The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 10

The inn room in the Thirsty Dolphin seemed sparse but adequate. Little space separated the two sleeping pallets, though they seemed far preferable to the scattered hay on the floor that served as beds in smaller towns. A table in the opposite corner, near the door, stood firmly on squat legs. A tub across from it held all the basins and pitchers necessary to draw water and bathe, an uncommon luxury; and a drain hole opened onto conduits that carried the dirty water into the sewage gutters lining the larger streets. A chest of drawers, scarred with nicks and dents, lined the wall near the table. One drawer sagged open while Nightfall crouched on the floor, transferring garments from Prince Edward’s pack.

The door latch clicked.

Nightfall paused, a folded tunic in his hands, taking note of the sound. Whoever had come, presumably Edward, had made no attempt to do so quietly.

The door swung open, the hinges squeaking mildly. Prince Edward stepped through, closing the panel behind him. The bolt slammed into place.

The small, windowless room made Nightfall feel suffocated as tight places never had before Alyndar’s guards locked him in their dungeon. Fear flashed through him, suppressed only by the rationalization that he still had control. From the inside, opening the now-locked door required just one more movement. "Master, hello. Did you need something?"

"We have to talk, Sudian."

Nightfall lowered the garment to his lap, certain the topic involved a certain incident outside the Thirsty Dolphin’s stable. He fixed his gaze attentively on Edward.

"There’s a man here named Amadan Vanardin’s son. He says you held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him."

Nightfall said nothing, awaiting a direct question, though he knew an explanation was expected.

“Did you?” Edward pressed.

“Yes, Master. I did." Nightfall refolded the tunic and placed it atop the others in the drawer. He kept his manner and his tone matter-of-fact.

Prince Edward sighed. He sat on the edge of his pallet beneath the room’s only lantern, Light splashed white lines and golden glitters through his hair. His hands slid into his lap, and he stared at his fingers for several moments.

Nightfall drew a shirt from the pack, more uncomfortable with Edward’s silence than his lectures. The others had amused him. This quiet seemed abnormal.

Finally, Edward looked up. Nightfall thought he had gathered the necessary words; but, when the prince spoke, he used only one. “Why?”

Nightfall set his work aside. Though it seemed unnatural, he stepped into the semicircle of light. He plucked off his purple and silver shirt so Edward could clearly see the darkening bruise the merchant’s boot had gouged against his chest and the abrasions the road had slivered from his arm and side. In the light, he believed the prince could also tell where Amadan had struck him in the face.

Prince Edward winced, and Nightfall replaced his clothing. "Is that why?” the prince asked.

Though Nightfall knew the reason would probably suffice, he found a better one. "No. He also pounded on the stable boy. Master, I only did what you would have done. I know you believe in defending the downtrodden. You wouldn’t have let him hurt that boy."

"I wouldn’t," Prince Edward admitted. He studied Nightfall for some time before finishing. “But I’m a prince. I can do that. I can’t let my servant threatening a highborn’s life go unpunished.”

Nightfall froze, believing he had finally found a transgression that would earn him Edward’s wrath. Magic or none, he would not stand still for any man to batter him. The defiance raised a pounding wave of nausea and agony from the oath-bond that told him he would. Survival took precedence over any need to dodge pain or humiliation. Vengeance, if necessary, could come later. What he could not avoid, Nightfall would take bravely, but he would see to it that the prince suffered as much for the pain. From experience, Nightfall knew that, for Edward, that meant a direct attack to the conscience, "I understand. Beat me however for as long as you feel it’s necessary." Kneeling, he lowered his head, fighting down every instinct that told him to close his defenses.

"Beat you?" Edward’s missing strength returned and flared to annoyance. "I’m not going to beat you." He shivered distastefully at the thought. "What’s that going to teach you except more violence?"

Nightfall had to concede that Prince Edward had a point, although he had already received all the lessons he ever needed about brutality. And learned them well.

Edward pointed at Nightfall’s pallet. “Sit."

Obediently, Nightfall rose and did so.

"We’re going to discuss and memorize the seventeen rules of etiquette. The long version." Edward heaved a sigh. Apparently, he had found a topic tedious even to himself. "By the time I got through talking to Amadan Vanardin’s son, I almost put a knife to his throat myself. The lesson might teach us both some restraint." He launched into the session. "When addressed by a man of superior station…”

Nightfall almost wished he had gotten beaten instead.

Nightfall slept through Prince Edward’s dinner in the common room of the Thirsty Dolphin. His conversation with Finndmer had kept him awake much of the previous night, and he knew he would need the wee morning hours to begin the many gambles and schemes taking shape in his mind. A multitude of possibilities paraded through his thoughts, but he concentrated hardest on the situations chance and consideration had given him opportunity to set up in advance. Dyfrin had often claimed that serendipity came to everyone daily; a wise man learned to turn small details to his advantage. And Nightfall knew organizing all of that would prove easier while the gentle and honest prince lay safely asleep.

Prince Edward returned around midnight, changing into his sleeping gown in the dark, and crept quietly into his bed. Awakened as always by movement, Nightfall lay in silence and feigned sleep, guessing the time by feel alone. The lack of a window made cues from the sky and moon impossible, but Nightfall had become a reasonably good judge of interval, even asleep. He fell into a shallow half-drowse, allowing himself some extra rest and the prince to sink into unbreakable slumber. Then, as solid snores filled the room with echoes, he slipped out, padded down the hallway, and glided through the entryway into the common room.

Nightfall assessed the patrons at once. Five local youths flung darts and daggers at gashed and battered cork targets painted in concentric circles. They based their game at a nearby table, mugs and bowls of beer lined up for an easy sip between turns. Their sport intrigued Nightfall, though the stakes seemed too low to bother with. Eventually, he might find need to pit his dagger-throwing abilities against others for significant winnings. Until then, it made no sense to reveal, or even give clues to, his skill.

Three merchants sat at a table near the bar, their simple but well-tailored dress revealing them as wealthy Grifnalians or Ivralians. These seemed more interesting, though Nightfall knew they would probably prove slow to warm to a stranger and shrewd with their money. Still, their decision to attend a rowdy tavern this late suggested some daring and curiosity about the wilder side of Trillium. Two tables from them sat a pair of local hoodlums eying the sparse crowd with the same attention as Nightfall. The remainder of the patrons consisted of fifteen middle-aged Trillian men in groups of two to four.

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.

The remembrance clipped through Nightfall’s mind in an instant, accompanied by bitterness. He kept his voice low so those nearby could not hear. "My master has the only servant he needs. If you can protect him better than me, prove it. I’ll gladly step aside and let you have the job."

Every piece of Mally’s exposed flesh turned white. "No, sir. No. I’m not trying to take your place. I’m just-"

"You’re just looking for the easiest life possible." Nightfall considered the implication of his own words. "And that’s only natural. But everyone else’s too busy making things easier for himself. Things won’t change for you unless you make them."

"Make them?" Mally’s’ gaze returned to her lap. "That’s what I’m trying to do."

She had a point Nightfall could not deny. "You’ve taken the first step, but you’re working on the wrong problem. Your problem isn’t getting a new master, it’s getting rid of the old one."

Mally glanced up, clearly confused; but Nightfall did not give her time to question.

"Think about it. But I can tell you one thing: if Prince Edward bought you, he would set you free. If that’s not what you want, don’t come to me for help." Nightfall ate another cheese cube, indicating that the conversation had ended, in his mind.

Taking the cue, Mally rose from the chair, though she remained hunched in deference. "Thank you, sir, for your advice and consideration.”

Nightfall nodded acknowledgment, but he said nothing more. He watched the slave skitter, head low, across the room to the doorway and disappear through it. It had required daring for her to slip away at the risk of punishment to discuss her lot with one her master hated. Nightfall wondered whether she would find the courage to carry through on his suggestion or even to consider a life without shackles. Yet, to her and so many, chains and collars seemed a small price to pay for regular meals, protection, and shelter.

The red-haired Trillian moved to Nightfall’s table, accompanied by a slender brunet. Their two friends remained in place, watching the dart match and whispering between themselves. The heavy-set one spoke first. "Another begging the employ of Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar?"

Nightfall blinked, surprised. "There’ve been others?"

"Two serving girls, the stable boy, and a merchant’s stock man. That’s the first slave I know of."

"Good man, my master."

"Obviously," the other Trillian said. "And he allows his squire in the common room alone?"

Nightfall shrugged. "If he’s in a safe place and under certain circumstances. It has little to do with what he allows. I wouldn’t leave him if I believed anything might harm him." He smiled. "Good man, as I said."

The dark-haired Trillian buried a hand in his stiff beard, gaze locked on the dart game. The redhead accepted the burden of amenities. "I’m Tekesh, and my friend’s name is Ifinska." He indicated his two remaining companions at the table, a bearded brunet with recessed eyes and a tall, thin man with gray-speckled black hair, in turn. "Porlenn and Limalzy."

Nightfall acknowledged the more distant pair with nods. "Sudian," he said, not bothering to tack on title. These men already knew his master.

Ifinska continued to watch the dart-playing youths.

Nightfall had assessed each competitor’s ability naturally upon entering the common room, his judgments based mostly on build, movement, and arrangement of muscle groups. He had off-handedly watched enough of their play to get a reasonable feel for ability. "Hey, Ifinska."

The brunet turned his head with obvious reluctance.

"Do you know those boys?" Nightfall gestured at the dart and dagger games.

"The one up now’s my cousin."

Nightfall glanced to the game where a lanky youth stepped up to the targeting line brandishing a dart. Nightfall looked back at Ifinska. "He any good?"

Ifinska returned his attention to the game. "I’ll bet he sticks it in the target."

"Faint faith." Nightfall figured the odds at two to three in Ifinska’s favor, a wager not worth taking. However, he saw a means to quickly skew those chances, though not as far as he would have liked. More importantly, the betting would begin and, he hoped, grow into a fever that left no time or interest in computation. "Three coppers says he doesn’t land it in the yellow, red, or green areas." He chose the central rings, their area covering nearly half the board. Quick consideration made the bet seem even or slightly biased toward Ifinska; the zones were about the same size; and the boy would, undoubtedly, aim for the middle. Yet Nightfall held a less obvious edge. There remained a one in three chance that the youth missed the target completely or the dart did not stick.

"Three coppers," Ifinska agreed.

Unaware of the second wager upon his success, the youth hurled the dart. It flew true, embedding in the second ring from the center.

Nightfall calmly tossed three copper pieces to the tabletop, but Ifinska let them lie.

"These against another three on this next boy. Same bet.”

Nightfall glanced over. He knew the youth currently up to the line, a soldier-in-training whose preferred weapon was dagger. Nightfall’s merchant persona, Balshaz, had flung against him on occasion, and the boy had held his own better than most. He had fared well over the course of this evening, as well. However, that success might prove its own ruin as he had won enough five-for-a copper beers to impair his aim. Already, Nightfall could see that he had stepped too close for his usual spin. Nightfall clung to the role of ignorant foreigner. "All right, it’s a bet."

The dagger thumped against the central area, then clattered to the floor. Ifinska flicked the three coppers back to Nightfall, frowning as if the boy had betrayed him.

The next to challenge the cork was a scrawny, homely youth who had lost largest that night. The configuration of his muscles gave him a natural clumsiness that would probably lessen as age added growth to his torso and it came more into proportion with his arms and legs. Nightfall had watched his aim improve steadily through the evening just from the practice. “Same bet‘?” he asked, certain Ifinska would refuse.

As expected the brunet shook his head.

"I’ll make the opposite wager." The redhead who had called himself Tekesh slapped down three coppers.

Nightfall disliked the flip-flop of odds he had deliberately created in his favor. "All right, but only if I get the central five rings." That brought the odds to even, slightly in his favor if the improvement that had come with practice was considered.

Tekesh hesitated, then nodded acceptance.

Apparently not wanting to get closed out of the betting, Ifinska jumped back into the game. "I’ll take the two outer rings if you spot me a copper." Removing his purse, he worked the coins to the mouth and let them drop to the table. They bounced, winding about an edge, then fell flat to the wood.

The boy stepped up to the line, studying the target.

Tekesh objected. "If I lose the two outer rings, I get to take out a copper." He placed a finger on one of the three coins in front of him.

Nightfall shrugged, secretly pleased with the maneuvering. His chances of winning had not changed, but his potential profit had grown to four coppers for three.

The dart flew, striking and holding in the fourth ring from-the center. Another win for Nightfall.

The betting in the Thirsty Dolphin’s common room dragged far into the night, spreading from table to table like a fire. Though the goal and bets changed and reversed, Nightfall always kept the odds only slightly in his favor so that the others won often enough to maintain interest. Within a dozen bets, Nightfall had drawn in the merchants, Ivralians both, though the natives came and went as their money allowed. Nightfall kept the nature of the bets varied and interesting, mostly to distract others from computing odds that Dyfrin had taught him to estimate in an instant. On occasion, he slipped some of his winnings into his pockets, keeping an attractive amount on the table without making it obvious that he had taken in more than his share. The fluctuating participants and their sheer numbers helped to hide the fact. He won often, but no more than his calculated odds suggested he would. When interest flagged, he would purchase a round of drinks for the more recent participants from his winnings, keeping many there long past intelligent propriety.

As night progressed toward day, the number of local Trillians diminished, including the dart-playing youths. Those remaining had drank far more than the three beers Nightfall had nursed through the night. A camaraderie had grown between the remaining bettors, one Nightfall had every intention of exploiting. During the thick of a heated debate over whether the last person entering the tavern had sandy-brown or dirty blond hair, no doubt in order to determine the winner of a silly bet, Nightfall unobtrusively swiped the bug-repelling weed the stable boy had given him against a side of each of his two remaining melon cubes. He waited until the argument subsided, then placed the food in the center of the table, one repellent side up and the other down. He studied the smallest of the Ivralian merchants, a handsomely featured man named Kwybin. Slurring his speech as if from too much drink, he pointed at the melon cubes. "I’ll bet you a silver the next fly that lands picks this one." He pointed at the cube placed repellent-side down.

Kwybin laughed. "You’ll bet on anything, won’t you?"

Nightfall seized the opening. "Lost my wife and children in a card game." He met the Ivralian’s gaze directly, giving no clues to indicate he was joking. "And I wasn’t even playing." He gestured the melon cubes briskly to keep the flies from alighting while the merchant decided. "You in or not?"

Kwybin considered, glancing from cube to cube as if to find some subtle difference in form that would make one more attractive to insects than the other. While he debated, his taller companion, Hyrowith, placed a silver coin on the table. "I’ll take the bet."

Nightfall sat back, hands clasped in his lap and well away from the melons. The size of the wager, as well as its strangeness kept most of the patrons in place, gawking. Before long, a fly hovered over the fruit, circled twice, then landed on Nightfall’s cube.

A spattering of applause and sympathetic noises swept through the group. Though he had lost, Hyrowith laughed. "I guess the bugs like you better. I’m not sure that should bother me." The others in the common room laughed.

Nightfall smiled. He reached for the cubes, rolling them casually as if to return them to his plate. Despite the seeming patternlessness of his gestures, he kept track of the repellent-marked sides at all times. His caution paid off. Kwybin could not resist his part of the action. "My turn." He smacked a silver piece to the tabletop. "I’ll bet on the winning piece." He pointed to the cube on which Nightfall had placed his last wager.

It proved easy enough to leave the chosen melon repellent-side up this time. Nightfall shrugged. "One’s as good as another." He moved away from the fruit, pushing his newly won silver toward the other. Several moments passed in silence as patrons glanced from melon to air, seeking flies in the quiet stillness of The Thirsty Dolphin. Then, a sweet-fly wove through the onlookers. Delayed by those who tried to bat it toward one cube or another, it gave Nightfall his second win.

Dawn light touched the windows, the thick glass warping it into a glaze that could not compete against the myriad candles in brackets on the walls. Nightfall finished his cheese, took a last swallow of warm beer, and stretched. "One more," he said cryptically, then explained. "I need one more bet to complete the night, something that every-one who wants to can join." He glanced about the tavern, pretending to seek something on which to pin his money, for dramatic effect alone. He knew precisely where his best bet lay, and he only needed to delay until it came to him.

Several patrons shouted suggestions, from a personal round with the dart to contests that involved drinking to the point of vomiting. Nightfall dismissed them all as not exciting or chancy enough. Then, he opened the common room door and glanced up and down the city streets. Far in the distance, he saw an approaching wagon, little more than a dot on the roadway. The direction fit perfectly, and the distant, barely audible, clop of hoof on cobble clinched the identity to just short of certainty. He whirled suddenly, as if the almighty Father had tossed the perfect idea from the heavens. "I’ll guess something about whoever next passes this doorway."

Several patrons crowded to join Nightfall in the entry-way, inadvertently becoming his witnesses that the streets stood empty. "What’ll you guess?" several asked in various fashions.

Nightfall pretended to consider for some time. "Depends on what comes."

The last remaining teen from the knife and dart contest spoke next. "I’ll check ahead and let you know." Clearly beer had clouded his judgment enough that he did not worry what his parents would think of his spending the entire night in a tavern. He trotted into the street, glanced up and down the block, then headed toward the dot on the horizon.

Nightfall tried to elicit interest beyond that already raised by speculation about the grand finale of a servant who had laid money down on everything from strangers’ skill to the preferences of flies. "We’ll make this interesting. A number. Age? Weight?" He discarded the obvious and headed toward the ridiculous. "Number of hairs on his head-”

The youth returned shortly. "Wagon coming. Melons headed for market.”

The obvious came to several minds at once, even alcohol-fuddled. One Trillian, a relatively recent comer to the proceedings, started things moving, "I’ll bet three coppers to one you can’t guess the number of melons on that cart at a glance."

Nightfall pulled at his chin, rough with morning stubble.

“You wanted a challenge," one reminded.

“A challenge, yes," Nightfall repeated thoughtfully. He smiled wanly. "All right. What are winnings for but to lose. The thrill of the game and all that." He turned back to the crowd as more patrons filed to the entrance to watch for the coming merchant. "I’ll match every coin placed on that table one for one." He pointed to the table nearest the door. "I win if I guess the number of melons on the cart within two."

There followed a sudden mad scramble for the table, every man wanting his share of action skewed so far against a gambler who had, apparently, had way too much to drink. A shabbily dressed, young man who had placed no wagers himself, but had rooted for Nightfall from the start, spoke up. "Have you thought about those odds, Sudian? Even three to one wouldn’t hardly seem fair."

Several patrons glared at the speaker, clearly worried that a shock of common sense might lose them the sure win this bet appeared to be.

Nightfall again looked out the door, stance light and balanced against the frame. "I either guess right or I guess wrong." He glanced back at the speaker. "Right or wrong. Two possible outcomes. Fifty: fifty." He shrugged. "Even money. Sounds right to me."

The warped logic brought even the most reticent bettor to the fore. By the time the wagon came up on the Thirsty Dolphin, twelve silvers worth of copper littered the barroom table. Nightfall recognized the dark brown mare hauling the cart as the one he had returned to its owner the previous day. The farmer clutched his horse’s reins, looking startled by the crowd. His gaze fished Nightfall from the others, and he smiled slightly. True to his word, he gave no other gesture or greeting to indicate he had met Edward’s squire before.

Nightfall fixed his gaze on the cart, bobbing his head as if counting. His scrutiny allowed him to ascertain that few, if any, of the melons had been stolen or bartered since he reloaded the cart. Still, it made sense for him to guess low rather than high. Melons could only diminish, not multiply, in the night. As the cart rattled past, he moved into the road behind it as if to complete his tally. When he turned back toward the tavern, he discovered every eye fixed on him.

Building tension, he crossed back to the doorway in silence. The patrons moved aside to let him enter, backing away as he took a seat at the money-ladened table. A few more coppers had joined the others while he stood in the roadway.

Dramatically, Nightfall looked up. "Forty-six," he said, at last.

"Forty-six. Forty-six. Forty-six?" The number made its rounds through the crowd, and anticipation turned to confusion as the realization sank in fully that there seemed no instantaneous way to determine the victor. After a few moments of discussion, the group chose six men from their midst to help the farmer unload and tally his product, none of whom had any money at stake nor bore more than a passing relationship to anyone who did. Having recognized two whose honesty Balshaz had trusted as well as the one youth who had cheered him since the start, Nightfall did not protest. He sat quietly, nodding with polite abstraction as the others made comments about his stupidity or luck, depending on their proclivities and confidence.

The wager itself did not concern Nightfall; he already knew the outcome. He only hoped the counters at the market would hurry, before Prince Edward awakened for his breakfast. Soon enough he would know that his squire had spent much of the night making wagers. Nightfall could soothe and explain easier, if need be, without three quarters of his take displayed across a barroom table.

Nightfall managed a haggard smile. Once the count came through, he would own a copper total of forty-four silver coins, with a few copper to spare. It seemed a fortune and a pittance at once, more than most men saw in a decade yet less than a sixth of what he needed to buy Edward his land. He doubted he could pass another five nights as successfully at the Thirsty Dolphin, not without placing his honesty too far in doubt or earning the wrath of a victim certain he had been cheated. Even if I could stay awake that long. Already Nightfall felt fatigue gnawing at the edges of his constant and necessary alertness. By the following day, schemers would come, either to quietly study his techniques or to relieve him of his new-found riches. To confront others of his ilk, some of whom specialized in scams while he only dabbled, he would need all his wits about him.

Nightfall lowered his head and let his thoughts run.