by Dan Fish
“Solomon,” Jace said. She grabbed his arm.
“I’ve heard of you, Gray Walker,” Wegg said, gasping. “You couldn’t protect your own family. Why should I risk mine? We all know about the arrows, and we all know you carry a bow.”
The snow had stopped. The air was cold. The snap of bone echoed off the manor walls. Wegg cried out, dropped to one knee, clutched his hand. Jace rushed to his side.
“Stay out of my house,” Wegg said, jaw clenched.
“Go to hells,” Sorrows said.
He stepped over Wegg into Hallovell Manor. The front door opened into a foyer with marble floors and an arched ceiling fifteen paces overhead. A chandelier of crystal and glowstone, curving mirrored staircases with bronze balusters and handrails sculpted to look like vines and flowers, a second-story balcony with marble balustrade. House Hallovel might be a lesser house, but it wasn’t that far behind the Valinors. Another daughter, another generation of expansion, and Hallovel might match Sturm in influence. They were a family with wealth, yet Davrosh had said she wasn’t doing Shealu’s mask. And Ga’Shel had claimed the Hallovels couldn’t afford the fee. Expected. Elf arrogance would have demanded a lie. The truth was nobody liked elves, but some people went a step further and disliked the arrogant pricks. Elves ignored those people. They made excuses. They concocted stories. Stories like a dwarf family not able to afford a half-elf painter and elf magic.
Sorrows walked into the great room, glanced at the fireplace, the cushions spread out for seating, the heads and antlers of dead animals mounted on the walls. It was an open space. No blind corners, no shadows to hide in. Defensible. With Shealu in the center of the room, it would force the killer to expose himself to reach her. Footsteps sounded behind Sorrows, he turned. A red-faced Wegg Hallovel stomped into the room, flexing his hand. Jace followed, looked at Sorrows with a face that said, That was stupid. He returned her stare with his own raised eyebrow. You can heal?
He focused on Wegg. “Shealu should spend the night here. With you. Anyone else you trust?”
“Get out,” Wegg said.
Behind him, two female dwarves stood and watched. Shealu and her mother. Both with coarse black hair. Both with the hint of dimples on either side of pursed, frowning lips. Both looking at Sorrows as though he were a storm coming over the mountains.
“Did you know Mari?” he asked.
Shealu’s mother hissed something in her daughter’s ear and tried to turn her away. Shealu jerked herself free of her mother’s grasp, stepped toward Sorrows. She nodded.
“We rode together from time to time,” Shealu said. “Though I never saw her outside of that. I always thought of her as a friend.”
Sorrows moved toward Shealu, but Wegg stepped in his way.
“I told you to get out of my home,” he said.
“It’s okay, Father,” Shealu said.
She hurried to her father, put a hand on his shoulder, kissed him on the cheek. She glanced toward her mother.
“I’d like to talk with Master Sorrows,” she said.
Shealu’s mother hesitated. Her jaw flexed and worked for a moment before she nodded. She gestured toward the cushions.
“Have a seat,” she said. She glanced at Jace. “Both of you.”
“They’ve no right, Ambetta,” Wegg said.
“They’re here to help, Wegg,” Shealu’s mother said. “Doesn’t hurt us to listen.”
Sorrows took a seat. Jace sat beside him. Ambetta walked to Wegg, whispered something in his ear, kissed him on the cheek, and patted his shoulder. There was an ease and comfort between the two. His shoulders had been bunched tight but relaxed at her touch. Her brow had been furrowed, but her eyes softened when he looked at her. Wegg took Ambetta’s hand and followed her to a pair of cushions across from Sorrows. Shealu joined them. Ambetta looked at Sorrows and offered an apologetic smile.
“The Mage Guard has us all so afraid,” she said.
Jace slid forward, knelt on the floor, reached out to touch Ambetta’s knee.
“We only want Shealu to be safe,” she said. “Solomon can help.”
“Of course,” Ambetta said, nodding. She glanced at Wegg. “Perhaps we should have listened more closely to what the Masters were saying yesterday.”
Wegg mumbled something into his beard. Sorrows caught the words smug grin. He sympathized.
“Trust me, she’s worse once you get to know her,” he said.
Wegg rubbed his hand, looked at Sorrows.
“What in all hells are you talking about? She? You mean Master Davrosh?”
“No, no, we adore Remma,” Annetta said. She smiled. “She and Wegg grew up together when she joined house Davrosh.”
“Wish she would’ve left that gods-shunned elf back at the tower,” Wegg said. “Arrogant prick.”
“Master Ga’Shel isn’t arrogant,” Shealu said, blushing. “He was trying to be helpful.”
“Him?” Wegg asked, shaking his head. “If he meant to help, I’ll eat my beard.”
“Please, Wegg,” Ambetta said, glancing at Jace.
Jace smiled at Wegg, then glanced at Sorrows with a look that said, This explains a lot.
Sorrows nodded, leaned forward, studied Shealu. She was medium height for a dwarf, and broad across the shoulders. Her hair was black like Ambetta’s, her skin pale like Wegg’s, but her eyes were her own and they sparkled with the orange-reds of fire and sunset. She was young and lacking stubble on her chin and cheeks. Her hands were strong and thick-fingered, but soft, unworked. They were hands that gripped quills and parchment, not stone and timber. She was dressed in wool dyed gray-blue like the mountains, and her hair was tied back with white ribbon. She sat in between her parents like a gift. The pride of House Hallovel.
The goblin from earlier entered the room bearing a tray with assorted drinks. Coffee for Sorrows and Ambetta, wine for Jace and Shealu, a whiskey for Wegg. Ambetta offered a toast. Something about Shealu and the blessing of the gods. Sorrows didn’t hear most of it. His attention had turned to Wegg, who had thrown back his whiskey and was watching Sorrows. He wore a smile of sorts. Sort of angry, sort of hostile, sort of like Davrosh. It was the sort of smile that would make his chin look like a withered grapefruit, if he didn’t have a beard. It didn’t reach his eyes, which were unblinking and hard. Sorrows knew anger when he saw it, and this was something more. Something that needed to be confronted.
“I’d like to see Shealu’s room,” he said, setting his coffee down untouched.
Ambetta started to rise, but Sorrows held out a hand, gave a small smile.
“Wegg can show me,” he said.
Wegg stood, kept staring at Sorrows. “Follow me.”
Jace glanced at Sorrows. You sure about this?
Sorrows nodded at her: Everything will be fine. A stretch of the truth. Dwarves nursed grudges like orcs nursed ugly. And Wegg hadn’t stopped wringing his hand, though Jace had clearly healed any damage done by the handshake. Jace turned away and asked Shealu if she was excited about her Maiden’s Dance. Sorrows ignored the answer and followed Wegg into a hallway.
“You’ve already seen the entrance hall and sitting room,” Wegg said, gesturing without looking at Sorrows. “The dining hall was to the right when you entered, the library to the left. There’s a study, kitchens, along the north side of the manor.”
He led Sorrows deeper into the manor, using irrelevant detail to show the grandeur of House Hallovel. The Hallovels didn’t own a vase. They owned a vase gifted by their close friend, Elilah Sturm. They didn’t have just any old axe hanging in the library. It was the axe wielded by Ambetta’s grandfather, Ceshkil Hallovel, when he saved Arman Valinor from a horde of Curslings. The Hallovels were an up-and-coming house. Lifted from obscurity by four generations of daughters. They were fighting for recognition among the dwarven aristocracy. And that made Wegg dangerous. It made him the type of dwarf who would view certain risks as acceptable, if they would elevate the house. Maybe one of those risks was an attack on his
daughter, which he thought he could defend. Not as impressive a task if the Mage Guard were there to help.
And that made Sorrows a problem. It had made Davrosh and Ga’Shel a problem, but they had been easy to send away. Wegg could save face with Davrosh by pointing a finger at Ga’Shel. Elf arrogance. A basic concept. Easy to understand. Not so easy to send the human away. The human who broke Wegg’s hand. The hand which had then been healed by a Mage Guard elf. Oray had said word moved fast in Hammerfell. Faster now, with the killings. Servants talked, especially goblin servants. Wegg had to think fast, take more risks. He had a name to protect.
“And the cellar’s right down these stairs,” he said. “I noticed you didn’t touch your coffee earlier. Could I tempt you with a whiskey?”
It was tempting. Wegg was leaning against an open doorway. The marble floor extended onto a landing above granite steps. The air was cool, damp. It smelled of old oak and spirits. The cellar was dim. It would be quiet. The sort of quiet that swallowed the sound of a man falling down the stairs, or a mallet striking a skull. The lie would be the former, the truth would be something like the latter, though any blunt instrument would suffice. Wegg would drag Sorrows into the great room, a look of panic on his face, an apology on his lips. Sorrows wondered if Jace would cry while she healed him—if she could heal him. Wondered how long it would take for his immortality to mend his wounds. He’d slept for three years from a sword through the chest. No scar, just bad dreams. He wondered how many more daughters would die. Wondered what would become of the bow and Julia.
Sorrows wondered what Mig would do. And then wondered why he hadn’t thought of her first. He signaled with his hands. You there? She didn’t show. He sighed.
“This is a bad plan.”
“What in all hells are you talking about?” Wegg asked.
“It’s just the two of us. Why would I turn my back on you? How will you get the jump? Say you did. Jace is more than just a pretty face. She’ll know I didn’t trip down the stairs. What will you do about her? She’s an elf. Vengeance of the gods-born would ruin Hallovel.”
Wegg’s face reddened, then paled. He shook his head.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I was just offering whiskey.”
“Sure,” Sorrows said. “No evidence to the contrary, no malice. No reason to assume anything other than a gesture of goodwill. So let me return your honesty with some of my own. I don’t want your shunning whiskey. And I don’t give an orc split how many vases the Valinors gave you. I want you to show me Shealu’s room so I can show you where you’ll find her corpse the morning after her Maiden’s Dance. I want to show you where you’ll be standing when Ambetta sees her line ended.”
“You’re so sure I can’t stop this killer?”
Sorrows nodded. “Let’s say I’m generous. Say I give you a coin’s odds at catching the killer before he strikes. Maybe it’s the sort of heroic act that puts the name Hallovel on the tip of Hammerfell’s tongue. Maybe you get a few more vases for your efforts. Maybe attend a few more dinner parties. What else does it change? Shealu’s already a daughter. And a beautiful one at that, with those gods-shunned eyes. She’ll take her pick from a number of suitors. Hallovel will continue to rise through the ranks of dwarf aristocracy. All that will happen without you catching the killer. You need to ask yourself what you will gain from risking her. Because maybe the coin lands on the other side. Maybe you deny the Mage Guard, you ignore my advice, and maybe the morning after Shealu’s dance, you start planning her burial.”
Wegg said nothing, only stared at Sorrows. Sorrows stared at Wegg.
“Is everything all right?” Ambetta asked. “We heard shouting.”
She was at the opposite end of the hallway. Jace stood behind her. Shealu behind Jace.
“An old habit,” Sorrows said. “I yell at stupid people, or people doing stupid things.”
Ambetta tensed. Her shoulders went stiff. She straightened, stood half an inch taller. She grabbed a fistful of her skirt. Shealu’s eyes widened. Jace did nothing, said nothing. Just watched. Wegg shifted behind Sorrows.
“Perhaps more stubborn than stupid,” Wegg said.
Sorrows turned. Wegg extended a hand.
“No challenge,” he said. “Take it as an apology.”
Sorrows nodded. They shook hands a second time. Not a confrontation, not a show of strength. An agreement. They both wanted the same thing, or at least the things they wanted lay in the same direction. They returned to the great room, discussed plans for keeping Shealu safe. By the end, Wegg made a second offer of whiskey, and Sorrows made a second refusal, this one more difficult than the first. He and Jace bid farewell to House Hallovel and stepped into lightly falling snow.
“You may have saved Shealu’s life,” Jace said.
“Possibly,” Sorrows said.
“How did you know they would listen?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t.”
“You weren’t very nice.”
“I wasn’t there to make friends.”
“Back to the tower?”
“Not yet.”
Sorrows pulled an arm’s length of parchment out of his cloak pocket.
“We still have sixteen families to see.”
Chapter 22
THEY SAW THE Graylenns and Smeds that day. Both visits started out the same as the Hallovels. Sorrows heard a lot of stupid, did a lot of yelling. Both visits ended the same. Acquiescence, acceptance, reluctant gratitude. It was exhausting. Sorrows collapsed on his bed the first night, fell asleep before Jace closed the door, woke the next day to her shaking his shoulder. Maybe she never left the room. The thought was simultaneously disturbing and exciting. He ate breakfast, they left, they saw four families that day. They had an easier time of it. Less yelling. Oray had said word traveled fast in Hammerfell. Now this worked in their favor. Dwarves talked. They were ready for the big human and his Mage Guard companion. Hospitality replaced hostility. Whiskey replaced coffee. Two days of five families saw the first week finished. Nearly.
He and Jace sat at a table of polished oak. A big table, though low. A dwarf table, thick and sturdy and worn from years of dishes sliding, drinks spilling, rags wiping, elbows resting. A table that matched the ten chairs around it. Like they had been shaped from the same tree. Four of the chairs were empty. The others held Jace and Sorrows, Zvilna Gorsham, her parents, Bo and Trellia, and her grandmother, also named Zvilna.
Dwarf sons are often named after their ancestors. This is not abnormal or unexpected. But with so few born, the practice is less common with daughters. Daughters are, after all, a gift from the gods. Unique, treasured. Set apart. If a daughter is given the name of an ancestor, it is one who has already returned to the Stone Mother. It is done to draw attention to a long lineage of daughters within a house. It is done to acknowledge the gods and their blessings upon a family. It is not done to honor a grandmother who still draws breath. This made Zvilna the Younger an anomaly. And it meant Zvilna the Elder ruled House Gorsham.
“We’ve heard of you, Gray Walker,” Bo said, eyeing Sorrows. “They warned us of your coming.”
“We’re only here to help protect Zvilna.” Jace said.
She and Sorrows had developed a routine over the previous sixteen families. Jace did the talking. Sorrows did the yelling, swearing, punching, and throwing.
Bo ignored her, made a face. Difficult to read beneath his beard, but his eyebrows fell and his nostrils flared. He kept his eyes on Sorrows. “I know how to protect my family.”
“My son belongs to the City guard,” Zvilna the Elder said, staring at Sorrows.
White hair dusted her jowls, softening deep lines caused by a chronic frown. She was old. Long past the age where she should have returned to her gods. Elf-old. And it wasn’t a good look on a dwarf. She was thin, hunched, and her skin was mottled, like water-stained parchment left too long in the sun.
Sorrows nodded. “Then he knows to keep Zvilna surrounded by people. Don’t let her out of your sigh
t. Don’t leave her alone.”
Zvilna the Younger’s chin began to quiver. She glanced at her mother, eyes wide. Green eyes that shone like polished jade.
“Gods, Sorrows,” Zvilna the Elder said. “You’re worse than I imagined. Talking like that with my granddaughter listening. Take your pretty elf and be gone.”
“You’re afraid,” Jace said, looking at Zvilna the Younger. “But you don’t need to be. Sleep in the sitting room with your family.”
Jace reached across the table, squeezed Zvilna the Younger’s hand, smiled.
“Let them tell you how pretty you look in your dress and paint, with your hair done up in ribbons.”
The Younger nodded, sniffed, offered a small smile.
“Preposterous,” the Elder said. “We will follow tradition. My son can protect his family.”
The Younger glanced at her mother, then at Jace, then at Sorrows.
“I think you should leave now,” Bo said.
His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. Sorrows felt his stare on the side of his head. He kept his eyes on the Elder for a moment before turning to Jace.
“We’re done here,” he said.
He stood, stepped back, gently pushed his chair into the table. Started slipping into his cloak.
“Done?” Jace asked.
She stood and looked at him, confused. He nodded, turned to the Younger.
“I will see you again on your birthday,” he said. “I’ll make sure you are safe.”
The Younger smiled, nodded. The Elder scowled, slapped the table.
“Like hells you will,” she said. “I won’t have my granddaughter’s Maiden Dance ruined by the Mage Guard. You tell him, Bo.”
“Stay away, Gray Walker,” Bo said, leaning on the table. “After the masters finish with Zvilna’s paint, I only want pure-blooded dwarves in my home. If I see you, I’ll have your head for it. Mage Guard be shunned.”
Sorrows ignored him, looked at the Younger.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
He turned and left.
✽✽✽
