Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1

by Dan Fish

  “Gods, Davrosh. Scarred him or scarred you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You keep circling back to trauma. Like it’s all you think about. And I’m wondering who you caught with it.”

  “Orchole,” Davrosh said.

  “An elf,” Oray said. “Gruesome killing. Victim was a half-born woman, and we had no leads. Remma found a neighbor who had spent a century fighting the Cursed.”

  “A century,” Sorrows said. “Gods.”

  “Caught him, dagger in hand, entering the house of his next victim,” Oray said. “He was the first, but there have been others. And other motives. Remma’s our best. She knows what to look for.”

  Sorrows glanced at Davrosh. The half-born was almost drooling on the table.

  “Your best,” he said.

  Oray nodded. “She is.”

  “Then why do you need my help?”

  “I like your cheery disposition,” Oray said.

  “Orchole,” Davrosh said. She slumped onto the table, eyes closed, mouth hanging open.

  Sorrows reached for her tankard, tipped it, saw the bottom. Glanced at Davrosh.

  “Your best?”

  Oray leaned across the table. His eyes flicked to Davrosh, then back to Sorrows.

  “She has a twenty-six-year-old sister,” he said.

  “Twenty-six?”

  “And a half. Maybe three quarters. The Sturms were family friends. When Mari was found, Remma took it personally. Then the twins happened right under her nose, and she became obsessed with finding the killer. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She’s going to catch this guy or die trying.”

  “It’s her funeral,” Sorrows said.

  Oray’s face turned red. His jaw flexed. “She deserves a little sympathy. Especially from you.”

  “Why? Because of what I lost? I don’t feel sympathy toward her. I pity her. And I pity you. If she’s your best, then you’ll never find the killer. She lost the case the moment she made it personal.”

  “Orchole,” Davrosh said. Her eyes were closed, and the word came out half-formed and groggy.

  “Real gem you got there, Oray,” Sorrows said.

  Oray leaned back, stared at Sorrows. Sorrows stared back. They sat in silence, attending to their drinks. Fatigue darkened Oray’s eyes and the lines of his face. He finished his ale, pushed his tankard to the side, and took a deep breath. He straightened, lowered his head slightly. Aggressive. Posturing. I will get what I need from you, he was saying. Sorrows knew a wolf when he saw one. Knew it better to walk away from one that was wounded or cornered. And Oray was both. Sorrows waited, wary. But Oray said nothing. Did nothing. And with an unflattering snort, Davrosh woke herself up. She wiped her face on her sleeve. Looked around, confused. The wolf faded, and Oray offered Davrosh a sympathetic grin.

  “How long was I asleep?” she asked.

  “Not long enough,” Oray said.

  Davrosh glanced at Sorrows and turned back to Oray.

  “Is he going to help?”

  “No, he’s not,” Sorrows said. “He wants no part of this.”

  Davrosh ignored him. “Then we don’t need him. We’ll return to Hammerfell and keep working the Cursed angle. We’ll ask around.”

  “If you think that’s best,” Oray said.

  “I do. We’ll ask again. We’ll find something,” she said.

  “Why the Cursed?” Sorrows asked.

  Davrosh turned to him with a look that said, You’re still here? Gave a quick sigh. Orchole.

  “The daughters,” she said. “They all looked... the same.”

  “What’d they look like?”

  Davrosh shook her head. “I don’t need your help.”

  Oray glanced at her, weighed the options in his head. “Arms spread out to the side. Mouths shut. Eyes wide. Like—”

  “Scarecrows,” Sorrows said.

  “Yes,” Oray said.

  “Gods,” Sorrows said. “Your sister.”

  Davrosh’s face reddened.

  “Don’t you worry about my sister. I’ll find this guy.”

  “No, you won’t,” Sorrows said. He turned to Oray. “You need someone else. Get two or three, if that makes you feel better. Use her on other things, but not this. She’s too close to this.”

  “She doesn’t trust anyone else,” Davrosh said.

  She stood up from the table. Her chair slid backward, scraping across the floor. The noise was sudden and jarring, but it was tavern noise. It went unnoticed. Just another note within a song of revelry and merrymaking. Davrosh took a step toward the door, gestured at Oray, let’s get out of here. Back to work. Back to the murders. Back to finding the killer before her sister’s twenty-seventh birthday.

  Glass shattered, and liquid splashed onto the floor. Tavern noise, but noise that demanded attention. Heads turned, fingers pointed.

  “Orchole!” Fen said. Loud, angry.

  Sorrows stood, pushed his way through a ring of goblins. Tables had emptied at the breaking of the glass and a crowd had spread like grease on water. Fen and Ga’Shel were a bit of soap in the center, forcing the goblins back as they circled one another. Fen held half a bottle in one hand. Broken, empty. Its contents spilled onto the floor. The jagged edge hung at his side. Not a weapon. The two were breathing hard, moving slow. He saw Sorrows and nodded at Ga’Shel.

  “I got the whiskey, but sunshine here made me break the bottle.”

  Ga’Shel had his back to Sorrows. He turned his head, but kept his shoulders squared to Fen. Kept his eyes focused sideways on the goblin.

  “You back there, Oray?” he asked.

  “I’m here,” Oray said. “You find it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We’re leaving.”

  Ga’Shel straightened, pulled his jerkin tight, smoothed his cloak. Fen relaxed, set the top of the whiskey bottle on a table. Walked around the puddle on the floor to Sorrows. The crowd lingered in the hope that a fight might break out.

  “You all right?” Fen asked.

  “Sure. You?” Sorrows said.

  Fen snorted. “You think an elf could touch Fen Costenatti?”

  Sorrows bent over, picked up a piece of glass. Lowered his voice.

  “He’s good?” he asked.

  “He’s good,” Fen said quietly. “Real fast. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could do Hammerfell in ten. I lost sight of him once or twice.”

  Sorrows nodded, said nothing.

  The crowd was conversing again. Goblins returned to their tables, glancing at the elves. The serving girl appeared with a bucket, some rags, and a sour look which she directed at Ga’Shel. The sun-haired elf ignored her, took a step toward Oray.

  “Clean that up, Ga’Shel,” Oray said, pointing at the spill.

  Ga’Shel stiffened. His face reddened, but he said nothing and turned toward the mess. The crowd dispersed. Sorrows returned to the table and Ga’Shel appeared a moment later.

  “I pegged you for a lavender guy,” Sorrows said. “But I don’t smell anything. Restoration not as easy as forest-walking?”

  Ga’Shel gave a small smirk. Looked to Oray. Nodded toward Sorrows.

  “Is he going to help?” he asked.

  “No, he’s not,” Sorrows said.

  “We don’t need him,” Davrosh said.

  “What are they talking about, Sol?” Fen asked.

  Oray sighed. Not the tired sigh of a burdened Overseer. A sigh of preparation, the gathering of thoughts. The wolf had returned.

  “We need you, Sorrows,” he said.

  “Not interested.”

  “You’d have your share of the Hammerfell bounty.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Oray, Davrosh, and Ga’Shel stared at him. No one sat. No one smiled. The five of them stood around the table. Three elves, a goblin, a human, and no joke to fit the punchline. After a moment, Oray broke the silence.

  “Why, Sorrows?” he asked. “You knew two of the families. Why not help?”

  “You wa
nt the gods’ honest truth? It’s Davrosh. She’s got one name for me, and it’s the wrong one. She’s elf arrogance with dwarf stubbornness. No, thanks.”

  Oray rolled his eyes, shrugged.

  “You said it yourself, she has a lot at stake on this one,” he said.

  “Then pull her off,” Sorrows said. “Use someone else. You’re the Mage Guard. You have resources.”

  “That’s true. If I reassigned Davrosh, would you help?”

  “No way, Oray,” Davrosh said. She hurried around the table to stand beside him, looked up, pointed a finger at his face. “You don’t stand a chance without me, and you know it. Nisha is as good as dead without me.”

  “I might consider it,” Sorrows said.

  “Orchole,” Davrosh said, turning to him.

  Her cloak was askew, caught on a clasp on her jerkin. Her jerkin was twisted so that the neat row of buttons down its middle ended over her left thigh. Her skirt was riding up her boot. She was disheveled from head to toe. And beneath her unkempt hair she wore a dark-eyed scowl that complimented nothing on her already plain face.

  “You’d need her, Sorrows,” Ga’Shel said. “You’re a fool to think otherwise. Remma’s the best we’ve got.”

  Oray raised an eyebrow. The closest thing to unguarded surprise that an elf could manage. It was practically a gasp. Sorrows glanced at Ga’Shel.

  “You know about her sister. She’s too close. When you’re close, you miss things. The little things. And with a case like this, the little things matter.”

  Ga’Shel shook his head. “You’re wrong about this. There are no little things right now. Not for Remma. This is her family. Every last detail is significant.”

  Davrosh grinned. A crooked grin that matched her clothes and hair. Smug, confident. She looked at Oray.

  “Let’s go. We’re wasting time with this orchole,” she said.

  “No,” Oray said. “I’m the Overseer and it’s my call. Last chance, Sorrows.”

  “Or what?” Sorrows asked.

  Oray glanced at Ga’Shel then Fen then looked at Sorrows.

  “You know what,” he said.

  “That was why you brought me to Godscry Tower,” Sorrows said.

  Oray nodded. “It’s elf-crafted. Full of magic. Easy to find if you know what to look for.”

  “And I get it back once I agree to help.”

  “Something like that.”

  “If I run again once I have it?”

  “Didn’t take us long to find it, or you. And now that Ga’Shel has the feel of the goblin’s magic, you won’t move as fast.”

  Fen had been turning his head from side to side, watching the conversation. His eyes grew wide, and he vanished. A moment later he reappeared beside Sorrows, panting.

  “Gods, so tired,” he said between breaths. He looked up at Sorrows. “It’s gone, Sol.”

  Davrosh set her jaw, defiant. Willing to do whatever it took. Ga’Shel smirked. Oray stared. The wolf.

  An arrow has no fear. Has no knowledge of it. No need for it. An arrow is death at one end and calm control at the other. It navigates the wind. It flies between trees, over obstacles. It ignores distraction, follows the will of the hunter unerringly to its target. It is not threatened or intimidated. It does not resist the string at its back. It moves forward. Doesn’t offer pity or show mercy to any in its path.

  Sorrows took a deep breath. Let it out slowly through his nose, a ponderous thing that he felt in the back of his throat.

  “This is why nobody likes elves, Oray,” he said.

  “It’s not my job to make you like me, Sorrows,” Oray said. “It’s my job to catch a killer.”

  Davrosh shook her head, eyes fixed on Sorrows.

  “Orchole.”

  Chapter 9

  FEN SWIRLED WHISKEY in a glass, stared at the liquid, avoided eye contact with Sorrows. Sorrows leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out across the floor. Mig rubbed her head against his chest, one arm tucked beneath her, one arm draped over him.

  “This is my fault,” Fen said.

  “How is it your fault?” Mig asked.

  “I never should have introduced you two.”

  Sorrows glanced at Mig. She looked at him and smiled. Pushed herself up, kissed him briefly on the mouth, then settled back.

  “I’m glad you did,” she said.

  “I thought you two were done.”

  Sorrows shrugged.

  “It’s complicated,” Mig said.

  “Not from where I’m sitting,” Fen said.

  Sorrows took a deep breath. He and Fen had left the noise and crowd of the tavern and slow-footed the thirty minutes back to Fen’s place. Modest, open, clean, quiet. It smelled of resin and moss. Tangled walls of ash saplings stretched between columns of red cedar. Wisps floated near the ceiling, pale globes that filled the room with moonlight. Goblin magic. All elegance, no arrogance. One of the reasons he liked goblins.

  He pressed his face into Mig’s hair, exhaled slowly, felt the warmth of his own breath reflected. She’d been there when they got back. Waiting for them. For him. She’d changed into a thin, lilac-colored dress that left her shoulders bare. After an evening of looking at Oray and Davrosh, she was an oasis for his eyes, and he drank in the sight of her. She leaned into him, soft and warm and real. She worked her hand under his shirt, slid her fingers over his chest. He looked at her, raised an eyebrow. She looked at him, feigned innocence. Another reason he liked goblins. Particularly this goblin.

  Fen swirled his glass some more, brought it to his nose. Inhaled. Sighed.

  “Why not get another bow, Sol?” Mig asked.

  “It’s not just any bow. It’s for a job,” Sorrows said.

  “The tricky one?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fen stopped swirling, stared at Sorrows. “That’s what you told her? It’s a tricky soul.”

  Sorrows looked at the ceiling, said nothing.

  “It’s Julia, Mig,” Fen said.

  Mig pushed away. Expected. She stood, walked across the room. Stopped. Turned.

  “Gods,” she said.

  She bent over, grabbed Fen’s whiskey, drained the glass. Coughed, winced, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Gods,” she said again. “And they took her.”

  “It’s my fault,” Fen said. “I let an elf get the better of me.”

  “Stop it, Fen,” Mig said. She looked at Sorrows. “Do they know the bow holds Julia’s soul?”

  “Yeah. They know that leaves me with no choice.”

  “Why would they do that to you, Sol? To her?”

  “Four gods-born dead,” Sorrows said. “That’s why. It’s expected. Vengeance of the gods-born is half threat, half reputation. They’ll do whatever it takes to protect the reputation, and that means the threat can’t fail. Not once or twice. Not ever.”

  “Why?” Mig asked. “Why not once? Everyone fears the Mage Guard. Everyone knows what they’re capable of. If four murders go unsolved, what would it do?”

  “It would ruin them. Undo centuries of work. A killer goes free. Maybe someone else finds out. Maybe he’s got an urge to kill, but the threat of inescapable vengeance keeps him from acting on it. He hears about a killer who beat the Mage Guard and he thinks, why not me? So, he gives in to the urge. Maybe they catch him, maybe they don’t. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s not the only one with the urge and not the only one to act on it. Suddenly they’re dealing with a rash of killings. They’re spread thin. Eventually another killer escapes. Now there are two that beat the Mage Guard. After that, all hells break loose.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “They leave at daybreak. With or without me. I suspect it’ll be with.”

  Mig paced from one side of the room to another, arms folded across her chest. Fen sloshed two fingers of whiskey into his glass. Returned to swirling.

  “We could follow you, Sol,” Mig said. “Fen and I. The Walker will be spent, just like Fen. You’l
l be slow-footing. We wait until you’ve snatched the bow, and we slip away.”

  “That only buys us a week or two,” Sorrows said. “And it gives them plenty of reason to lock you away in the tower. I don’t want you a part of this. Not like that, anyway.”

  Mig stopped pacing, sat on a cushion beside Fen. Pulled her feet back and to the side. Leaned onto an arm. Her hair fell past her shoulder, hung an inch below her elbow. Her skin shone with wisp light along the curves of her face, the length of her neck. She was easy to look at. She had an easy smile. An easy laugh. She had never called him an orchole, though he’d deserved it more than once. Running away with her was illogical. But tempting.

  “I should’ve seen this coming,” Sorrows said. “Eldrake all but spelled it out for me. Oray gave me ample opportunity to change my mind. It’s Davrosh. She sets me on edge with that elf smirk on a dwarf face. Gods, she drives me mad.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sol. She’s half elf. She can’t help acting like an orchole,” Fen said. “Same goes for the rest of them. This is why—”

  “No one likes elves,” Sorrows said. He shook his head. “I know. But I should’ve played along. Should’ve kept the bow safe. I backed them into a corner. Now I know what they’re willing to do. And worse, they know I know. Can’t call an arrow back to the string.”

  “You can still get on the half-born’s good side,” Mig said. “If she’s their best, then gaining her trust could improve your standing with the others.”

  “I’ve seen most sides of her. None good,” Sorrows said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t like her, Mig.”

  Mig rose from her cushion, crossed the room. Put her hands on his chest. Leaned close. Her breath was on his chin and neck. Warm, real.

  “Do this for Julia and for me,” she said. “Bring Julia peace. No loose ends, Solomon.” Voice soft, but strong. Black eyes mesmerizing. Don’t make me the other woman, they said. She pursed her lips, pushed away, patted him on the chest with one hand as she turned.

  Fen scoffed and shook his head. “Why in all hells would he do that? Soon as Sol’s found the killer, the elves will invent another reason to keep the bow. They’re elves. They’re bound to have more than one angle. What about Overseer Shen? Maybe they’ll hand you over to her.”