The Return of Nightfall (30 page)

Dumping the contents, Nightfall hid nine of the coins deep inside his clothing, leaving the last three in the purse he attached to his belt. He studied himself in the water, which gave back a warped and colorless image of Telwinar. He practiced a limp he knew as well as breathing. The transformation hit him at that moment, deep and magical. His thoughts went to the time of year, the nearness of the approaching harvest, concerns over weather. He would need several rainless days for the hay crop. It had to be cut dry, then required a few days of sun-curing before he could store it. Otherwise, it might develop spots of rot that would poison the horses. Every raindrop dragged down its value. If it got wet once and redried well, the cows could still stomach it. After that, it became sheep fodder or went to the goats and geese, who seemed able to handle almost anything. The corn mattered, too; but the difference in the quality of the hay crop determined whether a family lived comfortably in any given year or borrowed toward the next.

Nightfall’s trepidations disappeared as he approached the farm fields swathing the area between encroaching forest and the city of Delfor. For all intents and purposes, he became the quiet, gentle farmer who had made his home here for longer than a decade. Hitching his painstaking way across the fields, he met children first, the two youngest daughters of Lloowal. The girls ran geese between the cornstalks to pluck out weeds while their older brothers and sister examined the stalks and pulled up the vines, flowers, and volunteer sprouts by hand.

One glanced up and must have said something to the siblings, because the rest turned their heads toward Nightfall simultaneously. The oldest, a girl, gestured at the middle child, who dropped a handful of drooping stems, wiped his face on the back of a grimy sleeve, and trotted off toward home. The others paused in their work to watch Nightfall’s approach. The geese also noticed him, honking and hissing with a vehemence that could wake the soundest sleeper.

Nightfall ignored the birds, which ranged in color from purest white to a soggy gray with speckles of black. They could raise an impressive challenge but only attacked when protecting eggs or goslings. Otherwise, they kept their distance, gliding away from anyone who walked directly toward them in a bunched and noisy protest, their paddle-feet slapping distinctly shaped prints into the loam. As Nightfall drew within speaking distance, he tipped his head in greeting. “Good eve,” he said, in his tight Telwinar voice.

All of the children acknowledged him with slight bows and curtsies, but only the remaining boy spoke, “Good eve, sir.” He studied Nightfall intently. “You’ve returned.”

“I have,” Nightfall admitted, his words nearly lost beneath the guttural noises of the geese. Disguised as a man of few words, he headed onward.

The second youngest girl piped in, “Billithane’s done your fields.”

The oldest hissed at her, nearly as loudly as the geese. “Arly, quiet. It’s for the grown-ups to tell him things like that.”

Hoping to put the girl at ease, Nightfall turned.

Arly huddled into herself, a hand clamped over her mouth. Brown hair dangled in strings around her face.

“I’m glad they didn’t go to waste,” Nightfall said kindly. “I hope they do him well.” He crooked an eyebrow conspiratorially, and the little girl smiled.

Nightfall continued through the fields, slowed by his affectation. The corn crop looked good approaching harvest, the stalks as tall as his shoulder, the ears as wide and long as his middle finger. The old farmers’ adage ran through his head:

The hay appeared healthy as well, thick and brilliant green without blight or mush, though he did see occasional bald areas of ground where the land had flooded or seed failed to take hold. By the time Nightfall wound his way around the edges and rows of a dozen fields, he found a group of farmers and wives gathered, he hoped, to greet him. He knew them all as neighbors, men and women baked brown by the sun, their faces craggy, their hands callused and work-hardened. Billithane stood among them, a sturdily built man who had fathered ten children, seven of whom had survived. Nightfall had hired the five boys at various times to work his crops and keep his home safe in the off times between plantings and harvests. They had proven honest, hard workers; appreciating their assistance, he paid them well. He could think of few people he would rather have take over his land. As Nightfall approached, the farmers and wives stood in silence, even as he limped to within speaking distance.

“Hello,” he finally said.

That seemed to break the others from their trances. Billithane’s plump wife stepped forward and caught Nightfall into an embrace.

The sudden display of affection startled him and sent pain lancing through his chest and shoulder, but he maintained character, weathering the exuberant welcome with only a hint of surprise. She smelled of fresh bread, herbs, and roasted chicken. Though narrow at the shoulders, waist, and hips, she had a front to back fullness that softened her hug into what would have seemed a comfort if not for the growing agony of his injury. “It’s good to have you back, Telwinar.” Though there was still the matter of land and crops to consider, she spoke with sincerity. It surprised Nightfall to learn anyone had cared about his disappearance.

Grunts and mumbled agreements followed from those less able or willing to display their emotions.

“Thank you,” Nightfall said, knowing they wanted more. They clearly itched to demand where he had gone, what had happened to him of a nature serious enough to cause him to miss a planting and, nearly, the harvest. He also realized no one would ply him for information until he had a full belly and, if needed, a nap.

Nightfall did not recall being asked, yet the group herded him toward the nearest cottage, which belonged to a couple named Paisyn and Barbarah. The men scrounged up chairs, benches, and barrels, while the women squeezed into the parlor to throw together an impromptu meal. The men talked about weather and family, crops and chores left undone. Billithane edged his way to Nightfall. “I planted and tended your fields.” Having said that, he went silent, leaving the opening in the conversation for Nightfall to fill. As always, the harvest belonged to Overlord Pritikis, but a small percentage of the outcome went to the farmer. The five fields were Telwinar’s to work as he saw fit and reap the benefits, but Billithane’s seed and effort had gone into this year’s crop. It made sense for Nightfall to offer a generous portion of the proceeds or, at least, to pay Billithane for his time. “We didn’t expect you to . . . I mean . . . we thought . . .”

Nightfall understood Billithane’s discomfort. Nightfall was under no obligation. He had not asked for assistance, and the other farmers could simply have left his fields fallow. “. . . thought I was dead,” Nightfall finished. “Of course. Thank you; and you may, of course, harvest and keep what you’ve planted.”

It was a more than generous offer.

“Th-thank you,” Billithane stammered. “But don’t you need—”

Nightfall waved him off. “I don’t need nothing. I’m finished with farming. Keep the field rights and whatever’s on ’em. My plow, my tools . . . whatever’s left of ’em.”

All conversation ceased.

Finally, Paisyn stated the obvious. “You gettin’ out of farmin’, Tel?”

Nightfall swung his head to the young farmer. “Wouldn’t you all, if you could?”

Laughter followed the pronouncement, just as two of the ladies came in with pots of juice and bowls for drinking.

“You musta come into some money,” grunted Shan, a grizzled man with a permanent slouch.

Ragged Estok added, “My pa came into some money once.”

Shan accepted a bowl from Paisyn’s wife. “
Your
pa?” he said incredulously. Estok had inherited the rights to some of the pastiest farmland around. He usually planted late, as the snowmelt left the soil sodden, and flooding in the summer often killed out large patches of seed. “What’d he do with it?”

Estok sat back with his own bowl of juice and a lopsided grin on his filthy features. “He just kept on farming that muck till the money was all gone.”

The laughter increased in volume and intensity. It was a running joke among the farmers that it cost them more to farm than they made doing it. It was an honest living, if not a consistently decent one. Most years, they could use a chunk of land for their own small gardens, which kept their kin fed and could be used as barter in addition to what the overlord let them keep for seed and sustenance.

The conversation continued over a veritable feast of pork, corn, vegetables, and tubers. Though they could not fit around the table, the women ate their own share in the parlor, and children trooped in at intervals to snatch what they could from parents’ plates. Eventually, they all had enough and pushed away from the table, though the conversation had degenerated into chatter. Finally, Billithane pressed, “So, what’s the secret, Telly? How do you make enough money to give up farming?”

“Hey, I know,” Paisyn said, still a bit of a dreamer. “You’re bounty huntin’, ain’t you? Lookin’ for that Alyndari’ fellow.”

Nightfall rolled his eyes.
That’s right. I’m stalking myself.
He gave an equally sarcastic answer to such foolish a question, “Sure, Pais. I’m chasin’ killers ’round the world with this bum leg.” He slapped his thigh.

That sent the men on a tangent. “You know, that missin’ king, he was right here in Delfor just prior to the plantin’.”

Nightfall started to school his expression to show skepticism, when bobbing heads and cries of agreement followed the pronouncement. He recalled their stop in Delfor well, back when Edward perched at the height of his noble flights of fancy.

“Fell off’n his big white horse, plop, splash!” Shan described. “Right in the mud.”

Snickers traversed the group.

“Didn’t swear or nothing. Handled it real well, ’cept he made that squire fellow clean up the horse right then and there.”

Nightfall remembered. Vividly.

Snorts erupted into giggles, and Paisyn added, “Stuff like that has to be why the fellow turned on him.”

Shan made a dismissive gesture. “It’s a wonder all servants don’t turn on ’em. Makes me glad I’m just a farmer.”

Nightfall dodged the conversation. It did no good to point out Edward’s generosity. Telwinar would have no reason to have experienced it.

Shan clapped a hand to Nightfall’s shoulder. “Don’t suppose you’ll be spendin’ a bit of that new-found wealth on some friends, eh? Tonight at the trough, perhaps?” He used farmer slang for Delfor’s only tavern.

“Sure.” Nightfall agreed, finding a happy medium between reluctance and the actual joy that accompanied the suggestion. With a mass of farmers as cover, no one could believe him a lone traveler; and, if information existed anywhere in Delfor, it would be in the inn/tavern. “I’ll meet you there after chores and buy the first round.”

Paisyn groaned. “You had to mention chores.” He rose, and the others followed, their grins wilting as their minds went back to the many things they had to do before calling it a night.

“Don’t suppose you’d want to lend a hand,” Billithane said to Nightfall as the others headed back out to their fields and livestock.

Nightfall considered. He had no wish to throw himself into backbreaking labor for no reward, especially while hiding a serious injury and maintaining the image of others. “Maybe a bit, donner. My old wounds have stiffened, and I’m out of practice.”

“Women’s chores only,” Billithane promised. “I’d just like to hear about what’s going on in the world.”

Reluctantly, Nightfall agreed.

 

To Nightfall’s surprise, he found the chores more refreshing than burdensome. He enjoyed having a companion with whom to chatter as he worked, though he had to invent most of his share of the conversation. Billithane appreciated every small thing contributed, never chiding or teasing the physical limitations Nightfall was forced to place upon himself. Afterward, they had a fresh, hot meal, over which Nightfall was made to repeat much of the news, both real and created, for Billithane’s wife and children.

By the time Nightfall and Billithane reached the coarse wooden construct that served as Delfor’s only inn, the sun had fully disappeared, leaving a clear night sky sprinkled with an array of stars and half a moon. Most of the farmers had already arrived, spending their own coppers on frothy mugs and bowls of ale, though a few straggled in even later than their sponsor. Billithane pulled up a sturdy wooden chair to join the others, who had saved a place for the man who had promised to buy the first round of drinks.

As the barmaid approached, Nightfall slapped one of his silvers to the cracked and beer-stained table. “Keep them coming until this runs out.”

“Yes, sir.” The barmaid snatched up the coin, running her fingers over the worn-smooth surface as if to memorize its feel. Surely, she had seen silvers before, though she might not have had the opportunity to personally handle one.

A cheer went up from the farmers, and the closest ones clapped Nightfall on the back. None of them would have ever had that much money to spend at one time in one place, and it would buy much more than the promised first round.

Nightfall glanced around the room, trying not to get so caught up in his role that he forgot his real mission. He knew the inn’s scarred and rough-hewn beams by heart, and the old tables had weathered many a fight and accident. The pock-faced bartender smiled at the bounty the serving girl carried to him, then jerked his chin to acknowledge the table full of farmers. The common room contained the usual assortment of city folk but no travelers. Nightfall suspected the Alyndarian guardsmen had come and gone, sprinkling enough money about to spark the interest of bounty hunters and assassins.

Nightfall did as much listening as he could, trading the tales of the rumormongers and gossips for ones of his own. But stories about wandering husbands, petty vengeances, and babies did not satisfy the need he had for information. As the night wore on, and his silver ran out, the farmers excused themselves to prepare for an early awakening and another round of drudgery and chores. Several offered Nightfall a place to spend the night, but he declined all of them. The real purveyors of information would come out in the wee morning hours, and he wanted to catch them at their most talkative. He did not expect much: a lucky clue that might steer him in the right direction or enhance the information he already had, or would get, from a larger city with a stronger maze of thieves and spies. Mostly, he wanted to test the strength and validity of his various personae, to push boundaries he had never dared to in the past.