Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The appraisal took moments, and Nightfall hesitated only casually before choosing an empty table between four locals, who appeared alert and involved, and the merchants.

A barmaid scooted from behind the bar, threaded between the tables, and approached Nightfall. Dark hair swirled to her waist, and her brown eyes probed his. "Are you Sudian, Prince Edward’s squire?"

"Yes."

"Your master said you’d probably come along. He paid for your dinner. Would you like it now, sir?”

Nightfall smiled at Edward’s thoughtfulness. He suspected the prince had probably ordered the meal early in the evening, while Nightfall stabled the horses, and it had become forgotten in the wake of Amadan’s accusation. Nervous energy had kept hunger at bay, but now Nightfall realized he had not eaten since the broken melon. “Yes, thank you."

The barmaid headed back toward the kitchen.

Nightfall glanced over at his neighbors, made eye contact with a chunky redhead, and smiled. The man nodded in return, grinned, and muttered an incomprehensible greeting before returning his attention to his friends. Nightfall did not press. Things needed to unfold in a natural manner that made it seem as if beer, rather than a desperate need for money, drove his actions.

Shortly, the woman returned, placing a mug of beer and a plate of food in front of Nightfall. He studied the contents, looking for something he could use. Steam twined from a mound of whipped squash speckled with shreds of meat. Beside it, a quarter of winter melon rocked in the wake of the server’s movement, bowed like a smile; a fly buzzed in spirals around it waiting for it to still. Square cut chunks of cheese filled the final corner of the plate, and their shape inspired the last details of an idea. He shoveled squash and meat into his tumbling belly, concentrating on the warm food while it remained so. Then, using one of his throwing knives, he shaved the melon from its skin, cutting the pinkish fruit into rectangles. He alternated eating cheese and fruit, waving away the occasional fly that alighted on the melon. At intervals, he met various gazes, encouraging any stranger with interest in Alyndar to feel free to approach him.

Three cheese and four melon bits still decorated his plate when a young woman in rags and a collar slunk through the doorway to the inn rooms. She glanced about the common room through a shoulder-length mass of sandy hair, her fear evident. Her gaze fell on Nightfall, and she shuffled toward him hesitantly.

Nightfall watched her approach, wondering why the slave had singled him out of all the men in the tavern and suspecting he would soon find out. In silence, he waited, certain he was not the only one curious about her intentions.

The slave stopped a polite distance from Nightfall and knelt before him.

Nightfall hesitated, unaccustomed to such respect. The rules Edward had pounded into his head the previous evening left him free to do as he pleased with the situation, so long as he did not displease her owner. "Come here," he said, patting a chair beside him.

She rose and obeyed, keeping her head and gaze low, hands clasped in her lap. She seemed tense enough to break.

“What’s your name?"

"Mally, lord."

"I’m no lord, Mally. My name is Sudian. I’m a servant, the squire to Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

The woman stared at her fingers, saying nothing.

Nightfall shifted, seeking a means to turn an interruption into a boon. He hated the time wasted but also recognized the complication as a means to draw the attention of other men in the tavern. Played right, it might open the way for gaining confidences. Few would suspect a man unnecessarily gentle with a slave of conning them of money. "You came to me for a reason. I’m not good at guessing people’s thoughts. You’re going to have to tell me."

“Well, sir," she mumbled quickly. "I-"

"Call me Sudian." Nightfall reached out slowly and without threat, touching her clenched hands.

She winced but did not pull away, obviously unused to taking solace from physical contact.

“And look at me when you talk," he added, keeping his voice soothing. "My boots can’t answer you.”

Hazel eyes rolled cautiously upward, alighting on his momentarily, then skittering away.

Nightfall smiled.

Again, she met his gaze, then glanced away. Gradually, she focused her attention on his nose, not quite ready to meet his eyes directly for any significant length of time.

Nightfall settled for the compromise. "What can I do for you?"

Mally had a face that Nightfall suspected had once been pretty. Now, her cheekbones stuck out sharply. Her crooked nose sported a lump where it had once broken, and he could not tell how much of the patchy discoloration of her face came from grime instead of bruises. Straight, knotted hair obscured her features. "Your master, the prince. A good man?"

"Most definitely."

"Doesn’t hit you too much?"

"Never.”

"Never?" Mally finally met and held his gaze. Her manner hardened, and purpose lit her eyes. "Get him to buy me."

"What?"

"Get him to buy me, and I’ll do anything for you."

"I can’t-" Nightfall started.

Mally interrupted. "Anything. Please!" She grabbed his hand in both of hers, squeezing. Her grip trembled with fierce desperation. "Please?"

Nightfall freed himself from her hold. "There’s nothing I can do. I’m just a servant."

“Your master protects you. He’ll listen to you. I know he will." Now that the barriers of shyness had broken, she became relentless. "He offered Master money for me and the other two. Master said ‘no,’ but he was angry. He’ll sell. I’m sure he’ll sell."

Nightfall shook his head. "Prince Edward can’t keep you. There’s no slavery in Alyndar."

"You’re not in Alyndar."

"Now," Nightfall admitted. "But we plan to go back eventually. And no matter where, it wouldn’t do for the prince of a free country to own slaves."

Mally went indignant. “Then why did he offer to buy us?"

"I would never presume to judge my master.” Nevertheless, Nightfall speculated. “Perhaps it fit the conversation. Or he may have wanted to set you free."

"Free?" Mally repeated, hunching into herself, eyes wide and childlike. "I’m not looking for freedom, just a kinder master." She plucked at her collar.

Mally’s words disgusted Nightfall, and all interest in helping vanished. He recalled his own struggle for freedom, not from slavery but from the many forces, human and natural, that had sought to crush him on the streets. Life came easy only to the highborn. "What’s wrong with freedom?"

"Nothing." Mally’s voice became a frightened squeak. "If you’re born into it. I’ve seen hunted slaves return, tortured to death in the public square. Those that stay free starve or fall victim to any gang of street-raised monsters who wants to use them."

The words raised an ancient memory, long suppressed. At eleven, Nightfall had been weathering the cold, dark alleyways of Keevain for three years. He recalled gulping down a stolen muffin so quickly he choked on the crumbs, hunger usurping caution. He had heard the two men too late, boxed between them in a night-dark throughway. He had run, but not fast enough. He remembered the ankle snatch and twist that had sprawled him, the huge, scarred hands clamped to his privates, and the sickening tear of his already tattered britches. Their threats rang through his ears: claims of ownership, a vicious rape, and a slow death. One had trapped his head between clothed thighs, the odor driving up the first food he had eaten in days. The stranger had recoiled from Nightfall’s sickness, inadvertently leaving the boy an opening. Spiraling loose with wild kicks, he had stolen the man’s knife, thrusting the blade into the man’s groin with a gashing twist that severed the artery. Instinct had goaded him to escape then, but rage had taken over. Nightfall had slashed the other’s throat and left them both bleeding in the alley.