The Return of Nightfall, page 16
The blond finally blurted out, “But she’s a . . . a lady!”
Though Nightfall guessed the cause of their consternation, he continued to play dumb. It seemed better than the previous cautious silence. “Of that, I am very glad, seeing as how I intend to marry her.”
At Nightfall’s back, the woman’s touch gentled, and a comb glided through his locks, dislodging dirt the bathwater could not previously reach.
“A woman as adviser?” The head servant pressed his hands together. “It’s simply not done, my lord.”
Nightfall could feel wetness splashing onto his scalp. When the servants finished with him, he suspected he would look more foppish than regal. “Why not? Is a woman’s advice not as useful as a man’s?”
The clothier paled, and the headman’s movements became a shuffling dance. Those two, Nightfall felt certain, had wives. “It is just . . . softer, my lord. Bedroom advice. Kitchen advice. Not courtroom advice.”
“Done!” the woman announced suddenly, stepping back to admire her work.
Nightfall shook his head. She had managed to keep his hair at a length just past his ears. Free of tangles, it moved easily, still wet from the washing and freshening oils. “Get Kelryn,” he demanded, not caring if he violated protocol. “My judgment could use softening.”
The staging area consisted of a small, empty room with curtained walls and two exits, including the one through which Nightfall and his new entourage entered. Dressed in doublet and hose, a protective leather tunic beneath the silver-trimmed purple silks, and pristine doeskin boots with gleaming silver buckles, Nightfall barely recognized himself. He wondered if the pretty-smelling crap they smeared on his face hid the predatory features or toned down his glaring eyes. Or, perhaps, the servants deliberately enhanced those features, believing harshness might strengthen the look of Alyndar’s temporary ruler.
Me, Alyndar’s king. The idea seemed so ludicrous Nightfall wanted to laugh out loud. Even if he could handle it, he did not want the job: the attention, the glitter, the responsibility. Every instinct drove him to hidden corners and solitude, and his determination to rescue Edward grew even more intense. The king belonged on the throne of Alyndar, and Nightfall felt like something worse than an imposter.
The servants had remained behind to clean up the bathing room, and three new men replaced them. Nightfall knew the first, a plump steward with stringy, dark-blond hair and pale, recessed features. Though not much to look at, he had a calm, jovial personality that had won him a charming wife and one of the highest positions among Alyndar’s advisers. Named Charson, he had secured King Edward’s trust, and Nightfall also liked him.
The second was Khanwar, the tall, trim man whose seat Edward had given to Nightfall at their conference prior to leaving for Schiz. Ebony-haired and brown-eyed, Khanwar bore some title Nightfall had missed, though it sounded long and impressive. He spoke little, seeming to expect his charge to already know all the locations and formalities, and frowning at every tiny ignorance or mistake. The third attendant, called Vivarick, came and went with brusque efficiency, reporting back to either of the other men at intervals. Middle-aged and -sized, he sported auburn hair shorter than the current style, which always followed the king’s. Edward’s locks hung to his shoulders, casually layered and hinting of curl. Few could match his natural beauty, but most of the noblemen tried. Idly, Nightfall wondered if he became king, would royalty run around with wild snarls of grimy hair falling into their faces. He found no humor in the image, which first required him to accept Edward’s death.
Through the other exit wafted the sounds of myriad conversations mingled into a rising and falling hum as the spectator nobles gathered, found their seats on the benches, and awaited the arrival of Alyndar’s lord chancellor. The sound of footfalls and voices just outside the entrance, sent him spinning toward the door. Kelryn stepped inside, accompanied by a male steward and a female servant. She wore an ankle-length, lace-edged dress, tailored from fine green silk that filled out her otherwise sinewy curves. Her snowy hair lay flat, brushed to a fine sheen and falling into delicate feathers at her ears. A clip studded with emeralds held the wilder locks in place, enhanced the more colorful tones in her hazel eyes, and drew attention away from her oddly shaped nose. She was the most beautiful thing Nightfall had ever seen.
The other men, too, went silent, clearly impressed. The woman beside her beamed, obviously the key to Kelryn’s transformation.
Kelryn glided toward Nightfall, her movements swan-like in their graceful perfection. Her dance, her every motion, had attracted him before her appearance, and she had lost none of her nimbleness in their time apart. He could scarcely believe this vision had consented to marry him, that she had worked most of her life as a dance hall girl.
“If you open your eyes any wider,” she murmured, “they’ll fall out. And close your mouth. There’s nothing inside we need to see.”
Nightfall tried to obey.
“See,” Kelryn continued with a twirl that sent the fabric fluttering. “Rich clothes can make anyone beautiful.”
Nightfall said the only thing he could, “You’re always beautiful to—”
“There you are!” Khanwar gave Kelryn a shove through the far exit and onto the dais. “We’ve been waiting—”
Faster than Nightfall could think, he had Khanwar by the cloth at his throat, dragging the noble’s head down to meet his killer stare. “Don’t manhandle Kelryn.” He had a weakness when it came to his beloved, the same that had forced him to spread false rumors about her having the clap to end the prostitution most of the dancers took up to supplement their meager wages. The same that once drove him to hunt down any man who dared to offend her. “Don’t even touch her.”
As Charson and Vivarick scurried to Khanwar’s aid, Nightfall released his victim and schooled his expression back to calmness.
Khanwar sprang backward, gasping in a sharp breath and readjusting his clothing. “You . . .” he sputtered. “He . . .”
Nightfall turned his back on the fuming noble, though he measured every movement by sound. He knew he should apologize, that a man of high upbringing would do so, no matter how justified he felt; but he could not bring himself to speak. If he so much as looked at Khanwar, he might do the man serious bodily harm.
Clearly trying to defuse the situation, Charson guided Nightfall toward the exit. “Time for you, too, Sire. Do you feel ready?”
To play king? Never. Nightfall doubted, if he sat upon Alyndar’s throne for a hundred years, he would ever feel like more than a poor substitute for Edward. Accustomed to lying, he said easily, “Ready.”
Accompanied by all three members of his escort, one looking mightily ruffled, Nightfall stepped through the curtain and onto the dais.
The conversations cut off as if choked, most in mid sentence or even mid word. Nightfall looked down over a courtroom packed with standing nobles. Usually, only the front two benches were occupied. Now, all seven rows held at least a few onlookers on both sides of the aisle. Many had come to see how a mysterious commoner turned acting-king would handle the requests of regal nobility forced to kowtow to the title such a man should never hold, to see how he judged Alyndar’s peasants, or to find entertainment in his many mistakes. Nightfall’s gaze went to the high peaked windows hovering above the outer aisles, the stretches between them thick with paintings and tapestries of myriad colors. A massive shield hung over the great doors, through which those who came before him would enter, striding or being dragged down the long, carpeted hallway. Nightfall had once taken the walk down that carpet to stand before King Rikard, accused of murdering his eldest son.
Guards lined the outer walls and pathway, Alyndar’s colors sharp over the bulges of their mail. Three stood at the edges of the dais, including Captain Volkmier, the only one wearing the more subdued gray and lavender of the prison guards. The compact redhead looked as intent and serious as any of the standard guards, and Nightfall swallowed a lump that appeared suddenly in his throat. Bring our king safely home, Volkmier had warned him, the words gentle but the tone heavy with threat. Nightfall dreaded his next private run-in with the chief of the prison guards.
Charson gave Nightfall a gentle nudge. “Sire, no one can sit until you do.”
Really? The conventions of the royals seemed nonsensical to him. He glanced over at Kelryn, smiling at him from in front of the chancellor’s seat, then drifted toward the only other chair on the dais, the high-backed plush throne. Just the idea of placing his lowly rear end into the king’s place alarmed him. A man could get executed for such an audacious act.
Kelryn lowered her head slowly, as if controlling his motion with her own. Trusting her cue, he sat on the very edge of the chair, his back unsupported and his feet still in contact with the floor.
As soon as Nightfall did so, the nobles followed suit, benches creaking and groaning beneath the sudden massive shift of weight. Kelryn also took her seat. Her attendants had not followed them through the curtain. Charson stepped to the far right front edge of the dais, Vivarick to the left, beyond Kelryn. Seemingly in full control of his composure once more, Khanwar strode from the dais to the floor, standing in front of the waiting nobles. “Alyndar’s court will now come to order!”
Even the sounds of the benches desisted.
“In the absence of King Edward Nargol, our Lord Chancellor-on-high, Sudian . . .” Khanwar pronounced the name with an unmistakable hint of distaste.
Kelryn glanced at Nightfall in question, and he shrugged in response. He knew exactly why Khanwar disliked him.
“ . . . will preside over the process.” Khanwar made a grand gesture. “Admit the first case, please.”
As if controlled by Khanwar and his words, the great doors opened to admit two well-dressed men escorted by members of Alyndar’s guard. One strode down the purple carpetway, glancing neither right nor left, while the other paused to greet some of the nobles on the benches. Nightfall watched both of them, learning much simply by the way they moved toward him. Both carried extra years and weight. He guessed they were in their late forties or early fifties, and neither wanted for meals. The cut and material of their clothing, the extra buttons and trim, made it clear they came from the upper classes. The first wore a look of somber determination; he would allow nothing to interfere with his mission, whatever it might prove to be. The second seemed less comfortable in court, his friendliness an attempt to hide nervousness.
Khanwar announced, “Sir Broward Arnsbok.”
The man in the lead stopped at the foot of the dais, where the carpet ended, and bowed deeply to Nightfall, removing a poofy velvet hat as he did so. The gesture revealed a prominent bald spot and wisps of graying sandy hair.
Though the second man had not yet made his way to the foot of the dais, Khanwar also announced him, “And Sir Reginald Pinkard.”
Reginald increased his pace, making several dipping bows as he walked.
“Land dispute.”
Land dispute. Nightfall wondered what exactly that meant. Only nobility had the right to own property, and he knew from experience that it was expensive. Beyond that, he understood nothing.
Kelryn whispered, “Say something.”
Broward bounced on his heels restively, his face scarlet with need.
Nightfall glanced at his chosen adviser.
“Say something,” she repeated. “Before he explodes.”
Nightfall cleared his throat. “Do you . . . ?” he started, uncertain where to go from there. “Do you need to . . . relieve yourself, sir?”
The stands burst into laughter. Kelryn winced.
“Relieve myself?” Broward seemed as put off by the laughter. He glanced around the nobility, cheeks returning to their normal color, then flushing again as he caught the meaning of Nightfall’s words. “No, Sire. I just wish to state my case.”
Nightfall realized his mistake. Apparently, Broward’s discomfort came from a less primal unsatisfied need. Just as the spectators could not sit before Nightfall did, he had waited to speak his long-rehearsed piece until the man on the throne spoke first.
Sir Broward cleared his throat as he drew a piece of parchment from his pocket and began to read: “The Northwest Quarter of the Southwest Quarter of Section Twenty-three in the area Seventy-six North, Range Four West of the Fifth Principal Meridian excepting therefrom . . .”
The words flowed around Nightfall.
“ . . . a parcel of land situated at the Southwest Quarter of Section Twenty-three in the area . . .”
Nightfall heard little more. He wondered where Edward was right now, whether he was in pain or imprisoned, and why he, himself, had bothered to return to Alyndar at all. He had worried about a traitor; but, since the moment Kelryn had forced him to realize he stood next in line for the throne, he found the possibility more difficult to accept. Surely no one would rather see Nightfall rule Alyndar than Edward. Unless they plan to eliminate me, too. It seemed foolish for anyone to make such a grand and bold overthrow attempt so soon after Gilleran’s had failed, while the castle and its security remained at the height of alertness. Or, perhaps, it’s the best time, given the chaos inherent in reshuffling priorities and command, the uncertainty about Edward’s ability to lead a country. Nightfall needed to find out who would inherit rulership of Alyndar in the event of his own disappearance, but he doubted the guilty party would prove so obvious or simple to find. It seemed just as likely that whoever had alerted the kidnappers to the king’s destination might have done so for the same basic reason as Danyal: monetary reward, or the promise of it. One thing seemed certain: sellout or betrayer, Kelryn was never in danger.
Nightfall had also believed Duke Varsah, or wanted to, that a ransom letter might already have arrived in Alyndar. He understood too little of the way royalty worked to follow his own instincts in such a matter. Yet, now, he realized he had made a mistake that might cost Edward his life. Nightfall should have remained in Schiz, should have followed every lead he could uncover. Now, the trail had grown cold, and it seemed as if he had trapped himself into waiting and wondering, into the same helplessness as the rest of Edward’s men. I should have pressed. I should have done something. I never should have come home. Nightfall wriggled on the chair. Edward’s ass should warm this padding, not mine.
Kelryn hissed, “At least pretend to pay attention.”
Nightfall straightened with a start.
“ . . . commencing at the Northwest corner of the Southwest Quarter of said Section Twenty-three thence North 90 00” East (assumed bearing) 1159.02 King Leordin feet along the North line of the Southwest Quarter of said . . .”
“I would, if he’d use one of the known languages,” Nightfall whispered back. “I don’t understand a word he’s saying.”
Kelryn kept her words as low as possible. “He’s describing the outlines of a piece of land, I think.”
Nightfall glanced to the right and caught Charson’s eye. He gestured subtly with his head, and the steward came casually toward him.
Nightfall waited until Charson reached whispering distance before asking,“What, exactly, is this dispute about?”
Charson kept his voice as soft as Kelryn’s and Nightfall’s as Broward continued his description. “It’s complicated—”
“Make it simple.”
“. . . East 180.45 feet along the North line of said Southwest Quarter and centerline of the Road to the intersection of the centerlines of two Roads: thence South 22 25’58” West 282.16 . . .”
Charson lowered his head in thought, then licked the tip of one finger. Finally, he said, “The man in front says the man in back built a sheep fence on his property. The other man says it’s on his own property.”
Nightfall bobbed his head. At least now he had an idea of what was happening, even if he knew he would never manage to figure out the answers from the description of the parcel. “How much land are we talking about?”
Charson raised a hand, spreading his thumb and forefinger to about the width of a thin loaf of bread.
Nightfall blinked. “Really?”
Charson dropped his hand. “That wide, sir. Quite long.”
The length seemed insignificant. A ribbon of nothing still added up to nothing. “They’re fighting over this much land?” He spread his own fingers the appropriate distance.
“Yes, Sire.”
Nightfall looked at Kelryn to see if she found the situation as ridiculous as he did. She chewed her lower lip, displaying no emotion.
“Why?”
“It’s land, Sire. It’s important to them.”
Kelryn released her lip, her expression now one of stern warning. “Sudian, remember this is still Edward’s kingdom. You mustn’t make rash decisions.”
Sir Broward continued, undaunted by the hushed conversation, “. . . along the arc of a ten-degree curve to the left side 123.16 feet, the chord of which bears South 16 16’30” West 122.92 feet through a central angle of . . .”
Nightfall guessed, “So I should rule in favor of the one more important to Alyndar?”
“Ned wouldn’t do that,” Kelryn reminded.
Nightfall groaned. If he had to rule the way King Edward would in any given situation, he would have to overcome too many years of experience and accumulated wisdom. “You mean I have to rule in the most guileless—”
“Sudian!” This time, Kelryn spoke loud enough to interrupt the man at the foot of the dais.
Broward looked up at Nightfall, who waved at him to continue. So long as the noble droned onward, he did not have to make any ruling at all.
“Don’t say it,” Kelryn warned more softly.
Nightfall understood. It was treason to speak against the king under normal circumstances. With Edward’s fate unclear, it was also unseemly. Not that he meant anything insulting by the comment. Everyone knew the current king of Alyndar was a naive young man with aspirations that seemed impossible to fulfill. Wrong, Demon, Nightfall corrected himself. The current king of Alyndar is . . . you. “So I should rule for the one who needs the land the most?”
