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

The clouds had crept from the horizon to the sky overhead. The autumn colors faded, gone dull beneath a veil of mist that carried the rumor of rain. Sorrows straightened his cloak, pulled at his hood, shook his sleeves down his arms and over his gloves. Wind whipped Davrosh’s cloak and skirt, snapping the fabric with deft, cold fingers. The weather was turning quickly, like milk left in the sun.

“I have friends,” Davrosh said. “Ga’Shel joins me when I paint. The daughters find him handsome, and he applies a restoration spell, so the mask doesn’t smudge. Afterwards, we have lunch in the mountains. Or we watch the boats float by on the river. Believe it or not, I get along with most people I work with.”

“Except me,” Sorrows said.

“Except you.”

“Because I’m an orchole.”

Davrosh lifted her eyebrows and held her hands out wide. Precisely, she was saying.

“How many of them did you accuse of murder?”

She shrugged. “You were a good guess.”

“No, I wasn’t. You need to stop thinking I was,” Sorrows said. “Because I didn’t kill those girls. Which means you’re missing something. Which makes it a piss-poor guess. And one that stuck me with you. On this road. Slow-footing to Hammerfell.”

“Ga’Shel will be here—”

“Any day now. So you said yesterday, the day before, and the day before the day before. Yet here we are walking. And now the rain’s starting.”

The only thing worse than rain is rain that comes early. Like a guest that shows up on your doorstep when you don’t want a guest in the first place. This was among the many reasons Sorrows didn’t have a doorstep. He and Davrosh kept walking but stopped talking. He reluctantly returned her bag after she reminded him a second time. She got into her cloak before the rain turned heavy. But the rush left her garments askew. Her hood covered a third of her face and she struggled to pull the clasps in front of her. Her jerkin was still undone and pulled tight against the swell of her breasts.

“Gods shun it,” she said.

The problem was her rucksack, which she had slung across a shoulder before donning the cloak. He gestured.

“You need to take off your bag. I can hold your cloak.” A grin threatened. Probably a laugh, as well.

She threw the cloak into the mud, dropped her bag, and went back for the cloak. She was clasped, hooded, and red-faced within a minute. She stomped off down the road. Sorrows caught up in a few long strides. She tried to stay ahead of him but took two strides to his one. Impossible. She’d have to run to outpace his walk. Basic concepts. Easy to understand.

“If you’d prefer, I could walk backwards.”

“Orchole,” she said.

The mud faded from her face and cloak. A line formed above the hem of her skirt where magic struggled to keep up with the grime splashing up from the road.

Get on her good side.

“Vanilla and tobacco?”

“Piss off.”

“Gods, Davrosh, relax. It’s good magic. Smells nice.”

She glanced at him. “Not very elf-like.”

“It’s better,” he said. “More like a dwarf, if dwarves used that kind of magic. With elves, it’s always floral or herbal. Lilacs and cinnamon or roses and thyme. Like walking through a flower market. But after a while, it just smells like arrogance.”

Davrosh stared at him, then turned and muttered something that sounded a lot like still an orchole, but Sorrows couldn’t be sure. She adjusted her rucksack.

“Tell me about the murders,” he said.

“Where do you want to start?”

“Walk me through the first, from the moment you were contacted.”

“It was night. Or early morning, I guess. I was at home. Oray sent a runner, told me to come to Hammerfell Tower. When I get there, one of the Sturm household servants is waiting. Mari’s been killed. Ga’Shel and I grab our cloaks and leave. When we arrive, the entire household is gathered in the great room of Sturm manor.”

“Nice place?”

“Yes. Huge estate. The Sturms are an old family. Been around for millennia. Wealthy. Involved in local government. Mari’s bedroom is on the second floor, near the back. Her windows overlook the family hunting grounds. We walk in. Mari’s lying on her bed, arms spread wide, an arrow sticking out of her forehead, eyes open and staring.”

“Gods, to walk in on that,” Sorrows said. “Bed tossed, blood everywhere, body lying in the middle of it all.”

Davrosh shook her head. “No blood, no signs of struggle.”

“No blood?” Sorrows asked. “How’s she got an arrow in the head, but no blood?”

“The paint, Ga’Shel’s magic. It keeps the mask clean.”

Sorrows shook his head. “It’s not like the killer’s sticking a pin in a tomato. There would be splatter, mess. And no one’s going to just sit and stare at an arrow pointed at their head. She’d fight. Try to escape.”

“I’m telling you, no blood. Bed made. Mari lying in the middle.”

Sorrows sighed. “What was she wearing?”

“Still in her Maiden’s dress. Still with her jewelry. Cut gems on her earrings, cut gems on her necklace, silver bracelets and anklets. The full ceremonial garb.”

“The killer’s not a thief.”

“Right.”

Sorrows nodded. “And he’s waiting there when she comes up from the party, or else she’d have taken off her jewelry. Removed the ribbons from her hair, changed into a sleeping gown.”

“Right.”

“What about the room? Any signs of struggle?”

Davrosh adjusted her rucksack. “I already told you. Nothing. No struggle. Rugs as they should be. Furniture untouched. Bed still made. No torn dress.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t know what?”

“The dress. Ga’Shel’s magic would’ve repaired it.”

Davrosh shook her head. Took a moment to snap the water from her cloak. “He only protects the paint.”

“He can do that?”

“Anyone could. It’s not so difficult.”

“Any elf could, you mean.”

“Right.”

“What else?”

“Not much else. We checked for magic. Nothing. We checked for other wounds. Nothing.”

“How do you check for magic?”

“We look for traces. There might be a smell in the air, like restoration magic. Other magic leaves sound behind, if you know what to listen for. Some leaves a warping of light where