Once on the cobbled pathway, Nightfall took only a raw steps toward the inn before turning aside in the direction of the duke’s citadel. Now, the need to land Prince Edward became even more the obsession. One way or another, he would thwart the oath-bond and extract payment from Chancellor Gilleran, even if it meant joining and guiding the Magekillers for the expedition. King Rikard’s fate would depend on his motivations for binding son and killer together.
These thoughts brought the oath-bond to a screeching crescendo that ached through Nightfall, claiming much of his rage. Harming Alyndar’s officials went against the tenets of the oath-bond every bit as strongly as leading the prince into danger. He had vowed he would cause no harm nor allow harm to come to any noble, servant, or guardian of the kingdom, especially the king, his chancellor and his sons; and the oath-bond would undoubtedly see to it he kept that promise as fully as those that bound him to Edward.
Nightfall turned his mind back to his landing strategy, and the oath-bond’s reminder slackened to normal. He paused to surreptitiously pluck a shartha flower from a cottage bed, then strode directly for the citadel. Once there, he kept to puddled areas of grayness, flitting from one to the next until he stood beneath that which he knew from years in Schiz to be Willafrida’s window. In the quiet darkness, he prepared to scale the wall, first appeasing the oath-bond with the understanding that he would not steal, kill, spy, or perform any other action it might consider too much the persona he had promised to abandon. The flower had closed for the night, but wisps of tubular petals showed through the sides, promising a fat, purple bloom come morning. The stem held the deep green hue of health.
Nightfall placed the stem in his mouth, careful not to bite down. He knew little about decorative plants, having sown only edible crops in his guise as Telwinar the farmer. However, his dealings with poisons and time on the streets eating whatever might lessen the rumbling hollow of his gut had taught him that those plants or insects that looked most beautiful protected themselves from predators with toxins. From experience, he knew shartha contained a mild poison that caused intestinal discomfort and vomiting.
Catching handholds and dropping his weight, Nightfall shimmied up the stone building. Colorful, silk curtains rippled in the balmy breezes, the shutters open to admit the warmth and no glass blocking his entrance. He assessed the room in a glance. Intricately carved furniture filled most of it, in matching patterns that depicted a long string of horses on every leg and ledge. The bedposts held wooden horse heads as knobs, and the canopy was a tapestry that depicted a girl in a dress composed of endless fabric sitting in a patch of blue wild flowers. Beneath it, a young woman in a sleeping gown fluffed the pillows and stepped daintily between the sheets. Straw-colored hair poked from beneath a frilly cap, and the lantern light displayed green-gray eyes and a flat, upturned nose. She sported a rich woman’s plump curves, overbalanced at the hips so that her buttocks seemed disproportionately wide. Though far from homely, her facial features held little attraction for Nightfall. He waited until she extinguished the lantern and snuggled beneath the covers.
Confident of his discretion, Nightfall did not wait for Willafrida to fall asleep before slipping into the room and placing the flower on the night table. Once finished, he crept back out the window, clambered swiftly to the ground, and headed back to the He-Ain’t-Here Tavern. As he walked, Nightfall considered excuses for his tardiness. Although he had spent less than an hour with Brandon Magebane, and the detour by the citadel had only cost him a few extra moments, he had obviously spent more time away from Edward than simply stripping tack and releasing horses into a pasture should take. He had settled on a story about having gotten stuck discussing steeds with a noble gentleman when he arrived at the thatch, stone, and mortar building. Its crookedly lettered sign bore a random shape that made it seem likely to have been a scrap from a larger project. Nightfall guessed Edward would understand and respect his decision to let a highborn talk, no matter how lengthy or dull the discourse.
Nightfall opened the door, amid a turbulent shrill of hinges that made him wince. Apparently, however, the patrons had become so accustomed to the noise that most did not even bother to turn. Inside, open windows on either side of the building admitted a cross draft that brought the smell of damp and greenery to a room that otherwise reeked of stale beer and sweat. The perfume of freshly cooked vegetables and lamb became nearly lost beneath those stronger odors, but Nightfall’s hunger dredged the food scents from the others. All of the tables were occupied, many surrounded by half a dozen chairs or more. Kelryn and Edward sat with their backs to the entrance, apparently oblivious to his arrival. Nightfall did not miss the arm the prince chose to rest not-quite-casually across the back of Kelryn’s chair. He felt a stab of jealously, discarded it, and immediately suffered a second warning pain, this from the oath-bond. As long as he considered Kelryn a threat, it would do so also. Four strangers, all men, sat at the table with them, probably begging news of Alyndar and their travels.
Nightfall approached, taking a position between Edward and the closest Schizian, a man he now recognized as a local stone hauler. He knew the other three as well, two builders and the cooper. All were harmless, though none could keep a secret from one end of a room to the other which explained their attraction to travelers with news, especially one dressed as richly as Prince Edward. "Master, I’m sorry it took me so long."
Prince Edward looked at his squire, smiling a warm greeting and demanding no explanation. Apparently, he had enjoyed himself enough not to notice the time. "Ah, Sudian. We saved you some food." He shoved over a platter with shredded lamb, tubers, and peas that had, apparently, served as a common plate.
"Thank you, Master." Nightfall searched for and found an unoccupied chair, using the hunt as an excuse to examine the tavern’s patrons. Most were Schizian commoners familiar to Nightfall by face if not by name. Others appeared to have come from Meclar or Noshtillan, either to gather news or because they preferred their drinks in a different location now and again. Aside from Edward and Kelryn, only one man seemed not to fit. He wore a well-scrubbed leather jerkin and a tailored cloak of fine linen. A servant tended his needs, dressed in white with a red stallion embroidered on the front of his tabard. Nightfall did not recognize the standard. He scooted his chair to the table with enough noise to interrupt the talk, then seized on the ensuing silence. "Who’s the highborn with the horse symbol?" The stone hauler did not bother to turn to look. "That’s Datlinst, a knight’s middle son. He’s been courting the duke’s daughter, Willafrida; but he’ll be moving on to the Tylantian joust soon like the others, I’d warrant."
Nightfall ate, looking down at his plate to keep from revealing an expression until he decided on the proper one. He had now heard of the competition for the second time, and Edward still had not mentioned it. Surely, if a knight’s middle son had received an invitation, Alyndar’s younger prince had not been excluded. Thinking back, Nightfall recalled several instances earlier in their travels when they had met warriors headed in various directions for special weapons training or for competitive preparation.
The stone hauler continued talking, a favorite pastime. "Now that Hoson and the others have gone, I think Datlinst thinks he has a better chance. But he can’t stay much longer. The competition’s in just two weeks, and it’s a good week’s journey to Tylantis. As it is, he probably won’t find no place to settle there. Surely, all the inns are long full.