The Return of Nightfall (63 page)

“No,” Nightfall said. “He says the baroness came to him, that he refused her, and she lied in vengeance.”

“And is he telling the truth?”

Nightfall’s eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to out-think the question. “Ned, my birth gift . . .” He did not like even mentioning he had one, but Edward already knew. “It’s not truth detection.”

Edward closed and opened his eyes. “I must admit I wondered. You have the same gift for reading people my brother had.” He choked out the words, his grief over the elder prince still raw. “You can find . . . the meaning beneath their words. That’s why I wanted you to advise me. You see what’s in . . . in their hearts.”

Edward’s words surprised Nightfall. He had always believed his promotion came strictly from gratitude, a title bestowed by a king with more compassion than common sense.
If I’m so great at reading people, why do I keep underestimating this man?
Still thrown by the use of “good” to describe his own inner being, Nightfall spoke the obvious irony. “Every heart but my own, apparently.”

Edward would not be diverted by self-deprecation. “Is Captain Celdurant telling the truth?”

Nightfall knew the answer, and the only heart he could not read told him not to doubt its veracity. “He did not sleep with his brother’s wife.”

The follow-up seemed inevitable. “Then, Sudian, we are obligated to save him.”

 

The
Seaworthy
maintained its course straight eastward, and the Lifthranians caught up to them the following day. One set anchor directly between the ship and Alyndar, showing her broadside, while the other steered a course that would bring her directly beside them. Both flew two flags: the golden lion on scarlet of Lifthran and the striped flag that announced direct service to nobility, in this case Baron Ozwalt. A third flag flew between them, solid white with a black figure of a longboat.

Every man aboard the
Seaworthy
stood on deck, some weary from the night shift. Arturo approached, dark eyes fiery beneath the rag he wore to cover his bald head. He studied the broadside of the ship in front of them, rubbing his hands. “Any chance we could just ram ‘em, Captain? Any ship what puts herself in that position deserves it.”

It was the first pirating comment anyone had uttered since Edward’s arrival. Though spoken in jest, it met an awkward silence, swiftly broken by Caylor’s announcement from the crow’s nest. “She’s demanding an ‘us-to-them. ’ ”

At the bow with Captain Celdurant, Edward nudged Nightfall. “What does that mean?”

Nightfall put the request into standard terminology. “They want an ocean parley.” Edward would understand that from his studies, with all its implied rules, conventions, and details. It required that a jolly boat or longboat carry representatives from one ship to the other for a discussion. No matter the outcome, the men in the small boat would get safe passage to and from their ship.

The captain seemed to take no notice of the whispered conversation. “Strike the parley flag.”

A pirate rushed to obey.

King Edward frowned. It was a look Nightfall knew well . . . and hated. “An ‘us-to-them’ your man said? Does that mean they expect
us
to row to
them
?”

The captain continued to watch the other ship. “Yes, Sire.”

Edward stepped up beside the captain, full of his usual vigor. Together, they made a formidable pair, the captain nearly as tall and broad-shouldered as the massive king of Alyndar. Each carried himself with a regal posture that denied insolence and demanded strict obeisance. Nightfall idly wondered if the classes highborns took included learning to strike poses of command. “The rules of parley clearly state the men of lesser status bow to the greater. It is they who should send the jolly boat.”

Nightfall could not see the captain’s expression, but he replied in a sober tone. “Quite right, Your Highness, but we’re sailing unstruck. Without Alyndar’s colors, or the royal stripes, we have no way of letting them know you’re with us.”

Edward looked up the whiffling sails to the top of the mainmast, where no flag flew. “Then, I suppose we have no choice but to forgive them their lapse in protocol.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Nightfall did not add that it did not matter. They could have carried all the world’s kings and struck the proper colors, but no one would believe them. The Lifthranians would assume their claim a pirate’s trick. “I’ll go.”

The captain and the king turned simultaneously, both wearing the same arch look.

“What?” Nightfall asked defensively.

The captain spoke first. “You seem to have quite forgotten you have a price on your head. One of sufficient value to make even Lifthranian nobility abandon the rules of parley.”

Nightfall could almost hear Edward’s mind working, logic warring with the need for justice. “Then I’m going with him. To see no rules get broken.”

“Sire!” The captain glanced between king and minister. “Wouldn’t it be better if neither of you, if . . . ?” He trailed off. None of his lowborn crew could handle this matter with the necessary decorum and propriety. “. . . if I went?”

“Fine.” King Edward strode toward the readied jolly boat. “You can join us.”

The captain glanced at Nightfall, who shrugged and shook his head. Once Edward decided something, changing his mind took an act of gods. Nevertheless, Celdurant tried, “Sire, most people believe King Edward of Alyndar is dead. It’s possible they won’t believe you’re who you claim, especially accompanied by a pair of men they consider scalawags.”

Nightfall jogged after Edward, not liking the suggestion that seemed certain to follow. “He’s not going anywhere without me.” Nightfall did not care what etiquette he broke by referring to the king in the third person in his presence nor subsuming his command. “I searched the world for him, and I’m not going to lose him now.”

The captain trailed them. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t go. Only that we need some way to prove the king’s identity.”

Edward climbed into the boat, taking the center seat. “They’ll know who I am.”

“They’ll know,” the captain said, joining him, “who you look like.” He took his seat in the bow, murmuring.“If only you had your signet, Sire.”

Edward shivered. “You sound like my captors. They said it sixty times, if they said it once. I’m not sure what good it would have done them, though. Neither could have passed for me with the best disguise, signet or no.”

The captain rolled his gaze to Nightfall, who shrugged. With all his skills, he might have managed to make Xevar resemble Edward; but without the proper words, attitude, and mannerisms, the impersonation would have swiftly failed. He took the last seat, in the stern. The pirates assembled, preparing to lower the jolly boat into the sea.

“How’d they miss it, Sire?” Celdurant asked, almost conversationally. “They seemed to have everything else figured out well enough from what you’ve told me.”

“They thought I’d be wearing it. When I wasn’t, they sent a man to take it from among my possessions.” Edward shrugged. “For some reason, he failed.”

Nightfall’s mind went back to the morning after Edward disappeared, when he foiled a thief scrounging through the inn room. He had carried the ring he discovered since that day, secreted among his knives and clothing. He pulled it out now, examining it once again: the drizzled and engraved Alyndarian symbol in its center, flanked by its two purple stones, the fine gold of its construct. He had heard the word “signet” before, in reference to a seal impression meant to authenticate a document, but he had never heard it in relation to something worn on the king’s person. Now, he put the two together. “Sire, would this object you’re discussing happen to be the ring you wear in court?”

Edward jerked his attention to his adviser, then to the object in his hand. His mouth fell open, then curled into a smile. He reached for it, and Nightfall dropped it into the king’s palm.

“How?” the captain said. “How did you . . . ?”

Edward slipped the signet onto his finger. “Celdurant, I’ve found that, when it comes to Sudian, I’m usually happier not knowing.”

Chapter 24

—King Edward Nargol of Alyndar, the demon’s friend

 

O
N THE DECK OF THE Lifthranian ship, a crowd of hired sailors, many of whom Nightfall had had acquaintance with as Marak, mingled with more than a dozen Lifthranians in colors. Most appeared to be warriors. Though they wore scarlet-and-gold linens instead of armor and tabards, they ranged toward larger, more muscular sizes, and straight swords swung at their belts. On the closed hatch stood three men in silken long-clothes: red pants too baggy for sailors, yellow coats with buttons and the Lifthranian lion on the chest, and black stockings in gold-buckled shoes. The smallest stood half a head shorter than Nightfall, though he wore thick-soled boots and a massive, wide-brimmed hat with a feather that gained him the appearance of height. A fringe of brown bangs peeked out from beneath it, and his shadowed face revealed deep-set eyes of indeterminate color, an elongated nose, and a broad, lipless mouth. Dark curls topped the tallest one’s head; and the last, a close-cropped graying blond, carried a lion-headed walking stick.

Hoisted to the level of the rail, the jolly boat still hung in midair when the captain of the
Seaworthy
shouted, “Halt!”

The sailors heaving up the lines stilled. Their gazes went to the nobles on the hatch.

Captain Celdurant did not wait for them to speak. “I’m exiled from Lifthran. So long as you fly both flags, this ship must be considered an extension of the baron’s lands. Therefore, I cannot come aboard.”

Nightfall looked down. Droplets trickled from the bottom of the jolly boat, pelting the ocean below in widening rings. He would survive a fall, since he could lighten his impact, but the others might risk having the boat, or shattered pieces of it, strike them. Even alive, a man did not last long without provisions in the ocean. “Uh, Captain . . .” he whispered.

Celdurant ignored him.

The smallest of the nobles spoke. “You have nerve, Black Celdurant. Surely, you know you’re the one we’ve come to bargain for. You’re already under sentence of execution, so it does you no further harm to come aboard.”

King Edward rose, dangerously rocking the jolly boat. “Who is this little man, Lord Celdurant?”

“His name is Johan, Sire, a hand-me-down from my father’s reign.” Celdurant never took his gaze from the Lifthranians, even as he addressed the king. “I was training to become the commander of my brother’s elite guards. When I finished, I had always planned to give this man a greatly deserved punch in his ratlike face.”

Johan’s chest puffed up, and his face purpled. Clearly, he had not noticed the title of respect for Edward hidden amidst the threat, but others on the ship had. Whispers spread among the sailors and soldiers.

“Ah.” Edward sprang over the rail before Nightfall could think to stop him. Forced to give his full attention to the rollicking jolly boat, he did not immediately follow. “It’s the lot of younger brothers, I guess. I, too, was training to become my brother’s general.” His gaze swept the deck, and Nightfall noticed that most of the men shuffled backward. “Until I became
king
instead.”

The effect was immediate. Those who had already recognized him nodded sagely or dropped to their knees. Others, clearly too focused on Celdurant to notice anyone else stared in shocked surprise, shifting nervously from foot to foot and taking their cues from the nobles.

Nightfall bounded to the deck more lightly, careful not to unbalance Celdurant in the dangling jolly boat again.

The other two examined Edward only a moment before sinking down to their knees as well. Only Johan strode forward, a sneer twisting his features. Now that Celdurant had compared him to a rodent, Nightfall could not help seeing the resemblance. “The true king of Alyndar traveling with pirates? I rather think not.” He looked over the sailors and Lifthranians with clear disdain. “He’s an imposter, you fools. He has to be—”

Following the lead of the nobles, nearly all of the remaining soldiers and sailors sank to the deck, leaving only Johan and a few uncertain followers.

Johan reached for Edward’s hand, and only the king’s warning look at Nightfall kept him from burying a knife in the nobleman’s throat. “See, he hasn’t got . . .” The Lifthranian caught the hand with the signet and raised it for a closer inspection. Sunlight struck the stones, sending purple highlights skittering over the ship and the gathering; and the gold seemed to glow. “The signet,” Johan whispered, dropping Edward’s hand and falling to the deck as if someone had cut his legs out from under him. “Your Majesty, I’m so sorry. So sorry for doubting. I—”

Don’t forgive him. Sentence him to death.
Nightfall did not bother to speak the words aloud. He knew exactly what King Edward was going to say.

“Your error was understandable.” Edward gestured for every man to rise. “Now, please, I need news of Alyndar. Tell me what’s happening there.”

The men aboard stood, but not one made an effort to attend a line or take a post.

One of the nobles on the hatch, the blond, replied. “Well, Sire, they believe you’re dead. Without a blood heir, and with your chancellor under sentence of execution . . .” Every eye glided to Nightfall, and there were nods throughout the company. They had finally recognized him as well. “. . . I’m afraid several men are vying for the crown.”

“Who?” Edward demanded.

“More than a few have submitted their names,” the man continued. “Your cousins: Abnar, Sweenar, and Honar Kolias, for example. Your Council leader, Baron Elliat Laimont.”

The other noble on the hatch added three more names Nightfall did not recognize before the blond took over again. “But, Sire, the one who seems likely to claim the throne is Lord Admiral Nikolei Neerchus.”