“Great dragon piss,” Wilhelm said, turning to Sorrows. “The tower? What in all hells did you get yourself caught up in?”
Brenn cleared his throat. “And more to the point, what brings you into our home?”
Sorrows sighed, leaned back, held his hands in front of him, palms facing each other, three hand spans apart.
“It’s about a box,” he said.
Chapter 43
THE ELF HAS already been to Nisha Davrosh’s house. You see the wire and the arrow beneath the bed. Walkers always assume that others can’t slip the gods-stream. As a result, they tend to be… obvious. The idiot. It is little wonder you’ve had to illuminate every small step, every last detail. It is not unlike raising a child, or so you think. And like a child, the elf is petulant, entitled, over-confident, foolish. Not at all trustworthy. You do your own assessment of the bedroom. It puts your mind at ease, somewhat. You are confident the kill will go well tonight, despite the human and the half-born. You will capture Nisha Davrosh’s soul as well as the elf’s.
But first, there is something you must see to. A small thing. An important thing. The wire.
Yes, dwarves are strong. And yes, the binding is necessary. But you only need a relatively short length in comparison. An arm’s length should suffice. Because an elf’s gods-bond is broken at the neck. Not a large circumference. And elves are not as strong as dwarves. Not even close. Binding is unnecessary. Besides, you like a little struggle. You enjoy the desperation, the fight, the panic. You enjoy the body falling slack within your grasp. And since the elf has caused you unnecessary headache as of late, you will enjoy the surprise, the confusion, the sudden realization it was you pulling the strings.
You take your length of wire. You hide it so no one can see it. You give the room one final glance before leaving. Hours remain now. Mere hours. But for someone with your impatience, they will linger, stretch. You will need something to do until then. You step outside into the cold and leave to find the hunter.
✽✽✽
THE BOOK WAS bound in brown leather, edges tipped in gold. It had no title, no author. A once black ribbon, now gray with age and use, rested within the valley of its margins, hung loose and frayed underneath. It was a large book. Large enough that the weight of its pages kept it open. It was lying on a low table. Sorrows, Davrosh, Brenn and Wilhelm leaned forward, each from the edge of a seat, each with elbows resting on knees. They studied a picture. Ink on parchment. Faded, but not as much as the ribbon. Black lines, some thin, some lending shadow and heft. A picture of a dagger, slender, pointed. Runes on the blade and handle. A box drawn beside it, long, ornate. More runes.
“You’re sure?” Wilhelm asked.
Sorrows shrugged. “As sure as I can be without the box in front of me. The runes look right. Elf, for certain. Too old for me to recognize. It all fits.”
Brenn nodded, traced inside the hem of his sleeve with a finger. “I know better than to doubt you, Gray Walker, but I wish to the gods you were wrong. I’d wager you recognize the blade as well.”
“I do.” Sorrows said.
“It’s the blade that killed the possessed, isn’t it?” Davrosh asked. “From the Quarry?”
Sorrows said nothing, but he glanced sideways at Davrosh. Gave her a look that said, Not here, not now.
Wilhelm noticed and laughed. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Sol. Those days are long past Brenn and me. And discretion keeps the sword in its sheath, does it not?”
Sorrows nodded, leaned back. “It does. Yet, rumors still spread in Hammerfell.”
“Well, you can’t deny dwarves their gossip,” Brenn said. He smiled. “The winter’s too gods-shunned cold for much else.”
“Except whiskey,” Wilhem said.
Brenn shook his head. “But that only furthers the gossip, Will.”
“Then there’s tangling, for certain. But then I suppose the whiskey only furthers that as well.”
“Aye, my lad. And the two only further the gossip again.”
Sorrows cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate two months’ silence, if you could. One month if you can’t.”
Brenn glanced at Wilhelm, winked. Wilhelm stroked his beard a moment, then nodded. “A month, not a day longer. We’ve a reputation to maintain.”
“Besides, when has it ever taken you more than a fortnight to find your prey, Gray Walker?” Brenn asked.
“Often enough,” Sorrows said.
“Nonsense,” Wilhelm said. “Brenn’s gran used to talk of seven souls in seven days.”
“Aye, but a dwarf wipes his split with the treetops in stories, does he not?” Brenn asked.
Willhelm nodded. “That they do, Brenny. That they do. Still, I’m thinking a month is far too long to hold our tongues.”
Sorrows stood, patted Brenn on the shoulder. “And I’m thinking with a bit of whiskey, you’ll find something else to hold. I’ll leave you to that.”
“Already?” Brenn asked. He frowned at Wilhelm. “You’ve been too bold, Will. You’ve gone and chased off our guests again.”
“Oh, come off it,” Wilhelm said, standing. “They were halfway out the door the moment they stepped inside. Always in a rush.”
He helped Davrosh from her chair, put a hand on her back, let it slide a bit low, until she glanced at him. He raised it a bit higher.
“You come back anytime, Master Davrosh,” he said. He offered a small smile. “No need to bring Sol.”
Brenn joined Wilhelm, draping an arm across the white-haired dwarf. “Best of luck, Gray Walker, Master Davrosh. Gods be with you.”
“And with you,” Davrosh said.
✽✽✽
SORROWS WALKED BACK to the sled, Davrosh followed. A group of half-born children mingled with the dogs, petting, playing. They scattered like leaves blown across snow when they caught sight of Sorrows. Their laughter lingered in the air. Davrosh looked back at the house and shook her head.
“What in all hells is going on?”
“I’m working on it.”
Davrosh snorted. “I’m beginning to think that’s simply your way of saying I don’t know.”
Sorrows
