The Return of Nightfall (22 page)

“right.” When all seemed muddled, the problem had an easy answer, while those difficulties seeming straightforward usually turned into contingencies or holdovers. It felt to Nightfall as if foodless, sleepless days had dragged past before Khanwar prepared to announce the last of the nobility. By that time, Nightfall worried he would need to have a chamber pot built into the throne. If the proceedings did not end soon, he might wet his fancy purple hose.

As always, a hush fell over the spectators, though this time it seemed as weary and uncomfortable as Nightfall felt. Khanwar stepped forward. “Your Majesty, the last case in Noble Court brings an emissary from Hartrin to your presence.”

Nightfall straightened in his chair. Until now, a poor judgment could do nothing worse than stir unrest or feuds among the Alyndarian highborns. A mistake here could spark war with a country as large and powerful as Alyndar, and relations between the two countries had teetered of late. The very event that had driven King Rikard to the desperate action of harnessing the demon to his son had come out of their last official dealings with Hartrin. Then, Prince Edward had killed a royal slaver in an attempt to free the slaves the entourage had brought with them to Alyndar. Edward still bore a fading whip scar across his cheek from that encounter, the very detail that had cheated Hartrin out of blood price. Nightfall doubted King Idinbal was happy that the misguided adolescent who had caused all the trouble now ruled Alyndar.

That sent Nightfall’s thoughts on another tangent. He wondered if Hartrin had had a hand in Ned’s kidnapping. If so, he doubted he would ever see the brash young king again.

Still standing from the last judgment, Kelryn rested light fingers on Nightfall’s balled fist in warning. Though he had grown to accept it, Nightfall did not like slavery any more than Edward did. He just preferred that his charge used more subtle and effective methods to combat it.

“What are you thinking?” Kelryn whispered. As Charson had returned to his position, only Nightfall could hear her.

“I’m thinking I wish this was done. I really have to pee.”

Kelryn tipped her head and turned him a stern look.

Nightfall voiced his real concern. “Hartrin would have reason to abduct Ned.”

“Hopefully, you’re right; and this is the ransom demand.”

That thought had not occurred to Nightfall, though it became obvious once Kelryn mentioned it. If Hartrin had taken Edward, they would have no other reason to appear before him. He watched as the emissary glided down the aisle, with two Alyndarian guards in tow, then knelt in front of the dais.

Nightfall had learned he did not necessarily have to speak first if he gestured to the other to do so. He signaled the emissary to rise, noting the nervousness in the man’s dark eyes beneath a fringe of short-cut bangs. The man merely looked uncomfortable. Whatever his request, it might not please Nightfall, but it seemed unlikely to hold the significance of a ransom demand.

The Hartrinian rose, displaying the white eagle on a blue-and-red tabard that symbolized his country. “Sire, King Idinbal brings his best wishes. Had I not left before the incident, I’m certain he would express his gravest regrets on the disappearance of King Edward Nargol and the tragic deaths of his loyal guardsmen.” He bowed his head. “Sire, Hartrin shares your grief and offers our condolences. I am certain another emissary is on his way to deliver that very message in the king’s own words and to offer assistance.”

“Thank you,” Kelryn whispered.

“Thank you,” Nightfall said aloud, trying not to squirm. The more flowery the Hartrinian’s presentation, the longer the delay until he could relieve himself.

“Sire, I also wish to thank Alyndar for the hospitality it has shown me while I awaited a chance to appear before your most august self.”

Nightfall nodded, knowing he had received a compliment, even if he did not fully comprehend it. He believed the foremost intention of the line was to remind Nightfall that this man had come to Alyndar before the kidnapping so that, if his request appeared indecorous under the circumstances, Nightfall would take into account that the emissary’s orders preceded the sorry event.

“What can I do for you?” Nightfall prodded. His bladder had grown uncomfortably full, but he dared not mention bodily functions twice in one sitting. He suspected most of the spectators could use a break as well.

“King Idinbal sent me to negotiate tariffs.”

Inwardly, Nightfall groaned. He had no idea how to do such a thing. “Go on.”

“As our coffers are currently running light, His Majesty would like to propose an increase in tariffs to twenty percent. Six months should be long enough to get our finances back on track, then we can return to the standard ten percent.”

Nightfall finally felt as if he had discovered a familiar topic. As the merchant Balshaz, he had experience with tariffs, and despised them. The costs of business between the two countries was already the highest in the known world due to a series of tariff wars, the vast differences in politics, and the physical distance between them. “Twenty percent seems steep. Don’t you think it might drive away some merchants?”

Murmurs rose from the gallery.

“A worthy point, Sire, and a considerate one to be sure.” The emissary bowed again. “But the merchants always adjust. They pay a bit less to suppliers; they charge a bit more for goods.” He shrugged. “It’s only a temporary increase, a necessary one, Sire, I think you’ll agree.”

Nightfall did not know what to think. He supposed kingdoms did have reasons for raising tariffs, beyond simple greed. Since the tariffs would rise equally in both kingdoms, he saw no reason to deny the request and fuel Hartrin’s dislike for Alyndar. “Perhaps fifteen percent would please King Idinbal and still allow the merchants to make their livings.” Nightfall studied the emissary, who seemed deep in thought. The fullness in his lower abdomen had advanced to significant pain. He had to end this soon.

After what seemed like forever, but was probably only a moment, the emissary nodded. “I believe that will suit His Majesty, Sire. Thank you for your time.” He made one more deep bow, then turned on his heel and trod up the carpet.

Pleased he had handled the problem reasonably swiftly, without international incident or even the need for counsel, Nightfall sprang to his feet.

The response was instantaneous. The spectators all scrambled to stand in a frenzied rush. Bench legs scraped raucously across planking, and men jostled one another wildly. The clatter and swish of small objects falling from laps joined the chorus of shoved benches and the gasps, hisses, and warnings of men attempting to follow a protocol that Nightfall had just rendered impossible. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have reveled in the chaos he had inadvertently created. Now, he wanted only to find a proper place to empty his aching bladder. He dashed past Kelryn, through the curtained partition and into the staging room. There, he paused, trying to recall the nearest garderobe and the shortest route to it.

Khanwar caught up to him. Breathless, but still immaculate, he planted a hand on Nightfall’s shoulder. “Do you know what you just did?”

Nightfall stiffened, turning to face the tall slender man he had begun to despise.
Yes, but I’m sure I missed something. I’m sure you’ll let me know what, in intimate detail.
He kept the thought to himself. The delay allowed Kelryn and Vivarick to catch up to him as well. He met Khanwar’s glare, forcing himself to still, though he felt as twitchy as a stallion. “You can either lecture me or let me piss.”

Clearly taken aback by words and tone, Khanwar did not immediately answer.

Nightfall assisted the decision. “If you value your shoes, you’ll choose the latter.”

“Go, go.” Khanwar made a dismissive gesture. “We’ll talk later, Sire.” The last word emerged with a clear reluctance that Nightfall did not bother to contemplate. Brushing past the others, he hastened from the room.

This time, no one stood in his way.

Chapter 8

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

T
HE GARDEROBE Nightfall chose had a cathedral-cut window overlooking the dead patch of ground where the waste collected. Once he finished emptying his bladder, Nightfall climbed through the window to perch on a ledge scarcely wide enough to accommodate his narrow backside. Crouched in the gentle mist that followed the rain, he gained sideways glimpses of the nobles who used the facilities after him, as well as a full view of the less well-tended grounds of Alyndar. Even Khanwar came, glancing wildly around as he relieved himself, clearly searching for the missing chancellor. Though several of the garderobe’s users glanced through the window to look out upon the gloom, none thought to scan the ledges. So, while Nightfall saw them clearly, no one noticed him watching.

When the nobles had taken their turns, the guards arrived one by one, several appearing sheepish and chastised. Clearly, they were expected to know the whereabouts of the man they guarded. Lastly came the red-haired commander of the prison guards. Volkmier did his business, readjusted his clothing, then disappeared from Nightfall’s sight.

With a sigh, Nightfall relaxed, staring off in the direction of the city, now accustomed to the stench of raw sewage. He enjoyed the cold pinpoints of rain hitting his face, a fresh contrast to the hot, stale air of the courtroom and its stifling protocol. Now more than ever he wished for Edward’s swift return. The nobility seemed to have no difficulty sitting around and waiting for events to transpire around them, but Nightfall had neither the patience nor the faith to do the same. “Ned, where are you? Alyndar needs you!” He balled his hands to fists, dropped his voice to a whisper, and lowered his head, “And so do I.”

“There you are, Sire!”

Captain Volkmier’s voice startled Nightfall. One foot slipped from the ledge, and he tumbled into empty air. Twisting, he caught the ledge with a hand, snapped the other one into position beside it, and levered himself back to safety.

Volkmier’s pale eyes seemed to bug from their sockets. Though too far away to assist, he held out both hands. “I’m so sorry, Sire. Are you all right? I swear I wasn’t . . .”

Nightfall grinned, though he doubted it looked sincere. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” It felt good to have the quick and deadly captain on the defensive for once, though it could have cost him serious injury. “I knew it wasn’t a safe place to . . .” He trailed off, seeking a good term to define what he had been doing. He had just settled on “think,” when Volkmier finished for him.

“ . . . hide.”

No longer a sanctuary, the ledge seemed chilly and wet, grossly uncomfortable. Though he dreaded confronting the man inside, Nightfall stood and skittered to the window. “I wasn’t hiding.”

Volkmier stepped aside to allow Nightfall room to enter. “Your advisers and bodyguards would see it differently, Sire.”

Nightfall leaped nimbly through the window to land on the seat of the garderobe, then hopped to the floor. He braced for the inevitable lecture, punctuated by dire threats or even violence. The chief of prison guards had directly charged Nightfall with Edward’s security, and he had failed miserably. Nevertheless, he continued the charade, “Does even the king never get a moment alone?”

“Not in the middle of court, Sire.”

Nightfall dried his cheeks with a sleeve, certain the dampness had destroyed much of the hard work the servants had lavished on his face and hair. “The middle of court? But I thought—”

Volkmier attended to his own garb. “The nobles are finished, Sire. There are still the commoners’ cases to judge.” Volkmier appeared sincerely focused on the matters at hand; he clearly had no intention of blaming Nightfall for the king’s ineffective security. Surely he realized that, if a contingent of the general’s best men could not keep Edward safe, one man could not have done so.

Nightfall believed otherwise. If he had been in the tavern at the time of Edward’s capture, even the Bloodshadow Brotherhood would not have succeeded. Nightfall deserved Volkmier’s ire, yet the chief of the prison guards seemed determined not to vent it, much to Nightfall’s relief. Resigned to more hours of the drudgery of playing king, he nodded.

Volkmier smiled. Though not broad, it was the friend liest expression Nightfall had ever seen grace the captain’s face. “You don’t like being acting-king, do you, Sire?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to another man with absolutely no desire to sit upon the throne.”

Nightfall pondered the statement. “That would seem to me to cover just about everyone.”

Volkmier shook his head, briefly closing his eyes. “You would be wrong, Sire. Most men crave the position, secretly or overtly. You and I are rarities.”

Nightfall studied the commander of Alyndar’s prison guards, seeking some ulterior motive to lumping the two of them into the same category. Scarcely a month had passed since King Rikard had called Nightfall into the Great Hall to accuse him of murdering Prince Leyne. Then, the king had dismissed his royal guards to enable him to talk directly with Nightfall without anyone learning his identity. Volkmier had refused to leave his king’s side, even under threat of punishment, had insisted on guarding Rikard from whatever unknown threat Nightfall might pose. The guard’s presence had forced king and prisoner to couch their conversation in euphemisms and tangents, though Rikard had ordered Volkmier not to listen. “Then you’d understand why I want someone else to handle court.”

Volkmier’s headshake grew more vigorous. “Impossible, Sire. You’re the king.”

The words enraged Nightfall. “I am
not
the king! I am a poor and very brief substitute. Ned is the king, and don’t you
ever
forget it.” His hands clenched to quivering fists. “Not ever!”