by Dan Fish
It made Sorrows think of Mishma Valinor, lying in a cradle of stone, withered skin stretched over bone. Made him wonder where Mig’s body was, what it looked like now. Made him wonder if Jace had made it quick, or if there had been struggle, pain. Made him wonder if Mig had called out for him by the end. Knew she would have. Knew he never showed. Like he never showed for Zvilna Gorsham. He thought about all of this and watched the half-born stumble toward the table. He measured as the half-born caught his balance with a hand on the back of Davrosh’s chair. The half-born leaned over, reeking of ale and sweat. Sorrows leaned forward, like snowpack on the mountain. Ready to break loose, come crashing down.
“What’s a pretty gray mouse like you doing in a place like this?” the half-born asked, slurred.
“Not interested,” Davrosh said, cold.
“Oh, c’mon, love,” the half-born said. “I’d treat you better than your orc friend here.”
The half-born reached in front of Sorrows, took the tankard, started to lift it. Sorrows grabbed his wrist.
“My drink,” he said. Low, full of threat and challenge.
“Hands off, lad,” the half-born said, pulling against Sorrows. “You ain’t had a sip since you got here.”
The half-born was strong. The tankard jostled. Ale sloshed onto the table. He jerked his arm, Sorrows released him. The half-born stumbled, caught himself with a hand on Davrosh’s shoulder. Chairs slid across the floor. A table emptying. Footsteps. Sorrows grinned, Davrosh stared at him. The tavern fell silent, tense.
The tension snapped in a rush of movement and sound. But it wasn’t Sorrows moving. He’d been ready and eager. Full of anger. He needed to fight. Someone. Anyone. Davrosh moved instead. First, fast. The half-born’s hand was on her right shoulder. She spun in her chair, grabbed his wrist with her left. He backed away. Instinct. She used the motion to pull herself up from the table, slip past him, behind him, while still holding onto his wrist. She twisted his arm behind his back. He cried out, contorted. She planted a foot on his waist. Kicked, sent him falling forward at the feet of three half-born who’d left their table. They might have been brothers. Their ages varied enough for it. Their looks were the right mix of dwarf and goblin. Their eyes went to the half-born sprawled on the floor. They were still staring when the ring of steel filled the tavern. Davrosh stepped forward, blade held low and loose.
“What’s this, lads?” she asked, grinning. Chin triumphant. “Thought you’d have a run at the mage guard, but didn’t bring steel?”
The half-born turned over, scrambled backward a step. Davrosh moved forward with him. His eyes were wide, his face flushed. He was sobering quickly.
“Apologies, love,” he stammered. “Was only having a bit of fun. Didn’t mean any harm.”
“Ha. Ha,” she said. She tapped her blade against the inside of his boot. “What fun. But why don’t you run along now and leave me to my ale. I’ve had a long day in a long week with more work ahead. If anything were to happen to you, I’d have piles of paperwork. Would keep me inside, out of the cold. And right now, I’ll admit the idea is tempting.”
The half-born stammered out another apology, received a cuff upside the back of his head from what could only be an older brother. Davrosh returned to the table. A minute later, the half-born serving girl appeared with fresh tankards and two whiskeys.
“On the house, my lady,” she said.
Sorrows stared at Davrosh. The anger had left. His muscles felt heavy and cold. Like a fire stoked then doused with rain. And his thoughts curled like black smoke.
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you think because I’m female I’d need saving?”
“Wasn’t thinking about you. Just wanted a fight.”
“I know. I saw it in your eyes. Except it might’ve gone farther than fighting. And killing’s still killing. Doesn’t matter that you lost a lover.”
Sorrows said nothing for a breath. Davrosh took another pull of her ale. The tankard was large, thick-walled. But she held it easily between her thumb and two fingers.
“You moved fast with that blade,” Sorrows said. “And I’ve seen you shoot. You mage guards know your way around a fight.”
“Flattery?”
“Honesty.”
“You should see me with a crossbow.”
“You’ll have to show me. Sometime.”
“Best shot in the tower.”
“Makes sense. You’re probably the strongest, too.”
“Probably.”
“You’re probably the best with a blade, too.”
Davrosh snorted. “That is an attempt at flattery. It’s common knowledge the elves are unmatched at swordplay. I wouldn’t last more than a minute against Ostev. Half as long against La’Jen.”
“Right,” Sorrows said. He pushed his tankard across the table as Davrosh set hers down empty. “But you could just as easy prick your palm to send Ga’Shel running.”
Davrosh laughed hard, loud. Heads turned. She grinned, grabbed her whiskey, held it up.
“To Master Ostev Ga’Shel,” she said. “A good friend and a bloody coward.”
Sorrows lifted his glass. “To Sunshine.”
Davrosh threw her drink back, swallowed, winced. Sorrows brought his glass close to his mouth, then hesitated.
“You’re sure there’s nothing between you two?” he asked. He turned, signaled to the bartender.
“I’ve told you before,” Davrosh said. “I’m not his type and he’s not mine. We’re just friends.”
“And not Oray?”
“Piss off.”
Sorrows set his drink down. “Didn’t mean to offend.”
“You sure about that?”
Sorrows pushed his whiskey across the table, held his hands out wide, palms facing forward. “I’m sure. Here. A peace offering.”
The moment balanced on the arrow’s point. They both sensed it. Both wondered which way it would tip. She studied him. He studied her. If she took the drink, it would mark a point of no return. She’d have to acknowledge his name. Would have to call him by it. They’d become something more than simply Master Remma Davrosh and orchole. They’d be friends, of a sort. But that would make things more difficult in some respects. More complicated. A bond was at the bottom of that glass of whiskey. They both knew it. Trust. Understanding. Expectation. I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine.
Any betrayal would be deeper, more savage, unforgivable. The more he thought about it, the more he regretted pushing the glass in front of her. He reached to take it back. He had questions. Had an idea forming. But he’d find a different way to loosen her tongue. To extract the information he sought.
She was too fast. Whether from thirst for more whiskey or from acquiescence of friendship, she took the drink and tossed it back. Slammed the glass on the table as the serving girl arrived with a bottle. She left and Davrosh poured.
“Drink,” she said. “Or for the love of your dead god, I’ll run my blade through your gut. I know it won’t kill you, but I bet it’ll hurt like all hells.”
Her tongue hinted at a slur. Her speech was turning sluggish. She was probably bluffing about the blade to the gut. Probably. But he’d felt that before, didn’t think it was worth the risk. He sighed, grabbed a glass and drank—half from guilt and half as a precaution. She nodded, did the same, grabbed the bottle and filled the glasses again.
“Humans aren’t that bad, if you’re any indicator,” she said. “Pity there’s not more of you. I could see myself interested.”
“Ears aren’t too round?”
“Not at all.”
“Makes sense. I pegged you as dwarf-inclined, and humans have a bit more substance than, say, elves.”
“Gods, elves.”
“They’re not too bad to look at, though.”
“It all goes to orcpiss soon as they open those pretty mouths.”
“Elf words are words better left unspoken,” Sorrows said. He lifted his gl
ass to his lips, let the liquid wash against them and roll back into the glass. “What about goblins?”
Davrosh sipped at her drink. “Were some in Tam that caught my eye.”
“You could come back with me. Maybe meet a few.”
“And what, warm your bed on the long road east? I told you, you’re not my type.”
“As a friend, not a lover. For support. I’ll need to tell Fen about Mig.”
“Fen Costenatti. Gods. I didn’t even think about him.”
“He and Mig were close.”
“I know. I saw it.”
“Twins.”
Davrosh leaned back, blew out her cheeks. “I hate that elf whore.”
“Mig deserved better,” Sorrows said.
“Better than you. That’s for shunning sure.”
Sorrows grabbed the bottle, filled Davrosh’s glass. Lifted his own.
“To Mig,” he said.
Davrosh raised her glass. “To Mig.”
They drank, set their glasses down, Davrosh poured. Sorrows leaned back, kept his hand on his glass, swirled its contents, spilled a bit onto the table. He moved the glass back and forth, watched the whiskey gather and bead. Stared at the spots of lamplight reflected in the droplets. Thought of moonlight dancing in Mig’s eyes.
“Maybe she deserved someone more like you,” he said. Waited, watched.
Davrosh stared at him for a breath, then another.
“Maybe,” she said. “Did she fancy females then?”
“I never asked,” Sorrows said. “But she’s a goblin.”
“I suppose so. Gods, she was beautiful.”
“She was.”
“No matter. Her eyes never left you.”
Sorrows swirled his glass some more, spilled some more.
“Daughters are known to take lovers on occasion, male or female.”
“I don’t even like sharing my bacon. And who are you to explain dwarf culture to me? Me? Gods. You might be half elf yourself.”
“Just an observation, one friend to another. And I thought you’d be using my name now. I have two. Either would do.”
“I don’t know that I’d call us friends. But if we were, you’d still be orchole to me.”
“Sounds like I don’t have much say in the matter.”
“None.”
“I wonder what the Archmage would say about it.”
“Illdrael?” Davrosh asked. “Don’t imagine she’d care.”
“You ever meet her?”
“Oh, sure. A number of times. She shows up whenever we receive commendations. Shook my hand when I made Master.”
“What’s she like?”
“Old,” Davrosh said. She grinned. “Older than the stones, as the saying goes. Reminds me a bit of Archmage Tu’Ell Eldrake in Godscry. But that could just be the wrinkles and white hair. What is it about elves and refusing to go back to their gods?”
“They’re convinced they make the world a better place.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“Right.”
Davrosh sipped, frowned, gestured. “You’re spilling more whiskey than you’re drinking.”
Sorrows held up his hand, noticeably lopsided. “It’s the finger. Takes some getting used to.”
“Gods, sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s already started to grow back.”
He pointed and she looked, lifting her eyebrows. “Shunning hells, I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it with my own eyes. That’s some powerful magic.”
“I’d hoped to meet Illdrael. A healer can speed the process up significantly. Heard she was a good one.”
“The best I’ve met,” Davrosh said. “Haven’t seen her for months, though. You must’ve scared her away.”
“Keep an elf away? That’d be a rare and useful gift, wouldn’t it?”
Davrosh laughed, sipped at her whiskey. Sorrows lifted his own glass and drank slow. He’d asked what he needed, and she’d told him everything he already knew or suspected. Confirmation wasn’t as exciting as revelation, but it was useful. A portion of his mind had been wasted considering what-if scenarios. That portion could now be put to work on other things. He and Davrosh continued talking, and the conversation turned to less pragmatic, more enjoyable topics.
But the previously engaged portion of his mind started thinking of steel and lust and people who go unnoticed. Two hours more he spent talking to Davrosh, and he thought about those unnoticed people the entire time.
✽✽✽
WHY ARE YOU here? The dance will continue for hours. Nisha Davrosh won’t retire to her bedroom until well past midnight. The great hall is filled with guests. The mage guards stalk the perimeter. And though he hasn’t arrived, the human will show. He is as inevitable as a storm on the horizon. He will not suffer another Zvilna Gorsham to weigh upon his conscience. He will do what he can to protect. He will be vigilant. Determined. Resourceful. The half-born will be with him, less resourceful, more watchful. You should’ve waited. You should’ve stayed away. But you didn’t. And now you’re wondering why? Why are you here?
The question nags at you, pulling at the edges of your thoughts like a child worrying at a loose thread. You walk the great hall. People smile, laugh. The musicians play in slow, swaying movements. You imagine the sound. You imagine the smells of roast boar and bread; ale and mulled wine; wood smoke and mincemeat pies. Nisha Davrosh is radiant in a gown colored like flame, strips of orange and red and yellow. Ochre and crimson and gold. Her hair is braided, tied in silver thread. Her mask is winter ivy and roses. Your eyes linger on her as you walk past. She is strong, full of life. The perfect end to your time in Hammerfell. Perhaps you wanted to see her once more, happy, without worry. Perhaps you sought comfort in knowing her final hours were spent among family and friends. Perhaps you wanted to reassure yourself of her worth as a target, her value.
Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The question still lingers. Still plucks at your nerves like a lutist plucks at his strings. Slow, steady. Hooking, snapping. You sigh, wander upstairs toward Nisha Davrosh’s bedroom. The door is closed. A mage guard sits on a chair, studies the hallway. It is a good approach. You might slip her free of the gods-stream, but then what? You’d need to return to open the door, which means she would need to return, either in one piece or many. One piece, and she’ll see you. Many pieces, and the others will know you are here. They’ll send runners for the mage guard Walker. And that will be a problem. No, it is better to wait and follow Nisha Davrosh into her room at the appropriate time. You had thought perhaps you were here for one last check of your morning preparations, but as you turn down the hallway, you know that was not the reason either. Not really.
You are in the upstairs library, staring at a painting of Nisha Davrosh’s parents, when your mind works out the answer. Her father stands, her mother sits on a chair. Their faces are stoic. Their eyes are steady, bright. He rests a hand on her shoulder. But the painter captured something in the moment. A small detail. So easy to look past. So significant. A pinch of fabric between index finger and thumb. More than a hand resting. A hand squeezing; to provide comfort or to find it, or both. And in that tiny imperfection, that faint line of shadow following the crease of fabric, you know why you are here. The answer, it turns out, is a very simple one.
You want to see him. Once more before your work begins. Before your mastery demands your attention. As the events of the evening unfold, your departure from Hammerfell will be hectic. It could be years before you see him again. Decades. When you two are eventually reunited, you could be a god. Things will be complicated. Is it too much to want one last uncomplicated moment with him? You decide it is not. Apparently, you’ve decided it some time ago.
You smile to yourself. Such a simple thing. A glimpse. A glance. A last, lingering look. Now that you’ve acknowledged it, you find peace in it. You’ll wait for him. You’ll sit on the stairs and watch the front door. When he arrives, you’ll follow him, stand beside him, pretend for a moment the two of
you are close. Then, after you’ve had those last minutes together, you’ll leave. You’ll return later tonight, free of any regret. Able to focus on your mastery. It is a good plan. A necessary step.
But it begins to unravel the moment you step from the library into the hall.
Chapter 45
THE DAGGER RESTS against one hip, the sickle sword against the other. Your hood covers your head. The hem of your cloak brushes the tops of your boots. You walk in the wake of the elf’s magic, slipped from the gods-stream, though not by your power alone. Your own skill is modest. It does not come naturally. It was part of your training. It is a learned thing; clumsy, awkward in your grasp. You see the gods-stream as more of a gods-river. It intimidates you, and you are wise to fear it. Were you to plunge in, foolhardy and reckless, you might emerge in fragments scattered across an arc of time. But though you are impatient, you are rarely reckless.
The elf’s passing leaves a mere trickle of the gods-stream, and this is something you can manage. A pair of Walkers is always stronger than the individual. Even if one of the Walkers is not aware of the other. Even if one of the Walkers left for Davrosh Manor ahead of schedule, before the Maiden’s Dance had ended. Even if one of the Walkers is acting peculiar, unguided, unpredictable.
No matter. After tonight, there will be one less Walker to worry about. And one more weapon charged with a soul.
Still, you wonder at the elf. Why come now? It is too soon. Waiting is tedious work and, besides, there are other matters to tend to. Has something changed? Does the elf suspect you? You begin to doubt your own preparation. Did you hide your length of wire properly? Did you return the elf’s coil to its proper spot? Did you disturb anything else? You stand at the front door to Davrosh Manor and doubt creeps into your mind like a crack in the ice. You look down at your feet and wonder if you’ve made a mistake. You sense the depths below and wonder if you will plunge into the cold.
You are so caught up in your own worry you don’t notice the door opening. It moves slowly, still drifting in the gods-stream. A figure fills the gap. A goblin walks out the door and down the path, whistling a tune. Lips puckered, eyes staring ahead. He looks ridiculous. You don’t hear anything outside the gods-stream, but you know whistling when you see it. He turns the corner onto the street, waves at someone approaching. A pair of dogs appears, then another, then another. A team. You are in the house before you see the sled.
