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

But the old goblin was busy jawing at customers standing in the doorway. And Fen hadn’t reappeared.

He hadn’t reappeared, and suddenly Sorrows was thinking about the bow. Thinking about the path from the tavern through the village. Thinking about the distance from his chair to the room and shelf holding the bow. Because the customers hadn’t left the doorway, and the barkeep had slung a towel over his shoulder and was pointing at Sorrows. Because the eight goblins who had been intent on food and drink were instead turning to stare at whoever was standing in the doorway. Their smiles faded along with their laughter. And Fen still hadn’t reappeared.

Which meant that Ga’Shel had found them, and he didn’t want them to slip the god-stream and run. Which meant he wasn’t alone. But Davrosh couldn’t handle Sorrows by herself, and Ga’Shel was busy with Fen. That meant more of the Mage Guard were in Tam. That meant he was likely already surrounded. So Sorrows took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest. And waited.

He didn’t wait long. Oray appeared with Davrosh beside him. The two walked in amid stares and whispers. They scanned the tables, but a half-drunk orc could spot Sorrows in a crowd of goblins. Davrosh pointed and whispered to Oray. The Overseer nodded, and the two approached the table.

“You’re alone,” Oray said. Observation and question.

Sorrows nodded.

“You’re welcome to join me,” he said.

Davrosh threw sideways glances at tables filled with goblins. She hid her face in the shadows of her hood.

“We’d prefer to talk in private,” she said.

“Do you have a place in the village? Somewhere we could talk?” asked Oray.

“I stay at Fen’s place, and I’m guessing Ga’Shel has chased him away. Would be rude to invite you in myself.”

“We could talk outside,” Davrosh said.

“We could talk just as easy inside,” Sorrows said. He waved a hand, flashed three fingers at the barkeep, then gestured to the chairs. “Sit. First round’s on me.”

He stretched his feet under the table and kicked the chairs backward. An invitation. Oray sighed and slumped into the chair in front of him, pulled back his hood, rubbed his eyes.

“Sit, Remma,” he said.

Davrosh stared at the chair, threw a backwards glance over both shoulders. Cautious. She sat; back straight, leaning forward, like her legs were holding all her weight, and the chair was just decoration.

The barkeep arrived with a tray holding three tankards. He set the drinks down and walked away. Suds the color of doeskin leather, a thin sheet of frost on the sides from a bit of goblin magic. Good ale. Sorrows grabbed the tankard nearest him and pulled it close. He glanced at Oray.

“No wine, I’m afraid. But the whiskey’s good if you don’t like ale.”

“Ale’s fine,” Oray said.

Davrosh shifted, settled back against her chair, slowly lowered her hood. The goblins glanced, whispered, and a few jutted their chins in her direction. But the reaction was no more than Sorrows received when he had walked in. Davrosh relaxed, sagged, tipped forward onto her elbows.

“I’m not thirsty,” she said.

“Drink something, Remma,” Oray said. “It’s been a long two weeks.”

He offered a tired half-grin, and she gave in. Grabbed her tankard, drank deeply. Sorrows raised his eyebrows, impressed.

“I should’ve ordered a couple whiskeys.”

“There’s still time,” she said.

“Have some bread sent as well,” Oray said. “We need to talk.”

Sorrows traded signals with the barkeep before turning to Oray.

“This about the bow?”

“No. This is about Mishma Valinor,” Oray said.

“Who?”

“Another girl was found dead the morning after her twenty-seventh birthday,” Davrosh said. “We had guards on premise to protect her. Happened right under our noses.”

Sorrows shook his head. “Four gods-born dead. And dwarf daughters at that. You’ve got a problem.”

Oray nodded. “A big problem.”

“Her father is Brenn Valinor,” Davrosh said. “Do you know him?”

“What difference would it make if I did? I’ve been in Tam for the past three weeks. I’m not your guy. I never was. You’re wasting time you don’t have.”

“We’re just trying to find a connection,” Oray said. “Something. Anything.”

He sighed. A tired sigh, like he hadn’t slept in two weeks. But for all the fatigue reflected in the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders, he still looked better than Davrosh. Her eyes were half closed. Her elbows were sliding wide. She was almost sleeping on the table.

They sat in silence for one breath, then another. Sorrows worked at his ale. Motioned the barkeep for another tankard after Davrosh made quick work of hers. Oray sipped, glanced around the tavern. A serving girl arrived with bread. A steady hum of conversation surrounded them, accented by the occasional laugh, the occasional curse, the occasional slap.

“We thought we had the motive figured out with the first three killings,” Davrosh said finally.

Sorrows shook his head. “You found a thread that connected the three families, but I never had any motivation to kill.”

“You’re human.”

“That a crime?”

“No,” she said. “But it’s plausible that past trauma made you unstable. And you’re known to be violent toward the Seph. Maybe you’d be violent against dwarves, too.”

“The Seph declared war against all other species. A twenty-seven-year-old dwarf daughter doesn’t make enemies. Not like that.”

“The Seph wear many faces. Some of them female. Maybe you developed a fixation. It’s not so hard to believe.”

“It’s harder than you think,” Sorrows said. “And right now you can’t afford mistakes. Not if you want to find whoever’s doing this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re grasping, Davrosh. It means I was never your guy, and you know it. You’ve always known it. Which means time’s wasting and you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Because I know you didn’t travel to Tam to tell me I’m no longer a suspect. And you sure as hells didn’t come here to share drinks and break bread.”

Oray rubbed his fingers into his eyes, brought his hands down, stared at Sorrows.

“You’re a hunter, Sorrows. Word gets around. The Seph fear you, and that’s saying something. They