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

healed by a Mage Guard elf. Oray had said word moved fast in Hammerfell. Faster now, with the killings. Servants talked, especially goblin servants. Wegg had to think fast, take more risks. He had a name to protect.

“And the cellar’s right down these stairs,” he said. “I noticed you didn’t touch your coffee earlier. Could I tempt you with a whiskey?”

It was tempting. Wegg was leaning against an open doorway. The marble floor extended onto a landing above granite steps. The air was cool, damp. It smelled of old oak and spirits. The cellar was dim. It would be quiet. The sort of quiet that swallowed the sound of a man falling down the stairs, or a mallet striking a skull. The lie would be the former, the truth would be something like the latter, though any blunt instrument would suffice. Wegg would drag Sorrows into the great room, a look of panic on his face, an apology on his lips. Sorrows wondered if Jace would cry while she healed him—if she could heal him. Wondered how long it would take for his immortality to mend his wounds. He’d slept for three years from a sword through the chest. No scar, just bad dreams. He wondered how many more daughters would die. Wondered what would become of the bow and Julia.

Sorrows wondered what Mig would do. And then wondered why he hadn’t thought of her first. He signaled with his hands. You there? She didn’t show. He sighed.

“This is a bad plan.”

“What in all hells are you talking about?” Wegg asked.

“It’s just the two of us. Why would I turn my back on you? How will you get the jump? Say you did. Jace is more than just a pretty face. She’ll know I didn’t trip down the stairs. What will you do about her? She’s an elf. Vengeance of the gods-born would ruin Hallovel.”

Wegg’s face reddened, then paled. He shook his head.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “I was just offering whiskey.”

“Sure,” Sorrows said. “No evidence to the contrary, no malice. No reason to assume anything other than a gesture of goodwill. So let me return your honesty with some of my own. I don’t want your shunning whiskey. And I don’t give an orc split how many vases the Valinors gave you. I want you to show me Shealu’s room so I can show you where you’ll find her corpse the morning after her Maiden’s Dance. I want to show you where you’ll be standing when Ambetta sees her line ended.”

“You’re so sure I can’t stop this killer?”

Sorrows nodded. “Let’s say I’m generous. Say I give you a coin’s odds at catching the killer before he strikes. Maybe it’s the sort of heroic act that puts the name Hallovel on the tip of Hammerfell’s tongue. Maybe you get a few more vases for your efforts. Maybe attend a few more dinner parties. What else does it change? Shealu’s already a daughter. And a beautiful one at that, with those gods-shunned eyes. She’ll take her pick from a number of suitors. Hallovel will continue to rise through the ranks of dwarf aristocracy. All that will happen without you catching the killer. You need to ask yourself what you will gain from risking her. Because maybe the coin lands on the other side. Maybe you deny the Mage Guard, you ignore my advice, and maybe the morning after Shealu’s dance, you start planning her burial.”

Wegg said nothing, only stared at Sorrows. Sorrows stared at Wegg.

“Is everything all right?” Ambetta asked. “We heard shouting.”

She was at the opposite end of the hallway. Jace stood behind her. Shealu behind Jace.

“An old habit,” Sorrows said. “I yell at stupid people, or people doing stupid things.”

Ambetta tensed. Her shoulders went stiff. She straightened, stood half an inch taller. She grabbed a fistful of her skirt. Shealu’s eyes widened. Jace did nothing, said nothing. Just watched. Wegg shifted behind Sorrows.

“Perhaps more stubborn than stupid,” Wegg said.

Sorrows turned. Wegg extended a hand.

“No challenge,” he said. “Take it as an apology.”

Sorrows nodded. They shook hands a second time. Not a confrontation, not a show of strength. An agreement. They both wanted the same thing, or at least the things they wanted lay in the same direction. They returned to the great room, discussed plans for keeping Shealu safe. By the end, Wegg made a second offer of whiskey, and Sorrows made a second refusal, this one more difficult than the first. He and Jace bid farewell to House Hallovel and stepped into lightly falling snow.

“You may have saved Shealu’s life,” Jace said.

“Possibly,” Sorrows said.

“How did you know they would listen?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t.”

“You weren’t very nice.”

“I wasn’t there to make friends.”

“Back to the tower?”

“Not yet.”

Sorrows pulled an arm’s length of parchment out of his cloak pocket.

“We still have sixteen families to see.”

Chapter 22

THEY SAW THEGraylenns and Smeds that day. Both visits started out the same as the Hallovels. Sorrows heard a lot of stupid, did a lot of yelling. Both visits ended the same. Acquiescence, acceptance, reluctant gratitude. It was exhausting. Sorrows collapsed on his bed the first night, fell asleep before Jace closed the door, woke the next day to her shaking his shoulder. Maybe she never left the room. The thought was simultaneously disturbing and exciting. He ate breakfast, they left, they saw four families that day. They had an easier time of it. Less yelling. Oray had said word traveled fast in Hammerfell. Now this worked in their favor. Dwarves talked. They were ready for the big human and his Mage Guard companion. Hospitality replaced hostility. Whiskey replaced coffee. Two days of five families saw the first week finished. Nearly.

He and Jace sat at a table of polished oak. A big table, though low. A dwarf table, thick and sturdy and worn from years of dishes sliding, drinks spilling, rags wiping, elbows resting. A table that matched the ten chairs around it. Like they had been shaped from the same tree. Four of the