The Lone Warrior (20 page)

He’d pick up employment as a caravan guard in Belizare easily enough. Merchants heading inland for the capital of Trimegrace could always use another sword on the journey south. The Grand Pasha appeared to have little grasp of everyday economic realities. Under his gods-centered but eccentric rule, bands of masterless men roamed the trade routes, preying on the caravans.

Finding a van master to employ him would be no problem—except for the assassin. His fingers slid under the veil to the nape of her neck and cupped it. As a wife, Trinitarian custom gave her some protection, however meager. No man wanted to raise another’s bastard. But as a slave, he might have to fight to prove his ownership, many times over. He ground his teeth. Only the presence of the sailors had prevented him from tossing Vezil overboard for the krakenfish and the jarracudas. Arrogant little shit.
Two-name
. A grim smile flitted over his features. He should have let Mehcredi have her head, though it would hardly have been fair. He’d have enjoyed watching her make mincemeat of the man.

If only she wasn’t so pale, but the beautiful ivory of her skin, her height and athletic frame—all of them fairly screamed
foreigner
. No Trinitarian would breed children upon a foreign female. They were exotic, for enjoyment only. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the sparkly darkness on the inside of his eyelids, but he wasn’t quick enough. Mehcredi stood in his contemplation pool, guilty but unrepentant, the fabric of her shift plastered to every contour of her magnificent body. Automatically, Walker spread his thighs to accommodate the surge of his cock.

Exotic? Gods, yes.

But innocent, untried. He licked his lips. They still burned. Gods, such a gorgeous uncomplicated response. How could any man resist it? She’d all but come undone in his arms, as if she’d been waiting all her life for his kiss, his arms to hold her close. Safe.

Should have left her to take her chances with Deiter,
he thought with a snarl. But if he were honest, he’d known almost from the beginning he couldn’t throw her to the old direwolf. A heavy rope of bound silk, the thickness of her braid slid smoothly across his knuckles, while his thumb brushed rhythmically over the vulnerable spot where skull met neck, the unobtrusive area where a Trinitarian master would place his tattoo. Spoiling the appearance of a bed slave with the usual ink on the cheekbone would reduce her value.

What little he knew of Mehcredi’s life said her earliest memories were of abandonment. Worse, the pattern had been repeated many times over, and yet she retained that bright-eyed sense of wonder, a desire for life and learning so powerful it transcended her fears. Amazing.

She murmured, shifting in her sleep, and one hand came to rest against his shin, a loose curl of fingers over hard bone. Nearly as big as his, broad palms, long fingers, short nails. Capable.

And against the dark of his robe, white as the upturned face of a nightpearl blossom.

Walker’s thoughts ran on, sorting and sifting various strategies. The slave thing was too dangerous—’Cestors save him, it was all too dangerous. She needed another disguise, but what? He drummed his fingers on one knee.

The
Spicy Venture
heeled into the wind and the mainsail boomed like a drum as the helmsman adjusted their course. The sound stirred him out of his reverie. He looked down and froze, shocked into immobility.

Mehcredi the assassin leaned comfortably into his leg, deeply relaxed and completely unconscious, holding on to him as if he were all that kept the nightmares away. None of that was news. The unwelcome jolt came from what
he
was doing.

Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian, last warrior of the Shar, an ice-cold hunter dedicated to vengeance, sat—oh-so-tenderly—caressing the back of a woman’s neck. ’Cestors’ bones! The stroking—gods, the
fondling—
that was bad enough, but the worst part—the absolute worst—was that he’d done it automatically, instinctively.

He snatched his hand away as if her skin had combusted beneath his fingers. The kissing must have temporarily disordered his brain, regardless of the necessity for it.

Mehcredi murmured something indistinguishable, her breath warm and moist on his thigh even through layers of fabric.

Walker’s ordered world spun, then steadied. Breathing hard through his nose, he stared down at the assassin’s sleeping form. Then he recalled the deaths of his brothers, his mother, his tribe, one by one, in excruciating, vivid detail, every scream, every sickening thud of metal and mandible against vulnerable flesh, every crack of bone and snap of sinew.

Unseeing, he stared at the silver sickle of the Sister, rising over the curve of the planet’s shoulder. His task was clear, as it had always been. Mehcredi was a peripheral consideration, a nuisance if he were to be brutally frank. Except—

He refused to glance down, acutely aware of her weight pressed against him.

Fuck it all to the seven hells, she
trusted
him. And he, unutterable fool that he was, had done nothing to disabuse her. Oh no, he thought caustically, far from it. You thought you were so bloody clever, didn’t you,
swordmaster
? Being tough, riding her hard, giving her the discipline and structure she’s always needed. Letting her earn the forgiveness she craves.

Something deep inside him wanted to twist and howl, but he held on to it with iron control, one hand gripping the hilt of the Janizar’s sword so hard the metal dug into his palm.

From the first, he’d assumed such extraordinary innocence must be a cover for cunning. No one could be so . . . direct, so transparent. But Mehcredi knew nothing of subterfuge, she was as clear as a mountain spring, every thought and feeling shown on her face, in those striking silver eyes. Walker’s chest squeezed, remembering the tilt of her head as she concentrated on his voice, the quick glances at his body when she thought he wasn’t looking, the brightness of her smile when the realization dawned that he wasn’t leaving her behind.

Well, fuck it all to the seven icy hells.

He’d ignored what his gut had been telling him all along, and this—this godsawful, godsbedamned mess—was the result. Mehcredi the assassin was as deeply imprinted on him as the little dog was on her. Who else did she have, after all? Who else cared? Walker tried to remember the last time he’d misstepped so comprehensively and came up empty.

Unless you counted surviving the massacre of everyone he’d ever known or loved. Amae’s laugh sounded in his head, no longer quicksilver, the way it had been in life, but harsh and mocking like the call of a corpsebird.

His course was set. He could keep Mehcredi safe—probably—but only if she did exactly as she was told. The puppy love didn’t matter, if that’s what it was. She’d grow out of it soon enough, and if she didn’t, the moment she saw what he really was, the infatuation would be over.

“Wake up, slave.” He nudged her with his knee, then bent to shake her shoulder.

“Mmpf?”

Walker stood, leaving her to flounder. “Come below. We have to talk.”

Below. In a cabin so narrow they couldn’t pass each other without brushing shoulders.

Mehcredi wobbled to her feet, yawning hugely under the veil. When the deck tilted, she grabbed his arm as if she’d been doing it all her life.

Father’s balls!

With a muttered curse, Walker shook her off and headed for the hatchway. It was going to be a long night.

In Belizare, Walker took a chamber for them in the souk, two floors above a bar that was little more than a dark slit in a stucco wall. The sun beat down into the narrow street, creating a sharp line of demarcation between deep wells of shadow and blinding reflections off sheer whitewashed walls and flat roofs. Faded canvas awnings in dusty shades of orange and umber struggled to provide shade for stall after stall, where everything from strangely shaped fruit and vegetables to leather sandals to miserable songbirds drooping in wire cages was on sale. The smell was indescribable, an almost palpable blow to the nose, a mélange of baked dust, rotting fruit and incense.

Sister save her, it was hot! Not the moist subtropical heat of Caracole, but something hard and dry like the bleached bones of a fallen desert idol. The moment they gained the privacy of the room, Mehcredi ripped the veil off and hurled the enveloping robes into the farthest corner.

Walker gave her another of those cool raking glances, grunted and shook his head.

“What? No one stopped us on the way.” She put her hands on her hips. “I was good. I even kept my hands in my sleeves, the way you said.”

“So you did, but you forgot to walk behind.”

The flush on her cheeks made her feel even hotter. “There were so many people. I was frightened I’d lose you.”

“Mehcredi.”

She stared at her boots.

“Look at me.”

Scowling, she lifted her gaze.

“You will not lose me, nor I you. I guarantee it.”

He wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. The way the thought steadied her was eerily like the peace of the
nea-kata
.

She inhaled deeply, about to ask the question burning in the back of her brain, but he forestalled her. “I have arrangements to make,” he said. “Swear to me you won’t leave this chamber, not for any reason.”

“No problem.” Mehcredi pulled a face. “I don’t think I like Trinitaria.” It was such an alien hard-edged place, with none of the elegant charm of Caracole. As for Lonefell—her lips twisted—the grimness of the baron’s icebound keep was a world away.

Eyes wide, Mehcredi perched on the end of the ramshackle bed, peering down at daily life in Belizare through a shuttered window. Despite her light trews and loose shirt, sweat gathered under her hair, in the small of her back. The dog retreated under the bed, a panting miserable bundle of fur.

Below, four men, obviously soldiers of some kind, swaggered into the narrow thoroughfare. They wore the same type of curved sword as Walker, but with plain serviceable grips. The crowds melted away before them and reformed behind, fluid as blue water in the wake of the
Spicy Venture
. The souk was full of robed bodies, women as well as men, but Mehcredi searched in vain for a bare female face.

She wasn’t watching for him, really she wasn’t, but when she caught sight of his tall lean figure, she leaned forward with a gasp, startled by the extent of her relief. A small bundle tucked under one arm, the swordmaster haggled with a food vendor, the old man’s hands flying as they spoke. Mehcredi grinned. Some things were universal. She’d seen exactly the same pantomime in the Melting Pot. No doubt the stallholder was the sole support of a dozen ailing grandchildren.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her pounding heart. The kiss on the deck of the
Spicy Venture
had been a revelation, not only turning her world upside down, but giving it a brisk shake as well. She’d never been—well,
inside
a kiss before. How could she have known? It had been totally amazing. A whole new area of human experience, as intriguing as swordplay and the
nea-kata
, as exciting and challenging, but this was something normal people did. She suspected they did it a lot. Gods, after a single taste, she would too, if she could.

Which brought her neatly to the problem—and the solution.

Mehcredi swallowed hard, firming her resolve. Godsdammit, she was going to do this, ask for what she needed. She had to know, had to learn. Last night, lying in the top bunk, listening to Walker’s even breath beneath her, she’d tamped down her excitement, forced herself to think the plan through, examine every angle. From her point of view, it made perfect sense, but unfortunately, her thought processes weren’t the same as other people’s. Since her arrival at the House of Swords, that had become clearer than ever. Sighing, she worried at a thumbnail.

But from the beginning, the swordmaster had seen
her
—Mehcredi—not a half-wit, but a person as real as he was. He hadn’t liked her much, true, but there’d been no beatings, no casual violence, no cruelty. Walker was unique—such a wonderful combination. For a start, she trusted him. He was an excellent teacher when he put his mind to it, stern and patient all at once. He pushed her to do her best. Her breath hitched. And gods, he was beautiful. Unconsciously, she pressed a hand against the Mark. She wanted him so badly.

Even better, he wanted her. Her eyes half closed with pleasure, she hugged the knowledge to herself. During that mind-altering, world-shaking kiss, she’d felt the hard evidence pressed against her. Mehcredi stifled a giggle. She’d aroused Walker, she, Mehcredi of Lonefell. Gods, it was a marvellous thought.

But by the time the prearranged knock came at the door, she was pacing back and forth across the dusty floorboards. As she lifted the heavy wooden bar, she sucked in a deep, steadying breath. She’d persuaded him to teach her the
nea-kata
, hadn’t she? And look how well that had turned out. This was just a little more . . . personal, but perfectly reasonable. He’d see it, she was sure. Sweet Sister, she was scared!