by Dan Fish
“I love you, too,” he said. “Always.”
He lifted a hand to her face, let his fingers graze her cheek. Fought to keep them close to her skin without breaking the surface. Fought to keep the illusion real.
“This is a bad one, Julia. I was distracted. A woman died.”
Julia’s smile faded. Her brow knit. She shook her head, tilted it to the side, said something encouraging. She had always read him. He missed that. Missed her knowing what he was thinking without him telling.
“I can’t leave before this is finished, but I’ve stayed in one place for too long. There’s a Seph.”
He gave a short laugh. No humor, all irony. He shook his head.
“Gods, in the midst of everything there’s a Seph who’s going to start looking for me.”
Julia smiled small and tried to brush his hair away again. She said something, but he couldn’t hear what. He nodded like he understood.
“It’s time, Julia. I’m keeping the bow close from now on. I have to. When the Seph shows, I need to… you deserve peace.”
She flickered, saw the same from him. Her eyes grew wide. She shook her head. Leaned forward, and their lips passed through one another’s. She disappeared.
He stared at the space where she had stood, took a deep breath, then returned to the room.
✽✽✽
THEY HAD A new list of names. Seven. Their portion of the week ahead. Ga’Shel had another seven, as did Oray. Twenty-one women out of twenty-three. A busy week in a busy month. Four additional mage guards were assigned to each dance. They had instructions, knew what to do. Twelve mage guards each night plus Sorrows, Davrosh, Oray and Ga’Shel. Tuesday and Friday had four dances, four more mage guards. The City Guard was contacted. They’d provide sleds at each dance, runners to gather the scattered guards if Jace showed, transport for reinforcements. A busy week. And the next was worse.
The first name for Sorrows and Davrosh was Nimola Kravel. The Kravel estate was situated on the west side of Hammerfell, with the plains stretching beyond. Kravel Manor was built in a great hollow square, with a courtyard in the center. Three stories of granite and marble surrounded by evergreen hedgerow and spruce, towering black walnut. The interior was polished floors, marble columns, curling staircases; balusters like rows of soldiers overlooking the foyer; vaulted ceilings and chandeliers of crystal and glowstone. The walls held paintings as tall as the dwarves they portrayed. Life-sized representations of the Kravel matriarchy. Some stern, some soft, some caught in between. Oil on canvas framed in hammered gold.
Sorrows studied a painting of a striking dwarf with sapphire eyes, her hair done in long, slender braids draped along one side of her head. She had a smile that pushed at her cheeks, and the painter had captured its beguiling nature well. Her lips looked like rose petals, her beard was dark and cut close.
“She’s a real looker,” Davrosh said, joining him.
Sorrows nodded, rubbed his cheek. “She was. Good kisser, too.”
Davrosh laughed. “You’re joking.”
Sorrows shrugged. “Is it time?”
“Nimola’s heading upstairs as we speak.”
“Let’s go.”
Davrosh hesitated. “She’s scared. She asked if I’d stay in the room.”
“It’s a good idea. Are you up for it?”
Davrosh nodded. “I’ll put my chair against the door.”
“If she disappears, you let me know right away.”
“Of course.”
“But I won’t open the door. I can’t.”
“I know.”
They went upstairs. Davrosh closed the door. Sorrows set his chair in front of it, heard Davrosh slide hers against the opposite side. Two mage guards patrolled the hallway outside the room. Two more wandered the first floor of the house. They walked softly, but Sorrows heard them talking in low voices throughout the night. Sometime before sunrise, Nimola’s mother, Avelyn, crept out of her room, padded down the hall, stopped in front of Sorrows.
“Anything?” she asked.
She wore a cotton nightgown. Her hair hung in a loose braid down her back. Her feet were bare, pale. Her eyes were anxious, tired. Sorrows half turned, spoke low.
“How we doing, Davrosh?”
Two light taps on the door. Sorrows nodded at Avelyn. Everything’s good. She sighed, nodded. Thank the gods. She returned to her room. An hour later, another knock on the door. Not as soft.
“Can I come out now?”
Sorrows opened the door, Nimola stepped out. Davrosh followed. Avelyn appeared at the far end of the hall.
They were through the first night. They had seven days until Nisha Davrosh.
Chapter 34
IVRA JACE WALKED quickly. Not so fast as to draw attention, but not too slow. She walked on the street, during the day, in the open. She left her hood down, and her hair fell loose and golden across her shoulders and back. Her cheeks were flushed from cold. Her eyes caught the sun and sparkled like deep water. More than one dwarf turned as she passed. Eyebrows were raised. Stomachs were sucked in. Chests were puffed out. But Jace avoided any advances. She walked for a spell before turning left onto a cross street. The crowds thinned. She maintained a brisk pace.
She was being followed. She had been since she stepped onto the main street. Hammerfell was a big city with many eyes. Some of them cast casual glances, some of them held friendly interest, some of them hunted. The eyes that followed her now were of the latter kind. They stayed with her when she took the first left. They stayed with her when she took another. And another. She led the eyes in a loop of sorts, bringing them back to the alley she had emerged from, back to the hidden door she had opened, back to a long forgotten room beneath an abandoned City Guard armory.
Jace left the door open, walked in, removed her cloak, draped it over a chair, returned to the door and closed it. She spun, facing the middle of the room. She wasn’t alone.
“Mig Costenatti,” Jace said.
Mig swallowed, eyes wide and black. She took a step back, glanced around the room. Saw only one door. Saw Jace standing in front of it.
“How did you do that?” she asked.
Jace offered a small smile. “Do what?”
Mig shook her head. “You weren’t slipped. How did you pull me back in?”
“Why are you following me?”
“Why did you kill Bex?”
“You think me a killer?”
“Yes. Solomon does, as well.”
Jace frowned, took a step forward. Mig took a step back.
“Does he know you’re still in Hammerfell?” Jace asked.
“Yes,” Mig said. Her body tensed; she took another step back, brushed against the wall. “How are you doing this?”
Jace took another step forward, shook her head. “I can’t have him looking for you. Not now. It’s too dangerous.”
Mig pressed herself against the wall, glanced from one side to the other. She reached behind her head, pulled a slender metal pin from her hair, rushed at Jace.
It was a desperate attack. Mig had nowhere to go. She was alone. The door was behind Jace. Mig was trapped. It was a foolish attack. Jace held the advantage in both height and reach. As Mig drew close, it became apparent Jace held the advantage in speed as well. She stepped sideways, away from the hand holding the pin, gathered herself and lunged forward. Mig spun, swiped at Jace. It was a hopeless attack. Jace held the advantage in strength. She caught Mig by the wrist, wrenched her arm behind her back. Mig gasped, cried out. She dropped the pin and Jace caught it in her free hand. Jace forced Mig to the floor then rolled her onto her back and straddled her. Mig tensed, held her breath. Her chin trembled. A tear slipped from the corner of one eye. She gasped, her chest heaved. She shook her head.
“How can you do this?” she asked. “What are you? Some sort of god?”
Jace held the pin in one hand. She reached forward with the other and brushed a strand of hair from Mig’s face. Soft. Gentle.
“You are love
ly, Mig. And sweet and clever. It’s no wonder he loves you as he does.”
Mig swallowed. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”
Jace gave a small smile. “I wouldn’t. Not intentionally. But unintentionally, I’m afraid I will.”
Mig struggled, writhed within Jace’s grasp. Screamed and cried out for help. After a while, she stopped, grasped for breath. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Let me go, Ivra. Please don’t do this.”
Jace sighed. “I wish it were that easy. But you’d go to him. You’d interfere. No, don’t shake your head. I know you would. And you’d think you were doing him a favor. But there are things happening which you do not understand. The gods themselves watch every move, every moment. This struggle between you and me. They think I am cornered. That I must choose mercy over death because of what you mean to Solomon and what Solomon means to me. But they underestimate me.”
Mig shook her head, pressed her lips together. A tear slipped across her cheek. “Please don’t.”
“Be brave, Mig. It will be over quickly, I promise.”
“Please.”
Two dwarves passed through the alley outside the hidden door. Each wore a fur-lined leather cloak, brown from sun and age. Each had a beard that spread across his chest. Each carried a silver axe at his hip, blade resting in a rawhide cradle. They were identical in most respects, but one stopped for a moment, turned his head, while the other walked two paces further before looking back.
“What is it?” the other asked.
“Quiet,” the first said.
The other waited, arms folded across his chest, until the first shrugged and resumed walking.
“Hear something?” the other asked.
“No,” the first said. “Only the wind. But I thought at first I’d heard a scream.”
“Must be another storm brewing.”
“Must be.”
✽✽✽
A SCREAM SOUNDED, and Sorrows started counting. It took him one breath to uncover the lamp on the bedside table. At four breaths, he was out of bed with his trousers on. Five breaths and he had his bow and quiver in hand. One breath to cross the room and open the door. He stopped counting on his seventh breath. He stood in the corridor and listened. Commotion to his right, above; raised voices; doors thrown open, slamming into walls; boots on stone. Silence to his left, below. He ran. He moved fast, heading downslope. A second scream sounded. Different from the first. The first had been all pain and suffering. Primal, animal-like, unrecognizable. The second was all fear. Intelligent, comprehending, afraid. And it was unmistakably Brochand.
He found her standing with her back against the wall opposite the door to the examination room. She was tense, rigid. The yellow of her eyes was lost in the whites. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, lips moving, jaw working, breath frozen in her chest. Sorrows kept running. A figure appeared. Sorrows stopped ten paces away. A half-born male, naked, body torn apart, guts hanging, dragging on the floor. He stepped toward Brochand.
Sorrows didn’t know how many doors he’d passed, how many steps he’d taken since he'd left his room. He didn’t think about breathing or blinking or the beating of his heart. Those things were either instinct or insignificant. They didn’t require thought. They just needed to be done. He didn’t know when he’d strung the bow. Didn’t remember nocking an arrow. Didn’t think about drawing back, taking aim. Instinct. The half-born crouched, his legs tensed, he leapt. Sorrows didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t think. The bow moved a sliver forward, leading. He released. The string snapped and the arrow hissed. It hit the half-born behind the eyes with a heavy, wet thud. The half-born crumpled to the floor at Brochand’s feet. Sorrows ran. Reached Brochand as she fainted, caught her with his left arm, holding the bow in his right hand. He laid her down on the floor, turned to the half-born.
He expected to see tentacles. Expected to see the ribbons of flesh fluttering like grass in the breeze. His hand was on the Grimstone, prepared. But nothing happened. No thunder, no crackling of light and heat as the astral and physical planes diverged. The dead half-born was just that: a dead half-born. His body was covered in dozens of deep, red cuts the width of a thumb. Sorrows had fought enough to know a dagger wound when he saw one. Or thirty. He rolled the body over. Brown eyes, ragged brown hair. Twitching fingers.
Twitching fingers were wrong. Unexpected. Sorrows stared, was still staring when the half-born’s hand shot forward, grabbed his tunic, pulled. The body left the floor, drew close, whispered three words. Sorrows shook off his surprise, pushed the half-born away, scrambled to his feet. Fingers stopped twitching. The body lay still. Sorrows swallowed, slowly lowered his bow. Didn’t remember nocking an arrow, didn’t remember drawing it back. Instinct. He glanced at Brochand, the body, the open door.
A smear of blood and gore led back into the examination room but was steadily fading. The smell of ginger and lemon was heavy in the air, overpowering whatever magic was in the corridor. Sorrows left Brochand, followed the trail in and found Utuur behind a table, dead in a bad way. White tunic spattered with blood, forehead caved in. Chunks of face missing, jaw torn and hanging, pool of blood receding beneath his wrists. No hands, no clean cuts. Like two halves of a loaf torn apart. The first scream, primal, animal-like. Pain and suffering.
“Utuur?” Oray asked behind Sorrows.
“Dead,” Sorrows said.
“Shun it,” Davrosh said.
“Seph?” Oray asked.
Sorrows shook his head and turned around to see Oray and Davrosh step into the room, careful to avoid the path of blood from the half-born to Utuur.
“Not a Seph,” Sorrows said. “Looks more like something a Cursed would do, except for all the blood.”
“I found that half-born in the Quarry two days ago,” Oray said. “He was brought in for examination.”
Sorrows nodded. “They’d opened his chest.”
“How’s a half-born do all this after he’s dead?” Davrosh asked. “And if he was dead already, why’d your arrow stop him?”
“It’s the bow,” Oray said. “With the soul.”
Sorrows nodded. “Doesn’t answer your first question. We’ll need to talk to Brochand.”
“She’s going to need a day or two, maybe more,” Oray said.
Sorrows said nothing. He understood. He knew what shock could do to a person. Knew it had a tendency to linger and creep. Knew how it haunted and how it never truly disappeared. Knew you just learned to live with it in time.
“She’s lucky you were here,” Davrosh said. “You saved her life.”
“Right,” Sorrows said. He glanced at Utuur, wondered what Brochand had seen. “Lucky her.”
He turned, walked past Oray and Davrosh.
“You leaving?” Oray asked.
“I’ve seen enough,” Sorrows said. “Going back to bed.”
“Just like that?” Davrosh asked. “How can you sleep after seeing something like this?”
He was almost out the door. He turned. Oray was studying Utuur, Davrosh was staring at him. He shrugged, then left.
“It’s all I ever see,” he said to no one in particular.
The stone was cold beneath his feet. His nostrils burned from the smell of restoration magic. He ignored the glances of the mage guards crowding the corridor, pushed his way through, opened doors on his left after a while. Found his room after four or five tries. He unstrung his bow, set it in a corner, stripped naked, pulled the tapestry off his wall, wiped the sweat off his body, cleaned the blood between his toes. He climbed into bed, covered the lamp, stared into darkness, waited for sleep to take hold of him. All the while, the half-born’s whisper echoed in his mind.
Where were you?
Chapter 35
THE BLADE HUNGERS or thirsts or lusts. Whatever it is a soul feels toward a body. It is powerful, compelling, and insatiable. It pulls you from your dreams; it forces you out into the night. You’d only thought to try the blade once, to confirm its power, to gauge its
potential. You might not be patient, but even you know better than to draw unwanted attention. Too much is at stake. You can’t have the wrong people asking the right questions. Or so you thought, at first.
But then the goblin came to you, alone. So weak, so easy to overwhelm. And the blade did its work. You hid the body better than the first. The half-born was a mistake from tip to hilt. Your impatience got the better of you. The goblin was an improvement. You were thorough. You covered your tracks. You can’t leave another body for the tower to find. The mage guards are, in every conceivable aspect, the wrong people. They will ask, most assuredly, the right questions.
And that leaves you with a problem. A dilemma. A question of two numbers. One so basic and yet so difficult to solve. You know you want more. The memory of the blade passing into flesh is alive in your hand. Your fingers ache to grasp the dagger, to thrust it forward, to feel the pressure build, then yield to its point. You’ve developed a taste for the kill. You long for it. You hunger as the blade hungers. Thirst as the blade thirsts. Lust, as though the craving for flesh was your own. Nisha Davrosh is seven long days away. Seven, the first number.
You need to know the second number. Is it one? It can’t be. Not now. Two? If two, why not three? Why not more? What is the second number?
How many could you kill in seven days and still be safe?
✽✽✽
“WHY A BOW?” Davrosh asked. “Or a sword or dagger or—what was the one you just mentioned? A hammer?”
“Halberd,” Sorrows said.
“Right. Why a weapon at all? Why wouldn’t they all be sprites?”
“Spirits.”
“Right. Why not all be those?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
They sat back to back with a door in between. Like they had for Nimola Kravel. Like they had the next night for Chira Grenski. And the next night for Ilmae Worwold. Word spread quickly in Hammerfell. The stigma of Mage Guard presence had been weakened by the death of Zvilna Gorsham. Tradition yielded to desperation and necessity. The stigma vanished entirely when a prominent daughter, Olevi Dweld, claimed she would invite Master Ostev Ga’Shel into her chambers. Insinuations were made, rumors spread. Dwarves will be dwarves. Not only was it acceptable to have a mage guard sitting watch in the bedroom, the daughters now preferred it. And the mage guard you invited became equally important. A matter of status. It all led to Sorrows sitting in the dark and talking to Davrosh through a door while Evenlee Horchild snored softly across the room. He didn’t mind. He’d suggested the approach weeks ago. Had been dismissed with a laugh. But perspectives change, sometimes in a matter of days. Sometimes overnight.
