The Return of Nightfall by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page B

stare.
    “Sudian . . . if I never see you in my court again, it will be sooner than I care to do so.”
    It was a clear threat, softened by the fact that the glare did its work.
    Duke Varsah looked away first.

Chapter 3
    Learn men by deeds, not words. It is the most evil who generally believe themselves most good.
    —Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend
     
    A HALF-DAY’S JOURNEY brought Nightfall and the duke’s men to the Hartrinian port city known as Brigg. Though none of his personae had based themselves here, Nightfall knew it reasonably well from his time as Marak the sailor and as Balshaz the merchant. Those two traveled in very different circles, allowing him to familiarize himself with all parts of the city. As Marak, he had stuck to the northern half, concentrating on the docks and the nearby businesses that sprang up around them: mostly rundown shops, inns, taverns, and bawdy houses. Balshaz had claimed the more civilized southern areas housing the richer folk, a higher class of accommodations, and more expensive goods. The jew elers kept their best wares here: the perfect diamonds, rubies, and sapphires in settings of finely polished metals, while the dock shops sported the cheaper uncut, flawed, or lesser valued stones. He had learned to find bargains near the docks as well, where even the freshest food, the finest wares, could not command as high a price.
    Nightfall had gotten to know his Schizian escort mostly indirectly. A host of ten guards answered to a nobleman of uncertain rank whom they addressed as Sir Ragan or, simply, sir. He wore silks of olive green with a ghastly orange trim at hem, collar, and cuffs; and tooled leather shoes swaddled his feet. To Nightfall, he looked like a field of autumn gourds. His hair nearly matched the trim, its color only a bit more natural and cut into a layered style that scarcely managed to thicken it. He bore a nobleman’s proper girth, and he buried a rash of freckles beneath a heavy coating of too-pale cosmetics.
    The guards spanned a broad spectrum, from their massive leader with his shock of russet hair to a scrawny blond with the bleached skin and soft hands of a noble’s son, which he probably was. The group kept to themselves, speaking to Nightfall only when absolutely necessary and with the utmost respect. They called him “lord” as often as “sir,” and some bowed when addressing him, dodging eye contact. So far, Nightfall appreciated their distance. Left alone, he had time to sort through the crush of emotions he had earlier kept at bay, to think about how best to address King Edward’s disappearance, and to handle his own situation. As a servant, he had appreciated that same lack of interaction, yet he found a major difference here. The guards did not talk freely around him as they would around a stable boy. Instead, they clung to silence in his presence or to conversations lacking any depth or opinion. If he wanted to know their gripes, thoughts, and intentions, he would have to actively snoop for them.
    A handsome bay mule hauled a cart on which the men had placed the remaining effects of Alyndar, including the chest of gold and jewels intended for Duke Varsah. As this left little room for supplies, the men carried their own in worn leather packs slung across their backs. Aside from a single change of clothes, Nightfall’s minimal things fit on his person; he kept the ring he had rescued from the thief in a close and secure inner fold of whatever he was wearing at the time. Ragan had strapped his pack across the withers of the mule.
    A lanky guard with a hawklike nose and huge gaps between his teeth dipped his head at Nightfall. “Sir, we’ve a ship waiting for us at the docks. Does it suit you well enough to eat on board?”
    Nightfall saw no reason to act disagreeable. Marak had always been his favorite personae, the one in which he knew Dyfrin and Kelryn. Dining on deck seemed as familiar as on land. “Certainly.” He tried to recall