Swordheart

by T. Kingfisher

  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.

  Chapter 18

  Halla was forced to give Sarkis credit. He did not balk at any kitchen chores she set him.

  He clearly had entirely ridiculous notions about beating men up in the market, but he scrubbed pans without complaint.

  Still, between settling Bartholomew—”It’s all right, I know we’ve descended on you and made a mess, cooking is the least I can do, no, no, go back to cataloguing, please, we don’t require you to play host!”—and dealing with Sarkis’s unexpected surliness, she was not feeling charitable towards men in general or either of them in specific by the time dinner was ready to eat.

  It was not until she placed a dish in front of Sarkis and he looked up at her, startled, that she realized this was likely his first meal in…heavens, it could be a century, couldn’t it? Or more?

  This was an unexpected amount of pressure on a meal that Halla had whipped up in a strange kitchen. She hoped it didn’t disagree with him. Still, she couldn’t very well not feed him.

  He took a bite, delicately, chewed for a moment, then shrugged and started eating.

  Bartholomew came in, took a bowl, and went back to whatever he was doing in a back room. Cataloguing something or looking up something. He had books propped up around him. Halla made a mental note to go in an hour later and take the bowl away, because otherwise it would sit in his study for the next ten years, a lesson she had learned the hard way from Silas.

  “Acceptable?” she asked Sarkis, as he finished the bowl and went for seconds.

  “I have been outside the sword long enough to realize I am ravenous,” he said. “I am sure it is very good, but I am currently a poor judge.” Then he had thirds.

  Well, she’d take it.

  When he had plowed through three bowls, he did the dishes. He wasn’t good at it, but he did his best. Halla leaned against the door frame and watched, slightly baffled.

  “In my land, we use sand,” he said. “For scouring. It does not freeze, unlike water.”

  “Well, that would explain it.” She took the bowl away from him. “You said you led a band of warriors. I take it you didn’t lead them anywhere with a lot of water?”

  “Oh, frequently enough. But I confess, once I led the war band, I did not do many dishes. And no one wants to eat my cooking. My jobs were to plan our work, study maps, read orders.” He picked up another bowl and tackled it again.

  “And the potatoes?”

  “My mother required me to peel many, many potatoes.”

  She left him to it.

  “Sarkis?”

  Halla’s voice came from the dark, slightly above his head. Sarkis had been forced to lie slant-wise across the open stretch of floor, although he wasn’t quite under the bed. If anyone did force their way in, they could take him out just by throwing the door open violently.

  But they’ll break their legs trying to get past the…whatever that piece of furniture is there…ornamental table thing… He had no idea what it was, but it had five legs and a stack of carved whalebone ships piled on top of it.

  A far larger concern was that Halla would try to get up in the night and step on him.

  “Sarkis? Are you awake?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you want Bartholomew to know about the sword?”

  “He collects rare antiquities. I am, by definition, a rare antiquity.”

  “Oh. Hmm. You think he’d want to collect you?”

  Sarkis shrugged, then remembered she couldn’t see it. “He might.”

  “But you’re a person.”

  “A fact that stops surprisingly few people.”

  He waited for Halla to leap to Bartholomew’s defense, but instead she said “Hmm. He and Silas could get very…oh, focused, I guess. I know sometimes they didn’t always acquire things completely legally.” Sarkis could hear the frown in her voice. “I guess I’d like to think he wouldn’t try to take your sword, but I don’t know if I’d be sure enough to swear he wouldn’t. And if he tried, I don’t know if I could make him understand about you. He might not listen. Silas wouldn’t, when he got in these moods.”

  “If he tries to take the sword, you need only draw it. You are the wielder. I will teach him his mistake.”

  Halla sighed. “When you say it like that, I assume you mean by stabbing him, and I’d rather you didn’t. He’s being very nice to put us up for the night.”

  “I will attempt to keep the stabbing to the bare minimum required.”

  “What, you’re not going to threaten to put the whole countryside to the torch?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  After a time, her breathing evened out. Sarkis closed his eyes.

  It was a relief that the bed was so small. He could not even fantasize about getting up and joining her in it.

  You’re assuming she’d even have you. She’s about to be a very wealthy, very respectable widow, and you’re not even human any longer. All you’ve got to offer is a battered old body covered in scars. No home, no lands, no prospect of either.

  Go to sleep, old man. Tomorrow you’ll be back on the road again.

  It took him some time to realize that he was dreaming, because the world was not silver. He had dreamed inside the sword for so long that it seemed unnatural to have a dream that did not gleam like oiled steel.

  Angharad and the Dervish sat across from him, a study in opposites—Angharad tall and powerful and reserved, the Dervish slim, absurdly handsome, every emotion visible on his angular face.

  Sarkis knew on some level that they both must hate him now, but he did not see that in their faces.

  “You’re dreaming, boss,” said the Dervish.

  “Am I? Yes, of course, I must be.” He nodded. “You aren’t really here.”

  “No need to be insulting about it.”

  Angharad smiled, trading a look with Sarkis. They were both slower, more ponderous creatures than the Dervish. It would have been easy to resent him, but they both knew better.

  “Strange job you have now,” said the Dervish.

  “I don’t m
ind this one.”

  Angharad raised an eyebrow. The Dervish snorted. “Be careful,” he started to say, and then the dream changed around them and the table they were sitting at went away, and all three of them were chained to a wall.

  This again, thought Sarkis, unsurprised. He knew what came after. He moved his feet and the stalks of moldy straw on the floor rolled under his heels.

  “I miss you both,” said Sarkis, looking down the wall where his captains were chained. He would not have said such things before going into the sword, but since then, he had learned not to waste time.

  “I know, boss.”

  Angharad nodded. “We miss you too.”

  “No.” Sarkis shook his head. “You hate me. You must hate me by now. I failed you. It was my fault that you’re trapped in the swords. You told me not to do it, Angharad. I didn’t listen.” He lifted his chained hands.

  Angharad shrugged.

  “Well,” said the Dervish. “I probably do want to bash your head in. But that’s out there.” He gestured with one hand and Sarkis heard the chain clinking.

  “Listen,” said Angharad. “She’s out there, too.” She nodded toward the far side of the cell. There was a door, and through the door, Sarkis knew that the sorcerer-smith was waiting for them.

  “She’s dead,” said Sarkis. “She’s been dead for centuries.”

  “So have we,” said the Dervish. “It doesn’t stop us.”

  Angharad shook her head. “It hasn’t stopped,” she told him. “We’re still going.”

  “Yes, but…”

  The dream began to fray around him. Sarkis tried to cling to it. There was so much more he wanted to say to both of them, so many things he had to apologize for…

  He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of the crowded room. The only sound was Halla snoring softly on the bed.

  Sarkis was glad that she was asleep. It would have been far too difficult to explain why he was so close to weeping.

  Chapter 19

  “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 farthest 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 naïve 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.”

  Chapter 20

  Despite Sarkis’s misgivings, the walk to Archon’s Glory was a much easier one than the long road to Amalcross. The roads were full of drovers, pilgrims, merchants, and other travelers on foot. A trio of priests wearing the indigo cloaks of the Hanged Mother rode by. Halla could feel Sarkis stiffen beside her.