The Lone Warrior (21 page)

Walker strode past her without a word of greeting and tossed the bundle onto the bed. He turned. “I got work on a caravan. We join them tomorrow on the spice road south. Everything all right?”

“Oh yes. Here.” She poured him a cup of tepid water from the jug and handed it over. “Walker?”

He drained the cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What?”

“I want to talk to you.”

A pause. Dark brows rose. “Go ahead. I doubt I could stop you.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. “Um.” Well, she had to start somewhere. She took the plunge. “You know how you taught me the
nea-kata?
”

“I trust you did some practice while I was gone,” he said dryly. “Yes, so?”

“I wanted to . . . to say thanks. It’s good, it helps.”

She was pretty certain surprise flashed across his features. But he merely nodded, busying himself unbuckling his sword belt.

“I had an idea.”

He drew the curved sword from its scabbard and squinted critically along the bright edge.

Mehcredi grabbed his arm. “I need you to listen!”

Walker glanced down at the hand on his sleeve and back up at her face. He’d gone perfectly still. “Don’t touch me, assassin,” he said, his voice very soft.

Little sparks went off in her head, like firecrackers, one after the other. Boom, boom, boom. “I. Am. Not. An. Assassin,” she got out through clenched teeth.

“True.” The muscle beneath her fingers relaxed a trifle. “Very well, what is this idea?”

“Forget it,” she muttered, turning away to gaze out the window. She gripped her hands together and concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out.

After a couple of minutes of strained silence, he muttered something under his breath. It sounded like a curse, but unlike all the other men she’d known, the swordmaster didn’t swear much, save for the strange oaths he refused to explain. “Godsdammit, woman, you’re thinking so loudly, they can hear you at the Grand Pasha’s palace. Whatever it is, say it.”

Mehcredi fixed her eyes on a tattered awning swinging in the evening breeze off the sea. “I know I wasn’t very good at the . . . the kissing. I haven’t done it before.”

She turned, her stomach jumping with excitement and nerves. The sensation was very like launching herself off a cliff. Would the swordmaster let her fall or catch her before she hit the ground? She met his hard gaze. “It’s a good idea,” she said, “really it is.”

He folded his arms, frowning. “Yes?” he said.

Mehcredi jumped, right out into space. Advancing until they were almost nose to nose, she forced her trembling lips into a grin, right in that handsome unsmiling face. “You taught me everything I know about anything,” she said. Pause for breath. “And I trust you and we need kissing for the disguise. Teach me how to do it properly.”

When he didn’t react, save for an indrawn breath, she threw caution to the winds, sliding her hands up over his shoulders. “I liked it. Can we do it some more?”

Walker’s hands came up to clamp over her wrists like manacles, but he hadn’t pushed her away. Her heart lifting, Mehcredi took another half pace forward, pressing her hips into his, feeling the hardness of his thighs against hers, a stirring beneath the fabric of his trews. Raising her chin, she spoke into the warm skin below his ear. “Show me. Teach me everything men and women do.”

She swallowed hard, wanting desperately to be clear, so he couldn’t misunderstand. Men liked to be crude, didn’t they? The baron’s men certainly did. Gathering all her courage, she whispered, “You can fuck me if you like.”

Walker exploded. In a single surge, he flung Mehcredi away from him and onto the bed, so hard that it listed to one side as a leg gave way under her weight. “Are you fucking
insane
?” he roared, his eyes blazing.

The dog jumped about at his feet, emitting sharp yips of excitement. “And you shut up!” It subsided, panting.

Sprawled against the wall, Mehcredi stared at his furious face, her mind wiped clean by the shock. “No,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, “I may be stupid, but I’m not insane.”

“I didn’t mean—” Walker broke off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods give me strength.”

“I thought about it carefully.” She sat up. “I know I’m not pretty, but I didn’t think you’d mind. Or at least not very much.”

“Didn’t think I’d—” The swordmaster blinked at her, his high cheekbones flushed.

“You got hard when you kissed me. I felt it.” She got to her feet and dusted herself off. “All men like sex, I know that much.”

The flush intensified. “That was mechanics. Mehcredi, this is out of the question.”

“I don’t see why.” To her intense interest, when she took a pace toward him, he retreated. “I’ve got a packet of mothermeknot and I drink a cup every morning. No babies, no matter what we do.”

Walker pulled off his head cloth and tugged viciously at his hair. “No.”

“But—”

“
No!
” The flimsy walls rattled.

They stared at each other.

Wrong again.
Ye great daft lump.
Biting her lip, Mehcredi returned to contemplation of the ragged awning across the way. “I’m sorry I’m so . . . funny looking,” she said to it. “I know you wouldn’t say no to Rose.”

Iron fingers sank into her arm and spun her around so fast she stumbled. “You are
not
funny looking.” Walker steadied her. “And you damn well know it.”

When she shook her head dumbly, he gave her a little shake. “I don’t want Rose. I never have.”

“Am I—?” She wet her lips. “Am I pretty? Even a little bit?”

For answer, he slid his hands around her throat, his thumbs brushing under her jaw. She could feel calluses and, remarkably, the faintest tremor in his fingers. “No,” he said slowly, and she wanted to hunch over the hurt, wrap her arms about herself for comfort.

“Pretty doesn’t come close.” A pause while his brows drew together. “Some might say—” He cleared his throat. “Magnificent.”

He never lied. All the hurt melted in a heady rush of pleasure. “Truly?” she whispered.

“Do you know what the lads call you at the House of Swords?” Walker’s eyes gleamed.

Bereft of speech, she shook her head.

“The Ice Goddess. Florien’s keeping a book on who thaws you out. He thinks I don’t know.”

Mehcredi goggled. “Who’s favorite?” she croaked.

Walker made a chuffing sound that could have signified amusement. “Dai.”

“But that’s silly!”

“Indeed?” A brow rose. “I thought you liked him.”

“I do, but I don’t want Dai, I want you!” she said impatiently, and just like that they were back where they’d begun.

He released her so abruptly, she staggered. “Well, you can’t have me.”

“Why not? You just said I’m pretty enough. At least, I think you did.” With a flourish, she produced her trump card. “You’re a man. You got hard.”

Walker shook his head as if besieged by a swarm of bitemes. “I am not having this conversation.” He bit off every word with an almost perceptible snap.

What an odd thing to say. Her brow knitted. “Of course you are.”

His chest rose and fell as he sucked in two deep breaths. “Mehcredi, people generally do as I tell them.”

“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?”