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 Archenhold 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.
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?”<
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“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 over-robe 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 over-robe 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.
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