"Kelryn’s like a sister to me." Shiriel made another abrupt, hostile gesture at the door. "I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone where she went, and you damn near got me to break that promise."
In a cowering slouch, Nightfall moved toward the exit, still certain the letter, not a promise, was the source of Shiriel’s rage. Now on track of the handwriting, he knew he had seen both sets sometime in the past. Kelryn can’t write. From Shiriel’s reaction, I have to guess that the signature was Kelryn s. But the other hand seemed just as familiar Why? The answer remained maddeningly just beyond reach.
Shiriel opened the door.
Nightfall stepped up beside her, trying to look pained and innocently confused. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm."
Shiriel’s anger seemed to melt away. She started to say something, then quietly motioned him out instead.
Nightfall passed into the corridor, hearing the door whisk shut behind him, feeling the breeze of its movement. He headed for Cyriwan’s office and the exit of the building, his mind still worrying the problem. The parchment came from reeds, not bark. That means it’s of southern origin. He considered southern scribes. Three of his personae, Balshaz, Frihiat, and Marak, had been literate; and the first two lived in the south. Among them, he had sent or seen enough messages to know the local scribes. He tried to match the writing to a name.
But Nightfall had only caught a few glimpses of the parchment. The scribe’s identity did not come to mind. Nightfall knocked on Cyriwan’s office door, frustrated by a glimpse of writing that would not focus clearly in his thoughts.
Cyriwan opened the door. "Ah! Finished so soon?"
Nightfall nodded, gaze on the door to the outside, concerned that casual conversation might wipe the image completely from his memory.
Cyriwan ushered Nightfall to the opposite end of the room. "I trust Shiriel took good care of you.”
Nightfall made a noncommittal noise. He grasped the doorknob, twisted, and opened the panel onto gathering grayness. He knew he still had a few hours before sun- down, but Edward would have tended to his personal needs by now and was probably wondering what was keeping his squire. Nightfall stepped out into the street.
Cyriwan called after him, cheerily. "Come back again." Then the door clicked closed behind him.
Nightfall hurried back toward Grittmon’s Tavern, taking a new tack with his scribe search. Rather than trying to remember details of writing he had barely seen, he ran through the list of individual scribes. And this strategy brought an answer where the other had not. Sperra. And yet the solution seemed only slightly less frustrating than the question. Nightfall recalled that the kind and elderly scribe had a habit of moving his quarters three or four times a year, to cities that needed his services most.
Nightfall probed his last silver. I hope Edward doesn’t ask me to return his money. I’ll need the coin, plus the coppers I took from the pickpocket, to get the information I need. The thought made him irritable. Decades had passed since Nightfall had needed to pay for his knowledge. I know just where to find out what I need to know. And luckily, I have reason to be there. Heading toward Grittmon’s Tavern, Nightfall quickened his pace.
Chapter 5
Nightfall laughs, and death’s ax falls;
Hell opens wide and swallows all.
He rules the depths where no light shows Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.
– "The Legend of Nightfall"
When Nightfall returned to Grittmon’s Inn and Tavern, he found Prince Edward alone at one of the tables, chasing down a bite of bread with a final swallow of wine. He wore a fresh linen cloak over a blue silk tunic and breeks, and he had cleaned and oiled his traveling boots. The sword hung at his side, its tooled leather sheath and gem-studded hilt making it look more like decoration than weapon. The comb had left trails through his. wet hair. He appeared bathed, comfortable, and well-rested. Engrossed in mopping up the last of the gravy on his plate with the end of the bread, he did not at once notice Nightfall’s entrance.
Nightfall ducked inside, handing the door to a pair of exiting guardsmen. He took stock of the remaining patrons as he trotted toward Edward’s table. Two men he recognized as swindling partners sat several tables away from the prince, toasting their latest victory. A prostitute perched on a stool before the bar, a slit in her dress revealing shapely thighs to a point just shy of indecency. She chewed a thumbnail, occasionally throwing encouraging looks toward the celebrants.
Nightfall knew the bartender, a giant of a man named Makai, strong and competent with a sword, who doubled as a bouncer when the need arose. Oddly, instead of one of the usual maids, the person delivering the drinks was a middle-aged man whom Nightfall recognized as Nemix’s prime informer, a man who bragged that he could get a donkey to tell him its owner’s life history. The incongruity of the scene put Nightfall on the alert, though he sensed no threat to Edward or himself. It was not uncommon for a criminal down on his luck or with city guards breathing down his neck to take a legitimate job at Grittmon’s Inn to rebuild his store of cash. But Tadd the Mouth seemed to have the most secure job of all. There was nothing inherently illegal about gathering information, and everyone needed to know something at some time.
Finishing the last bite, Prince Edward looked up from his meal. "Sudian!" His voice boomed through the near-empty confines, drawing every eye.
“Master," Nightfall replied in a soft tone, still easily audible over the silence that followed Edward’s call. Discomfited by the attention, Nightfall cleared the distance to Edward’s table more quickly than propriety demanded. He stood beside the table while Prince Edward’s gaze roved up and down his squire’s person, his expression lapsing from happy welcome to perplexity.
"Sudian, where’s the spade?"
The others in the tavern remained quiet, interested in the exchange, presumably from boredom or curiosity about what noblemen discussed with their squires.
Nightfall sat, selecting a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him the widest view of the common room as well as the staircase that hid Grittmon’s secret meeting room. He hoped his repositioning to Edward’s level would give him a chance to further lower his voice and turn the conversation private. “Master, I searched the entire town. Most merchants said they didn’t make spades. The ones that did had sold their last." He opened his hands in a gesture of apology. "There’s not a spade to be had in Nemix today."
Prince Edward frowned.
Nightfall let his head sag in submissive fatigue, his red-brown hair falling into bangs. He had tried to get Edward to realize that the spade was just excess baggage to weigh them down, but the time had come to admit defeat. When I have to go to ridiculous extremes over something this insignificant, its time to give up the battle.
Tadd the Mouth approached, taking Edward’s empty plate. "More wine, sir?"
"None for me," Edward replied. "But bring my squire’s dinner.”
Tadd took the prince’s glass, then brushed back the long, sandy locks that fringed his bald spot. "I couldn’t help overheating…”
Nightfall suppressed a groan.
“… you’re looking for a spade, right?"
Edward nodded briskly, strong hands folded on the tabletop. "Yes, we are. But my squire says there are none to be found."
Tadd flicked a glance at Nightfall that suggested he found Edward’s squire particularly incompetent. “Well, if the market has none, you might try a little smithy I know. It’s just past the cooper’s place on Meclarin Street." He traced directions Nightfall knew by head, using a ringer on the tabletop.
Why does the Mouth pick now to start giving his information away for free? The answer came to Nightfall instantly. It’s not free, really. He can tell Ned is got money, and he is working up his tip.