by Dan Fish
His bow was strung and resting on his lap, an arrow nocked. His eyes roamed the dim glowstone haze of the room. A trunk at the end of the bed; a mirror standing in the corner; drapes hanging in waves against the window. His mind drifted to thoughts of Jace and hesitation. He’d shot friends during the war with the Seph. Never a lover. Would he shoot if given the chance? Would she give him the chance? Would they talk? What would she say? What would he say in return? Would she kill with him in the room?
“Which is better?” Davrosh asked.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Weapon or spirit.”
Sorrows frowned in the darkness. Weapon or spirit. A trapped soul or a wandering soul. Neither was good. A spirit could haunt, could harm. But a weapon meant a Seph. Which meant hunting. Which was dangerous as well.
“Weapon,” he said after a moment.
“Why?”
“Seph.”
“You really hate them, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What are they like?”
Davrosh shifted against the door. He felt it in his back.
“You’ve never seen one?” he asked.
“In pictures and weavings. Never in person.”
“They’re monsters,” he said.
She snorted. It sounded like a soft cough through the door.
“I’ve been through the training,” she said. “All mage guards have seen the same drawings. And Oray wove a couple images from memory for me when I first joined his team.”
“Is he a good Weaver?”
“The best I’ve seen. One of the Seph he showed me had three arms, two heads. Looked like a monster.”
“They are monsters,” he said. “They find human bones, pull them from the ground, crypts, tombs. They piece them together the best they can. But they don’t know orcpiss about humans. Don’t always know to have two legs instead of three or eight. Don’t always know to have five fingers on a hand instead of one or twenty. They find whatever flesh they can, animal carcasses mostly, and bind it to the bones until they can move. Sometimes they look normal enough from afar, hidden beneath a cloak. Sometimes, nothing can hide their deformity.”
“Each one is like that?”
“Every time.”
“What about the orc that night in Huvda?”
He sighed. “Except that time. I don’t know. Never saw that before.”
“And you think there’s one of those in Hammerfell?”
“I know there is.”
“Where? Something like that would get noticed. The Mage Guard would get called in.”
Sorrows shook his head. “You’d be surprised at what hides in the Quarry. Think about the half-born that killed Utuur.” Where were you?
Davrosh said nothing for a spell. Evenlee shifted in her sleep, kept snoring.
“Brochand still isn’t talking,” she said.
“She will, eventually,” he said. “Just needs time.”
The bow glowed faintly on his lap. He ran his thumb along the curve of the top limb, thought of Julia, taken by the Seph, killed by the elves. Thought of her body when he found her. Thought about his own years spent in silence.
“I can see the sky turning gray behind the mountains over here,” Davrosh said.
“Still snoring on this side,” Sorrows said.
“Looks like we made it.”
“Looks like.”
They were through the fourth night. They had three days until Nisha Davrosh.
✽✽✽
“I DON’T LIKE IT,” Ga’Shel said.
Davrosh looked up from her bacon. Sorrows put his coffee down.
Oray sighed, stared at Ga’Shel. “You don’t need to like it. But you need to do it. The women are safer this way.”
“Easy enough for you to say. You’re always outside the room. Oleva invited me into bed half a dozen times last night.”
“You should’ve taken her up on it,” Sorrows said. “Sure helps pass the time.”
Davrosh coughed, grabbed her coffee, took a drink. She shook her head.
“He’s joking,” she said. She glanced at Sorrows. “You’re joking?”
Sorrows grinned, winked at Davrosh, stabbed his fork into a stack of cakes. She looked at him, said orchole with her eyes, returned to her breakfast.
Oray stood, glanced at Ga’Shel. “Ready?”
Ga’Shel nodded, pushed his plate away, tossed a napkin on top of it, stood up. Davrosh looked at the two.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Someone found a body in the Quarry,” Oray said. “City Guard sent word this morning.”
“We’ll go with you. We’re headed there, anyway.”
“No. I need you two in the city, thinking about Reishi Galagrin.”
“We thought we’d have enough time if we left in the morning.”
“I said no. I’ll make it an order if I have to. I want you focused.”
“Galagrin Manor is on the east side of Hammerfell. We’d be close enough to—”
“That’s an order, Master Davrosh.”
Davrosh said nothing, stared at Oray with a look that was half frustration and half wounded pride. The wolf was in Oray’s eyes. His face was all hard lines and hunger. His mouth turned down at the corners, like an elder scolding a child. Or an elf tolerating a lesser creature. Davrosh slumped her shoulders, slid lower in her chair. She almost pouted, which had the opposite effect of her grin. Her chin seemed smaller, her eyes larger. It would almost have been attractive, if she hadn’t looked so broken.
“Piss off, Oray,” Sorrows said. “It was my idea.”
“I don’t care whose idea it was. I don’t want you two anywhere near the Quarry. Understood? We need to stay focused on catching Jace. If you hadn’t been busy counting her teeth with your tongue, you might have stopped her from killing Zvilna Gorsham.”
Sorrows stood, tossed his fork on his plate, loudly. Heads turned. The dining hall quieted. He took a step closer to Oray, looked down at him. Tipped his chin, emphasized his looking down at him.
“I don’t take orders from you, and I don’t need you telling me what to think about. I’m going to the Quarry. I have some unsavory splitting business to tend to. Davrosh could tag along, maybe whisper in my ear, maybe make me feel a little guilty. I might second-guess my approach. Or she can stay back, and I can wreak whatever havoc I see fit, unhindered and with a clear conscience. Your call. Either way, I’ll be back in time to spend the night in Reishi Galagrin’s bedroom. And you won’t hear me complaining about it.”
Oray’s face reddened. His jaw clenched. Thirty mage guards listening; two Masters watching; one order given; one human raging. No high road, no middle ground. No leverage. He took a breath, then another. He stared hard at Sorrows. When he spoke, his voice was calm, collected.
“I can’t stop you, Sorrows,” he said. “So go. Do what you will. See to your unsavory business. But Remma stays. She’s my best, and I won’t risk her.”
The dining hall was silent. Oray stared at Sorrows, Sorrows stared back. Davrosh shifted in her seat, frowned. She glanced at Sorrows, gave a small shake of her head, looked away.
“Such an orchole,” she said.
Sorrows lifted his chin, nodded at Oray. “Good enough for me. When do we leave?”
Ga’Shel laughed. The sound was bright, loud, and smug. It echoed once off the walls, twice off the ceiling, then he and Oray disappeared. Sorrows shrugged and returned to his chair. Conversation trickled into a steady flow. Davrosh leaned forward, kept her voice low.
“What in all hells was that about? I respect La’Jen Oray. He’s a good elf.”
“No such thing,” Sorrows said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Besides, if you hadn’t said anything he wouldn’t know our plans.”
“This is my fault?”
“Basically.”
“Basically?”
“Essentially,” Sorrows said. He stood. “In a manner of speaking. But it doesn’t matter. Can
’t call an arrow back to the string. Let’s go.”
Davrosh knit her brow, wrinkled her nose, contorted her mouth until her face matched her unkempt hair. She leaned forward in her chair, sprawled across the table.
“Go?” she asked.
“How many people die in the Quarry each day? One, two?”
“Sometimes none.”
“But sometimes more.”
“Sure.”
Sorrows raised his eyebrows, stared at her. And?
“Gods,” Davrosh said. “Why would the City Guard call the tower?”
“Could only be one of two things.”
“A gods-born died.”
“Possibly. Or they found another corpse like that half-born Oray brought in.”
“I sure as hells hope not.”
“Right. So, let’s go.”
Davrosh stared at him. I’m not disobeying an order. He stared back. Yes. You are. They wasted a minute of time, maybe two. Eventually, she sighed, pushed her dishes to the center of the table, and they walked back to his room. Eventually, they met in the entrance hall, two cloaks, two bows, a human, and a half-born. Eventually, they stepped off stone pavers onto gravel, and traveled shadowed paths deep into the Quarry.
Later, Sorrows would think of those minutes spent staring, and he would wonder how different the morning would have been without them.
Chapter 36
EVERY LIGHT CASTS a shadow. Every shadow has a heart. A well of darkness deeper than that surrounding it. Cold, hidden. Far from gray edges and prying eyes. It is not evil, nor is it good. It doesn’t cause suffering, nor does it heal. It simply is. Yet a shadow’s heart becomes a reservoir for those dark thoughts that twist the light. A thought of envy from a thought of love. A thought of lust from a thought of beauty. A thought of murder from a thought of peace. Every light casts a shadow. Every shadow has a heart. Every Quarry has a Beggar’s Hollow.
It was a matter of population. Hammerfell was home to dwarves, goblins, elves, the occasional orc, and various half-born—predominantly dwarf-goblin. Three million mouths. Mouths that ate and drank. Food and drink that served its purpose, then passed out of the city through underground channels tunneled in stone. Dwarf ingenuity and elf magic. Beggar’s Hollow ran along the northwest edge of the Quarry, downslope from the elevated flats of Hammerfell onto the plains. Down slope made it the ideal landscape for emptying tunnels and collecting the excess of the city in wide basins where it was treated with more elf magic. The magic filled the air with floral and herbal scents, but the city was big, and other smells lingered. A matter of population. The smell kept most people away. Which made Beggar’s Hollow the shadow’s heart, attracting only the desperate, or those who wished to keep their business far from prying eyes. Far from the gray and black.
Ivra Jace watched Overseer La’Jen Oray and Master Ostev Ga’Shel turn a corner, passing the City Guard armory which marked the southernmost point of Beggar’s Hollow. They’d slipped the gods-stream. They moved quickly and didn’t notice her. She followed.
The road beyond the Armory was gravel, as were all roads in the Quarry, but in Beggar’s Hollow the gravel was sparse. Sparse enough that Oray’s and Ga’Shel’s boots didn’t crunch when they eventually returned to the god-stream outside a hovel. It was little more than a wall and roof of mismatched planks stretched between two similar walls and roofs to either side. The pattern continued the length of the road. A seemingly endless wall of splinters and crooked, vertical lines. Each of the hovels had a door which was more of the same mismatched planks, painted in dull colors. Red, green, blue, yellow. Colors of nature, of wildflowers and evergreen. Nothing bright, nothing new. The paint was thick, like jam on toast, hiding the flaws of the wood underneath. Oray and Ga’Shel approached a door the color of dandelions in the evening. Oray entered without knocking, Ga’Shel stayed outside, leaned against the plank wall, then thought better of it and just stood, folded his arms and waited.
Across the road, a hedge of scrub oak and juniper mirrored the homes. Past the hedge, a slope led to a canal of creeping water and waste. The air smelled of rosemary and piss and rotten eggs. Jace had shed the black and gray of the Mage Guard and wore a simple patchwork cloak, which she pulled up over her mouth and nose. The morning was bright, and the hedge was still heavy with snow, but she found the pockets of shadow that kept her hidden. She edged closer until she could look past the dandelion door into the dim interior of the hovel where Oray knelt beside a body. Silver-hair, moss-colored skin, naked—from the little Jace could see.
Oray poked at the body, rolled it onto one side, tipped his head, studied it for a moment, stood. He left the hovel, squinted in the sun, stared across the road. If he noticed Jace, he gave no indication. He said something to Ga’Shel, and the two walked to the next door, a dirty-blue color, like trampled cornflower. Ga’Shel stood outside, Oray entered. A while later Oray returned outside, and the two moved further on. They opened eight doors before they finally slipped the gods-stream and left Beggar’s Hollow. When they turned the corner at the City Guard armory, Jace ran across the road and snuck behind the dandelion door.
A half-born body lay naked on the floor, still on its side. Heavy-limbed with pale green skin. Half goblin, half dwarf. The floor was packed earth, dark with dried blood. The air was thick with the smell of death. The half-born’s face hung in ribbons, teeth and gums showing through torn lips. Its forehead was caved in. Its arms ended in bloody stumps, hands missing. Jace stared at the body, studied it a moment, then nodded.
“Here,” a voice said outside. “This door’s open.”
The hovel was small, empty. A mat of woven grass lay against one wall, a bundle of branches lay in one corner. Nowhere to hide. Jace hurried to a dark corner, dropped to the ground, pulled her hood over her face, huddled beneath her cloak. She rocked on her feet, watched the door.
Watched Solomon Sorrows fill the rectangle of mid-morning light, then step through. Jace lowered her head, rocked a little faster. Master Remma Davrosh entered the hovel.
“Gods,” Davrosh said. “There’s someone else in here.”
Her footsteps fell heavy on the packed earth. She crossed to the corner and placed a hand on Jace’s shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” Davrosh asked.
Jace said nothing, shook her head. She kept her gaze down, kept her face hidden, kept rocking back and forth.
“Shock,” Sorrows said. “Must’ve come back to this.”
“Or saw it happen,” Davrosh said.
“Don’t think whoever did this is the type to leave survivors. Looks a lot like Utuur.”
“Can’t be the half-born. La’Jen ordered that body turned to ash.”
“Not the half-born, but like the half-born.”
“What should we do with the body?”
“Nothing,” Sorrows said. “Leave it to whoever that is.”
Davrosh sighed. “I’m sure she or he has a name.”
She put her hand on Jace’s shoulder and moved to pull back the hood. Jace jerked her head away, shook it side to side. Davrosh backed away.
“Easy,” she said, low, soft. “We won’t hurt you. We’re with the Mage Guard. Like those elves who visited earlier.”
Jace kept rocking.
Davrosh sighed. “Seems cruel to just leave them here.”
“That’s Beggar’s Hollow,” Sorrows said. “Besides, we need to keep moving. From what I could see, Oray opened at least half a dozen doors.”
Davrosh sighed and stepped outside, leaving Sorrows alone. He lingered for a moment, studied the body, then turned to leave. Jace got up, leapt over the corpse, grabbed Sorrows by the shoulder, and spun him around.
Her hands found his face, his hair. She pulled him close, pressed her lips against his. She kissed him hard, then broke free, pushed him away, ran out the door.
She was gone by the time Sorrows rushed onto the road. Davrosh never saw her. Jace never looked back. She didn’t slow when her boots touched stone pavers, didn’t slow
when she turned onto a narrow side street. She found the hidden door, pulled it open, stepped inside. There she slowed and stopped, leaned back against a wall, chest heaving. She lifted a hand to her mouth, brushed the tips of her fingers against her lips.
“I miss you, Solomon,” she said to no one. “But we’ll be together soon. I swear it.”
✽✽✽
SORROWS LOOKED UP the road, turned, looked the opposite way. He spun in a slow circle, searching the rooftops, the hedge, the long row of staggered homes. Jace was gone. She had probably slipped the moment she stepped out the door. Davrosh looked at him, frowned. She was asking, What are you doing? Sorrows gave a small, dismissive shake of his head, shrugged.
“Did you see her?” he asked.
“Who?”
He said nothing, walked to the yellow door, glanced inside. Just the body. He closed the door, returned to Davrosh.
“Jace.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She was here, just now. The wretch in the room was Jace.”
“Gods. Did she say anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Why didn’t she just slip and wait until we left?”
“Why was she here at all?”
“Did she give that to you?”
Davrosh pointed, and Sorrows reached. He pulled something from the tangles of his hair. Held it in his hand. A silver pin, long, sharp. Goblin-crafted.
