Swordheart Page 17

  The redhead cursed and backpedaled. His men started forward, then stopped, because there was a rather large quasi-immortal warrior in the way.

  The narrowness of the alley worked to Sarkis’s advantage. None of the men could get past him without risking a foot of steel in the belly. None of them seemed particularly inclined to do so.

  “Go after her, you idiots!” snapped the redhead. This order was robbed of some of its effectiveness because he was trying to get away from Sarkis as he said it.

  One footpad backed away from Sarkis, then turned and ran. “On it, boss!” he called over his shoulder. Sarkis wondered idly if that was to prevent the redhead from thinking he was simply running from the fight. Not that it matters, since I’ll have to kill him anyway if he’s going after Halla…

  Two footpads left was easier to deal with. Sarkis didn’t bother with finesse. Finesse was overrated. He simply swung forward, giving the men the option to block, duck, or get out the way.

  The first one had a long knife, and sensibly chose to duck. The second one was not expecting his ally to duck, and was a bit too slow in reacting to the sword that was suddenly coming at him. He threw his forearm up to protect his head, and the blade sank into it with a wet, meaty sound, and quite a lot of screaming from the owner of the forearm.

  The first footpad decided to stab Sarkis while his sword was bound up in the second man’s arm. Sarkis kicked him very hard in the knee, and then in the head when he went down.

  There was an unpleasant moment where both Sarkis and the second footpad were united in their desire to get Sarkis’s sword out of the man’s arm but had very different ideas how to go about it. The blade had gotten hung up in the bone, and Sarkis very much wanted it back, so he grabbed the man’s shoulder and shoved hard, while hauling backward on the sword. The man screamed a bit more. The first footpad, on the ground, tried to stab Sarkis in the ankles, which Sarkis did not approve of, so he stomped on the man’s wrist a few times to make his disapproval known.

  And then, as so often happened, the fight was mostly over. The first footpad rolled out of the way, clutching his wrist, and the second one had turned gray and was holding his slashed arm, and the redhead looked at them, looked at Sarkis, and said, “So sorry for the trouble.”

  Sarkis watched him turn tail and bolt down the alleyway, and wished for a crossbow or a throwing knife or something. For a moment he thought about charging after the man, catching him, and beating him until he spat out who had hired him.

  But he had bigger fish to fry. Halla was out there somewhere with the third footpad still after her, and the great god only knew what trouble she would get into. Sarkis backed out of the alley, sheathed his sword, and went to go see if any of the ladies of the evening had noticed which way she’d gone.

  The ladies of the evening proved…less than forthcoming.

  “Did a woman run by here?” asked Sarkis. “About yea tall, with pale blonde hair and big gray eyes? Wearing a green bodice and dark brown skirts?”

  The prostitute he was speaking to gave him a sour look and turned her back.

  Sarkis was a trifle surprised by this. He tried the woman across the street from her.

  “No,” she said, before he even opened his mouth. “I didn’t see her.”

  Sarkis looked around the courtyard. If Halla had come charging out of the alley, it was hard to imagine how anyone had missed her. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman spoke with obvious dislike. Sarkis wondered if she thought that Halla was another prostitute, and was annoyed at her for taking business.

  “She might be in danger from—”

  The woman held up her hand. “No,” she said. “I have not seen her. I will not have seen her. And you can ask every woman here and none of us will have seen her. Understand?”

  “No,” said Sarkis, after a long moment. “I suppose I don’t.”

  She shook her head in disgust. She was a pretty woman, certainly younger than Sarkis—particularly given that I am now nearly five hundred—but for a moment Sarkis felt like a callow youth being lectured by a wisewoman.

  “Do you think that there’s any woman here who hasn’t run from a man with blood on his hands?”

  Sarkis looked down at his hands. The footpad’s blood had spattered across him, even run down his chest in a few places. He stared at the red streaks. He’d already forgotten they were there.

  I am barely a man, only a weapon.

  “I see,” he said. “And if I told you that I was her guardsman, that I only wanted to keep her safe…?”

  The woman folded her arms. “Then I’d say that’s all very nice, but I don’t know you and I don’t trust you and I won’t hand over a woman just on your say-so.”

  Sarkis lifted his hand, unthinking, to rub his face and the woman flinched back, almost imperceptibly.

  She expects to pay a price for her silence. And she’s standing up to a man with bloody hands and a bloody sword nevertheless.

  He was not impressed with the warriors of this decadent southern land, but their women were tearing the heart out of him with their courage. And their compassion.

  Sarkis bowed to her and said “I respect your reasons.” And then, hoping that Halla would have the good sense to make for the hostel, he moved past her and began to jog.

  He was four streets over when he caught sight of the footpad. The man did not see him, at least at first.

  Sarkis put his arm around the man’s neck, held his sword against the man’s throat, and gently suggested that perhaps he wished to consider a different line of work. The footpad agreed that this was a very good idea and that he would very much like to get started on that immediately.

  Sarkis released him. The former footpad ran off, presumably to start a new life somewhere far away.

  He was standing in the alley, listening to receding footsteps, when Halla said “Sarkis?”

  “Where have you—” Sarkis roared, then heard himself and clamped down his voice hard, so that “—been?!” came out in a strangled whisper.

  Halla goggled at him. “Are you all right?”

  Great god, what was wrong with him? He was yelling like she was the one at fault. Had he been that afraid for her?

  Of course you were. If you can’t find her, you can’t protect her. Perfectly reasonable.

  Perfectly.

  “I’m fine,” he said. That came out more clipped than she deserved, so he tried again. “Sorry. On edge.”

  “Being attacked would set anyone on edge,” said Halla, putting her hand on his arm. “It’s all right.”

  She thinks I’m upset because I got in a fight. Great god have mercy. He patted her hand because he had no idea what else to do. “Where did you go?”

  “Oh! I ran back to the library and hid there. I thought they wouldn’t come after me with all those witnesses.”

  “Sensible.” Too sensible. He hadn’t even thought to look there.

  “Then the nice woman on the corner told me which way you’d gone,” Halla continued cheerfully. She beamed at him.

  “Of course she did,” said Sarkis, through gritted teeth.

  Chapter 25

  That night, Sarkis lay on the thin mattress and brooded.

  The attack by footpads did not bother him overmuch. He suspected it would trouble Halla a great deal more. She was not used to having people assault her for no reason except that she had something they wanted.

  Odd that she could reach adulthood and still hold such an innocence. Perhaps it was this decadent land, or perhaps she had simply never had anything that anyone wanted before.

  He grimaced. He knew that he should hold such softness in contempt, and yet…and yet…

  Consulting the maps had been kind. He had not thought to do it. He was used to being displaced in time, over and over. He was used to being thought of as nothing more than a weapon, not a man who might wish to know the fate of his country.

  He had almost come to think of himself as such
as well. Right now, with the memory of the fight still singing in his blood, he still felt very much like a weapon. And a bit depressed at how much he enjoyed being one, from time to time.

  It had taken Halla and her endless questions and inability to take anything at face value to see him as a man again, and then to search out how such a man, isolated in time, might find a marker.

  It had been kind. Yes. Kind and soft and damned decent of her to do, when she had her own troubles to worry about.

  But he should not have kissed her. That had been a mistake.

  He rolled over, restless. Perhaps, but it had been a glorious mistake. He could still feel the way she had pressed against him, her body molding against his. He could easily imagine how much better it would be without armor and cloth between them.

  And for all you know, she was squashed up against you because you were pushing her into the wall, he told himself grimly. And if you do not stop these thoughts, you will have to beat your own ass for disrespect.

  He had kissed any number of women in his life, and by his own standards, that had been a very chaste, respectful kiss. He did not know why it had felt so shockingly intimate.

  She had not wept or broken down over the attack. He would have held her if she had, and Sarkis did not think that he would have taken advantage of her weakness to kiss her again, but…well, if hundreds of years in a sword had taught him anything, it was mostly that he was not half the man that, in life, he had thought that he might be.

  It would be easier when there was a priest traveling with them. One did not have lustful thoughts around a priest if one could avoid it.

  Although they’ll be a priest of one of these decadent southern gods, Sarkis thought glumly. So for all I know, they’ll be as randy as a rooster in a henhouse and call it a sacrament.

  That thought would have killed the libido of far stronger men than Sarkis. He rolled over again and wrapped the blankets around himself.

  His last thought before falling asleep was that neither he nor Halla had mentioned Rutger’s Howe while they stood in line. How had the footpad known where she was from?

  Halla, too, had difficulty sleeping, though for largely different reasons. The bed was very narrow and the fact that she was sharing it with a mostly-sheathed sword did not help.

  She reached out and touched the embossed sheath, running her fingers over the pattern. Sleeping with a sword in her bed. Gods, her life had taken quite a turn since she left Rutger’s Howe.

  The attempted robbery had been unsettling, but she was not as shaken as she had been after Mina had tried to prey on her. The sword was valuable, someone had overheard that, so they had tried to take it. It did not feel personal the same way.

  And if I’m being honest, I only saw a few seconds of it before I ran like a rabbit.

  The library had been closing, but the desk clerk had still been there. If she’d screamed, people would have come running. She didn’t, because Sarkis had clearly had the situation well in hand, and she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to explain about magic and swords and risk spreading the word to even more potential thieves.

  She was not at all concerned that the priests of the White Rat had betrayed them. They didn’t do that sort of thing.

  Still, if someone tried to break into the hostel and take the sword, they’d have to get past the guard, past the nuns, find her, then wrestle it out from under the blankets, and all she’d have to do was yank the cords off, sheathe it and draw it again, and Sarkis would appear, large as life and twice as angry.

  He had seemed irritated after she’d found him, but probably that was because of the robbery. Of course, he’d seemed irritated after he kissed her, too…

  She rolled over, trying to get comfortable. The sword banged against her back.

  No one had ever kissed her like that. The miller’s son, who’d courted anything in skirts when Halla was sixteen, only wished that he could kiss that way. Her husband had never even tried.

  Sarkis’s kiss had been as fierce as the rest of him. He’d tilted his head to cover her mouth with his, holding her against him, and…well, it had been wonderful. Her initial surprise had warmed into something else entirely, as if her veins were full of…oh, not fire, but something kinder. Melted butter, perhaps. Yes. She’d felt as if she were melting against him.

  But then Sarkis had stopped, which was bad, and apologized, which was even worse. She must have done something wrong, or more likely, not done the right thing. There was probably something obvious, something that any other woman would know to do, but she hadn’t, so Sarkis thought she must not be interested.

  Which I am. Very much.

  She’d felt like her insides were turning to honey. She hadn’t wanted it to stop. If she had her way, they’d still be leaning against the wall of the alley together.

  She rolled over again. The sword dug into her hip and she had to move it so she wasn’t lying on top of the damn thing.

  Which was the problem, ultimately. The sword was one thing. If Sarkis had been in her bed, instead of the hunk of steel he was entrapped in, he’d want…well, what the miller’s son had wanted and hadn’t gotten, and what her husband had never wanted, but had done anyway, usually while staring into the middle distance with an expression of bemused concentration.

  Halla had a feeling that Sarkis would not be staring into the middle distance while he bedded her. Hell, if the kiss was any indication, she might not be staring in the middle distance herself.

  But after bedding came the consequences of bedding. Like pregnancy and childbirth and assuming she lived through that—her family’s history wasn’t great—suddenly the thin shield provided by being a respectable widow would vanish.

  She didn’t quite dare.

  But oh gods, how she wanted to…

  Chapter 26

  The priest arrived at the hostel the next morning.

  “It’s you!” said Halla, sounding surprised and delighted.

  Zale, the priest they had first met at the temple, sketched a bow. “It is, indeed.”

  The priest was dressed for travel this morning, their hair pulled back, and had exchanged the white robes of the Rat for more sensible dark brown. There was still a line of white embroidered rats on the sleeve, rather more charming than religious, but Sarkis wasn’t going to mention it.

  “I didn’t know you’d be the one the Temple sent,” said Halla.

  They smiled. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be. But I requested it. I fear that I am quite fascinated by your case, and given the chance…” The priest spread their hands.

  “And you have the legal skills to assist Mistress Halla?” said Sarkis.

  “I have some small experience in that direction.”

  “How small?”

  Zale tilted their head modestly. “Five years as a clerk before I was called to the Rat’s service. Since then, I have frequently assisted in legal cases on behalf of the Temple. My rank is that of advocate divine. I will not lie, inheritance is not my particular field of study, but I have as much knowledge as anyone serving at this Temple and more than many.” They paused, then added, almost apologetically, “And—forgive me—while every case is important to those involved, I fear the most skilled of my contemporaries, the solicitors sacrosanct, are reserved for cases with far higher stakes.”

  “That’s fine,” said Halla. “I’d much rather not be high stakes.”

  Zale nodded. “The Temple has provided me a wagon. It will be a slower return to Rutger’s Howe, but a more comfortable one. You will have ample time to acquaint me with the details of your claim along the way.”

  The wagon in question was a tall, narrow affair, on oversized wheels, drawn by a single laconic ox. It was brightly painted with an image of the Rat, haloed by the sun, holding up His paw in benediction.

  Sarkis grunted when he saw it. “Subtle.”

  “The Temple prefers that anyone we encounter know exactly who we are. Priests are often granted passage where clerks and warriors are not.”


  He grunted again. Decadent southern gods…but in this case, practical. Even in the Weeping Lands, one did not trouble priests.

  One of the striped creatures he had seen earlier sat on the wagon seat. Zale nodded to the gnole. “This is Brindle. He will handle the ox and care for it, since I fear I have little skill with such.”

  Brindle nodded back to them. He had badger-like stripes running down his face, but the dark fur between the stripes was mottled with brown. Hence the name, Sarkis assumed.

  “Hello, Brindle,” said Halla. She introduced herself and Sarkis. “Do you work for the Rat?”

  Brindle shook his head. “Priests work for gods. A gnole works for priests.”

  Zale smiled. “Gnole theology is admirably straightforward. They have one god. They do not seem interested in adding more.”

  “This strikes me as enormously sensible,” said Sarkis. He bowed to Brindle. Brindle nodded back.

  They climbed onto the wagon. Brindle took up a long ox goad, tapped the beast’s flank, and clucked his tongue. The ox began ambling down the street, so slowly that Sarkis groaned.

  I could walk to Rutger’s Howe and back in the time this beast will take…

  Well, it’s not as if I have any pressing engagements anywhere. My only job is to act as a bodyguard to a woman and now to this priest of a…

  “Why a rat?” asked Sarkis.

  “Hmm?” said Zale. Their braid pulled the top layer of hair back away from their face, and the long, dark gray strands looked pewter-colored in the sunlight.

  “Your god. Why a rat?”

  Zale shrugged. “Why not a rat? Rats are smart and they travel with humans, but they are neither our servants nor our prey. They eat the food that we eat, they live within our homes. Who better to understand us?”

  Sarkis raised an eyebrow at that.