Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1
Page 26
“I will see him again,” she said. “This isn’t the end.”
She took off her hand, stepped back. Stared at the door, still didn’t move, like she was waiting for it to make the decision for her. But the door wouldn’t open itself. It was just a door. She took a deep breath, grabbed the handle again, and pulled it open.
The entrance hall was quiet. Her boots hammered on the stone. The sound echoed off the walls and vaulted ceiling. Her pace quickened.
She had just reached the heavy doors leading out when they split in the middle, started to open. She stepped to the side. Ivra Jace could move very fast when she needed. Stone columns framed the doorway. She held her breath, pushed herself tight into a sliver of shadow in the corner where doorframe met wall. Ivra Jace could be very hard to see when she wanted.
Overseer La’Jen Oray and Master Ostev Ga’Shel entered the tower, followed by a squad of mage guards. Behind them, a sled. On the sled, a body. Jace studied it for a moment before slipping through the doors as they closed.
The tower fell away as she walked in the direction of the Quarry. She stuck to shadows and alleys, staying on back roads and in hidden gaps between buildings. The snow was deep from the day’s storm, but she could be very light-footed when she wanted to.
Ivra Jace moved fast and didn’t slow until she reached a specific door painted a specific shade of green. She knocked and entered. Closed the door behind her. Stepped into a square room, dimly lit by a single candle. It was a small room. It was a cold room. Her breath clouded in front of her. She looked to a corner where a dark shadow hovered just beyond the pool of yellow-orange candlelight. Waited.
“The tower is no longer safe for you,” the shadow said. “He knows.”
Ivra Jace said nothing. There was nothing more to say. She turned, opened the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind her. A tear ran down her cheek and fell into the snow. Then another. Her legs folded within her cloak, she slowly lowered herself to the ground, hugged her knees, closed her eyes.
And in the cold, quiet stillness of night, Ivra Jace wept.
✽✽✽
ORAY TAPPED HIS chin. “A Walker? You’re sure?”
“Explains how the killer gets into the room without being seen,” Sorrows said. “Explains the lack of clues. Explains why the women don’t struggle.”
Oray frowned. Ga’Shel frowned. Davrosh shrugged.
“It’s a good guess, La’Jen,” she said. “Best we’ve got right now.”
They were back in the room with the polished stone table. Sorrows sat near the door, Davrosh and Ga’Shel sat at the opposite end, Oray stood near the center. Davrosh had put half a decanter of wine into her stomach upon sitting down, and the remnants of a crust of bread were scattered on her jerkin. She sucked on her teeth and watched Oray nod then shake his head.
“Ostev checked those rooms,” he said. “No traces of a Walker.”
“Did you slip?” Sorrows asked.
“No,” Ga’Shel said. “Why would I? I can see your little green friend’s trail all over the tower. I don’t need to slip to see a Walker.”
“How long does a trail linger?” Sorrows asked.
“A day or two. More than enough time.”
“You ever see any other trails in the tower?”
Ga’Shel shook his head. “No, why?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Oray said. “We’re getting off track. Even if he was a Walker, that doesn’t explain the arrows or Zvilna’s wrist.”
“Still working on that,” Sorrows said.
“Work faster. We need to catch this guy.”
“We will,” Davrosh said. “We know what to watch for now. We can warn the daughters not to paint their wrists or use magic. Something. Anything. We’ll get a step ahead of him. Catch him off guard. He’ll make one mistake and we’ll have him.”
Oray frowned, furrowed his brow. I need better than this, he was saying.
“One more thing,” Sorrows said.
“What?” Oray asked.
“I know Jace is a Walker.”
Ga’Shel leaned forward. “Who?”
“Ivra Jace. The elf the Archmage assigned to watch over me.”
Oray sat down, stared hard at Sorrows. “Ivra Jace? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Oray’s frown disappeared. He leaned back, looked around the room. “I’ll speak with the Archmage. If the tower has a second Walker, I want to know why I wasn’t told. You three get some rest. We examine Zvilna Gorsham after breakfast. Then there are three dances in the evening. I want one of you at each.”
Ga’Shel sighed, stood, and left the room. Davrosh burped, stood, and followed. Sorrows stood, and Oray held out a hand.
“Stay,” he said.
Sorrows said nothing, waited.
“You’re sure about Ivra Jace?” Oray asked.
“Yes.”
“She must talk in her sleep.”
Sorrows paused a breath, looked at Oray. “Something like that.”
“There was a fire in the Quarry today.”
“That so?”
“It is. An old hut that belonged to a goblin Walker by the name of Bex Gellio. You know her?”
“I do.”
“You did. She’s dead.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do. Odd, though. Some of her bones were missing. Quite a few, actually. And some of the ones that were left, well, they didn’t look right. Like they’d been cut clean through.”
“Strange,” Sorrows said.
“Strange,” Oray said.
He stared at Sorrows. Sorrows stared back. Two looks passed between them. One said, This is my tower and I know everything that happens within its walls. The other said, I don’t give an orc’s split about you or your tower.
“Good night, Oray,” Sorrows said. He stepped toward the door.
“Good night, Sorrows,” Oray said as the door swung shut.
✽✽✽
YOU ARE FRUSTRATED. Your emotions got the better of you. It is a humbling realization. Perhaps the gods were right to doubt. You panicked. Your attraction to the human blinded you to his aptitude. He carries within him the wisdom of ages. An odd burden for a mortal. Though perhaps not as odd for him. You vow not to underestimate him again.
You know what he will look for. You know what to hide, what to destroy, what to leave behind. You know his own emotions can be used against him, can be used to lead him astray.
You take a deep breath. You set aside your frustration. Nisha Davrosh is eight days away. Only eight. With your patience, your years of study, your abilities, you can keep one human busy for eight days. If anything, it will help pass the time.
Chapter 32
THE SPIRAL CORRIDOR went deeper and deeper. The air grew cooler, closer. Sorrows passed one door, then another, then another. Somewhere after six he lost interest. When he lost interest, he lost count. Davrosh stomped beside him, leading the way further into the mountain. She stopped in front of a door. The corridor continued ahead, and Sorrows wondered how much further it descended. Wondered what other rooms lay in the bowels of the mountain. But those were questions for another day.
He followed Davrosh into a bright room. Bright enough that he squinted a bit until his eyes grew accustomed. A clean room with straight, unadorned walls and a smooth floor. A large room with two tables at the far end. Long gray slabs of granite. He could have lain down on either with room to spare. Narrow tables. His arms would hang off the sides. Low tables. The tops came to just below his waist. They were identical in most respects, except the one to his left was empty and the one to his right held Zvilna Gorsham.
Oray and Ga’Shel stood behind the table Zvilna rested on. They were talking with two elves, both dressed in white tunics, white trousers, white gloves, white boots. Both with black hair tucked neatly into white hoods tied beneath their chins. She was tall with yellow eyes. He was short with thick lips. They spoke easily with Oray, nodding, gesturing to Zvilna.
Oray turned toward Davrosh as she crossed the room. His gaze drifted to Sorrows, and he offered a nod. The wolf was in his eyes again. He wore his wrinkles like Centaur war paint, deep and dark and full of confident menace. Ga’Shel stood beside him, alert, smug. He wore a look that said, I know something you don’t. It was early, and Sorrows had managed little sleep. He jutted his chin at Ga’Shel, returned a look that said, Go to hells.
Introductions were made. The female was Astell Brochand; the male was La’Klin Utuur. They were both mage guards, had both served Hammerfell tower for more than a century. Had both heard of Sorrows.
“I wonder if I might ask you a few questions after all this,” Utuur said.
Sorrows shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Professional interest only, I assure you.”
“Sure.”
“About the Seph, specifically,” Brochand said.
Utuur’s voice was nervous, flighty. Like a small bird in a tree, flitting from branch to branch in a sudden flurry of syllables and pitch. Brochand was musical in comparison. Smooth and syrupy like a ripe peach, words bursting in her mouth and lingering on her tongue.
Sorrows frowned. “What about the seph?”
Brochand opened her mouth to speak, but Oray cleared his throat, and she pressed her lips together instead, offered a brief smile. She said nothing.
“The Seph can wait,” Oray said. “Let’s start the examination. I need to know more about the victim’s wrists.”
Utuur nodded, walked around the table, took Zvilna’s right hand in his own, placed his fingers on her wrist. Brochand did the same with Zvilna’s left. They glanced at one another, gave a small nod, dismissed the restoration magic. No hum, no flash of light. Zvilna’s hands detached from her arms, and Brochand and Utuur gently laid them on the stone table. They stepped back to allow Davrosh and Oray to move closer. Sorrows shifted toward Zvilna’s feet. Blood welled at the wounds, dripped onto the table, disappeared. The scent of ginger and lemon wafted in the air.
“Gods,” Davrosh said.
She stood behind Utuur, staring at Zvilna’s arms. Oray leaned forward beside Brochand.
“Multiple cuts,” he said. “Why?”
“Finding the weak spot?” Davrosh asked.
Oray felt his own wrist. “It’s not that hard to find.”
“If she was struggling?”
“She was tied up,” Sorrows said. “Those are the marks of her bindings.”
Zvilna’s arms above her wrist were striped with wounds. Clean cuts. Deep, glistening red against the green holly leaves painted on her skin.
“Tied up with what?” Brochand asked. “A rope that fine wouldn’t hold a dwarf.”
Oray shrugged. “We can discuss that later. Let’s keep going.”
Utuur moved to Zvilna’s head, gripped the arrow, pulled it free, set it on the table. The shaft of the arrow was stained, wet. The point was slender, sharp. More ginger, more lemon. The paint sealed over the wound.
“Get rid of the magic,” Sorrows said.
Utuur glanced at Oray, who nodded. Utuur splayed his fingers, gently placed them on Zvilna’s face.
“Gods shun it,” Davrosh said.
Her fist was clenched at her side, her jaw flexed, her face flushed. Sorrows moved behind her, looked over her. Zvilna’s forehead had long, fine cuts, like the ones on her wrists. Others split the bridge of her nose.
“More bindings,” Sorrows said.
“But using what?” Davrosh asked.
Oray glanced at Ga’Shel, looked back to Zvilna. “Keep going.”
Brochand and Utuur worked methodically. They cut away Zvilna’s dress, discarded it. Cut away her undergarments. Stripped of each layer of clothing, Zvilna appeared smaller and more alone. Sorrows took a deep breath in through his nose, then let it out long and slow, shook his head. She had been so meek in life. She had deserved better than this. He should have been there. Brochand and Utuur dismissed the magic from the paint wrapping her ankles. More cuts appeared, more evidence of the bonds which had held her fast. They communicated in small nods and murmured observations. They rolled Zvilna onto one side, then the other. Zvilna’s eyes stared blankly ahead. They worked her onto her stomach, then finished with her laying on her back. Her body revealed no additional wounds, no bruising, no scratches. They covered her with a white sheet and stepped away. Sorrows, Oray, and Davrosh followed them to the opposite table.
“Same as the rest,” Brochand said.
“Besides the cuts from her bindings,” Sorrows said.
Brochand nodded. “Right.”
She took off her gloves, set them on the slab beside Ga’Shel. She untied her hood, pulled it down. Utuur did the same.
“She struggled,” he said. “The wounds were clean enough. Deep in the center.”
“But frayed at the ends,” Brochand said. “She moved, tested the limits of her bonds.”
“The pain probably slowed her.”
“And she would have been weak from loss of blood.”
“She would have died from the loss of blood.”
“Agreed. We can rule out the arrow as the cause of death.”
“Almost certainly.”
“Then why bother?” Davrosh asked.
“Distraction,” Sorrows said. “Five dead and you just noticed the wrists and the cuts.”
“The killer’s smart,” Oray said.
Sorrows stared at Zvilna. “Smarter than you, that’s for splitting sure.”
“He’s kept a step ahead of all of us.”.
“He might be a step ahead of me, but he’s way ahead of you. You aren’t even close.”
“Easy, orchole,” Davrosh said. “We’re all on the same side.”
“Which side is that? The losing side?”
“Piss off. What’s gotten into you?”
Sorrows brought his hand down hard on the stone slab. “How do you not dismiss the gods-shunned magic?”
Utuur and Brochand said nothing. Oray and Ga’Shel said nothing. They were elves. They were either above reproach or too arrogant to give a split about a human foaming at the mouth. But Master Remma Davrosh was only half elf. She turned toward Sorrows, grabbed a fistful of his tunic, and pulled. She’d meant to bring him close. Nose to nose. She’d meant to bring his face low enough to slap, if she felt he needed it. And the look on her face said she felt he needed it.
But Sorrows was a tall man. Davrosh grabbed his tunic near the top of his stomach, missing the Grimstone amulet by a handspan. Lower than she intended. Less leverage. And Sorrows was a big man. He weighed twice as much as Davrosh and wasn’t about to be pulled forward, despite the vein of dwarf strength that ran through her. She yanked at his tunic but only succeeded in jerking herself forward. She stumbled into him, driving her head against his chest, stepping on his feet.
She started a dance of mass and momentum. He felt his center of gravity shift, felt his weight move backward over his heels. It was a slow thing and easy to adjust for. He could just step back, could brace himself against her body crashing into his. If his feet were free. But they weren’t, and he couldn’t. What he could do was fall. Backward. Landing hard on the floor. So he did. What he could do was grab onto something as he fell. A reflex; no thought, just action. So he did. But the only thing close was Davrosh, and she was already moving in the same direction. She fell with him, landed hard on top of him. Pressed her body to his. Had no choice. A dance of mass and momentum. She stared at him, her face a finger’s width from his, flushed with anger.
He stared at her, said nothing, didn’t move.
“Could you give us a moment?” Oray asked.
He turned to Brochand and Utuur, offered a smile and a subtle glance at the door. They left. The room fell silent. Davrosh pushed herself off Sorrows. Sorrows stood. They straightened their jerkins. She gave him a look that said, Orchole. He gave her a look that said, What in all hells was that?
“That was amusing,” Oray said. “But Utuur and Brochand still have work to do, and we’ll leave them to it. Before that, there’s something you two need to see. Ostev?”
Ga’Shel reached into a pocket on his skirt, pulled something out, and tossed it onto the table beside him. It landed heavy and scraped against the stone.
“What is it?” Davrosh asked.
“Wire,” Sorrows said.
Loops of fine silver wire coiled loosely together like a bird’s nest woven from horsehair. They formed an oval no larger than Davrosh’s hand, but Sorrows guessed the wire to be a good fifty paces, end to end.
“Same stuff they use to hang the glowstone in the Entrance Hall,” Oray said. “We found it this morning.”
“We?” Davrosh asked. “When? Where? Why wasn’t I told?”
“I went to see the Archmage, and I wanted Ostev with me in case Ivra Jace was watching, slipped. You weren’t there because I want you rested. Something doesn’t add up. Ga’Shel is the only Walker in this tower. The Archmage wouldn’t keep another Walker secret. They’re too valuable. Unless—”
“Unless the Archmage didn’t know,” Sorrows said.
“Right.”
“What’s that have to do with the wire?” Davrosh asked.
“It was on her desk.”
“She let you take it?”
“She wasn’t there. Looked like she hadn’t been there for some time.”
“Jace?” Sorrows asked.
“No sign of her. No sign of anyone. Only the wire.”
Sorrows stared at the gray coil for a moment, then picked it up. It was heavier than he’d expected. He ran his thumb along the bundled curves. The wire was fine, smooth. The metal flexed and glinted in the light.