by Dan Fish
“It was nice to spend time with you,” Jace said. “It might be nice to spend some more.”
The door was open enough to frame the shape of her. Her cheeks flushed from cold, cloak open, jerkin unbuttoned enough to show neck, chest, the hint of curve and shadow. Someone who knows what you like. Sorrows turned, took the door handle.
“Good night, Jace,” he said.
He pulled the door shut, held the handle until the hum of magic told him he was locked in his room, trapped. A guest with elevated privileges. He sighed, turned, leaned against the door. Flashed his fingers.
You can come out now.
Chapter 17
“I DON’T TRUST her,” Mig said. She yawned.
Sorrows soaked in a tub of cold water left beneath the tapestry of the elf scholar. Elven subtlety. His muscles ached. The cold helped. Mig sat at the foot of the bed, cloak thrown aside. She wore a wool dress the color of buttermilk and had tucked her feet into the skirt. It looked like fog on her body. Her hair hung long and loose in front of her shoulders and behind. She looked good. And he wondered how she’d feel lying on top of him. Probably even better. But she’d already slapped him once, so he pushed those thoughts aside. The cold helped.
“I don’t trust her either,” Sorrows said. “But she gets me out of this cell and into the city. And she’s not Oray. And she sure as hells isn’t Davrosh.”
“She was practically sitting on you at the tavern.”
Sorrows sighed. “She was looking at the Grimstone. I can’t help that elves don’t understand personal boundaries.”
“You didn’t seem to mind.”
Sorrows stood, let the water run down his body, pushed his hair back, stepped out of the tub.
“I pitied her,” he said.
“Pitied?”
He walked to the bed, put his hands on either side of Mig. She rolled her eyes, looked at the wall.
“Pity,” Sorrows said. “Imagine having all this human in front of you and knowing he’s only thinking of a goblin with eyes like shadow.”
“Oh, please,” Mig said.
She glanced at him. He lifted his hand, stroked her cheek.
“Skin like a spring meadow.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
He trailed his fingers along her jaw, down her neck. “A body like rolling hills.”
She caught his wrist, stared hard at him.
“Back off, Solomon,” she said. “I’m still angry with you, and Julia’s still in the bow. And for gods’ sakes, put on some clothes.”
Solomon shrugged, pushed away. She hadn’t slapped him, and that was progress. He walked to his clothes, picked them off the floor.
“Not those clothes. They stink,” Mig said, stifling a yawn.
“I’m not wearing a skirt.”
The elves had left a pile of clothes on the bed. New undergarments and a Mage Guard uniform. Sorrows had spat on the boots already. Clean, no fragrance. Ga’Shel had applied the restoration magic. Sorrows preferred that to smelling like lilac or rosewater. The boots were sturdy, looked comfortable, and the jerkin was an improvement over his own. The tunic was a tunic. Plain, white. Hard to mess up a tunic. The skirt and cloak were problems. Their gray was caught right in the middle of black and white. The Mage Guard uniform was meant to be seen. To be recognized. To encourage the nefarious to reconsider their plans as a crisp, gray cloak walked by. Sorrows didn’t mind being seen on occasion. But on other occasions, he preferred to settle into shadows. To disappear in a dark alley. To hide. The Mage Guard gray didn’t hide.
He threw the skirt in a corner, slipped into his underwear. Pulled the tapestry off the wall again and spread it on the floor. Dropped his black trousers into the tub of cold water and started scrubbing.
“You look ridiculous,” Mig said.
Sorrows shrugged, kept scrubbing. “Are you too angry to slip me around the city tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” she said. But her tone said not really.
“Fair enough. Just means it will take that much longer to free Julia and get out of here.”
Mig sighed. “Solomon, don’t you think you should help them find the killer?”
“Not particularly.”
“I know they’re elves, and you don’t like them. But daughters are dying. Twenty-seven-year-old daughters. Dwarves, not elves. And dwarves aren’t that bad.”
“True.”
“I think you should.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I think it’s the right thing to do.”
“Probably.”
She worked her feet free and slipped off the bed, yawned as she walked over to him. She bent over, leaned against him.
“Leave the clothes and come to bed,” she said. “I’m tired.”
He glanced over his shoulder, lifted an eyebrow. She gave him a sleepy smile and a pat on the cheek. No chance, big guy. She walked away. He finished scrubbing and tossed his trousers onto the tapestry. Picked up his cloak and laid it nearby. Mig was already in bed. Her dress lying on the floor. The room smelled faintly of mint and rosemary. He snuffed the lamp and crawled beneath the coverlet. Sleep took him in seconds.
✽✽✽
MORNING LOOKED THE same as night. Stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling. Only difference was feeling hungry instead of tired. Sorrows sat on the edge of the bed. Mig lay beside him. Two sharp knocks sounded, then Jace pushed the door open, walked in the room. Mig had just enough time to kiss Sorrows on the cheek and slip the gods-stream. Jace’s hair was loose, no cords, and combed straight. It hung down her back like sunbeams. Her eyes sparkled, her lips had been touched with red, or maybe she had just wet them. She’d buttoned her jerkin higher, but her tunic lower, and it created a swell of cleavage that Sorrows knew he would hear about later. He grabbed his bow on the way out the door and followed Jace into the corridor.
The tower was all movement and sound. Elves in the black and gray slipped in and out of doorways, hurrying along the corridor. They glanced at Sorrows, stared at Sorrows, whispered as Sorrows walked by. A door opened and the smell of breakfast spilled into the hallway. Eggs, maple syrup, bacon. Buttered toast. All good smells. Jace slowed, grabbed the door before it closed, stepped back.
“The others are waiting for you in the dining hall. I’ll be out here when you’re finished.”
“You’re just going to stand there? Aren’t you hungry?”
Jace shook her head. “I already ate, and I have a few things to attend to.”
“Things.”
She nodded, said nothing. Her gaze moved to his mouth, then slid down his body. She put a hand on his chest, patted it.
“I like you in that jerkin,” she said.
“An elf who prefers elf clothing. You can imagine my surprise.”
She smiled, shrugged. Turned to the corridor and disappeared in a river of black and gray. Sorrows watched the door close, then left to find Oray, Davrosh, and Ga’Shel.
The dining hall was twice as tall as Sorrows, lit by glowstone, and filled with tables of thin granite supported by oak. Chairs were spindle-backed and hard. The floor was stone and cold. No windows. Two doors on opposite walls. A long table in the middle held plates, troughs of food, pitchers of dark ale, mugs of coffee. Guards came and went, the food disappeared. Sorrows spotted Davrosh and joined her.
“Davrosh,” he said.
“Orchole,” Davrosh said. She was distracted, choosing between a side of biscuits or a rasher of bacon. Sorrows reached past her, grabbed both, and tipped them onto a plate with hotcakes floating in syrup. He grabbed a pitcher and looked around the hall.
“Where are we sitting?” he asked.
Davrosh stared at him, red-faced.
“I was looking at those.”
Sorrows shrugged. “You can watch me eat, if you’d like.”
She stomped away, gripping a plate of sausage and potatoes. Sorrows followed her to a corner table where Oray and Ga’Shel waited. She dropped into her chair and frowned at her
food.
“Out of biscuits?” Ga’Shel asked, looking at Davrosh’s plate.
She stabbed a potato with her fork and shoved it into her mouth. Said nothing.
Oray turned to Sorrows. “The Valinors refused our request.”
“Refused?” Sorrows asked.
“They told us, politely, to piss the hells off,” Davrosh said around a mouthful of food.
Sorrows nodded, said nothing.
“Where were you last night?” Oray asked. “Ga’Shel said you weren’t in your room when he delivered your uniform.”
“Jace took me out for a walk. Stretched my legs.”
“Who?”
“Ivra Jace,” Sorrows said. “Says she reports to someone higher up the tower.”
Oray frowned. “Higher?”
Sorrows pointed up, said nothing.
“Ivra?” Ga’Shel asked.
“Jace, yes,” Sorrows said. He pointed to the hallway door. “Elf. Wears black and gray. Looks nothing like Davrosh. She’s right outside. I’ll introduce you.”
Oray drummed his fingers on the table, shook his head. “Some other time. What the Archmage wants, the Archmage gets. Be careful, Sorrows.”
“Why?”
Oray looked at Davrosh. She was sucking potato or sausage out of her teeth. She shrugged, said nothing.
“Because she’s a real split,” Ga’Shel said. “And she’s tougher than you think.”
“Yes, and she probably heard that,” Oray said. He sighed. “What’s the plan now, Sorrows?”
“Plan?” Sorrows asked. “How in all hells should I know? Don’t piss off the Archmage, apparently.”
“With the daughters, orchole,” Davrosh said. “Mishma’s family doesn’t want her disturbed. Now what?”
“Change something.”
“What do you mean?”
“The killer expects certain things to behave certain ways. You want to slow him down? Change something. Show him something unexpected.”
“Like what?”
“Skip the dance.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious,” Sorrows said. “Convince the daughters to skip the Maiden’s Dance. See if something happens.”
Ga’Shel laughed. “You try to convince a twenty-six-year-old dwarf to give up her Maiden’s Dance. It will never happen.”
“Has to happen,” Sorrows said. “Or another daughter dies next month.”
“Ga’Shel’s right,” Oray said. “We won’t get anywhere asking them to give up their dance. But maybe we can change something else.”
“We can get them out of their bedrooms,” Davrosh said. “Have them sleep in the dining hall or great room. We’ll start with the first part of the month and work our way through all eighty-three girls. With any luck, early success will make it easier to convince the remaining families.”
Oray and Ga’Shel nodded and said nothing. Oray offered a frown of approval. Ga’Shel weighed the option with small side-to-side tilts of his head. Sorrows watched them for a moment before turning to Davrosh.
“Fine,” he said. “You do that, and I’ll focus on the Quarry.”
“What’s in the Quarry?” Oray asked.
Sorrows nodded at Davrosh. “Who, not what. If you think trauma plays a part, then that’s where we’ll find this guy. Dwarves who are changed by the cursed don’t slip back into dwarf life, they slip through cracks. And where do all the cracks in Hammerfell lead to?”
Davrosh nodded, grinned. “You like my theory.”
Sorrows shrugged. “Maybe you just like it enough for both of us.”
“This works,” Oray said. “Remma, La’Jen, you two start with Ammelo Cheski. Sorrows, you’ll hit the Quarry. Do you want me to assign guards?”
Sorrows shook his head. “I’ll have Jace. She’s enough for me to worry about.”
“Fine. You all have your assignments. Meet back here tonight.”
“You going to cook us dinner?” Sorrows asked.
Oray shook his head.
“No. I’m going to see the Archmage. I need to figure out why she’s taken a sudden interest in my guest.”
✽✽✽
JACE WAS WAITING for him when Oray opened the door and led Davrosh and Ga’Shel into the corridor. She was leaning against the wall opposite the door. Her cloak was folded and draped over her arms. Oray studied her for a moment. A weighing scrutiny, not one of interest. He nodded, she smiled. Davrosh looked her up and down, turned to Sorrows, shook her head. Ga’Shel gave no indication he noticed Jace. Elves. They turned right, headed up the spiral. Sorrows turned left. Jace fell into step beside him.
“What now?” she asked.
Her smile remained, her eyes were bright, and she walked with her hands clasped behind her back. She was the most un-elf-like elf he had met.
“Now I get my bow,” he said. “And then we go back to the Quarry.”
“Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“The food was good, the company could have been better.”
“Perhaps we can dine together tomorrow morning.”
Sorrows shrugged. “Fine.”
They reached his door; he retrieved his bow and cloak and she took him out of the tower. In the city, preparations had started for the Feast of Nine. Shop owners worked outside, decorating storefronts with bales of hay, pumpkins and gourds, pots filled with Hardy Chrysanthemum. Teams of goblins and half-born wrapped green ribbon around lamp posts. A light snow swirled in the air, but the day was bright beneath pale, gray clouds. The decorations dwindled as the road turned from stone to gravel. The low hum of conversation mingled with the crunching and grinding of stone beneath boots. The smell of wood smoke filled the air. They walked past the tavern from the night before. Jace turned, but Sorrows shook his head.
“We’re not stopping?” she asked.
“Not hungry,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“Bit further. There’s someone I need to talk to.”
The Quarry produces the stone used throughout Hammerfell. During the day, the sound of iron striking iron is endless. A constant staccato rhythm played by hammer and chisel. The sound is distant in the city. Soft, musical. They call it the laughter of the gods. In the Quarry it is loud, harsh, pervasive. The side of the mountain turns to lines and square angles, planes of light and shadow. Dwarves walk the ledges, working great slabs of stone down makeshift roads in steady procession. Stone dust fills the nostrils; the taste of it lingers on the tongue. It seeps into clothing, coats the skin.
They’d been walking for an hour and were deep into the noise and dust. Sorrows dropped a hand to his side, worked his fingers. Stay close. He tapped Jace on the shoulder, raised his voice over the ringing of iron on stone.
“There,” he said, pointing to a pile of scrap lumber.
Jace nodded, and they walked over. Up close, the planks showed more pattern and purpose. Walls on a diagonal; a roof of layered beams angled to the ground. Sorrows crept along the side until he reached a low, triangular entrance. He gave three heavy knocks, stepped back.
The point of a crossbow bolt appeared, followed by a crossbow, followed by two hands the color of snow. The hands belonged to a goblin, along with a pair of bright red eyes and an unusually low voice. The first of which glanced at Sorrows, the second of which said “Solomon.” The first of which then saw Jace, and the second of which then said, “Come inside.”
Sorrows met Bex Gellio a few days after he first met Mig. Bex had an eye for pretty things. Had a tendency to trail after those things long after those things had asked to be left alone. Maybe it was simple attraction. Maybe a more complicated fixation. Maybe it satisfied a mental itch that stemmed from Bex’s rare appearance. A sort of vicarious over-compensation: Goblins were known for their physical beauty, but Bex didn’t fit the standard. She had red hair, red eyes, white skin, crooked teeth, and was bone thin. More like a gnome than a goblin. She stuck out. An anomaly. Davrosh might accuse Sorrows of envy, but B
ex knew it like a fish knows swimming. Knew it well enough to know it’d drive her to do things she didn’t want any part of. Not anymore. Not after the things she’d already done. So she’d moved to Hammerfell, scratched out a spot of land in the Quarry, and settled into hermitage. She was alone, armed, and drawn to beauty like an arrow to the string. She was paranoid and flawed, but she was one of four Walkers Sorrows knew, including Ga’Shel, and that made her just about perfect.
She took them inside, led them down eight stairs into a room that was three stairs too short for Sorrows to stand up in, but a good fifteen paces deep and seven wide. A table with cushions, a bed in one corner, glowstone fragments scattered throughout. Bex gestured and Sorrows sat on a cushion, laying his bow to the side. Jace sat down next to him, shoulder brushing his. Bex took a seat across the table and stared at Jace, eyes like holly berries in snow.
“You’re very… pretty,” Bex said.
Jace turned to Sorrows. “Who is this, Solomon?”
Sorrows ignored her, looked at Bex. “Can you do it?”
Bex nodded, stared at Jace. Jace started to stand.
“I don’t like this, Solomon,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on before I—”
“Easy,” Bex said, holding up a hand. She laughed, low and warm, looked at Sorrows. “I can do it.”
“Do what?” Jace asked.
Then she vanished.
✽✽✽
MIG APPEARED A heartbeat later. Sorrows nodded, and she slipped them out of the gods-stream. Sorrows stumbled into awareness a while later as the gravel turned to stone pavers. He glanced at Mig, and she met his gaze and smiled. They followed the main road past the tower, turned left and walked toward the open range. Dwarves moved with slow, plodding steps around them, unaware of the goblin Walker and her towering companion.
“You sure about this, Sol?” Mig asked.
It was the first time she’d called him Sol since she’d found out about Julia. Progress. He shrugged.
“You said I should help.”
“I know, but… if the family didn’t want her disturbed, maybe you shouldn’t.”
“I’m not going to steal her dress or jewelry,” Sorrows said.