She sat in the chair directly across from Sorrows. The Weaver to her left, the others to her right. Divided. Her hands were folded and resting in her lap. Sorrows couldn’t see them through the table. Couldn’t see if she was wringing her hands. Nervous. But her shoulders were still, her face relaxed. She leaned forward, conspiratorial. She glanced left, then right, tipped her chin at Sorrows. Come close, I have a secret for you, she was saying. He stayed put, stared at her.
“They think you’re a thug or a killer. Not sure which,” she said.
“Maybe neither,” he said.
“Maybe both.”
Sorrows shook his head. “If I were both, you wouldn’t be arguing about it. Makes more sense that I’m neither and you’re divided on which one presents the more convincing lie.”
Her face tensed. A brief thing, but easy to spot in the deep lines of her face. Her hands came onto the table. She steepled her fingers. Beside her, brown-hair’s face grew red. On the other side, the Weaver rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling. But the most interesting reaction was the half-born’s. No anger, no hostility. Just keen interest. Study. Like she was taking his measure, guessing at the man beneath the clothes.
“Are you sure of that?” White-Hair asked.
“Sure as a split stinks,” Sorrows said.
“Keep a civil tongue, Solomon. We’re only trying to ascertain the truth of the situation.”
“What situation is that, I wonder?” Sorrows said. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, spread his hands wide. “You want civil? How about you tell me who you are? All of you. How about you tell me why I’m here? That would be civil, right? The elf thing to do? We trade names, stories about how great we are, observations of the gods-realm, or jokes about dwarves. I know some good ones. Real gut-busters.”
White-Hair clenched her jaw, tapped her two index fingers together, stared at Sorrows for one breath and another. Then she nodded and inclined her head.
“I am Archmage Tu’ell Eldrake,” she said. “This is my tower. That makes you my guest. Overseer Annessa Shen resides here, as well. She’s charged with maintaining order on the Edge.”
The Weaver lifted an eyebrow at Sorrows and tamed a smirk that threatened to become a grin. Eldrake looked at Brown-Hair, waited.
“Overseer La’Jen Oray,” he said, voice tight. Like a bowstring about to fray. “Hammerfell.”
“Dwarves,” Sorrows said. Gods, he thought.
“Is that a problem?” the half-born asked. She slid forward on her chair, gripped the edge of the table. White-knuckled again. Aggressive.
“Easy, Remma,” Oray said. He turned to Sorrows. “You’ve already met Masters Remma Davrosh and Ostev Ga’Shel.”
He nodded at the half-born and the elf from the tavern. Everyone was watching Sorrows.
“Civil enough for you?” Eldrake asked with a smile that slipped from her cheeks before reaching her eyes.
Sorrows nodded absentmindedly. It was a matter of time and distance. The dwarf city of Hammerfell was three months on foot, two by horse, two weeks with a Forestwalker. A long journey. A journey that two elf masters might make once a year. A journey an elf Overseer might make once every five. And a journey the three of them had started long before Sorrows pushed steel through a Seph.
Time and distance. They made the Weaver irrelevant. Whatever story she told would only serve to strong-arm Sorrows into caving on any Hammerfell demands. Problem was, Sorrows didn’t like being strong-armed. And at the moment, the only thing he would agree to was returning to the Evonwood and putting three days between him and the elves sitting across from him.
“Sure,” he leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “You hear the one about the elf who dropped his pants?”
“That’s enough, Solomon,” Eldrake said.
“No? It’s short, I swear.”
Davrosh stood abruptly. Her chair slid across the floor. Loud, jarring. “Listen, orchole—”
“He’s baiting you, Remma,” Ga’Shel interrupted.
“You’d prefer to discuss the alignment of the planets?” Sorrows asked.
Oray ran his fingers up his forehead and into his brown-hair. He wore the weary look of an Overseer with a problem. A big problem. “I told you this was a waste of time.”
“That’s the gods’ honest truth,” Sorrows said.
Davrosh leaned across the table. Leveled a finger at him. “No, the truth is you have no honor, no loyalty, and you invent ways to make enemies out of anyone you meet.”
“Is that what you want, Solomon? To make enemies of us all?” Eldrake said.
Sorrows had heard enough. And he had spent enough time with elves in the past three days to last a lifetime. He stood, kicked his chair back, and stared hard at Eldrake.
“What I want is my bow, and to get all hells out of here. That’s what I want. You have three elves from Hammerfell and that means I’m not your problem. Means dwarves are your problem. Which means you need help. Which means Shen is here to apply pressure and get that help.” Sorrows lowered his head and voice. “Problem is, I ain’t interested in helping elves. No one is. You’re just too gods-shunned unlikable.”
“Arrogant orchole,” Davrosh said. Sorrows ignored her.
Eldrake leaned back and sighed. A quick sigh through her nose. Like she was getting the stink of the situation out of her nostrils. She glanced at Shen, nodded toward Sorrows.
“We know you killed an orc,” Shen said.
Sorrows turned to her. “Elves don’t give a bright golden piss about orcs. But it doesn’t matter. The orc was already dead. I killed a Seph.”
Davrosh dropped into her chair, slid it forward, smoothed her jerkin, leaned back. She glanced from Oray to Ga’Shel. Grins spread across their faces. As if Sorrows had just said something that made their day. Maybe made their month. Maybe their year. Whatever it was, it made Sorrows uneasy. He took a step back, lifted his hands off the table and folded his arms across his chest. Stared at Eldrake.
“What? What’s got them so happy?”
“Your bow is elf-crafted, is it
