The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Shiriel’s features crinkled in thought, then relaxed at the obvious sense of his explanation. “He’s the one who gave her the clap, you know."

  Her words seemed like a complete non sequitur. Nightfall levered the drawer partway open to reveal a gem-studded pair of earrings and a scattering of cheap bracelets. A sheet of papyrus lay over an old brush with bent bristles wound through with strands of white and red hair. "What? The king gave someone the clap?”

  "Not the king." Shiriel seemed to notice Nightfall’s interest in her things for the first time. She watched his hands, as if to make certain he kept away from her jewelry, blithely unaware that the most expensive item in the room was already in his possession. "Marak. Nightfall. He gave Kelryn the clap."

  Oh, great. Nightfall did not appreciate the slur, though he could not dismiss the irony. Actually, though, she’s right. I spread the rumor. So, in a manner of speaking, I did give Kelryn the clap.

  The conversation seemed to be going nowhere. Aware he could only safely leave Prince Edward alone at Grittmon’s Tavern until evening, Nightfall tried to speed things along by returning to the point. "Look, I think it’s clear that no one in Alyndar wants to hurt Kelryn. And, even if they did, why would they send a spy wearing their colors? I just think she’s beautiful. I can’t get her out of my mind." He adopted the nervous look of a youth forced to share his deepest secrets with his mother. "I just want a chance to meet her. Won’t you give that to me?" He turned Shiriel the most desperate, sincere expression he could muster.

  Shiriel stared back. Her face betrayed only thoughtfulness, but her hesitation revealed that she was considering the possibility.

  Still playing his role, Nightfall let his gaze fall to his hands. Again, he saw the brush with as many of Kelryn’s hairs as Shiriel’s, and his glance slid naturally to the sheet of papyrus. Runes scrawled across the surface.

  But before he could focus on them closely enough to make sense of the writing, Shiriel lurched to her feet. She cleared the distance between them in two running steps and slammed the drawer shut on Nightfall’s fingers.

  "Ow!" Nightfall leapt backward, clasping his throbbing knuckles. The drawer rebounded partway open. An earring bounced from the confines, skittering across the floor. "Why did you do that? Why in hell did you do that?" His pained indignation did not need to be feigned. An answer came to him before she could say a word. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. I have to assume it was the note. He tried t0 reconstruct a picture of the letter in his mind.

  "Get out of here.” Shiriel stabbed a finger toward the door.

  Nightfall backed away in defensive surprise, an image filling his mind’s eyes. Now that he considered it, the letter had two sets of handwriting on it, not an unusual feature. Commonly, illiterates or those with less than perfect penmanship would hire a scribe, then authenticate or personalize the note with their own signature. “What did I do? Why are you mad at me?"

  "Kelryn’s like a sister to me." Shiriel made another abrupt, hostile gesture at the door. "I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone where she went, and you damn near got me to break that promise."

  In a cowering slouch, Nightfall moved toward the exit, still certain the letter, not a promise, was the source of Shiriel’s rage. Now on track of the handwriting, he knew he had seen both sets sometime in the past. Kelryn can’t write. From Shiriel’s reaction, I have to guess that the signature was Kelryn s. But the other hand seemed just as familiar Why? The answer remained maddeningly just beyond reach.

  Shiriel opened the door.

  Nightfall stepped up beside her, trying to look pained and innocently confused. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm."

  Shiriel’s anger seemed to melt away. She started to say something, then quietly motioned him out instead.

  Nightfall passed into the corridor, hearing the door whisk shut behind him, feeling the breeze of its movement. He headed for Cyriwan’s office and the exit of the building, his mind still worrying the problem. The parchment came from reeds, not bark. That means it’s of southern origin. He considered southern scribes. Three of his personae, Balshaz, Frihiat, and Marak, had been literate; and the first two lived in the south. Among them, he had sent or seen enough messages to know the local scribes. He tried to match the writing to a name.

  But Nightfall had only caught a few glimpses of the parchment. The scribe’s identity did not come to mind. Nightfall knocked on Cyriwan’s office door, frustrated by a glimpse of writing that would not focus clearly in his thoughts.

  Cyriwan opened the door. "Ah! Finished so soon?"

  Nightfall nodded, gaze on the door to the outside, concerned that casual conversation might wipe the image completely from his memory.

  Cyriwan ushered Nightfall to the opposite end of the room. "I trust Shiriel took good care of you.”

  Nightfall made a noncommittal noise. He grasped the doorknob, twisted, and opened the panel onto gathering grayness. He knew he still had a few hours before sun- down, but Edward would have tended to his personal needs by now and was probably wondering what was keeping his squire. Nightfall stepped out into the street.

  Cyriwan called after him, cheerily. "Come back again." Then the door clicked closed behind him.

  Nightfall hurried back toward Grittmon’s Tavern, taking a new tack with his scribe search. Rather than trying to remember details of writing he had barely seen, he ran through the list of individual scribes. And this strategy brought an answer where the other had not. Sperra. And yet the solution seemed only slightly less frustrating than the question. Nightfall recalled that the kind and elderly scribe had a habit of moving his quarters three or four times a year, to cities that needed his services most.

  Nightfall probed his last silver. I hope Edward doesn’t ask me to return his money. I’ll need the coin, plus the coppers I took from the pickpocket, to get the information I need. The thought made him irritable. Decades had passed since Nightfall had needed to pay for his knowledge. I know just where to find out what I need to know. And luckily, I have reason to be there. Heading toward Grittmon’s Tavern, Nightfall quickened his pace.

  Chapter 5

  Nightfall laughs, and death’s ax falls;

  Hell opens wide and swallows all.

  He rules the depths where no light shows-

  Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

  —"The Legend of Nightfall"

  Nursery rhyme, st. 5

  When Nightfall returned to Grittmon’s Inn and Tavern, he found Prince Edward alone at one of the tables, chasing down a bite of bread with a final swallow of wine. He wore a fresh linen cloak over a blue silk tunic and breeks, and he had cleaned and oiled his traveling boots. The sword hung at his side, its tooled leather sheath and gem-studded hilt making it look more like decoration than weapon. The comb had left trails through his .wet hair. He appeared bathed, comfortable, and well-rested. Engrossed in mopping up the last of the gravy on his plate with the end of the bread, he did not at once notice Nightfall’s entrance.

  Nightfall ducked inside, handing the door to a pair of exiting guardsmen. He took stock of the remaining patrons as he trotted toward Edward’s table. Two men he recognized as swindling partners sat several tables away from the prince, toasting their latest victory. A prostitute perched on a stool before the bar, a slit in her dress revealing shapely thighs to a point just shy of indecency. She chewed a thumbnail, occasionally throwing encouraging looks toward the celebrants.

  Nightfall knew the bartender, a giant of a man named Makai, strong and competent with a sword, who doubled as a bouncer when the need arose. Oddly, instead of one of the usual maids, the person delivering the drinks was a middle-aged man whom Nightfall recognized as Nemix’s prime informer, a man who bragged that he could get a donkey to tell him its owner’s life history. The incongruity of the scene put Nightfall on the alert, though he sensed no threat to Edward or himself. It was not uncommon for a criminal down on his luck or with city guards breathing down his neck to take a legitimate jo
b at Grittmon’s Inn to rebuild his store of cash. But Tadd the Mouth seemed to have the most secure job of all. There was nothing inherently illegal about gathering information, and everyone needed to know something at some time.

  Finishing the last bite, Prince Edward looked up from his meal. "Sudian!" His voice boomed through the near-empty confines, drawing every eye.

  “Master," Nightfall replied in a soft tone, still easily audible over the silence that followed Edward’s call. Discomfited by the attention, Nightfall cleared the distance to Edward’s table more quickly than propriety demanded. He stood beside the table while Prince Edward’s gaze roved up and down his squire’s person, his expression lapsing from happy welcome to perplexity.

  "Sudian, where’s the spade?"

  The others in the tavern remained quiet, interested in the exchange, presumably from boredom or curiosity about what noblemen discussed with their squires.

  Nightfall sat, selecting a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him the widest view of the common room as well as the staircase that hid Grittmon’s secret meeting room. He hoped his repositioning to Edward’s level would give him a chance to further lower his voice and turn the conversation private. “Master, I searched the entire town. Most merchants said they didn’t make spades. The ones that did had sold their last." He opened his hands in a gesture of apology. "There’s not a spade to be had in Nemix today."

  Prince Edward frowned.

  Nightfall let his head sag in submissive fatigue, his red-brown hair falling into bangs. He had tried to get Edward to realize that the spade was just excess baggage to weigh them down, but the time had come to admit defeat. When I have to go to ridiculous extremes over something this insignificant, its time to give up the battle.

  Tadd the Mouth approached, taking Edward’s empty plate. "More wine, sir?"

  "None for me," Edward replied. "But bring my squire’s dinner.”

  Tadd took the prince’s glass, then brushed back the long, sandy locks that fringed his bald spot. "I couldn’t help overheating . . .”

  Nightfall suppressed a groan.

  “. . . you’re looking for a spade, right?"

  Edward nodded briskly, strong hands folded on the tabletop. "Yes, we are. But my squire says there are none to be found."

  Tadd flicked a glance at Nightfall that suggested he found Edward’s squire particularly incompetent. “Well, if the market has none, you might try a little smithy I know. It’s just past the cooper’s place on Meclarin Street." He traced directions Nightfall knew by head, using a ringer on the tabletop.

  Why does the Mouth pick now to start giving his information away for free? The answer came to Nightfall instantly. It’s not free, really. He can tell Ned is got money, and he is working up his tip.

  Edward looked at Nightfall. "Did you try there?"

  Nightfall surrendered. "No, Master, I didn’t know." Better to just buy the damned spade and get this over with once and for all. I can always ditch the thing again. He started to rise. "I’ll go there now."

  "No.” Edward gestured Nightfall back into his seat. “You stay. You need to eat and wash and get some rest." The tender concern on the prince’s face surprised Nightfall. “I’ll buy the spade."

  I wish the young dupe would quit worrying about my comfort. I might actually start liking him. Nightfall drew breath to challenge Edward’s decision, then realized it would be folly. Ned would get mad because I ’m questioning him. Besides, shortly, Meclarin Street will be safer than Grittmon’s Inn, especially since, if I went after the spade, I’d be leaving him alone here. Nightfall returned to his seat. “Master, you’re too good to me." From the corner of his eye, he could see Tadd nodding in tacit agreement.

  Prince Edward rose, clapping a meaty hand to Nightfall’s shoulder. "Good servants are hard to find. Your loyalty and company are worth a lot to me." He headed for the door.

  Tadd whisked off to get Nightfall’s food, looking as if the sentimentality might make him ill.

  Nightfall studied Edward’s retreating back, uncertain whether to feel amused by the prince’s naiveté or embarrassed that he had bared his soul in a public place. Do I follow and keep watch on him or stay and eat? The pervading odor of beer made his empty stomach queasy, reminding him he had not eaten since morning. He focused on the oath-bond, to see if it might suggest or sanction a course of action; but it buzzed its normal baseline, as if waiting for his own considerations for its input. I’m supposed to obey his word except in instances where his welfare is endangered. So far the magic hasn’t considered the simple act of leaving him alone cause for alarm. There’s no reason for me to expect trouble on a main street like Meclarin. Having made the tentative concession to stay, Nightfall cringed, waiting for the oath-bond’s response to his decision.

  Its intensity did not change. Nightfall relaxed, guessing that, in this case, neither choice would have risked his soul. Apparently, it judges my intentions rather than specific actions. A thought followed naturally. Presumably, so long as I did everything in my power and vision to protect Ned, his death would not necessarily result in my losing my soul. He waited for confirmation or a painful reminder from the oath-bond, but neither came. Still, it hovered, like a live being within him, as vibrant as the day of its casting.

  Whatever he thought of my honesty, King Rikard must have trusted my wisdom, at least. I can’t believe he put his son’s life, not just in my hands, but solely under the protection of my judgment. Nightfall barely suppressed a chuckle until another idea slammed him into silence. Unless he wanted Ned killed. This way, he gets me to handle the murder and destroys my soul at the same time. It seemed illogical. Surely, he could have simply had Ned executed. And I was caught. Why didn’t he just have Gilleran perform his ritual slaughter in the dungeon?

  The thought spiraled a shiver through Nightfall. He did not know exactly what the foul rite entailed, though he had to guess it was complicated. I’d already escaped and killed some of his guards. Perhaps he feared I’d slay Gilleran, too. It seemed like a logical concern. This way, he got me to submit to an agreement that seemed believable but will probably cost me my soul. And he managed to deliver the young prince of nuisance, fanatic idealism, and embarrassment to an infamous butcher.

  Anger flooded Nightfall, though he knew his new track of thought was only a theory. He felt a sudden kinship with an innocent, blond prince little more than half his age. Ned may be an idiot, but we have a common enemy, even if he doesn’t know it.

  Tadd arrived with a plate of slivered lamb, gravy, and bread along with a glass of wine. He set them before Nightfall. “Good man, your master."

  "The best.” Nightfall smiled, glad to see the informer in a talkative mood. There were things he needed to know, including the location of a scribe named Sperra. Better to follow that lead than to ask about Kelryn directly. Cyriwan’s silence had clued him to caution. “He’s Prince Edward Nargol from Alyndar.”

  "So he told me." Tadd met Nightfall’s gaze, and the squire glanced politely away. Too many times his piecing stare and an icy silence filled with threat had gained him information when conventional means had failed. “What’s he doing out this way‘?"

  Ah. An important question. Also a beautiful lead into one of my own. “He’s King Rikard’s younger son. He needs to get landed." Nightfall chuckled as if sharing an inside joke, then briefly met Tadd’s gaze again. "Actually, neither my master nor I know much about landing. I don’t suppose you happen to have some ideas?"

  Tadd the Mouth stiffened almost imperceptibly. "None at all."

  A confession of ignorance from Tadd nearly startled Nightfall into losing his own composure.

  The Mouth laughed, the sound holding a note of tension. "What would an overgrown serving boy know of landing?”

  Nightfall joined the laughter. "Apparently, nearly as much as a prince’s squire. I figured he would know. He figured I would know." He laughed again. "It’s almost embarrassing. I’m hoping we can find some books about it." The laug
hter seemed to loosen Tadd somewhat, so Nightfall took a chance. "And speaking of books, have you ever heard of a southern scribe called Sperra?"

  "No," Tadd said.

  "Would you happen to know where he would be . . .?" Nightfall trailed off, so certain of a positive response, it had taken the negative time to register.

  "No," Tadd said again, a blatant lie. Nightfall cared little for the defiant hostility building in the informer’s eyes. In the guise of Nightfall, he would already have had the Mouth on the floor with a knife at his throat. Although he had not yet fully established the character of Sudian, he felt certain the squire would not respond in a like fashion.

  Nightfall reminded himself to remain calm. "What if I paid you for the answer?"

  Tadd considered. "All right," he said, at length.

  Nightfall reached into his pocket, and retrieved three coppers from Myar’s purse. It was not Nightfall’s way to pay before receiving merchandise, but it fit Sudian. Nightfall handed the coins to Tadd.

  The informer waited patiently for Nightfall to pose the question again.

  Further annoyed by the formality, Nightfall repeated, "Where could I find a scribe called Sperra?”

  Tadd pocketed the coppers. “Never heard of him."

  "What!" Nightfall struggled to maintain character. "You said if I paid you . . ."

  ". . . I’d give you the answer," Tadd finished. "The answer is ‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t say you’d like it."

  Nightfall glared, fighting to keep his anger in check. Something strange is happening here. First Cyriwan and now the Mouth. Many possibilities came to mind. Some sort of legal pressure? A new guard captain perhaps? The explanation did not fit. The only thing I’ve had trouble getting is information. Myar stole Ned’s purse blatantly enough, the guards left Grittmon’s at their usual time, and Cyriwan’s dancers are still playing off-time prostitute. The realization narrowed the situation to one possibility. For some reason, they’re guarding information, even basic, harmless news. That explains, too, why Cyriwan wouldn’t tell me where Kelryn had gone.