Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  “Who’s the archmage of Hammerfell Tower?” Sorrows asked.

  Jace smiled.

  “Not Oray.”

  ✽✽✽

  THE MONTH HAS been more difficult than you’d predicted. You thought it would provide ample opportunity to prepare for your next target. Instead, this close to realizing your goal, the month off has been torture. Slow, agonizing torture. You begin to doubt yourself. You begin to suspect they have figured you out. Paranoia is something you had not predicted. Why would you, when things were going so well? You begin to question the age of your targets. Does it have to be twenty-seven? You question the event. Is the Maiden’s Dance necessary? You question the method of the kill. You question the time of day it occurs. You question everything.

  You breathe. Slow breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth. You answer your own questions. Yes, twenty-seven is necessary. It marks the maturing of the gods-bond. Any earlier and the soul would be too young, too fragile. Yes, you need the Maiden’s Dance. It facilitates the method of the kill. Yes, the method of the kill will continue to suffice. It is elegant, inspired. It is the right way to kill a dwarf while manipulating the soul. And yes, the time of day is important. The guests have gone home, but the house is still alive with excitement. Distracted. The daughters are flushed from a night of celebration and dancing. And now the Mage Guard is there, watching the halls, the doors. Soon they will be stationed in the room. And, though it pains you to admit it, the challenge of the timing is important. It keeps things interesting. Without the challenge, boredom threatens, and boredom leads to mistakes.

  And that’s a problem because you are bored. There’s nothing to gain by denying it. You still have three weeks until the next Maiden’s Dance. But possibly more than three weeks until one of eighty-three potential targets chooses to be next. She doesn’t know you. None of them do. You can’t influence their decisions. What if the next target doesn’t appear until the end of the month? Seven weeks. The thought is terrifying. Yet your hands are tied. The decision is not yours. There is nothing you can do. Or is there?

  A hint, an offhand suggestion. Influence can occur in the most innocent of ways. And it’s worked well for you thus far. You decide you will involve yourself in choosing the next target. The risk of boredom is effectively the risk of discovery, anyway. Thus, you are not adding risk, but rather controlling it. You realize this is the right thing to do. You will turn seven weeks to three or four. Four weeks is still significant, but you’re no longer bored.

  On the contrary, you have a party to plan.

  Chapter 16

  IVRA JACE LED Sorrows back down the winding corridor to the second door on the left. This showed Sorrows two things. First, Oray’s room was close to the door leading to the entrance hall of the tower. Second, Sorrows had been disoriented by the spiraling hall. Gods-shunned dwarf magic. Jace walked him across the polished floor to the heavy oak doors and out into cold air beneath bright stars. Spheres of glowstone hung from black iron posts six paces tall and spaced twenty paces apart. The pots stood on either side of the road but staggered so that each north lamp filled the gap between two south lamps. Each produced a uniform pool of pale light that the two walked through, light then dark, light then dark. Jace’s hood was up, and her cheeks had grown flushed from the cold. The color brought the red out in her lips. She looked good. Sorrows started thinking of other ways to bring color to her cheeks. Maybe ways that didn’t require a cloak, or much else.

  Gods, Sorrows, get it together, he thought. He cleared his throat.

  “Weaver?” he asked.

  “I know a few,” she said.

  “I mean, are you a Weaver?”

  Jace turned, smiled. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Is that why you look like you do?”

  “How do I look?”

  “Forget I asked,” Sorrows said. Some arrows were better left in the quiver.

  Jace smiled, said nothing for a breath, then asked, “Where are we going?”

  “The Quarry.”

  She slowed a step. “Why there?”

  “Seph are like any other vermin. You’ll find one here or there, but for the most part they infest the areas of a city people don’t care about.”

  She nodded, turned forward, said nothing.

  Hammerfell was bright and bustling with crowds of fur-clad dwarves. Sorrows turned off the main road onto a side street that slowly climbed the side of the mountain. The crowds thinned. Goblins appeared among the dwarves, then half-born, then no dwarves and few goblins. Fur-lined cloaks became wool cloaks. Wool became canvas. Canvas became canvas with holes. The stone-paved road gave way to coarse, gray gravel that crunched beneath his boots. The glowstone lamps ceased. The landscape changed. Sorrows trudged downslope into a shallow basin that stretched along the side of the mountain like a long, crooked wound.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Jace asked.

  Her voice was calm, but she’d moved closer to him, pulled her hood up a bit further. Her arm brushed against his.

  “No,” he said. “But I’ll know it when I smell it.”

  They kept walking. Jace had turned heads on the main road. Sidelong glances from discreet dwarves, open stares from less discreet goblins. In the Quarry, all eyes were on Sorrows and the bow strapped to his back. Beauty faded, but an arrow left a lasting mark.

  Jace put a hand on the back of his arm, leaned close.

  “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  It was.

  They crunched and scattered gravel as they crossed the road, navigating discarded remnants of stone pavers, piles of refuse, bodies huddled together for warmth. A long, flat building lay in front of them. An amalgamation of scrap lumber and stone, coated with enough tar and black paint that any minor imperfections in slab and plank had been drowned into smooth submission. Forty paces long, another seven high. It had one door and no windows along its front. But it had a glowstone lantern hanging above the rough painting of an impossibly buxom goblin holding a tankard. The letters below read Hammer and Ales. Sorrows pushed the door open and stepped in. Jace followed close.

  The door shut behind them, rattling a strip of metal nailed near its top. The tavern was brighter than the night, but the corners were still lost to shadow. Tables lined the walls and filled the center. A low, grinding voice called out something that sounded like sit or leave. Jace spotted an open slab of pine propped against the opposite wall. She stepped past Sorrows and walked to the table. Slid a chair out for him, then did the same for herself. Sorrows took the bow off his back, shrugged his cloak onto his chair. Jace slipped out of her cloak, then finished unbuttoning her jerkin, started pulling it off.

  “Leave it,” Sorrows said, glancing around. “You’ve already shown enough to start a fight. Any more and it’ll be one I can’t finish.”

  She lifted an eyebrow and shrugged, said nothing. She leaned back, casual, like she’d sat in the tavern a hundred times before. Maybe she had. She draped an arm over the back of her chair, pulling her tunic open below the neck, forcing it tight against her chest. She stared at him. He stared back and waited. It didn’t take long.

  A goblin ambled toward them and set his hand on the table. Mottled green skin, missing half a finger. Sorrows stared hard at him and said nothing as he slurred an invitation at Jace. She politely declined, he insisted, she declined again.

  “What’s the matter, precious?” he asked. “Your orc don’t let you play?”

  He slipped onto his elbow, making a hollow thud that turned heads. Chairs scraped, but no one stood.

  Sorrows counted twenty-four tables in the tavern. Most with four seats, some with more, some with less. Most filled. Another ten bodies standing at the bar. And in a place like this, when the tables emptied, the kitchen might get involved. Maybe the barkeep. This was the Quarry. Fights happened enough to know what was expected. To know what questions needed to be asked and answered. They’d already been asking themselves if the big guy had coin. They’
d already reasoned that the bow wouldn’t do much in a crowded room but would sell well enough. They’d already decided the Mage Guard could leave unharmed, but she’d have to part with some copper first. These conclusions had been reached within seconds of Jace and Sorrows stepping through the door. This was the Quarry. It was expected.

  But Sorrows had been answering his own questions. He knew his two biggest problems were a pair of dwarves in the corner. And since they were only two, he knew they weren’t much of a problem at all. He knew that the table behind him was essentially empty, despite the three goblins sitting around it. They’d view a fight as an opportunity to skip on their bill. They’d vanish. He knew the size of the fight depended on a table with five half-born crowded around it. A table seven paces away on a diagonal. They’d been watching him since he sat down. They hadn’t been distracted by Jace, her unbuttoned jerkin, her tunic, or what was underneath. Their eyes were locked on Sorrows, like they’d started measuring him but weren’t sure of the results. Was he really that big? Was he really that dangerous? There was one of him and five of them, after all. Their chairs had been among the dozen that slid back when the goblin fell onto the table. This meant they were the ones Sorrows would deal with first. The only question that remained was a question of seven paces diagonal. And as the goblin slouched toward Jace, Sorrows decided it was time to answer that question.

  “Just one quick kiss?” the goblin asked.

  His lips were still puckered when Sorrows grabbed the goblin’s scrap of tunic and turned him around. A Fen-sized goblin might weigh like a twelve-year-old elf. Light. This goblin was a bit taller, though still shorter than Mig. But he was thin, unhealthy. This was the Quarry. It was expected. Sorrows pulled him close enough to smell the stale sweat and beer on his clothes, then stood, extending his arms as he pushed through his legs. Sorrows was heavy. He probably weighed as much as Ga’Shel and Fen combined. He was lean, conditioned. Tossing the goblin was like tossing a bag of grain. And the answer to the seven paces diagonal question was an easy, crashing yes.

  The five half-born looked from the goblin sprawled on their table to their tankards spilled on the floor and back to the goblin. They hesitated. More questions. The big guy had tossed a goblin. But each one of them could toss a goblin. Maybe not as far, but what difference did that make? There were still five of them and only one of the big guy. Who was willing to take the first punch? Who would get him from behind? They were still trading glances and asking unspoken questions when the arrow struck the table between the goblin’s legs. The goblin pissed himself, scrambled back. The half-born backed away. The door to the tavern opened, letting in a gust of night air and the scent of snow. The table behind Sorrows emptied along with three or four others in the tavern. Sorrows walked over, bow in hand, reached for the arrow. Didn’t look at the half-born. Spoke to the goblin in a loud, clear voice.

  “She’s my elf,” he said. He ripped the arrow out of the table. “She’ll warm my bed, not yours.”

  He turned back to Jace.

  Mig stood between him and the table. Eyes like black fire. Jaw clenched. She stared at him hard, then slipped the gods-stream. Vanished.

  “Gods shun it,” Sorrows said.

  He dropped a hand to his side, signaled. Only for show. Hunting Seph. Join us. He waited, but she didn’t reappear. He sighed, walked to his table and sat down. Tested the arrow before putting it back in the quiver. Every shaft had a breaking point. You couldn’t keep shooting the same arrow over and over again. Eventually it would break. And when it did, it would splinter, shatter, lashing out at the bow, the string, the hunter. Anything close. A year, Solomon.

  “Are you inviting me to bed?” Jace asked.

  She had moved her chair against the wall and was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, boot tapping the air. She was leaning back with one arm on the table and the other twirling a strand of her hair. She stared at Sorrows.

  “What?” Sorrows asked.

  “You said I’d warm your bed.”

  “What?” Sorrows asked again. He shook his head. “No. That was to keep us from being bothered all night.”

  A goblin approached carrying a tray with two tankards, a loaf of bread, two bowls of stew. He set it on the table, flashed Jace a brief smile, then turned to Sorrows. Waited.

  “I didn’t ask for any of this,” Sorrows said.

  “Can’t sit for free,” the goblin said. “You want something else?”

  Sorrows sighed, threw a silver on the tray.

  “For the damage to the table.”

  The goblin scooped the coin before it stopped rolling. Turned and walked away. Jace leaned closer, lowered her voice.

  “Would it be so bad?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said I was your elf.”

  Sorrows gave a short laugh. “I told you, it was for show.”

  He shouted over his shoulder. “For show, Mig.”

  “Why for show? I can take care of myself, Solomon. I don’t need protection.”

  “Was for my protection, not yours. And button up your jerkin before you get me stabbed. I’ve seen elf breasts before. You’re not doing me any favors.”

  Jace blushed, buttoned the bottom half of her jerkin.

  “I heard you were immortal,” she said.

  “A knife in the back still feels like a knife in the back,” Sorrows said. “Who assigned you to me?”

  “Not Oray.”

  “I gathered that. Who?”

  Jace shook her head. Her cheeks were still flushed. A strand of hair slipped free and fell across her cheek. She tucked it behind an ear.

  “Someone who knows what you like.”

  That’s the gods’ honest truth, he thought. “Does this someone have a name?”

  Jace shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “And you were ordered to get close to me.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How close?”

  She looked at him hard, unblinking.

  “Close.”

  He shook his head. “Well, that won’t happen. It doesn’t need to. We’re close enough right now. You keep Oray off my back and whoever’s giving you your orders can have the bow when I’m finished.”

  “The bow?”

  “That’s what this is about, right? The elves want the bow back?”

  Jace said nothing, stared at him for a long moment, leaned across the table. “And you’ll just hand it over once the soul is free?”

  Once Julia is free. “Sure. I don’t need another bow.”

  “No questions asked.”

  “No questions asked. Don’t know, and when it comes to elves, don’t care. At all.”

  She leaned back, folded her arms, nodded. “We could still be close, if you wanted.”

  “I don’t.”

  She shrugged. “If you change your mind...”

  “I won’t.”

  She sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. What next?”

  Sorrows pulled his tankard close, took a drink, regretted it. Eyed the stew. Decided he wasn’t that hungry. Glanced at the door, then the bar.

  “We wait,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Who, not what. Someone.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  Sorrows took the amulet from under his tunic. “He’s about to.”

  ✽✽✽

  AN HOUR PASSED, then two more. The tavern emptied a little, then a lot. Jace left her seat, moved to the chair beside Sorrows to study the amulet. They finished the loaf of bread, sent the stew and ale back. Sorrows ordered two whiskeys. The old goblin had left for the night. The barkeep, an old dwarf missing half his leg, brought their drinks himself. He limped through the tavern on an oak spindle, didn’t talk, didn’t spill, and didn’t linger. A good barkeep.

  “How do you know he’ll show?” Jace asked.

  She’d turned toward him, her legs slipped beneath his chair, her forearm resting on his chest. She held the
amulet in her hand and was brushing her thumb across its surface, staring at the lights dancing within. He looked past her to the door.

  “I don’t,” he said. “Might be a she. Or something that looks neither male nor female. Who knows? You ever see a Seph?”

  Jace straightened. “We’re waiting for a Seph?”

  “We are. They’re drawn to the Grimstone. If there’s one in Hammerfell, it’ll come.”

  “But if it doesn’t?”

  “We’ll come back tomorrow if we have to. And the next day. And the next.”

  “And if it never comes?”

  “It will.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The Grimstone works both ways.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a feeling I get.”

  “You feel one close?”

  Sorrows nodded. “Close enough. It’s in the city.”

  Another hour passed, and the barkeep announced the tavern was closing. Sorrows dropped a few coppers on the table. He and Jace left. A north wind blew at their backs as they worked their way to Hammerfell Tower. Their cloaks fluttered in front of them. Cold, fine snow pelted their hoods. Jace stayed close. Sorrows should’ve minded. Didn’t. They found their way to the main road, the glowstone lamps, the shop windows gone dark. They passed the Mage Guard sentries, descended the spiral corridor, stopped in front of some random door on the right. Sorrows had lost count again. Jace placed her hand on the oak. It hummed with magic, then opened. Sorrows stepped inside.