The Return of Nightfall (12 page)

The guard glanced around, presumably to ascertain that Ragan could not overhear. “I’d love a few hours or days of that kind of lockup. No responsibilities. Surrounded by comfortable furniture and rich food.”

Both men stood in silence for several moments, the guard apparently contemplating the details, Nightfall biding his time.

The guard spoke first. “You’re Sudian, right?”

Nightfall nodded.

“Name’s Harvistan. You know, you’re quicker than snot from a rheumy nose.”

Nightfall had never heard that particular expression before. “Is that a compliment?”

“Slicker, too.”

Nightfall’s brows shot up. “Apparently not a compliment.”

Harvistan shook his head, sandy hair flying. “No, no. I do mean it as a good thing. You’re fast and really hard to catch.”

“Thanks,” Nightfall said, believing his forced companion meant his words as praise. “I’m really just very loyal. And, at the time, very desperate.”

The guard grunted, a sound Nightfall would have liked defined; but he knew it was not yet time to test the fragile friendship with such questions. He would have plenty of time on the voyage.

Harvistan excused himself. “Need to get back to work, sir.”

“Right.” Nightfall ignored the guard’s return to formality. Harvistan would consistently drop the title of respect when he felt comfortable enough to do so. To press now would only delay that moment. “Which ship should I be boarding?”

Harvistan turned his dark gaze toward the mule cart. “It’s called
The Sharius,
named for the captain’s wife, I think. Just get yourself there. We’ll bring Alyndar’s things aboard for you.”

Nightfall nodded his understanding, hoping he had never worked with any of this ship’s crew. It was a relatively small consideration. Kelryn, alone, had ever recognized him across aliases, and then only one time. He found himself thinking of her now: the slender dancer’s body with its perfect firm curves and almost unnatural grace, the plain features surrounded by short white hair cut into feathers, the soft hazel eyes that seemed to see right through his hard exterior to his every discomfort and hidden insecurity. Like Dyfrin, she seemed to know him better than he knew his own self, but she did not have the mind reading talent that had proved Dyfrin’s strength and his downfall.

Leaving the mule cart in the guards’ capable hands, Nightfall headed toward the docks.

 

A double-masted, square-rigged ship,
The Sharius
bobbed at her mooring while Ragan, Nightfall, and the Schizian guardsmen shared a meal mid-deck. The nine-man crew did not join them, busy checking the lines, canvas, studs, and riggings, calling to one another in the language of their creed. Nightfall enjoyed their chatter, a soothing familiarity that gave him something to concentrate on while his own escort ignored him. Two of the Schizian guardsmen hugged the rail, gazing longingly at the city beyond the docks. Neither ate a bite of chowder, nor even the coarse brown bread the others broke into hunks and tossed into their bowls to soften.

Shortly, the nobleman set his chowder aside, half-eaten, and ran a sleeve across a brow spangled with sweat. His face held a greenish cast as he stumbled across the deck to the two guards and whispered something to them. Both managed weak smiles, and all three men headed aft.

Though amused by the irony, Nightfall continued to eat in silence. For now, Ragan and his two companions could hold off seasickness by disembarking; but
The Sharius
would cast off that night, separating the men from their haven. It seemed only fitting the man who had chosen not to warn Nightfall of the discomfort some feel on a rolling ship now suffered it himself.

Nightfall watched the sailors work as he continued to eat, enjoying the salt tang in his nostrils, glad for his utter lack of responsibility toward the ship. Because of his slightness and dexterity, he had suffered the task of handling the topsail, including reefing; which, in foul weather, often meant hours of wind-whipped labor. He had sailed with many captains and helmsmen: some as old and steady as salt, others as moody and fickle as the winds, and still more tough and unyielding. The sea, too, could be gentle as a kitten or raging as a monster, often within the same hour; and, no matter their personalities or proclivities, the captains could not afford any mistakes by their crews. The Hartrinians made the worst bosses. They tended to overwork and mistreat their free-hires much like their slaves, though they rarely had trouble recruiting sailors. They commanded sleek, fast ships carrying spices and perfume for trade. Few sailors could resist the easy responsiveness of a well-made craft, and the pay tended toward the generous given the expensive cargo and the fewer number of hands with which to split the take. The slaves were unpaid, and the well-built ships did not require as many crewmen as most.

The helmsman called for a hoisting of the sails. As the sailors hauled the clew tackles and bowsprit lines, Nightfall could see the triple squares of the main canvas held no official standard. Pale yellow, they bore only the abstract image of a plump and curvaceous woman, painted with a few wavy lines on the lower yard. Apparently a private ship, it bore no ties to any kingdom.

Finished with his dinner, Nightfall set aside his bowl. The chowder left him contentedly full and warm despite the rising evening wind off the ocean. The lap of waves against the hull, and the dulling of the sky, brought a welcome sense of comfort he had not known in the last few days. Exhaustion blunted his thoughts but could not overcome the wariness that had kept him alive this long. He looked forward to sleeping, rocked by the rhythm of the swells, and wondered about the quarters. The crew usually bunked in the forecastle, the captain and the helmsman aft. Guests stayed below decks, and their comfort depended on the ventilation and the ship’s last cargo. If he found the lodgings unsuitable, he knew he could haul a blanket out on the deck and sleep beneath the stars with the chill night air ruffling over him and the skitter of wind through the sails.

Three of the Schizian guardsmen approached Nightfall; the scrawny blond with the noble’s hands, a compact swarthy man, and a graying redhead who went by the name of Ivin. The blond cleared his throat. “Harvistan says you’re quick.”

“Quicker than quick,” the swarthy guard added. “Like a squirrel.”

Uncertain how to respond, Nightfall shrugged. “I guess I can be . . . squirrel-like . . . when I need to be.” He glanced at Harvistan, who displayed his gap-toothed grin. Four more Schizians watched the goings-on with clear interest. The last two guards, including the leader, ignored them. The latter seemed engrossed in sharpening his sword, while the other had not yet finished eating.

“Show us,” the young blond said. “Please.”

“Show you?” Nightfall gathered his legs into a crouch, uncertain where this request might lead. He watched the blond for any sign of impending attack, but nothing in the young man’s demeanor suggested he intended his words as a threat. “Show you . . . I’m fast?”

“Like a squirrel,” the blond reminded. “Do something zippy and tricky. Interesting. Like, like you did—” Now the boy swiveled toward Harvistan. “Like when you ran all around . . .” He faced Nightfall again, and his voice grew louder, more assured. “. . . the duke’s citadel.”

Nightfall glanced at the other men, trying to brush off the youngster’s request as the overexuberance of a child. The men bobbed their heads sympathetically, but in every eye Nightfall read a desire to join in the prodding. They all wanted Nightfall to perform, and it dis comforted him. He had rarely considered using survival skills and his talent as a way to influence people or to make a living, only in the most desperate situations. The idea of leaping crazily through stays and spars just to entertain his escort seemed ludicrous. He had never cared what anyone thought of him, had never understood Dyfrin’s incessant desire to have people like him.

Yet, Nightfall also knew that gaining the guards’ respect could work to his advantage. At the least, he might find out why the nobleman poised to address Alyndar’s council about the king’s disappearance disliked him so much. At the most, one of the Schizians could give him some important clue that might lead him to Edward and the kidnappers. Men of the guards’ abilities tended to look down on people without definitive talent, to see them as a lesser form of humanity not worth a moment of their time.

Nightfall glanced around the familiar confines of the ship, knowing his time as Marak gave him great advantage here. The sailors continued to scurry about, cheeks flushed, brows damp despite the autumn chill. They wore bright yellow shirts to match the sails and linen pants stiffened with salt. He had no intention of doing anything that might interfere with their work, especially so near cast off, yet he knew how to dash around and even through them without so much as brushing an arm, slowing a step, or touching a running line they might need to prepare.

Without warning, he flung himself between the guards, spinning through them before they had a chance to react. He came up in a leaping sprint, covering the ground between them and the gunwale in an instant. Dropping his mass gained him more speed as he sprang to the rail and danced across it as lightly as a mouse. Exertion swept a thrill through him. He had never bothered to move so fast with no one in pursuit, nothing imminently deadly weighing upon his mind and heart. For that short space of time, he existed only to amuse; and the troubles that had distressed him since returning to the He-Ain’t-Here seemed leagues and lifetimes distant.

Nightfall caught the railing with his hands and swung down to the docks. Weaving effortlessly between passengers and dockhands, he dashed across the planking without leaving a single solid footfall. As soon as each bare foot hit, it rose for the next movement, guided always by his ability to anticipate and reroute his balance without the need for thought. He jumped atop a box, then a stack of precariously piled crates, back to
The Sharius’
bulwarks. Somersaulting over the railing, he landed on the deck, restoring his mass for a satisfying thump. The moment his toes struck planking, he was off again.

Nightfall knew the spar plan of similar ships like the creases on his palms, yet he had not often had the chance to use the riggings as his playground. He knew better than to touch the footropes and stirrups the sailors were using to loosen the billowing canvas from its gaskets, to check the tackle, and to ascertain the worthiness of the sails. The sudden change in the distribution of weight could pitch one or more to their deaths on the deck or into the sea. Instead, he shinnied up the mainsail shrouds and stays, dodging the running rigging, the buntlines and clewlines the crew would need free to set the sails. He kept himself dangerously light, both to quicken his movements and keep him from jerking anchoring lines or yards.

“Hey!” someone called in a harsh Shisenian accent. “You topside!”

Nightfall froze, one arm wrapped around the yardarm and both feet braced against the mast. He found the speaker not far below him, adjusting the iron ring at the tip of the upper yard. A heavy-set, bearded man with skin like leather, he glanced at Nightfall through dark, hooded eyes. “While you’re aloft, could you clout that topgallant stay a mite port?”

Nightfall had to stop himself from following the request unquestioningly. “Huh?” he returned, pretending not to understand.

“That stay. The topsides one, mate. Can you give it a knock a bit to port?”

Nightfall looked upward, in the direction the man had indicated. He could see the uppermost stay quite easily, and it did seem off-balanced. “I’d be happy to help you, but you’ll have to speak one of the world’s known languages.”

Balanced by his underarms over the yard, the sailor finished his job and looked up at Nightfall. “You a lubber?”

“If you mean ‘not a sailor,’ ” Nightfall said, knowing exactly what the man had meant. “That’s me.” In usual circumstances, it was probably easier for the sailor to do the job himself than to explain the nomenclature; but this involved a job at the highest point of the ship.

The sailor grunted. “Damn, what a waste.”

Nightfall fought a smile. He scrambled up the futtock shroud and swung onto the topmost yard. He had nothing to cling onto here but the tiniest protrusion of the mast and the backstays that held the fore and aft lines. The wind whipped through his hair, the gentle roll of the moored ship amplified by height. He added mass, worried a gust might take him down, though he had little to fear from a fall, so long as he angled himself for the water. His low weight would ease his descent, and the ocean would cushion the impact. He closed his mind to memories of previous, recent falls, ones that had nearly resulted in his death; his climbing exercise on Alyndar’s castle tower had done its job. Nevertheless, he usually preferred not to test the extremes of his talent.

The sailor inclined his head. “That there! That . . . iron . . . thingy.” He struggled to shake the jargon. “Near your right hand. Can you . . . push it . . . summat . . . left . . . ward.”

Nightfall obeyed, performing the task precisely while feigning ignorance. “Like this?”

“Good enough, thanks.” The sailor resumed his own work, then shouted up to Nightfall again. “You know, you don’t belong up there. You could get hurt.”

Nightfall threw back his head, letting his hair ride on the wind. The salt air smelled like perfume. The mild toss of the ship felt like the soothing rock of a mother’s arms. The cries of the sailors were music. As Marak, he had never bothered to savor those pleasures. He had found only discomfort in skin baked to leather, hands as rough as sandpaper and more callus than skin, fingernails shattered to the quick. Now, those seemed like forgotten joys from a younger, happier time. He wondered if he had discovered the secret to highborns’ happiness: without the responsibility, he could find thrills in other men’s drudgery.

On an impulse, Nightfall gauged the distance and proper arc to the water. Keeping his weight relatively low, he flung himself out and over the deck. Regret struck instantly. His heart pounded as the mast and riggings sailed past him. A maneuver meant to fill him with giddy excitement, to simulate flight, instead brought a sense of wild terror that bordered on panic. Action usually focused him, brought the world into vivid clarity that slowed time and enhanced thought. This time, mind and body screamed together that he had made a fatal mistake. In midair, he had little control of what came next. The memory of his last fall overwhelmed him, bringing back muffled memories of agony: his shoulder, his hand, the stabbing shock of every breath.