The Lone Warrior (14 page)

“You’re sorry because you were caught.”

“Well, yes. I mean no.” Confusion swam in her eyes. “I d-don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How old are you, Mehcredi?” he said softly.

She blinked. “Don’t know that either.”

She wasn’t lying, he was certain. Dispassionately, he noted the unblemished quality of her skin, like ivory velvet, the smooth brow and firm chin. There were weary shadows beneath her eyes, but no lines. Mid-twenties at the most. So young—too young to embark on a lifetime of guilt and piercing regret.

“I could kill you a hundred different ways. Slow, fast, screaming, silent. Shall I teach you all that? Is that what you want, to be a better assassin?”

Her tremors had ramped up into long rippling shudders. If he hadn’t been holding her so firmly, her teeth would have chattered. She tried to shake her head, but he refused to permit the movement.

He leaned in, close enough to kiss—or to bite. “Well?”

Very slowly, her eyes on his, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged cautiously. An unpleasant twist in his gut, Walker released her. He’d been gripping hard enough to leave bruises on that pale perfect skin.

“I think,” she whispered at last, “you might be my last chance.”

“Chance? Chance for what?”

She was thinking so hard he could almost hear the effort, whirring and clicking like a Technomage machine. “I’m not sure. To be normal? To know . . . things . . . Not to be ignorant.” Her lashes swept down, then up. “
Stupid
.”

“Everyone does stupid things.” He fought the urge to blink, to blot out her pleading expression, just for an instant. “You’re not exempt.”
Unfortunately, neither am I
.

Her respiration had become rapid and shallow, a pulse beating in the soft pit of her throat. But she lifted her chin. “Teach me the
nea-kata
. Please.”

“Why?”

He’d expected her to hesitate again, to stammer, but she surprised him. “I want what it gives you,” she said steadily.

“And what do you think that is?”

The breath whistled out of her on a long sigh. “Peace.”

When he didn’t reply, she hurried into speech. “There’s something in your face that’s, that’s . . .” Two vertical lines appeared between her brows. “Like you’ve gone away somewhere beautiful, but you’re still here and you’re beautiful too and—” She broke off, color rising in her cheeks. “I’m being stupid again.”

Walker grunted, torn between darkest unease and reluctant amusement. “It’s concentration that you see. The swords don’t forgive.”

“But you wouldn’t start a beginner with blades,” she said shrewdly.

No, he wouldn’t. Though he hadn’t taught first-level
nea-kata
for years. Dai and Pounder did that, so Walker could concentrate on those sufficiently gifted—or bloody-minded—to survive his brutally demanding brand of tuition.

Strange though, despite his impatience with anything less than perfection, a part of him rejoiced in passing on his skills, in teaching. Until Giral and his diablomen descended on the Shar, he’d never known a time when he wasn’t the oldest—the big brother, the one in charge. He’d been so serious about his responsibilities—looking back from an adult perspective, he was pretty certain he’d usually overdone it. Brennard and Owen used to gang up on him like a pair of angry puppies, but even with the typical sibling arguments and scuffles, the bond between them ran deep and true. They’d been growing into fine warriors, his brothers, fit to be initiated at the Spring of Shiloh, but that possibility was long gone, faded into the mist of might-havebeens. Because he’d failed them, hadn’t he?

And Amae, the little sister he’d adored.

The old pain twisted in Walker’s chest and he had to wait a moment to catch his breath. He hadn’t found her body, nor those of two other girls. The Trinitarians had taken them for torture and rape at worst, slavery at best. But he’d taught Amae to fight, and gods, she’d been fearless! She would have fought to the death, he had no doubt of it. Nonetheless, he spent five years in fruitless searching. It took a further three to completely extinguish the stubborn ember of hope.

He’d trekked alone through the desert then, to Shiloh. At the sacred Spring, he’d sung Amae’s Song, and for a short period, he lost his mind once more to the grief, as fresh as if the blood of the slain still trickled from the wounds, wet and warm and smelling of sweet copper.

His rage had made him careless. A few weeks later, he’d underestimated both diabloman and demon. Reflexively, he laid a palm over the claw marks on his hip. They weren’t especially deep, but the wounds had taken fifteen months of festering to heal properly. They still ached when he was tired.

Not now
. Walker inhaled the purple ebony scent of his dark roses, letting the
ch’qui
of the perfume obliterate the remembered stench of dark Magick, demon fog and spilled guts.

The assassin stared hopefully into his face, almost vibrating with tension. Gods, she was young. So very, very
hungry
. Passion and yearning shone in her eyes, still overlaid with that sense of wonder she hadn’t managed to lose. The Ancestors didn’t give the gift of intellectual curiosity to everyone.
Like you’ve gone away somewhere beautiful, but you’re still here,
she’d whispered. It wasn’t such a bad summation.

Amae’s face had sparkled with an expression very like that, though her eyes and hair had been as dark as his own. Standing side by side, the two women would be a study in obsidian and marble.

Don’t,
whispered the voice of good sense.
By the seven million Songs of the Ancestors, don’t do it.

If anyone needed to learn control, it was Mehcredi the assassin. The discipline of the
nea-kata
would give her that at least. Whether it brought the gift of peace in its wake was a different matter.

Walker stepped away from her. “Stand still,” he growled when she would have spoken, and she subsided, grumbling under her breath.

He took his time, studying the big body from heels to top of shining head. “You think you’re strong enough?”

Mehcredi drew herself up. “I’m stronger than most men.”

“I was referring to mental strength, but yes, you’ve lost some of the puppy fat, put on a bit of muscle.” Physically, she had the potential to be the most formidable woman he’d ever trained. “But you’re clumsy.”

Her head drooped, though he caught the faint curve of a triumphant smile. “I know.”

“Impulsive.”

“I try, honestly I do, but I—” A sigh. “Yes.”

“I won’t tolerate half measures, Mehcredi.”

She stared at him, frowning.

“The
nea-kata
isn’t a fad. It’s not even a martial art, though that’s part of it. It’s a spiritual practice. Be very careful before you decide. Do you understand?”

“No.” Her face lit up as if a sun had risen inside her. “You’ll do it?” She took a pace forward, putting out a hand. “Oh, Walker, thank—”

“Now you
are
being stupid,” he snarled. “You’re going to hate me, more than you do now, if that’s possible.”
Which will be an excellent thing
. “Dai says you’ve done enough penance as far as he’s concerned. I disagree.” He favored her with a thin smile, brimful of menace, and was gratified to see her breath hitch. “Are you sure, assassin?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Tomorrow at dawn, then. Usual place.” He strode away, feeling the prickle of her stare between his shoulder blades. The placid mirror surface of his contemplation pool jogged his memory. He turned. “Assassin?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s that shirt of mine?”

She sank down onto the bench, extending a pale leg to scratch the dog’s belly with her toes. “In the laundry,” she said, and bent down to ruffle the animal’s ears.

“Here.” Walker thrust a bundle of clothing into her hands. “We’re much of a size. Change.”

Mehcredi retired behind the screen of a ticklewhisker bush. Goose bumps rose on her skin as she stripped. There was a shirt, and the loose drawstring pants were no problem, though she had to roll the legs up a few times. Wondering if they were his, she buried her nose in a worn sleeve, but all she could smell was soap and sunshine. The third item, a wide strip of heavy linen with reinforced eyelets and sturdy laces, was a real puzzle. As she turned it over in her hands, she called, “What am I supposed to do with this belt thing?”

A short pause, then Walker’s voice said, “It’s a breastband.”

Oh, she’d heard of them. Well, that seemed sensible in the circumstances. It took her a couple of tries, but eventually, she wriggled herself into the thing and tied it off firmly. Experimentally, she flexed her shoulders. Oh yes, a breastband was an excellent idea. She slipped the shirt on over her head.

When she emerged, the swordmaster was gazing at something in the middle distance, as self-contained as ever.

“Where on earth did you get a breastband?” Mehcredi asked, grinning.

“Move over there,” he said, waving toward an area of closely clipped grass. “First posture.”

“Yes, but what about the—?”

Walker turned to face her, and though his expression didn’t change, she had the sense he’d stiffened. “I don’t respond to impertinent questions,” he said softly. “Much less from a student.”

Shit, not again. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I will have respect, assassin. Or your lessons finish before they begin.”

Gods no. Sweet Sister, she was so close! “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I have a problem.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Problems.”

“You think?” His long-lidded gaze burned into hers.

“I need to . . . explain something.” She wet her lips. “But it’s hard.”

“Go on.”

She got it out all in one breath. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

A black brow arched. “No reason you should.”

Mehcredi tried again. “I’m not . . . normal.”

The swordmaster continued to stare, unblinking. The silence grew like a living thing.

“I don’t know how to
be
with people,” she plowed on. “I don’t get jokes. I ask stupid questions, and then . . . everyone stops talking and
looks
at me.”

Walker made a
huh
sound, deep in his throat.

“See?” Mehcredi waved her hands in frustration. “What does that mean?” Tears of rage stung her eyes and she averted her face, refusing to let him see. “All I know is that you don’t like me.”

“What was your first clue?” The deep voice was very dry.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Gods, you tried to kill me!” A high-pitched giggle bubbled in her throat, but she gulped it down. Unconsciously, she pressed her hand to the curve of her breast, compressed behind a firm shield of fabric. “And you Marked me with your Magick. As a punishment.”

“Do you blame me?”

She shook her head. “I understand now,” she whispered. “Why you did it.”

The sleepy twitter of an early-morning bird broke the silence.

“We’re wasting time,” said Walker.

In her agitation, Mehcredi took a step forward. “But this is important!”

“To you perhaps.” He released a long breath. “All right, if it’s plain speaking you want?” Both brows went up this time.

“If you’re asking me, I . . . guess so.”

“Very well.” He folded his arms. “You, assassin, have no tact, no manners and, apparently, no finer feelings. Physically, you have potential, and I believe you possess a perfectly adequate brain—not that you appear to use it.”

Mehcredi’s mouth fell open. The blighting words washed right over her—she’d heard them all before, and worse. Tears welled up, trembled on her lashes and spilled over. “Then I’m not a great daft lump?”

“Who called you that?” he asked sharply. “Your parents?”

“Don’t have parents. Never did.”

“Family? Brothers and sisters?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Who brought you up then?”

Mehcredi wiped the tears away with the backs of her hands, relief coursing through her, heady and sweet. She was going to learn the
nea-kata
, she really was
.
“I did,” she said absently.

The swordmaster was looking at her so strangely. “How old were you? At the beginning?”

She shrugged. “Oh, quite little, I think. I could walk though.”

“Come here.” Walker drew her over to the grass. “Sit.” He pointed.

Bemused, but willing, she sank down and he settled cross-legged in front of her. “We’ll start the lessons tomorrow,” he said. “For now, I need to know about my student.” He held up a hand. “Just the highlights.”

Unlike Dai, the swordmaster asked questions, shrewd and sometimes difficult to answer. She had to think, and think hard. Sunlight grew and swelled, spilling over the trees and bushes, burnishing foliage to a blinding green.

“This Taso,” he said at last. “Did he catch you?”