The Return of Nightfall (58 page)

Nightfall could never remember having believed in an afterlife, or even in the gods themselves. “There is no haven for the victims of sorcery.”

Tears filled Delmar’s eyes, and Nightfall released him. Though he followed a dangerous path, evil had not yet corrupted the boy of emotion. Nightfall doubted Delmar would try to run; he would find no solace in the House of Xevar now.

The room fell into another hush, this time punctuated by the sniffles of two men attempting to regain composure. In the lapse, realizations pulled together: one a description, the other a feeling. Cherokint had described one of the talented as “a man with a knack for talking the others out of their fair share of food,” and Nightfall still had no explanation for why he had trusted a lying bastard like Xevar, why, even now, he could not dredge up the necessary outrage and abhorrence to butcher Xevar like the pig he was.
Xevar isn’t natally gifted. And he wasn’t selling slaves to sorcerers; Xevar
is
the sorcerer.
Nightfall considered how such a talent could serve a man like Xevar, to raise trust where none should exist. It would help in so many ways: soothing those he ruffled, convincing clients to buy at unseemly prices, lulling innocent gifteds to slaughter. Xevar had the perfect cover for a murderer as well. A master had every right to kill a slave of any age or type, no reason required.

Understanding sent a chill through Nightfall. “Cherokint, Delmar,” he spoke words that had never before come out of his mouth in demon guise, “I’m going to need your help.”

The two men stared, offering no commitment.

“To rid the world of a sorcerer.”

A light shone in Cherokint’s eyes, despite the tears. Still held in place by Nightfall’s knives, he clearly saw his cooperation as atonement. “Just let me know what I can do.”

Delmar formed an uneasy smile. “I’ll help, too. If I can.”

Surely both men knew refusing Nightfall was not a viable option, yet they both clearly appreciated the chance to help him. Their eagerness seemed sincere, and Nightfall trusted his ability to read people. It had failed him only once, and he now knew exactly why: sorcery.

As the plan took shape in Nightfall’s mind, he instructed his willing helpers. “Cherokint, we’ll need your most able assistant. And your wife, if you’re absolutely certain she can play a part and keep a secret. They will have to convince your House, and everyone associated with it, that you’re dead.”

Cherokint looked aghast, but he nodded.

“I’ll also need to know as much as I can about the talents of those gifted you . . .” Nightfall bit back the word “sacrificed,” as it seemed too cruel under the current circumstances. “. . . sold to Xevar.” Nightfall did not wait for a reaction before addressing his other conspirator. “Delmar, from you, I need details. The specifics of the House of Xevar, names as well as places.”

Delmar nodded.

“I’ll also need to know . . . you.”

That obviously caught the youth off guard. “Me?” Delmar squeaked. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Nightfall said, planning out his disguise. “Soon enough, my young friend, you will.”

Chapter 22

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

R
AIN FELL IN A COLD and lazy drizzle that warped vision to a gray haze. The citizenry of Hartrin bustled through the streets, cloaks wrapped tightly and held in place with fingers wound through the fabric. Most hid beneath their hoods, and many grumbled epithets about the weather. No one seemed to notice Nightfall, huddled into Delmar’s cloak, as he headed through the masses toward the House of Xevar.

Nightfall had waited as long as he dared, allowing Cherokint, his wife, and his most trusted to set up the situation in his House while Nightfall grilled Delmar on every aspect of the boy’s life: from his interactions with Xevar’s slaves and other servants to his mannerisms and routines. Nightfall had regathered his many knives and daggers. They had even managed to snatch a few precious hours of sleep before Nightfall became concerned about arousing suspicions at the House of Xevar over Delmar’s long absence. Late morning found him in the sodden streets, wishing, along with most of the populace, that either the sun would emerge or the rain would come down in proper pelting sheets. Experience had taught Nightfall that the rain no longer bothered him once it completely soaked him. A sprinkle, especially one as dreary as this, tended to hold him in a chronic state of damp discomfort.

Fully ensconced in his disguise, Nightfall gave little consideration to Edward for the moment. Assuming the sagging posture of a typical adolescent, he knocked on the door several times with knuckles whitened from the cold.

For several moments nothing happened. Water dribbled from the roof in a steady trickle onto Nightfall’s head, soaking his hood and the unkempt, now sandy hair below it, cut to Delmar’s length and style.

The door edged open to reveal a man tall enough to scrape his head on the ceiling, with enormous hands and a remarkably coarse and homely face. “Hi, Deek,” Nightfall said tiredly in Delmar’s voice, using the nickname for the giant that the young man had told him.

“Hi, Del,” the man returned in a booming voice. “You look awful.”

“Thanks.” Nightfall stepped into the entry room and stripped off his hood, prancing into a nervous sidle designed to look adolescent awkward. “Where’s the master?” Peeling off the sodden cloak, he dropped it on the floor beneath an overburdened rack of hooks.

“He’s with a client.” Deekus jabbed a finger as big as a sausage toward the next room, one of several bargaining areas, Nightfall now knew.

Nightfall headed in the indicated direction, feigning exhaustion and fright. Slaves huddled around both entrances, trying to discover the fate of whoever had come up for sale. Nightfall ignored them, slouching into the entryway so Xevar could see him around the client. He waited several moments as the slaver spoke calmly, making an occasional smooth gesture to punctuate his words. Finally, Xevar looked up, returned his gaze to the client, then suddenly glanced at Nightfall again.

Nightfall dodged Xevar’s gaze, as Delmar would do.

Xevar made a motion around the client to indicate Nightfall should wait where he stood.

Nightfall did so, assuming a state of perpetual edgy motion. Though what little he could make out of the quiet conversation became lost beneath the whispers of the hovering slaves, the body language and movements of the two men told him enough. The client seemed comfortable, and Xevar’s smile, though clearly contrived, formed the perfect bow of friendship.

The men rose, their business concluded. En masse, the slaves scurried in various directions to attend the duties they had forsaken during the bargaining. Nightfall stepped aside to let the client leave, watching him head toward Deekus and the door. Xevar went directly to Nightfall and reached for him.

Though the idea of a sorcerer touching him made Nightfall’s skin crawl, he pretended not to notice. The hand fell to his shoulder, and Xevar’s voice filled his ear, “What did you find out, Delmar?”

Nightfall jumped as if stabbed, whirling to face the master of the House with an expression of abject terror.

Xevar took a step back and raised his hands in peace. “You’re a trifle tense.”

Nightfall nodded vigorously, still crouched and feigning a slow recovery. “It was horrible,” he whispered. “Absolutely horrible, Master.”

Xevar used a soothing tone. Again, he mumbled incoherently. Last time, Nightfall had attributed those sub vocalizations to prayer, but now he knew better. Dyfrin had surmised that the best way to tell sorcerers from gifted was to watch how they used their talent. Those who came upon their abilities honestly tapped them with barely a thought, but sorcerers relied on words or gestures to stimulate the captured souls.
He’s using magic on me again.
The thought awakened the rage that had previously eluded him. He reminded himself he faced a sorcerer with the ability to befriend men who should mistrust him, and that brought another realization to the fore.
I’m about to confront a sorcerer.

Nightfall had known that before he arrived, of course; but the understanding of exactly what it meant only reached him now. He recalled all three of his previous encounters with users of magic. Even his battle with the wounded child, Byroth, had not proved easy. Gilleran would certainly have killed him had he not carried one of Brandon Magebane’s spell-breaking stones at the time. Ritworth the Iceman had all but taken Nightfall’s soul, and only Edward and luck had rescued him. This time, he planned to take on a sorcerer alone, one whose known powers seemed awesome enough. From what Cherokint had told him, Xevar had the power to call down lightning from the sky and understand any language, as well as the uncanny ability to make anyone like him. Nightfall could only guess at what other spells Xevar had slaughtered and tweezed from innocents cursed with a natal talent.

Xevar studied a discomfort Nightfall no longer had to fake, then turned his attention to Deekus. “Get the mistress,” he commanded. “Tell her to meet me in my quarters as soon as possible. It’s important.”

Deekus bowed. “At once, Master.” He headed into a neighboring room.

Xevar led Nightfall in the other direction. “Horrible, you say?” Though his tone sounded only quizzical, a small smile played about his lips.

“Yes, Master.” Nightfall felt the bonds of Xevar’s spell fall away, found himself perfectly capable of hating the large, greasy man in silks who led him purposefully toward the center of the house.

Slaves scurried out of their way, heads low in respect as they passed, some murmuring greetings Xevar did not bother to return. Shortly, he stopped in front of a fine wooden door, cleaned to a sheen and decorated with scrolling woodwork that someone must painstakingly dust with an art brush. Xevar produced a key, used it to unlock the door, and placed it back in his pocket.

More from instinct than thought, Nightfall purloined the key, two others, and a pouch of silver between the time the lock responded and Xevar pushed open the door. A mingled aroma of perfume, wood chips, and oil greeted them, and the master of the house ushered Nightfall into his quarters.

Nightfall followed, still concentrating on appearing anxious and uncomfortable. Plush couches and chairs, perfectly matched, formed a circle that broke in three places for doors, including the one they had entered by. The center of the room held a combined piece of furniture that could serve as a desk, a wardrobe, and a riser of display shelves holding fancy ornaments and bric-a-brac from around the world. Tapestries and paintings overfilled the walls, clashing terribly, each demanding immediate attention. From its position, Nightfall knew which door led to the courtyard. The other likely opened onto Xevar’s sleeping quarters.

“Sit,” Xevar said, more command than request.

Nightfall perched on the very edge of a chair, but only for a moment. Still feigning fretfulness, he bounced to his feet, paced a few steps, then lowered his bottom to the chair again.

Xevar had no trouble settling deep into the left-hand cushion of the largest couch. “Delmar, I want you to save the details till Jacquellette can hear them. But I have to know now. Was there a . . . death?” Though he latched a look of concern onto his features, he spoke the last word with the tone of a man enjoying a favorite meal. He seemed to savor the sound of it.

Nightfall nodded. “Yes, Master, sir. A death.”

Xevar glanced sideways at Nightfall, who had already risen again. He clearly tried to contain himself, but had to ask. “Whose?”

Nightfall paced, driven nearly to paranoia by his own performance. A sound touched his ears from the next room, the one he assumed served as Xevar’s sleeping quarters. He stopped in mid step, cocking his head to try to catch the sound again.

“What?” Xevar demanded.

Caught listening, Nightfall incorporated the caution into his act. “There’s someone there. I hear him.”

“Where?”

Nightfall pointed at the door. “In there.”

Xevar laughed reassuringly. “Delmar, my bed isn’t a ‘him.’ And, I assure you, it isn’t making noises.”

Nightfall refused to allow words to soothe him. “There’s someone there.”

“Oh, by the Father . . .” Xevar tapped the latch and shoved the door inward. “See? Just my bed.”

Nightfall took in the room at a glance. It contained an elaborate, canopied bed with the curtains drawn back to reveal freshly spread blankets. A massive wardrobe filled one wall, and a chest lay at the foot of the bed. An opening led to a small area that held an empty chamber pot, a hand mirror, and a washing bowl full of clean water. A window overlooked the courtyard, stippled glass admitting only scant sunlight through the drizzle. Nightfall noticed only one oddity, a closed door in the opposite wall. He wondered where it led.

“See, Delmar. Nothing to worry about.”

Nightfall barely heard another shifting noise beyond the second door.
Edward?
His heart hammered. He knew from Delmar’s description that the House of Xevar had a deep lockup where they kept the most unruly slaves and punished those who earned a lashing. Delmar said a newly purchased, young male slave lived down there now, though no one knew what the boy had done to deserve his confinement. Nightfall believed Delmar when he said he had never seen a man fitting the king’s description in the dungeon. “May I look under the bed, Master?”

Xevar laughed, then waved an obliging hand. “If you wish.”

Nightfall dropped to his knees and lifted the bed skirt, finding only a slimmer chest and a pair of satin slippers. In an effort to maneuver nearer to the mysterious door, he examined the underside of the bed from every angle. Lying on the floor out of Xevar’s sight, he turned to glance at the crack beneath the door. He could see nothing specific or solid, but shadows shifted at intervals, denoting movement. He rose to a cautious crouch and slid one of his stolen keys into the lock, masking the click of its tumblers beneath an artificial sneeze.