Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  “This is what the killer uses to bind the women,” Sorrows said.

  “I think so.”

  Sorrows unwound a length, gripped it, pulled until it bit into his skin.

  “The wrists, too?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Gods,” Davrosh said. “Why do they let him?”

  “They’re disoriented,” Sorrows said. “Took us, what, a quarter hour each time Ga’Shel slipped us out of the gods-stream? And he’s the best I’ve traveled with.”

  “Thanks,” Ga’Shel said.

  “Don’t mention it. Seriously.”

  “We’re sure he’s a Walker?” Davrosh said. “The killer?”

  Oray nodded. “I’m convinced now, given the wounds and the wire. But…”

  He stopped, glanced at Sorrows. His eyes softened for a moment. He pursed his lips, sighed through his nose. Sorrows nodded.

  “But he’s not a he,” Sorrows said.

  “Who then?” Davrosh asked. “Ivra Jace?”

  “Might explain why I haven’t seen a trail at any of the crime scenes,” Ga’Shel said. “I don’t see any in the tower either.”

  “Is that possible?” Davrosh asked.

  Sorrows shrugged. “Ga’Shel’s restoration magic doesn’t have a scent. Why couldn’t Jace’s forest-walking leave no trace?”

  The four traded glances. Oray looked hungry, ready to hunt. Ga’Shel looked tired, but calm, confident. Only Davrosh seemed unconvinced. Wrinkles lined her forehead. She stared at the wire.

  “Something’s not right,” she said. “It’s too convenient.”

  “The killer’s always had an edge,” Sorrows said.

  “You’re sure Jace is a Walker?”

  “Positive.”

  “But you were with her at Ellebrand Manor.”

  “Yes.”

  Oray tapped his chin, looked at Sorrows. “Walk us through that night.”

  Sorrows took a breath, gathered his thoughts, gave some details, omitted others. Davrosh questioned, Oray listened, Ga’Shel grew bored and traced the table with his fingers.

  “You two only kissed?” Davrosh asked.

  “Nothing else,” Sorrows said.

  Davrosh grinned. “You took a bow to the back of the head for a kiss?”

  Sorrows sighed. “Yes.”

  “Do you know what time it was when Jace left?”

  “Could’ve been midnight. Could’ve been later.”

  Davrosh looked at Ga’Shel. “How long does it take you to reach Gorsham Manor?”

  Ga’Shel was leaning on the table, facing away. Bored.

  “Ten or twelve minutes slipped,” he said.

  “Even if she was slower,” Sorrows said, “it might only take her a quarter hour to get there.”

  “That puts her arriving as guests are leaving,” Davrosh said.

  “Gods, she’d walk right in the front door.”

  “I want to go back to Gorsham Manor,” Sorrows said. “Or Valinor, Sturm. Hells, I’d even suffer Gorn Haglund—”

  “Brightle,” Davrosh said.

  “Right. Brightle. Doesn’t matter. I want to see a crime scene.”

  “Why?” Davrosh asked. “You’ve already seen Zvilna’s room, and the others will be compromised by now.”

  “I want Ga’Shel to come along.”

  “You want to see things slipped,” Oray said.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “You all right with that, Ostev?” Oray asked.

  Ga’Shel turned, looked at Sorrows. “Sure.”

  “Good. You two can leave after breakfast,” Oray said. “We’ll all meet in the dining hall at noon. I want a full report. Remma, you’ll stay back with me. We have a list of daughters to go through.”

  “We’re getting closer,” Davrosh said.

  Sorrows frowned. “Not close enough.”

  “We’ll get her.”

  “We better. Your sister’s eight days away.”

  ✽✽✽

  SORROWS BLINKED HIS eyes into focus. Shook off his disorientation. He stared at a mansion no different from the dozens he had visited in the past month. It was wide and tall, stoic among thinned clusters of pine, spruce, and cedar. It had stone columns, a sloped roof, windows scattered across three stories. Gray granite streaked with black, accents in marble and copper. Mounds of snow along the foundation hid evergreen shrubbery. Double doors painted deep crimson, a golden knocker on each, golden handles in the center where the two halves met. Inside, someone played a piano. Low, creeping tones leaked into the cold morning air; the breath of the mountain come to life in soft, hammered strings. The music mingled with the scent of needles, resin, and fresh-fallen snow.

  “Where are we?” Sorrows asked.

  He walked beside Ga’Shel along a stone path leading to the crimson doors.

  Ga’Shel shrugged. “Brightle Manor.”

  Sorrows stopped, looked at Ga’Shel. “You split.”

  Ga’Shel smiled, put an arm around Sorrows. “What? It might be fun.”

  “For you.”

  “Of course.”

  Sorrows brushed Ga’Shel’s arm off his shoulder, turned forward. “Ass.”

  The doors opened with a swell of delicate, mournful notes; minors and tritones; fluttering trills and plunging melodies. Gorn Brightle appeared, clean-shaven, dressed in black. The lack of beard made him look younger than Sorrows remembered, but his amber eyes had gone dim with age or heartbreak or both. He stared at Sorrows, said nothing for a breath, then sighed.

  “Sorrows,” he said.

  “Haglund,” Sorrows said.

  “Brightle now.”

  Sorrows nodded. “I suppose so. Sorry about your girls. Truly.”

  Brightle said nothing, stared at him for a moment. “You looking for the guy who did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You find him, you keep him alive long enough for me to visit. Think you could do that?”

  “I will,” Sorrows said.

  Brightle managed a half grin, but it was nowhere near his eyes. “Gods, you haven’t changed at all. I’m glad. Hammerfell needs the Gray Walker right now.”

  He turned, gestured over his shoulder. “Come on in. Room’s upstairs. The elf knows the way. Good to see you again, Sorrows.”

  He walked away, assumed Sorrows and Ga’Shel would follow, which they did. Assumed one of them would close the front doors, which Sorrows did. Assumed they didn’t have further need of him, which they didn’t. He disappeared around a corner. The piano kept playing somewhere to the left. Ga’Shel climbed a wide staircase to the second-floor balcony, and Sorrows followed.

  The Brightle twins shared a room at the left end of the hallway. Ga’Shel stopped with his hand on the door.

  “Likely the room’s been left untouched since the entombment,” he said. “We can slip now to avoid further disturbing the crime scene.”

  Sorrows nodded, didn’t feel the slip—never felt the slip. But the room blurred. He shook his head, blinked, shook his head again. Ga’Shel had moved to the opposite side of the room. He stood beside a large bed of polished oak, round posts at each corner, velvet canopy above, pale violet like the sky before sunrise. He stared at the bed, rubbed his wrist absentmindedly.

  “You’re awake,” he said, still staring.

  “Awake enough. Find anything?”

  “Didn’t start looking. Was waiting for you.”

  He ran a hand over the coverlet. His hand passed through the fabric, disappeared, then reappeared as he pulled away.

  “Shael lay here,” he said. He looked across the room to a similar bed draped in peach-colored velvet. “Prida lay there.”

  “Like Zvilna,” Sorrows said.

  Ga’Shel stared at the bed. “Like Zvilna.”

  “How thin are we?”

  “Not too thin.”

  “Good. Start working us down slow. I’m going to take a look around.”

  The room held a scattering of wooden furniture, the same pale oak as the beds. Ch
airs in the corners piled with cushions matching the canopies. A small table in the open space between beds. Two more chairs set to either side. Mirrors, drawers, chests, benches with more cushions. Woven rugs, thick drapes pulled open, tapestries on the walls depicting lakes and mountains. Brightle traveled the kingdom, and his daughters had benefited from his dotage. Sorrows thought of his time spent with Gorn Haglund, a hard, coarse dwarf with little regard for anything but profit. Gorn Brightle might be a different person entirely. The same face doing different things for different reasons.

  Sunlight came in through the window, dust swirled above a pool of light on the floor. Sorrows moved back and forth through the room, comparing the two beds, thinking of snares and bindings. Thinking how he would secure a dwarf to her bed. He found nothing, and the swirling dust grew slower and slower until it scarcely moved at all. Ga’Shel had taken them thin. To the edge of his abilities. But Sorrows had found nothing. He stood, turned to Ga’Shel.

  “Not sure what I hoped to see, but—”

  He stopped. Moved to Ga’Shel. Crossed the room in three long strides, pushed him away, knelt.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  He lifted a sliver of fine, silver wire from the carpet. The fragment was no more than a finger’s width in length. The ends were cut neatly. A small segment of it was dark, dirty. Ga’Shel frowned.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Wire,” Sorrows said. “And there’s blood on it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “How thin are we?”

  “As thin as I can manage.”

  Sorrows blew out his cheeks. “Then it means everything. It means the killer’s using wire, like we thought. It means the killer’s a Walker, like we thought. And if it is Jace, then it means she’s every bit as strong as you. Which means you might be the only one who can find her.”

  Ga’Shel frowned. “A Walker as strong as me?”

  Sorrows clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, sunshine. I still think you’re special.”

  ✽✽✽

  YOU WATCH HIM, but he doesn’t notice you. You watch him move through the room, searching. He is graceful, elegant as he lowers himself to the floor, checks under the beds. His arms are strong. You imagine them holding you. His eyes are bright with purpose. His jaw is set in determination. His lips pursed together. You imagine them pressed against yours. Then you put those thoughts aside. They distracted you in the past. You will not let them do so again.

  He finds the piece of wire, as you knew he would. He is, after all, an incredible man. His mind is sharp and follows logical paths. He knows what the wire means. Knows now fully how the women are killed, what skill is involved. Your mastery is laid bare before him.

  This is necessary. It does not worry you. You intend to show the gods what you are capable of. Despite the odds. Despite what the Mage Guard and Solomon Sorrows might know. What they might do to stop you. You will kill Nisha Davrosh. You will do it right under their noses, while they watch. You will do it alone. And when you are finished, the gods will see you mean to join them. They will see you are worthy.

  And if they are wise, as gods are thought to be, they will be afraid.

  Chapter 33

  THEY LEFT ORAY and Ga’Shel in the dining hall and walked down the corridor. Davrosh said nothing, and Sorrows was glad for the silence. He’d given Oray the fragment of wire from Brightle Manor and they’d discussed what Sorrows had seen. Nothing. No bloody handprint left outside the gods-stream, no hints at the struggle between killer and victim, no remnant of torn dress or torn cloak. Sorrows had revealed three more strands of wire; one from each of the remaining three houses. Each no longer than his little finger. Each with a smear of blood, dried and dark against the shining, silver metal. Each left at the edge of Ga’Shel’s ability.

  Wire and a Walker, Oray had said. Means and opportunity.

  Davrosh had provided a less eloquent summary. Gods shun it.

  They’d agreed they had a problem. Agreed they’d likely need to catch Jace in the act. Not because they wanted to, but because it would happen that fast. Agreed that Ga’Shel couldn’t be at more than one dance at a time. Bex Gellio was suggested. Oray shared the news about her death. Mig and Fen were suggested. Sorrows would ask around. Try to find Mig. But Fen was likely in Tam. Too far away. Not enough time. Ga’Shel had asked about the dwarves standing guard at the city gates; wondered if they’d been trained to detect Walkers; wondered how they were able to pull a Walker back into the gods-stream. Oray had explained the spells were bound to the gates themselves; complicated magic woven by teams of elves. Not something wielded by the dwarves standing watch. Not something the Mage Guard could carry from manor to manor.

  It was all bad news that only grew worse. They had reached the busiest part of the month. The most dances in the least amount of time. Forty-eight in two weeks. More than three a day. Their only hope was to convince all the daughters to stay with family. To avoid their bedrooms. Ga’Shel had shaken his head. The idea was flawed, now that they knew the killer was a Walker. Jace could slip a daughter out of a crowd as easily as plucking petals from a flower. The daughter would be there one moment, gone the next. She’d be disoriented, suggestible. Jace would lead her upstairs. The daughter would die before the family noticed she was missing. Or maybe as they rushed up the stairs. Or maybe as they flung open the door. Davrosh had reiterated her earlier sentiment. Shun it.

  Sorrows had suggested a terrible plan. A worst-case scenario. A knock-but-don’t-enter approach. They wouldn’t keep the daughters in the great rooms or the dance halls. They’d leave each to retire to her bedroom. They’d position a guard outside. They’d make sure the door stayed shut. They’d knock in the morning. If the daughter answered, the door would be opened. If they were met with silence, they’d call Ga’Shel, for reinforcements. They’d keep Jace trapped in the room. When Ga’Shel arrived, he’d slip the gods-stream with a handful of guards, wait until they acclimated. Twenty minutes to be safe. They’d open the door. If it worked, they’d catch Jace. But another daughter would die. It was a terrible plan. A worse-case scenario. In the end, they’d all agreed it was the only option.

  Davrosh stopped in front of a door, glanced at Sorrows. He turned.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re doing the thing with your fingers again.”

  Sorrows glanced at his hand. “Am I?”

  “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “I’m not. It’s been days. Should’ve been hours.”

  “Maybe she went thick again. Like you said she did with Bex. Maybe it’s only felt like a few minutes to her.”

  “Maybe. But she shouldn’t have gone looking for Jace. I should’ve stopped her.”

  “Stop a goblin Walker? You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “Sympathy?”

  “Honesty.”

  Davrosh slowed and stopped in front of a door.

  Sorrows looked at her. “What is this?”

  “This is your room,” Davrosh said quietly. She sighed. “You’ve been here two months. How do you not know which door is yours?”

  Her tone was all defeat, no bite behind her disbelief at his ineptitude. She gazed at her feet, shoulders slumped. She looked how he felt. We’re a sorry pair. He put a hand on her arm. Squeezed.

  “They’re looking for Jace,” he said. “They might find her in time.” Before anyone else dies.

  She shrugged his hand away. “Think you could find your goblin friend if she didn’t want to be found?”

  No chance. He didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t think so,” Davrosh said. “We have eight days until Nisha’s dance. Maybe I can convince her not to hold the party.”

  No chance, he thought again. He said nothing. Davrosh clenched and unclenched her fists, kept staring at the floor like she wanted to hit something. Sorrows took hold of the door handle, shifted his weight to hide a backward step away from her.

  �
��It’ll be her,” she said. “I just know it.”

  “No,” Sorrows said. “You don’t know it. You only think you do. If you knew for certain it was Nisha, then we’d know how Jace picked her targets. We’d wait for her, catch her, and all of this would end.”

  She looked up at him with eyes like springtime, green and vibrant and glistening. But her face was pale like winter. Her chin trembled.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think you’re too close to this,” he said softly. He wasn’t looking for a fight. “I think there are more than enough mage guards to assign someone else.”

  She clenched her jaw, spoke through gritted teeth, emphasized each word. “Not a chance, orchole.”

  She was stubborn as all hells. “I figured as much. In which case, I think we should stay together. Oray can work out the details. You and I keep thinking, keep working. You might be too close to this, but so am I. Jace had me fooled from the start.”

  Davrosh stared at him. He stared back. For the first time since they’d met, they understood each other. She nodded slowly.

  “Do you miss the goblin?” she asked.

  Sorrows sighed. “I do.”

  “That elf’s got a real mean streak.”

  “Mig said the same thing.”

  Davrosh grinned. The same chin-stretching grin she always gave. But it looked different now. Confident. Strong. Full of resolve.

  “Eight days,” she said.

  “Eight days.”

  “Jace won’t know what hit her.”

  Sorrows lifted an eyebrow. “I’m guessing it’ll be you.”

  Davrosh barked a short laugh, turned and walked up the spiral corridor. She waved without looking back.

  “Entrance hall in an hour. Don’t be late. Bring your bow.”

  Sorrows watched until she disappeared behind the curve of the wall. He went into his room, grabbed his bow, sat on the bed. Took a deep breath, then another, and another.

  ✽✽✽

  JULIA WATCHED HIM, nodding, smiling. She moved her fingers to brush the hair off his forehead. He couldn’t feel her touch, but he imagined it. Willed the memory of it into his skin. Willed the memory of her scent into his nostrils, the sound of her voice into his ears. She said something. Three words. Her mouth and lips and tongue moved in a way so familiar he thought for a moment he had heard her speak. But he hadn’t. He smiled.