Nightfall chewed thoughtfully on the overcooked lamb. Grittmon’s Inn had never become famous for its fare. Only an event of tremendous proportions would drive them to such an extreme. The answer eluded him. Nightfall took another bite of lamb, wrestling with the problem.
Tadd returned to his post, talking softly with the bartender. From the corner of his vision, Nightfall saw Grittmon appear from behind the staircase and join the discussion beyond the bar. Apparently cued to danger by the appearance of the owner, the prostitute sidled from the bar, short skirt flapping to her hips as she left.
Unable to solve the riddle, Nightfall turned his attention fully to his food. In the past, he had found his deeper mind continued working on a problem long after his thoughts had focused on other things.
Tadd refilled the mugs of the two swindlers, chatting with them for a time, in a voice too low for Nightfall to hear. Returning to the bar, he hefted a filled mug that the bartender had left on the counter and headed for Nightfall.
As Tadd approached, Nightfall turned him a pouting glare.
Tadd raised his free hand in a peace-making gesture. "Hey, donner" He used a jocular street term just shy of meaning "friend." "Look, your master’s been real good to me, and I feel kind of bad for what I did to you."
Nightfall grunted.
"Look, I really need the money, so you’re not getting it back. What would you say if I gave you a beer to make up for it?"
Nightfall looked up, studying the man in front of him.
"I’d say," he replied coldly, "that’s an awfully expensive beer."
Tadd set the mug at Nightfall’s elbow. “Aw, it was harmless. Don’t be mad."
Nightfall sighed. "I guess I did learn something for my money."
Tadd assumed a bug-eyed look that begged forgiveness.
Amused by the exaggerated expression, Nightfall smiled grudgingly. "Fine. Two beers and all’s forgiven.”
"Deal." Tadd grinned, heading back toward the bar.
Guess the little pig-face wanted his tip after all. Nightfall continued eating. More accustomed to beer than wine, he hefted the mug. Just as he tipped it back, the answer struck him with a suddenness that made him feel like an idiot for not catching it sooner. It’s me, of course! They don’t know who turned in Nightfall. Marak came from Nemix, so they have reason to worry that the traitors right here among them. He lowered the mug without taking a sip. Sensing abrupt tension from the area of the bar, Nightfall glanced that way. For an instant, he caught all three pairs of eyes upon him. Then each of the men behind the bar returned to work.
Cued to a personal threat by the oddity, Nightfall again raised the mug. This time, a faintly cloying odor reached him from beneath the familiar reek of bad beer. The underlying smell might have meant nothing to him had Grittmon not given him the same concoction to murder a rival crime lord in this tavern. Poison. Suddenly, the rules had changed, and Nightfall wished that he, not Prince Edward, had chosen the table. He would have taken one far closer to the door and farther from the catwalk.
They want me dead. Why? It occurred to Nightfall how suspicious he must look. Two men from the city that executed Nightfall come into Nemix and head straight for the criminals den. I rob a thief in the doorway, then head out to buy information, yet I can’t find a normal implement in the market square. Finally, I top it off by questioning the informer. Nightfall berated his clumsiness. No wonder they’re trying to kill me.
Raising the mug again, Nightfall put it to his lips and pretended to take a long draught, buying time to think. The aura of tension grew tangible. It’s me they want. Surely, they won’t risk hurting a prince. Though logical, Nightfall knew the thought was fallacy. There’re men who come here only for the nightly entertainment of a brawl. Once violence starts, it’s going to be awfully hard to stop. I have to get out of here in the calmest manner possible. He set down the drink, wiping his mouth with the back of a silver-colored sleeve. Unhurriedly, he rose, headed beneath the catwalk and toward the back door.
Makai, the huge bartender, covered the distance more quickly. He placed himself between Nightfall and the exit. "Where are you going?"
Nightfall replied with innocent confusion. "To splash the grass."
"What?"
A creak behind Nightfall drew his attention. All too aware of the man in front of him, he twisted his head toward Grittmon, wearing a look intended to convey that he thought the bartender was an idiot. The maneuver also gave him a view of the pair of swindlers, both carrying full mugs and headed in his direction. Tadd had moved toward the back room, and Grittmon watched from behind the bar. Having gained his bearings, Nightfall turned back to Makai, following the swindlers’ approach by sound. “To water the back alley. To empty the fountain." He dropped the euphemisms. "You know, piss."
Makai remained in place. "You haven’t drank enough to have to piss. Go finish your beer."
Nightfall gave Makai a withering look. "Well, thank you for your concern." Glad for the assortment of daggers the king’s men had supplied, he let his fingers close casually over one nestled in the folds of his tunic. "But I’ve been urinating since I was born. I think I’ve got a feel for how it’s done now."
One of the swindlers moved in. Makai’s glance cued Nightfall to the other`s position behind him. He took a sudden side step, as if to walk around the bouncer. As he moved, he freed the dagger from its sheath, though still keeping it concealed. It was not his way to initiate violence, only to finish it.
The swindler whipped his hand, clutching the mug, through the space where Nightfall’s head had been a moment before. Beer splashed Nightfall and Makai, puddling on the floorboards.
Nightfall whirled to face this new threat. As the swindler cast off the mug to reach for a weapon, Nightfall buried his dagger in the man’s kidney. Blood ran down his hand, a warm contrast to the cold, sticky beer. Having lost the element of surprise, the second swindler dropped his mug and drew his sword. The tankard struck the floor, scudding across the planks, beer washing the wood beneath his feet.
Nightfall twisted his knife free, letting the corpse drop unceremoniously to the floor. The second swindler charged Nightfall. The squire tensed. Now that first blood had been drawn, it had become a straight fight. Against stronger men in greater numbers, Nightfall knew he had little chance to win. But I don’t have to win. I just have to make an opening to escape.
The swindler thrust for Nightfall’s abdomen. Nightfall sprang aside, trying to guess Makai’s position even as he anticipated the swindler’s next strike. The blade missed cleanly. A shout rang through the common room. The door to the back room swung open, and footsteps pounded on the catwalk overhead. Reinforcements. Great. I can’t even handle what I have. Nightfall made a split second decision to turn the combat into an in-fight rather than draw his sword. The swindler swung high. Nightfall ducked beneath the strike, trying to render the longer weapon useless. As he moved, he jabbed at the other’s thigh, more from habit then any hope that the blow might fall.
The swindler jerked back his leg, redirecting his strike. The abrupt, single foot movement on wet wood stole his balance. He fell, twisting to roll. In the all but nonexistent instant when the man’s throat was bared, Nightfall struck with the speed and accuracy of a snake. Two dead.
Nightfall prepared to turn. But, before he could move, Makai’s meaty arms enwrapped him from behind. The grip winched suddenly tight, slamming the air from Nightfall’s lungs in a pained grunt. The agony from his previous injuries leapt back to focus, but this time his ribs held. He struggled, hoping the beer’s slick wetness would make him harder to hold, but Makai clung effortlessly. The powerful embrace pinned his arms to his sides, and the dagger became useless in his hand.