The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  “That’s because they’re scared.”

  He gave her a not-smile loaded with teeth. “As you should be.”

  She took a moment to think about it. “You were so cold, so angry,” she said slowly. “At first, I was sure you were going to kill me.” She raised her eyes to his. “But you didn’t.”

  “Mehcredi—”

  “Let me finish. I don’t understand what you did or how you did it or even why,” she said, working it out as she went along. “Everything was so awful I thought I’d die, but now—I think I might be happy. It’s—” She broke off, searching for words, her lips curving into a tremulous smile, tears stinging her eyes.

  The swordmaster cleared his throat. “Good?”

  She nodded, light-headed with the burst of realization, his features no more than a bronzed blur. Happy—who’d have thought it?

  “That’s as may be, but here in Trinitaria you will be guided by me. Hesitate and you’ll get us both killed. Agreed?”

  Mehcredi grinned, her blood fizzing. If she knew how, she’d dance around the shabby room. “I’ll be the best slave ever, I promise. All I need to know is how to kiss like one?” She sashayed a little closer.

  But Walker gave her his back as he retrieved the bundle from the bed. “No need.” He thrust it into her hands. “Because after tonight, you won’t be a woman, let alone a slave.”

  When she stared, he said, “Open it.”

  Inside, was a dark blue head cloth, a canvas vest with a number of pockets, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles with dark lenses and a strange oval object with a shiny black skin that gave off an astringent smell.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re no actor, Mehcredi. It wouldn’t matter what I taught you, you’ll never convince a Trinitarian you’re a slave, or even a wife. You’ll be better off as a man.”

  “A man?”

  “ ’Cestors’ bones, you’re near as tall as me. You can hold a sword or a staff like you mean it. Deepen your voice a bit—or better yet, say nothing—and you’ll pass for a boy, my companion, my apprentice.” He touched her shoulder. “Surely you’d prefer that?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” she said absently. Oh gods, to be able to stride out, free of the enveloping robes. But she wouldn’t forget about the kissing. She held up what had to be a fruit. “What’s this then?”

  “A blengo.” He drew the long dagger from his belt and, with a deft twist, opened the fruit at one end. Seizing an earthenware cup, he squeezed and chocolat-colored fluid streamed out. “The juice stains the skin and the pulp is very nutritious, though it’s rather an acquired taste.”

  Carefully, he measured a few drops into a cracked bowl and added a cup of water. “Roll up your sleeves and come here.”

  By the time she’d soaked to his satisfaction, the murky brew had turned her hands and forearms a golden brown, almost as dark as his.

  “The Siblings are up,” he said, glancing out the window at the moons. “Get dressed and we’ll go eat.”

  Mehcredi glowered at the bundle of black on the end of the bed. “I thought I was a man.”

  “I came with a female slave, I need to be seen with that slave. We’ll do your face and hair later, dress you as a man and be gone before dawn. In the meantime, think of a name you’ll remember to answer to.”

  She stopped him as they went out the door. “Magnificent?” she said. “You did say magnificent?”

  Walker gave her the expressionless stare she’d grown to dislike with every fiber of her being. “On occasion,” he said severely. “When you do what you’re told.”

  The bar was deep and narrow, with a low arched doorway opening to the souk and another giving onto a small yard shaded by what looked like a piece of old sail. A skinny slave boy clad in a dirty loincloth poked desultorily at a covered pan on a brazier. It wasn’t crowded, half a dozen men lounged on low stools, two of them hunched over a stained table, throwing dice. The air was thick with the last of the day’s heat, the bitter dregs of thin Trinitarian beer mixing not unpleasantly with the scent of grilled meat and hot peppers.

  Good. He wouldn’t have to take Mehcredi out into the market. Out of the corner of his eye, Walker checked her posture. He sighed. She’d hunched herself up like an old woman, but she was still taller than every man in the room save himself. Her head swung from side to side, scanning. His chest tightened with exasperation and something that might have been pity. Behind the veil, her silver eyes would be bright with interest, lips parted softly as she drank it all in. He knew that expression. Part child, all woman.

  He needed to get a grip.

  “There.” He pointed to the darkest corner and she sank obediently to the floor. “Do not move. Do not speak.”

  As she gave a jerky nod, that damned dog sidled around the corner and settled beside her. By the First Father, how could one small animal look so downright shifty? It might as well wear a sign around its scruffy neck that said, “Up to no good.”

  Hastily, Mehcredi flipped the edge of her robe over it until only the tip of a quivering black nose was visible. Though he couldn’t see it, Walker had an uneasy feeling her expression mirrored the dog’s—up to no good.

  The skinny man behind the bar wiped his hands on a grubby towel and said, “What’ll it be?”

  “Beer,” grunted Walker, allowing a hint of Shar to flavor his speech, conscious of the silence spreading behind him. “And a bowl of whatever’s cooking.” After so many years, the intonation felt strange on his tongue, like a ghostly presence. The hair rose on the back of his neck, as if the spectral forms of his Ancestors stood behind him, rank after serried rank.

  A shouted order for the boy in the yard and the man returned to swiping his rag over the pitted wooden surface of the bar. “Southerner, are ye?”

  With satisfaction, he noted the sidelong glance at the Janizar’s sword. It had to be abundantly clear Walker was not a member of the Grand Pasha’s elite guard, and that he never had been. Which meant he’d obtained the weapon some other way. Giving the barkeep a cold-eyed stare that said, “Cross me if you dare,” he watched slightly alarmed speculation flicker across the man’s swarthy features.

  Aloud, he said, “Heading home. Might join a caravan.”

  “Fancy yerself a guard, yes?” said a different, gruffer voice.

  Taking his time, Walker turned to face the man who’d come to lounge at his elbow. The smell of stale sweat poured off him, rank and sour. He was short and burly, his head cloth wrapped around his skull turban style. Hard physical labor had thickened his frame and made him look older than he undoubtedly was. A dockworker perhaps. Drunk enough to be friendly, one drink short of truculence.

  “Something like that,” Walker said evenly.

  He got a sloppy, gap-toothed grin. “Sword’s mighty fine, friend.” The man bumped their shoulders together. “Lemme see it?”

  “Kassan—” the barkeep broke in. “Not here.” He shook his head.

  The sullen boy banged an earthenware bowl full of stew down on the bar and slouched back to his post by the brazier. Walker collected the food, together with his beer. “Maybe later.” Calmly, he returned to the corner where he’d left Mehcredi.

  A short pause and the rumble of conversation resumed, the dice clicking as they tumbled across the table.

  “That man’s staring at you,” whispered Mehcredi. “Looks angry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Apart from a couple of curious, semi-covetous glances, the men were ignoring her, but the more she spoke, the more they chanced unwelcome attention.

  “Yes, but—”

  “No speaking unless I ask a question.” He dug into the food with the only utensil provided, a narrow slab of hard bread. The meat was sinewy and tough, but it was filling, sweet and sour with strange Trinitarian spices. “You don’t eat ’til I’m finished.”

  He stretched out his legs, while she sat and simmered beside him. Irresistibly drawn by the scent of food, the dog crept out from under her skirts, slink
ing on his belly. His ragged tail thumped the floor in a hopeful rhythm.

  Funnily enough, it wasn’t Mehcredi who brought them undone, or even the unlovely Kassan, but the slave boy and the dog.

  14

  Walker ordered a second helping and made a pretence of eating before handing the remains to Mehcredi. Grumbling under her breath, she turned her face to the wall and fumbled about under the veil. In the end, she gave up trying to use the bread as a spoon and resorted to fingers. Every few moments, she dropped a morsel for the dog. Finished, she relaxed against Walker’s leg with a long sigh, licking the grease off her fingers. He caught a glimpse of the pink curl of her tongue, neat as a cat.

  Propelled by a slap over the head from the barkeep, the slave slouched over to collect the empty dish. But as he turned away, his foot caught in Mehcredi’s robe and he shot out a hand to steady himself, grabbing her shoulder. The whole disaster had an awful inevitability. Under Walker’s appalled gaze, everything happened in slow motion, as if the participants were mired in treacle. And yet, even though he leaped immediately to his feet, he was too late to stop it.

  The boy’s weight pushed Mehcredi nearly to the floor. Hearing her cry of surprise, the dog barked his defiance, bristling. The slave swore, swung his leg back and connected hard with the animal’s ribs, which elicited a sharp yelp followed by a positive fusillade of barking. Mehcredi growled, surging up from the floor in a dusty billow of retribution. He had to admit, her movements were a miracle of efficiency. A second later, the slave boy was spread-eagled against the wall, Mehcredi’s hand at his throat, the point of her blade hovering half an inch from his quivering eyeball.

  An instant’s silence, as if the entire Republic of Trinitaria pulled in a shocked breath at such presumption from a female. All hell broke loose.

  Even in the dim light, the Janizar’s sword flashed like a living thing. Barely in time, Walker interposed himself between Mehcredi and half a dozen outraged Trinitarians, the barkeep and Kassan dead-heating in the front row.

  “Release him!” he snapped at her over his shoulder. “Now!” A breath later, the slave boy hurtled past to crash heavily onto the gamblers’ table, sending beer, dice and coins spraying in all directions.

  With a happy roar, Kassan snatched an ale jug from the bar and hurtled forward, his small dark eyes focused primarily on Mehcredi.

  Walker’s guts cramped with terror, the sensation so alien that he froze, and Kassan caught him a glancing blow that rattled his teeth.

  The barkeep dived past him, snarling, “Fuckin’ bitch, kill ye—”

  The venomous words cut off with a meaty thunk. Walker heard a single high-pitched bark, Mehcredi’s screech of triumph. After that, he was released somehow, able to move, all fire and ice and familiar patterns coming smooth as silk. He used the flat of the blade, his fists and his boots, nothing barred beyond the killing blows. Not that he cared, but a tavern brawl was one thing, slicing his opponents to gobbets and thereby drawing the attention of the authorities another.

  Peripherally, he was conscious of Mehcredi seizing a stool and breaking it over someone’s head. Then she set her back to his as if to the manner born. He could sense her dancing back and forth, jabbing and striking, swearing continuously under her breath. Must be the slave boy again. Well, she’d already shown she could cope with him.

  He’d have to break her of the cursing, he thought, sinking his boot into the softness of one man’s belly and intercepting Kassan’s knobby fist as it traveled past his ear. No one was getting through him to reach her, not while he lived. Swearing was a waste of breath, destroyed the concentration. Grasping his sword by the hilt, he clipped Kassan neatly on the chin.

  The man swayed, eyes rolling. “Uh,” he grunted. “G-good . . . fi . . . ght.” A wobbly smile and he hit the floor with a crash.

  Silence fell.

  Walker lowered his sword. “You all right?” He turned.

  She hadn’t had time to remove the veil, but she was hefting a stool leg like a quarterstaff, her chest rising and falling like a runner’s. The slave boy slumped against the wall, clutching his belly, his face puke green. The dog was nowhere to be seen.

  “Yes. What about—”

  Walker wrapped iron fingers around her arm and hauled her up the stairs. He thrust her into their room and whirled to drop the heavy bar across the door. His heart thundering in his ears, he ripped a strip off the bed cover and dunked it in the blengo juice.

  She was talking, but the words went by in a tiresome jumble of noise. Urgency clawed at his chest. How much time did they have? Ten minutes? Five? No more.

  “Come here.”

  “But what are—”

  “Come here! ”

  ’Cestors be thanked, she came. Working rapidly, he pulled off the veil and smeared the brown stuff all over her pale, perfect skin, over her face and neck.

  “Get the robes off and put a head cloth on.” Fortunately, he hadn’t unpacked. Seizing Mehcredi’s bag, he began shoving things in all anyhow. “Make sure you cover your hair.”

  “We’re leaving?” Her brow creased and little furrows appeared in the dye. He’d have to do it again the moment they were settled somewhere safe. “But how?”

  He allowed himself a soundless chuckle. “How do you think? The window.” He tossed the two packs out into the night, hearing the soft thumps as they landed on the awning below.

  Swiftly, he knotted the remains of the coverlet to the leg of the bed and threw the rest over the sill. “Grab this and lower yourself. When you let go, the kitchen awning’s directly underneath. Slide down it.”

  “Oh.” Mehcredi peered down. “Right. What about—”

  “I’ll be fine.” Voices rumbled below, feet hit the stairs, the building shook. “Go, go.”

  “But the dog’s—”

  “He can look after himself. Godsdammit, woman, move!”

  Mehcredi gave a funny little gasp. Then she sank her fingers into his hair and jerked his head down, pressing a clumsy kiss against his mouth. In a single movement, she tore herself away, seized the makeshift rope and flung herself out of the window. He heard a muffled thump and a sharp exclamation.

  Walker winced, but when he checked, she was perfectly safe, standing in the yard, gazing upward, her eyes shining weirdly out of her brown face. She had one hand on that rounded ass, rubbing. He pressed the back of his hand against his tingling lips. She’d wasted valuable seconds on that kiss.

  The door shuddered under a heavy blow. “Southern scum! Forty creds fer damages ye owe me.” The barkeep.

  Walker slung one leg over the sill. Thank all the gods he hadn’t given a name.

  Another rattling thump, the rising rumble of other voices. Was that Kassan?

  “The woman will do if ye don’t have the cash.” The slave boy’s voice rose in protest, followed by the sound of a slap and a sharp cry.

  Walker snarled. Then he smiled, slow and grim. By the bones of Those Before, it would serve the man right if he handed her over. Mehcredi would have his balls on toast—with the slave boy as an appetizer.

  After which, of course, she’d be tortured to death. All amusement gone, he considered the door, now vibrating under a steady pounding. The rusty hinges creaked.

  Walker pulled his leg back into the room. Then he dug deep, tracing the flow of ch’qui down through the foundations of the building, all the way to the baked heart of the earth. When he pressed his palm against the door, the raw blind energy of the planet’s life, the rush of green sap, made him stagger. Uncaring, it used him as a conduit, surging into dry dusty wood that sucked it up the way a desert drank rain. All around the edges of the door, tender green shoots appeared, bursting so fast out of the old wood they writhed like snakes, twining and intertwining, forming what amounted to a thicket.

  “Walker? Are you coming?” Mehcredi’s voice floated up from below. It had a quaver in it.

  His pulse still thrumming with reaction, the swordmaster lowered himself to the furthest extent
of the rope and let himself drop. Rolling with the fall, he scooped up his pack.

  “Now what?” panted Mehcredi.

  “Now we run like hell.”

  Tail waving like a tattered flag, the dog caught up with them before they reached the first corner.

  Mehcredi had never run so far, so fast, in her life. Down the twisted alleys, she and Walker had fled flat out, then dropped to a jog-trot, then run again, through the souk, through a quieter residential area where large houses loomed behind high walls of plastered sun-dried brick and finally, into a poorer quarter that smelled of manure and dust and spices.

  “This is the waggoners’ district,” said the swordmaster. He gestured at an arch in a mud-brick wall. It was fitted with a set of swinging doors. From beyond it, came the rumble of masculine voices, an occasional shout and crash and a reedy thread of music played on some out-of-tune wind instrument. “This is a waggoners’ tavern. The only women here are the lowest sort of whores, so tell me again, who are you?”

  “I’m your cousin’s boy, Meck,” she recited, still breathless. “You took me on as a favor to him, even though I’m a half-breed he got on some foreign slave. You think I’m soft, whereas I’m so scared of you I can barely speak, let alone hold my head up.” With a sigh of relief, she dropped the pack at her feet and straightened her shoulders, delighting in the firm feel of the sword belt around her waist, the freedom of the trews. “I’ve got weak eyes, which is why I have the shaded spectacles.”

  “Good.” He eyed her critically. “Hunch your shoulders more and don’t swing your hips.”

  Beyond the archway, the area opened up into a courtyard, with stables down one side and a sprawling ramble of rooms on the other. Despite the lateness of the hour, lights streamed out of open doors and Walker had no difficulty obtaining a key from the surly gatekeeper. Feeling very clever, her heart pitter-pattering with excitement, Mehcredi took care to hang her head and keep to the shadows. The dog quartered the yard back and forth in a businesslike manner, loftily ignoring the baleful glare of a black-and-white tom perched on top of a barrel.