Swordheart

by T. Kingfisher

  “I…oh!” Halla’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! You think he might really have kidnapped me, or he’s threatened me or something like that? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “That is indeed what I’m asking.”

  “Oh no, no. Sarkis would never do anything like that. He’s really very kind. I mean, he mutters about burning my civilization to the ground a lot, but that’s just his way. Although I don’t know that he likes me very much. He counts to very high numbers sometimes.”

  Beartongue blinked slowly at this.

  “Anyway, he saved me from Cousin Alver and got me away when they sent the constables out. And didn’t let me kill myself. He wouldn’t hurt me. Actually, I don’t think he can hurt me. He’s supposed to guard the owner of the sword. Although he did manhandle me into quite a few ditches those first few days—no, not in a mean way!” she added, as the bishop began to look alarmed. “I mean, we were being chased by the constables on horseback, because of the stabbing. Did I mention the stabbing?”

  “You mentioned that your companion fought a guardsman, yes.”

  “Right. He got stabbed. Well, both of them got stabbed. Roderick worse though. Oh dear! We’ll need to sort that out with the constables too, won’t we?”

  Bishop Beartongue put her chin in her hand. “This will be substantially more difficult if the guardsman is dead. The Temple will need to make inquiries, but if it is, indeed, merely a…tragic misunderstanding…perhaps we can help to smooth that over as well.”

  Halla sighed with relief. “That would be good.”

  Beartongue tapped a finger on the scabbard before her. “If you wish,” she said, almost diffidently, “the Temple will purchase this sword from you.”

  “What?”

  “Purchase. It is an artifact of the sort that none of us have ever seen.” She smiled abruptly, and looked half her age. “Or you are charlatans of incredible skill, and I will be losing a large amount of the Temple’s money to you. But at that point, I would say that you had earned it.”

  “How would someone fake that?” asked Halla, distracted by the notion. “You might be able to do the blue light with phosphor of some sort, but then we’d have to make Sarkis disappear…” She chewed on her lower lip.

  Beartongue frowned.

  “Sorry,” Halla began. “I get interested in things.”

  “It’d be easiest if he wasn’t here to begin with,” said the bishop of the White Rat thoughtfully. “If you have very good mirrors, you can do extraordinary illusions, making someone appear to be somewhere else. But if you could afford to get a glass of that size made and silvered, you wouldn’t be asking for our help with your estate. And I’ve no idea how you’d get the glass in here, and your companion moved the chair when he sat down, so someone of flesh and blood is definitely in his place.”

  Halla leaned forward, fascinated. “How would you make a mirror glass that large?”

  “I know it’s possible,” said the bishop. “But only done in a very few places—Anuket City is one, actually—and even then, I’m told that nine out of ten break in the process. It has something to do with the heating point of lead and the impurities in the sand, and they guard the secret jealously. There was a wonderworker, I’m told, who worked with hot glass, and they made amazing mirrors, but that was a hundred years gone and only a few survive.”

  “What if we had a wonderworker who could turn invisible?” asked Halla. “That would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”

  “If your companion is one, that would explain it,” admitted Beartongue. “But I sheathed the sword while he had turned to watch you go into the hall, and he still vanished, even when he was unaware of it happening.” She tapped her fingers together. “We would need a way to test for that…”

  Halla snapped her fingers. “Bars!”

  “Bars?”

  “You could do it with bars, or a grate if it was big enough. You summon him in one room, then sheath the sword, pass it through the grate, and unsheathe it. He’d appear next to the sword again, and then you’d know he wasn’t just invisible.”

  Beartongue nodded slowly. “That would work. Although…”

  She cleared her throat sheepishly, apparently realizing that they were getting rather far from the matter at hand. “Probably an additional few tests would be required before we could pay you. But at any rate, we are prepared to offer you a high price for the sword, if you wish to part with it.”

  “Sell the…” Halla finally focused on the other part of the sentence. “I can’t sell Sarkis! He’s not mine!” Halla frowned. “I mean, he’s sort of mine, I suppose, but I can’t sell him! He’s a person!”

  Bishop Beartongue nodded. “I thought as much. A shame, but an understandable one.”

  She drew the sword.

  The familiar blue fire swirled upward and left Sarkis standing just behind Halla’s chair.

  “Well,” said the bishop, nodding to Sarkis. “If you will leave your information with my clerk about where you can be reached, we will be in touch tomorrow, when we have an appropriate priest ready to travel with you to…Rutger’s Howe, was it? And then we will see what can be done about your inheritance.”

  Halla nodded and stood up. “Thank you for your help, Bishop Beartongue.”

  “Of course.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “Thank you. A very unusual situation. I’m glad that the Temple will be able to help. And if I may offer a note of caution?”

  Halla raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Be careful who you tell about the sword. Such an object may breed greed. The fewer people who know, the safer you are.”

  “Oh.” Halla frowned, glancing at Sarkis. “I don’t think we’ve told anyone but you and the priest at the front. And some of the people in line may have guessed something…”

  “Good,” said Beartongue. “Stay safe. And thank you.”

  They turned to leave. As they neared the door, the bishop said, “Sarkis.”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “You were right.”

  Chapter 22

  “What did she mean by that?” asked Halla, as they left the White Rat’s compound.

  “I said you’d ask too many questions,” said Sarkis, which was not exactly a lie.

  She gave him an exasperated look. “She answered them, though!”

  “Did she?”

  “Oh, it was fascinating. We talked about how to fake a magic sword, and then how you’d test to see if a magic sword was fake. And about mirrors. It was really very interesting.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And do you know that she wanted me to sell you to the Temple?” said Halla. She was scurrying to keep up and he slowed his stride.

  Sarkis grunted again. After a moment, he said, “What did you say?”

  “I told her no! Obviously!”

  She sounded indignant at the very idea. He was obscurely pleased by this, and yet he kept poking at it like a sore tooth. “She would have given you a great deal of money.”

  Halla was getting out of breath following him. “Yes, but—dammit, Sarkis, slow down!”

  He stopped and glanced around the streets of Archen’s Glory, then caught her arm and steered her through the bustling crowd to the mouth of an alley, out of the way of the crowd. He had known that the White Rat’s bishop planned to ask if she would sell the sword. He knew this because the woman had told him outright.

  “She will not sell,” Sarkis had said.

  “Are you certain of that?”

  He was. He didn’t know why he was—he had known the blasted woman for all of a week, after all. She was alone in the world, with very little money until her grasping relatives were dealt with. She could have used the money to set herself up very nicely. It would have been entirely sensible for her to sell.

  He also knew that Halla wouldn’t do it.

  She is far too tender-hearted and you know her feelings on slavery.

  Slavery had been the bishop’s next question, in fact.
“Do you wish to be free of her? I confess, there is no legal description of your current status, but if you are in her service unwillingly, it is within my power to decide that you are being held as a slave. That is illegal, and the Temple will fight to have you freed.”

  “You will not!”

  He hadn’t realized that he raised his voice until the echoes went clashing around the room. The bishop put up one slow eyebrow at him.

  “I am sorry, holy one,” he had said, willing to give her the respect due a true priest, even if she served a soft southern god. “I should not shout. I find Lady Halla’s service acceptable. Compared to many past wielders, it is…congenial.”

  She had nodded, and then called Halla back inside.

  The congenial wielder in question now looked down at his hand on her elbow, and then pointedly back up at him.

  “Sorry,” said Sarkis, releasing her. “I forget myself.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You’ve been much better about the manhandling.” She frowned up at him. “Anyway, of course I wouldn’t sell! It doesn’t matter how much money they offered me. I mean, you’re a person! That’s not how it works!”

  “You would not be the first to grow tired of my company.”

  Those gray eyes narrowed. Confusion? Annoyance? “I’m not tired of you,” she said. “You saved me. I’m grateful.”

  Sarkis found his jaw clenching. It wasn’t her gratitude that he wanted.

  Well, what do you want, then?

  He didn’t know. Or rather, he knew exactly what he wanted and it was a terrible idea.

  I should not want anything. She is the wielder of the sword and I am her servant. I will serve until I am no longer called to do so. That is all that I can do.

  He said this to himself three or four times, until it was absolutely clear in his mind, and then Halla reached out and touched his arm, frowning. “Sarkis? Are you all right?”

  “The great god have mercy,” he said, and kissed her.

  Sarkis knew that the kiss was a mistake the moment he did it. He kept doing it anyway, at first because stopping a kiss so quickly offended his sense of craftsmanship, and then because it felt too good to stop.

  Halla’s lips were warm and soft. So was the rest of her. Her hands lay flat against his chest, and then, as the kiss went on, curled to clutch the edges of his surcoat. He pressed closer against her, feeling her body begin to mold against his.

  This is a terrible idea, he told himself conversationally, sliding his tongue along her lips until she parted them.

  Yes, and?

  Well. Just so you’re clear.

  She tasted like apple and she had very little idea how to kiss, but she seemed to be figuring it out quickly. He slid his hands up her arms and tilted his head, deepening the kiss until she made a small sound—approval? astonishment? dismay? He didn’t know, and the fact that he wasn’t sure made him end the kiss and pull back.

  This is why it’s a terrible idea. You don’t know what she wants. And even if she doesn’t want you as anything but a guardsman, she needs your services to get her back home safely. She might be afraid to reject you for fear of her own safety.

  Better women have made worse bargains, and will again before the world ends. It’s your job to keep her from having to make a bargain like that.

  Sarkis might not know what he wanted, but he was damn sure that he didn’t want Halla to submit to his desires simply because she needed his help.

  She did not particularly look like a woman making a bad bargain. She was flushed and her lips were still slightly parted.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice clipped.

  Halla blinked at him. “Oh,” she said. “I…uh. Okay.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I didn’t mind?” she said, and then looked down at her hands on his chest and blushed suddenly scarlet. She dropped his surcoat as if she had been burned. Sarkis stepped back hurriedly to give her room.

  “I…uh. Yes. Of course.” She nodded to him. “You’re a respectable widow. I understand.”

  Sarkis waited.

  “I mean, I’m a respectable widow. Me. Not you. Very respectable.” She seemed to have trouble catching her breath. “Not that you’re not respectable, of course. Which is…err…are you going to do that again?”

  “Not without your permission.”

  “Oh.” Sarkis wasn’t sure if he was imagining her disappointment. “Right. Okay. Uh.”

  Now why did I do that?

  Obviously because you wanted to. Sarkis occasionally thought that his own mind believed he was an idiot. He only wished that he had evidence his mind was wrong.

  He led her from the alley, back into the market. “The priest to travel with us will not be ready until tomorrow,” he said. “Are there any errands you need to run between now and then?”

  Halla still looked a bit out of breath, but suddenly brightened. “Yes! I need clothes. More clothes. Any clothes, really. They don’t have to be good. Just something to wear that isn’t this.” She fingered the hem of the habit, looking glum. “This was a very nice outfit once and now I think I would like to have it burned.”

  Sarkis privately thought she should burn it and buy something that suited her better, but he was her guardsman, not her maid.

  “Do you have the funds?”

  “We will once I sell this jewelry.”

  The trader who bought and sold gems and metalwork looked at Halla’s offerings and grimaced. “This is old-fashioned stuff,” he said, picking up a necklace.

  “My husband had old-fashioned taste,” said Halla.

  The trader glanced at Sarkis, who was looming in the background, then over to Halla.

  “Not him. He’s my bodyguard. My husband’s dead.”

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  “That makes one of us. Look, I know the craftsmanship’s not great, but surely the gold is worth something.”

  “Well…”

  He ended up weighing most of it on a scale and counting out coins. Two pieces were deemed unobjectionable enough to sell, and he counted out more.

  “Could be worse,” said Halla, pocketing the money as they walked away. “This should get me at least a change of clothes.”

  “I am sorry you had to sell your jewelry,” said Sarkis.

  Her gray eyes were amused, if slightly puzzled. “Why? I never wore it. I can’t even say I had fond memories, since I’m pretty sure his mother picked it out. But she favored heavy stuff, so she did me a good turn after all, since I had to sell it by weight.”

  Sarkis offered her his arm while they made their way to the clothier’s stalls. She held his elbow. Her hands were small, with slim fingers, particularly compared to his. Had he never noticed that before?

  As it turned out, Halla was an excellent haggler. Sarkis didn’t know why that surprised him. Clearly she’d been running a household for years, and getting a good price for something was a skill you had to acquire. He had never enjoyed it and had delegated as soon as possible. The Dervish had been much better at it than Sarkis. People were surprisingly willing to give a very handsome man with big, sad eyes a deal. Not so with Sarkis.

  “It doesn’t help that you say, ‘Is that your best price?’” like you’re about to beat them over the head,” the Dervish had told him once. “Threats of bodily harm lower the price once. After that, they just make people stubborn.”

  Halla, of course, did not threaten anyone with bodily harm. She just asked questions. Very…pointed…questions. And then the questions led to anecdotes.

  “Oh, where is this from? And what’s the thread made of? Really! And how long ago was that? I see. This dye is so lovely, but is it waterproof? Are you sure? Because my cousin had a batch almost this color—not as nice, though, yours is better—and the first time she wore it in the rain, she looked like she’d got gangrene. I mean, she did actually get gangrene later when the ox bit her, but that wasn’t related to the fabric. Her forearm got all oozy. It was ter
rible. The smell, too. The leeches couldn’t do anything. The Temple of the Four-Faced God did their best, but you know how it is when you take off a limb, everything’s very touch and go. She made a full recovery, though! Well, except for the arm. Obviously that didn’t recover. But it hardly slows her down at all. Can’t wear this color at all, though, says it brings back bad memories. Do you have anything like that in brown?”

  By the end of this recitation, the shopkeeper was just staring at her with a stunned expression. Sarkis didn’t know how much of a discount Halla got on that deal, but she walked away with a brown gown and a pleased expression.

  “Do you even have a cousin?” he asked under his breath.

  “Only on Alver’s side, and I wouldn’t care if he got gangrene clear up to his nose.”

  “You made all that up?”

  “Heh. You should see me get a deal on candles. I’ve got a story about a house fire that’ll curl your nose hair.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Only on people who haven’t heard it before. Most of the people in Rutger’s Howe know me, of course. I had to save it for traveling merchants.” She smiled slyly, an expression that he wouldn’t have thought Halla could manage. “Not that I didn’t pull it out occasionally back home, mind you.”

  Sarkis shook his head, remembering what Halla had said when they met the priests of the Hanged Mother. Nobody kills stupid women, they just kick them out of the way.

  His own survival strategies had mostly involved putting a sword into the enemy before the enemy put one in him, but if you didn’t have that option, presumably you learned to adapt.

  Halla certainly held her own with the merchants. The man who sold socks even tried to flirt with her. Sarkis was fairly certain that Halla didn’t realize this, but it was hard to tell how much was an act and how much was just…well…Halla.

  After the third or fourth statement about how a well-turned ankle deserved a well-turned heel, Sarkis stepped forward and looked at the man very hard. The man turned slightly gray, pressed the socks into Halla’s hands, and finished his business with admirable speed.