The Lone Warrior (18 page)

The moment they reached the dock at the far end of the Melting Pot, Walker pulled Mehcredi behind a couple of tall barrels. “Tell me again,” he said. “Who are you?”

Her head turned toward him, though he could see nothing of her face behind the dark veils, not even her bright eyes. He’d chosen them for that very purpose.

“I’m a Trinitarian woman,” she murmured, obediently enough, though he could sense her positively vibrating with excitement beneath yards of black fabric. “Oh, is that our ship? I’ve never seen a ship. It’s not as big as I expected.”

He ignored the question. “I am a blade for hire, no questions asked, Trinitarian style. Whose woman are you?”

“Um, your woman?” Was that a smile in her voice?

“That’s right. How much are you worth to me?”

“Less than an old horse.”

“Good. Slouch a bit, you’re too damn tall. Anyway, you’re supposed to be frightened of me. Of any man.”

She slumped a little, the all-enveloping robes rustling around her. “That better? Oh look, they’re putting out a ramp. Is that what they call a gangplank?”

“So if I slap you around in public, or do this”—Walker grabbed a handful of ass cheek and squeezed; Mehcredi yelped—“what do you do?”

“Uh, uh . . .” She didn’t move away, but she was breathing hard; he could see her breasts rise and fall beneath the robe. “I take it.” A pause. “Without ripping your balls off and shoving them down your throat.”

“Very good.” With a thin smile, Walker opened his fingers, ignoring the instinctive desire to shake the tingles out. “Remember, every female in Trinitaria is property. Your wishes mean nothing, you have no rights and you are worth very little in monetary terms.”

He twitched his robes into place. “If something happens to me, try to disguise yourself as a man, because otherwise you’ll be prey. Right now, you are mine to do with as I will.”

She might have muttered, “What else is new?” but a couple of burly laborers pushed past them to roll the barrels away and the words got lost in the rumble of wooden staves on the cobbles.

“Come on,” said Walker, setting off toward the
Spicy Venture
. “Two steps behind me at all times, and for the gods’ sakes, at least try to
look
servile.”

A small mongrel trotted out from behind a stack of bales and cocked its leg on the lowest one. The words “Best Silk Rugs, Produce of Trinitaria,” were stenciled on the heavy canvas. As it hastened to catch up with the Trinitarian couple, the bundle of robes that was the woman fell a few paces behind, as was proper. The dog dived under her skirts and disappeared from view.

“Little scrounger,” murmured Mehcredi without surprise. A warm, wet tongue swiped her behind the knee. What had Dai said? Friends were loyal.
He’s got my back. I got his.

Excitement fizzed and bubbled in her blood. The veil was infuriating, reducing the vividness of sky and sea to a monotone gray, but still . . . She sniffed the crisp salt in the air, the tarry odor of wet rope and ripe fish and rotting piles. The dock was alive with shouting scurrying figures—sailors, laborers, traders, beggars, a woman with a tray of dubious-looking snacks. Flocks of shiny white birds swooped and called in high-pitched voices.

With a cracking boom that hurt the ears, a starship sprang into the blue from somewhere beyond the horizon. The bone-shaking roar swelled, then diminished as it streaked westward.
Offworld,
thought Mehcredi, her brain scrambling to process the enormity of the concept. Different skies, new worlds, other peoples. One day, sweet Sister, one day she’d go, she swore it. Hell, even a kid like Florien had seen more than she had, though Caracole and the House of Swords sounded far preferable to Sybaris, where he came from, a world ruled entirely by Technomages.

“Head down,” hissed Walker.

Damn. Mehcredi bent her knees and dropped her shoulders as they climbed the gangplank. She did her best to shuffle, her head still spinning.

This morning, instead of the usual dawn session with the
nea-kata
, Walker had sent her back to her attic room with a roll of black clothing and a bag of soft scuffed leather. “Get dressed, then pack,” he ordered. “You’re coming with me.”

When she opened her mouth, he snapped, “Answers later. Pack now.”

To her delight, the bag contained a serviceable sword belt, scabbards and two blades—one a long dagger with a plain black hilt, the other a dainty knife about four inches long. In addition, there were a couple of light shirts, her old boots and trews, her padded cloak and vest.

When Walker met her at the water stair, dressed in the flowing robes and head cloth of a Trinitarian male, she gaped. With his bronze skin and hooded black eyes, he looked as if he’d walked straight out of a souk. Belted about his waist, he wore the exotic sword set she’d last seen on the walls of the fighting salle—the curved blade she’d cut herself with and the wicked poniard she’d tried to steal.

A single glance raked her from head to heels. “Good, you’ll do.” He hustled her into a waiting craft and instructed the skiffman to take them to the Melting Pot. It wasn’t until they were past the first bend that it hit her.

In a panic, she pressed both hands to her breast, to the Mark. The pain, where was the crushing pain? Why hadn’t her heart exploded?

“Relax,” said Walker. “As long as you’re with me, there’s no problem.”

Shakily, she sat back. “Where are we going?” she asked when she recovered sufficient breath to speak.

“Trinitaria. I’ve booked passage on a spice ship across the Three-Pronged Strait.” After a moment, he waved a hand before her face. “Mehcredi?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

A black brow quirked. “Speechless?”

She nodded.

“By the First Father, a miracle. I’ll tell you more once we’re underway, but to get on board you have to be convincing as a Trinitarian female, do you understand?”

Bemused, she’d shaken her head, so Walker had spent the rest of the short trip talking, explaining, grilling her when he was finished. Then he did it all over again.

Now she peered down at the oily water sliding between the dock and the wooden sides of the vessel and swallowed. It was a long way down.

A normal person would be completely disconcerted by the turn of events. Why wasn’t she?

She’d go wherever the swordmaster led and be content to have it so. How very odd. The simplest explanation was that he’d bewitched her, stolen her will with his Magick. But that wasn’t it. Surely she’d feel . . . different? And she hadn’t gone suddenly mad either, she knew that—a half-wit in her own way, yes, maybe, but she could still think straight.

Gingerly, she poked at her own feelings. Beneath the trepidation and the puzzlement, lay a deep core of calm. After all, she’d spent the last months trying to atone for what she’d done, to please him. Nothing in her life had thrilled her so deeply as his measured praise. Walker’s quiet presence had become the strongest, most dependable thing in her universe. She couldn’t give him up, not yet. Gods, she might not understand him, might not be able to read his face, but she wasn’t the only one. He was a difficult man to understand, harder to like, even Dai said so.

Beneath the veil, her lips curved in a slow smile. She trusted Walker. It might not be particularly clever, she was still a daft lump, but she couldn’t help it. From the moment he’d wrapped his hands around her throat, life had glittered with challenge and terror and excitement. What else did she have to do anyway? Go back to Lonefell? She’d rather die.

More to the point, he hadn’t lied to her, not once, not ever. And he’d chosen
her
—Mehcredi the assassin. No, not the assassin, he’d chosen Mehcredi of Lonefell to go with him on an adventure. She longed to wrap her arms around herself and dance a jig. An adventure.
Together
.

As they reached the deck, she suppressed the urge to grab his arm and swing on it like a child.

“I am Wajar,” said Walker, fixing the nearest barefoot sailor with his usual hard stare. “My accommodations, yes?” His voice sounded different, oily and proud all at the same time.

With a barely concealed sneer, the man waved at a dark hatchway. “Aft,” he grunted.

Partway down the narrow passage, they ran into a harried-looking boy of about fifteen, clutching a sheaf of papers. “You’re Wajar? Says here, passage for one across the Three-Pronged Strait, two days, one night.” He shot a wide-eyed glance at Mehcredi. “What about? Um . . . her?”

Walker shrugged. “No matter. Floor is soft enough.”

The youth moistened a thumb and flipped through the pages. “Right. Well.” He appeared to come to some sort of decision. “Only one other passenger on this run so we can, uh, upgrade you. Second left.”

With another wary, fascinated glance, he edged past. Was that pity in his eyes? It was hard to tell, what with the gloom and the veil and all her usual problems.

The room—she supposed it was a cabin—was narrow. Two bunk beds hung suspended on chains from the ceiling, one above the other. A lamp was bolted to the opposite wall and a wooden chair had been jammed into the far corner. Above it, a small round window begrimed with salt let in a fitful light. That was all. But there was a lock on the door. Walker shot the bolt.

Immediately, Mehcredi pulled the veils off and threw them aside. She clawed at her braids, shaking them free. “Gods, that’s better! Would you really make me sleep on the floor?”

Walker’s hard mouth twitched. “You could have had the blanket,” he said gravely.

With a sneeze, the dog emerged from beneath her robes and the swordmaster’s jaw knotted. “No,” he said. “Hell, no.” He shot a measuring glance from the dog, now leaning against Mehcredi’s leg with his tongue lolled out in a canine grin, to the porthole and back again.

“Please.” She wet her lips. “He’s clean, I promise. No bitemes.”

“That’s not the point.” Walker stepped forward and the dog bounced to his feet, tail waving. “We’re still anchored. It’s a short swim.”

Something in Mehcredi’s head went
snick
! She heard it distinctly. Without knowing how she got there, she found herself standing breast to breast with the swordmaster, her fingers digging into his biceps. They were almost nose to nose. “He’s my friend—the only one I’ve got!” She shook him for emphasis, but it was like trying to shift a cedderwood.

Walker said quietly, “It’s dangerous where we’re going, even for dogs. If he’s truly your friend, put him out the window. He’s a survivor.”

Stubbornly, Mehcredi shook her head. “I’ll look after him. I promise.”

Walker’s midnight eyes studied her features, one by one. After an endless time, he cupped her cheek in his callused palm.

“You’ve finally learned to care, assassin.” One thumb brushed across her cheekbone in an unconscious caress. “I don’t recommend it.” His mouth twisted and the warmth of the touch fell away.

“Are you angry?” Mehcredi pressed shaking fingers to the spot.

Before he could reply, a huge rumble emerged from the bowels of the vessel. Every timber creaked in protest as the ship shuddered from bow to stern. “We’re weighing anchor,” he said. “Do you want to watch?”

But Mehcredi had already twisted her hair into a knot and grabbed her veils. Exhilarated, she hurried to the door, only to feel hard fingers lock onto her elbow and spin her back into Walker’s chest.

“Behind me at all times, woman. Remember?”

“Are you angry?” she asked again.

Walker shook his head, his face even more hawklike in the frame of the head cloth. “I will be if you or that misbegotten mongrel gets us killed.”

“What are we doing in Trinitaria? You didn’t say.”

He set his back to the door and fixed her with a level gaze. “I have a man to kill, that’s all you need to know for the moment.”

With a finger under her chin, he closed her sagging jaw. “Come on.”