Page 13 of Swordheart
Well, it probably depends on the god.
“Do you know if there’s any god that doesn’t mind lots of questions?” she asked.
Sarkis looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “What?”
“Questions. I ask a lot of them, you see.”
“I had noticed, yes.”
“Gods don’t like that.”
He shrugged. “Your decadent southern gods might not.”
This gave her pause. “You have a less decadent god?”
“The great god is not decadent.”
“How does he feel about questions?”
“I don’t know the mind of the god.”
“Yes, but if I ran away to join a convent, you see, I’d want to pick the correct sort of convent or else they might throw me out and I’d be right back where I started.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Is this the best time to discuss theology, lady?”
“Err… no?”
“No.”
“All right then.”
For all his claims of not being a lady’s maid, Sarkis helped her put on her cloak and then arrange the sword slung across her back, which might otherwise have taken all night and ended with Halla cutting her own head off. They wrapped the cords of her dressing gown around the hilt of the sword and the opening inthe scabbard so that the sword was held in place with an inch of steel still drawn.
“How many people are in this house?” he said, adjusting the buckles that held the scabbard in place.
“Eight. Me, Cousin Alver, Aunt Malva, her maid, her sister, and two cousins. And Roderick.”
“Are any of the cousins warriors? Are they armed?”
“Uh… I mean, Aunt Sayvil’s got a pretty wicked pinch. And I suppose they have… err… needles? Oh! And embroidery hooks!”
“Embroidery hooks.”
“Yes. Do they have them where you’re from? They’re sort of—err—pointy—” She tried to explain with hand gestures.
Sarkis began muttering savagely under his breath. He didn’t look at her while he did it.
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“I’m counting,” he said, with marvelous patience.
“Why?”
“So I don’t scream at you. My lady.”
“Oh. Silas used to do that, too.”
“I am not in the least surprised.”
