Page 62 of Swordheart
He gave Sarkis a look that managed to be both apologetic and faintly hostile. Sarkis could understand the man’s position. Though honor did not demand him to stand as Halla’s elder male relative, he nevertheless felt an obligation based on friendship. Sarkis was an unknown quantity.
In his position, Sarkis would have stepped in and stood as her honorary uncle, but that was easy to say when one had nothing to lose and could easily best any of her relatives in a fight.Bartholomew was a reasonably hale older man, but he did not have the look of someone used to defending themselves in single combat.
Of course, there’s probably not a lot of single combat here.
In truth, there wasn’t much in the Weeping Lands, either. Some decisions were much too important to rest on who had the superior strength of arms. In practice, everyone pretended that it was an option and then the clan lords arranged matters so that hardly anyone ever actually did it. There was a lot of posturing and holding one’s fellows back. Indeed, one of the slang terms for “brother-in-law” translated as “arm-holder.”
Single combat or no, Sarkis had to admit that he was glad not to have to stand as Halla’s relative himself. It would have been awkward.
Halla shifted position to reach for the teapot and a little more of her leg came in contact with his. He was quite sure she wasn’t doing it intentionally.
…awkward. Yes. It would be awkward.
I have been in the sword too damn long if merely sitting next to a woman makes me start to have thoughts like this.
“You will go on to Archon’s Glory today?” asked Bartholomew. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, my dear—you’re welcome to stay longer, of course!”
“I appreciate that.” Halla patted his hand as if he was an ancient, doddering relative. “You’ve been very sweet. But no, we’ll go on as soon as I’ve packed.”
The man tried not to look too obviously relieved. Sarkis felt just as relieved to be going. He still wasn’t sure why, but the collector made him nervous.
Well, soon we’ll be back on the road. And there will undoubtedly be plenty of other things to be nervous about. No doubt we’ll be set upon by a cult or rogue magi and Halla will give me a puzzled look and say, “Sorry, I didn’t think to mention them…”
He was both pleased and faintly disappointed when she reappeared from the room, clad in her newly cleaned habit. It was not flattering, but at least he would not have to fend men off with a stick.
That Halla had absolutely no idea that men would find her attractive was either a sign that she was just as naïve as he thought or that men in the decadent south had no taste whatsoever. Possibly both.
“Shall we?” asked Halla.
“Let us go.” He bowed slightly to their host. “Ser Bartholomew, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Oh? Of course. Oh! You’re welcome, I mean. Yes.”
“Thank you so much,” said Halla. “When we’ve gotten this all sorted, you’ll absolutely have the first look at all of Silas’s artifacts.”
The man’s gaze sharpened so quickly that Sarkis was reminded of an adder spotting prey. “I would like that very much, my dear. Very much indeed.”
CHAPTER 20
Despite Sarkis’s misgivings, the walk to Archon’s Glory was a much easier one than the long road to Amalcross. The roads were full of drovers, pilgrims, merchants, and other travelers on foot. A trio of priests wearing the indigo cloaks of the Hanged Mother rode by. Halla could feel Sarkis stiffen beside her.
“Don’t attract attention,” she murmured. The Motherhood had only passed through Rutger’s Howe a handful of times, but Halla knew enough to stay out of their way. The last time, they had reduced the hostelkeeper’s wife to tears with their sharp questions, and the general feeling was that she had gotten off lightly. In a battle of wills between the Hanged Mother’s priests and the constables, no one believed that the constables would be able to keep the Motherhood from burning anyone they felt like burning.
Sarkis grumbled, pulling his cloak around his shoulders and slouching. As a disguise went, Halla had seen much better. There was simply no mistaking Sarkis for anything but a warrior, no matter what he was wearing.
Ah, well. People will probably be too busy staring at the frumpy woman with the big sword on her back to even notice him.
No one gave them any trouble. The inn that night was very full and both of them ended up sleeping in the stables alongside a dozen other travelers, which was at least warm, if not particularly private. Sarkis glared at anyone who came close to their spread cloaks. Halla just tried not to die from being poked to death by little jabby bits of straw.
The walls of the city were coming into view the next morning when Sarkis froze. “What is that?”
Halla followed his gaze. There was a wall, a few people, a gnole on some business of its own… “What’s what?”
“The striped creature.”
“Oh! That’s a gnole.”
“What is a gnole?”
