Page 20 of Swordheart #1

“Tell me about your wife,” said Halla, an hour later.

They were walking along the side of the road now. Traffic had picked up enough as they approached Amalcross that they were becoming lost in the crowd. Covered in road dust, the pair did not stand out from any other pair of travelers making their way toward the larger town.

“My wife?” said Sarkis. “Why?”

She shrugged. “You know all about my late husband.”

She was rather proud of how calmly she said that, as if it didn’t matter at all. They were two people exchanging information. She absolutely was not trying to find out what Sarkis had respected about his former wife in hopes that he would think Halla less useless.

Because that would be strange. And would imply that I care. And I absolutely do not care in the slightest. At all.

She grimaced. She had always been a poor liar, particularly to herself.

Sarkis didn’t seem to have noticed. “True enough,” he said. He thought for a moment. “She was tall. She had dark hair and she was very tanned.”

Halla sighed internally. Even if she’d dyed her hair black, she wasn’t going to get any taller and she would probably go to her grave pink and rather flushed.

“She could put an arrow into the eye of a wolf at fifty yards away.”

Halla made a mental note to take up archery.

“She ran her farm like a warlord’s camp.”

“Efficiently?” hazarded Halla.

“Ruthlessly,” said Sarkis.

“Mmm.” Halla had helped run a farm once.

It had not been ruthless. It had been haphazard and everything had always seemed to be on the edge of collapsing and there was always some chore that needed doing.

It had seemed like that was just the way that farms were, but perhaps it had simply been that she wasn’t very good at it.

Oh, why do I even care if he thinks I’m useless? He’s not really a man, he’s an enchanted sword. And I doubt he’d be unkind even so. He’s been … well, mostly pleasant this whole time. Even if he does still grab my arm when he isn’t thinking about it.

Certainly it had nothing to do with the moment where she’d laid her hand against his bare chest, feeling the contrast between the solid muscle and the slick silver scars. His heartbeat under her hand had meant nothing. He was her guard, not her husband.

The thought came unbidden that he would have made a far better husband than her late, not-much-missed spouse.

His wife must have left him for some reason. Such a paragon of virtue wouldn’t have just gotten tired of him, would she?

Halla eyed the breadth of Sarkis’s shoulders and the heavy muscle of his arms and thought she probably wouldn’t get tired of that in a hurry.

Even the thought astonished her. I’m turning into a dirty old woman in my old age. For all the good it does me …

Well, at least she knew the way to Amalcross. That had to be worth something. She steered Sarkis away from the main entrance, full of drovers and livestock, to one of the smaller side roads. Unlike Rutger’s Howe, Amalcross did not have city walls.

Her uncle’s old friend lived in a tall, narrow house on the west side of the town. It was large, but much like Silas’s, it was stuffed full of artifacts. She remembered it being a dusty, cluttered place, the two times that she had visited.

People gave Sarkis puzzled looks as they walked down the street. It wasn’t the sort of town where you saw a hulking warrior with a sword, even one who was wearing a cloak and trying to look inconspicuous.

The fact that she was carrying a second, even larger sword over her back probably didn’t help.

Sarkis, for his part, could feel eyes on them as they crossed to stand in front of the door that Halla indicated. They didn’t feel hostile, just curious, but the skin on the back of his neck prickled nonetheless.

The tightly packed buildings in the south made for much easier ambushes. There was no earthly reason to think anyone would want to ambush Halla, but he took a step back and half turned, just in case he had to turn and defend against attack.

Halla, oblivious, knocked on the door… and waited… and knocked…

“Coming…” called a voice finally. “I’m coming!”

The door opened and a reedy older man stood in the hallway, blinking up at them.

“Bartholomew!”

For a moment he looked completely baffled, then his gaze sharpened and he said, “Halla? Silas’s Halla?”

“It’s me.”

“I… yes, yes, so it is.” The man ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in irregular spikes. “I… oh dear. Yes. Come in?”

Halla began to follow him, but Sarkis stepped in her path. He paused for a moment on the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then nodded to Halla.

She gave him a bemused look. He suspected she was wondering why he was acting as if there might be attackers inside the house.

Truth was, he wasn’t sure. Something made his nerves itch. Probably it was nothing—a trick of rooms and angles reminding him of some other, long ago place.

Maybe it was just that people you knew were always the most likely to be hostile.

But the hallway was empty. Sarkis followed Bartholomew past an open door to what was clearly the heart of the house.

The room was simple enough, a long table covered in haphazard stacks of papers, with two benches on either side. A spot had been cleared in the papers for a person to eat dinner. But it was not the furniture that attracted the eye.

The walls were covered in… things. Swords and knives, axes and daggers of curious design.

Not only weapons, but dozens of objects: strange skulls, the stuffed head of a two-headed calf, masks carved into fantastic shapes, woodwinds with a dozen shafts that no human mouth could possibly have played.

He remembered what Halla had said of this friend. A collector, like Silas. One that she might be able to bribe with strange objects.

When one was oneself a strange object, this took on an unexpectedly sinister life.

“This is Sarkis,” Halla was saying. “He’s a—”

“Friend,” said Sarkis firmly. “Of her great-uncle’s.”

Bartholomew looked briefly puzzled. “Of course, of course. Though, forgive me, but Silas never mentioned you.”

Sarkis shrugged. “It was some time ago. He did me a favor. Probably he thought less of it than I did.”

Halla was looking at him with frank astonishment. Sarkis gave her a brief, hard look. Play along.

She recovered herself, smiling broadly. “Yes, well. Sarkis heard he’d passed away and came to pay his respects.”

Her great-uncle’s friend put a hand over his heart. “Yes. I’m so sorry I could not attend myself.”

“Fortunately,” said Sarkis, “I was able to offer her assistance. And my escort away.”

Bartholomew frowned. “Away?”

Halla groaned. “It’s a really long story…”

Bartholomew gestured her quickly to a bench. “Forgive me. Please, sit!”

He called and a servant girl came out of the kitchen.

She was much more neatly kept than the rest of the building, and Sarkis doubted that she lived there.

Certainly she seemed a bit embarrassed to have guests.

She wiped down the table in front of them and brought out mugs of cider, murmuring apologies as if the clutter was a reflection on her.

Halla waited until she was done, then told Bartholomew the story, heavily abridged.

Sarkis was pleased to see how quickly she picked up on the fact that he did not wish his status as the sword to be known.

In her version, he had been a guest in the house and had come to her aid when he heard her arguing with Aunt Malva.

Parts of the story strained credibility, but she put so much passion into the bit about sleeping in hedges that it would have taken a harder man than Bartholomew to call her out on the other bits.

Sarkis liked watching her. She waved her hands a lot and her face was never still. It was an odd performance to find pleasure in, perhaps, but he found himself wanting to smile. He scowled fiercely to prevent any trace from escaping.

“And so we’ve been on the road for days,” she finished. “I’m so sorry to barge in on you, Bartholomew, but…”

“No, my dear, not at all!” He waved his hands fretfully. “Of course not! You’re entirely welcome. But how may I help you?” He blanched suddenly. “Ah… you don’t wish me to marry you, do you?”

“No!” said Sarkis, more forcefully than he intended.

Halla smoothed over the awkward moment by bursting into laughter. “Oh dear! No, no. That’s very sweet of you, but no.”

Their host looked relieved. “Not that you’re not a fine girl, my dear, but… well… I am rather set in my ways, and…”

She giggled. “It’s all right. No, I just hoped we could stay with you for a day or two. We were on our way to Archon’s Glory and the Temple of the White Rat. I’m hoping that they can help me to get my inheritance.”

“Oh, an excellent thought. Some fine legal minds at the Temple.” Bartholomew nodded. “Not that there should be a problem, of course. Oh dear. What was Silas thinking?”

“If you don’t know, I’m sure I don’t.” She propped her chin up on her hand. “Weren’t you one of the witnesses to his will?”

“Was I?” He thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, I suppose I was. But I didn’t read it. It would have been rude, wouldn’t it? Like I was asking for something.”

Sarkis, who had negotiated mercenary contracts with kings, did not scream, “Always read before you sign!” and shake anyone by the neck. He was rather proud of that.

“And you had no idea?”

“Not the least in the world,” said Halla. “I suppose I thought he’d leave me a few coins. Honestly, I was going to offer to stay on as the housekeeper to whoever he did leave the house to.”

“Oh. Hmm.” He stared into his cider as if he had forgotten what it was. “Ah… was there some reason you don’t want to marry Alver? It seems like it would solve many of your problems, my dear.”

Sarkis had a strong urge to growl like a watchdog, and restrained himself.

“It wouldn’t solve the problem of Alver,” said Halla. “Or of Alver’s mother.”

“Oh… that. Yes.” Bartholomew deflated a bit.