This time, Finndmer took the ring directly from Nightfall’s hand. He seemed eager to carry on the conversation, and that was uncharacteristic enough to set Nightfall’s nerves on edge. He attributed it to the amount of wealth he had flashed so far, though greed did not usually motivate Finndmer to recklessness. He liked his money, but he made a comfortable living already. "The fastest way would be to marry bucket-head."
"What do you mean?”
“The sister. If she’s got any holdings, and your master marries her-immediate landing.”
Nightfall considered what should have seemed obvious. A handsome, young prince who’s gentle and innocent. What woman wouldn’t marry him?
"It’s not just owning land that makes a man landed. There’s got to be holdings of some sort, a keep or castle, at least a huge home. And, of course, you have to be of the nobility to have holdings."
Long-trained, Nightfall found the loophole at once. He smoothed wrinkles from his pants with a palm. "To have holdings. But not to have land?"
"Anyone can buy land. A title is more difficult."
"Anyone can buy land?"
Finndmer shrugged, smiling. “Even I own land."
Nightfall doubted the claim. He knew the same baron who lorded over Trillium had possession of a vast area around the city that included Finndmer’s clearing. “You own this?” He opened his arms to indicate the forest.
"This?" Finndmer laughed. "No, my land is farther south, past Noshtillan."
"How much do you own?"
"Enough to place a castle and some pastures. Of course, I can’t, though. I’m not nobility." Apparently, Nightfall still wore his skeptical look, because Finndmer rose and said, "Stay here. I’ll show you." He headed through the doorway to the kitchen, then disappeared from sight.
Nightfall yawned, head aching from the need for sleep. His mind remained clear, however, alert for a trap. If Finndmer chose to confine Nightfall for the sorcerer, he would need locks as complex as those in Alyndar’s prison. His mind ticked off one other means of landing that he had heard and forgotten. War. One noble who killed another could usurp his holdings. If Nightfall located a particularly oppressive ruler, he might manage to talk Prince Edward into such a course. Two men against an army. Brilliant. For now, he discarded the possibility, glad, at least, that hearing more options had set his own thoughts in motion.
Shortly, Finndmer returned clutching a tube made from a hollowed bone and corked at one end. Pulling out the stopper, he shook a piece of paper into his hands, unrolled it, and passed it to Nightfall. "You read, I presume? It’s in the southern language.”
Nightfall nodded his head absently, taking the paper. "Well enough." He perused the flowery hand and pompous wording, reading for intention rather than specific. It described a chunk of land at the southernmost aspect of the world, directly south of Noshtillan. To Nightfall’s surprise, it seemed like a sizable piece. The name on the deed was Finndmer Smeirnksson, and the signature read King Jolund Kryskan. It seemed authentic, though Nightfall knew too little about deeds to feel wholly convinced. "So how would a man go about buying land such as this?"
"First…" Finndmer reclaimed the deed, rolling it and stuffing it back into its tube. "… he’d have to find someone willing to sell. Then, you’d need money. That’s all it takes."
"And you might know someone willing to sell?" Nightfall studied Finndmer.
Finndmer smiled. "We’re playing a game now, aren’t we? If you’re asking if I’d sell, the answer is maybe. The land’s not doing me any good since I can’t build there. As old as I am, I’m not likely to get knighted for heroism. But land is land, and there’s status that goes with it. It’d cost three hundred silver, and I don’t bargain.”
Nightfall suppressed his surprise, though his nostrils flared slightly in response. Three hundred silver exceeded what every craftsman made in Trillium pooled together for a year. He could imagine trying to gather the sum, copper by reluctant copper. After the longest string of Nightfall’s heists, he could never recall having more than fifty silver at once. I can’t gather three hundred silver, no man can. Nightfall considered, the situation becoming nearly as much challenge as need. Put in other terms, three hundred silver seemed a small enough price for his soul, especially since he had already lost the first of his five months to travel. But how am I going to come by three hundred silver honestly? Nightfall squirmed out of the necessity. I don’t have to be honest. I just have to give the appearance of such, especially to Ned. “I’ll get the money somehow. If a scribe hired by me can vouch for the authenticity of that document, you have a deal."
Finndmer grinned.
Chapter 9
Birthed within the black abyss,
His silent gift, a deadly kiss.
Gone before the rooster crows Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.
– "The Legend of Nightfall"
Nursery rhyme, st. 9
Spring warmth returned and, with it, a dreary fog that intensified Nightfall’s drowsiness. He rode at Prince Edward’s side, for once glad that the prince loved to talk and did not require much response from his audience. This time, he rambled about releasing slaves to help construct the ideal world that existed only in the minds of the naive, a world where people did not exploit one another and all mankind was inherently good. It only convinced Nightfall that he needed to keep Edward from the smaller market in the southwest comer of Trillium, though that did not seem too difficult. The other quarters would surely prove large enough to hold his interest; likely, he would never realize that a piece of the border city had gone unexplored. Instead, the problems would arise when Prince Edward insisted on moving westward, toward Brigg, Hartrin, and Mitano.
Nightfall would worry about that when the time came. For now, the need for three hundred silver pieces took first priority. Theft seemed a hopeless possibility. Robbing pockets, it would take months or years to acquire the necessary capital; and the sheer volume of victims would almost guarantee at least one arrest. Trouble with the law in Trillium was a matter even Nightfall did not take lightly. Because the constabulary allowed any sale or activity legal in any of the continent’s kingdoms, the universal laws, such as those prohibiting theft, required strict enforcement and extreme punishment. Otherwise, the town could degenerate into rampant chaos. Stealing a small number of expensive objects would require more of Nightfall’s expertise than he believed the oath-bond would allow, and it would set a city-wide search in motion. Somehow, he would have to earn the money in a legitimate fashion that would not upset Prince Edward. At least, Trillium’s broad definition of legality left him lee-way.
As Edward and Nightfall rode over the crest of a hill, they discovered an overturned wagon on the road. Winter melons lay scattered over the packed earth and into the ditches, their orange-red rinds clearly visible against the greenery. Some had cracked open, revealing pink fruit speckled with seeds. Nearby, a man stomped and lashed his arms through the air, movements jerky with rage. He howled a string of obscenities that carried through the dreary dankness, amplified by humidity.
"Oh, dear," Edward said simply, continuing toward Trillium, a route that would take them directly to the fallen wagon.
Nightfall sighed, certain of his fate for the next half an hour, at least. The prince would never let a needy stranger go unhelped, no matter how inconvenient for his squire. The stranger turned and looked up as they approached, mud-streaked cheeks flaring crimson. He fixed dark eyes on the prince apologetically and executed a brief but respectful bow. "I’m sorry for the sharpy-words. Didn’t know you was there, noble sir."