The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Mehcredi hauled in a breath and gritted her teeth.

  Walker jerked her to a halt in the room with all the weapons on the walls. He snapped his fingers under her nose. “The dagger. Hand it over.”

  “What dagger?” She held the obsidian gaze.

  He didn’t blink. “The one in your boot.”

  He’d said he was a shaman. Did that mean he was a mind-reader too? No, he must have been watching. It was the only answer that made sense. With a shrug of resignation, she retrieved the blade. Handing it over, she asked, “What do you do in here?”

  “It’s a fighting salle.”

  “A what?”

  A long pause. Walker’s eyes narrowed. “For a trained assassin, you don’t know much,” he said at last.

  He didn’t need to know how close she’d come to failing even the First Circle. She raised her chin. “So tell me.”

  “I am a swordmaster. I train mercenaries, soldiers, guards. Here.”

  “Oh.” He must be good, then. Mehcredi considered, mentally contrasting Walker’s uncanny patience with the scathing demeanor of the Guild’s Arms Master. Graceful as a sow in rut, the man had said, tugging at his sparse hair.

  Her heart leaped at the thought of a second chance. A swordmaster with his own establishment. He could hardly be worse than the Arms Master. “Would you train me?”

  “Not funny, assassin.”

  “I’ll work hard, I promise.”

  Strong fingers gripped her jaw, tilting her head at an awkward angle. Walker glared into her face, his eyes so fiercely black, she realized she’d misstepped again. Godsdammit, she hadn’t meant to make him angry. Would she never learn?

  “You,” he said, “have the most extraordinary nerve.”

  Somewhere around their knees, the dog whined, breaking the tension. Walker grunted, lowering his gaze, and Mehcredi released a shaky breath.

  “Out.” Pointing a stern finger at the garden, he glared at the dog.

  It danced about in indecision. Then it plopped its furry backside down on the nice clean mats and turned a shaggy head toward Mehcredi. It must have eyes because she’d noticed it didn’t bump into things.

  “Get rid of it,” growled Walker. “Or I will.”

  “It’s not mine,” she protested.

  “You’re lying. Again.”

  “No, no.” She grabbed at his sleeve. “He follows me everywhere.” She shot the dog a murderous glare, but he grinned back, tongue lolling. “I don’t want him, but I can’t shake him, the stupid, godsbedamned—” Breathing hard, she broke off. “I think he belongs to the Necromancer.”

  Walker made a huffing noise, deep in his throat. When his lips curved, she decided it might signify amusement.

  “Unlikely.” Crouching in a single, lithe movement, he snapped his fingers and the dog padded forward to have his ears rubbed. “Necromancers don’t keep pets, only corpses.” He glanced up. “Do you feed him?”

  “Sometimes.” For some unknown reason, heat flushed her cheeks. “Hardly ever.”

  “There you are then.” Walker rose in his graceful, unhurried manner. “You’re a meal ticket. A stray’s idea of heaven.”

  Between one breath and the next, his face hardened. “The animal’s crawling with bitemes. Put him out.”

  Mehcredi snapped her fingers the way Walker had done and the dog came to her side as if the gesture were Magick. To her surprise, when she moved toward the outer doors, he trotted along. On impulse, she sank to her knees in the doorway and got a lick on the face and a blast of disgustingly hot doggy breath for her trouble.

  “Ack!” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “Run away,” she hissed. “I don’t want you. Go!”

  The dog retreated half a dozen steps. Reaching the shade of a ticklewhisker hedge, he sat and scratched behind one ear. Then he turned two full circles, cast a wary glance around the quiet garden and flopped down, boneless. He yawned, showing surprisingly white teeth.

  Feeling strangely warmed, Mehcredi closed the doors and returned to Walker.

  “Come.” He led her back into the dim hush of the sleeping house. The thick, sable tail of his hair fell past his trim waist. She’d never seen a man with hair so long.

  “Why don’t you cut your hair? It must take an awful lot of looking after.”

  One of those all-purpose masculine grunts.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they climbed the stairs. “It’s pretty,” she persisted, “but did you know you’re going gray, just here—”

  As they reached a landing, she raised her fingers to touch his temple, but he knocked her arm away. “Keep your hands to yourself, assassin!”

  Unobtrusively, Mehcredi cradled her aching wrist. “Sorry,” she said, striving for dignity. “Where are the bones you wore last night? What sort are they? What are they for? You didn’t say.”

  Walker came to a dead halt. When he turned, his face was expressionless, but Mehcredi found herself backing away nonetheless, until the stair rail pressed hard across the small of her back. Silent and remorseless, he followed until she could feel the warmth of his muscular body all along her front. Funny how she tended to think of him as cold, when his physical presence was hotter than anything she’d ever known.

  Slowly, so she would know what was coming, Walker raised his hands and fitted them around her throat. His touch was gentle, caressing even, but she’d never felt more terrified, not even when she’d known he was going to kill her.

  “Who I am, what I am, is none of your godsbedamned business,” he said softly. “You’re a coldhearted bitch, a murderer for hire. Not a particularly good one, I grant you, but nonetheless—”

  His touch was waking the bruises on her neck. They throbbed in time with her heart.

  “You are not my servant, nor my student,” continued that quiet, inexorable voice. “And thanks be to Those Before, you are not my friend. Nor will you be, ever.”

  He drew even closer, as close as a lover, exerting enough pressure to crack her spine over the stair rail. Absurdly luxuriant in that hard face, inky lashes brushed his high cheekbones. “You are my slave, as surely as if I bought you from a dealer in Trinitaria.” Callused fingertips drew idle patterns over her thundering pulse. “Slaves do not ask impertinent questions. Understand?”

  She nodded as best she could.

  His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. “What are you, Mehcredi?”

  “S-slave. Your slave.”

  “Good. Do not forget it, even for an instant.” For the space of two heartbeats, he leaned even harder into her body. Then he withdrew without haste, leaving her braced against the rail, panting.

  He’d already reached the third floor before she caught up with him. Despite his warning, new questions seethed in her brain. Who were Those Before? She’d never heard an oath like that.

  She supposed she’d become inured to asking questions. When you found it difficult to decipher expressions, it was often the only way. Ask and be damned with a cuff around the head, a bloodied lip.

  Don’t ask and be double damned.

  Sister save her, she had enough problems at the moment. Mehcredi bit her tongue.

  “In here.” Walker opened a door and they stepped into a chamber so dim, she had difficulty making out the figure lying stiffly under the bedclothes. She wrinkled her nose, her most primitive sense clamoring, telling her this was a lair where an animal had crawled to die. It wasn’t so much the pervasive smell of illness, but something thick and dragging that suffocated the spirit.

  Walker walked over to the bed, leaving her at the door as if she’d taken root there. The man on the bed didn’t move. With his fingertips, Walker brushed the back of the lax hand that lay on the covers. “Dai?” he said softly. “Dai, I know you’re awake.”

  Silence.

  “I caught her. Don’t you want to see?” Without turning, the swordmaster beckoned Mehcredi forward.

  Just a job, the Guild Master had said. Something even you can cope with, Mehcredi of the First Circle. He’d l
ifted his brows, lips slightly pursed. His gaze had reminded her of the fish laid out in glittering rows on slabs in Fish Alley in the Melting Pot, all pale and cold and gelatinous. How she’d yearned to take the Master’s spare form and break him over her knee!

  Just a job. Nausea still roiled in her belly. Holy Sister, it must be the episode at the gate, because now the sensation had intensified. She was going to faint or throw up, or both. Mehcredi edged back, out into the passage, one hand pressed to the still-tender swell of her left breast.

  Walker spun around, his long tail of hair swinging like a whip. He didn’t raise his voice. “Come here.”

  Her reluctant feet scuffing draglines in the nap of an exquisite rug, she advanced a couple of steps.

  “Closer.” Reaching out, he grasped her wrist and yanked her forward.

  No. It had to be a mistake. This wasn’t the man.

  She remembered all three of the people who’d sat with Erik the Golden that night at the Sailor’s Lay—after all, she’d spent the whole evening watching them from the back of the tavern, wrapped in her enveloping cloak. A scruffy boy, a brown-haired woman with bright eyes and a handsome laughing man playing some silly game with the lad—Dai. He’d been nowhere near as tall and broad as Erik, her quarry, but striking in his own way, all in black, neat and elegant as a cat. A ruby drop had glistened in his ear like a drop of blood and his face had been alight with the joy of a life lived full-tilt.

  By the light of the single lamp, she could see now the man in the bed was slight and gaunt, the skin of his face plastered tight against the bones beneath, his dark hair lying lank against the pillow. His dull gaze fastened on her face, wandered away and returned, narrowing. He frowned, the fingers of one hand plucking at the sheet.

  Luckily the bed was a four-poster because she had to grab something for support and she’d rather die than lean on Walker again.

  When the Guild Master had handed over the tiny vial, he’d told her prettydeath was a sure thing. Extraordinarily effective, he’d said. The bastard.

  “Her name is Mehcredi,” Walker was saying. “She may be the world’s worst assassin, but she’s caused enough grief for a dozen Tenth Circle masters.”

  When Mehcredi flinched, one dark brow winged up.

  “She was hired to kill Erik Thorensen, but you got in the way.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes as hard as flint. “Think of her as your body slave. Whatever you want, Dai, she’ll do it for you.”

  Dai’s head moved fretfully on the pillow. No.

  “Yes.” Walker folded his arms. “You know I don’t have any staff to spare, let alone the creds to pay for a nurse. Be as rough with her as you like. This is her punishment—our justice.” The teeth flashed in his dark face. “I’ve Marked her. She can’t escape and she can’t hurt you.”

  He turned to Mehcredi. “Purist Bartelm left this powder to be mixed with water and given every two hours without fail.” Walker tapped the lid of a small square box that sat on the polished wood of the dresser. “One spoon, no more, no less.”

  “Who?”

  Walker looked at her in silence for a moment. “Purist Bartelm, the most senior wizard in the Enclave. How long have you been in Caracole?”

  In the shadowed room, Dai’s eyes were great dark pits in his pale face. Intent. Mehcredi wondered if he had a knife under the pillow. Probably.

  “A month and a bit.” Suddenly needing to move, she crossed to the dresser, removed the lid of the box and peered inside, uneasily conscious of the flat gaze tracking her from the bed. “Oh, it’s all sparkly!” she exclaimed in surprise.

  “Don’t touch! ”

  “Wasn’t going to,” she muttered, putting the box down with a snap.

  “You were.” A vertical crease had appeared between Walker’s brows. “There’s a special spoon with it. Use that.”

  The powder was pretty, like dark brown sand glittering with specks of red and bronze. “What’s in it?” Lifting it again, she took a cautious sniff. Funny, the stuff might look brown, but it smelled rankly green, like the weeds from the north pasture at home, the one that was always a bit boggy.

  “Healall, scaldlily and coolbalm. Plus some Science stuff Bartelm bought from the Technomage Tower. Purist or no, it took him hours of talking to get the local Primus to part with it. That box is worth more than you are, slave.”

  He turned back to Dai. “I’ll have food sent up.”

  Another of those infinitesimal headshakes. Walker ignored it.

  “You don’t eat until he does, assassin.”

  Once again, he stepped close so quickly she had no time to evade the crushing grip on her upper arms. He hauled her up an inch so their eyes were level. “Remember, I will know. Everything you do, every thought that passes through your devious blond head.”

  When he let go, her heels hit the floor with a thump. Devious? Walker thought she was devious? Mehcredi stared at his retreating back, her mouth open. Not such a daft lump, then. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet snick, the long tail of black hair brushing the rise of a firm backside.

  If she didn’t have to look at the man in the bed, the warm feeling Walker’s words had caused might last a little longer and her insides would have time to settle. Pinning a smile on her lips, she crossed to the windows and threw back the heavy drapes. Outside, the city was waking. Skiffs passed on the canal, weighed down with loads of produce or carrying passengers. The men and women working the poles chaffed at each other good-naturedly, much of the slang still incomprehensible to her ear. Fresh air and sunlight poured into the chamber, gilding the patina of polished woods and the jeweled tones in the rugs.

  Mehcredi rubbed the heel of her hand over her chest, while the silence behind her gathered force, a palpable weight on the nape of her neck. Grimly, she ignored it. The skin of her breast still stung as if she’d strayed too close to a flash fire, but it was infinitely better than the dreadful retribution Walker’s black glare had promised. Sister be praised, she’d been lucky. Really, this wasn’t so bad.

  Up in the attic, she had a real room with a proper bed in it and a lock on the door. Gods, she’d be able to sleep, and sleep deeply. At Lonefell, she’d snatched catnaps in her succession of hiding places, often moving several times a night.

  Even in Caracole, she hadn’t done much better. In its own way, the tumbledown inn that was all she could afford was worse than the keep. To judge by the stench wafting up through the broken shutters, it was situated over the top of the ripest open sewer in the Melting Pot. She made a face, remembering. Almost all of the baron’s gold had disappeared into the rapacious grasp of the Master of Assassins. For the training, he’d said as he stowed it away, his face completely expressionless. For a moment there, Mehcredi had thought he was trying not to laugh, but she couldn’t be sure.

  No, she was much better off here—where the Necromancer would have to go through Walker to reach her. The man’s grim, silent presence, his strange hunter’s Magick, would be more than enough for any practitioner of the Dark Arts. She didn’t doubt it for an instant.

  The bedclothes rustled. From behind, came a tiny noise, a sort of pained mewl.

  Clenching her fists, Mehcredi ignored it. The hollow feeling in her middle was hunger, pure and simple. The kitchen would be somewhere downstairs. She should go and see this Serafina person.

  A small object struck her a stinging blow between the shoulder blades and clattered to the floor. Startled, she spun around.

  Dai had raised himself on one elbow. His mouth contorted and another of those tortured kitten sounds emerged.

  “I d-don’t understand.”

  When he swallowed, wincing, she found she had to do the same. There was a huge lump in her throat.

  “What do you want?”

  Dai’s thin fingers clawed at the covers. Then he pointed.

  Mehcredi glanced down. The object that had hit her was a piece of chalk. She scooped it up. “You want this?”

  Dai held out his hand, s
cowling. In the cheerful brutality of the sunlight, she could see that he was indeed the same pretty young man she’d seen in the Sailor’s Lay. His eyes weren’t dark, as she’d supposed. They were a clear green gold, like a cat’s, fringed with thick black lashes, so brilliant they might have been burnished with tears.

  Extending her arm to its fullest extent, Mehcredi dropped the chalk into his palm.

  Dai snatched up a slate from the nightstand. She knew what it was because the youngest of the keep children carried them to lessons. Dai scribbled something, pressing so hard the chalk squeaked.

  A final stab and he thrust the slate at her.

  Mehcredi stared down at the scribble, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. The curse of the fair-skinned. “I can’t read.” She dropped the useless thing on the bed by his knee.

  The force of Dai’s glare was so ferocious, she almost put her hands to her face to ensure he hadn’t flayed the skin right off her skull. Rage, revulsion, hurt. All her old friends.

  His mouth worked. “W-why?”

  Thinking about it later, she wasn’t sure she heard a sound emerge at all. But she couldn’t mistake the shape of the word on his lips.

  “I had a commission,” she said. “Erik the Golden, the singer. But I made a mistake.” She wiped her clammy palms down the sides of her trews. “You drank the prettydeath instead.”

  Dai waved a hand, brows raised. And?

  Clearly, something more was expected. But what? Mehcredi dithered.

  “Sorry?” she offered.

  Dai hurled the slate at her head.

  Walker knew Deiter was there, sitting on a boulder in the shade of a big cedderwood. He’d chosen that rock personally and supervised its transport and installation. It might be bench shaped, but it was still hard and cold. Every few seconds, the old reprobate would shift his skinny behind and scratch his ear, or his belly. Then he’d give a gusty sigh. Walker ignored him, flowing through the movements of his martial arts practice, his swords catching the light as they twisted and spun a hairsbreadth from his flesh.