The Return of Nightfall (50 page)

The purse struck the mud with a dull noise that overshadowed any clinking his last coppers might have made.

The young brunet headed toward the purse, but the older man halted him with a touch. Clearly, he worried their quarry might escape in the opening created by that distraction.

“It’s all I have.” Nightfall tried to sound terrified. “I swear it.” He could feel more than hear the men moving up behind him. He did not have long to convince them.

The mugger took another menacing step toward Nightfall.

Nightfall whirled as if to run, then leaped to the right instead, dropping his weight as he moved. Launched sideways, he barely kept himself from smashing into the stonework. He scurried upward without hesitation, not bothering to find definitive hand or toeholds. Granite protrusions glided over his callused fingers but sliced his toes, and he realized his sudden jump had left his shoes behind in the mud.

“Hey!” someone shouted from below, followed by an enraged string of curses.

“Get him!” another commanded.

A hand closed around Nightfall’s ankle. He restored his mass, more afraid of revealing his secret than what these thieves might do to him. The lost toehold and sudden extra weight threw off his timing. A yank tore his fingers free, and he felt himself falling. More hands flailed toward him.

Nightfall twisted and tucked in midair. The hand fell away from his foot, and he struck the ground on his right shoulder, rolled, and sprang up running. Only one man stood between him and freedom. He tucked his head and charged, driving up his weight as he did. He slammed into the man with deadly force, knocking him sprawling. Breath surged from the man in a foul-smelling gasp, but Nightfall did not look back. Dropping his weight back to normal, he charged to the end of the alley, bellowing wildly for help. The men clattered after him, their curses echoing between the buildings.

Nightfall burst into the thoroughfare, all but trampling a man clutching two live chickens by their feet. A frenzied dodge saved the man, but the birds fled, flapping and squawking. A woman screamed, scooping up a young boy, and others leaped out of the way of Nightfall’s frantic escape. The four remaining men followed him doggedly, their footfalls hammering the street, leaving chaos in their wake.

Heads poked from doorways. People scurried out of Nightfall’s zigzagging path. A chicken darted beneath his legs. A series of quick steps kept him on his feet, but the man behind him did not prove as lucky. The chicken loosed a squeal that became a series of ear-splitting bawks, its wings fanning the air furiously. The man surged into an awkward tumble that sent him spinning into Nightfall. Legs slammed out from under him, Nightfall stumbled, then lost the battle to his failing balance. He fell backward, landing hard on his buttocks. Spinning to regain his feet, he saw another man flying toward him.

Nightfall ducked as he scrambled, but not far enough. An enormous man with a knife scar down his face crashed into Nightfall’s chest, driving him supine. His back thumped against the road with bone-jarring force. He bit his tongue, tasting blood, and pain shocked through his head. He saw the flash of a drawn knife and forced himself to roll. The steel missed his left side by a finger’s breadth, plunging into the soft earth of the roadway. Nightfall’s epithet was lost beneath the louder one of the man above him.

Nightfall seized the man’s wrist, still clutched around the knife. Strong and thick, it did not budge as he used it as a focal point to pivot beneath his attacker. The man shifted position also, dragging free his knife and arm, his bulk still pinning Nightfall’s legs and abdomen.

Can’t let him strike again.
Nightfall made a wild lunge for the dagger, nearly catching it before he realized he would have the blade. He stopped in mid-movement, rescuing his hands but leaving his attacker free for another thrust. As he withdrew, another strong hand caught his left upper arm, and the mugger leered down at him. Dropping to the road, the larger man pinned Nightfall’s arm to the ground with a knee. Another of his attackers lurched to catch his remaining arm.
No!
Once they had him pinned helplessly, Nightfall doubted they would spare him. Fierce men did not like it when their prey fought back, and this had flared from a simple theft to vengeful murder.

Nightfall dodged the third man’s clumsy grab and buried his fist in the first man’s face. He felt a pop, and warm blood twined between his fingers. The man’s face turned purple, stark contrast to the scarlet streams gushing suddenly from his nostrils. His weight eased slightly from Nightfall’s legs, and the knife raced abruptly for Nightfall’s throat. He could hear people shouting in the background, but their words blended into nonsense. He saw nothing but the livid face of the man he had injured.

Swinging his free arm wildly, Nightfall dropped his weight and jerked his legs free. Instantly, he rolled, restoring proper mass. The knife tore his collar and raked a line of skin from the side of his neck. No longer squashed, he tried to run, stopped short by the grip on his wrist with a suddenness that nearly dislocated his shoulder. Agony shocked through his arm, blinding and deafening, nearly incapacitating him. He flailed in an incalculable frenzy, hoping to keep his attackers off guard long enough to regain his senses, which returned in a wash of black-and-white spots. The grip on his wrist disappeared, and he watched his attackers running back into the alley.

Nightfall looked up to find a crowd surrounding him, including two men in the official blue-and-red uniforms of Hartrin’s town guard. A shopkeeper wearing a stained apron offered his hand, and Nightfall accepted. Once on his feet, he studied the blood settling into the lines of his right palm and rubbed the scrape on his neck with his left. That, too, came away scarlet.

The shopkeeper spoke first, “You all right, Balshaz?”

Nightfall shook copper strands from his eyes and hopelessly brushed the topmost layer of dirt from his silks. “Not really.” He glanced around the crowd, finding them surprisingly concerned. They had not gathered just from curiosity. He saw sincere worry lining many faces.

One of the town guards took over, a massive man with a head of thick dark hair, shaggy brows, and a shadow already forming in his beard area. “What happened?”

Nightfall turned toward him and studied the eagle emblem sewn onto the chest of his work linens. “I gave them my purse, but I think they expected more.” He lowered his head in a parody of shame. “I’ve fallen on some hard times.”

The other guard spoke next, a bit smaller and younger than his companion. “So you didn’t know them?”

“Never seen them before.” It was essentially true. Nightfall had never met any of those men in Balshaz guise. Convinced he had run afoul of thieves, Nightfall continued futilely flicking dirt from his clothing. “Have you?”

“Probably,” the older man said amid murmurs from the crowd. “But not that I recall.” He shrugged, and nothing about him suggested he saw more in the situation than Nightfall did. “You’re probably right. Saw you as an easy target and expected more from a merchant than they got, especially having to divide it five ways.” He tipped his head, a clear sign he believed his work finished, and motioned for his partner to join him back at whatever post they had left. “Balshaz, is it?”

Nightfall nodded carefully, still dizzy from his sudden encounter with the ground.

“I’d suggest you stay away from that side of town.”

Murmurs of assent passed through the dispersing crowd.

Nightfall rubbed his aching head. “I would if I could. I’ve already paid for room and board at an inn down that way.” He gestured vaguely toward Eldour’s. “It’s all I could afford.”

No longer needed, the town guard headed westward along the street. The remaining people all started speaking at once, mostly platitudes and suggestions.

Nightfall stayed them with a raised hand. “Thank you all for your concern. I’ll be fine.” He recognized many of them, though not with the same detail and need as he did the rogues and thugs in Hartrin’s southeast quarter. He saw customers, some regular, and shopkeepers among the mix. The number and the sincerity of their apprehension for him surprised him.

One chubby, middle-aged woman broke the hush. “Please, come stay with us, Balshaz. Who’s going to bring those Mezzinian sweets my children love so well if you’re killed by thugs?”

A chorus of agreement followed, mostly from children, including two who clung to her skirt.

Embarrassed by the display, Nightfall laughed. “Surely I’m not the only one who brings those.”

“No,” a taller woman admitted. “But you’re the only we can trust to bring good ones every time.”

More mumbles of agreement swept the crowd.

A pretty blonde approached, and Nightfall forced himself still. Touches alarmed him at any time, but he felt particularly twitchy having nearly lost his life and surrounded by a crowd, albeit mostly female. She washed the wound at his neck with a damp rag, examined it, and announced, “Just a scratch.”

“Good,” several others said.

A lean, elderly woman with long, graying brown hair piped up, “I love those southern threads and fabrics. When you buy them from Balshaz, you know you’re not getting loose weave.”

“Or waxed linen disguised as silk.”

“Or stains hidden beneath the fold.”

A sturdy matron with short-cropped hair took Nightfall’s hand. “I’m getting you cleaned up.”

Nightfall started to protest, but she silenced him with a glare that countenanced no argument. Docile as a kitten, he allowed himself to be led.

Chapter 19

—“The Legend of Nightfall” Nursery rhyme, stanza 1

 

H
IS WOUNDS TENDED, his belly full, and his torn and muddy merchant’s silks replaced with finely woven linen, including new shoes, Nightfall returned to the southeast corner against the protestations of the Hartrinian women. By then, the sun had begun its westward descent, and the already iron-colored sky turned leaden. Rain pattered on the rooftops, hiding the faint noises of the alleys, and turned the muddy walkways into a dark and mucky soup.

Believing Balshaz had a right to appear spooked, Nightfall kept his senses sharply attuned. He did not believe the same five men would assault him. By now, their anger at his escape had surely subsided, and they should have turned their sights on easier prey. In fact, no one bothered him as he made his way back to Eldour’s inn, though he could hear movement among the eaves and shadows.

Nightfall pushed open the door to a larger crowd than the previous evening; the rain brought the regulars in early. His common clothing bought him less attention this time, and the bandage on the side of his neck would likely go unnoticed. Any bruises that appeared among the manufactured pockmarks would seem normal to the southeastern crowd, accustomed to daily arguments that swiftly turned physical. Every table had at least one customer. Nightfall headed to the one nearest the bar and pointed questioningly at an empty chair.

In reply, Nightfall received only a grunt. Though Balshaz might not know the coarse etiquette, Nightfall did; and he did not question. He pulled the chair away from the four men sitting at the table and drew it up to the bar instead.

Eldour came over almost immediately. “Good evening,
uvna
.” He glanced over Nightfall’s new outfit approvingly. “Can I get you anything?”

Stuffed beyond interest in anything edible, Nightfall shook his head. “Just information. Anything turn up?”

Eldour glanced around the room, then lowered his head. “Let’s keep these conversations as quiet as possible, all right?”

Nightfall agreed with a nod. From habit, he had spoken too softly for anyone to overhear, but he understood Eldour’s paranoia.

“I’ve made your offer known.” Eldour continued to scour the common room with his gaze as he spoke. “Only thing’s come up so far are claims the man you’re looking for is dead, killed by his own slave. And the usual mystical rumors about . . . that group.”

Nightfall sat back, as if considering something of little import. He did not correct the notion that he had served as Edward’s slave; Hartrin made little or no distinction between paid and forced servitude. “Nothing useful?”

“Not yet.” Eldour seemed distinctly nervous, which alarmed Nightfall. Accustomed to dealing with killers, the proprietor usually remained cool. “But give the news of your offer a bit of time to spread.”

Acting on a hunch, Nightfall mentioned casually, “I got attacked this morning.”

Eldour stiffened. “What?” he said, with just a hint of edge.

He already knew.
Nightfall tried to make use of that fact, but the significance eluded him. “Muggers caught me in an alley up toward the outer shop row.”

“What’d they get?”

“Everything I had.”
Except Ned’s ring.
Nightfall continued to measure the proprietor. Eldour sounded earnest in his concern, but Nightfall recognized a bluff when he heard one. “Less than a copper each, that was. Scarcely worth the effort.”

Eldour laughed. “How’d you get away?”

It was exactly the wrong question for an innocent man to ask, and Nightfall called him on it. “Away from what? I said they took everything I had.”

Caught, Eldour hesitated, then went with his mistake. “I’d heard those thugs chased you right up the main street, even after they got your money.”

Nightfall raised his brows. “You knew?”

“It happened this morning. I hear pretty . . .” Eldour caught the eye of a client. “. . . much every—excuse me.” He hurried off to tend the other man.

Nightfall waited, studying the other customers. Those he did not know personally, he understood as types: the swaggering young rogue seeking a name for himself, the baby-faced con man, the wiry little thief swathed in black and hiding in a distant corner. Here in the dank, filthy alleys of slave country, they lived out dreams the normal folk shunned as abhorrent or dismissed as nightmares.