The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 9

Birthed within the black abyss,

His silent gift, a deadly kiss.

Gone before the rooster crows Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

– "The Legend of Nightfall"

Nursery rhyme, st. 9

Spring warmth returned and, with it, a dreary fog that intensified Nightfall’s drowsiness. He rode at Prince Edward’s side, for once glad that the prince loved to talk and did not require much response from his audience. This time, he rambled about releasing slaves to help construct the ideal world that existed only in the minds of the naive, a world where people did not exploit one another and all mankind was inherently good. It only convinced Nightfall that he needed to keep Edward from the smaller market in the southwest comer of Trillium, though that did not seem too difficult. The other quarters would surely prove large enough to hold his interest; likely, he would never realize that a piece of the border city had gone unexplored. Instead, the problems would arise when Prince Edward insisted on moving westward, toward Brigg, Hartrin, and Mitano.

Nightfall would worry about that when the time came. For now, the need for three hundred silver pieces took first priority. Theft seemed a hopeless possibility. Robbing pockets, it would take months or years to acquire the necessary capital; and the sheer volume of victims would almost guarantee at least one arrest. Trouble with the law in Trillium was a matter even Nightfall did not take lightly. Because the constabulary allowed any sale or activity legal in any of the continent’s kingdoms, the universal laws, such as those prohibiting theft, required strict enforcement and extreme punishment. Otherwise, the town could degenerate into rampant chaos. Stealing a small number of expensive objects would require more of Nightfall’s expertise than he believed the oath-bond would allow, and it would set a city-wide search in motion. Somehow, he would have to earn the money in a legitimate fashion that would not upset Prince Edward. At least, Trillium’s broad definition of legality left him lee-way.

As Edward and Nightfall rode over the crest of a hill, they discovered an overturned wagon on the road. Winter melons lay scattered over the packed earth and into the ditches, their orange-red rinds clearly visible against the greenery. Some had cracked open, revealing pink fruit speckled with seeds. Nearby, a man stomped and lashed his arms through the air, movements jerky with rage. He howled a string of obscenities that carried through the dreary dankness, amplified by humidity.

"Oh, dear," Edward said simply, continuing toward Trillium, a route that would take them directly to the fallen wagon.

Nightfall sighed, certain of his fate for the next half an hour, at least. The prince would never let a needy stranger go unhelped, no matter how inconvenient for his squire. The stranger turned and looked up as they approached, mud-streaked cheeks flaring crimson. He fixed dark eyes on the prince apologetically and executed a brief but respectful bow. "I’m sorry for the sharpy-words. Didn’t know you was there, noble sir."

The farmer’s voice startled the white gelding, and it took several, sudden backward steps. "No offense taken," Prince Edward answered, as if it mattered, pulling his horse back under control. "What happened here?" He gestured at the toppled cart and its scattered cargo.

Nightfall tried to figure out the answer before it came. The skid marks were not deep enough for a miring in mud to explain the circumstances. The length of the drawing tongues suggested that a horse rather than a human usually hauled the load, consistent with the estimated weight of cart and melons. The sideways twist to the front wheels and bent metal swivel ring confirmed the probability of a horse-related problem.

The farmer’s response only affirmed what Nightfall had already deduced. "Horse shied at a snake. Took the whole damned wagon over." He made a wordless sound of disgust, accompanied by a wave of dismissal that made Edward’s gelding stiffen and jerk its head. “Damn nervous Suka. Ain’t worth the fur the Father gave her, but she’s all I got." He glanced up the path, empty to its disappearance around a bend. "Or had. Probably to Trillium by now." He looked longingly at Edward’s trio of horses. Nightfall took note of how he gazed most briefly at the high-strung white.

Nothing like a farmer to spot a good horse by manners instead of breeding. Nightfall suspected he could talk Edward into giving a horse to the farmer, but he doubted the prince would choose his own steed. It seemed far preferable to keep all three than to lose the chestnut or bay. "Master, may I try to catch her?"

The prince smiled, clearly pleased with his squire’s decision to lend aid. "Certainly."

Nightfall dug his heels into the bay’s ribs as quickly as the confirmation was spoken. "Yah!” The bay sprang forward, clearing two horse-lengths in an instant, then it shot down the pathway at a drawn-out gallop. Nightfall leaned against its neck, balancing his weight on the withers and holding the reins nearly at the level of its eyes. The speed of its charge and the wind caressing his face made him feel detached from reality and truly free for the first time since the captain’s confrontation on Raven. There was something he could not explain about the raw power beneath him and speed so impressive it created the winds that made even a race for his life seem wondrous. He had stolen and run horses for as long as he could remember, and the sensation of flight never dulled, comparable only to the lurch and roll of a ship in a gale. To control such energy, whether through sail or rein, made him feel invincible.

Once around the curve, Nightfall discovered a dark brown mare grazing the ditch grass on the more densely forested side of the road. Cued by the sound of pounding hoof beats, it whipped up its head, trailing harness leathers from nose, withers, and rump. Nightfall drew rein, slowing his mount to a trot, then a walk. If he continued running, herd instinct might send the mare skittering at random, perhaps injuring a leg in the brush. The idea of chasing her down the path at an open gallop seemed a joy, but he had Edward to tend. At least, the ride had reawakened the stream of consciousness that too little time sleeping had blunted. A series of bets seemed the best way to get money fast, and he only needed to turn the odds a bit into his own favor.

The darker mare whinnied a cautious welcome that Nightfall’s bay did not bother to answer. Suka approached, neck stretched to meet the newcomer without need to stand too close. The two horses whuffled nostrils for several seconds. Apparently tiring of the game, Nightfall’s mare made a high-pitched snort of challenge, and the dark brown half-reared. It came back down circling; and Nightfall managed, at the length of his reach, to catch the reins. Turning, he ponied the cart horse back to its owner. It followed docilely.

When Nightfall arrived, he found the farmer replacing melons in the now upright cart. Prince Edward had dismounted, tethering pack and riding horses together to prevent either from frolicking away. He clutched the top of the swivel bolt in one hand, the axle in the other. Eyes closed, muscles straining, he was gradually restoring the shape of the pin. Nightfall could not help feeling impressed, certain his meager strength would have failed him in such an endeavor. At least the royal tutors seemed to have taught some useful skills, and nutritious food from birth had only helped to hone his strength. The bolt would still need replacing, but the cart would carry the farmer to Trillium’s market and home.

Nightfall dismounted, attaching both horses to the others. If any of the animals tried to escape now, it would have to drag all of the others, some backward or sideways. The dark brown tossed its head, unsettled by the closeness of strangers. Gradually, hunger took over, and all four settled into a grazing pattern. Nightfall assisted the farmer with gathering melons, silently counting as each piece of fruit found its place on the cart. Prince Edward finished his task, then perched upon one of the drawing tongues while the others finished their work. As the last of the undamaged winter melons fell into place, Nightfall tallied forty-eight. The farmer picked up one of the broken melons that had fallen with its open side up. He pulled off a chunk for himself and handed the remainder to Nightfall. "How can I possibly thank you?"

"No need." Prince Edward separated his horse from the others. He left the bay and chestnut together and held out the cart horse’s reins for Nightfall to take. "I’m glad we could help."

Nightfall set aside the melon, accepted the reins of cart horse and gelding, and steadied the white while Edward mounted. Once the prince found his place in the saddle, Nightfall walked the cart horse to its owner. He lowered his voice so Edward could not hear. "Are you taking these to market today?” He indicated the melons.

The farmer shook his head. "By the time I get there, it won’t be worth the unpacking time. There’s a little inn on the edge of town. It’s not well-known, so it’s a lot homier than the Thirsty Dolphin that most folks go to. I’ll stay there and recommend you do, too. It’s cheaper, quieter. Food’s better, and they’re real good at taking care of people’s things." He bit melon from rind.

Nightfall nodded absently, well-familiar with both of the mentioned inns, as well as a third on the farther side of town near the smaller market he needed to avoid. "Any chance you’ll take the road past the Dolphin on the way to market tomorrow?"

The farmer chewed and swallowed. "Could arrange it. Why?”

Nightfall avoided glancing toward Prince Edward, concerned the prince might gesture him away before he finished. "My master and I would consider ourselves repaid if you pretended you never met us before."

"That’s it?" The farmer studied him curiously, clearly hoping for an explanation, though he probably guessed he would not receive it.

"That’s it." Nightfall confirmed, mind clicking through the possibilities. When odd jobs had proven scarce, Dyfrin had earned his sustenance by entertaining with sleights of hand, bets, or minor scams that preyed always upon the greedy. From his fatherly friend, Nightfall had learned to cultivate opportunities where he found them. The more frequently the same con got used, the more likely the victim would recognize it, and Dyfrin had a way of turning every situation into a creative boon. Unfortunately, he also had a soft spot for those in need that Nightfall had never understood. Well-liked for his generosity, Dyfrin could have lived as a secure member of almost any city had he not so often become the quarry of those who took without appreciation or repayment. It had long occurred to Nightfall that he had proven one of Dyfrin’s latter projects, a child in need who had given little back, in verbal gratitude or wealth. Familiar guilt twinged through him at the thought, and he discovered a longing to see his old friend. The last he knew, Dyfrin had returned to their birth city, Keevain. The oath-bond would keep Nightfall from identifying himself, but he could still thank his partner anonymously. He owed the man that much and more.

"I’ll head for market first thing sunup." The farmer smiled, adding facetiously, "stranger." He took several more bites of winter melon, tossed the rind, and headed for his cart.

Nightfall picked up the broken melon the farmer had given him. He snapped off chunks, handing the best two to Prince Edward. Keeping two for himself, he mounted one-handed. They headed toward Trillium, Edward chatting about the farmer, Nightfall forcing himself to think like Dyfrin. He needed to earn his fortune quickly, before the prince explored too far. And, for all the times Nightfall had cursed Dyfrin’s impetuous and obsessive eye for nicety and detail, he wished he possessed it. No one could pick a victim or a friend like Dyfrin.

The road widened as Trillium came into sight, a massive cramping of buildings that stretched as far as Nightfall’s vision. Tents crowded the border, belonging to those who could not afford an inn room; and Nightfall knew that night would find many more sleeping on the unprotected ground. Five roads came together at the eastern edge of town, from the southern cities, from Keevain, Shisen and Tylantis, from Ivral and Grifnal, from the north, and from the city itself. Wagons jounced over well-worn pathways, most carrying early spring or perennial crops from local farmers. Merchants from the southern cities brought citrus fruits and hardier vegetables. From the Yortenese Peninsula came meat and fur, and the central countries imported milk, cheese, and woven cloth.

Nightfall knew the slave countries would import to the western side of town, bringing Hartrinian herbs, spices, and crafts in addition to their living wares. The sellers of mood-altering drugs and sexual perversion mostly based themselves directly out of Trillium, though a few sneaked their wares from other places beneath the guise of more legitimate goods. Cure-alls and beautifiers found a brisk market in Trillium as well. Desperation or impatience would lead the sickest and vainest to trust the miracle medicines of swindlers over the slower practicalities of Healers. Most of the panacea salesmen whom Nightfall knew made random, harmless concoctions, occasionally mixing in alcohol or hazing herbs for effect. He still remembered the justification one man had given Dyfrin: "That rash’ll go away anyway. By the Father, why shouldn’t my treatment take the credit?"

Despite the heavy penalties for illegality, the poison trade flourished in the black market; and Nightfall knew all the best places to purchase knives with reservoirs, arrows with painful barbs that did not pull free, and belts and boots with compartments or sheaths for blades. All trades thrived here, and visitors caught up in the glitter and searching for instant wealth fell easy victim to sucker bets and schemers. So long as he kept his tricks reasonably honest, Nightfall suspected he could win or lose big. But three hundred silvers? He shook his head at the enormity of the sum.

The rattle and bounce of the wagons they passed, as well as the shouted greetings between friends meeting at the town edge, sent the white gelding skittering so often its excitement merged into a constant dance. Prince Edward dismounted, which seemed just as well. If he got thrown in the cart traffic, he might suffer injury much more serious than a simple fall. "Sudian, we’ll have to build camp here."

Nightfall sprang from his bay, suspecting that towering over his master looked disrespectful. His mood sank at the prince’s words. No place would serve as a better central point than the Thirsty Dolphin when it came to finding bets and challenges as well as information. The word "build" applied to camp only worsened the situation. He pictured moats, palisades and wooden stake defenses hovering amidst the simple tents and bed rolls, and the image might have seemed humorous had the realization of a night of painstaking labor not accompanied it. "Master, there’s a wonderful inn in town."

“Sudian." Prince Edward glared at his squire. "I didn’t ask for a travelogue, I said we set camp here." A cart jostled by, metal chains in the bed clanking. The gelding lurched, all but tearing free of Edward’s grip.

Nightfall guessed at the reason for Edward’s insistence, and the prince’s pride annoyed as much as it impressed him. "Master, I apologize deeply for my boldness, but I am aware that we’re short of money.”

Edward’s glower deepened enough to almost make the young, friendly innocent look angered. How much of it was inspired by the horse and how much by his squire did not matter. The risk of his master’s disapproval and a tongue-lashing seemed little price to pay for a chance to spend his nights in an inn. And Nightfall already trusted the prince not to harm him physically, at least not without cause far more significant than this.

“I’ve been meaning to return this to you, Master." Nightfall pulled one of the silvers from his pocket. "You gave it to me in Nernix to buy the spade I never found." He met Edward’s displeasure with an expression of hopeful trust. "Master, I can’t stand the thought of you sleeping on hard ground with beds so near. At least you go to the inn. I’ll spare our money by staying here."

The sacrifice, though insincere, softened Prince Edward at once. He accepted the coin, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. "Of course I’ll stay at the inn and you’ll stay by my side. This should buy us a week’s lodging for both or a half week with three meals included."

Nightfall hesitated, uncertain how far necessity demanded he carry his shallow humility.

The prince saved Nightfall the need. "If I go alone, who’ll taste my food for poison?" He grinned, clearly joking. Nightfall smiled back, pleased to discover the solemn visionary had a sense of humor. He did not know whether to feel glad or endangered that ignorance and lack of experience counted more for the prince’s foolishness than the inherent stupidity he had credited. Eventually, he believed, Edward could learn sarcasm. Then, watch out King Rikard and Alyndar. The idea of even this cunning vengeance seemed sweet, but Nightfall found the thought of educating Prince Edward intriguing as well. Time was telling that, once he gained some insight and abandoned the arbitrary traditions hammered into royalty from birth, Edward might prove a competent leader after all.

"Let’s go." Prince Edward gave an abrupt jerk on the gelding’s lead rope that brooked no nonsense. The animal followed docilely, though its ears remained pricked like sentinels and it rolled its eyes to the whites. Nightfall handled chestnut and bay together, both alert but compliant. He took the lead as swiftly as propriety allowed, choosing a route to the Thirsty Dolphin that would not reveal the nearer and cheaper inn the farmer had mentioned. He kept to the main streets, dodging foot, cart, and horseback traffic, focusing on detail and letting his natural wariness absorb the familiar background bustle of Trillium. Edward trailed without question or complaint, his eyes flickering from sight to sight.

Upon arrival at the stone and mortar inn, Prince Edward headed inside to tend to the room and payment while Nightfall took care of animals and packs. Juggling three horses became a nuisance even for Nightfall. Every slight movement of one caused an excessive opposite reaction of the others, and their pulls unbalanced him twice before he mentally doubled his weight to anchor. At the stable door, he took all three ropes into one hand. Precariously balanced, he raised a fist to knock.

Without warning, the wooden door whipped open from the inside with swift, unnecessary force. A heavy-set, bearded Mitanoan in merchant silks huffed through the entrance, apparently oblivious to squire and horses standing directly in his path. He bashed into Nightfall, the sudden obstacle and all its extra mass staggering him. The gelding reared, ripped free, and charged for the barn entrance, churning road dirt over both men.

The merchant roared at the insult.

Nightfall dropped his weight to normal. "I’m so sorry, sir." You big, clumsy ass. "I didn’t see you."

"Didn’t see me?" The merchant rose, and Nightfall read violence in his stance and expression. "Didn’t see me?"

Anticipating a warning slap, Nightfall did not dodge. Better to let the man defuse his anger with a simple act of brutality than enrage him further. The Mitanoan’s fist crashed against Nightfall’s cheek hard enough to send him sprawling. "Stupid, snotty slave.” A boot toe slammed into Nightfall’s ribs. A second kick rushed for his gut. Nightfall twisted from its path, then curled back to catch the leg. Instinct took over. He wrenched at the captured limb, yanking the man to the ground. An instant later, Nightfall had a knife blade at the other’s windpipe. The control he had harnessed through years of playing various commoners was all that rescued the merchant from death.

Outrage formed a tense mask on the man’s face. "The penalty for murder is stiff. You’ll die in slow agony."

"Probably," Nightfall returned, not bothering to inform the merchant that, had Nightfall wanted to kill him, he would already be dead. "But think where you’ll be." Unobtrusively, he slipped the merchant’s purse from its pocket and into his own.

A trickle of fear in the merchant’s eyes betrayed some false bluster.

Nightfall sheathed the knife and rose. Bared steel would attract attention he did not need or want, and it would make him seem the aggressor. The white gelding stood just inside the barn, under the control of a stable boy who feigned disinterest in the proceedings outside. The bay and the chestnut dropped their heads to search for strands of grass between roadside and dwellings.

The man scurried beyond reach, but he did not let the matter drop. "You’ll be beaten soundly for this, maybe killed. I’ll see to that. Who’s your master, slave?"

Through the open doorway, Nightfall saw the stable boy curl his fists impotently. He had gained an ally more, he guessed, from a common enemy than any bond of friendship. “First, sir…" He gave the title the same disdainful pronunciation as the man had given slave, "… do you see a collar here?" He flicked his fingers across his own neck in an unmistakable throat-slitting gesture. There is no slavery in the north. It’d do you well to remember that. Second, my master is Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar. Call me slave to him, and you might face worse than what you got." He flashed a toothy smile. “He’s bigger. Third, sir you can tell him what you wish, but the bruise on my face will prove far more telling than the one to your damned pride." He snatched up the bay’s lead rope, then the chestnut’s, and headed for the stable.

The merchant stammered, but he did not try to interfere physically again. He stormed toward the Thirsty Dolphin.

By the time Nightfall hauled his charges inside, the stable boy had already stripped the tack from the errant gelding and shut the horse into a stall. Taking the bay’s lead rope, the youngster hauled off saddle and bridle, then led it to the next stall. He gestured for Nightfall to place the chestnut in the one beyond it. After adding pack, saddle, and leading halter to the pile, Nightfall did so. Only then, he examined his helpmate. He looked to be twelve or thirteen, reasonably well-proportioned and sized for his age. Black hair hung in a straight curtain down his neck, and uncombed bangs fell into his eyes. Beneath the left cheek, an angry area of redness and swelling indicated that he had taken a recent blow.

Nightfall guessed its source at once. "Did he hit you, too?"

The boy turned away, tugging open a small door built into the white’s stall. He nodded, without meeting Nightfall’s gaze. "Some of the ones from west is like that. They think ’cause slavery’s legal here they can treat everyone what works for board instead of money like they’s owned." He hefted Edward’s saddle, dragging it to the compartment. He lugged it inside, then closed and locked the door. Finally, he met Nightfall’s gaze with pale green eyes. "Thanks." He explained. "For what you done out there." He waved toward where the confrontation had occurred. "I know you didn’t do it for me, but it sure guv me some joy."

Nightfall moved the other two saddles near their respective stalls.

“You don’t gotta help, sir. Your horse’ll get special treatment just for what you done already."

"I insist." Nightfall paused, one hand on the compartment built into the bay’s stall. The work seemed simple enough and the time away from Edward a pleasure. It gave him something to do while his anger faded. Besides, he was beginning to understand Dyfrin’s obsessive insistence on helping others and the favors that attitude garnered in return. Many treated stable boys as nonexistent, though they saw and heard much of significance. At the least, it would ascertain good care for the horses and assistance should a fast escape become necessary. Placing a hand in his pocket, he counted the merchant’s coins through the fabric of his purse. Money and its relative value remained consistent throughout the kingdoms. Only the pictures inscribed on the surfaces varied. He identified two silvers and seven coppers. “Here." At first, Nightfall thought to hand over the coppers, but he would need smaller change to get the betting started. Instead, he offered a silver.

The boy stared at the coin, wide-eyed. Then, apparently concerned Nightfall might take it back, he snatched it from the squire’s fingers. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."

Hardly pays for the dignity the bastard stole from either of us, but it’ll have to do. Nightfall responded to the gratitude with a nod and helped the boy stow saddles and bridles. "My name’s Sudian. Right now, the title ‘sir’ doesn’t seem like much of a compliment.”

“Mine’s Benner Morik. Let me know what I can do for you and your master." He rummaged beneath a pile of rags and pulled out a handful of leafy, translucent stems. Taking one, he crushed it, rubbing the pulp onto the bay’s neck.

Nightfall recognized the boy’s surname. It tied him into a network of cousins splashed through the town as menial laborers, tavern waitresses and merchant’s helpers. The boy’s abstraction interested him more. "What are you doing?"

The boy beamed, clearly glad to finally earn the favor Nightfall had shown him. "This is for special customers only. Keeps flies away."

“Really?" Nightfall had never heard of such a thing before. He reached out for a stem, and Benner obliged him. It felt tough and stringy, though the stem held plenty of juice. He sniffed at it. It had no odor. “How’s it work?"

"Don’t know," the boy admitted. "But it works real good.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Thought about rubbing rotten melons all over that sir’s horse to bring flies, ’ceptin’ it’d be cruel to torture the animal for its owner’s nastiness."

Nightfall agreed, though he gave the conversation only half his attention. "Its lot’s probably bad enough? He glanced at the stem in his hand. "Do you mind if I keep this?"

"Go ’head. Just don’t go showin’ it to ever’one, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, I’s gonna be spending ever’ moment of my life rubbin’ horses, and l ain’t gonna get nothin’ else done."

"Our secret," Nightfall consented happily. The fewer people who knew about the fly repellent, the more useful it became to him. He lifted the packs.

Benner gave him a pained look. "Luck with your master. Hope you don’t git in too much trouble for what happened."

"My master’s fair." Nightfall had only a vague idea how Edward would react when propriety clashed with morality and loyalty. He believed King Rikard’s assessment that Edward would not hit him, at least not without just cause; the prince’s actions so far had assured him of that. Yet, he wondered how the prince, being ignorant of the oath-bond, expected to keep Nightfall obedient and tractable without some show of dominance. As Nightfall, he had gotten his way on most occasions by the threat of danger alone; his reputation precluded the need for violence.

Nightfall considered his early years, before he had a reputation or even a name. Then, he had proven his prowess well enough, not by random beatings but by demonstrating his agility or his skill with knives. He recalled a day, years ago, when he, as Marak the sailor, served as a crew member of a merchant ship that pirates commandeered halfway across its route. An image of the sea filled his mind, a rickety, flagless ship low in the water from the weight of catapults and stolen cargo. His nose wrinkled from the remembered odors of salt, unwashed flesh, and blood. He had watched the pirates slaughter his crewmates gleefully, one by one; and, by the time they came to him, he had already unknotted his bonds. He recalled ducking beneath the ax stroke meant to decapitate him, the moans of the dying, planks washed red and slick with blood. He had made it to the railing, stealing three daggers from pirates en route. "Kill me and lose the best man you ever had." From the upper deck, he had pointed to the captain below. "That knothole beside your captain has drawn its last breath.” It had seemed a desperate bet, an impossible throw that required perfect judgment of gravity, angle, and backspin. A miss would have assured humiliation as well as death. Had he accidentally struck captain or crewman, he would have met a prolonged agony of torture. But the stolen knife had flown true, and he alone survived the pirate’s capture.

Nightfall recalled his own reaction to his mother’s ferocity, the love/hate relationship she had inspired. A stranger, who inflicted her sessions on him would meet a swift death, but the ties of blood had crippled him from any consideration of vengeance. He wondered why slaves did not revolt and kill masters like this merchant, and many answers came without need for consideration. Fear of punishment. Fear of starvation. Fear perhaps, of freedom itself. The unknown. Still, Prince Edward’s compassion did not seem the answer either. Without the oath-bond, Nightfall would never have served him, and even the younger prince’s family seemed little pleased by the need to associate with him at all.

"Maybe Amadan’ll let the whole thing go. Maybe he won’t tell your master."

Nightfall doubted the merchant would allow the matter to drop, even for a few moments. It did seem better to allow the stranger to present his version of the story with-out interruption and give Edward at least a few moments to consider it before Nightfall defended his actions. “Good eve."

"Good eve,” Benner returned, though the afternoon sun still hovered halfway between midday and sundown. Despite Nightfall’s bold dismissal, the boy cringed before turning to continue his work. Clearly, his master would not prove as gentle under the same circumstances.

Nightfall stepped back out into Trillium’s streets, immediately lost amid the broad mixture of racial dress and features. Dumping the coins loose into his pocket, he ditched the merchant’s purse in an empty alleyway, grinding the fabric into the dirt. An attack he could explain away as self-defense, a theft he could not. Hugging the packs more tightly, he took a deep breath and headed back toward the Thirsty Dolphin.

Prince Edward Nargol drank a mediocre-tasting beer at a table in the common room, watching the Thirsty Dolphin fill with patrons that spanned a wide variety of features and dress. Males outnumbered females by a vast majority, and the latter seemed mostly to take the secondary roles: barmaids and servants. A few young ones slunk from table to table, gyrating hips and jiggling breasts as they walked. These would speak with men in soft tones until one rose and accompanied her through the back doorway that led to the inn rooms. Edward wondered about the purpose of these meetings, though the demeanor of those involved suggested something clandestine or sexual. The seductive dress and sinuous movements of the women excited Edward, despite his best attempts to keep his mind elsewhere, and made him long for a girlfriend of his own. For a fleeting moment, he envied his brother, wishing he could drop his crusade, stay home, and find a woman to mutually please. He stifled the idea, appalled and embarrassed at once. The Father had given him a mission, a gift and an honor too few men received. If he remained a virgin until he completed the god’s bidding, heroes had made greater sacrifices.

An adolescent girl a few years younger than himself shimmied by, clothing so tight he could see the outline of her nipples, distinct against the fabric. He sipped his beer, trying politely not to stare. Yet, against his will, his mind undressed her, flashing him an image of naked flesh that stimulated him to erection.

Eyes locked on the passing beauty, Edward did not notice the stranger standing over him until the other made a cautious noise of greeting.

Mortified, the prince tore his gaze from the girl and placed it squarely on the man before him, a stout, middle-aged stranger. Edward blushed, feeling as if he had broadcast all of his unholy thoughts to every person in the common room. Yet, only the man studied him.

"May I buy your drink, good Prince?" the man said, his dress revealing high station short of nobility.

Prince Edward found his thoughts difficult to focus. "Excuse me?"

"May I buy your drink?" he repeated.

The request confused Edward. "Well, I suppose so. If you wish." He set down the mug. "But wouldn’t you rather have one of your own?"

The man stared, as taken aback as the prince. "Are you Prince Edward Nargol from Alyndar?"

"I am."

"Noble sir, my name is Amadan Vanardin’s son. I’m a merchant. Is it all right if I join you?" He gestured at a chair.

"Certainly."

Amadan sat. “And I’d like to pay for your drink for you, sir. Would you mind?"

"Mind? Certainly not." Edward found the request odd, but he appreciated it. No one had ever offered to finance his beer before. “What a nice thing to do. Thank you."

Amadan gestured at a barmaid, then returned to the conversation. "How’s the beer, sir?"

"Lousy," the prince admitted. "But it did take the edge from my hunger while I’m waiting for dinner."

"Then it served some purpose, at least." The merchant smiled to indicate a joke, but his hands moved constantly from flat on the tabletop to clasped to his lap, as if he could not figure out where to place them.

Prince Edward could not fathom a man so nervous in his presence. He grinned back, trying to place the other at ease.

A barmaid hastened over, dress fluttering, long dark hair in disarray. Though harried, she still managed a smile for the attractive, young prince. "Is this the gentleman you were waiting for, noble sir?"

Edward thought he sensed disappointment or displeasure in her tone; but, as that made no sense, he dismissed it. "No. He’ll be along soon."

She turned her attention to Amadan, and all of the breezy friendliness left her. "What can I get for you, sir?”

“Beer," Amadan said, then glanced at Edward. "Do you need another?"

Edward shook his head without bothering to assess how much of his drink remained. It would be impolite to impose on this stranger’s generosity.

The barmaid spun on her heel, striding back into the crowd.

Amadan replaced his hands on the table, tapping them. He wore two silver rings on one finger, the inner one loose, and these rang together with every movement. "I need to talk about a sl…" He caught himself, "… a servant of yours."

"A servant of mine? Sudian?"

"He’s a servant, lord. I didn’t ask his name."

“I have only one servant here." Edward sipped his beer. "Go on."

Amadan’s gaze dodged Edward’s. "I don’t know how to tell you this, except to just tell you." Now, he met the prince’s soft, blue eyes. "Lord, your servant threw me down on the ground, held a knife to my throat, and threatened my life."

Edward could not have been more surprised had the merchant told him his squire had sprouted wings and flown to the moon. Confusion kept emotion at bay.

"Sudian?"

The merchant stared, mouth a grim line. Clearly, he had expected more reaction. "He named you as his master. And he wore your colors."

Prince Edward needed confirmation of what he believed he had misheard. "Sudian threw you on the ground, held a knife to your throat, and threatened to kill you?"

"Yes, lord."

The next question followed naturally. "What did you do to him?”

Amadan blinked, now looking as bewildered as Edward felt. Then, apparently believing he had misunderstood the intention of the question, he twisted it to cover consequences rather than motivation. "I hit him, of course, lord. As I would punish any impertinent slave. But certainly not hard enough to make up for-"

Rage boiled up in Edward. "You hit him?" He slammed his mug to the tabletop. Beer sloshed over his fist. "You hit my squire! How dare you hit my squire!"

"I don’t believe this!" Amadan leapt to his feet. "Your slave tries to murder gentry, and you’re yelling at me?"

Edward kept his head low, trying to control his temper, the memory of the dead slaver still as fresh a reminder as the scar the whip had left on his face. “That is the second and last time you refer to my squire, or any servant of Alyndar, as a slave." He flicked his gaze up to the merchant without moving his head. "Sudian’s been with me a long time." Even as he said the words, the prince realized that he had misspoken. Little longer than a month had passed since the squire had joined him in the courtyard. It only seemed long because of Sudian’s fierce loyalty and all that had happened since leaving Alyndar. "He wouldn’t harm anyone unless he saw them as a threat to me."

Amadan seized the back of his chair and leaned toward Edward. "Lord, if he thinks I’m such a threat to you, why isn’t he here now defending you?"

"Then he saw you as a threat to him. It’s one and the same to his thinking.” He quoted Nightfall. "You see, if he’s dead, he can’t protect me."

"A threat to him?" The merchant resumed shouting. "He’s a servant, by the great Father’s beard! Of course I’m a threat to him. If one of my slaves did what he did, I’d have them publicly flogged to death."

The idea shuddered horror through Edward, and he cringed at the image of every lash. He despised the thought of any person owning another, but the idea of one so brutal doing so enraged him to the edge of violence. His hand blanched on the mug. He had vowed to free the slaves, and this seemed as good a place as any to start. "Are these slaves of yours here?"

Amadan made a vague gesture into the crowded barroom. "All three, lord."

"How much would it cost to buy them from you?"

Amadan stared, clearly surprised and ruffled by the diversion. "I didn’t bring them to sell, Lord. It’s easy enough to buy some of your own. What I want to know is…" He leaned closer, gray eyes boring into Edward’s blue, "… how are you going to punish that snotty, little bastard who doesn’t know his place?"

The insults shoved Edward over the edge. Control lost, he rose, his massive shadow spanning the table. "I’m going to tell the ‘snotty, little bastard’ that the next time a merchant brutalizes him, he shouldn’t threaten to kill him." His voice deepened, gaze unwavering. “He should just kill him.”

"You’re joking."

“Hit my squire again and find out if I’m joking." Having spoken his piece, Edward retook his seat, seeking the self-control he had lost in the Hartrinian camp in Alyndar… and now once again. As much as he wanted to free the man’s slaves, he had no intention of murdering anyone to do so. The god-given right to dignity extended to slavers as well as to slaves, to evil as well as to good. Edward wished slaves and masters could trade places one day each week, to see the world from the other side every time they raised a whip. Then, he guessed, every man would feel as strongly about freedom and self-respect as he did. "Now, how much would it cost to purchase your slaves?"

Amadan curled his lower lip, his face a study in hostility. "More than you’ll ever have." He whirled, storming deeper into the common room.

As Prince Edward watched Amadan go, he noticed for the first time that the conversations at every nearby table had ceased. The eyes that did not follow the blustering merchant fixed directly on Edward. He smiled politely, noticing that each patron glanced away when their gazes met, embarrassed to be caught staring. Gradually, the dull hum of conversation resumed at its normal background volume. Nevertheless, Edward noticed when Amadan returned to his table and his slaves. In a bold display obviously intended for the prince, he grabbed the one female of the three by the hair and a breast, jerked back her head, and planted a sloppy kiss directly on her mouth. She quivered but did not resist.

The sight left Edward cold even to the cultivated allure of the barflies and prostitutes for the rest of the night. Tears filled his eyes, and he cried for the pain of those three and so many others.