Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 by Dan Fish (no david read aloud TXT) 📕

in the direction of the Quarry but turned into an alleyway before the stone turned to gravel. They stopped at the back of a shop. The Seph pointed to a cluster of spruce.

“Ready?” Davrosh asked.

“Ready.”

They stepped off the sled. Sorrows stepped quietly, moved around the trees, found a door hidden from the alley. Put his hand on the handle, turned to Davrosh, lifted his eyebrows in an unspoken question. She nodded an unspoken answer. He lifted an iron latch slowly, then pushed the door open fast, moving inside in a rush. A single room, dimly lit, square.

“Empty,” Davrosh said.

“Not empty,” Sorrows said.

He walked to a corner, picked a bundle of wool off the floor. Soft. Buttermilk. He lifted it to his face, inhaled. Orange blossom.

“What is it?” Davrosh asked.

Sorrows stared at it for a long moment, thought of a silver pin in raven hair; large black eyes; evergreen lips.

“Mig,” he said, and let the dress slip from his fingers.

“Gods,” Davrosh said. “She’s dead, then.”

Sorrows said nothing. Davrosh stared at him.

“I’m sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”

Sorrows said nothing, turned, and left the hidden room. Davrosh followed. They walked past the trees to the alley. He ran to the sled, to the bundle of wool, spun, looking. The Seph had vanished.

“Gods shun it,” he said. “We weren’t gone for more than a minute.”

Davrosh shook her head. “Walker. We should’ve brought Ostev.”

Sorrows sighed. “I thought she’d show herself if she saw me.”

“Then what?”

“I thought I could get her talking.”

“Then what? Did you think she’d just turn herself in for another kiss?”

He shook his head, said nothing for a breath, then struck the handrail with a fist. Davrosh poked at the basket, reached, held up her hand. Her face was pale. She looked at Sorrows. She held a single, black, goblin eye. When Sorrows spoke, his voice was low, tight. Full of threat.

“I’ll kill her,” he said. “I’ll tear her apart, piece by piece.”

Chapter 44

“THIS IS THE place,” Davrosh said. “Good ale. Better whiskey. Crowd can be a bit rough at times. More half-born than gods-born. I like it.”

Sorrows said nothing; he pushed the door and stepped into the tavern. A dwarf barkeep wiped at goblets and tankards. A handful of patrons sat at tables. Goblins, half-born. They glanced at the big human and the mage guard, then slid a bit lower in their seats. Sorrows walked to a table against the wall. Sat. Davrosh took a chair across from him, silent. She lifted her hand, held up two fingers, watched Sorrows.

A half-born serving girl appeared. Dwarf-goblin. Young, black-eyed, and raven-haired. Thick-limbed with pale green skin like spruce needles dusted with snow. She nodded at Davrosh, smiled at Sorrows, left two tankards, foam dripping down the sides. Davrosh took one, pushed the other in front of Sorrows.

“Drink,” she said.

“Not thirsty.”

“Not asking.”

Davrosh took a long pull, set her tankard down.

“How do you catch a Walker?” she asked.

“With another Walker,” Sorrows said.

“Ostev should be with us tonight.”

“No, he shouldn’t. You only think Nisha will be the target because you’re close to her. Ga’Shel goes where he goes. Oray goes where he goes. We go where we go. None of it matters. Jace is too good.”

“We need to be better.”

“We’re not.”

“Gods, just drink, orchole. You need it. Think of it as a professional assessment and medical recommendation.”

“You’re not qualified for either.”

“Yeah, but you’re pissed enough for both. You’re wound tighter than a dwarf at a barber.”

“And you think drinking will help?”

“You got a better idea?”

“I do.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“No. But you look nice today. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Piss off,” Davrosh said. She took another drink. “I’ve told you you’re not my type.”

A half-born approached. Dwarf-goblin. Fair skin, no beard, raven hair. Goblin eyes and ears, dwarf chest and shoulders. Not big, not small. Sorrows studied, measured. Nearest table was two paces away. An easy target. Would send a quiet, crashing message. Enough to draw attention, but not so much as to intimidate. Would bring others out of their chairs. Would start a brawl. A pleasant skirmish between like-minded folk. The thought appealed to him. He wanted to hit something.

He was angry. He felt it like a rope tied around his arms, legs, chest. Felt it pull tight. Made it hard to breathe. Hard to think. All that anger pumped through his heart, coursed through his veins, flooded his muscles. Elf scholars would call it chemical. A physiological response to emotional trauma or threat. Sorrows viewed it as a variation on fight-or-flight reflex. He figured the silver pin Jace had given him was a small push on the shoulder, maybe a bit of swagger from a smug adversary. He’d run from it, ignored it. He pushed the thought of it to the back of his mind, let it fester. He figured the buttermilk dress in the hidden room had been a slap on the face, more swagger, a taunt. He hadn’t run but had no one to fight. And the dress caused those festering thoughts of the pin to resurface. Soured his mood. The eyeball was a gut punch. Hard, fast. He didn’t see it coming. It wasn’t Mig’s. Couldn’t be. But it sent a clear message.

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