Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 Dan Fish (best book club books .TXT) 📖

had said. Sorrows pictured Mig as he had left her, lying in bed with her hair spilled out beneath her. He kept the image in his head and forced a smile.

“You’re the boss. I’m just here to help.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Sorrows held up his hands. Said nothing.

“Orchole,” Davrosh said.

Sorrows sighed. Her good side.

Chapter 10

DAVROSH WAS A creature of habit. She woke an hour before sunrise, coughed and snorted to clear her throat and sinuses, and spat phlegm on the ground. She’d done this every morning since they left Tam. She rummaged in her rucksack for a stash of dried fruit and nuts, which she proceeded to loudly chew with her mouth open, sounding like she had stuffed her cheeks full of wet rocks. She had done this every morning. She left camp to piss but stayed close enough to be heard. She scratched, spat some more, swished water in her mouth. She stomped and scuffed when she walked, adjusted her rucksack every twelve steps. She talked in her sleep, unintelligible words and moaning that only stopped once she started snoring. She did this every day. A creature of habit. Today was the seventeenth day.

“Looks like more rain today,” she said.

“Does it?” Sorrows said.

Davrosh adjusted her rucksack. “I think so. Clouds are building to the west. They’ll be here mid morning, I bet. Sleep well?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Me too. I slept like a rock. Back’s a little stiff, but my pack’s light. We’ll need to set snares tonight.”

“Great.”

She stared at the road ahead. “You think we’ve been making good time?”

“I think we’d make better time with Fen.”

“There’s a village two days out. We’ll restock, sleep at the inn. Will be nice to have actual beds.”

He said nothing. She glanced at him.

“Great,” he said.

“What’s with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re acting like more of an orchole than usual.”

“Seventeen days slow-footing. No sign of Ga’Shel. And you refuse to let me call Fen.”

She adjusted her rucksack, studied him for a moment. Opened her mouth, pressed her tongue into a tooth, made a squishing noise. Kept making the squishing noise until Sorrows cleared his throat. She stuck a finger in her mouth, started scraping at her teeth.

“How long have you been seeing his sister?”

“A couple years, I suppose.”

“She’s pretty.”

Prettier than you, he thought. “She is.”

“They have any other brothers and sisters?”

He snorted. “They’re goblins.”

She adjusted her rucksack. “Suppose so. They live together? Fen and his sister?”

“Mig. And yes. They’re close. It’s a twin thing.”

“Twins? Interesting. Common enough for goblins, though. I always wondered what it would be like having a twin.”

He glanced at her. She was staring at the road, brow knit, small frown. A thinking face.

“Tough news about your sister.”

“Why?” she asked.

“The killings. Her birthday. You must worry about her.”

“What did Oray tell you?”

“Only that she turns twenty-seven soon.”

“And you think because she’s my sister, my emotions will get the better of me.”

“Won’t they?”

Davrosh frowned, shook her head. “They’re all sisters to me. The four who were killed as much as Nisha. You don’t understand because you’re human.”

“Maybe you’ve already been compromised, and that’s why you haven’t found the killer.”

She adjusted her rucksack. “You really are an orchole.”

Get on her good side, Sorrows thought. He also considered his own sanity. He extended a hand. “Give me your pack.”

“Piss off.”

“Give me your pack.”

“Why?”

Sorrows shrugged. “To give your back a break.”

Davrosh kept walking, glancing between Sorrows and the road ahead. She tapped fingers against the straps on her chest, then stopped. She slipped the rucksack off, set it on the ground. Unclasped her cloak, worked herself out of it, one arm at a time, folded it and put it in the bag. She handed the pack to Sorrows.

“You’re still an orchole,” she said.

She undid the top two buttons on her jerkin, stretched her arms, took a deep breath. The air was cool and damp. The sun was tucked behind clouds. A good day for travel. They kept walking.

“You knew the four girls?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I knew them. Mari the best, but I had met all of them a few times before. And then again, of course, on their birthdays.”

Sorrows glanced at her. “You were with them the day they were killed?”

Davrosh nodded, said nothing.

“Gods, you might have told me earlier.”

Davrosh shrugged. “I don’t need to tell you anything.”

She looked away like something caught her attention. Sorrows didn’t notice anything more than leaves falling from trees.

“Were you at the party? Did you see anything suspicious?” he asked.

“I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I was only with them the morning of. I did their paint. I do a lot of the face and body painting in Hammerfell.”

Sorrows said nothing, closed his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. Davrosh stared forward. They walked in silence. But it was a thinking silence. The kind of silence that led to revelation. The kind of silence Sorrows knew better than to break. He waited until the scuff of boots and a cleared throat announced Davrosh would speak. Then he turned, and she looked at him.

“The Maiden’s Dance is sacred to the dwarves. Like the Feast of Nine or the Eve of Silversong. They would never use an elf for something as sacred as the Mask of the Stone Mother, but even dwarves have a measure of vanity. And my painting is better than most.”

“Most?”

“Better than any dwarf. They ignore my elf half and look at me with one eye closed for a day.”

“But you weren’t at the parties?”

“I was invited. I’m always invited. But I never go.”

“You show up alone, paint some lattice work around wrists and ankles, a mask of vines and flowers around their eyes, then leave? You might be three quarters elf.”

“What would you know? I never had a Maiden’s Dance. And you saw how the goblins looked at me in the tavern. Increase that one hundred-fold and you might understand what it’s like being half-born at a dwarf celebration.”

“Look who you’re talking to, Davrosh. I’m an outsider everywhere I go. But I still keep a few