by Dan Fish
“What’s going on? Why’s everyone in a rush?” he asked.
Whenever Mig had bad news, she’d hide it behind layers of concern. A softening of the eyes, a pout of the lips, a squeeze of his arm. She loved him. She didn’t want to upset him. She meant it as kindness, though it hindered the message.
Davrosh didn’t give an orc’s split how he felt. She wore truth and accusation on her face, as plain as a Stone Mother’s mask. He’d have known what happened without the Fates interfering just by looking at her.
“Zvilna,” he said. Truth.
“You should have been there,” she said. Accusation. “Gods, you should have been there.”
Sorrows said nothing for a moment. He had told Zvilna he would show. Had all but promised to be there. Had seen the hope in her eyes. Now, he imagined her face as the Fates had shown, lips pressed together, eyes wide with fear, skin painted in holly leaves and primrose.
“Who found her?” he asked.
“Her splitting father. Walked in with his gods-shunned City Guard to find her lying in bed, arms out to either side, eyes staring down the arrow’s shaft.”
“Just like the others?” Sorrows asked.
“Identical.”
“No other clues?”
Davrosh shook her head. “None.”
“Guard outside the room?”
Davrosh nodded. “And two beneath her window, shivering their splits off all night. Didn’t see a thing.”
The cold was fading. Sorrows flexed his fingers. They’d gone from numb to burning. His feet felt the same.
“Where’s Oray?” he asked.
“Gone,” Davrosh said. “Took Ostev and left. Said they were going to search the city, ask around. How is it outside?”
Sorrows shook his head. “It’s a lot like we could use a Walker.”
“Is your lover friend still around? Would she take us?”
Sorrows relaxed. Davrosh knew Jace was a Walker. The thought was oddly comforting. It meant Jace was probably ordered by the Archmage to hide her abilities. It still didn’t explain Bex, but it was a subtle step in the right direction.
“I haven’t seen her since last night,” he said.
“You saw her last night?”
“We were both at Ellebrand Manor.”
His brow furrowed. Her brow furrowed. Her eyes widened. His eyes closed. Gods shun it. She was talking about Mig. And he’d assumed it was Jace. Which meant she didn’t know about Jace being a Walker.
“Shun you,” she said in a voice loud enough to turn heads, but with enough whisper to send spittle landing on his face. She leveled a finger at him. “I meant the goblin. Why would you think I meant Ivra? What were the two of you doing last night?”
“It’s not like that,” he said. It’s always like that, Sol.
“It’s always like that, orchole,” Davrosh said.
She walked past him, shoved him to the side. He stumbled. She was strong.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’ve got a job to do,” she said over her shoulder. “Even though I’m too close to the situation to do it right.”
She stopped, turned, looked hard at him.
“But at least I’m close enough to give a piss.”
✽✽✽
HE FOLLOWED. DAVROSH stomped thirty paces ahead of him, leaning against the wind. A ghost passing in the night. The storm, which had dulled the sun during the day, now blanketed the sky and hid the moon. Snow covered the road, turned to a tangle of meandering ruts by the day’s crowds. A thick blanket of white covered storefronts and benches. Glowstone streetlamps wore domed caps like tall, spindly children, hunched and watching a half-born and her human shadow pass beneath.
The side street was a mess. Davrosh struggled and slowed, and Sorrows inevitably caught up with her. He took the lead, carving a path through waist-high drifts, using his hands to scoop through deep accumulations. An hour passed, and another, and they found the bridge—which meant they were close. Gorsham Manor lay somewhere before them, hidden by darkness and blowing snow.
“It’s just ahead,” Davrosh said. “With any luck, La’Jen and Ostev will be there already.”
She struggled with a deep drift. Sorrows offered a hand. She took it, pulled herself up and through.
“Why didn’t you show?” she asked.
The question didn’t matter. There was no answer that would change anything. Sorrows had been to twelve parties in seven days. Had only missed one he meant to attend. He wished to the gods he hadn’t missed any.
He shrugged. “I meant to.”
“But something else happened.”
“Yes.”
“Something between you and Jace.”
“Yes, but not what you’re thinking.”
“But your goblin friend found out, didn’t she?” Davrosh asked. “You didn’t fall in your room.”
She’s the best we have, Oray had said. Sorrows could see it. Davrosh noticed things. Made the right assumptions. Guessed well most of the time.
“Yes,” he said. “She knows.”
Davrosh nodded. They walked in silence for a spell.
“How did a goblin get into Hammerfell Tower?”
“Walker,” Sorrows said.
Davrosh clucked her tongue. “Bet she hit you hard.”
“Pretty sure she used the bow.”
Davrosh whistled, glanced at the back of his head. They kept walking.
The snow off the main road was smooth, untrampled. Only the lampposts marked the road, like will-o’-the-wisps marching in mirrored lines all the way to Gorsham Manor. The wind grew colder, fiercer. It whined and whistled along stone walls and slate rooftops. It shook clusters of white pine and red cedar. It blew in gusts against Sorrows, snapping his cloak and slipping fingers of cold air into his hood, down his collar, into his tunic. Occasionally it carried the vanilla and tobacco scent of Davrosh’s magic.
Gorsham Manor might have been any other mansion, its front path swept clean of snow, its windows bright in the darkness. Sorrows and Davrosh had passed dozens like it as they walked the street from the main road, over the bridge and into the outer edge of the city. But it wasn’t any other mansion, and a pallor hung over it, thick, sensory. He heard it as they approached the front door, the mixed sounds of mourning and anger, sobs and raised voices. He smelled it in the air, a blend of wood smoke and the City Guard’s sled dogs. He felt it in the hesitation of his own hand upon the knocker, a slowing of the muscles, a heaviness in his limbs, a dread of what lay behind the door.
“Just knock,” Davrosh said. “No sense postponing the inevitable.”
He knocked. Footsteps sounded.
“This day keeps getting better and better,” he said.
The door opened. They stepped inside.
Chapter 29
THE GODS ARE pleased. You know it as fact. The feeling of satisfaction that lingered in the room after the kill; the absence of the human; the ineptitude of the City Guard. The gods guide your steps to mastery. They shadow your every move. They find joy in the prospect of adding you to their ranks. You share their exhilaration. Zvilna Gorsham was flawless, start to finish. You relive the memory of her death, the memory of your performance. You remember every nuance, every last detail. You had more than a month to prepare. You were well-rehearsed. You can relive each step because you planned each step.
You search for mistakes, inefficiencies, but there are none. The wire held, as it always holds. It cut, as it always cuts. The mask, the magic. It was all as it should be. But you, well, you moved more quickly through the movements than ever before. You slipped from moment to moment like a god. You were confident. You were poised. You were focused.
You are most proud of your focus. You are most proud of your ability to ignore the beseeching stares, the screams, the tears. These weighed on you previously. They distracted, hindered, slowed. Even with sealed lips, muted despair is still despair. But not with Zvilna. You were not swayed. You did not hesitate. Delicate
Zvilna with her meek manner, so easy to pity. You remained merciless. Not out of cruelty, but for the sake of your mastery, the expectations of the gods. They test you. They want to see what you are capable of. They want to see if you are worthy. They probably thought you would fail with the twins. Yes, the twins were your first real test. It was with the twins that the shadow and the dagger appeared. Even the gods, it would seem, have backup plans.
✽✽✽
CITY GUARD SLED dogs have thick, double-coated fur. Warm and protective. Clean. Black and white coloring. Like shadow on snow. Their eyes are the pale blue of early morning, bright with intelligence. They’re strong dogs, not too broad, not too slender. Hard-working dogs, running in teams of four or six to a sled. Loyal dogs, ready to bare teeth and bring muscle when called upon. Sorrows had always liked the breed. Saw more than a few of its kind throughout the years. Saw a number of them on the Edge, fighting the cursed. They were as much a part of dwarf culture as beards, whiskey, and stoneshaping. Good dogs. And thirty of them were lying throughout the foyer, great room, and hallways of Gorsham Manor.
The dogs came with ten more City Guard. Thirty dogs, five teams, two dwarves to a sled. They’d make the return trip with three, bringing back the five guards who’d been chosen to keep watch. Two at the party, two beneath the window, one outside the door. Five in total, not including Bo Gorsham. That meant sixteen of Hammerfell’s finest turned as Sorrows and Davrosh entered the great room. A handful spared a glance at Davrosh, but this wasn’t a night for roguish lusts, which meant the majority fixed their gaze on the big human.
“You get the hells out of my house,” Bo Gorsham said.
He set down a tankard, stood up, squared his shoulders. Half a dozen city guards followed his lead. Another half dozen gathered in the hallways. A few of the dogs rose from the floor. A chair tipped over, cracked when it hit the floor. Shoulders tensed, eyes narrowed. Only Davrosh seemed unperturbed. She pushed past Sorrows, grabbed a fistful of his cloak and pulled him toward the staircase.
“Not how this works, Bo,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Death of a gods-born. Mage Guard jurisdiction.”
Gorsham flushed. Sorrows turned away, caught the eye of a guard. He was young. A century at most. His beard was gold-brown like summer wheat. His eyes were orange, faceted, wide, scared. He’d seen Zvilna. Sorrows looked past him to another guard standing further away. Different eyes, same fear. They were all like that. They’d all seen or heard. Gorsham had brought them upstairs. He’d shown them his dead daughter. You could see it plain as beards and braids. Sorrows guess he’d yelled, raged. Demanded an explanation. The young guards still wore the shock of his anger on their faces. But there wasn’t an explanation. They couldn’t find any clues. Sorrows guessed Bo Gorsham had yelled some more. Yelled until his voice had broken. Then he’d looked at Zvilna and simply fallen silent. The older guards still wore the weight of their captain’s burden like it was their own. Shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the floor.
He and Davrosh climbed the stairs into a different world. A different Gorsham Manor than the one below. The hallway was empty, quiet. Light spilled from a door onto a wool rug running the length of the corridor. Ornate, tassled. Crimson and gold woven into a pattern of thorns and stags. Davrosh walked ahead, Sorrows followed. He continued past the door when Davrosh turned in. Four more doors before the hall ended in a window framed in twisted black iron. He turned around, passed the door again as he walked the opposite length. Six doors, another window at the end. More iron bars. He turned again. Davrosh stood in front of him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly through his nose, stared down the hallway. At that moment, he wanted to tell her something obvious. Something that would make her eyes grow wide; maybe she’d snap a finger. Something they’d been missing. All of them. He owed it to Zvilna. He looked over Davrosh to the chair sitting outside of Zvilna’s bedroom. It was in a good spot. Next to the door handle. Full view of the stairs and either side of the hallway with a small turn of the head.
“Can’t get past the guard unless he fell asleep,” Sorrows said.
“No one slept,” a voice said, soft, tired.
Trellia Gorsham stepped into the hallway. Her eyes were red, her cheeks still wet. She wasn’t dressed in black. Not yet. She wore a house robe of gray wool with blue embroidery. The lace collar of her nightgown appeared underneath. Her hair was in a sleeping braid, loose, tied with twine. She had bags under her eyes. She hadn’t slept. She had probably lain awake all night, listening to every groan, every creak. She had probably been there when the door was opened in the morning. She looked at Sorrows, pursed her lips. He saw the question forming in her eyes before it shaped her lips.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Ellebrand Manor,” he said. Half truth, all lie.
Trellia nodded, tired. “Was it nice?”
It was the kind of question a person asks when she’s only half paying attention. A question to make in polite conversation. A question that didn’t need to be answered. Sorrows shrugged, said nothing. Forced his mind away from the memory of Jace. Trellia nodded again, dazed, turned back to the room. Davrosh glanced at him, shook her head. Orchole. She walked away, and he followed her through the hallway into the room. Zvilna’s grandmother sat in a chair beside the bed: black dress, black gloves, black pins in her silver hair. She’d slept well, confident in her son’s ability to guard her granddaughter. To protect her lineage.
“Where were you?” she asked.
Her voice was sharp. She jutted her chin, clenched her jaw. But her hands were raw from wringing, her eyes red, and the thread of one glove hung loose where she had worried at it.
He ignored her. “Who else has been in here?”
“Just Bo,” Trellia said. “And Lieutenant Dresk.”
“Did anyone move anything?” Davrosh asked.
Trellia shook her head. “Bo said we’d need to leave Zvilna for you. He told us not to touch anything. He said we could stay with her if we left everything alone.”
Davrosh nodded. The night was black, but the curtains had been left open, and fine white flakes swirled against the window. The room was quiet. Just the whine of the wind and scratching of snow against glass.
“Tell me about last night,” Sorrows said. “From the end of the dance until this morning.”
Trellia staggered; he caught her elbow, steadied her. She stared at the floor, searching for words. Zvilna’s grandmother spoke.
“The dance was lovely,” she said. “I spared no expense on Zvilna’s dress or mask. Only the best for our beautiful girl. She looked lovely. All eyes followed her around the dance floor. After she finished her Maiden’s Dance, she invited others to join, as tradition demands. The musicians played until just past midnight. Some guests left. Those who had traveled retired to their rooms. We took Zvilna up to bed and bid her goodnight.”
“She was afraid,” Trellia said. She looked at Sorrows. “She watched for you all night. She didn’t want—”
Trellia collapsed on the floor, on her knees, on the crimson and gold rug that matched the rug in the hallway. Her shoulders shook with sobs. She wiped her eyes.
“She didn’t want to be alone. She wanted to sleep in the great room with us, her other family, her friends.”
“Preposterous,” Zvilna’s grandmother said.
But it was just a word. Spoken without conviction. It left her lips and hung in the air, echoed faintly off the stone walls and floor until it was swallowed by a gust of wind that rattled the bedroom window.
“We need some time to search the room,” Davrosh said.
“Of course,” Trellia said.
Davrosh walked around the bed, took Zvilna’s grandmother by the arm, and helped her out of the chair. Trellia stood, took her mother-in-law’s hand, and the two left the room. Trellia’s sobbing resumed in the hallway but grew faint as she shuffled away. He and Davrosh were alone. Zvilna Gorsha
m lay on the bed, arms wide, an arrow protruding from the center of her forehead. Sorrows ignored the body. Had other questions to work through first.
“Talk to me,” he said.
He spoke in a low, quiet voice. A near whisper. Even then, his words filled the room. He walked to the door.
“What do you want me to say?” Davrosh asked.
“Anything. Doesn’t matter. Talk in your normal voice.”
He stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. He sat in the chair the guard had sat in. Leaned back with his head against the wall like the guard would have leaned. He could see the full length of the hallway out of the corners of his eyes. Shapes were blurry, indistinct, but he would notice someone walking toward him. Davrosh started talking. He couldn’t make out the words, but he heard her voice clear enough. He got up out of the chair, opened the door.
“—such an orchole. The biggest orchole I know. The biggest orchole I’ll ever—”
She stopped, grinned at him.
“How’d I do?” she asked.
“Guard would’ve heard anything that went on in the room,” he said. He stepped into the room. “Definitely any cries for help. The killer’s keeping the girls quiet somehow.”
“Gagged?”
“You ever been gagged?” he asked.
Davrosh shook her head. “No.”
“You can still make plenty of noise gagged.”
“Magic?” she asked.
“You tell me,” he said. “You ever hear of that kind of magic?”
She shook her head. “No, I suppose not.”
“Me neither. Maybe he’s killing them in their sleep. Maybe it is the arrow after all.”
“She wasn’t sleeping,” Davrosh said. “You saw Trellia. She didn’t sleep. No way in hells Zvilna slept.”
“There’s magic to make a person sleep,” Sorrows said. “Maybe our guy weaves some sleeping magic first.”
Davrosh shook her head. “Would leave a residue like restoration magic. Besides, how’s he going to do that without being seen? This is a big room, but they would’ve checked the corners and closets. Would’ve looked for monsters under the bed.”
