Nightfall negotiated the streets and alleyways from habit, too familiar with his route to pay it any heed. Fully adopting his persona as Sudian, he brushed between the pedestrians with the nervous curiosity of a young, foreign servant. The act came naturally, from years of practice at playing roles, and he trusted the quiet, brooding portion of his mind that functioned, even in sleep, to alert him to any threat. It left him free to plot.
In my real appearance, I’m established as a naive and fiercely loyal squire. A perfect disguise. Yet a thought that should have pleased Nightfall made him frown instead. His own words rang false. There’s no costume more vulnerable and dangerous than one well-anchored and based on natural looks. If things go wrong, ditching Sudian would cost me my soul. And from now on, if caught, I always run the risk of being stripped down to the face too many people know as Sudian, Edward’s squire.
Nightfall wandered through the market square, his eyes seeing everything, but his mind filtering out the confused hubbub of merchants and patrons that bore him no threat. From recollection, he knew that the building that served as quarters for the dancers had no windows, only a pair of doors at either end of a long corridor. Two other means of entry came to mind. A chimney rose from the common room at one end of the hallway, but it would prove a tight and grimy portal; gaining access to it would require him to climb the building. In broad daylight, no less. If I got caught, it would be impossible to explain. The other entryway, the kitchen chute used for grocery deliveries seemed equally unsuitable. Too many people around this time of day. And, again, there would be no sensible alibi.
It was not the first time Nightfall had found a straight-forward, simple plan the most practical. His agility, training and weight-shifting skill seemed to work best with unexpected contingencies or after his scouting revealed useful details less practiced spies might miss. My best strategy, as Sudian, is to walk right in the front door and gather as much information about Kelryn’s patterns and protections as I can. Then, if I see a way to kill her and make it look accidental, my job is finished. If not, I’ll have to find a way to come back in the night. A comfortable familiarity pervaded the thought.
Suddenly, pain bore through Nightfall’s abdomen, sharp as embedded talons. Caught by surprise, he whirled before he realized that the agony came from within him. The movement splashed dizziness through his head, stealing his usual dexterity and pounding him to the walkway. Instinctively, he lowered his weight to minimize the fall. Then, feeling a hand on his arm, he restored his mass with a thought.
The oath-bond. Nightfall resisted the urge to concentrate on the benefactor who steadied him, aware he needed to appease the magic first. I won’t go out at night unless I ’m certain Ned is safe.
The pain eased only slightly. Vertigo still crippled Nightfall, and he let the stranger brace a solid proportion of his weight, fighting the urge to lessen it again.
"Are you well?" The unfamiliar male voice sounded distant through the buzzing in Nightfall’s ears.
Still concentrating on the oath-bond, he tried to guess what other condition of the magics he might stand on the verge of violating. Only one possibility presented itself. And if I go out to kill Kelryn at night, I won’t take the guise of Nightfall.
The oath-bond retreated further, and Nightfall ran with the thought. Nightfall is officially dead, and I can’t even raise the hint of a rumor that he’s still alive. Even at it didn’t violate my oath, it would be foolish.
The pain fell away. And though he had done nothing to recuperate, just the absence of the pain made him feel restive and alert. He riveted his attention on the man beside him.
Keen, dark eyes studied Nightfall from a face a few years older than his own. Light brown curls and a manicured beard framed tanned checks and an expression of concern. "Boy, are you well?"
Nightfall could not recall the last time anyone had called him “boy." Even knowing he looked far younger than his age, he believed he should have enough years to avoid the slur. It’s the livery. It’s the damned squire livery. And I’d better get used to it. Nightfall’s mind clicked naturally to the next step. Perhaps even take advantage of it. "I’m all right just a touch of vertigo." Logic told Nightfall that this man had simply happened along at the crucial moment, that if a youngster near himself had stumbled, he would have helped as well. Still, his mother’s drastic personality changes had given him cause to learn to judge mood and intention from distant glimpses and to catch the slightest cues that warned of an approaching transition. He had come to know from her face and posture when running to her arms would earn him a hug and when it would earn him a slap. And when taking the blow was preferable to fueling her anger by hiding or dodging.
The skill had served Nightfall well in later years. Reading expressions had become as ingrained as a swords-man’s riposte to a sparring mate’s favorite attack. At a glance, he could tell which sources to trust and which to challenge. To an outsider, the skill might seem uncanny. Nightfall knew it was the cause of the rumors that stated he knew, without words, who wanted his services and that to lie to Nightfall was suicide. It had always pleased him that gentle threat had proved enough; he had not needed to actually kill to support the tales.
Now Nightfall’s ability kicked in without need for concentration. And though his benefactor had a softness of features that encouraged trust, Nightfall saw through the facade. The man’s eyes revealed the hard glimmer of one who has taken enough lives to no longer see the value in any single one. Several possibilities rose to Nightfall’s mind. A mercenary, perhaps. A soldier. A guard. The occupation made no difference to Nightfall; the mind-set was all that mattered.
The man continued to hold Nightfall’s arm, as if searching for something. "Are you sure you’re well? Do you need me to take you to a healer?"
"No," Nightfall said politely, trying to think of an equally decorous means of freeing his arm. This is odd. What does he want from me? Nightfall considered quickly. His skill at reading emotion and intention helped little with deeper motivation, especially that of a stranger. "I’m fine now. Thank you." He glanced in the direction he had been headed, letting his gaze rove to the passing pedestrians as a hint.
Still, the man did not release Nightfall.
"Lord, thank you. I’m well." Nightfall made a sudden movement that freed him from the stranger’s hold. "Excuse me, please. My master expects me back shortly."
The stranger fell into step with Nightfall. “Yes, of course. I’m headed this direction anyway. Let me just walk a little way with you to make sure you’ve got your equilibrium back."
Nightfall continued walking, cursing his need to play the subordinate. "Whatever you wish, lord. But I assure you it’s unnecessary," he said, hoping his tone conveyed discomfort. This stranger’s concern for another man’s squire seemed too peculiar to pass unchallenged. He combed his thoughts for some way to identify this man, some mistake he might have made to reveal his own alter ego. But Nightfall’s experience made him certain no one could see through the change, except perhaps his old friend, Dyfrin, whose talent for reading people made Nightfall’s look amateurish. And this man is decidedly not Dyfrin.
The stranger slipped into casual conversation. "Those are Alyndar’s colors you’re wearing aren’t they? Who is your master?"
Nightfall could not help wondering why this stranger insisted on asking his questions in pairs, especially when Nightfall kept deigning to answer only the second. Still uncertain of the man’s interest, Nightfall’s first instinct was to avoid the query. But the need to keep his role as loyal squire intervened. He squared his shoulders, adopting a posture of visible pride. "I am the squire to Younger Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar.”