"Ah," the man said. "A position of honor." Something preoccupied in his tone made it clear that this was not the information he was seeking.
That fact and the quiet stillness of the oath-bond, eased Nightfall’s mind, though not his guard. It’s not Ned. It’s me he wants. But why?
The two men approached a crossroad. Nightfall debated whether to turn left, toward the dance hall, or continue straight until he got a better feel for his unwelcome companion.
But before he could make a decision, the stranger stumbled over an irregularity in the stone walkway. He flailed, catching a sudden hold on Nightfall’s forearm, as if to steady himself. But the motion seemed too clumsy to be anything but exaggerated, perhaps even staged.
Cued, Nightfall barely resisted the urge to triple his weight and save them both a fall. The stranger crashed to the walkway. Nightfall landed on his hands and knees, the stone tearing a flap from his britches, bruising his knee, and abrading his palms. The impact jarred him free of the other’s grip. He wanted me to fall. But why? Nightfall’s mind raced, racking his thoughts for some action of his that might have drawn the attention of a killer. Is he a guard? A hired assassin?
Neither idea seemed likely. I haven’t done anything illegal or suspicious, except rob Myar. Nightfall rose, studying the stranger with an expression of veiled annoyance and surprise. Myar would be a fool to report a crime that would implicate himself. Besides, it would take time. And, surely, a servant would not attract the attention of murderers and thieves. Sudian hasn’t existed long enough to have made enemies. Trusting his instincts, Nightfall knew the stranger had not been trailing him. The first touch was coincidence. But something about it made him curious about me. He forced his thoughts back to the original encounter.
The bearded man clambered to his feet, looking sheepish. "I’m so sorry." He took a step toward Nightfall as if to help him up, though the squire had risen first. Afternoon sunlight sparkled from eyes dark as the muddy roadway, enhancing the predatory glare that made Nightfall edgy. It went beyond the haunted look of one who has killed from necessity to a selfish disdain for lesser men’s lives. Nightfall had seen the expression only once before, in the face of King Rikard’s adviser.
Gilleran. Gilleran the sorcerer. The answer kicked in with shocking abruptness, bringing terror with it. Could this man be a sorcerer? Nightfall backed away in revulsion. He recalled the brief moment when he had dropped his weight, before he had recognized a stranger’s hand upon his arm. I used my talent for only an instant. He couldn’t have possibly discovered it. Could he? Surely, no normal man would have noticed such a thing. Yet, Nightfall had to guess that this sorcerer spent much of his time looking for excuses to touch and observe strangers, trying to spot that one out of every thousand people with a special, congenital ability. If I can identify the contents of a man’s purse with a touch, why do I doubt a sorcerer could recognize magic as quickly? A more horrifying thought followed. Can he sense the oath-bond? If so, I ’m going to be running from every sorcerer in the world.
"I’m really sorry," the man repeated, again shuffling toward Nightfall.
“Get away from me," Nightfall said, trying to sound indignant rather than frightened. He could still feel the place where the sorcerer had grabbed him, and it made him feel unclean in a way no plague-ridden beggar ever had. He fingered the tear in his linens with dismay, softening the demand. "Please. With all respect, lord, I think I was better balanced alone.” I have to presume he staged the fall to test me, because he wasn’t certain of what he felt. So it probably wasn’t the oath-bond. The idea soothed his raw-edged nerves. In that case, my allowing him to knock me down might well have convinced him he was mistaken. Dodging around his benefactor, Nightfall continued down the street, attuned to sounds of pursuing footsteps beneath the stomp, click, and chatter of other passersby, headed from the market square. He heard nothing to suggest the man had followed. The wary prickle at his back disappeared.
With the immediate threat removed, Nightfall pushed the incident to the back of his mind. For now, he could do nothing but hope he had passed the sorcerer’s test and stay alert for future experiments or confrontations. He turned a corner, stealing a glance in the direction from which he had come. The stranger had turned and was now retreating back toward the market square.
Relieved, Nightfall turned his concentration to the Nemixian dance hall. Just as quickly, doubts suffused him, wildly out of place in the mind of the night-stalking demon that had stolen the unstealable, swindled wise men, and shattered the sleep of the brave. Memory stole his composure, flinging him back to lazy summer Sundays spent meandering between stands, Kelryn’s presence a warm constant beside him, her laughter like music in his ear.
Nightfall walked the last few blocks, haunted by images of that past, alternately mourning the potential eternity of love and happiness that Kelryn’s betrayal had mangled to nightmare and despising the woman who had stolen everything he could give her: trinkets, his loyalty, his dignity, and his life. For every act I did, I thought of how it might affect her. Everywhere I went, I looked for things that might please her. She meant everything to me, yet my love and myself meant nothing to her. Turning the v last corner, Nightfall approached the dancer’s quarters.
The mid-afternoon sun sparkled from the polished brass hinges. Nightfall raised his fist to knock still with some trepidations, and that uncertainty bothered him. Since the first time, when he had raised a knife against his mother’s murderer, he had never felt a qualm about those he chose to kill. In all cases, he had deemed a client’s security or vengeance more sacred than the rights of the victim. Yet now that it came time to avenge his own life, reservations descended upon him.
It’s the time of day, Nightfall guessed, at once aware that the need to work in broad daylight was only a contributing factor to his discomfort. Always before, he had performed his crimes at night and in the guise of Night- fall; but this would not be the first time he had used another persona for innocent, daytime scouting. He reviewed his rationalization for using a direct approach, but this failed to dispel his apprehension. The method was not what bothered him.
It’s Kelryn. Nightfall shook with anger, missing the steadying composure that usually filled him before a kill. Gods! What is it about that traitor bitch that cripples me? He tossed the thought aside. Once he faced her, the strength would come. If it didn’t, he was dead.
Nightfall rapped on the iron-bound wooden door.
Several seconds passed in silence. Then, the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears, followed by the squeal of the door being opened. Cyriwan, the dance hall proprietor, studied Nightfall through the opening crack, his crusty, bearded face somber. “Can I help you?"
"I’m looking for a woman." Cyriwan scratched at his beard, and dirt flaked to the floor. "Any woman in particular? Or just your general woman?"
"I’m looking,” Nightfall said carefully, trying to see around Cyriwan without success, "for the most graceful dancer I’ve ever seen. She’s got short, white hair like this." He combed his mahogany locks into feathers with his fingers. “Small, hazel eyes, a straight nose with a flat tip, and a gorgeous body."
"White hair?" Cyriwan squinted, glancing up and down Nightfall as if to identify his colors. All humor left him. "You mean Kelryn. And she don’t work here no more."
Nightfall naturally fell into Cyriwan’s speech pattern. "She don’t‘?"
“Good day." Cyriwan backed to close the door.
"Wait." Nightfall edged forward, trying to look childishly eager, and scuffing a toe into the crack as if by accident. It had been decades since he had needed to do anything for his information except ask. "Why don’t she work here no more?"