The Lone Warrior (57 page)

Mehcredi wrapped her arms around Scrounge and hung on tight as the flitter vibrated like a smoothly struck gong. The dog’s eyes rolled until she could see the whites all around and his poor little heart pattered against his ribs. She wasn’t in much better condition. Her ears hurt and she suspected she’d left her stomach behind on the last cloud they’d passed.

As soon as they leveled out, the Quintus gave the controls to a subordinate and shifted to sit next to Deiter. They conversed in low tones, the Scientist writing copious notes with a stylus on a sheet of smooth gray stuff she thought must be transplas. She’d heard of it but never seen it. She sighed. Godsdammit, she’d had an endless stream of questions all ready to ask, but it seemed flying disagreed with her digestion.

No one else had the same problem, it seemed, not even the strange Technomage woman called the Primus. Florien bounced in his seat, his eyes sparkling, while the rest sat at their ease in the big padded chairs, chatting. Of course, Walker didn’t chat. She doubted he knew how. Instead, he sat as far from her as possible within the confines of the craft, gazing steadfastly out the small round window at his side, and ignoring her completely.

Mehcredi made a point of ignoring him right back. She might be lost in a black sea of depression and hurt, but she’d rather die than have him know. She set her teeth and endured. With a kind of mean pleasure, she concentrated on her physical discomfort. Let him soul-link to her queasy stomach!

The Quintus had resumed control of the craft. Looking toward the nose of the craft, she could see his broad white-clad back, big hands moving deftly over switches and dials as he orchestrated the landing. Some glowed red, others green and yellow and blue.

The flitter side slipped. So did Mehcredi’s insides. Then, Sister be thanked, it settled with a small jarring bump. The whining diminished and ceased, the door clicked open and fresh air rushed in, scented with the threat of snow and resinous timber and horses and . . . beer?

Walker leaped to his feet and was down the ramp in a flash. More slowly, the others rose and followed. The Quintus had set them down neatly, in the center of the market square of Holdercroft. Various townsfolk stood around with their mouths open. A thin woman sat in a graceless puddle of skirts on the edge of the wooden boardwalk that lined the single rutted street, gloved hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes enormous.

Walker spun around. “Well?” he said to Deiter. “Where would she be?”

The old man shrugged. “Damned if I know. It was only a rumor.” His face brightened. “Ah, a tavern. Lord’s balls, I could do with a drink.”

Walker’s hand landed in the middle of his chest, rudely halting his forward progress. “Just a godsbedamned minute.”

The swordmaster’s angry gaze narrowed on the group clustered at the foot of the ramp. “What the hell,” he said, biting off each word, “do you people think you’re doing? You’re going home, remember? To Caracole.”

Mehcredi trembled. Sister save her. Fury was the smallest part of what he was feeling. Her head swam with the intensity of it—a stubborn hope he couldn’t quite manage to quell, terrible fear, an awful feeling of exposure, all of it underlaced with the near-certainty of disappointment. So savagely she could taste his urgency, Walker longed to get the whole godsbedamned thing over with and get the hell out.

What thing?

Prue sent the swordmaster a seraphic smile. “Meg lives here, Walker. Did you forget? Rose and I want to see the baby.”

“Meg?” Mehcredi whispered to Erik.

“Used to be housekeeper at The Garden,” Erik rumbled back. “Old friend.”

A man came out of the tavern, wiping his hands on the cloth tucked into his belt. “What’s all the excite—” His slate-gray eyes widened. “By the Brother!” A huge grin lit up his face. “Yachi!”

Yachi rushed past Mehcredi to pound the man on the back. “Rhio, you old dog!”

Chuckling, Rhio swept her up in a hug, ignoring the elbow she shoved in his gut. “Manhandling a superior officer, Sergeant.” Then he ruffled her hair and set her aside.

“Mistress Rose.” He bowed politely, but a crease knitted his brows. “And Mistress Prue.”

The frown deepened. “Walker.” The men exchanged handclasps. “Do you still have the Janizar’s sword I gave you?”

“Rhio?” Mehcredi whispered to Erik. “Isn’t he—?”

The big man shrugged. “Former Captain of the queen’s guard, that’s all I know. I’ve only met him once.”

Of course. The man’s military carriage was immediately apparent. She wouldn’t care to cross him, thought Mehcredi, despite the sprinkle of gray in his dark hair. This Rhio could handle himself.

Rhio’s gaze traveled to the Technomage craft, squatting like an improbable bird in the market square. “You came in a flitter,” he said slowly. “All of you. A
flitter
? What the hell is going on?”

“Long story,” said Walker brusquely. “I’m looking for a woman called—”

“Takeoff in two minutes,” said the Quintus cooly from the top of the ramp. “Stand clear.”

Slowly, Rose turned to face him. “My thanks,” she said in her beautiful voice. “I am indebted to you.” Delicate color painted in her cheeks. “We all are.”

The Quintus showed his teeth. “I concur.” He looked directly into her eyes. “Good-bye, Rosarina.” The door slid shut with a decisive hiss. Dust rose in a blinding cloud as the flitter rose smoothly to roof level and beyond. It circled over the village, gaining altitude. Then it did a casual loop-de-loop and, with a sound like a thunderclap, shot off toward the south.

“Show-off,” muttered Rose under her breath.

“Come on in,” said Rhio, ushering them into a well-kept taproom. “Draught ale good enough?

Deiter breasted the bar. “Wine? What about wine?”

Who was this woman Walker sought? What was she to him? Mehcredi’s heart twisted, seeing the tension in that lean muscular body. He held himself so tightly he was ready to snap. Her fingers trembling, she rubbed Scrounge’s ears.

When they settled, Rhio brought a couple of foaming tankards to the table. He grinned when Rose asked, “How’s Meg? And the baby?”

“The babe’s the cutest thing.” Rhio chuckled. “She’s got John wound right ’round her chubby little fingers. Have a bite to eat and I’ll find you transport out to the farm. Won’t take long at—”

Walker stood very still in the center of the room. “Where is the woman called Dancer?”

Rhio stiffened, but he finished serving the ale, clicking the tankards down with quiet precision. When he looked up, his gray gaze had turned to steel. “What do you want with her?”

The air thrummed.

Without fuss, Yachi ranged herself on Rhio’s left, her homely face calm and watchful.

“You know her?” Rhio said. His eyes locked with Walker’s. “Answer me.” A blade had appeared in Rhio’s fist.

Mehcredi’s breath caught. Gods, the man was good! She hadn’t even seen him move. Silently, she pushed her chair back and stood.

A door banged open on the far side of the room. “Rhio, did you see who was on the—Oh!”

A woman paused two steps into the room. She was tall and slim with a wealth of shining black hair, tamed with a couple of silver clips. “I am sorry, I did not realize we had guests. Forgive me, yes?”

Walker fell back a step, his breath hissing from between his teeth. Never in all the time Mehcredi had known him, had he looked so awful, not even after the battle of Guardpass. Instinctively, she moved closer, ready to prop him up. Or to break his fall.

Rhio slipped an arm around the woman’s waist. “This is Dancer,” he said flatly, threat and promise both clear in his tone.

Walker said nothing, but his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Dancer’s dark eyes flicked from one face to the next, finally returning to Walker. A crease appeared between her straight brows as she studied him. Slowly, horror dawned on her face. Her eyes widened.

She made the strangest sound, a sort of guttural sob, and her beautiful olive-toned skin went the color of putty. “No,” she whispered, holding out a hand as if to ward off a nightmare. “It c-can’t be.” Her eyes rolled up. As she staggered, Rhio caught her.

“Sweetheart. What the fuck—?” He cast Walker a murderous glare. “Talk.”

Walker said something in what Mehcredi recognized as Shar, flowing syllables with a rising inflection at the end. A question, he’d asked a question. His knuckles whitened on the back of a chair as he waited, his whole frame shuddering. Mehcredi began to shudder too, the turmoil rolling off him so intense she could scarcely process it and remain upright.

Dancer’s eyes fluttered open. “
W-Welderyn?
” She gained her feet, pushing Rhio aside. “But you’re dead. They’re all—” Her breath caught on a sob.

Walker shook his head. “No,” he said in a painful rasp. “Not all.” He took a jerky step forward. “Oh, Amae.”

An instant’s silence and Dancer flew to meet him, colliding with Walker’s chest so solidly that he grunted. His arms banded around her and he bent his head, their hair mingling in a great fall of black on black.

Gods
. “It’s her,” whispered Mehcredi. Her eyes prickled. “Your sister.”

Walker raised his head to stare hungrily into the woman’s face. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He framed her cheeks in his hands. “I looked for you,” he said. “Everywhere, in every face. Always.”

“Fook,” hissed a small disgusted voice. “He’s cryin’ like a girl.
Walker
.”

Prue poked Florien in the ribs. “He’s allowed.” She sniffed hard. “Come on. Let’s leave them to it.”

“But it’s jest gettin’ innerestin’—
Hey!
”

Erik picked the boy up and stuffed him under one arm. “Privacy,” he growled. “You may have heard of it.”

Still clinging fast to his wine jug, Deiter had to be removed from the bar by main force. “Right again.” He smirked, once they were all out on the boardwalk. “Gods, am I good or what?”

Mehcredi leaned against the building, her knees weak. Slowly, she let herself slide down until she could sit, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She hadn’t known that joy and grief were so closely intertwined, like a lover vine wrapped around a thorn tree, its gorgeous perfume rising from among the wicked spines. How could she? She hadn’t known anything.

“Want to come?”

Mehcredi looked up at Prue. “Uh, where?”

Prue smiled. “To Meg and John’s. To see the baby.”

Mehcredi struggled to her feet. “I don’t know anything about babies.” Gods, her head hurt. Unobtrusively, she put a hand behind her and braced herself against the wall.

“Then it’s time you learned,” Prue said briskly.

What had he said? Distance lessened the effect? “All right,” she said.

It worked, to the extent that she dozed off to the rocking of the cart long before they reached the Lammas farm. Meg was tall and fair . . . nice, she thought. And John was a giant, so big she felt waifish beside him. Which was also kind of nice. He was a good-looking man too, his handsome face marred by a dark tattoo that sprawled across one cheekbone. Three times she opened her mouth to ask what it was and three times the conversation moved on before she was able to get a word in.

“Here,” said Rose, thrusting a warm wriggling bundle into Mehcredi’s arms. “Your turn.” As she bent forward over little Annarose, she whispered, “Trinitarian slave tattoo. Tell you after we leave.”

Mehcredi looked down into the baby’s huge blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. The child hiccupped and a stream of milky drool dribbled down her chin. Mehcredi shot to her feet, panicked. She held a squirming Annarose out at arm’s length. “Oh gods, she’s sick. What do I—”

Immediately, the baby’s face crumpled and she let out an ear-piercing wail, tiny fists flailing.

Cenda swooped. “Five-it! Here, give her to me.”

In no more than a minute, the fire witch had the little one cooing, reaching out to grab at the swaths of red hair over her temples. Mehcredi blew out a relieved breath. But why was there grief in Cenda’s tender expression? Her fingers trembled as she stroked Annarose’s cheek. Gray sat close, his arm around her shoulder, his shadow at his side.

A little startled, Mehcredi reached out for another of Meg’s curdle pies. What had happened to her crystal bubble, the invisible walls that divided her from normal people? The comfortable chatter of old friends washed over her as she thought it through. Walker was right—she’d
grown
somehow. Given the amazing adventures of the past month, it was hardly surprising. But still . . .

From under her lashes, she studied the other people in Meg’s comfortable sitting room. Sitting tucked into Erik’s arm, Prue’s whole body radiated contentment, her face animated. Yes, she was delighted to be among friends. Rose too. She’d blushed with pleasure on hearing Meg and John had named the baby after her. The depth and ease of the long-standing friendship between them was beautiful to see.