The Lone Warrior (56 page)

He’d been wounded many times, he knew the sensations well—the surprise and disbelief, followed by the bright bite of pain, nausea and light-headedness when it was very bad. If it wasn’t ridiculous, he’d swear he was in shock now.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest. Distance did lessen the effect, that was true. Even now, as she neared the keep, her pain had faded to a nasty spike behind his breastbone. Infinitely better. Close-up, the full impact of her desolation had combined with his own agony of mind, threatening to unman him completely. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shed a tear. Bleakly, he wondered if he could manage it now. It might be a comfort of sorts.

He hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t told her the whole of it either. Because the soul-link was a little different for him. A shiver of primitive fear raised all the small hairs on his body. He’d given a part of his soul, his Song, into another’s keeping. What would he be without it?
Without her?

Whatever she thought she felt for him, it couldn’t be real, though she certainly believed in it. He couldn’t trust it and he wouldn’t let her either. The pain was real enough though, first love always hurt. Fuck, he should know—he was experiencing it. Walker ground his teeth together, the irony nearly choking him. Under his feet, the earth gave a long shiver, like an animal emerging from winter sleep. The water in the tarn heaved and slopped over the beach, wetting the toe of his boot.

He caught his breath, startled. By the seven million Songs, he hadn’t lost control like that since he was a boy intoxicated by Magick for the first time. He needed to get a grip, focus on the woman who might—just might—be his kin. With an effort of will, he forced himself to start the calculations in his head—supplies for say, two nights on the road, maybe three, feed for his horse. Actually, it would be better if he could buy a second mount from the baron. He’d switch horses, snatch a few hours’ sleep here and there, and get to Holdercroft all the faster. He sighed.

Damn Deiter to the icy hells. What were the chances she was Shar? Infinitesimal. But one day he’d face his Ancestors. He couldn’t die not knowing. After he’d seen her, he’d be able to stamp out the godsbedamned persistent flicker of hope. Then, ah, then . . . He’d go home to his House of Swords, to the peace of his garden and the rest of his empty life.

At first he thought the strange vibration in the air was the tarn shifting, still settling back into its stony bed. Then he looked up. A winged shape skimmed over Blay Pass, lights flashing on its underside. The Technomages, right on cue.

Walker arrived in the bailey in time to watch the flitter descend, its buzz becoming a deep whine. It hovered for a few moments as if making a decision, then landed with pinpoint precision. His brows rose. It was a big one, a twenty seater, its wings barely clearing the stone walls of the keep.

Mehcredi was completely enthralled. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, silver eyes wide with wonder.

With a polite series of clicks, a rectangular aperture opened in the smooth gray surface and a ramp extended until it reached the grass. A bulky figure broke away from the group of white-clad Technomages framed in the opening. He—it was obviously male with those massive shoulders—strode down the ramp, transplas boots thumping decisively. After a swift glance around the assembled crowd, he demanded, “Who is the first here?”

“I am.” The baron stepped forward. “And you are?”

“The Quintus.” Cold hazel eyes surveyed the other man from top to toe, traveled over the Pentacle group, inspected Yachi’s guards and the baron’s men. Then it flicked back to Deiter, who was leaning on Rose’s arm. “You are Purist Deiter of Concordia?”

The wizard harrumphed. “Yes. And you’re late.”

“Come,” said the Quintus, obviously a man of few words. He turned back to the flitter. “We can talk on the flight. I have room for a dozen, no more.”

“The flight?” asked the baron, recovering. “You only just got here. Where are you going?”

“Back to the Tower.”

The baron inhaled sharply. “But that’s in Caracole.”

Walker’s heart lifted. A flitter could do in a couple of hours what would take him days on horseback.

“It is.” The Quintus sounded bored.

“We need time to pack,” Rose said suddenly.

“Twenty minutes,” said the Quintus, favoring her with a long thoughtful glance.

The solidity of him was deceptive, thought Walker, summing up the Technomage with a swordmaster’s experienced eye. Yes, he appeared to be foursquare and stocky, his shoulders and arms thick and well muscled, but he moved well, neat and quick. More brawler than swordsman though. His sandy hair was cropped brutally short. Walker fingered the end of his own thick braid. To each his own, he supposed.

When the Quintus turned to address the baron, the numeral five on his collar showed crisp and dark against the pristine white. “Where is the woman who claims to be a colleague?”

Walker frowned. By the bones of Those Before, this man was fifth in the Technomage hierarchy. The attention of a Scientist of such high rank was both reassuring and a little disquieting. In fact, odd though the Technomages might be, there was no mistaking the Quintus for anything save a warrior. The intensity of the man’s focus was formidable.

“Bring her closer,” the Quintus snapped to the baron’s men emerging from the keep with a shambling figure in dusty black robes. Whoever it was appeared to be so weak they were obliged to half carry her. Looming over the woman, the Technomage gripped her chin and tilted her face to the light.

She whimpered, screwing up her eyes. The Quintus stared in silence for a long moment. Then he dropped his hand and took a step back. “This is the Technomage Primus of Sybaris,” he said.

“
What?
” Prue rushed forward. She reached out, gripping the front of the woman’s robes in clawed fingers. “I have a score to settle with you,
bitch
.”

“Let me help,” purred Erik, looming over them both. His smile gave Walker the chills.

Cenda elbowed Prue aside, only to recoil into Gray’s arms. “Great Lady, it is!” When she straightened, rills of flame burst from her fingertips.

The Primus shrank back. “I’m Dotty,” she said. “Just Dotty. I lost my brother.” Tears trickled from faded blue eyes. “Or he lost me.”

“Stop the bloody playacting,” said Gray sharply. “Or I’ll let her singe you.”

“There will be no singeing.” The Quintus had gone very still, his eyes on Cenda’s hands. “Put down your weapon.” His fingers rested on the worn hilt of the lasegun on his hip. “That means you too,” he said to Prue and Erik. “Stand back.”

Cenda gave a sharp bitter laugh, and the flames winked out, though Walker noted the tiny salamander in her hair still hissed and spat. With a huff of disgust, Prue shoved the Technomage back into the Quintus’s arms.

“The Primus was convicted of crimes against Science,” the Quintus said. “By her own Conclave no less. She was sentenced to Repair.” He waved a couple of his Technomages forward.

“What does that mean?” asked Rose. “Exactly.”

A sandy brow lifted. “Precisely what you think it means. Fifteen minutes.”

“Cenda and Gray would be more merciful.”

“I don’t doubt it. Fourteen minutes.”

The Primus reached out to finger the Quintus’s collar. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I see.” Her spine straightened with a snap. “Well, come on.” She snarled at her escort. “I haven’t got all day. Science doesn’t do itself, you know.”

“Uh, yes, Primus,” said one of the Technomages, a stout woman with three digits on her collar. Immediatedly, she went scarlet. “This way,” she snapped.

Her head high, the former Primus allowed herself to be assisted up the ramp and into the flitter.

“Now just a minute,” barked the baron.

He set his hands on his hips, and for the first time, Walker noticed that he wore a fine coat, fashioned of maroon brocade. Involuntarily, he shot Mehcredi a sideways glance and caught her staring. She appeared to be fascinated, her expression suitably grave, but inside, she was alight with laughter, he knew it in his gut. He’d bet his life she was thinking of that fine handkerchief. What if the baron decided to mop his brow? Walker had to breathe hard through the strange, poignant mix of his feelings, the sweetness mingled with the pain. ’Cestors’ bones, this . . . this . . .
connection
was going to kill him.

“What about the safety of my people?” said the baron. “What about the djinns?”

“Oh, you’re safe enough—for the moment at any rate.” The Quintus regarded him without much interest. “Preliminary analysis shows the thing is definitely dormant. We detoured north to the ice to gather data. We’ll return for further observations in the summer.”

“Summer?”

The ripple of amusement that passed over the Technomage’s face was so fleeting, Walker almost missed it. “When it’s warm enough for the creature to rise. I’d suggest you make plans for an evacuation.” He raised his voice to be heard over the baron’s protests. “Ten minutes, Rosarina.”

She paused in midstep to look over her shoulder. “You know who I am?”

“I have dossiers on all of you.”

Walker stepped forward. “Then you know I am Walker from the House of Swords.”

The deep-set gaze shifted to focus on his face. “The swordmaster. Yes.”

“I have business in Holdercroft. Can you let me off there?”

“Yes, but I have work to do at the Tower. I will not wait for you.”

“That’s fine, I—”

“Me too,” said Mehcredi, appearing at Walker’s elbow. Curiosity radiated from her. She was almost quivering with it.

The Technomage’s brows drew together. “Who are you?” he said. “I have no data on you.”

“Mehcredi,” she said impatiently. “And Scrounge comes too. He won’t pee or anything. I promise.”

“Scrounge?”

Mehcredi pointed to the dog, who grinned toothily at the Technomage, ragged tail waving gently.

“No,” said the Quintus with decision.

“I can’t go without him.” Panic flashed across Mehcredi’s face. “But I can’t stay here, I
can’t
!”

Rose walked back over the grass to lay a hand on Mehcredi’s shoulder. “We won’t leave you behind,” she said quietly.

“Speak for yourself,” snapped Deiter. Suddenly, he sagged. “I’m an old, old man,” he said plaintively, clutching his heart. “I’ve been wounded. Can we board so I can sit down?”

Cenda patted his arm. “She risked her life for the boy, Purist.”

“Yah,” said Florien, curling his lip in the wizard’s direction.

“All of us or none,” rumbled Erik and, beside him, Prue nodded. “Take your pick, Quintus.” Though the air wizard didn’t as much as glance at Deiter, a freezing wind tugged at the old man’s robes. He drew his collar closer about his scrawny neck, glaring.

“Very well.” The Quintus sent Mehcredi a cold level glance. “The animal is your responsibility. If it misbehaves, I’ll put it out the hatch myself.” He ignored Mehcredi’s muttered curse. “Five minutes.”

Turning on his heel, he vanished into the flitter. A few seconds later, it began to whine, straining against the ropes that held it hobbled to the earth.

“Sister in the sky, my things!” Rose lifted her skirts and sprinted for the keep.

“Five-it!” gasped Cenda, catching up in a couple of strides and speeding past. “Gray,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t just stand there!”

Shrugging, Gray followed at a more leisurely pace. One by one, the members of the Pentacle group disappeared, while the baron and his men watched open-mouthed. Walker took his time. No need to rush, he traveled light. Pausing at the entrance of the great hall, he looked back.

Clearly giving orders, Yachi concluded an intense low-voiced discussion with her corporal. The man nodded, snapping off a salute. Squaring her shoulders, the guard captain marched toward the Technomage craft. With a sigh that came from his pointy-toed boots, Deiter hobbled in her wake, the very picture of a harmless old coot.

Walker wished the Quintus the best of luck with him.