Swordheart Page 19

  Zale started to say something else and then their mouth snapped shut with a click. Sarkis looked up.

  Two figures in indigo cloaks rode down the road. Sarkis narrowed his eyes, recognizing the two Motherhood priests who had harassed them on the way from Archen’s Glory.

  “Priest,” said the first one, nodding to Zale.

  Zale inclined their head, all their amusement gone. Their face looked as cold and angular as a hunting fox’s.

  “Have you had any trouble on this road?”

  “Not so far,” said Zale acidly. “Am I going to, do you think?”

  Sarkis wondered how great the Motherhood’s sins were, to rouse such ire in the mild-mannered priest. Halla had stilled, her large gray eyes the color of a clouded sea. Brindle drove on, not looking at any of the humans, eyes fixed on the ox’s ears.

  “Only the Mother knows the future,” said the Motherhood priest. He had short reddish hair and an angular, sallow face. His companion was heavyset, with a scarred complexion, and he carried a sword with the ease of a man comfortable with its use.

  Red looked over at Scar and tapped his gloved fingers on his reins. “I am curious as to what you are carrying in your wagon.”

  “Food,” said Zale. “Bunks. Clothes. The sort of things that go in wagons.”

  “I think I’ve got a pot of glue,” volunteered Halla.

  “You’ve got a rather large sword for a woman,” said Scar, looking over at her.

  “Yes, but I’m told it’s not the size of the sword that matters,” said Halla. She frowned. “Although my husband used to say that, and do you know, he never told me what it meant?”

  Red blinked once. Sarkis put his hand over his mouth.

  “Anyway, it’s really more long than it is heavy. It’s actually quite light. I can handle it quite well, except that it’s a bit too long. My husband should probably have said that the size of the sword doesn’t matter unless it’s too long to handle, but—”

  Scar’s face flushed. Sarkis suspected that he thought Halla was making fun of him. Sarkis himself wasn’t entirely sure. Surely even Halla couldn’t be that naïve…could she?

  Nobody kills stupid women, they just kick us out of the way…

  As a system, he didn’t have to like it, but it had obviously worked for her in the past. But these days she had a servant of the sword, and if someone tried to kick her out of the way, Sarkis was going to take their leg off at the knee.

  “Why do you carry a sword?” grated Scar.

  Halla blinked at him, her eyes round. “Um, for the same reason you do, right? So people leave me alone because they think, ‘Oh, she’s got a sword, she must be dangerous.’”

  “I protect the innocent and punish the guilty,” growled Scar.

  “Oh,” said Halla. “I guess not the same reason, then. I mean, I like to think I’d protect the innocent too. It hasn’t really come up. But I don’t punish the guilty. Not that I wouldn’t, if I found one! I would punish them like you wouldn’t believe! But I don’t know how to find guilty people. I guess they don’t just walk up and say, ‘Hi, I’m guilty, punish me!’ do they?”

  Red and Scar stared at her. Scar looked as if he was becoming angry. Red looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “We are escorting Mistress Halla to her home,” said Zale, massaging their temples. “There is a legal issue with her inheritance and she has engaged the Rat’s services. There is absolutely nothing of interest to the Motherhood in our mission, our wagon, or our possession.”

  “Then you’ll not mind if we take a look,” said Scar. Sarkis was probably imagining the note of relief in the man’s voice, as if they had returned to a script that he understood.

  “Yes, of course I’d mind!” snapped Zale. “You have no right and no call to do so! I’m a priest of the Rat on Temple business!”

  “And we are priests of the Mother, on Temple business,” said Red smoothly. “Surely you do not wish to interfere with ours…just as we have no desire to interfere with yours…”

  Zale folded their arms. “Your business ends where the Rat’s begins. You know as well as I do that your Temple must seek permission from mine before you conduct any kind of business that may infringe upon the Rat’s. That law has been standing since before your goddess had two stones atop each other to call a shrine.”

  Halla, clearly worried, put a hand on Zale’s sleeve. “Now, Zale…the Mother is everyone’s mother…”

  Red and Scar made the ritual gesture.

  “And the Rat is everyone’s lawyer!” snapped Zale. “Which is why I know that the law is on my side. Now, if you two gentlemen would cease crowding my ox…”

  Brindle grunted agreement.

  “You talk like a guilty man, priest,” said Red.

  “And you talk like a petty tyrant,” Zale shot back.

  There was a moment when the whole situation balanced on a knife edge. Sarkis waited to grab his sword and throw himself at Scar’s throat. He just hoped that he could take them both out before any of the others got hurt.

  Zale’s probably got a trick up their sleeve, if I’m any judge. No idea about the gnole…Halla, of course, is Halla…

  Halla chose that moment to defuse the situation by bursting into tears.

  “Rat’s balls,” muttered Zale, putting their arm around Halla.

  “I don’t…understand…why they’re being so mean…we’re just traveling…we didn’t do anything and I was told…sniff…the Mother loved her children…and we’re all her children…”

  Red and Scar made the ritual gesture, looking deeply disgusted.

  “…and…and…I just want to go home…”

  Sarkis didn’t have to fake the glare he turned on the Motherhood men. Halla buried her face in Zale’s slender shoulder.

  “Well, now you’ve done it,” said Zale. “My client just lost her beloved uncle and mentor and she’s had to make a long trip to make sure his last wishes were honored, and now you’ve upset her. I hope you’re happy.”

  Red groaned and reined his horse in. “Go with the Mother,” he muttered. Sarkis suspected that he didn’t mean it.

  Halla continued sobbing for several minutes, then said, quietly, “Are they gone?”

  “Yes, and out of sight.” Zale released her.

  “Whew. I wasn’t going to be able to keep that up for too long.” She sat up.

  “Masterfully done,” said the priest.

  “Eh, men like that usually panic when a woman cries.” She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

  “Good job, fish-lady,” said Brindle.

  “Thank y—wait. Fish-lady?”

  The gnole glanced at her. “Hala is being a fish. You know?”

  “I don’t.”

  Brindle set down the goad and gestured with both hands. “Long. Lives in rivers. Big teeth. Eats the other fish.”

  “A pike?”

  “Don’t know pike. A gnole calls it hala.”

  “Fish-lady,” muttered Halla. “Well, it was just my luck.”

  Zale grinned broadly.

  “Halla?” said Sarkis.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you really not know why people say, ‘It’s not the size of the sword that matters’?”

  A flush began to creep up Halla’s neck. “Of course I know! I’m not a—I’ve—I’m a widow, not a virgin!”

  “But a respectable widow,” said Sarkis mildly.

  She elbowed him in the ribs. The flush reached her ears.

  “It’s fine,” he said, trying to hide a grin. “I just didn’t know if you needed it explained.”

  “What a fascinating explanation that might be…” said Zale. “Please, feel free to do so.”

  “Oh…well…”

  Halla was still bright pink, but her expression changed from horror to sly amusement. “Yes, Sarkis, why don’t you explain? After all, they might mean something different by it in the Weeping Lands…”

  He held up both hands. “I’m sure it’s fine.�
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  “No, no,” Zale said. “Priests must always pursue knowledge.”

  “And I of course have such limited firsthand knowledge,” said Halla. “I’ve only ever had the one sword.” She still blushed when she said it, but apparently she’d decided it was worth it to make him squirm.

  Sarkis had led a mercenary company and was certainly not going to be out-euphemismed by a priest and a sheltered widow. “Well, I do have quite a large sword,” he admitted.

  Zale dropped their eyes to the blade at his waist and said, “Eh, I’ve seen bigger.”

  Sarkis reeled back on the seat. “Ouch. That was cold, priest.”

  “A gnole thinks humans have lost their damn minds,” muttered Brindle.

  Sarkis was grateful for the reprieve. “Your people aren’t worried about the size of their…ah…swords?” He wasn’t sure if the gnole understood the euphemisms or not.

  Brindle gave him a sidelong look. “A gnole’s ox is bigger than a human’s sword.”

  The three humans sat blinking at each other.

  “Was that…”

  “Did he just…”

  “Look, do you want be the one to try and figure out if he means…”

  Brindle said nothing, driving the ox forward with a small, entirely satisfied smile.

  Chapter 28

  “Brindle?”

  “Eh?”

  “Does your ox have a name?”

  Zale had gone to buy food at an inn, and Sarkis had gone with them. Halla and Brindle were left sitting on the wagon together, and Halla was attempting to make conversation.

  Brindle was silent for so long that she started to fear that asking about names was a terrible faux pas in gnole circles and he was now trying to decide whether to forgive her ignorance or declare a blood feud against her family unto the seventh generation. Oh dear. That would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? I embark down this road to get dowries for my nieces and I end up with a gnole family pledged to slay them all, except I don’t think gnoles do that, do they?

  “Yes,” said Brindle, giving her an appraising look. “An ox has a name.”

  “Ah.”

  The moment stretched out even longer. Halla wondered if she was allowed to ask what the ox’s name was.

  Then: “An ox is named in a gnole’s language.” Brindle said…something. Halla wasn’t sure if she was even hearing it all. His ears were up and his whiskers forward, and she knew gnole language involved a great deal of whiskers, so probably that was part of it, too.

  “Oh dear,” said Halla. “I don’t think I can say that, can I?”

  “No,” said Brindle. “Humans don’t have all the parts to talk right.” He patted her arm, much the same way that he patted the ox, and it occurred to Halla that the gnole thought humans were laboring under terrible handicaps and were presumably bravely making the best of it.

  Well, he may be right. The gods know I can’t seem to tell Sarkis what I want to tell him. About kissing, for example.

  Brindle pointed to the ox. “An ox has very good hooves. See?”

  Halla dutifully looked at the ox’s feet. She had never kept oxen on the farm, only an elderly donkey, so she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be looking for, but the ox did indeed seem to have clean, solid hooves, without cracks or irregularities.

  “In a gnole’s language, that’s an ox’s name.”

  “Good Hooves?”

  Brindle pulled down one corner of his lip in a frown. “No, good.” He arched his whiskers as he said it. “Mmm. Beautiful, maybe?”

  Halla stared at the hooves in question, which were brown and muddy. Beautiful seemed excessive, but what did she know?

  “Prettyfoot?” she said.

  Brindle broke into a smile, canines gleaming. “Yes. Close enough. Good name for an ox.”

  Halla agreed, and made a mental note to never, ever tell Sarkis.

  They saw the Motherhood riders again the next day, although the men did not speak to them at any length. They merely rode past, giving Zale a hostile look, and kept riding.

  “Crying won’t keep them away forever,” said Halla.

  “I wish I knew why they were so obsessed with us…” muttered Zale. “Or perhaps this is simply how they treat all religious travelers.”

  “Some men do not like defiance,” rumbled Sarkis. “It eats at them like poison.”

  “I didn’t defy them that much,” said Zale.

  “Has your god?”

  The priest opened their mouth, then closed it again, their dark eyes thoughtful. After a moment: “We have. Whenever they overstep themselves, the other temples stand against them…and I will be honest, it is usually the Rat who supplies the law clerks. I had not thought of our Temple as the face of defiance, I confess, for it is the Forge God who opens their coffers, and the Dreaming God and the Saint of Steel whose paladins often stand guard. I had viewed our position as one of practicality, not of great courage. But it is often the Rat’s lawyers that they see.”

  Sarkis nodded. “The spokesman for the enemy becomes the focus of hate. I would guess they harry you for that reason as much as any other.”

  “Ugh.” Zale scowled. “I feel like I should offer you a discount for having to put up with this.”

  “You could take a nineteen percent commission instead of twenty?” said Halla hopefully.

  “Consider it done. And now let us talk of happier things.”

  “Does this end with me pissing in a jar again?”

  “I believe we have reached the limit of what we can learn from you and the jars.”

  “The great god be praised! Halla, I know you’re laughing, you don’t have to strangle yourself trying to hide it.”

  “I’m laughing with you…mostly…and you’re not actually laughing…”

  Zale snickered, then sobered. “I have been contemplating how the magic maintains itself,” they explained. “The power to fuel the sword must come from somewhere. The power to fuel a normal body comes from the food we eat, whether we are horses or humans or rats, but the process is…not efficient, let us say. I suspect that your process is far more efficient, in its way.”

  “It’s magic,” said Sarkis.

  “Yes, but even magic does not last forever. It wears away eventually, through use and time.”

  “You mean eventually the sword might run out?” asked Halla, her voice rising with concern.

  Zale leaned back against the wagon seat. “In the normal course of events, I would have expected it to do so long since. Few wonderworkers have a power that outlasts their death. I know of very few that might outlast centuries. Whoever your sorcerer-smith was, Sarkis, she was either unimaginably gifted, or she knew how to bend her talent to her will.”

  “She was as mad as the mist and snow,” said Sarkis grimly.

  Zale looked unconcerned. “As are a great many people,” they said. “Many madmen walk among the sane, and the lines are blurred beyond all recognition. And many people who we would consider sane wreak unimaginable harm in the world, so people call them mad.”

  Sarkis grunted, but inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough.”

  “Humans use the wrong words,” said Brindle unexpectedly. “Say crazy when they mean head-sick. Crazy means crazy.”

  “It is a difficult word to translate,” admitted Zale. “The temple of the Many-Armed God wrote the definitive treatise on gnole-language. I fear that Brindle has a much more extensive vocabulary than we do for this, and we are but fumbling in comparison.”

  “Eh. Humans can’t smell,” muttered Brindle, with the air of one making allowances.

  “Zeth,” said Sarkis.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Zeth. Damn, Brindle’s right. Your language is wrong.”

  “Told you, sword-man.” The gnole nodded to him.

  “Can you explain?” asked Halla.

  “Look, I’m speaking your language now. I know it quite well, because of the magic. If Halla stops wielding me, though, I’ll stop knowing it
. It’s in my head, and most of the words translate automatically, but some don’t, and some are trying to, but they’re the wrong words. Shit, this is coming out wrong.” He scowled. “Zeth. It’s a word in my language, but not in yours, except yours is trying to make it a word, but I don’t think it’s the right word.”

  “I’m with you so far,” said Halla. “What’s zeth mean? Or can you not put a word on it?”

  “Ah…a type of wickedness. Your language wants to use ‘insane’ but that’s not right. To go zeth is to lose all conscience, but zeth people still have all their reason.” He raised his hands, let them drop. “A madman should not be punished for being mad, and may still feel horror and guilt at what they do, but the zeth know better, they simply don’t care.”

  Halla rolled the word around on her tongue. “So it’s like evil.”

  “Well…yes. Except that you can do something evil and know it’s evil and care that it’s evil and do it anyway and feel guilt for it. If you’re zeth, you just do it and the fact it’s evil doesn’t bother you. But you’re still sane. If it is a sickness, it is of the soul, not of the mind that houses it.”

  Halla frowned, but Zale was nodding. “Yes,” they said. “That is the sort I spoke of earlier. They do great evil in the world, those people.”

  “And was your sorcerer-smith zeth?” asked Halla.

  Hearing a word from the Weeping Lands on her tongue made him smile, even such a word as that. “Perhaps. It is easy for me to say so, now. Who could possibly prove me wrong? But it has been so long, and I knew her for only a day, so I cannot say for certain.”

  The conversation was veering toward dangerous places. Sarkis knew that he would eventually have to tell Halla all the truth about the sword and how he came to be in it, but it did not seem like the time.

  After she is safe. After she has her inheritance and her own place again, and she can spurn you if she wishes. To do so now would either force her to forgive you when she should not or abandon you when she dares not, and neither option is fair.