Page 23 of Swordheart #1

“My dear, what do you truly know of this Sarkis fellow who travels with you?”

Sarkis froze. He had been returning from an early morning trip to the privy and was padding down the hallway to the main room when Bartholomew’s voice came to his ears. He paused outside the doorway, waiting to see what Halla would say.

“He’s been wonderful,” said Halla staunchly. “He’s brave and very kind. I mean, he mutters about burning our civilization down occasionally, but I don’t think he means anything by it.”

Sarkis fought back a smile.

“Yes, but…” Bartholomew coughed. “He’s… well, a man traveling alone with a woman and… not that I am implying anything, my dear! But he should have considered how it looked for your reputation!”

“We were fleeing the house by night! Aunt Malva set her guardsman on us to keep us from leaving! What should we have done, knocked on doors until someone answered and agreed to be a chaperone?”

“Well…” Sarkis couldn’t see either of them, but he could picture Halla folding her arms and giving Bartholomew her you-are-being-rather-dense look. “Obviously at the time it was impractical, but once you were well away from that woman, he should have given a thought to your reputation.”

“He did,” said Halla. “He brought me here.”

“My dear, I care for you as the niece I never had, but bringing a respectable woman to the house of an unmarried bachelor, even one as old as I am, is hardly the most proper thing.”

“I’m a middle-aged widow, Bartholomew,” said Halla. Now would be the weary one-of-us-is-stupid-and-I’m-pretty-sure-it-isn’t-me expression. “If anyone thinks that I am debauched, it would probably be an improvement.”

“Halla…”

“I mean it. I’ve been respectable for thirty-six years, and it got me locked in my own room by a grasping old woman who wanted me to marry her nasty clammy-handed son. I might as well try being less respectable for a while. If that means running off into the night with a man in a sword, so be it.”

“A man in a…?”

Uh-oh. Sarkis stepped through the doorway hurriedly. “Man with a sword, I suspect she meant.”

“Yes, that,” said Halla, covering quickly. “Sorry, I’m still angry about Aunt Malva, and it’s making my tongue knot up. The nerve of her! Locking me in my room like she owned Silas’s house! And you know Silas couldn’t stand her!”

“I remember,” said Bartholomew wearily. “Oh gods, do I remember.” He pushed a stack of papers aside to make room for Sarkis beside him. Sarkis pretended not to see and sat down beside Halla instead.

“Did you sleep well?” asked their host warily.

“Very well indeed. Thank you, Ser Bartholomew, for your hospitality.”

“Oh, goodness.” The man looked flustered. “It was nothing.” He turned back and called for the serving girl. She came out with a mug for Sarkis and refilled those at the table from her teapot.

Sarkis nodded gravely. Halla’s thigh was touching his all along its length and he knew that he should move over and give her a little more room, but the bench was not terribly long. She didn’t seem to mind.

He found that he didn’t mind, either. His skin prickled with awareness.

Great god, it made no sense! Insomuch as Sarkis had a type, it was bold women who knew what they wanted. Halla was the furthest thing from bold, and not only did she not know what she wanted, she had an ability to make other people in the room start to question what they wanted.

Hell, she was doing it to Bartholomew right now. He’d said something about the dangers of a woman traveling alone and she’d just stared at him, baffled, until the poor man trailed off in confusion.

“But I’m not alone. I’ve got Sarkis with me.”

“Yes, but…” Bartholomew obviously was trying to find a way to say that Sarkis might well be one of the dangers, but couldn’t figure out a way to do it to his face. Sarkis smiled at him. The Dervish had always said that he had a very unsettling smile.

Halla wrapped her fingers around her mug.

“I’m grateful for your concern, Bartholomew,” she said.

“Really and truly. You’re the only person other than Sarkis who actually cares about me, not just my inheritance.

” She frowned. “Well, and my nieces, I hope, but it’s been a few years since I’ve seen them.

I’m hoping if I can sort this whole thing out, I’ll be able to help them with dowries. ”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Bartholomew. “And of course I care. Silas was a tough old bast… err… bird”—he cleared his throat apologetically—“and you took excellent care of him. He lasted a lot longer than he would have if you hadn’t taken him in hand.”

He gave Sarkis a look that managed to be both apologetic and faintly hostile. Sarkis could understand the man’s position. Though honor did not demand him to stand as Halla’s elder male relative, he nevertheless felt an obligation based on friendship. Sarkis was an unknown quantity.

In his position, Sarkis would have stepped in and stood as her honorary uncle, but that was easy to say when one had nothing to lose and could easily best any of her relatives in a fight.

Bartholomew was a reasonably hale older man, but he did not have the look of someone used to defending themselves in single combat.

Of course, there’s probably not a lot of single combat here.

In truth, there wasn’t much in the Weeping Lands, either.

Some decisions were much too important to rest on who had the superior strength of arms. In practice, everyone pretended that it was an option and then the clan lords arranged matters so that hardly anyone ever actually did it.

There was a lot of posturing and holding one’s fellows back.

Indeed, one of the slang terms for “brother-in-law” translated as “arm-holder.”

Single combat or no, Sarkis had to admit that he was glad not to have to stand as Halla’s relative himself. It would have been awkward.

Halla shifted position to reach for the teapot and a little more of her leg came in contact with his. He was quite sure she wasn’t doing it intentionally.

… awkward. Yes. It would be awkward.

I have been in the sword too damn long if merely sitting next to a woman makes me start to have thoughts like this.

“You will go on to Archon’s Glory today?” asked Bartholomew. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, my dear—you’re welcome to stay longer, of course!”

“I appreciate that.” Halla patted his hand as if he was an ancient, doddering relative. “You’ve been very sweet. But no, we’ll go on as soon as I’ve packed.”

The man tried not to look too obviously relieved. Sarkis felt just as relieved to be going. He still wasn’t sure why, but the collector made him nervous.

Well, soon we’ll be back on the road. And there will undoubtedly be plenty of other things to be nervous about. No doubt we’ll be set upon by a cult or rogue magi and Halla will give me a puzzled look and say, “Sorry, I didn’t think to mention them …”

He was both pleased and faintly disappointed when she reappeared from the room, clad in her newly cleaned habit. It was not flattering, but at least he would not have to fend men off with a stick.

That Halla had absolutely no idea that men would find her attractive was either a sign that she was just as na?ve as he thought or that men in the decadent south had no taste whatsoever. Possibly both.

“Shall we?” asked Halla.

“Let us go.” He bowed slightly to their host. “Ser Bartholomew, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Oh? Of course. Oh! You’re welcome, I mean. Yes.”

“Thank you so much,” said Halla. “When we’ve gotten this all sorted, you’ll absolutely have the first look at all of Silas’s artifacts.”

The man’s gaze sharpened so quickly that Sarkis was reminded of an adder spotting prey. “I would like that very much, my dear. Very much indeed.”