Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

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 naivete 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?”