The Lone Warrior (33 page)

The bathhouse at the Three Rivers Inn was larger than Walker had expected, with a small cold pool in addition to the two hot tubs. He even took the opportunity to shave, though like all his people, he had so little body hair it was hardly necessary.

As he scraped away with the razor, his thoughts darted about like the tiny silvery fish that lived in the Spring of Shiloh, the ones that no one, not even the most skilled hunter, could catch. Where they came from, no one knew, but he had no difficulty in working out the origins of this unwelcome confusion of mind.

There was Mehcredi the assassin for a start, but she was his own very personal problem.

With a grimace, he returned to the puzzle of the massacre on the road. He’d already heard the crazy rumors flying around the souks—a djinn roaring in on the hot desert wind, death under its dark wings. Looked like Deiter might be right, curse him, though what of his lies about what-might-be? But how could he ignore even the smallest chance of finding a kinswoman? Gods, his head hurt.

Grimly, he stalked over to the nearest bath and sank beneath the steaming water. Out in the stables, by the light of the Sibling Moons, he’d completed not only the twenty-third
nea-kata
, but the twenty-fourth. The little dog his only witness, every movement had been precise, controlled. As close to perfection as the gods permitted a mortal.

He’d reaffirmed his purpose, dwelling unflinchingly on the memory of Nyzarl shouting orders to his demon, torturing himself with visions of the diabloman’s heavy-jawed face, glutinous with satisfaction as he surveyed the carnage. Nothing in this life would prevent him from completing the sacred duty the Ancestors had set him, not the old wizard and the nameless evil he feared, nor the assassin with her huge bright eyes and her foolish trust.

And yet . . .

Mehcredi intruded at every turn. Godsdammit all to hell, she had a Magick of her own. One moment his mind would be ticking over as it should, making plans about routes and horses and provisions, the next all he could see was her crestfallen face as he’d left her in their chamber with a bucket of warm water.

“But I’m
filthy
!” she’d wailed.

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “But you can’t go to the bathhouse. It’s men only.”

She’d kicked the bucket so hard water slopped over the tiled floor. As she hopped about on one foot, swearing, he hadn’t been even remotely tempted to laugh.

At the most inappropriate times, he’d flash onto visions of the things they’d done together, out in the desert dark, the fresh green scent of crushed feathergrass rising around them. He’d been a randy lad once, but that had been a lifetime ago. He had no desire to revisit his adolescence. But oh gods, the piquant contrast between her breasts—the right creamy and un-Marked, topped with a crest like a pale pink summerberry, the smooth flesh of the left proudly bearing the swirling brand of his Magick, the dark lines caging the innocent sweetness of the nipple.

Fuck, his mouth watered every time. He’d even found himself trying to decide which he preferred.

It was asinine.

Deliberately, Walker chose a coarse sponge, sat up and scrubbed with vigor. His body was his own to control, as was his mind. A Shar warrior did not buckle under pressure, not even when problems beset him like so many corpsebirds, each squawking for its share of attention.

The door opened to admit a corpulent merchant and his clerk. Walker nodded curtly in response to their greeting and ignored them thereafter.

Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian would honor his name. Bestowed by the Elders at the initiation that came with puberty, Shar names were long, involved and descriptive, an integral part of Shar culture.
Name the child, shape the life
.

A short literal translation would be something like Sheltering Branches, though entwined through the lilting syllables was the sense of a great green canopy stretching protective arms across the sky.

Walker allowed himself to slide completely beneath the surface of the water.

The spirit of it, though—that was another matter, and infinitely more complicated. The Ancestors had gifted him with Magick, made him a shaman so he could be the guardian of his people, their shelter and their refuge. And though the Elders had recognized that innate talent in him as a youth, they hadn’t known how catastrophically he would fail.

Without warning, his guts cramped and he emerged, gasping, slicking his hair back with both hands.

At his elbow, someone coughed politely. “Room for another?” said the clerk, gesturing at the huge square tub. In the other bath, the fat merchant lolled in solitary splendor, jowls shiny with sweat and water.

“I’m finished.” Walker glanced up and froze.

Here was Mehcredi’s
someone decent
. About thirty, neat dark hair, only the slightest thickening about his waist, clean soft hands, no scars. There was no cruelty, no slyness in the fellow’s face, only a dawning embarrassment as another man raked his nakedness up and down.

“It’s yours,” Walker snarled, water streaming off bronze skin as he rose.

“Uh, right. Thanks,” said the clerk, but Walker didn’t hear him.

Father’s balls, he’d been lounging about taking his ease like some godsbedamned pasha while all she had was a bucket and a washcloth. Worse, she would have finished long since. What was she doing right now? A cold void opened up under his breastbone. Fuck, fuck,
fuck
! Swiftly, he blotted his hair dry, tying it back into a long dripping tail. Then he scrambled into his clothes and took the stairs two at a time.

The room was empty, the covers on the two narrow beds firmly tucked. Her pack lay partly open on one of them.

Whirling, he charged downstairs to the bar. A dozen men glanced up with varying degrees of interest. Shit, no Mehcredi.

“My companion,” Walker growled at the barkeep. “The boy. Where is he?”

But the man only shrugged. “Haven’t seen ’im.”

“Meck, is it?” said another voice.

A tall stooped man in a blue head cloth stood at his elbow.

Walker cleared his throat, subduing the impulse to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat and choke the information out of him. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “My apprentice.”

“Bright lad,” said the tall man, his faded brown eyes lighting up. “No shyness about him at all. We had an interesting chat.”

“You did? About what?”

“The palace, the city. He asked excellent questions.”

“I bet he did,” Walker said sourly.

The other man cocked a brow. “You’re training him for the sword?”

“Yes. Where did he go?”

But the man said slowly, “I know boys, used to be a teacher. He’s a clever one, your Meck.”

The words
could do better
hung in the air. Walker gritted his teeth. “Believe me, I know.
Where did he go?
”

“Oh.” A rather wobbly smile. “Only around the corner to the Tygre’s Den. He wanted a decent place to eat and it’s cheap and clean.”

Gods, was she insane? A muttered word of thanks and Walker strode down the street in the direction indicated.

Trimegrace was a beautiful city, the jewel in Trinitaria’s crown, with buildings constructed of well-dressed seastone in every shade from purest white to sandy pink, and hanging gardens tumbling luxuriantly from roofs and balconies shaded by fretwork screens. Walker curled his lip. To one desert-bred, such a waste of water was downright obscene. But if it meant the Grand Pasha could gaze down upon his city from the towers of the Tri-Lobed Temple and rest his eyes on greenery, what the hell did it matter if the crops withered in the ground and his people starved?

The Three Rivers Inn was centrally located only two blocks from a popular souk, a clean well-lit area full of dining establishments ranging from outdoor cafes to expensive restaurants. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen it—that and some stupid desire to let her rest in comfort before the rest of it. An
adventure
, she’d said, eyes shining. After the charnel house they’d encountered on the road, he wondered if she still thought it so.

It took him no more than a single sweeping glance to locate his quarry, seated at a small outdoor table under an awning, an ornate brazier on a stand keeping off the night chill. Despite the tinted spectacles and the carefully arranged head cloth, Mehcredi’s elegant profile showed in relief, so clean and pure it could have been stamped on a coin. Beneath her chair lounged a small scruffy dog and next to her—

Walker inhaled sharply and his lips drew back in a snarl. What the fuck did she think she was doing?
I’ll take care of it myself,
she’d said, but he’d thought she’d try it dressed as a woman. She was going to get herself killed, the stupid little fool.

Because she’d caught herself a three-name, for sure, a perfect little lordling from the rings on his manicured fingers to the silk of his flowing robes with the understated embroidery down the front. Even in this part of the city, the man had to be slumming it, yet he looked—Walker frowned, so ferociously that the waiter who’d been about to approach him veered off to unfold already ironed napkins and refold them into fancy shapes.

The Trinitarian was everything he could have wanted for her, everything he’d promised her if only she’d wait.
Young and strong and clean
. His eyes were a trifle close together and his nose long and thin, but like the clerk, all Walker could see was
ordinary
. A Trinitarian, yes, with all the inherent bastardry of the race, but not a bad man.

Mehcredi leaned back, one arm thrown casually over the back of the spindly chair, those endless legs stretched out before her, a handsome youth on his first visit to the capital. The Trinitarian spoke rapidly, his features animated and intent, while she listened, a faint smile curving her pretty lips.

Walker narrowed his eyes, every instinct clamoring. No matter how innocuous the man seemed, one hunter recognized another. The Trinitarian’s gaze flickered from Mehcredi’s mouth to the open collar of her shirt, to her thighs in the snug trews. Naturally, the assassin was oblivious. His lips thinning with impatience, the man did it again, his posture a flagrant indication of what he desired.

No reaction.

If Walker hadn’t been so furious, he might have laughed at the other man’s discomfiture. But the instant the Trinitarian decided a direct approach might succeed where subtlety failed, all the turbulent thoughts coalesced into a flare of pure icy rage. The scene shifted into sharp-edged focus, one of those moments burned so deeply into memory, he knew he’d be able to recall it in every detail on his deathbed—if he lived long enough to have one.

All the essentials crystallized. The assassin bore his Mark, she was his to punish, his to pleasure. Her life belonged to him. Therefore he would not permit her to throw it away for any reason whatsoever, let alone rank stupidity.

He wasn’t aware of moving, but when the Trinitarian reached out to place a casual hand on Mehcredi’s knee, Walker caught his elbow in a crushing grip. “I wouldn’t,” he said, and watched the blood drain from the man’s face.

“Walker, what the—”

“Shut up,
Meck
.”

From under the table, the dog whined, sensing the tension.

“Who—?” spluttered the man. “Who do you think you are?”

“I am Wajar and this”—Walker turned so that his body screened the scene from the other diners—“is
my
boy.” From the back, they would appear to be engaged in a friendly conversation. When he dug in with vicious fingers, the man hissed with pain. “Mine, understand?”

The Trinitarian glared. “He’s of age.” The man had more nerve than he’d given him credit for.

“Meck,” said Walker without turning his head. “Whose boy are you?”

A pause and the scrape of a chair, then, “Yours, Wajar.” The tremor in her voice filled him with savage delight.

“Do you know who I am?” spluttered the Trinitarian.

“I imagine you’re related to someone important.” Slowly, Walker released him. “Whereas I am but a one-name. Scandal means nothing to me.”

“You wouldn’t!”

The swordmaster held his gaze. “Try me.”

The Trinitarian’s face went the same color as the ashes in a cold brazier.

“As for you . . .” Walker turned to Mehcredi.

What she saw in his face he couldn’t be certain, but she rose and took an involuntary step backward, her throat moving as she swallowed. “Don’t kill me,” she whispered.

“Oh no,” said Walker grimly, hustling her off down the street with a merciless grip on her arm. “That would be far too easy.”

But because she was Mehcredi, and therefore irrepressible and infuriating, she’d bounced back by the time they reached the chamber in the Three Rivers Inn. “All I wanted was a decent meal,” she argued as Walker bolted the door in the dog’s hopeful face. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”