Page 113 of Swordheart
“A visiting scholar-priest,” said Bartholomew, by way of explanation. “This is Nolan. Nolan, my old friend Silas’s niece, and her… ah…”
“Guard,” said Sarkis.
“… guard, Sarkis. And you are?”
“Zale of the Temple of the Rat,” said the priest, smiling warmly. “Brother Nolan, an honor to meet you. What temple do you hail from?”
“No temple, I fear. I am of the Order of the Sainted Smith,” said Nolan, glancing across the three of them. When no one seemed to recognize it, he smiled. “It’s all right. We are very small and somewhat obscure.”
“Are you a sect of the Forge God?” asked Halla.
“It is believed that our founder spent time in the Forge God’s service, but that was some centuries ago, and I fear the actual truth is lost to history.” He spread his hands. “We are mostly interested in artifacts.”
His presence was immediately understandable. Sarkis glanced around the central room, which was, if anything, even more cluttered than the last time they had visited.
He did notice that Nolan’s eyes lingered on the sword over Halla’s shoulder longer than he liked.
Is he looking at Halla or the sword?
Well, she is a fine looking woman and it is an old sword. He might be interested in either one.
This thought did not comfort him in any way. He drew his eyebrows down and folded his arms.
Zale had no such concerns. The priest turned to Bartholomew and began outlining the reason for their presence.
“… so you see, it is my concern that Mistress Halla’s relatives will attempt to claim that she is not who she says she is, or that she is of unsound mind or moral character. A signed statement from you that she is indeed Silas’s niece and affirming her as a citizen in good standing will go a long way toward dispelling such a claim.”
“Those vultures!” said Bartholomew, scowling. “Forgive me, Halla, I know they’re your relatives and perhaps I should not speak ill of them—”
“Speak as ill as you like,” said Halla cheerfully. “I’ll join in on the choruses.”
Bartholomew blinked at her, then broke into a rueful smile. He glanced at Nolan, then back to her, and squared his shoulders. “My dear, I’ve been remiss, and I must apologize. You should have been able to come to me for help, instead of having to involve the Rat priests—with no offense to you, Priest Zale!”
Zale shot Sarkis a humorous look. Sarkis wondered how many people told the priest, “No offense” on a weekly basis.
“It’s all right,” said Halla. “Really, Bartholomew. Things get strange when people die.”
“Yes. But my oldest friend made a will and instead of helping to see his last bequest carried out, I sat here wringing my hands. I’m sorry. Please forgive me for my failure.”
Halla looked surprised, and even more so when Bartholomew hugged her awkwardly. Sarkis had a sudden, startlingly intense desire to grab the man by the collar and fling him aside.
It is not just jealousy,he told himself.It is that she looks uncomfortable. And also jealousy.
Really, he had no reason at all to be jealous. The man was old enough to be her father.
And I am several hundred years older than he is, so what does that say?
He took a step forward anyway, ready to pull the man aside, but Bartholomew stepped back hastily.
“So.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Nolan again. “I will go with you to Rutger’s Howe and see that this is all settled.”
“What?” Halla blinked at him. “Really?”
“If I can help in any way, it is my duty.”
Zale inclined their head. “Indeed, sir, your presence would be even more helpful than a signed document.”
“Ha!” Halla grinned, clearly warming to the idea. “Yes! I can’t imagine Alver can twist his way out of that one.” She paused. “Although—uh—the wagon’s going to get a bit crowded…”
