Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

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 laughter 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.

Tadd wandered toward the bar, never fully turning his back on the man he had just cheated.

But Nightfall found his own thoughts more interesting. Shiriel wouldn’t tell me about Kelryn either. He started in on the food, feeling certain that the dancer’s stated motivation for hiding Kelryn’s whereabouts was true. Until now, Cyriwan’s had made less sense. But why would criminals declare a general halt to all information? Or is it a halt to all information given to me? Nightfall realized he had leapt from the too general to the too specific. More likely, it’s a silence to all questions asked by strangers. But why?

Nightfall chewed thoughtfully on the overcooked lamb. Grittmon’s Inn had never become famous for its fare. Only an event of tremendous proportions would drive them to such an extreme. The answer eluded him. Nightfall took another bite of lamb, wrestling with the problem.

Tadd returned to his post, talking softly with the bartender. From the corner of his vision, Nightfall saw Grittmon appear from behind the staircase and join the discussion beyond the bar. Apparently cued to danger by the appearance of the owner, the prostitute sidled from the bar, short skirt flapping to her hips as she left.

Unable to solve the riddle, Nightfall turned his attention fully to his food. In the past, he had found his deeper mind continued working on a problem long after his thoughts had focused on other things.

Tadd refilled the mugs of the two swindlers, chatting with them for a time, in a voice too low for Nightfall to hear. Returning to the bar, he hefted a filled mug that the bartender had left on the counter and headed for Nightfall.

As Tadd approached, Nightfall turned him a pouting glare.

Tadd raised his free hand in a peace-making gesture. "Hey, donner" He used a jocular street term just shy of meaning "friend." "Look, your master’s been real good to me, and I feel kind of bad for what I did to you."

Nightfall grunted.

"Look, I really need the money, so you’re not getting it back. What would you say if I gave you a beer to make up for it?"

Nightfall looked up, studying the man in front of him.

"I’d say," he replied coldly, "that’s an awfully expensive beer."

Tadd set the mug at Nightfall’s elbow. “Aw, it was harmless. Don’t be mad."

Nightfall sighed. "I guess I did learn something for my money."

Tadd assumed a bug-eyed look that begged forgiveness.

Amused by the exaggerated expression, Nightfall smiled grudgingly. "Fine. Two beers and all’s forgiven.”

"Deal." Tadd grinned, heading back toward the bar.

Guess the little pig-face wanted his tip after all. Nightfall continued eating. More accustomed to beer than wine, he hefted the mug. Just as he tipped it back, the answer struck him with a suddenness that made him feel like an idiot for not catching it sooner. It’s me, of course! They don’t know who turned in Nightfall. Marak came from Nemix, so they have reason to worry that the traitors right here among them. He lowered the mug without taking a sip. Sensing abrupt tension from the area of the bar, Nightfall glanced that way. For an instant, he caught all three pairs of eyes upon him. Then each of the men behind the bar returned to work.

Cued to a personal threat by the oddity, Nightfall again raised the mug. This time, a faintly cloying odor reached him from beneath the familiar reek of bad beer. The underlying smell might have meant nothing to him had Grittmon not given him the same concoction to murder a rival crime lord in this tavern. Poison. Suddenly, the rules had changed, and Nightfall wished that he, not Prince Edward, had chosen the table. He would have taken one far closer to the door and farther from the catwalk.

They want me dead. Why? It occurred to Nightfall how suspicious he must look. Two men from the city that executed Nightfall come into Nemix and head straight for the criminals den. I rob a thief in the doorway, then head out to buy information, yet I can’t find a normal implement in the market square. Finally, I top it off by questioning the informer. Nightfall berated his clumsiness. No wonder they’re trying to kill me.

Raising the mug again, Nightfall put it to his lips and pretended to take a long draught, buying time to think. The aura of tension grew tangible. It’s me they want. Surely, they won’t risk hurting a prince. Though logical, Nightfall knew the thought was fallacy. There’re men who come here only for the nightly entertainment of a brawl. Once violence starts, it’s going to be awfully hard to stop. I have to get out of here in the calmest manner possible. He set down the drink, wiping his mouth with the back of a silver-colored sleeve. Unhurriedly, he rose, headed beneath the catwalk and toward the back door.

Makai, the huge bartender, covered the distance more quickly. He placed himself between Nightfall and the exit. "Where are you going?"

Nightfall replied with innocent confusion. "To splash the grass."

"What?"

A creak behind Nightfall drew his attention. All too aware of the man in front of him, he twisted his head toward Grittmon, wearing a look intended to convey that he thought the bartender was an idiot. The maneuver also gave him a view of the pair of swindlers, both carrying full mugs and headed in his direction. Tadd had moved toward the back room, and Grittmon watched from behind the bar. Having gained his bearings, Nightfall turned back to Makai, following the swindlers’ approach by sound. “To water the back alley. To empty the fountain." He dropped the euphemisms. "You know, piss."