Page 21 of Swordheart #1

They drank the cider. After a moment, Bartholomew seemed to remember that they had asked to stay with him. He called to the servant girl and asked her to clean out two guest rooms.

“One is sufficient,” said Sarkis. And when Bartholomew started to look scandalized, “I will guard her door. I do not require a bed.”

“Sarkis, I don’t think we’re going to get attacked in Bartholomew’s house.”

“Then I will get a good night’s sleep.”

“… uh,” said Bartholomew.

Sarkis put his arms on the table, crossed at the wrist. He was aware that his biceps were thicker around than the man’s neck. It was not a threatening gesture, precisely, but Bartholomew’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

Halla gave him a look that said she was quite aware what he was doing. “Is this really necessary?”

“I am sworn to guard you.” And then, somewhat perfunctorily, “Lady.”

“Ye-e-e-s…” said Bartholomew. “Uh. Right. One… uh… room.”

“If you could get him a pallet for the floor, I’d appreciate it,” said Halla, apparently giving up on persuading him otherwise. “Otherwise I feel guilty.”

“A… yes. That’s fine.” The man’s eyes darted around the room, seeking a change of subject, and finally settled on Halla. “You’ve got a sword. Is that the one I traded to Silas years ago?”

“I don’t know,” said Halla. “It was on the wall of my room. Sarkis—ah—thought I should carry a weapon, since I was traveling, and it was the only one I could find.”

“Hmm, yes. You’ve tied it rather oddly, though. I don’t think those cords are original to the piece.”

“No. It… um…”

“Sticks in the scabbard,” rumbled Sarkis. “This makes it an easier draw.”

“Oh, does it?” asked Bartholomew vaguely. “I don’t think I ever drew it. Part of a mixed lot of weapons, not terribly valuable. He traded me quite a nice stormpipe for it, though.”

Sarkis tried not to take offense at being called “not terribly valuable.”

“It’s been quite useful,” said Halla, with such studied innocence that Sarkis had to stifle his laugh behind a cough.

The maid returned a few minutes later to announce that a room had been cleaned. Sarkis, intending to continue as he started, insisted on entering it first, hand on his sword hilt.

“Now you’re just hamming it up,” muttered Halla under her breath.

“There could be assassins.”

“I don’t know how they’d fit.”

His lips twitched. The room was indeed very small…

or more accurately, it was a large room so filled with junk that the livable area was not much larger than the room they had rented in the inn the night before.

A wardrobe loomed ominously over the bed, and while presumably there was a window somewhere, it was lost behind stacks of books and folded fabrics.

“This is worse than my room at home.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” said the maid, wringing her hands. “There’s fresh blankets on the bed but the room… I’m not really allowed to touch anything, miss, except to move what was on the bed.”

“It’s all right.” Halla put a sympathetic hand on the maid’s shoulder. “My great-uncle was just the same way. We all had to work around his latest treasures. It was terrible when company came over.” The maid looked as if she might cry with relief.

She and Halla engaged in a brief, intense conversation involving laundry. Sarkis had not had to do laundry for several hundred years and thus did not feel he had much to add to the discussion.

The maid left. Halla looked at the available space in front of the door. “Will this even work for you?”

“I will manage.”

“You’ll be halfway under the bed.”

“Not the first bed I’ve slept under.”

She started to reply, stopped, and pursed her lips. “Wait. Why were you sleeping under a bed?”

“All the space under the table had been taken.”

The maid returned with an armload of clothes. Halla took them, then shooed Sarkis toward the hall. “Go. You can guard from the other side of the door.”

He put up only a token resistance. “What if there are assassins hiding in all that junk?”

“Then I’ll tell them hello for you.” She put her hand in the center of his chest and pushed.

Sarkis grinned. Halla was clearly far more in her element now that she was back in familiar surroundings.

Halla closed the door, then came out a few minutes later, wearing…

“What in the great god’s name is that ?”

“One of Bartholomew’s nightshirts. The overrobe is ceremonial garb from a death cult that went extinct a few decades back. Silas had about ten of them, too. We mostly used them to do chores in.” She wiggled her toes. “And these’re Bartholomew’s socks.”

The socks came halfway up her legs. The same could not be said of the nightshirt. Bartholomew was a narrow-chested man. Halla was a large-chested woman. Sarkis found his eyes drifting below her collarbone and dragged them back up.

“You may wish to… ah… belt that overrobe…” He thought, not for the first time, that women’s clothing in the south involved far too few layers.

“Sarkis, you’re a magic sword and he’s old enough to be my father. This isn’t church. No one cares.”

“Yes, but it’s cold in here.”

“What does that have to do with… oh, damn …” She yanked the overrobe more tightly around herself. Sarkis bit his lower lip to distract himself from the sight of her nipples, which had been far too visible under the thin fabric.

He had a strong urge to drag his thumbs across them, feel them get even harder against his palms, and then perhaps…

Why am I thinking these things? I haven’t noticed a woman’s body like this since they put me in the sword.

In fairness, his wielders tended to draw him only when they were in some kind of danger. It had been a long time since he had simply walked and talked, eaten and slept like a normal man. Perhaps it was no surprise that a normal man’s appetites would start to return to him as well.

Or perhaps it was simply that there was another man about, even a meek older one, and he was… jealous?

That cannot be it. I would have to be completely lost to reason to be jealous of Bartholomew. And she is not mine to be jealous of, in any event. I am her servant, not her lover.

You could be both, whispered the little voice in his head. She’s a widow, not a maiden. Widows tend to know what they want …

Sarkis recognized the voice of temptation and squelched it firmly.

He’d dallied with a widow or two in his time and they’d both gone away happier for the experience, but they’d been very different women than Halla.

Those had been mutual seductions, full of warm glances and lingering touches, flirtations conducted to see if both parties were interested and if so, taken to the logical conclusion.

He had only to remember Halla’s offer to share the bed with him last night to know that Halla was not an experienced seductress. Her face had blazed so red that it was probably visible clear back in Rutger’s Howe.

Her face was turning red again as she cinched the overrobe tightly. Little embroidered skulls on the shoulders grinned at him. “Is this better?”

“Much, I assure you.”

“I’m sorry I keep offending you with the sight of my…” She swallowed. “Well, you know.”

“I’m not offended, lady. Merely… distracted.”

She turned even redder. Sarkis didn’t know whether to feel smug or guilty about that.

There is no honor in embarrassing an easily flustered woman. Control yourself.

He did wonder how Halla had managed to be married for so long and still retain the ability to blush so fiercely.

He also wondered how far down that blush went. Part of him would very much like to find out.

Great god’s teeth, what had come over him? Perhaps he needed to go roll in the snow. Except that there was no snow here yet. A plunge in icy water?

As it seems unlikely that Ser Bartholomew is keeping a frozen lake in his garden, perhaps not.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t felt this way on the road. He’d been too damn cold.

Halla had been very warm in his arms the second night. He had not appreciated that nearly enough at the time.

Right, he thought crisply. Out of the sword much too long. He clearly needed to spend some time alone, which was going to be damned difficult when he was trying to guard Halla from… well, everything.

The maid came back down the hall. Sarkis turned to her and growled, “Is there a privy in this blasted place?”

“Y-yes… sir… there’s… yes… I’ll show you…” She fled down the hall in front of him.

She was a pretty enough slip of a thing.

Sarkis made an effort to be attracted to her, just to see if it was specific to Halla or if he was suddenly hopelessly randy.

It didn’t work. She was much too young and nervous, and he mostly wanted to go hammer on her family’s door and demand to know why they weren’t feeding her enough, and then perhaps yell at Bartholomew for not hiring at least five more servants to help her deal with the clutter in the house.

Well, at least I am not lost to all human decency. That’s worth something, I suppose.

The maid led him to the courtyard, pointed across the walk to the privy, and then fled. Sarkis pulled the door shut behind him, leaned against it, and finally let himself think all the thoughts he’d been keeping clamped down behind his teeth.

The woman in his fantasy had white-blonde hair and water-colored eyes. And excellent breasts.

It didn’t take long, but that was fine. Style doesn’t really count when it’s just you.

He stuffed himself back into his trousers and went to wash his hands under the well pump. Then he shoved his head underneath the cold water for good measure.

Hopefully that will keep me acting like a rational being for a few hours.

He went back inside and found Halla in the kitchen. Bartholomew was wringing his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t expect company, you see, and I haven’t… well…”

“Bartholomew, it’s fine,” said Halla soothingly. “I’ll go to the market and get the makings of dinner…”

“Not dressed like that, you won’t,” growled Sarkis, immediately abandoning his resolution about rationality.

Halla wheeled around and stared at him. “What are you, my mother?”

“If you were my daughter, you would be wearing more clothing!”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll put on shoes.”

“You’re wearing a nightshirt and the ceremonial robes from a death cult.”

“Yes, but the cult’s extinct.”

He drew his eyebrows down in a fierce scowl.

“Err… I’ll send the girl,” said Bartholomew, wringing his hands even harder. “It’s no trouble. I just… err… I’m not sure what to send her for…”

“Leave that to me,” said Halla. “I’ll cook something. If you don’t object to that, Sarkis?”

Sarkis inclined his head. “I have no objections.”

“Good. You can help me peel the potatoes while we wait, then.”

If she expected him to balk at this chore, she was disappointed. By the time she had given the maid instructions on what to purchase and soothed Bartholomew’s nerves, Sarkis had peeled more than half the potatoes.

He knew she was annoyed with him. He was already annoyed with himself, so at least this made two of them.

I am not her lover. I am not her kinsman. I am certainly not her mother. I am being an ass.

One of the grimmer realizations of Sarkis’s youth had been the discovery that knowing you were being an ass did not actually stop you from continuing to be an ass.

She can just sheathe the damn sword at any time, you know, and the great god knows what trouble she’ll get into if she’s afraid to draw it again for fear you’ll growl at her. Stop bristling like a damned boar and apologize.

“Well,” she admitted, looking at the pile of potatoes, “you’re good at that.”

“I have a great deal of experience skinning my enemies,” he said, deadpan.

“Do you have many enemies among the potatoes?”

“Not any longer.”

The corner of her mouth crooked up, although she clearly tried to suppress it. She picked up a potato and a knife and sat down next to him.

“So what exactly is your problem with me going to the market dressed like this?”

“Men will stare at you,” muttered Sarkis, hunched over the next potato.

“Well, that’d be a first.”

“And then I will be forced to beat them.”

She nearly cut herself with the knife. “What?”

“I am your guardsman.” He eyed a dark spot in the potato and wondered whether it was worth digging out. “Lady.”

“Sarkis, I’m a widow, not the local warlord’s virgin bride. We don’t even have a warlord. And the Archon’s like eighty. I mean, we’ve got the senators in Anuket City, I guess, but they can probably afford a better class of virgin anyway.”

He scowled at the potato. “Humor me.”

She gave him a dubious look.

“… please.”

She sighed. “All right, since you ask so nicely. But you’re peeling the rest of these while I try to figure out where the pots are in this wretched kitchen.”

“As you command,” said Sarkis, and went to battle against the remainder of the potatoes.