The Return of Nightfall (8 page)

Nightfall composed himself as he slipped from the end of an alley onto the main road housing the He-Ain’t-Here. He took up the character of Sudian effortlessly, as he had so many others, so many times. He straightened purple and silver silks, speckled with road mud and plastered with grime. A hole gaped in the left thigh of his britches, the ragged edges streaked scarlet with his own blood. Only now he recognized the pain throbbing through the wound, the exhaustion weighting his limbs and forcing his thoughts to wade through his skull like lead.

Beside the red stone tavern, horses nickered and pranced in the paddock, uncharacteristically nervous. Even Nightfall’s usually calm bay stood with planted hooves, head high and nostrils sifting the wind. The amorphous, crudely lettered bar sign cast a shadow against the common room. A thin column of smoke wafted from the chimney, indicating a dying hearth fire, poorly tended.

Suddenly, the door was wrenched open with a shrill squeal of hinges. Two men dressed in black tunics with yellowish-brown trim meandered outside, one examining the door, the other scanning the streets.

Nightfall overcame an urge to melt into the shadows. He had every right to approach the He-Ain’t-Here, and the presence of guardsmen only fueled the propriety of his actions. He hurried toward the men, both of whom looked up at his approach.

The taller of the two, lean and hungry-looking, spoke, “Excuse me, sir. Are you with Alyndar?”

Nightfall went utterly still. All speculation fled his mind, replaced by the grim realization that his worst suspicions had been confirmed. He instinctively shoved aside panic with strength of will, drawing up beside them before daring to answer. “I’m Sudian, King Edward’s adviser. What’s going on?”

The guards exchanged glances; and this time, the short, squatter man replied, “There’s been a . . . happening, sir. We’re trying to get the details.”

“If you’ll please wait here . . .” the other started.

Nightfall did not let him finish. Quick as thought, he slipped between the guards to look inside the He-Ain’tHere. The fire had died, leaving glowing logs coated with ash. Several massive lanterns lit the room like daylight revealing most of the tables lying on their sides, including the large one Edward and his entourage had used. Sword strokes scarred the edges. Several bodies lay in awkward disarray on the floor, one on the bar, and another draped over a three-legged chair. Blood and beer dripped from the walls, and scarlet puddles stained the floor beneath the bodies. A terrified huddle of men and women stood behind the bar, watching several other guardsmen sift through the wreckage. Seeing no sign of Edward among them, Nightfall headed toward the bodies. His heart rate quickened with every beat.
Ned. Where’s Ned? Where in the blackest hell is Ned?
He ran his gaze over the carnage, seeking something on which to ground his understanding, any sign of Alyndar’s king.

One of the guards caught Nightfall’s arm. Nightfall gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to remove the hand at its wrist. Instead, he whipped his head toward the guard, wearing his sternest glare. Those blue-black eyes had stared down some of the most dangerous men in the world.

The guard dropped his gaze, appropriately cowed. “Wait, sir. We’re still figuring out what happened.”

“King Edward?” Nightfall said through gritted teeth. Even from a distance, he recognized several of Edward’s bodyguards among the corpses: strong men, fierce fighters. A frantic, icy agony stole over him, and he channeled his terror into anger. He could not afford to act like a desperate mother seeking a missing toddler, and he did not dare entertain the possibility that Edward was dead.

“We . . . don’t know,” the guard admitted.

Nightfall wanted to throttle the man. At the least, it might startle someone into telling him something useful. Instead, he disguised building rage behind a tone of flat composure. “What
do
you know?”

The guard released Nightfall’s arm, rubbing his hands together self-consciously while his willowy partner addressed the question. “It all happened fast. Over before we got here.” He gestured toward the people behind the bar. “These folks were hiding under tables, behind the counter, tangled in chairs.”

Nightfall flicked his attention to the witnesses, all of whom avoided his gaze. He recognized them, including the proprietor, his staff, a musician, and a handful of locals. “What do they say happened?”

The taller guard shrugged. “You’re welcome to ask them. See if you can get better answers than we did.” Frustration tinged his voice, and he visually swept the room through narrowed eyes.

Another pair of guards appeared from one of the two large back rooms that served as sleeping quarters. One spoke in a gruff voice as he entered the common room. “Nothing seems disturbed back there. There’s a large chest still locked and undamaged in the secondary room. It—” He broke off at the sight of Nightfall, head bobbing as he studied the livery. “Who’s this?”

The shorter guard answered for Nightfall. “King’s adviser. He was out when all this happened.”

“Was he, now?” The speaker examined Nightfall more closely, taking in the torn and bloody britches, and a hint of suspicion was evident in his tone. A large, well muscled man, he had a neck like a bull, topped by a jowly, red face. His partner looked as wiry as any thief, his movements quick, jumpy, and nearly constant. “What a lucky coincidence.”

Not liking the turn of the conversation, Nightfall ignored the guards to concentrate on the witnesses. The Schizians might just as well hurl themselves against the red stone walls as investigate him; it would do nothing to help King Edward. He held out his hands in a friendly gesture, trying to look like one of the masses. “So, what did happen?”

The patrons and staff turned their gazes to the grimy floor, to the ceiling, to the supply room, anywhere except toward Nightfall. Some muttered their ignorance. Others shrugged or simply stood in miserable silence.

A fire seemed to light in Nightfall’s chest. As the demon, a vicious snarl into any of their faces would open the floodgates of memory. As Sudian, the dutiful adviser, he could only coax and hope. He turned his attention to Gil, the proprietor, using an appealing tone intended to imply a bond had developed in the short time they had known one another. “What happened,
donner
?” He used a jovial term just shy of “friend.”

Gil shook his head, sparse hair sweat-plastered to his freckled scalp. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see anything.”

Nightfall fell silent, not allowing himself to surrender to desperate concern. He considered his options. He knew of few men capable of terrifying so many people into silence, and nearly all of those lived in the city of Trillium on Hartrinian, Shisenian, and Ivralian joint land. The huge crossroad city lay outside the jurisdiction of any of the four kingdoms, thus fostering lax laws and harboring the worst criminals. He found several solutions, many ways to open the mouths of men who chose silence; but none of them worked in his current identity. Frustration buzzed through his head, a bigger nuisance than the fatigue that came from missing a night’s sleep. He had to remind himself that King Edward and his father had granted him a new life by declaring the demon dead, all of his crimes fully punished. Nightfall could effortlessly bully out the information unavailable to Sudian and the Schizian guards, but only at the price of undoing his pardon.

Nightfall played his role. He had never crossed personae and could not start doing it now. “Please, Gil. You must have seen something.” Real desperation softened his tone. A senseless urge seized him to run in a wild, searching spiral until the whole world fell under his scrutiny; instead, he maintained composure. He would have plenty of time to worry. For now, he had to keep terror in check, to gather facts with calm dispatch.

Gil’s plump features lapsed into irritated wrinkles, and he dropped to the floor. He assumed a position with his rear end in the air toward Nightfall and his head tucked between his arms and his chest. “I was like this. Like this!” He swiveled his head toward Nightfall. “Do you see any eyeballs in my ass!”

At the moment, Gil’s ass looked more like a tempting target for the heel of his boot. Nightfall bit his lip, not trusting himself to speak until Gil regained his feet. “Eight or ten people died in here. Violently.” He looked from person to person. “Your ears don’t have to be sewn to your ass to hear something.”

Gil pursed his lips. “I heard nothing.” The group murmured assent, and the proprietor added. “No one heard anything. No one saw anything.”

Nightfall whirled toward the four guards, who now stood together, watching his attempt with amusement. “What does that mean?” He tried to sound guileless and confused rather than accusatory.

The short, stout guard’s brows rose in increments.

Nightfall’s fists clenched at his sides. “What . . . does . . . that . . . mean?”

“For which word, sir, do you need further explanation?”

Nightfall did not need anything explained. He knew exactly what they meant, that someone had intimidated these people to the point where lying to the authorities seemed safer than speaking. He wanted the guards to tell him who wielded enough power to accomplish such a thing. “I want you to explain how an army burst into this tavern, causing so much death and destruction, in utter silence. How can so many people simultaneously get struck dumb and blind?” His own words brought another possibility to light, and he shuddered.
A sorcerer?
He dismissed the thought as unlikely. If magic had rendered the entire group innocently senseless, they would appear more confused than frightened, more talkative and less evasive. “But, mostly, I want to know the whereabouts and condition of my liege, King Edward Nargol of Alyndar.”

The bullnecked guard ran a hand through short, brown hair ruffled to spikes. “We haven’t found him yet. Either he left the tavern before the fighting started or . . .”

Nightfall knew the heroic young king would take exception to the words the guard had not yet spoken. “King Edward would never run from a battle.”

“Then,” the tall, thin guard said, “he might have gotten captured. We’ve seen no sign of him, dead or alive.”

Nightfall drew some solace from those words. At least, Edward might still be alive. He doubted Edward’s bodyguards would have allowed the king to leave the He-Ain’t-Here without them, even just to relieve himself. If he had managed to go off alone, he should have returned when he heard the commotion in the tavern. Urination was not usually a lengthy process, especially for a young man. Nightfall spoke carefully, trying not to sound too worldly, “Let’s assume, for the moment, that someone did abduct him. Why would they do that, and what’s likely to happen next?”

The guards glanced at one another. The crowd behind the bar shifted warily. Finally, the tall, thin guard spoke. “Sudian, since you appear to be the only locatable living representative of the kingdom of Alyndar, I think it would be best if you brought your questions directly to the duke.”

Suddenly seized in a grip of ice, Nightfall momentarily froze. His last discussion with the duke of Schiz had ended in angry shouting, imprisonment, and the threat of execution. Though it seemed as if he held all the cards this time, Varsah could turn that advantage against him in an instant. In his own element, the duke could threaten nearly anything, and Nightfall would be hard-pressed to call any bluff. As the cold prickles ebbed away, Nightfall cleared his throat. “Very well.” He glanced down at the rumpled, stained, and bloody silks he had worn for a day and a night, through a fight and several walks through dusty streets. “Let me change my clothes first.”

The guards drew together, exchanging looks but no words. Finally, the wiry one said in a voice like flint, “Of course, sir. We think everything’s intact back there.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the sleeping quarters. “But you can tell better than we can if anything’s missing. We’d like to know what you think.”

Nightfall nodded. No matter the appearance of the back rooms, he had little idea what he should think. It frustrated him that the one thing that might gain the information he needed to help Edward, retaking demon guise, would also destroy the bond between them. The gallant king would never forgive him harming, threatening, or killing anyone to assist in such a rescue, nor could any ruler keep on an adviser linked to the demon. Without another word, he headed for the quarters he shared with Edward and a rotation of bodyguards, feeling the eyes of every guard, worker, and patron boring into his back.

Nightfall slid the door open a crack, glad to find these hinges well-oiled. Surely, the hardware on the main tavern doors would be no harder to maintain, and Nightfall guessed the patrons had come to like the high-pitched squeal that announced every entrance or exit. Apparently, even an irritating noise could soothe when it became familiarly associated with a place of comfort. It was a notion not altogether foreign to Nightfall. He had returned unhesitantly to the mother who cursed and beat as often as cuddled him, though he did learn to read her moods, and eventually even those of strangers, with flawless accuracy. He slipped inside and soundlessly shut the door.

The room looked nearly the same as when Nightfall had last left it, the few changes reasonably attributable to the king and his bodyguards having spent most of a day and night in there since. A glimmer of moonlight trickled through the only window, and the heavy curtains hung still, unstirred by a breeze carrying the scent of fire. The proprietor had brought in three reasonably comfortable pallets: the ticking firmly wrapped in cotton thick enough to dull the sharp edges of straw. Neatly draped blankets covered the pallets. Piled straw lay against one wall, the usual makeshift accommodations of the He-Ain’t-Here now reserved for an extra sleeper or a comfortable roost for an alert sentry. Aside from a change of clothing, now spread across one pallet, Nightfall carried no gear he could not fit on his person at all times. A guardsman’s dusty pack lay beside the piled straw. A battered chest supplied by the proprietor stood at the foot of Edward’s bed, and a man-sized shadow flickered beside it.