Edward looked at Nightfall. "Did you try there?"
Nightfall surrendered. "No, Master, I didn’t know." Better to just buy the damned spade and get this over with once and for all. I can always ditch the thing again. He started to rise. "I’ll go there now."
"No.” Edward gestured Nightfall back into his seat. “You stay. You need to eat and wash and get some rest." The tender concern on the prince’s face surprised Nightfall. “I’ll buy the spade."
I wish the young dupe would quit worrying about my comfort. I might actually start liking him. Nightfall drew breath to challenge Edward’s decision, then realized it would be folly. Ned would get mad because I ’m questioning him. Besides, shortly, Meclarin Street will be safer than Grittmon’s Inn, especially since, if I went after the spade, I’d be leaving him alone here. Nightfall returned to his seat. “Master, you’re too good to me." From the corner of his eye, he could see Tadd nodding in tacit agreement.
Prince Edward rose, clapping a meaty hand to Nightfall’s shoulder. "Good servants are hard to find. Your loyalty and company are worth a lot to me." He headed for the door.
Tadd whisked off to get Nightfall’s food, looking as if the sentimentality might make him ill.
Nightfall studied Edward’s retreating back, uncertain whether to feel amused by the prince’s naivete or embarrassed that he had bared his soul in a public place. Do I follow and keep watch on him or stay and eat? The pervading odor of beer made his empty stomach queasy, reminding him he had not eaten since morning. He focused on the oath-bond, to see if it might suggest or sanction a course of action; but it buzzed its normal baseline, as if waiting for his own considerations for its input. I’m supposed to obey his word except in instances where his welfare is endangered. So far the magic hasn’t considered the simple act of leaving him alone cause for alarm. There’s no reason for me to expect trouble on a main street like Meclarin. Having made the tentative concession to stay, Nightfall cringed, waiting for the oath-bond’s response to his decision.
Its intensity did not change. Nightfall relaxed, guessing that, in this case, neither choice would have risked his soul. Apparently, it judges my intentions rather than specific actions. A thought followed naturally. Presumably, so long as I did everything in my power and vision to protect Ned, his death would not necessarily result in my losing my soul. He waited for confirmation or a painful reminder from the oath-bond, but neither came. Still, it hovered, like a live being within him, as vibrant as the day of its casting.
Whatever he thought of my honesty, King Rikard must have trusted my wisdom, at least. I can’t believe he put his son’s life, not just in my hands, but solely under the protection of my judgment. Nightfall barely suppressed a chuckle until another idea slammed him into silence. Unless he wanted Ned killed. This way, he gets me to handle the murder and destroys my soul at the same time. It seemed illogical. Surely, he could have simply had Ned executed. And I was caught. Why didn’t he just have Gilleran perform his ritual slaughter in the dungeon?
The thought spiraled a shiver through Nightfall. He did not know exactly what the foul rite entailed, though he had to guess it was complicated. I’d already escaped and killed some of his guards. Perhaps he feared I’d slay Gilleran, too. It seemed like a logical concern. This way, he got me to submit to an agreement that seemed believable but will probably cost me my soul. And he managed to deliver the young prince of nuisance, fanatic idealism, and embarrassment to an infamous butcher.
Anger flooded Nightfall, though he knew his new track of thought was only a theory. He felt a sudden kinship with an innocent, blond prince little more than half his age. Ned may be an idiot, but we have a common enemy, even if he doesn’t know it.
Tadd arrived with a plate of slivered lamb, gravy, and bread along with a glass of wine. He set them before Nightfall. “Good man, your master."
"The best.” Nightfall smiled, glad to see the informer in a talkative mood. There were things he needed to know, including the location of a scribe named Sperra. Better to follow that lead than to ask about Kelryn directly. Cyriwan’s silence had clued him to caution. “He’s Prince Edward Nargol from Alyndar.”
"So he told me." Tadd met Nightfall’s gaze, and the squire glanced politely away. Too many times his piecing stare and an icy silence filled with threat had gained him information when conventional means had failed. “What’s he doing out this way‘?"
Ah. An important question. Also a beautiful lead into one of my own. “He’s King Rikard’s younger son. He needs to get landed." Nightfall chuckled as if sharing an inside joke, then briefly met Tadd’s gaze again. "Actually, neither my master nor I know much about landing. I don’t suppose you happen to have some ideas?"
Tadd the Mouth stiffened almost imperceptibly. "None at all."
A confession of ignorance from Tadd nearly startled Nightfall into losing his own composure.
The Mouth laughed, the sound holding a note of tension. "What would an overgrown serving boy know of landing?”
Nightfall joined the laughter. "Apparently, nearly as much as a prince’s squire. I figured he would know. He figured I would know." He laughed again. "It’s almost embarrassing. I’m hoping we can find some books about it." The laughter seemed to loosen Tadd somewhat, so Nightfall took a chance. "And speaking of books, have you ever heard of a southern scribe called Sperra?"
"No," Tadd said.
"Would you happen to know where he would be…?" Nightfall trailed off, so certain of a positive response, it had taken the negative time to register.
"No," Tadd said again, a blatant lie. Nightfall cared little for the defiant hostility building in the informer’s eyes. In the guise of Nightfall, he would already have had the Mouth on the floor with a knife at his throat. Although he had not yet fully established the character of Sudian, he felt certain the squire would not respond in a like fashion.
Nightfall reminded himself to remain calm. "What if I paid you for the answer?"
Tadd considered. "All right," he said, at length.
Nightfall reached into his pocket, and retrieved three coppers from Myar’s purse. It was not Nightfall’s way to pay before receiving merchandise, but it fit Sudian. Nightfall handed the coins to Tadd.
The informer waited patiently for Nightfall to pose the question again.
Further annoyed by the formality, Nightfall repeated, "Where could I find a scribe called Sperra?”
Tadd pocketed the coppers. “Never heard of him."
"What!" Nightfall struggled to maintain character. "You said if I paid you…"
"… I’d give you the answer," Tadd finished. "The answer is ‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t say you’d like it."
Nightfall glared, fighting to keep his anger in check. Something strange is happening here. First Cyriwan and now the Mouth. Many possibilities came to mind. Some sort of legal pressure? A new guard captain perhaps? The explanation did not fit. The only thing I’ve had trouble getting is information. Myar stole Ned’s purse blatantly enough, the guards left Grittmon’s at their usual time, and Cyriwan’s dancers are still playing off-time prostitute. The realization narrowed the situation to one possibility. For some reason, they’re guarding information, even basic, harmless news. That explains, too, why Cyriwan wouldn’t tell me where Kelryn had gone.
Tadd wandered toward the bar, never fully turning his back on the man he had just cheated.
But Nightfall found his own thoughts more interesting. Shiriel wouldn’t tell me about Kelryn either. He started in on the food, feeling certain that the dancer’s stated motivation for hiding Kelryn’s whereabouts was true. Until now, Cyriwan’s had made less sense. But why would criminals declare a general halt to all information? Or is it a halt to all information given to me? Nightfall realized he had leapt from the too general to the too specific. More likely, it’s a silence to all questions asked by strangers. But why?