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

“How long until the traces disappear?”

“A day or two.”

Sorrows nodded, sniffed. Could smell vanilla and tobacco, but the scent had gone faint. Another hour in the rain and he wouldn’t smell it at all.

“Makes sense,” he said. “You get used to the smell of restoration magic, but it’s still there.”

“Right. Traces linger.”

“And you found nothing?”

“Nothing. Not a sniff, not a whisper, not a shimmer. The gods-bond wasn’t severed with magic.”

Davrosh adjusted her rucksack.

“Give me your pack.”

“What? No. Why?”

Sorrows extended a hand. “I can’t think with you constantly pulling on those straps.”

Davrosh stared at him. “You didn’t give an orc split about my back earlier.”

“Not really.”

“Orchole.”

He reached for her pack anyway, but Davrosh grabbed his wrist, held it away. She was strong. He tried to yank his hand free but ended up pulling her toward him. She stumbled forward, slipped in the mud, toppled against him. She flung her arms around him to stop her fall. He grabbed her, steadied himself. They stood, tangled, staring at each other for a breath before Davrosh pushed away, straightened her cloak, adjusted her rucksack.

“I’m keeping my pack,” she said.

“Fine,” Sorrows said.

“Fine.”

He stared at her. She stared back. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Maybe it was the voice, vaguely familiar. Maybe it was elf reflexes. Maybe Forestwalker speed. Whatever the reason, Ga’Shel leaned back in time for Sorrows to miss his jaw by a handspan.

“You almost hit me,” Ga’Shel said.

“Almost,” Sorrows said.

“If you’d like, I can leave—”

“No,” Sorrows said quickly. “No, you startled me, that’s all. I’m glad to see you, sunshine. Seventeen and a half days with her is long enough.”

Davrosh moved to stand by Ga’Shel. She glanced up at him. “You have no idea.”

“I can imagine,” Ga’Shel said. He smiled at Davrosh. “The smell, right?”

“Among other things.”

Ga’Shel nodded, straightened his cloak, peered out from under his hood. White-gold hair, flawless skin, gray eyes, chiseled features. Sorrows imagined him kneeling in front of Mari Sturm on the morning of her twenty-seventh birthday. Imagined Mari’s pulse quickening. Imagined her excitement for the day building in that moment. He wondered if Mishma Valinor had felt the same excitement. Or did the news of Mari’s death and the death of the Brightle twins weigh upon her? Did trepidation dampen her spirits? A slow, steady drip of worry and fear. Ga’Shel noticed him staring, raised an eyebrow, then turned away.

“No sense staying in this any longer than needed,” he said.

Sorrows set aside his thoughts and walked close to Ga’Shel and Davrosh. He didn’t remember the slip. Never remembered the slip. But when he woke from the disorientation, minutes later, the water fell in slow, patient drops, and the puddles felt like walking on sand.

He nodded, gave an approving frown.

“Gods,” he said. Clapped Ga’Shel on the shoulder.

Ga’Shel looked annoyed, then flattered, then smug. Davrosh glanced at Sorrows, shook her head.

“Like I said: any day now.”

Chapter 11

“A DAUGHTER WALKS into her room after a night of celebration. She’s tired, but her heart’s still pounding. The killer waits until she closes the door. She sees him but doesn’t call out for help. Why?”

“Maybe he clamps a hand over her mouth before she turns,” Ga’Shel said. “Maybe she tries to scream, but nobody hears her.”

Sorrows shook his head. “Dwarves are strong. I can still feel where Davrosh grabbed my wrist, and she’s only half dwarf. A twenty-seven-year-old dwarf would still be a handful for anyone but another dwarf.”

“No chance it’s another dwarf,” Davrosh said.

Sorrows nodded. “It’s not an elf either. Not without magic.”

“You don’t think a full-grown elf could over-power an adolescent dwarf?” Ga’Shel asked, his face impassive, his tone not as impassive.

“Sorry, sunshine,” Sorrows said. “You’re unlikable, but formidable because of your magic. Without it? Well.”

Ga’Shel stared at Sorrows, said nothing.

“Am I wrong?” Sorrows asked.

Ga’Shel shrugged. Sorrows took it as concession.

“How did he get inside in the first place?” he asked.

“The Maiden’s Dance is a big celebration,” Davrosh said. “He could have slipped in with other guests, found an opportunity to get upstairs and wait.”

“With Mari, maybe, and the twins,” Sorrows said. “But Mishma had the Mage Guard watching. The opportunity would’ve been different. The family would know every face. They’d know if someone showed up uninvited.”

“We followed up on anyone who knew all three families,” Ga’Shel asked. “All accounted for. Alibis, witnesses, everything.”

“Not everything,” Sorrows said. “Or else you’d have the killer. Maybe he’s not a family friend. Maybe he’s just someone you’d expect to see. Someone you wouldn’t even consider.”

Davrosh shook her head. “Musicians, entertainers, extra wait staff. We’ve checked everyone.”

“He’s not going to be an extra,” Sorrows said. “He’d be someone who knew the layout of the manor. Someone who knew which staircase to climb, which hallway to follow, which door to open and close before someone else noticed.”

“Someone who visited beforehand,” Ga’Shel said. “We already thought of that. We asked the families about recent visitors. No one reported anything suspicious.”

“Don’t ask the victims’ families,” Sorrows said. “They’re distracted. Under duress. You need to get ahead of this. Find out whose Maiden Dance happens this month, next month, the rest of the year, next year. Ask questions. Were they showing guests around? Did someone get lost? Did someone disappear for a few minutes? Anything suspicious. They’ll remember now because it’s more recent. And they’re less distracted.”

Davrosh sighed. “If we go a year out, we’re looking at over four hundred families to question. We can focus on the birthdays in the next one or two months and build from there, but that’s still more than sixty.”

“And the majority would be chasing smoke,” Ga’Shel said. “We still don’t know how the killer chooses his victims.”

“It’s not perfect, but it’s something,” Sorrows said. “And with, what, thirty birthdays each month, you need something.”

“It’s not that easy,” Ga’Shel said.

“What’s not?”

“The birthdays. They’re not spread evenly throughout the year,” Davrosh said. “There are none this month.”

“That’s a good thing,” Sorrows said.

“There are eighty-three next month,” Ga’Shel said.

“Eighty?”

“Eighty-three, yes.”

“The Feast of Nine is in two weeks,”