More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Halla of Rutger’s Howe had just inherited a great deal of money and was therefore spending her evening trying to figure out how to kill herself.
The bird in question was a small, finch-like creature that could have perched easily on Halla’s smallest finger, had she been foolish enough to stick her finger in its cage, which she wasn’t. It had a red beak and red eyes and most of the time it sang a repetitive three-note song that went, “tweedle-tweedle-twee!” Occasionally, its eyes would flash green and it would begin roaring in an impossibly deep voice about the end of the world and the screams of the damned.
“I am Sarkis of the Weeping Lands!” roared the servant of the sword, in a voice loud enough to shake the walls. “And you are in my way!” Cousin Alver let out a squeak and nearly fell in his haste to get off the staircase. “It is so gratifying when that works,” murmured Sarkis. “Does it not usually work?” “Not on actual warriors, no.” He started down the steps, one hand gripping Halla’s. “Normally they just yell back, ‘No one cares, come and die.’
If we go too far south, we’ll risk running into the Vagrant Hills.” “I take it that is not a place we wish to be?” “No. They’re weird. Uncanny. Not natural.” It occurred to her suddenly that she was saying these things to a clearly unnatural and uncanny being who lived in a sword. “No offense intended!” “Not being a hill, I take no offense.”
“On my husband’s farm, we had goats,” said Halla. She frowned. “I can’t say I miss them.” “I’ve never kept goats,” said Sarkis, doggedly determined to keep up his end of the conversation. “No one really keeps goats, do they? They just have goats. Like having in-laws, if your in-laws climbed on the roof and kicked.” “I have had in-laws that did both those things.” “What, really?” “Primarily when drunk.”
She would certainly never get comfortable enough to sleep, Halla told herself sadly, and then fell asleep.
Woman’s built like an hourglass. The sort that measures twelve hours at a stretch. Had he been younger and not trapped in a peculiar living death inside a hunk of enchanted metal, Sarkis would not have minded checking the time more closely.
“Well,” she admitted, looking at the pile of potatoes, “you’re good at that.” “I have a great deal of experience skinning my enemies,” he said, deadpan. “Do you have many enemies among the potatoes?” “Not any longer.”
Sarkis emerged from the scullery, looking soggy. “I have defeated the dishes.” “Were there any survivors?” “The only casualty was some kind of monstrous serving plate with pears on it.” “Oh, that,” said Halla with relief. “Dare I hope it’s broken past any possible mending?” Sarkis considered this for a moment, then went back into the scullery. Sounds of breaking crockery drifted through the open door. “Yes,” he said, returning.
The hilt of the sword in his hand met the scabbard with a soft, final dick.
NOOOOO this is so funny its like the climax of the book the TYPO NOOOOOOOOOO
