by Dan Fish
She might. But if she did, she would be obscured from the view of anyone in the room. Hidden.
Sorrows opened the balcony door, closed it, turned to face Davrosh.
“That’s a problem,” he said.
“There are two of us,” Davrosh said.
“Four with Caruvi and Yindenna. Caruvi will guard the door into the house. We’ll need Yindenna outside on the balcony. Which leaves no patrols and no runner. We need more mage guards.”
“Then we get more mage guards.”
“What’s the problem?” Nisha Davrosh asked.
Sorrows turned to face her. Nisha stood a head shorter than her stepsister. Average height for a dwarf. She was thick and broad and had enough bosom to stretch her pale, green dress tight across a healthy valley of cleavage. Her hair was long, black, and tied in a loose ponytail that she draped forward over her left shoulder. She had her father’s eyes. The same eyes as her stepsister. Green emeralds, sharp and bright and large. And, though she was a fresh twenty-seven years old, her chin, jaw, and upper lip had a shadow of black stubble. She was a striking dwarf. One who would have her choice of suitors. An ideal daughter to entrust with the future of House Davrosh. A daughter bright and beautiful enough to compensate for the half-born reminder of a husband’s dalliance.
“Nothing,” Davrosh said.
“The door to your balcony,” Sorrows said.
Nisha frowned, glanced at the door.
“It’s fine, Nish,” Davrosh said. “We’ll both be here. With blades. One at each door and with the Mage Guard outside. With blades. You’ll be safe.”
“I heard she was a Walker,” Nisha said. “Blades don’t work against a Walker. Everyone knows that.”
Davrosh glanced at Sorrows, kept her eyes on him. “That’s… true.”
“She’ll kill all three of us. All five of us, if she has to. Slipping the gods-stream befuddles the senses, we won’t stand a chance.”
Davrosh sighed. Nisha looked at Sorrows. Sorrows shrugged.
“We don’t know that she’ll come at all,” he said. “We keep the doors locked and guarded, and hope she makes a mistake.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very good plan,” Nisha said.
Because it’s not much of a plan, Sorrows thought. “No plan is a very good plan until it works.”
“You’re a real comfort, Master Sorrows.”
“Call me Solomon.”
“Or orchole,” Davrosh said.
“Remma,” Nisha said. She frowned, gave a small shake of the head, and patted her step-sister’s arm. “Language.”
Sorrows coughed, hiding a small smile behind his hand. Davrosh rolled her eyes.
“Right, of course,” she said.
She offered Nisha a brief grin. A quick stretch of her chin, nothing gloating, and nothing that touched her eyes. She nodded toward a half vanity set against the wall. More dark-stained oak; drawers on either side of a chair resting underneath. A mirror in the center, oval to match the back of the chair. A polished top that held scattered bottles and brushes, a bundle of dried wildflowers, a quill and inkpot beside a thin book bound in red leather. A tray with brushes of various sizes, small jars, a palette.
“We should get started, Nish,” she said.
Nisha nodded, walked past her stepsister, pulled out the chair, and sat down. She stared at Sorrows from the mirror.
“Why’s she doing this?” she asked. “What did the dwarves ever do to anyone?”
The dwarves have done plenty in the past, Sorrows thought. “I don’t know,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter why,” Davrosh said. She stepped behind Nisha, pulled her hair back, studied her face. “What matters is what we’ve learned since Zvilna. We know the killer’s name. We know she’s a Walker. We think we can trap her.”
“That’s not much,” Nisha said.
“It’s all we’ve got. Like he said, she might not come. There’s no reason to think she would choose you over anyone else.”
“But if she did, I’d die, wouldn’t I? You said you would trap her. She’d already be in the room. She might be here right now.”
“Ga’Shel is coming by to check later this afternoon,” Sorrows said. “He’ll do a check, then shut the door. After that, the Mage Guard will make sure no one opens the door until you go to bed.”
“I think I’d prefer to have Master Ga’Shel here,” Nisha said. “No offense, Master Solomon.”
“There’s only offense in that statement,” Sorrows said. “No way around it. I’ve met sunshine. I’d be less offended if you preferred a troll.”
Nisha frowned, glanced at Davrosh. “Sunshine?”
“It’s his pet name for Ostev. It’s splitting adorable. They’re quite a pair.”
Nisha spun around. “You and Master Ga’Shel?”
“Gods, no,” Sorrows said.
“You’d make a handsome couple.”
Davrosh bit back a smile. She turned Nisha around, took the palette from the tray.
Sorrows sighed, turned to the door on the far wall. “I’m going to walk the house again.”
“Touchy, isn’t he?” Nisha asked.
“You have no idea,” Davrosh said. “No idea at all.”
✽✽✽
THE HUMAN IS there. And the half-born. No matter, they can’t see you. You slip in through the front door with a goblin carrying an armful of bread. It’s so easy. Everything moves so slowly. The goblin takes measured, plodding steps. You watch his balance shift from one foot to the next. You watch the strands of his black and silver hair flow in the wind of his passing. You imagine killing him. You think about how you might do it. There are so many ways to choose from. Some are quick, some cause pain. It is a morbid fascination, but it is what you do. Your mastery. You study and consider. Like a painter might study a flower or a landscape. Like a sculptor might study a hand or the lines and curves of a nude. You see the goblin and you imagine his death at your hands. You learn what you can, you hide it away in the recesses of memory, and then you leave, walking through him into the house.
The human is coming down the stairs. You stop to watch him. You have the time, and you most certainly have the desire. You don’t think about his death. If the stories are true, he is incapable of it. It eludes him, though at times he has sought it. You’ve read a number of books on the subject while doing your studies. You found the stories fascinating, but clearly exaggerated. Or so you thought. Having met him, you’re not so sure anymore. He’s a good fighter. You watched him fight the possessed corpses in the Quarry. He is strong, fast. He has an air of mystery about him as well. Intoxicating. It clouds your thoughts until he becomes all you can think about. Like you’re thinking about him now. Thinking about the long lines of his legs; the swell of their muscle beneath his trousers. His waist, stomach, chest, and shoulders. All hard, toned; fair skin over sinew. His arms, his hands. His gray-blue eyes and his long, black hair. He’s near the bottom of the stairs now. Your heart is pounding. He steps through you; you rise on your toes, imagine his lips meeting yours.
He passes, you sigh. You close your eyes for a moment. When you open them, you are focused. This is part of your approach now. A subtle, shifting step. When repressed, your feelings for the human become a distraction. By allowing yourself to acknowledge and indulge, you regain control of your thoughts. You can focus on your mastery. Today that means you can focus on Nisha Davrosh.
She sits with the half-born. Her half-sister. They talk and laugh. Nisha smiles, the half-born scowls, chides. But it is half-hearted. You smile, watch the two interact. Nisha purses her lips, tenses. The half-born says something and Nisha laughs out loud. You can’t hear it, but you see it unfold in slow, patient detail. The lifting eyebrows, the eyes that widen for a fraction of a second before a smile forces cheeks upward and causes the wide eyes to close, squint with amusement. You sigh, relax. This is good. Much better than Zvilna Gorsham.
The meek Zvilna. So timid and afraid. Eyes wet with tears. She was a
necessary step, but one that benefitted the shadow more than you. She did little to further your case to the gods. But Nisha is clearly different. She is strong, full of life. Her family cherishes her, protects her. The human will stand guard. You have many obstacles in your path, and this pleases you. It is an appropriate end to your time in Hammerfell. The perfect precursor to your time in Godscry.
But that is all yet to come. In the meantime, you must plan. You turn away from Nisha and study the room. It is large and open. Two doors on opposite walls. A sturdy bed with an open frame beneath. No canopy, no curtains to draw aside. You set the wire and arrow under the bed. It’s safer than carrying them with you when you return in the evening. You nod to yourself.
This will do nicely.
✽✽✽
DAVROSH TURNED FOR the third time, and Sorrows cleared his throat.
“If you want to stay, then stay,” he said. “No one’s forcing you to come along. But you’ll have to walk back. I don’t have time to turn around.”
The dogs mushed, the sled slid. Davrosh stared as her family’s estate fell farther away. The Stone Mother’s Mask had taken near two hours of their time. The sun was high above the horizon, yellow and bright in a blue sky. But the air was cold and smelled of pine. The wind hissed and howled and swept away the wood smoke or any other suggestion of warmth. Sorrows flexed his hands, winced at the memory of his missing finger.
“Just go,” Davrosh said. “Sooner we get this done, sooner we get back.”
“To be clear, there’s no we in what I need to do,” Sorrows said. “I just need you to watch the dogs.”
“You think I’m going to leave my sister, go to the Quarry and sit outside in the sled the entire time? Piss off.”
“Who said we’re going to the Quarry?”
Davrosh snorted. “It’s always the Quarry with you. All of Hammerfell to choose from, and you keep finding ways to get back to the dregs.”
“That so?”
“It is. I think you like the lawlessness of it.”
“The lawlessness? The Quarry isn’t without law. The rules simply change once you step onto gravel. I like the Quarry’s rules better. They’re honest. No one sneaking into bedrooms to kill daughters while they sleep.”
“You prefer they kill you when you’re awake.”
“I prefer they try when I’m awake, yes.”
Davrosh shook her head. “It’s all so desperate. Everyone seems so broken in the Quarry.”
“Wasn’t always desperate,” Sorrows said. “I remember when the homes were new, and Beggar’s Hollow was just the slope above Geldwater Gorge.”
“Geldwater? Gods, I’ve never heard that name before. Bit misleading unless you’re talking about the piss.”
“That’s only come in the past two centuries. Wasn’t until the city had spread from the tower to the Quarry that they needed to channel their piss onto the plains.”
Davrosh said nothing for a spell. She studied the streets, the stone-faced shops, the dwarves and goblins crowded together.
“What of the half-born back then? Were we still looked down upon?”
Her voice was strained. Not tight, but guarded. She sat still and looked forward, waiting. Sorrows thought of Nisha and what would happen to Davrosh if her family line ended today. Tomorrow she would have no home. Though from what he had seen, she could have her pick of any number of dwarf sons. From what he had seen, that was not what she wanted.
He answered carefully. “With the gods-born, yes. The half-born were always viewed as inevitable, but unfortunate. Never made sense to me. The attitudes have changed somewhat, though biases still linger. Two centuries ago, you’d never have seen a half-born in Hammerfell Tower.”
“Wasn’t easy,” she said.
“No, I’d expect not. Was never like that with the humans, though. We didn’t look down on the half-born. I grew up playing with half-born cousins. My uncle married a half-born woman, goblin and dwarf. Not sure what that made his children. Didn’t much care.”
“I can’t picture you as a child.”
“I was smaller.”
“Still a split?”
“What do you think?”
Davrosh half-turned in the basket, grinned. “I’d guess less of a split, but more of a little pisser.”
Sorrows shrugged and nodded, shouted a command at the dogs, and turned onto a side street. The white pine and spruce thinned, were replaced by tall, empty maples and oaks. The shops grew a bit brighter, larger. The homes were polished, stately. Not the palatial estates of the daughters, but they still spoke of wealth and influence. The homes of sons; dead branches of family trees. The unchosen majority. It was a matter of numbers. A basic concept. Easy to understand.
With nine sons to a daughter, most dwarf males would never sire dwarf children. They’d leave to fight against the Cursed. Some would return, some wouldn’t. The ones who did were left to choose between bachelorhood or alternative lifestyles. Encouraged to do one. Somewhat tolerated when they picked the other. No family was exempt. Even House Valinor had half-born descendants scattered across the city and kingdom. Nine sons to a daughter. Inevitable. A matter of numbers. But biases were changing, slowly. The Quarry might be filled with half-born, but so were other neighborhoods in Hammerfell. The sled passed a group of children throwing snow at each other. They were young. Maybe a decade in age. Some were green-skinned, some fair. Some of the green-skinned boys had the shadow of dwarf hair on their faces. Some of the fair-skinned girls had softly pointed ears showing amid piles of raven braids. Some of the children would make a life in Hammerfell; find work, find love, start a family of their own. Biases were changing, slowly. But some would feel the tension like a current, pulling them down. They’d fight against it; wouldn’t fit in. Most of those ended up in the Quarry. Fewer dwarves in the Quarry. Less tension. But some would still feel the current, would be swept away to Beggar’s Hollow. A matter of numbers. Inevitable.
“Cherry Grove?” Davrosh asked. “Why in all hells are we in Cherry Grove? You trying to prove a point?”
“Need to see someone about a box,” Sorrows said.
“What box?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just need you to watch the dogs.”
“Piss off.”
Sorrows led the sled to a large house; two stories, sprawling, stables on the left, garden on the right. Sculpted shrubbery beneath a blanket of snow. Slate roof, plaster walls over timber. Exposed joints at the corners, above the front door. A good house with a good yard and a path of packed snow leading to a porch. The dogs pulled the sled into the stables, and a green-skinned youth with a close-cropped beard stepped out to meet them. Sorrows left the sled. Davrosh followed. Expected. He walked across the yard, down the path, and knocked on the front door.
Sounds issued within: low voices, then footsteps, the rattling of a lock. The door opened to a dwarf standing barefoot in a thin robe. His hair was gray and tied loose behind his head. His beard was gray and fell across his bare chest onto an ample belly. His eyes were amethyst and bright, and his smile revealed even, white teeth.
“Well, if it isn’t Solomon Sorrows on my doorstep,” he said.
“Long time, Brenn. How you been?” Sorrows asked.
The dwarf smiled. “Oh, you know me. Just waiting for the gods to call me back. Who’s your friend?”
“Master Remma Davrosh at your service,” Davrosh said, extending a hand.
They shook, and Brenn raised an eyebrow, staring her up and down. “Aren’t you a pretty thing? And a Master at that. Your tastes are improving, Solomon.”
Davrosh held up her hands. “Oh, we’re not… it’s not like that.”
“It’s always like that,” Sorrows said. “I’ll be sure to invite you to the wedding, Brenn.”
Brenn gave a short laugh. “I wouldn’t say no, though I expect Master Davrosh would never say yes.”
“Orchole,” Davrosh said, face turning red.
Brenn shook his head, put his arm around Davrosh and
led her inside. “I see you know him well enough already. Don’t you worry about old Solomon. He’s gone a bit delusional with age. No one takes him too seriously. Used to have a thing for my gran, though, centuries back.”
Sorrows grinned, followed them into the house, closed the door. Brenn took them to a sitting room; leather armchairs, polished bookcases; smells of leather and old paper and tobacco. A decanter of what was most likely whiskey, a pair of tumblers. A window looked out into the neighborhood; the sounds of children laughing seeped through the glass. A good sitting room. Brenn gestured, Sorrows and Davrosh sat.
Brenn turned, called out down a hall, “Will, be a dear and bring some bread and cheese.”
“Who is it?” someone asked from somewhere in the house.
“Solomon Sorrows.”
Metal clanged, footsteps padded on stone then went silent, then padded on stone again. A dwarf rushed into the room. He had white hair, a white beard, amber eyes, a matching robe, matching bare feet.
“Sol, you old bastard,” he said when he saw Sorrows. He grinned, hurried across the room, and thrust a hand at Sorrows. “How long has it been?”
Sorrows hesitated. “Easy, Wilhelm. I don’t have the stone. You’ll likely snap bones, and I need to be able to shoot for the foreseeable future.”
Brenn frowned; Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. He nodded, slapped Sorrows on the shoulder.
“One of those visits,” Wilhelm said.
“Afraid so,” Sorrows said.
Wilhelm glanced at Davrosh. “So this one’s doing a bit more than warming your bed?”
“Why does everyone assume he’s bedding me?” Davrosh asked. Her face was crimson, fists clenched, knuckles white.
Wilhelm snorted, patted her knee. “As though he should be so lucky. My mistake and my apologies, Miss...”
“Master Remma Davrosh,” Brenn said, inclining his head.
“Great dragon piss,” Wilhelm said, turning to Sorrows. “The tower? What in all hells did you get yourself caught up in?”
