Page 55 of Swordheart
“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?”
“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.”
