Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

As the buzz of the oath-bond intensified, Nightfall shifted his contemplation, trying to think like Dyfrin, a personality that suited Sudian better than any of Nightfall’s own. No doubt, Dyfrin would recommend gentle discussion first; but Nightfall suspected he could not win Finndmer’s trust fast enough and the sorcerer was a hopeless cause. So what would Dyfrin do next?

Only one answer came. Money. Finndmer had remained in power because the thieves and murderers he serviced could trust him, at least to a point. Outlaw honor ran high when the price for disloyalty usually meant a gruesome death that would provide an example to others who considered using contacts and the net to serve their own causes alone. Still, the sorcerer was as much an outsider as Sudian. Finndmer had made no specific promise to do as the other bid, only listened to his proposition. In this case, allegiance might shift to the highest bidder without concern for reaction from Trillium’s nastiest.

Nightfall left his hiding place with caution, though all his senses assured him the sorcerer had taken leave without doubling back. His consideration continued as he approached the door. Nightfall had his own personal knock that he would not use here. To do so, he believed, would violate the oath-bond as surely as introducing himself as the demon for which the populace had named him. He saw advantage to using a different code, one that suggested a dangerous colleague of Finndmer’s had sent him; but the strategy would surely backfire. Finndmer would likely check on the source and discover the lie. He would naturally conclude Alyndar’s royalty had beaten the pat tern of knocks from Nightfall. Prince Edward and his squire would become the target of an organized mob far larger and more competent than the one in Nemix, and Nightfall would look like a weak-willed traitor.

Nightfall simply chose to tap out the triple beat that most people routinely used. When no answer came after several seconds, he repeated the sequence louder. Finndmer’s voice wafted through the window. "Who is it?” He sounded appropriately annoyed for a man awakened from sleep.

Nightfall glanced about, trying to look nervous. He kept his voice low, just in case he had misjudged the sorcerer’s ability for ruse. "My name is Sudian, sir. I came-"

"Your name is what?" Finndmer bellowed. “Speak up, child. I can’t hear you."

Child? Nightfall let the comment go unchallenged. His discomfort might make him sound younger, and the cut of his squire’s livery seemed more suitable to a boy. "Sudian, sir. I came-"

"Just a moment. I still can’t hear you. I’ll come down." Nightfall listened intently beneath the stomp of Finndmer’s feet on the staircase. Wind ruffled the pliant, spring leaves, the noise higher-pitched and lighter than in the other seasons. He heard nothing that sounded like deliberate movement and felt none of the wary prickling sensation he invariably knew when unseen eyes studied him. Nightfall mentally traced Finndmer’s route, and the door swung open on-time with his speculation. The fence had not delayed long enough to gather devices for detainment or capture; apparently he would give Nightfall a chance to tell his side.

Finndmer stood in the doorway, clutching his lantern and squinting in the sparse light it shed. "Well, come in, young man. What brings you to an old woodcutter’s home in the middle of the night?" He did not wait for Nightfall to answer but backed away to give him space to enter. When he obliged, Finndmer closed the door and headed from the entry hall into a sitting room filled with padded benches. Linen covers tacked to the wood concealed pillows cut to fit the bench tops, and embroidered forest scenes paraded across the fabric. Shelves held bric-a-brac from every comer of the continent, mostly small craftworks like painted thimbles, mugs, and statuettes. Though many bore the shapes of animals, none rivaled the glass swan Nightfall had given to Kelryn, taken from her roommate and now carried always in a box on his person. Finndmer gestured at one of the benches then sat on another, within comfortable speaking distance. He waited.

"Well, sir," Nightfall started, not needing to feign difficulty finding his words. "I’m not sure how to explain this."

Finndmer made a vague, yet benign, gesture to continue. He yawned, hiding it behind a hand, but the message came through clearly to Nightfall. He had not yet given the fence a reason to listen.

Nightfall rose and paced. The position of the benches kept him too far from Finndmer to discover how much the sorcerer had paid, and movement would better mask any thieving he might need to do to find the answer. With only four silver coins and a handful of copper, Nightfall dared not misjudge the sorcerer’s resources. He suspected he would need the captain’s sapphire ring now. Though he hated the thought of sacrificing his last ditch security wealth so soon, gaining Finndmer’s goodwill would mean the difference between freedom and a constant need to dodge and hide, exactly the sort of situation for which he had saved it. Given Prince Edward’s regal presence and open outspokenness, and his own need to wear Alyndar’s colors, Nightfall felt certain violence would become a daily occurrence if he did not settle the matter now.

"There’s a man." Nightfall turned and headed toward Finndmer, gauging reaction by facial features. "He’s followed me and my master, Prince Edward Nargol, since we left Alyndar. He keeps promising people money to hold us for him. Then, when he catches up with us, he tries to kill my master." Nightfall spun again, assessing Finndmer. The woodcutter sat in silent contemplation, his expression revealing nothing. "He started a big fight in a Nemixian bar that got a whole bunch of people killed. We wound up paying restitution and blood price, and the man who instigated it all never even paid the money he promised."

"Is that so?" Finndmer said conversationally, his thoughts surely deeper than his look would indicate. Only a hand in a pocket of his sleeping gown betrayed him. His fingers flipped a coin repeatedly, its circular form imprinting the fabric. Nightfall listened for the click of metal against metal, guessing from the sound that the pocket held three coins, copper or silver. It made little sense for Finndmer to carry his assets to bed, so Nightfall guessed he toyed with the presumed-sorcerer’s front fee. Having ascertained that without the need to steal and return the money, Nightfall took his seat.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Nightfall met Finndmer’s gaze directly, then glanced away as quickly, trying to look suitably discomfited. “I saw him come here. The man trying to kill my master, I mean. I thought maybe he’d offered you money, too. Usually, he picks grimy, evil-looking people, ones he thinks might have a link with killers and ruffians. I don’t know why he picked you." Nightfall chose his words with care. The sorcerer’s apparent sloppiness, as well as his inadvertent steering of royalty toward Finndmer’s ties to the underground, would bother the woodcutter as few other things could. "Did he come here?”

Finndmer frowned, keeping his answer vague. "A man visited. I don’t know if he’s your man."

"Did he ask about us?" Nightfall knew he walked a thin boundary now. If he pressed too hard without payment, he might alienate his informant. However, he had to play his character as well as his knowledge. A squire too streetwise and bribe-competent would draw suspicion.

Finndmer considered longer than either a direct positive or negative response required. Finally, he slipped into an act of his own. “Please, sir. I’m just a poor woodcutter trying to eke out a living in a harsh and lonely place. Treason? Assassination? I would have no hand in those things, I swear it."

Nightfall believed him, at least in a general sense. However, simply providing information to the sorcerer in ignorance did not make him an accessory. "I’m sure he promised payment, perhaps even offered some money right away. That’s how he does it."