by Dan Fish
The words were accompanied by a frown. Jace rubbed at her chest, pushed her jerkin open a bit more. Sorrows caught hints of shadow and curve, dropped his gaze to his fingers as they fumbled with his buttons.
“You tell that to Davrosh or Oray?” he asked.
“Don’t need to. It’s obvious. They just needed you here to help find the killer.”
“Since when does the Mage Guard need help?”
“Since when does the Mage Guard admit needing help?”
The shuffling and snapping of fabric on fabric filled the room as Sorrows slipped his jerkin over his tunic. Jace walked to the door, leaned against the frame, studied him.
“If you went black instead of brown, you’d pass for Mage Guard.”
“Guess I’ll stick with brown. Or maybe find something yellow or red, just to be safe.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” Sorrows said. He glanced at the bed. “If you know so much, why’d they take the bow?”
“Partly for leverage, I’d guess. You’ve held onto it too long. They knew they could use it to control you.”
“What’s the other part?”
“I don’t know,” Jace said.
“That so?”
“Yes. And it bothers me.”
“You know that much?”
“I know a bit. I listen. You learn a lot if you just listen. Try it sometime. You ready?”
She opened the door and led him back up the winding corridor. He counted doors. One on the left, two on the left, one on the right, three on the left. Jace walked beside him, boots landing softly on the stone. Long legs easily matching his stride. Golden hair hanging between her shoulder blades, gathered by cords tied at the base of her neck. He realized, too late, he’d lost count.
“You seem distracted?” she asked. She glanced at him, smirked.
Hells yes, I’m distracted. Sorrows looked at her. Wondered how he should answer the question. Not honestly. That was for sure. He said nothing. She smiled, turned away.
“The dwarves built the tower to be confusing,” she said. “They said it would give an advantage if there was ever an attack. But most of the Mage Guard believe they did it to confuse the elves.”
“Does it?”
A small laugh. “Confuse? Of course. There are doors with only wall behind them. It’s confusing as all hells.”
They’d been walking for a while. Enough that Sorrows could feel it in his legs. The company was nice, but the surroundings were bleak.
“We lost?” he asked.
“We’d reach the top eventually anyway,” she said. “But no, we’re not lost. We’re here.”
Jace stopped in front of a door, placed a hand on the handle, turned to him.
“Remember to listen closely, Solomon. You’ve been missing something.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been saying the same thing all along.”
“I’ll be here if you need me,” she said with a small smile. She opened the door.
The room was modest. Seven paces by seven, another five high. A rectangular table stood in its center. Honey-colored, tight grained. Oak. Thick. Four arrows rested on its surface, pushed off to one side. Parchment was scattered across the rest of it. Two hands pressed into an edge, bearing the weight of Overseer La’Jen Oray, who was perusing something scribbled in looping, black script. He didn’t look up.
“Sorrows,” he said. “See you found me. Come in. Just looking through some different cases. No murders, thankfully, but enough of the other stuff to keep us scrambling.”
Sorrows said nothing, moved to the arrows, picked one up, studied its length. Oray took a piece of parchment from the side, laid it over the one in front of him.
“We’ll meet with Davrosh and Ga’Shel in a few minutes,” he said. “Keep it civil. We’re all trying to save lives. We’re all on the same side.”
“But one of us is here as a prisoner.”
“Gods, Sorrows, you’re not a prisoner.”
“So, I’m free to leave?”
Oray hesitated, took his eyes off the parchment, stared at Sorrows. “Think of yourself as a guest with limited privileges.”
“A guest.”
“Of the Mage Guard,” he said. “You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, but at least listen. You might catch a mistake. Nothing better than telling an elf he’s wrong, right?”
“I already told you keeping Davrosh on the case was a mistake. Didn’t do much.”
“I need her on this. I know things you don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Things.”
“What does limited privileges mean, exactly?”
“Means you have an escort with you at all times. Inside the tower or out.”
“Jace?”
“Who?”
“The elf who brought me here.”
The room fell silent. Oray worried at a corner of parchment. He shook his head. “I don’t know a Jace. Someone will be assigned.”
Sorrows thought of Mig. Thought of fewer complications. Still said, “Make it Jace.”
“You giving me an ultimatum in my tower?”
“Not an ultimatum. Just friendly advice. Think of it as a request with elevated privileges.”
“Fine.”
“Great.”
The parchment tore in Oray’s fingers. A small tear. Hardly noticeable. But one that might grow if picked at. One that might split the sheet in half, if the right tension pulled the two sides apart. Oray frowned and took a different sheet from the stack in front of him. Kept his eyes on the table.
“Davrosh told you about the daughters?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“About their broken gods-bonds?”
“Yes.”
“You find your bow?”
“Was on my bed. Not hard to find.”
“Julia still there?”
Oray kept looking at his parchment, flipped it over. Blank. Grabbed another sheet.
“What in all hells is that supposed to mean?” Sorrows asked.
“Doesn’t have to mean anything. Notice something odd about the arrows?”
“Yeah, I noticed. They’re pristine. That’s impossible. So what?”
“Surprised?”
“‘Not really.”
“Why?”
“Never thought it was a shot that killed the daughters in the first place. Happened in a bedroom, for gods’ sakes. Close quarters, strong target, frightened. You’d need a blade. And you’d need to be good with it. One miss, one scream, it’s over.”
“What about the twins?”
“Still working on that.”
“So are we. Meanwhile, Hammerfell’s on edge. The whole city is tight. Like a wolf ready to lunge.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that it’s in everyone’s best interests to work together.”
“Maybe yours, but not mine. I’d prefer to take my bow and leave.”
“Would you? Are you sure? Talk travels fast in a city like this.”
“Talk travels fast in any city.”
A laugh echoed in the room. Sharp. Lacking humor. Oray shook his head. “Even faster in Hammerfell. Especially now. A rumor whispered in the streets at breakfast is at every dinner table by nightfall. And someone let slip the breaking of the gods-bonds.”
“Someone.”
“Someone. And if someone let slip that the Grim Reaper was here, carrying a soul-imbued bow, well…” Oray spread his hands wide.
“Insinuations might be made,” Sorrows said. That’s how it’s going to be.
“Dwarves do love to insinuate.”
“Two things, Oray.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a real orc split.”
“I’ve heard worse. What else?”
“Don’t call me Reaper.”
Chapter 15
THE ARROW IS a clever touch. One that keeps them guessing. One that keeps them at a distance, where you’re least vulnerable. An inspired
touch. And to think it came to you by accident. Then again, your best ideas have all arrived that way. A glance into the boughs of a tree where an errant shaft caught your eye. A crate of fine dwarven wire meant for the glowstone hanging in the entrance hall but left on your doorstep. Is all mastery left to chance? Or do the gods guide the steps of their chosen?
You decide fate and chance are not the instruments of your ascension. The arrow, after all, is clever, but unnecessary. Your mastery has never been about a single element. Not the slash of a sword or the weaving of a spell. Your talents are modest. It is your patience which sets you apart. Patience which shapes your mastery. You decide then the arrow will not follow you to Godscry. Why should it? The elves will present a different challenge, a different opportunity. They will need a different approach. They will not die as the dwarves do. But they will die. All will die, eventually. Your mastery demands it, and your patience will see it through.
✽✽✽
ORAY LED SORROWS further up the winding corridor. One door on the right, two on the right, one on the left, three on the right. Glowstone above, granite walls, granite floors. Same black veins streaking throughout. Black iron door handles worn to a shine by years of Mage Guard leather gripping and pulling. Sorrows turned to see Jace trailing behind. She met his gaze, smiled. He nodded, turned again. Oray had been in a foul mood when he left the room. He walked past Jace without a glance, didn’t speak to Sorrows, didn’t slow down as he climbed the tower. When he reached the door, seventh on the left from the previous room, Oray flung it open and strode in. Sorrows lingered, waited for Jace, but she shook her head and gestured him in.
The room was eight paces by ten, five high. A stone table stood lengthwise, long enough to fill the room, narrow enough to leave space for chairs and movement. Polished to a shine that reflected the sparse glowstone overhead. It was supported by a pedestal that ran down its center. In the dim room, with dark shadows beneath, the table looked like it was floating. Eight thick-spindled oak chairs were scattered evenly, four to a side. Davrosh and Ga’Shel had taken two seats at the end opposite the door. Their eyes flicked from Oray to Sorrows and back to Oray. Sorrows took the chair farthest from Davrosh while Oray made his way to the center of the room, where he remained standing. The door shut behind Sorrows.
“We’ll start at the beginning,” Oray said, placing his palms on the table. “Mari Sturm. Found four months ago lying in her bed, the morning after her Maiden’s Dance.”
A flash of light, the low hum of magic. The image of a dwarf daughter appeared on the table. Crisp, clear. Like she’d laid a blanket on the stone and fallen asleep. Skin smooth and young. Hair done up in thin braids and blue ribbon, pinned to her head. Her face was painted with a mask of ivy and lilacs. Davrosh’s work. Meticulous, detailed. The blossoms matched the color of Mari’s dress. Sorrows didn’t paint. Didn’t know how to mix colors to create shadow and light, shape and depth. But the detail, contrast, and texture of the mask made him think it would take a long time. He studied Mari’s feet, bare, silver bangles resting on more ivy and lilacs painted around her ankles. Matching bangles and paint on her wrists, which were both intact. The work would’ve taken Davrosh hours to complete. Hours spent talking with Mari. A conversation of opposites. Mari excited, rushed, quick to laugh. Davrosh listening, nodding, speaking in short, distracted phrases while she focused on her craft. Oray cleared his throat, shaking Sorrows from his thoughts.
“What can you tell us about the arrow, Sorrows?” Oray asked.
Sorrows stood, walked around the table, leaned over to study the shaft protruding from Mari’s forehead. The mask was unbroken, as though the arrow were part of Mari’s head and Davrosh had simply painted around it. No depression on Mari’s skin, no indication of a penetrating shot. He straightened, shrugged.
“It’s a distraction,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” Oray asked.
“An arrow splinters when it hits a dwarf skull. Maybe splits, maybe breaks apart. Like shooting a rock. The shaft of this arrow is flawless. Means Mari wasn’t shot by it. Means it was put there after. Means the killer was looking ahead. Means he was already thinking about you and Davrosh and Ga’Shel. Maybe he was thinking about the entire Mage Guard. Thinking of ways to draw your attention away from something.”
“What something?” Davrosh asked.
“Not sure, but he’s smart. Smarter than you three.”
Davrosh scoffed. “But not you?”
“I just got here.”
He moved to Mari’s wrists, bent over, tried to move a bangle. His fingers passed through the silver, through Mari’s skin. He pulled his hand back.
“Doesn’t work that way, orchole,” Davrosh said.
Sorrows nodded, said nothing. Leaned in closer.
“What do you see?” Oray asked.
Sorrows shook his head, straightened. He studied the length of Mari’s dress, moved to her feet. Nothing. He shrugged.
“Nothing,” he said. “I don’t see it.”
Oray returned his palms to the table. Mari’s image faded, replaced by a different dwarf daughter. A Brightle twin. She wore a different dress. A deep blue with silver flowers. Her mask was holly leaves and small, gray berries. It was good but lacked the detail of Davrosh’s work. The Brightles had said they couldn’t afford Davrosh. More likely they took issue with a half-born doing the work. Everything else was the same as Mari. Silver bangles, arms spread wide, blank eyes staring along the shaft of an arrow. Sorrows circled, studied, shook his head, said nothing. Oray dismissed the daughter’s image, replaced it with her twin. Sorrows studied again. Oray replaced the Brightle with Mishma Valinor. Sorrows studied one last time. But none of the daughters offered anything new. Different dresses, different masks, no clues.
The image of Mishma faded, and Oray sat down and stared at Sorrows over steepled fingers. No one was saying anything, which meant they were all thinking the same thing. This is a big problem. Sorrows ran a finger along the corner of the table. Smooth, rounded, subtle. Finished by a Stoneshaper. A nice touch. The dwarves had done good work for the Mage Guard. They’d expect the same in return.
“I want to see the bodies,” Sorrows said.
The room fell silent. Had been silent before, except for Davrosh’s noisy breathing. Now it was tomblike.
“What?” Oray asked.
“You heard me. I want to see one of the daughters. Mishma. She’ll be in the best condition.”
Davrosh’s face reddened, but she said nothing. Ga’Shel kept his eyes on her, turned his face toward Sorrows.
“Her family isn’t going to like that,” he said. “We would need to convince them.”
“Then convince them,” Sorrows said.
Oray shook his head. “Ostev is right. You’re guessing. And we’d need to approach them with more than a guess.”
Davrosh stood, blew out her cheeks, stared at the ceiling. Ga’Shel extended a hand, but it didn’t reach her before she stepped away. She rubbed a hand across her mouth, shaking her head.
“He’s right,” she said. “He needs to see. I’ll talk to the Valinors.”
“Remma, no,” Ga’Shel said. “Let me.”
“They won’t listen to you,” she said. “They’ll only half listen to me, but I’m our best chance.”
Oray leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“Great gods.” He looked old, tired. Like leather creased from stress and repetition. “Take Ostev, Remma. Get back here as soon as you can.”
“Right away,” Davrosh said.
She and Ga’Shel rose from the table and left the room. Neither said a word to Jace, who stood outside the door. She smiled at Sorrows as the door swung shut. Oray cleared his throat, turned to Sorrows and stared for a moment.
“What do you think you’ll find?” he asked.
“If I’m lucky?” Sorrows asked. “Answers. If I’m honest? More questions.”
“Sometimes that’s better.”
“Sometimes.”
“I need to find the killer,” he said. He looked at Sorrows. “One way or the other.”
You’re the other, he was saying.
“A fall guy?”
“Something like that.”
“And when the killings keep happening?”
“We’ll say you had accomplices. Some goblins arrived ahead of you. We’ll make insinuations, arrests, executions. We’ve got people we want to get rid of, anyway.”
“Vengeance of the gods-born.”
“It can’t fail, Sorrows. You understand that, don’t you?”
Sorrows stared at the bow. Stared at the table after Oray dismissed the image. Kept staring after Oray left the room. Was still staring when Jace placed a hand on his shoulder. She leaned over, studied his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
Strands of hair had slipped free of their bindings and followed the curve of her jaw, the slender lines of her neck. Her eyes danced over his face. Her breath was warm upon his skin. He turned, pushed himself away from the table, stood. She took a step back but stayed close. Didn’t shrink from his scrutiny.
“What?”
“I need to find a Seph,” he said. “And I need to kill it.”
She hesitated, nodded slowly.
“Very well.”
“Just like that? No questions?”
“No questions,” she said. “I just need to stay close to you.”
Sorrows lifted an eyebrow. “Close? Maybe I should’ve shaved.” Maybe I should stop flirting.
“Maybe you should have.”
He walked to the door, opened it.
“Oray won’t mind if we leave the tower?” he asked.
“I don’t answer to Oray.”
Unexpected. He closed the door and turned to face Jace. Took a closer look. Her skirt was gray like every other mage guard's, but the hem was higher, hanging just below her calves. It made her look taller than she already was. More intimidating. Davrosh’s skirt, by comparison, brushed the ground and made her look like she was standing behind a boulder. Magic kept Mage Guard boots polished, but where Ga’Shel and Oray kept their boots loose, Jace’s were laced tight. Precise. And that made her unbuttoned jerkin intentional. Casual. Deceptive. It made her unbuttoned tunic something more. Distracting. Provocative. He would have noticed these details right away had she not been so gods-shunned beautiful. And that was intentional, as well. Oray didn’t know her because Oray didn’t need to know her.
