The Return of Nightfall (51 page)

Eldour returned in a few moments, and Nightfall immediately hit him with the obvious question. “So you hear about everything, do you?”

Eldour grinned. “Eventually.”

Nightfall looked directly at the other man, careful not to pin him with the demon’s glare. Eldour had firsthand experience with the demon, and Nightfall could not risk discovery. “Then you know who attacked me.”

“Maybe.”

“And why.”

The smile became a smirk. “The right price might grease my tongue.”

Nightfall wanted to slap the sleazy, cocksure expression from the proprietor’s face. “I haven’t given you enough?” He finished to himself,
you oily little weasel
.

“You paid for room and board, and I gave you a bargain at that. The rest, you made clear, does not belong to me.”

Nightfall imagined himself choking Eldour until his eyes bugged out and his tongue lolled. His fists winched closed, but he kept his hands safely at his sides.
You’re Balshaz,
he reminded himself.
You’re honest, lovable Balshaz.

Eldour’s shit-eating grin disappeared, replaced by the false kindness he had shown earlier. “Seriously,
uvna
. What would you do with their names anyway? I don’t need the town guard poking around here.”

“Those blackguards tried to kill me!” Nightfall no longer worried about keeping his voice low. He had every right to shout.

“Balshaz,” Eldour whispered tensely. “Please.”

Nightfall glared.

“I’ll tell you this. Those men were known professionals, and you’re . . . well . . . not. If they’d actually wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be here talking to me now.”

Wouldn’t I?
Nightfall kept that to himself, also. The proprietor had no idea who he addressed. Nightfall had attributed the assault to a robbery gone bad. Now, he had to wonder whether those men had actually intended to kill him all along.
Just for asking about the Brotherhood?
The level of their paranoia seemed extreme. Every scoundrel who put himself for hire walked the fine line between the notoriety that drew the highest paying jobs and the secrecy that kept the constabulary at bay.

Eldour wiped idly at an old stain on the bar. “You look exhausted, Balshaz. Understandably. Why don’t you turn in early?”

Nightfall did not protest. He could use the extra sleep. “There’s a new crew staying tonight, so you should claim a sleeping spot while you can.”

“Thanks.” Nightfall doubted he could hear anything of use in the bar. The regulars would curb their tongues in his presence, and anyone with useful information would prefer to spill it to Eldour alone. Hunger seemed unlikely to bother him, at least until morning; and he did feel rather tired.

Eldour whisked away to tend another customer, and Nightfall ascended the stairs to the sleeping quarters. As before, he found it filled with travel-stained blankets, carelessly flung cloaks, and scattered bedrolls. It seemed easiest to claim the space directly beneath the window again. No one else would want it, and he harbored no wish to enter a shouting or shoving match with some half crocked thug who decided the corner Nightfall chose belonged to him. Taking off only his mud-caked shoes, he curled up on the hard wooden floor, alone with his thoughts. As those flooded over him, he cringed at the frenzied swirl of concerns the day’s events had previously held in check. Mostly, they centered on Edward and his frustration at finding no leads as the trail grew steadily colder. No one just disappeared without someone in the underground knowing the true story, especially not a king. Yet, even vast sums of money did not seem capable of loosening any tongues.

Though desperately troubled by his considerations, Nightfall drifted off to sleep.

 

Nightfall awakened to a sense of dread and no idea of its source, which intensified it tenfold. Without moving or opening his eyes, without changing the pattern of his breathing, he assessed the world around him. He heard nothing except the steady drum of rain against the rooftop, but his senses still prickled with alarm. Someone had broken the invisible barrier he built around himself, drawing near enough to potentially harm him.

Nightfall slid his eyes open, still feigning sleep. The sun had straggled fully below the horizon, leaving a half-moon that, though cloaked in storm clouds, still granted his dark-adjusted eyes sufficient light. He discovered only one other person in the room, a stealthy shadow creeping inexorably toward him. Moonlight glinted from a steel object in the stranger’s hand.

Nightfall’s heart rate quickened, but he gave no sign he had awakened. He tracked the cautious progress of the other man, who did not stop until he crouched at Nightfall’s side. The object in his hand rose, now unmistakably a long dagger.

Abruptly, Nightfall rolled toward the stranger, slamming into his shins. The impact made his assailant tumble forward. The knife crashed to the floor, skittering across the planking to land in a rumpled blanket. They lunged for it simultaneously. Then, Nightfall saw three more shadowy figures silhouetted in the doorway. He changed direction, mid-leap, toward the window.

A knife flew at Nightfall. He snagged it as he sprang onto the sill, and the “razor rebound” followed like instinct. Its wielder staggered backward with a strangled gurgle. In the instant it took the others to realize what had happed, Nightfall flung himself out the window, into the pouring rain.

“Get him!”

The men surged after Nightfall, footsteps trained to fall lightly against the planking. Nightfall clung to the sill, driving down his weight for the fall. Even as he started to let go, he saw more men beneath him in the alley. Fingers jabbed toward him, revealing him, and he converted his momentum into an upward swing. Instead of releasing, he found solid toeholds in the wet wooden construction of the inn and scrambled toward a roof of leather, mud, and thatch.

The men shouted in rage and disappointment as Nightfall scaled the wall like a spider. He caught the edge of the sodden roof and flung himself upward, realizing his mistake before he could stop the impetus. His now-meager weight sailed upward, driving him into another group of men, apparently stationed on the rooftop.
They knew I might climb?
The professionalism, the seamless way they worked as a group worried Nightfall, but he had no time to contemplate it. His own unstoppable motion carried him toward a swinging pipe in the hands of a brawny assassin. It caught Nightfall a ringing blow to the skull that shocked agony through his entire head. For an instant, the world went utterly black. Then, consciousness returned, masked behind a buzzing curtain of spots. His grip failed him, and he felt himself falling.

No!
Nightfall grappled for awareness as the wind surged around him, his weight still paltry. If he lost the battle for his wits, he died. He hit the ground in a crouch, unable to muster the rationality to roll. Men descended on him. He dodged them like a fish, somehow regaining his feet. They tackled him, their combined mass driving him into the mud with a force that stole his breath and drove fresh spasms of agony through his head. He fought wildly, punching, kicking, thrusting. Someone popped a cloth sack reeking of mold over his head, and he felt rope tearing into the flesh of his wrists.

Nightfall tumbled into a large sack. He tried to save his eyes and nose but found his hands bound tightly together. He slammed, face first, into a mass of rocks piled at the bottom of the bag. The darkness became complete, then he felt himself getting dragged over muddy roadways.
What in the Father’s hell . . . ?
He did not trouble himself to complete the thought, instead wriggling into a more comfortable position. He jerked at the ropes binding his wrists, managing only to tighten them deeper into his flesh. Blood slicked his fingers.

Nightfall stopped struggling, instead assessing himself and his belongings. They had stripped him of obvious weaponry, but they had not found everything in the brief period they had maintained total control over him. He twisted, folding his body, searching his clothing with his bare feet until he touched the cold metal of a knife hilt. He slid his toes around it, seeking a sure grip. He might have only one chance, could not afford to fumble it. A loose knife in the bag was a danger only to him.

Sweat dribbled over Nightfall’s body, and the effort of keeping his doubled position wore on him. He dared not make any weight adjustments. His captors would notice and foil any attempt at escape. Worse, if they figured it out, they might sell him to sorcerers; he would rather die a thousand violent deaths than suffer the prolonged agony of a soul harnessed to a madman’s will. The rocks flopped with the terrain, banging bruisingly against him. He wondered about the purpose of the men who caught him, imagining them gathering around the sack with clubs, howling with excitement while battering him to a bloody corpse.

Nightfall dropped that train of thought to concentrate on the task at hand. He managed to position the hilt solidly between his first and second toes and gradually work the blade free. A bit more bending brought the blade to his mouth. Fearful that a large bump might drive it into his throat, he worked it around with his shoulder and teeth until he had the hilt firmly clenched. Raising his hands, he ran the blade over the ropes. He felt the sisal strands parting, the wickedly sharp steel carving into the top of his wrists as well. Then, his hands jerked free, and he spat out the hilt. He caught it easily, thrilling to the sensation of the warm hilt in his grip. Armed with honed steel, he no longer felt helpless.

Only then did Nightfall start worrying about his destination. Belatedly, he concentrated on the sounds around him: the patter of rain against the canvas, the low and indiscernible talk of the men, and the squish of their boots on mushy back roads. Devoting all of his attention to hearing, he made out one more noise, the distant muffled slap of waves against wood.

Nightfall stiffened, suddenly intensely aware of the plan. They had dragged him to the docks with the intention of dropping the rock-weighted bag into the ocean. With the bag firmly tied shut, it would sink to the depths. By the time his drowned corpse found its way to shore, it would be bloated and fish-bitten beyond recognition.

Hoping the darkness and positioning hid his action, Nightfall made a small X-shaped slit in the underside of the bag. With the thick canvas breached, the garbled voices of the men finally reached him.

“Gods this bag is heavy.”

Exasperation colored another’s tone. “How many times do you plan to say that?”

“Of course it’s heavy, you addlepated pile of chicken shit,” another man hissed. “It’s full of rocks.”

Nightfall squeezed one of the stones through his makeshift hole. As it left the sack, he raised his weight to correspond with its loss, then tensed for someone to notice.

Undaunted, the first man asked, “Couldn’t we have put the rocks in at the docks?”

Someone snorted. “You going to open the sack and take a chance on losing that snarling dog?” The forward movement stopped, and Nightfall held his breath. “You explain it to the bosses; after all that work, he gets away.”

“He’s not getting far without hands.”

The voice that had growled out the string of insults added, “You don’t need hands to run.”

The reply was garbled.

Nightfall sneaked out another stone, again driving up his weight to counter it.

Their walk continued.

One by one, Nightfall emptied the bag of ballast until he felt the more regular jolting of docking through the cloth of the sack. Here, his would-be killers would notice stones strewn about on the planks. He only had a few left; he believed he could handle those in the moments he had to maneuver before he had to get himself to air. He felt certain they would take him to the south ernmost dock, not only the most shadowy but also the one that opened onto the deepest water. Experienced captains shunned the south dock or tied every spare rope to the anchor.

“Made it.”

That was all the warning Nightfall got before the sack flopped into empty space. Water seeped through the porous cloth already soaked by rain, and his added weight dragged it down faster than he expected.

Holding his breath, Nightfall jettisoned the last few rocks, then seized the fabric and attempted to tear it fully open. The thick, wet cloth resisted his efforts. For several moments, he strained futilely against it as the need for air assaulted his mind, driving out more logical thought. A string of swear words raced through his thoughts as he searched wildly for his knife, displaced by the rush of water into the bag. Wasting only a moment to the search, he found another knife, groped it free, and stabbed it through the opening. He tried to slash the cloth, but it slid limply around the blade. His already aching head seemed to grow heavier, both from the lack of breath and the pressure of water all around him. He felt the ocean’s bottom through the cloth beneath his feet. Fighting panic, he further increased his weight, which allowed him to pin the cloth with his feet. He held the slack taut with his free hand. Now, the knife glided easily through the fabric, freeing him.

Desperation drove Nightfall toward the surface, and he jettisoned weight until his clothing bogged him down more than his person. The bag tangled around one arm. He held it there; he could not risk it floating to the surface and revealing his escape. That thought brought another just as significant.
They’re surely watching. Can’t let them see me surface.

Nightfall’s thoughts reeled. His lungs spasmed, and it took an effort of will to keep from gasping in a lungful of seawater. Still, he forced himself to move sideways as well as up until he entered the safety of the dock’s shadow. Then he launched himself to the surface, breaking water just as need forced him to give up the battle. Air funneled into his throat, painfully thick with salt and bracken. No water accompanied it, to Nightfall’s relief. He doubted he could have stopped himself from coughing had it entered his windpipe.