightfall knew he would have to penetrate the darkest, most dangerous criminal dens to find the answers he sought. Even then, he had no certainty he would receive correct information rather than innuendo, rumor, or downright misdirection. Only one persona could cut to the truth, and that persona was irretrievably dead.

It made more sense to slip past the city, where every lone traveler would evoke suspicion. Men spurred by the promise of a kingdom’s reward might kill a solitary stranger first and bother with his identity later, if at all. While some of Nightfall’s alter egos would not be unfamiliar to some of Trillium’s regular inhabitants, the shifting population and masses of visitors, usually not of the most wholesome type, might still put him in the way of many who did not know him. It seemed better to bypass the whole mess than to try to deal with it or have to worry that his frustration and temper might drive him to actions he might regret. People who hindered the demon tended to wind up dead.

That same mind-set sent him veering widely around the hidden home of Finndmer the Fence. A master seller of even the most hunted merchandise and information, Finndmer hid his darker dealings behind the image of an innocent woodcutter. At their last meeting, the fence had sold Nightfall, as Sudian, a patch of swampland that had proved useless in landing Edward. If Finndmer did the slightest thing to further irritate him now, Nightfall did not believe he could contain himself. Given Finndmer’s arrogance, greed, and tendency to mistrust and mislead strangers, exasperation seemed a certainty. Finndmer was important to some of the most dangerous men in existence; by harming him, Nightfall would find himself the object of another, equally vigorous manhunt.

So, Nightfall continued hugging the coastline, avoiding roads, any sign of travelers or brigands, and towns and villages most of all. As he passed over the border from joint land to the outskirts of the kingdom of Shisen, he veered southward toward the city of Schiz. That same day, he changed his appearance again, this time to that of Frihiat, his Schizian persona. He combed and bleached out his hair to a yellow-white sheen that hung in a straight curtain. He rearranged the layers of his clothing to enhance his size and make him appear twisted and stricken. He practiced walking with a warped and off-balancing limp to display the damage he attributed to polio.

Though slowed by an affectation he dared not drop for a moment, he gained time and ground by switching to the well traveled paths and roads leading to Schiz. As Frihiat, he had right and reason to travel when and where he wished, and it would look more suspicious for him to seem to magically appear from nowhere. Frihiat would not go unnoticed on the streets, not only because of his appearance but because he was well liked among the regular inhabitants of Schiz.

The awkward movements of Nightfall’s alter ego bothered him as they never had in the past. So far, he had made excellent time, zipping across the rocky coastline on foot nearly as fast as he and Edward had managed on horseback. He waved and smiled at the people who passed him, going in either direction. He could not keep up with the walkers, let alone those with mules, horses, or wagons. Though he knew he had handled the situation as well as possible, he wished he could abandon everything about the Schizian storyteller and return to the quiet existence he had known for the last several weeks. Then, he had no one to worry about but himself and his own survival, and that came so naturally to him he scarcely needed to think.

It felt like an eternity before Nightfall reached the edge of the city, and he began to appreciate the slowness he had cursed earlier in the day. As evening grayness descended over Schiz, people tended to closing their businesses, finishing those tasks that could not wait until morning, and reuniting families separated by jobs and chores. Without appearing to intentionally do so, he easily dodged the need to explain his recent whereabouts to a curious horde, one man at a time. Instead, he made his limping way past the wood scrap sign of the He-Ain’t-Here to shove open the door with his right hip and shoulder.

The hinges squealed their usual noisy protest, announcing his presence to the few patrons, travelers, and those without work or family obligations. The aroma of baked bread and spitted meat wafted to him, and his gut churned in excitement. After weeks of sea plants and raw young lobsters, more shell than meat, the idea of filling his belly with a greasy array of roasted lamb or pork and vegetables became a pleasure he could not deny. He barely noticed the background odors of stale beer, fire, and sweat, though he imagined he caught a whiff of blood that soured his ardor for food. Several of Alyndar’s finest had died here.

Resisting his natural urge to find a table in a dark corner, Nightfall flopped gracelessly into an empty seat at the center table. Though less defensible in this position, he savored a security born of familiarity. Frihiat always sat here, where his stories could become the center of attention. He never checked his pockets before ordering. If he had money, he would spend every copper buying drinks for himself and anyone he considered a friend, for which he had a loose definition. If he found his pockets empty, someone else always jumped in to pay.

A serving girl headed toward Nightfall. An instant later, the proprietor caught up to her and waved her aside to serve the newcomer himself. Gil eased his bulk onto a chair directly across the square table and smiled, teeth a dull yellow against his jowly face. “Frihiat! Haven’t seen you in a seaman’s age. Rumor was, the scourge of your childhood finally caught up to you.”

Nightfall returned the smile with one of his own, instinctively keeping it a bit crooked. “You know better than to believe rumors, Gil.”

The proprietor tipped his head sideways and made a dismissive facial gesture. “Rumors are usually all I get. And you’ve spread enough of your own to know there’s usually at least a kernel of truth to ’em.”

Nightfall loosed Frihiat’s free-flowing laugh, so much less guarded than his own. “Well, you know I haven’t succumbed.”

“Unless I have, too.” Gil’s laugh sounded more like a throaty roar.

Nightfall glanced around the common room. “If this is where good folk go after death, I’ll take the alternative.”

Gil tapped his fist against Nightfall’s shoulder in a manly, friendly gesture. “What makes you think you’d go anywhere good folk go?”

Though glad for the healing that took all pain from the proprietor’s vigorous gesture, Nightfall seized on the paranoid notion that Gil had just tested him.
Was he checking the place Alyndarian guards told him to look for a wound?
The question seemed ludicrous.
No one in decades ever crossed my identities. Gil’s not smart enough to be the one.
“So I’m in some hellish afterlife inflicted on me by the gods?” He threw another, more exaggerated, glance around the tavern. “I should have guessed that by your presence and my surroundings. I always knew there was something noxious about your drinking hole.”