Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

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.

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 job 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.