Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Finndmer opened his mouth, presumably to deny the remuneration. Self-consciously, he pulled his hand from his pocket and the coins he had glibly jangled moments before. "Why’s this man after your master? What can he gain from killing a prince, other than a painful execution?"

"I’m not sure, exactly. My master doesn’t tell me everything." Nightfall leaned closer, as if sharing camaraderie and a secret. “From what I can gather, this man’s some sort of nobility. His family wanted his sister to marry my master, but my master refused. From what I’ve heard, she’s not the kind of woman you’d like to wake up to in your bed."

Finndmer chose a local euphemism. "If she were a cow, you wouldn’t know which end to milk?"

"More like the bucket you put the milk in. In shape and complexion.”

Finndmer assumed an exaggerated expression of revulsion, mouth puckered and eyes crumpled. It brought out every wrinkle on his aging face, crow’s-feet prominent at the corners of his eyes and lips.

"Anyway, the family handled it well enough, except for the vengeful brother. That’s why I’m prepared to give you this.” He pulled the ring from an inner pocket of his cloak. Gold gleamed in the lantern light, and blue fire seemed to wink from every facet of the sapphire. Nightfall kept his hand moving slightly from the moment he displayed the ring to keep the highlights glittering in a ceaseless dance.

Finndmer stared, fascinated.

"All you have to do is convince that man my master and I headed east, toward Tylantis or Shisen, or north back to Alyndar." Nightfall resisted the urge to tack a threat onto the end of his request, a vague vow of retribution should Finndmer go back on his word. The warning would break character, and it also seemed unnecessary. Directing the sorcerer, whether honestly or falsely, might still gain Finndmer the other nine to twelve silver pieces the sorcerer promised, and he would not have to share with Trillium’s network.

"Done," Finndmer said.

Nightfall tossed the ring.

The woodsman’s deeply etched, callused hand flicked out suddenly, catching the offering. He cupped it into his palm, studying it in the lantern light while blue reflections shivered across the walls and ceiling. "Shisen should seem logical enough, what with the tournament there. The event’s still months away, and already droves of royal-born have headed there to get a ‘feel’ for the battlegrounds.” Finndmer shrugged, "Dirt’s dirt to us commoners, you know, but high-bred seem to think it’ll give them an advantage. Of course, I might look for a miniscule edge, too, if I had a chance at a duchy."

Duchy? Land! Excitement rose in Nightfall, and he praised the sense of obligation that made Finndmer eager to talk after feeling overpaid. "Some duke’s giving away his land?"

Finndmer laughed. "Of course not. About a year ago, the duke and his wife got killed in a carriage accident. Whole family of bleeders. No heirs. Not even a cousin. King Jolund took back the land for a while, but he’s got enough to deal with. So he set up this tournament to find a strong and competent leader. I think he figured a famous warrior as a duke would attract soldiers to help him fight the border wars.” His eyes narrowed. "I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. Surely, your Prince Edward was invited.”

Nightfall shrugged. "Not that I’m aware of. Not that he would necessarily tell me." Even when I deliberately asked about ways to get him landed. "How else does a man get landed?” He explained the motive behind his question, finding truth the most appropriate. "We’re on a mission to get my master landed, but neither of us has a real clear idea of what we need to do. Any information you could give us would help." He plucked the stolen wedding ring from his pocket. “I can pay."

This time, Finndmer took the ring directly from Nightfall’s hand. He seemed eager to carry on the conversation, and that was uncharacteristic enough to set Nightfall’s nerves on edge. He attributed it to the amount of wealth he had flashed so far, though greed did not usually motivate Finndmer to recklessness. He liked his money, but he made a comfortable living already. "The fastest way would be to marry bucket-head."

"What do you mean?”

“The sister. If she’s got any holdings, and your master marries her-immediate landing.”

Nightfall considered what should have seemed obvious. A handsome, young prince who’s gentle and innocent. What woman wouldn’t marry him?

"It’s not just owning land that makes a man landed. There’s got to be holdings of some sort, a keep or castle, at least a huge home. And, of course, you have to be of the nobility to have holdings."

Long-trained, Nightfall found the loophole at once. He smoothed wrinkles from his pants with a palm. "To have holdings. But not to have land?"

"Anyone can buy land. A title is more difficult."

"Anyone can buy land?"

Finndmer shrugged, smiling. “Even I own land."

Nightfall doubted the claim. He knew the same baron who lorded over Trillium had possession of a vast area around the city that included Finndmer’s clearing. “You own this?” He opened his arms to indicate the forest.

"This?" Finndmer laughed. "No, my land is farther south, past Noshtillan."

"How much do you own?"

"Enough to place a castle and some pastures. Of course, I can’t, though. I’m not nobility." Apparently, Nightfall still wore his skeptical look, because Finndmer rose and said, "Stay here. I’ll show you." He headed through the doorway to the kitchen, then disappeared from sight.

Nightfall yawned, head aching from the need for sleep. His mind remained clear, however, alert for a trap. If Finndmer chose to confine Nightfall for the sorcerer, he would need locks as complex as those in Alyndar’s prison. His mind ticked off one other means of landing that he had heard and forgotten. War. One noble who killed another could usurp his holdings. If Nightfall located a particularly oppressive ruler, he might manage to talk Prince Edward into such a course. Two men against an army. Brilliant. For now, he discarded the possibility, glad, at least, that hearing more options had set his own thoughts in motion.

Shortly, Finndmer returned clutching a tube made from a hollowed bone and corked at one end. Pulling out the stopper, he shook a piece of paper into his hands, unrolled it, and passed it to Nightfall. "You read, I presume? It’s in the southern language.”

Nightfall nodded his head absently, taking the paper. "Well enough." He perused the flowery hand and pompous wording, reading for intention rather than specific. It described a chunk of land at the southernmost aspect of the world, directly south of Noshtillan. To Nightfall’s surprise, it seemed like a sizable piece. The name on the deed was Finndmer Smeirnksson, and the signature read King Jolund Kryskan. It seemed authentic, though Nightfall knew too little about deeds to feel wholly convinced. "So how would a man go about buying land such as this?"

"First…" Finndmer reclaimed the deed, rolling it and stuffing it back into its tube. "… he’d have to find someone willing to sell. Then, you’d need money. That’s all it takes."

"And you might know someone willing to sell?" Nightfall studied Finndmer.

Finndmer smiled. "We’re playing a game now, aren’t we? If you’re asking if I’d sell, the answer is maybe. The land’s not doing me any good since I can’t build there. As old as I am, I’m not likely to get knighted for heroism. But land is land, and there’s status that goes with it. It’d cost three hundred silver, and I don’t bargain.”

Nightfall suppressed his surprise, though his nostrils flared slightly in response. Three hundred silver exceeded what every craftsman made in Trillium pooled together for a year. He could imagine trying to gather the sum, copper by reluctant copper. After the longest string of Nightfall’s heists, he could never recall having more than fifty silver at once. I can’t gather three hundred silver, no man can. Nightfall considered, the situation becoming nearly as much challenge as need. Put in other terms, three hundred silver seemed a small enough price for his soul, especially since he had already lost the first of his five months to travel. But how am I going to come by three hundred silver honestly? Nightfall squirmed out of the necessity. I don’t have to be honest. I just have to give the appearance of such, especially to Ned. “I’ll get the money somehow. If a scribe hired by me can vouch for the authenticity of that document, you have a deal."