Page 51 of Swordheart #1

“Well, there was really no doubt,” said Zale, leaning back in their chair. “Or rather, there was no doubt that the will was valid. And I had a few tricks up my sleeve if they didn’t happen to agree with me. The bailiff was the only wild card.”

“It was still amazing,” said Halla firmly.

“Bartholomew’s testimony certainly helped,” said Zale, raising their mug in Bartholomew’s direction. The group was huddled together in the church’s back room, while the priest of the Four-Faced God beamed at all and sundry.

“Will you all come stay at the house tonight?” asked Halla. “I don’t know what state the house is in, but if I can’t get at least the kitchen and a bedroom or two presentable…”

“We won’t put you to the trouble,” said Nolan firmly, glancing over at Bartholomew. “You’ve been through a great deal, you don’t need to start cleaning up for us.”

“I am intrigued, though,” said Bartholomew, glancing at Halla, “by that sword you have been carrying. I fear that I may have undervalued it.”

“This?” Halla set her hand on the scabbard. “Oh, it’s… um… not available, I’m afraid.”

“Our agreement included first pick of the artifacts in the house.”

“Yes,” said Halla, “but it’s not really in the house, is it? And anyway, it’s not mine. It belongs to Sarkis. I gave it to him ages ago. He just makes me carry it around so that people think twice about assaulting me. Do you know we got set on by footpads in Archon’s Glory?”

“Shocking!” said Nolan.

“It was. But Sarkis ran them off. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

Bartholomew was undeterred. “Would you be willing to part with it then, sir?”

“No,” said Sarkis. He wracked his brain for some excuse and took refuge in mysticism. “It is originally a sword of my people’s make. It will be… unhappy… if it spends too long among unbelievers.”

(This was purest refined sheep-shit. Sarkis’s people saw swords as tools, not sentient objects, and found the notion of swords having emotions or preferences faintly insulting, as if a human smith had taken on the role of the great god. He was exceptionally conscious of the irony.)

Bartholomew looked as if he might argue the point, but Nolan said, “If it is acceptable, Mistress Halla, we’ll come over tomorrow and begin attempting to catalog the artifacts?”

“Your assistance would be most welcome,” said Zale.

“Yes, of course,” said Halla. She threw her arms around Bartholomew and he staggered back a step. “Thank you so much! I know Silas would be so grateful.”

“Oh, well…” Bartholomew snorted. “Probably he’d be rubbing his hands together in glee that he made me come all this way. But I’m glad to have helped.”

After he and Nolan had made their way back to the inn, the priest of the Four-Faced God turned to Halla. “I… ah… have something for you,” he said. “I did not want to announce it before the case, because had you lost, I knew that it would belong to that dreadful woman, and… well…”

Halla rose to her feet, puzzled. “Oh?”

“Yes. If you’ll follow me…?”

He led the three of them to a tiny cell off one of the side chambers. “Used for meditation,” he said. “At least… normally…”

He opened the door and a voice bellowed “ Prepare for the coming of the worm! ” Then it sang, “tweedle-tweedle-twee!” and whistled.

“What the hell is that ?” said Sarkis, reaching for his sword.

“Oh dear gods,” said Halla, sagging against the doorway. “You found the bird.”

“I found it in the nave the day of Silas’s funeral,” said the priest. “It was badly chilled, so I thought I would warm it up, and then it began saying all those dreadful things, and I realized it had been that awful pet of his.”

“Rat’s blood,” said Zale, staring at the little finch, who was hopping about inside a wicker cage. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s not a demon,” said Halla. “We had it checked. Silas thought it was probably inhabited by a ghost, but the ghost would have had to be a cultist or something.”

“ The dead are bound beneath the earth and their tongues stopped with clay but the day will come when they are free to sing the praises of the worm! ”

“Perhaps a very tiny god,” said Zale, tapping the bars.

“A very tiny angry god,” said Sarkis.

“Tweedle-tweedle-twee…”

“You’ll take it back, won’t you?” said the priest hopefully. “I’ve been keeping it in here, but it scares the novices.”

Halla sighed heavily. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.” Sarkis looked at her as if she had agreed to keep a tame manticore in the house. “Well, I can’t leave it here.”

“ Prepare for the coming of the day of hellfire! ”

“What does it eat?” asked Sarkis.

“Anything. It likes chicken. We mostly gave it cracked corn because that was a normal bird thing to eat.” She picked up the cage by the handle. The bird whistled happily and then told her that the dead were waiting, and Halla began to feel like things were returning to normal at last.

Zale offered to stay in the wagon again that night, but Halla wouldn’t hear of it. “You’re not a guest,” she said. “You’re family. Which means that I can put you up in a room with a fireplace that doesn’t draw and not feel guilty about it.” Zale laughed.

“A real bed would be nice,” they admitted. “I’m completely out of sheets, as you very well know.”

“We have sheets. Acres of sheets. They may be mended within an inch of their lives, some of them, but we’ve got them. And the bird goes to sleep once you put something over its cage.”

To give Malva what credit she deserved, the house was not in bad condition.

The compost needed turning and the chickens were indignant, but the garden was asleep for the winter anyway.

Halla found the bedrooms largely untouched.

Only Silas’s room and the two best guest bedrooms showed signs of recent use.

That awful old shrew took Silas’s room? Halla found that she was chokingly furious about that. It was one thing to be evil and grasping and lock your potential daughter-in-law in a back room, but stealing a dead man’s bed? That was just petty.

Presumably a number of the family entourage had gone home after the will was read. One of the guest bedrooms smelled vaguely of lavender water and had no fewer than five quilts piled on the bed, which Halla knew from experience meant that Malva’s sister had been sleeping in it.

I suppose she’s back at the inn, then. Well, she wouldn’t have been much good at the trial, particularly if Malva was trying to convince everyone that her side of the family was a bastion of sanity and Silas was moving to senility.

“Can I help?” said Sarkis.

“Dishes,” said Halla. That was the one thing that had been neglected. The scullery looked dismal. “I know it’s a lot…”

“Have I mentioned that I fought dragons?”

“Not recently, no.”

“Well, I have. The dishes hold no terror for me.”

It took several hours of work, but Halla scrubbed the tables, swept the floor, appeased the chickens, and put fresh sheets on the beds. She was just strewing fresh herbs on the rush mats when she heard the front door open.

“I have brought wine,” said Zale. “In celebration. I also had wine that would work for consolation, but fortunately it wasn’t needed.”

Sarkis emerged from the scullery, looking soggy. “I have defeated the dishes.”

“Were there any survivors?”

“The only casualty was some kind of monstrous serving plate with pears on it.”

“Oh, that,” said Halla with relief. “Dare I hope it’s broken past any possible mending?”

Sarkis considered this for a moment, then went back into the scullery. Sounds of breaking crockery drifted through the open door.

“Yes,” he said, returning.

“Thank the gods. It was a gift from Malva’s mother.”

“I see the lack of taste is hereditary.”

“I fear I don’t have a full triumphal dinner,” said Halla apologetically. “Bread and cheese and jam, mostly.”

“I have brought a dinner,” said Zale, brandishing a covered dish. “I don’t know what it is. The widow who lives across from the church pressed it on me and told me to tell you that she’d give you the recipe.”

“Good enough.”

She found winecups for the three of them and they all sat down at the table. Halla kept looking around the house and thinking, This is mine, but the thought seemed so absurd that she had to drown it in sips of wine.

“What will you do now?” asked Zale.

“Oh! Goodness, I… you know, I don’t know?” Halla set down the winecup, startled. “I mean, I’ve been so focused on getting to this point that I barely thought about what comes after this.”

“Understandable. You don’t need to decide right away,” said Zale.

Halla nodded, glancing at Sarkis. “I suppose it will take a few days to sort the house out here. Bartholomew of course will get first pick of the artifacts, and I’ll clean out some rooms. After that, I thought maybe I’d go see my nieces, if Sarkis doesn’t mind.”

Sarkis looked up, startled. “What? Mind?”

“Well, I mean… I assume you’ll insist on going with me…”

“I am certainly not letting you go traipsing about the countryside by yourself.” His skin crawled at the thought. Halla would probably trip and fall on a bear. She would undoubtedly then ask the bear questions until it forgot to eat her, but he didn’t think his nerves could take it.

“Right. So would you mind visiting them?”

“I go where you go. Wherever that may be.”

“Which is why I’m making sure you don’t mind where we go!”

Zale hid a smile behind their wine.

“It is not my place to mind or not mind,” Sarkis said.

“I think perhaps I will turn in,” Zale said. “This is most excellent wine, and too much more will go to my head.” The priest rose and nodded to Halla and Sarkis. “And it will be good not to sleep in a wagon again.”

“I am looking forward to it,” said Sarkis.

“You didn’t sleep in the wagon anyway,” said Halla, as Zale left the room. “You slept on top.”

“Yes, and sleeping indoors will be a welcome change.”

“I thought you slept on rocks and snow all the time.”

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

The sound of the priest’s laughter drifted down the hall after them.

Halla looked suddenly worried. “Oh dear. I didn’t clear out a bedroom for you.”

“It is no concern. I will guard you.”

She grumbled, but rose. He padded after her as she went to the linen closet and pulled out a pile of quilts. “Here. If you plan on sleeping in front of the door again, I’ll make you a bedroll.”

He accepted an armload of cloth and said, with absolute honesty, “It had not occurred to me to sleep anywhere else.”