by Dan Fish
Oray stared at Sorrows, nodded slowly.
“Fine,” he said. “You can join the guards at Shealu’s Maiden Dance. Then what?”
“If she gets through the night, then I move on to number two on the list.”
“Numbers three and four are the same day. You can’t be three places at once.”
“Then you’ve got two weeks to find this guy or figure out how he’s choosing his targets. After that, it’s a game of chance.”
Davrosh leaned back, folded her arms across her chest. “It was a woman, wasn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” Sorrows asked.
“The one who convinced you to stop being a split and get involved,” she said. “Maybe it was that goblin friend of yours. We know she’s in Hammerfell.”
I hope she still is, Sorrows thought. He said nothing.
“Maybe it was the Archmage’s guard,” she said “What’s her name again?”
Sorrows said nothing.
“Have those two met, I wonder?” Davrosh said. “I doubt it. But I’d like to be there when they do.”
“Your point?” Sorrows asked.
“It’s always a woman with you,” she said. “And I’m just wondering who she was this time.”
Sorrows leaned forward, jutted his chin at Davrosh.
“Maybe it was you, Davrosh,” he said. “You’re kind of growing on me.”
Oray sighed. Ga’Shel rolled his eyes. Davrosh gave a sharp laugh, grinned, and winked.
“Orchole.”
✽✽✽
DAVROSH WAS RIGHT. It had been a woman that convinced him. Two women, in fact. A mother and a daughter.
Sorrows lay in his bed. Alone. No sign of Mig. He stared at the ceiling and thought of Mishma’s body lying on a shelf in an unfinished corridor. Alone. The end of her line. He thought of her mother, shoulders shaking with slow, silent grief, standing beside the bones of her daughter.
He wondered if Mishma died quickly. He wondered if there was pain. He wondered what it meant for her gods-bond to be broken. He wondered if she had been afraid. He wondered why she hadn’t called out for help. Why she hadn’t struggled.
And he thought of the killer somewhere among the stones and straight roads of Hammerfell. He might be sitting in a tavern, drinking whiskey. Or tucked away in his house, smoking a pipe. Or doing whatever killers did when they weren’t killing. Sorrows didn’t know. And he didn’t particularly care.
At least he hadn’t, until he saw Mishma. After that, he’d started to care quite a bit. After that, he’d started to think it might be nice to meet this killer of daughters. To spend one brief, violent moment together.
Davrosh was right. And maybe he’d tell her someday after they’d caught the killer. Her first guess about Sorrows had been piss poor. He was never their guy. But her second guess was a good one. He had changed his mind because of a woman.
✽✽✽
ZVILNA GORSHAM. YOU say the name out loud, feel the shape of it on your lips and tongue. You have almost three weeks to prepare. You only need an hour. You have nearly mastered the killing of dwarves. One or two more will see your approach perfected. Then you will move on to Godscry and begin your study of the elves. In some ways, you expect the elves to be easier. You know more about them than you do the dwarves. In other ways, they will be more difficult. Elves are, after all, the superior species. They will challenge you. And the Mage Guard will respond tenfold to the death of an elf.
But those are thoughts for the years to come. You need only concern yourself with more immediate matters. Zvilna Gorsham. You say the name once more and smile at the sound of it in your ears. You have always worked your mastery in silence, ignoring the pleas of the daughters, ignoring their threats and questions. You start to wonder what Zvilna might do if you spoke her name. If you spoke only her name, over and over again. It wouldn’t affect your mastery, but it might make the experience more interesting. Perhaps you’ve been foolish to focus solely on the execution of your approach when you could have been finding ways to make it more… enjoyable.
You decide that Zvilna will be different. You’ll keep the same approach, but you’ll add her name. It’s a safe thing to do. Words don’t leave marks. They don’t linger in the air. They don’t stain sheets or rugs. But words can touch a mind, heighten despair, inspire fear. Words, you decide, could do quite nicely.
Chapter 20
MIG DIDN’T SHOW by morning, and Sorrows was sitting on the edge of the bed worrying about it when Jace walked in. No knock. No apology. Just elf arrogance and entitlement, disguised as long limbs and curious blue eyes.
“Is she here?” Jace asked.
“Yes,” Sorrows said. A lie, but safer than the truth.
Jace nodded and glanced around the room before returning her eyes to Sorrows.
“Are you going to put your tunic on?”
“Are we going somewhere?”
“That’s up to you,” she said. Her gaze lingered on his chest.
“What?” he asked. “Never seen a human before?”
She shrugged. “You’re quite—”
“Big?”
“No.”
“Muscular?”
She walked over, brushed her fingers against his sternum, close to the amulet. He tensed. He knew she could move fast when she wanted to. She’d surprised him when she slapped him the day before. If she wanted to take the amulet, she’d have it faster than the snap of a bowstring, and all he’d have left was a line of torn skin where the chain rubbed before it broke. But she didn’t make a move, and her hand dropped to the side.
“Hairy,” she said.
Sorrows shrugged, looked down at his chest. “I’m not hairy at all. Not compared to some.”
“Really?”
Sorrows nodded. “Imagine a dwarf, but taller.”
Jace lifted an eyebrow, then looked away.
“Was she upset?” she asked. “Your goblin friend?”
“Yes.” Possibly a lie, but probably the truth.
“What I did yesterday was a mistake,” she said. “I don’t normally behave so poorly. It’s important to me you know that.”
Sorrows said nothing. Elves didn’t apologize. It wasn’t in their nature to believe they were wrong. This was an anomaly. Perhaps it was why Jace had been assigned to Hammerfell. She wasn’t arrogant enough.
“Is that an apology?” he asked.
“Yes.”
An anomaly. He shrugged.
“Can’t call an arrow back to the string. What’s done is done.”
“You forgive me?”
“Sure,” he said. “It was just one kiss.”
Jace stared at him, said nothing, then turned, walked to the door. Kept her back to him.
“Will we return to the Quarry today? To look for seph?”
“No. Today we introduce ourselves to a twenty-six-year-old dwarf and her family.”
Jace relaxed. “In the city?”
“Yes. Northside. We leave after breakfast.”
“When are they expecting us?” she asked.
Sorrows shook his head. “They aren’t.”
“Will that be a problem?”
“They’re dwarves. What do you think?”
✽✽✽
BREAKFAST WAS BISCUITS and gravy. The biscuits were warm and rich. The gravy was thick and lumpy with bits of sausage. It was good. Stick-to-your-ribs good. Sorrows had two portions and washed them down with a mug of steaming black coffee. Jace had already eaten, so she sat and watched him. She watched him and half the Mage Guard watched her. Nothing obvious, just sidelong glances and lingering stares.
After he finished, they walked the spiral corridor. Sorrows still didn’t know which door led out or which led to his room. He decided if he was ever lost, he’d open everything until he either found the right one or reached the top of the tower, at which point, he’d introduce himself to the Archmage and ask for directions. Until then, Jace knew where she was going and Sorrows was content to follow
her. Soon they stepped outside into heavy snow and light wind.
The main road was reasonably busy. Dwarves in fur-lined cloaks walked quickly from one shop to another. The occasional goblin appeared, typically female, typically holding the arm of an older dwarf. The young might hope to marry a daughter, but the old were more pragmatic. They wanted a warm bed and soft company. Not bad things to want if you were an old dwarf. Or an old human.
Jace put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close. “How much further?”
“Probably an hour slow-footing it,” he said. “Don’t think Mig is going to help. Don’t like Ga’Shel enough to ask. Don’t think you want me asking Bex.”
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. Her brow knit for a breath, then relaxed. Her hand fell away, but she lingered next to him. Her shoulder brushed against his. She watched a dwarf and goblin plod through the snow toward them.
“Do you love her?” she asked.
“Mig? Of course.”
“Could you have children?”
“Gods, Jace,” Sorrows said. “Mind your own splitting business.”
Jace said nothing. The dwarf and goblin walked by. Silver streaked his beard and her hair. He’d see her buried within half a century. Just a hole in the ground somewhere. Not a cradle carved into stone like the one that held Mishma. Like the one that waited for him. Maybe that would upset him. Maybe he loved her. Maybe he’d return to the Stone Mother after she passed. Maybe not. Maybe he’d find another goblin to spend another century with; father some half-born children. Maybe see the Quarry grow from his need for a warm bed and soft company.
“How well do you know Davrosh?” Sorrows asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Does she seem happy?”
Jace shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know her well enough to say either way.”
“Does she seem angry all the time? Or just around me?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“You couldn’t, or you won’t?”
She shrugged. “You choose. Either is fine with me.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The elf arrogance I’ve been missing,” Sorrows said.
Jace frowned. “I don’t know the answer to your question. That makes me arrogant?”
Sorrows shook his head. “No. The not-knowing doesn’t make you anything. Your smug dismissal does.”
“You’re smug all the time.”
“That so?”
Jace nodded. “Yes, but it doesn’t make you an elf. It makes you Solomon Sorrows. I meant my dismissal as playful. Not because I’m an elf, but because I am who I am. I wish you’d see past the pointed ears.”
Sorrows slowed. “Without prejudice.”
“Precisely.”
Sorrows stopped, looked at Jace. “Like Davrosh.”
“I’m like Davrosh?”
Sorrows shook his head. “You’re the exact opposite of Davrosh. Pleasant, graceful, easy to be around. Beautiful.”
She smiled. “You’re not so bad to look at yourself, Solomon.”
He shook his head. “Follow me on this. You’ll never know what it’s like to be Davrosh. To be judged and cast aside with a glance, without so much as a conversation. Some dwarves make up their mind about Davrosh from fifty paces away. Not all dwarves. Maybe not even most, but enough. They don’t even hear her speak. Yet she endures their scrutiny every day. Every half-born does. And it’s like a wound. After a while, it starts to itch. A bit longer and it becomes raw. After a lifetime, it’s oozing, infected. The pain starts to make a person crazy. That’s why the Quarry is filled with half-born. They fall through the cracks of a society that doesn’t see them.”
“I don’t understand. There are plenty of happy, successful half-born.”
“Of course there are,” Sorrows said. “But to get there, they overcome more than any dwarf daughter. The scales are tipped against them from the start. Doesn’t make it impossible to succeed. Makes it easier to fail. Davrosh thought I killed those daughters because of some trauma I suffered. When it wasn’t me, she thought it might be some dwarf who’d been scarred by his fights against the Cursed.”
“Dwarves don’t kill dwarves,” Jace said, nodding. “But a half-dwarf might.”
“Sometimes life itself is trauma,” Sorrows said.
They resumed their walk. The snow had calmed. It fell in soft flakes that landed on Jace’s cloak and melted into beads of water that were dispersed by magic. The smell of wildflowers and honey drifted around her. They crossed a bridge over a stream alive with sound and swirling water. Hallovel Manor was somewhere in the distance. They’d be there within thirty minutes, if the snow remained light.
“You’re doing the same thing you accused the dwarves of,” Jace said. “You’re assuming the killer is half-born and assuming that killing is the sort of thing half-borns do.”
Sorrows shook his head. “The killer is a half-born. That’s just numbers. Dwarves don’t kill dwarves, and the only elves in Hammerfell are the Mage Guard. I’m not suggesting half-born are killers by birth. I’m siding with Davrosh’s idea of trauma as motive.”
“It’s a fine line,” Jace said.
“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears. But make it quick, because in twenty minutes we stop talking killers and we start talking Maiden Dance.”
Jace shrugged. “I don’t have any ideas. Will you tell Oray?”
“I’m sure he already knows, but I’ll mention it next time I see him.”
Sorrows slowed a step, lowered his hood, turned to Jace. “What do you know about Oray?”
Jace shrugged. “Not much.”
“Why doesn’t the Archmage trust him?”
“The Archmage doesn’t trust her Overseer?”
“You tell me. I don’t need a guard, but if I did, Davrosh or Ga’Shel could have shown me around. Oray brought me in. Why did the Archmage assign a guard instead of him?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Sorrows sighed. “Couldn’t or won’t?”
Jace smiled. “You choose.”
Chapter 21
SORROWS AND JACE left the road and walked through an open gate. Stacked stone and mortar, wrought iron bent into curls and points. Snow dusted the flats and curves of sculpted leaves. Hallovel Manor stood at the end of a five-minute walk along a wobbling path of white pine and cedar. Snow blanketed the ground beneath the woods, but the stone pavers had been swept clear. The air smelled of smoke, resin, and winter. Grass grew in the gaps between slabs.
Sorrows thought of Davrosh walking the path the day before, optimistic. He thought of her leaving the way she came, disappointed, but already looking ahead to the next family. He wondered when her optimism had broken. Maybe after five families she was stomping more loudly than normal. Maybe after ten she was muttering under her breath as she and Ga’Shel walked outside the gods-stream. By their last daughter, Zvilna Gorsham, each word would be laced with frustration; each sigh rooted in defeat; shoulders slumped, quick to avert her eyes. The walk back to the tower would have been long, loud, and full of swearing. He glanced at Jace and pitied Ga’Shel.
Hallovel Manor was modest compared to the likes of Valinor or Sturm, but it still towered among the trees. A goblin in black and silver livery approached from the house. His hair was streaked with gray and gathered into a small knot on top of his head. He wore a wide smile that fell short of his eyes. Behind him, a male dwarf watched from the front door, arms folded across a broad chest. Other faces watched from windows along the front of the house. The goblin clasped his hands and inclined his head to Jace.
“Greetings, my lady,” he said. “We did not expect a second visit from the Mage Guard so soon. To what do we owe this honor?”
His tone was polite but firm. He clipped his words. His face said, We’ve already told you no once. Don’t make us do it again.
“I’d like to scout the manor. Get a feel for the landscape,” Sorrows said, loud enough that the dwarf standin
g in the door could hear.
The goblin seemed surprised that Sorrows had spoken instead of Jace. He glanced at Sorrows.
“I did not realize you could speak,” he said. A goblin with an attitude. Expected.
Sorrows brushed past him, ignored his muttered protests. The dwarf rocked forward, shifting on his feet, and squared himself in the doorway.
“My daughter will have her Maiden’s Dance however she sees fit,” he said. Dwarf stubbornness. Expected.
Sorrows extended a hand. “Solomon Sorrows. Not here to convince you how to protect Shealu.”
Dwarves don’t pass up handshakes. A hand offered is a gauntlet thrown. An invitation to match strength. A civilized battle disguised as a greeting. The dwarf glanced at Sorrows and grinned. He reached forward and his hand clamped shut. A strong handshake. As strong as any Sorrows had felt before. The dwarf grinned, jutted his beard toward Sorrows.
“Wegg Hallovel,” he said. He squeezed. “I don’t need convincing. I know how to protect my family.”
Drinnegan Pine, Sorrows thought. The amulet hummed against his chest. He felt it in his bones, spreading down into his ribs, up through his shoulders, along his arm to his hand to his fingers. Drinnegan was the biggest human Sorrows had found. His soul was a good head taller than Sorrows if summoned. But Sorrows wasn’t looking to fill the manor with shades. He just wanted to balance the scales. Maybe tip them a bit in his favor.
Wegg’s eyes grew wide, and he glanced at his hand.
“Easy, Solomon,” Jace said beside him.
Sorrows ignored her.
“Here’s the thing, Wegg,” Sorrows said. “Maybe Trailswell Sturm didn’t know better. And maybe Gorn Brightle had no reason to worry. But House Valinor was wary. They had the Mage Guard stationed outside Mishma’s room. Her father and brothers thought they knew how to protect her. Now the name of Valinor is threatened. As is Sturm. As is Brightle. You know how rare it is to have two daughters born of the same mother. You need my help.”
Wegg winced, his fingers went slack. He brought his free hand to his forearm.
