The familiar, mellow voice of the sorcerer wafted to him, its softness rendering some words incomprehensible. “… can’t mistake him. Large, blond as a whore… silks and tailored linens and… royal lineage. He rides a white… or gelding, I think. His squire wears Alyndar’s colors." Leather scuffed against wood as the sorcerer apparently turned away from the wall, and his volume and clarity decreased. "A small… young… hair. Built like…" The rest trailed into obscurity, to Nightfall’s annoyance. The ability of this sorcerer to describe would tell much about him. In his experience, few people went beyond estimated age, hair color, deformities, and general body type, all of which could be easily altered when the necessity arose.
Finndmer’s response seemed booming in contrast. "I won’t assist in or sanction harm to a prince. I’m an honest man. I won’t become accessory to assassination.”
"Assassination?" The word remained muffled, but the sudden whisk of foot on floorboards cued Nightfall that the sorcerer had turned again. The loud distinctness of his words confirmed the thought. “Dear me, no. I mean the prince no harm. Ever. The squire, Sudian." A choked quality entered the sorcerer’s voice, a good approximation of grief. "He slaughtered my brother in a tavern in Nemix."
Nightfall felt certain none of the hoodlums in Grittmon’s Inn bore any relationship to the regal and dignified sorcerer. He continued to listen, enraged that one man might turn personal desires into a manhunt that would require all of Nightfall’s skill and guile to avoid.
"I have a right to blood price, if not vengeance; but the prince will come to no harm." A pause followed, then Nightfall heard the muffled clink of coins through the fabric of a purse. "Have you seen them?”
"No."
"There’s three times more if you do and word gets to me. Assuming I catch up to them, of course."
"Of course."
"I mean no harm to the squire either. I want to talk to him; he’s worth nothing to me dead."
"Detainment?”
"Worth double if he’s delivered to me."
A prolonged pause followed, eventually broken by Finndmer. "Anything more?"
"No,” the other replied. "Just that. Nothing more."
Footsteps clomped, gradually receding. Nightfall faded into the brush. On occasion, Finndmer became suspicious enough to patrol the area around his cottage. This time, however, the sorcerer left alone. The door slammed shut, and Nightfall watched the progression of the lantern up the stairs and back into Finndmer’s bedroom. The light winked out.
Nightfall crouched in the silent darkness considering options. Cold night remained a familiar friend that kept loneliness at bay. He had never considered his contacts anything more than business associations, yet now the chains and communication nets he had discovered and, at times, enriched and developed would likely prove his undoing. The people of his new world saw him as a witless servant, those of his old as a security threat. Even Dyfrin would not trust his connections to Alyndar’s law, and the oath-bond would prevent revealing his true self to his oldest friend. Dyfrin might recognize me, though. He’s the only one who knew me as a child.
Nightfall considered his options as the night progressed. To do nothing assured that his description became the business of every silver-grubbing beggar and street thief in Trillium. He had no choice but to confront either sorcerer or woodcutter before they spread the word. When it came to spreading news, at least, the sorcerer seemed the lesser danger. People who elicited information from bartenders usually did so because they had no specific contacts, and Nightfall doubted the man knew other ways than Finndmer to infuse his offer through darker channels. Anyone offering large sums of money to enough people on the streets might penetrate the underground eventually, if not killed for his proclaimed wealth first; but Nightfall doubted the sorcerer would dare to draw that much attention to himself. His proposition would reach guards, other sorcerers, and wizard-haters as quickly as criminals; and few working for the law in any country would allow designs against a prince or his squire.
Nightfall sighed. His usual methods of silencing threats would fail here. In “demon" guise, he would have bullied Finndmer into a hush he would not have the courage to break. If the need seemed enough, he might have resorted to murder, though it would not have gone wholly unavenged. Finndmer had long ago proven himself a vital link in the illegal communication and fencing chain.
As the buzz of the oath-bond intensified, Nightfall shifted his contemplation, trying to think like Dyfrin, a personality that suited Sudian better than any of Nightfall’s own. No doubt, Dyfrin would recommend gentle discussion first; but Nightfall suspected he could not win Finndmer’s trust fast enough and the sorcerer was a hopeless cause. So what would Dyfrin do next?
Only one answer came. Money. Finndmer had remained in power because the thieves and murderers he serviced could trust him, at least to a point. Outlaw honor ran high when the price for disloyalty usually meant a gruesome death that would provide an example to others who considered using contacts and the net to serve their own causes alone. Still, the sorcerer was as much an outsider as Sudian. Finndmer had made no specific promise to do as the other bid, only listened to his proposition. In this case, allegiance might shift to the highest bidder without concern for reaction from Trillium’s nastiest.
Nightfall left his hiding place with caution, though all his senses assured him the sorcerer had taken leave without doubling back. His consideration continued as he approached the door. Nightfall had his own personal knock that he would not use here. To do so, he believed, would violate the oath-bond as surely as introducing himself as the demon for which the populace had named him. He saw advantage to using a different code, one that suggested a dangerous colleague of Finndmer’s had sent him; but the strategy would surely backfire. Finndmer would likely check on the source and discover the lie. He would naturally conclude Alyndar’s royalty had beaten the pat tern of knocks from Nightfall. Prince Edward and his squire would become the target of an organized mob far larger and more competent than the one in Nemix, and Nightfall would look like a weak-willed traitor.
Nightfall simply chose to tap out the triple beat that most people routinely used. When no answer came after several seconds, he repeated the sequence louder. Finndmer’s voice wafted through the window. "Who is it?” He sounded appropriately annoyed for a man awakened from sleep.
Nightfall glanced about, trying to look nervous. He kept his voice low, just in case he had misjudged the sorcerer’s ability for ruse. "My name is Sudian, sir. I came-"
"Your name is what?" Finndmer bellowed. “Speak up, child. I can’t hear you."
Child? Nightfall let the comment go unchallenged. His discomfort might make him sound younger, and the cut of his squire’s livery seemed more suitable to a boy. "Sudian, sir. I came-"
"Just a moment. I still can’t hear you. I’ll come down." Nightfall listened intently beneath the stomp of Finndmer’s feet on the staircase. Wind ruffled the pliant, spring leaves, the noise higher-pitched and lighter than in the other seasons. He heard nothing that sounded like deliberate movement and felt none of the wary prickling sensation he invariably knew when unseen eyes studied him. Nightfall mentally traced Finndmer’s route, and the door swung open on-time with his speculation. The fence had not delayed long enough to gather devices for detainment or capture; apparently he would give Nightfall a chance to tell his side.
Finndmer stood in the doorway, clutching his lantern and squinting in the sparse light it shed. "Well, come in, young man. What brings you to an old woodcutter’s home in the middle of the night?" He did not wait for Nightfall to answer but backed away to give him space to enter. When he obliged, Finndmer closed the door and headed from the entry hall into a sitting room filled with padded benches. Linen covers tacked to the wood concealed pillows cut to fit the bench tops, and embroidered forest scenes paraded across the fabric. Shelves held bric-a-brac from every comer of the continent, mostly small craftworks like painted thimbles, mugs, and statuettes. Though many bore the shapes of animals, none rivaled the glass swan Nightfall had given to Kelryn, taken from her roommate and now carried always in a box on his person. Finndmer gestured at one of the benches then sat on another, within comfortable speaking distance. He waited.