Mickey Zucker Reichert Read online

  Edward’s expression lapsed into righteous distress, now devoid of rage. "Not the time? But how can it ever not be the time to right an evil against mankind?" He pounded a gloved fist into his palm with each point. "I’m talking about every man’s basic right to freedom. I’m talking about every man’s right to respect and to dignity under the almighty Father. I’m talking about elemental, fundamental morality—"

  "Ned!" King Rikard shouted over his youngest son’s tirade. I ’m talking about you rambling in my court! He kept the chastisement to himself. Over the years, he had gained a reputation for fairness and saw no reason to tarnish it by humiliating the prince in public. No matter how much he deserves it. "Ned, I’m not going to warn you again."

  Prince Edward fell silent, his blue eyes bright, his brows raised, and his forehead creased with surprise.

  "When I’m finished here, we’ll talk. Until then, find something constructive to do. Outside my court!" Rikard jabbed a finger toward the exit, looking to the escort to carry out his command if it became necessary.

  The guards shifted nervously, apparently loath to man-handle the prince.

  But Ned made their interference unnecessary. He turned with a pensiveness that alerted his father to trouble, then marched back down the aisle the way he had come. The steward scrambled after his charge.

  King Rikard sat back with a sigh, watching his son’s retreat. The youth moved with long, solid strides, the pudgy steward jogging after him, requiring a step and a half for each of Edward’s. The prince sported his father’s iron-boned frame, firmed by weapons training, dance lessons, and horse riding. Wasted. All wasted. The king shook his head, wishing he had interfered more with his wife’s attention to her younger child. May she dance forever in the Fathers light, she meant well; but tutors, poets, and storytellers do not make a strong man or a competent ruler Ned has no understanding of reality. Rikard had wished his younger son to become a warrior in his brother’s service, a pursuit that well-matched his temper and size; yet the good queen had leaned toward the artistic and scholarly. I should never have let her hire Zakrao to teach him. He pictured the tutor, a lanky Rankellian who talked as much with his hands as his mouth and whose idea of "fairness” was based on the wants, not the worth, of a man. Zakrao would take the side of a slackard for no other reason than that no one else would and consider it justice only if the fool got his way. Now, Rikard shook his head at the memory and at his son’s retreating back. As the exit swung closed behind Prince Edward and his entourage, the king turned his attention to Leyne. Thank the gods, one of my sons will make a good king.

  The Hartrinian emissary retook his position before the throne, waiting with his head lowered and his hands folded across his abdomen.

  The king turned his consideration back to the emissary. Before Prince Edward had arrived, he had the Hartrinian well trapped into a deal that would benefit Alyndar. Now, the mood had disappeared. "Does Hartrin agree to the new arrangement‘?" he asked with little hope that it would be the case, The emissary had had plenty of time to consider the deal, detail its flaws in his mind, and think of a suitable escape from his corner.

  The emissary cleared his throat. "With all respect, Sire, I was not authorized to make that particular deal. I am, however, permitted to agree to having both countries pay l ten percent of profits as tariff, year round."

  "Done." King Rikard nodded once, keeping all evidence of his relief from his outward expression. He had tired of ldinbal’s games. Ten percent closely approximated trade agreements with the other two kingdoms. "Dismissed."

  Pivoting, the Hartrinian left the Great Hall. King Rikard watched as the nobleman departed, waiting for the finality of the closing door.

  But the Great Hall door remained open. Two soldiers in the lavender and gray of Alyndar’s prison guards entered, their lighter uniforms conspicuous against the deeper purple and silver of the royal guard. Rikard recognized one as the chief of the dungeon guards, a compact redhead named Volkmier. Then, the door clicked closed behind them.

  King Rikard’s pulse quickened. He saw the prison guards only rarely. Considering his last instructions to them, he knew they must bring news of Nightfall. Yet he also realized the facts would far more likely prove disappointing. Named for a night-stalking demon in a child’s nursery rhyme, Nightfall had become more notorious than the legend that spawned his name. Likely, he had committed only half the crimes attributed to him over the last twenty years; but if he had committed just a quarter, it was still more evil per moon cycle than most men could perpetrate in a lifetime.

  Volkmier and his companion marched down the aisle, their approach interminably long. Rumors claimed that Nightfall heard every whisper spoken to the night wind. Those who wanted an item taken, a person slaughtered, an enemy discredited or killed need only let the dark breezes carry the message. Then they must be prepared to pay, if not in gold or money, then with their own blood. Many believed Nightfall was the demon of fable come to life, but Rikard knew better. The rhyme was older than his own childhood, but the man who haunted the nights of every country on the continent had earned his reputation a scant twenty years ago and probably began his spree of crime no more than a decade before that time. Captured swagmen, fronts, and smugglers swore that Nightfall was a single man. To the one, they described him as dark and imposing, a bearded man with a wickedly scarred face, a gravelly voice, and eyes the color of blackened steel. And, somehow, Chancellor Gilleran had discovered the connection between Nightfall and a Nemixite called Marak.

  The prison guards stopped before the dais. Eager for details, King Rikard addressed them before they could execute the customary formalities. “What news do you bring, Volkmier?"

  The chief prison guard poised, halfway bowed. "Majesty, we have Nightfall in custody."

  Joy thrilled through Rikard, tainted by caution. He glanced to his right. Even Gilleran’s usually blank face held a tight-lipped smile. The king leaned forward, hands clamped to the armrests of his chair. "Raven turned him over? He’s in the prison?"

  The first answer being self-evident, Volkmier skipped to the second. "Majesty, we placed him in the security cage under three locks and three separate keys."

  The other guard completed his bow. "And, Sire, we still have the manacles and shackles on him from the ship."

  "He didn’t give you any trouble?"

  "None at all, Majesty," Volkmier said proudly. He straightened. "We had a contingent ready when he arrived. The crew had him tamed. He came as meek as a kitten. We stripped him down carefully, took everything the sailors missed . . ."

  Rikard frowned, assailed by doubts. Something’s wrong. This doesn’t sound like the Nightfall who’s haunted men’s nights for two decades. Prince Leyne’s face mirrored his father’s suspicions.

  Volkmier continued, undaunted. ". . . including these." He pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, opened the drawstring, and carefully jiggled three daggers onto his palm. Sunlight streaming through the windows glinted from razor-honed edges. Though simply crafted, the hilts did not detract from the crisply-tempered steel.

  Seized with a sudden urge to test their stability, King Rikard opened a hand to reach for the daggers. Before he could move, Volkmier answered the unspoken question.

  "Perfectly balanced for throwing, Sire."

  His curiosity addressed, King Rikard redirected his gesture, tapping the chair arm with an open hand. The knives meant nothing; any sailor or traveler might be expected to carry a utility blade or two. But most sailors could not afford even a single knife of the quality of those that sat in Volkmier’s hand. Still, he wanted more convincing evidence. "What else did you get from him‘?"

  Volkmier flexed his arm, flicking the daggers back into the pouch. "Just clothing, Majesty. Filthy and ragged."

  Rikard stroked his sculpted, gray beard thoughtfully. “I want to know what and who this man is. Use the torturer if necessary, but sparingly? We only need him to admit to one murder to justify execution, but I don’t want an innocen
t man whipped into a confession. "I want the truth.”

  Volkmier bowed.

  "Dismissed."

  Volkmier and his companion headed away from the Great Hall.

  King Rikard did not bother to watch their departure. Instead, he turned his attention to Chancellor Gilleran. The sorcerer’s face had returned to its expressionless mask, yet his eyes burned like pale flames and the hands that lay in his lap were tensely clasped as if in anticipation.

  The king conferred softly with his adviser. "You’ve met this Marak/Nightfall before?"

  Gilleran shook his head, not bothering with words.

  "But you’ll know him when you see him?"

  "Within a few sentences, Sire, I will know him." Gilleran made a routine gesture of reverence, though his attention seemed elsewhere. “And I hope, my king, you will leave Nightfall’s execution to me. An assassin of his ilk deserves to have his soul writhe in agony for eternity." A slight smile flickered across his features and disappeared. By the time he fixed a grim stare directly on the king, his features had again lapsed into a pall. "Don’t you agree, Sire?"

  The cold cruelty of Gilleran’s tone sent a chill through King Rikard despite the obvious logic of his words. He was seeing a side of his adviser he had never seen before. And he was not at all sure he liked it.

  * * *

  Alyndar’s dungeon reeked of must, mildew, and lingering disease. Dressed only in the loincloth the guards had left him, Nightfall crouched at the far side of his cell, the wall stones cold and damp against his back. Through the bars, he could see shifting figures in the faint light that penetrated cracks in the ceiling and a few guttering torches among as many spent ones stuck in brackets on the wall. The whispers of the other prisoners came to him in garbled bursts, liberally sprinkled with his demon name.

  The locks on his fetters had proved little more than an inconvenience. The shackles and manacles were heaped in a pile at his side, a gash across his ankle and a flap of skin abraded from his forearm the only evidence that they had once held him prisoner. Blood beaded the arm wound; its constant, sharp sting helped him ignore the rhythmical stab of the broken rib into his lungs with every breath. He clamped his hand against his oozing wrist to staunch the bleeding, skittering toward the cage door to assess its security.

  As Nightfall moved toward the cell entrance, the other prisoners in Alyndar’s dungeon fell silent, apparently straining to watch his techniques. A torch flickered and died. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the blackened wood. In the fading light, Nightfall assessed the three locks. They appeared intricately crafted, a barrier that would require a locksmith’s tools and, even then, might thwart his professional skills. He retreated to his crouched vigil at the back of the cell, too thoughtful to become concerned.

  Methodically, Nightfall checked walls and bars, assessing them with a touch. The granite seemed stable, the bars flawless, solid, and firmly welded. Other than the shed fetters, the cell was empty. Not even a wooden bowl or a straw pallet interrupted the cold expanse of stone. Nightfall’s mind analyzed every detail automatically, seeing the shackles and manacles as weapons, the sapphire ring he had swallowed as a potential bribe, once he passed it. Even the tense whispers of his prison mates became duly noted as a possible tool. Their fear and awe of his reputation could serve him in some way, should the need arise.

  Nightfall rolled his beard between his palms. Having fully surveyed his surroundings, he let his thoughts wander, and they riveted instantly on Kelryn. Again, the dancer filled his mind’s eye, unconsciously dredging a thrill of desire. Moonlight striped her white hair and sparkled through muddled green-brown eyes, her plain features somehow beautiful, her every movement as graceful as her swaying, swirling dances. Never before had Nightfall fallen prey to the guiles of a woman, the goadings of his heart, or the preaching of his conscience. But that night he had told her everything: sworn his love, admitted his identity and his profession, confessed his deepest fears, his most foolish dreams. And she had accepted his flaws, loved him for them, and conceded a few of her own. She was a prostitute, yet, to the son of a prostitute, this meant little. And the rumor he had started that she carried sexual diseases had put an end to her seedier career, a loss of income that he had supplemented with stolen silver.

  The mental image warped and faded. Nightfall’s love prodded him to believe that someone had overheard them that night, that some peeping stranger had sold his identity to Alyndar’s king. Yet logic told him otherwise. No one had spied on them. He had assured that with the same caution as he used in his thefts and murders. Twenty-six years of crime had gone unpunished because he never dropped his guard, not even in sleep. He had ensured their privacy before the talk and chosen the clearing for its openness. Had anyone come within hearing distance of their whispered heart-to—heart, a deaf leper would have known of the intruder’s presence.

  Nightfall crushed his knees to his chest, lightening himself to take weight from the injured rib. The jabbing pain eased only slightly, but he hoped the lessening of mass-stress might quicken healing. Another memory surfaced, the vision of a face he had not seen for longer than two years. Soft, dark eyes studied him from beneath a tangled mop of sand-colored hair. Though only nine years older than Nightfall, Dyfrin had served as the only father he ever had: “Marak, you have to trust some people some time," the older boy used to say with regularity. “You may make it without friends; but, with them, you can do anything."

  Nightfall settled into a more comfortable position, his legs stretched in front of him. Though he appeared relaxed, he could lunge to his feet in an instant. Dyfrin’s companionship and advice had taught him to seek pleasures in life when his mother’s neglect and cruelty had taught him only how to survive. Dyfrin had offered a friendship that Nightfall had never found again, until he met Kelryn. The older boy had seemed to read his every need and mood, knew when to press and when to back off, how to approach an issue without offending and when to let the matter lie in pensive silence. When Dyfrin’s lessons on morality failed, he could make the same point with logic; "If you can’t mourn the orphans and widows, think instead of the enemies random killings create. What good is silencing a witness if his twelve brothers and ninety—three cousins hunt you down?"

  The image of Kelryn superimposed itself over Dyfrin, strengthening until the vision of the man disappeared, wholly replaced. She betrayed me. I can’t believe the bitch betrayed me. Agony trickled through Nightfall’s chest, overriding physical pain. Finally, I dared to trust someone, and she betrayed me. Grief melted into outrage, then flared to fury. I should have trusted my instincts instead of my heart. Hatred warped the picture, and Kelryn’s features disappeared from his thoughts. She’s taught me a lesson I won’t forget. And when I get free of here, I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t be alive to forget.

  Footfalls clicked down the stone hallway of Alyndar’s prison, seizing Nightfall’s attention. Vengeance could wait. For now, escape must take precedence. He concentrated on the noise, recognizing the clang of keys and the faint rustle of mail links. Guards.

  As the noises drew closer, Nightfall sifted out two separate pairs of boot falls. Quietly, he kicked the chains and fetters into the darkest corner of his cell and restored his weight. Moving into the dappled shadows toward the center, he put his hands behind his back and pressed his legs together as if still held in place at the ankles.

  Voices wafted to Nightfall, becoming louder as the guards’ approach hushed the hissed exchanges of the other prisoners “. . . hold him back while I open the locks."

  "No problem. This is one killer I ain’t letting near that door till we’ve got a good hold."

  The conversation dropped off as the guards came into sight from the gloom of the corridor. They wore long chain shirts, belted at the waist, and wool dyed lavender and gray peeked between the rings. The taller one, a narrow-faced blond, clutched a clip of keys. The other was a solid man with handsome features and a fluffy ball of black hair that seemed to perch atop his hea
d. They stopped just outside Nightfall’s cell.

  Nightfall rose with feigned awkwardness, simulating shackles. He kept his hands poised, crossed against the hollow of his spine. A burr knotted into his beard scratched his throat; and, from long practice, he resisted the natural urge to dislodge it.

  The dark-haired guard drew his long sword and angled it for a stab between the bars. "Stand where you are, Nightfall. You move, you die.”

  Nightfall went still, assessing the two men in front of him. Both held the wary stances of seasoned warriors, their muscles taut from combat training. He felt confident he could best either with speed, and equally certain they would prove stronger and more skilled with weapons. His weight-shifting ability obviated the need to develop power in order to climb, and few of his thefts involved heavy objects. For killing, he relied more on surprise and aim than thrust and parry. He glanced from one guard to the other, trying to look nervous while he assessed them. Each carried a long sword. The telltale bulge of a dagger displaced the smooth line of the blonds’ boot. "I told your people before. My name is Marak."

  "Save it for the torturer." The shorter guard made an abbreviated jab with his blade.

  The taller one separated a key from its mates and thrust it into the lock. He twisted. The mechanism gave with a click.

  "Torturer‘?" Nightfall shrank away, his fear not completely an act. "What do you mean, torturer? What’s the charge?"

  The blond let the key fall and selected another, fitting it into the second lock.

  The other guard answered over the snap of its opening. "What’s the charge?" An incredulous half-smile spread across his lips. "The charges, if I remember correctly, include forty-seven acts of grand theft, nineteen murders, two counts of treason, one assault, and more than eight hundred and fifty misdemeanors. And that’s just in Alyndar."