The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Innumerable stars twinkled smearily against the night sky, the serene silver disk of the Sister dipping toward the horizon on a bank of cloud, the Brother at Her heels.

  Below, Walker stepped into a small skiff moored at the foot of the stairs. He paused, his head lifting, staring at her for the space of a single heartbeat. Then he grasped the pole and sculled smoothly away down the canal without a backward look.

  When she glanced down, her head swam. No wonder he wasn’t concerned. The attic room had to be four flights up, and the wall was sheer—no handholds, convenient pipes or trellises. Knowing it was hopeless, she crossed to the door. But she couldn’t shift it. Even the nightstand was useless, empty except for a thick layer of dust, the water jug and the cup.

  Dully, Mehcredi sank onto the bed, the night breeze cooling her cheeks and playing with her hair. If she propped herself up with the thin pillow at her back, she could see out the window and straight down to the canal. Still shaking a little, she settled down to watch and wait.

  Ye great daft lump!

  Could she have made a greater mess of it? Not only poisoning the wrong man, but—Oh, gods. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, but behind them, painted on her eyelids, she saw Dai’s body twist and heave, bloody foam flecking his lips. What must it feel like to experience such excruciating, relentless pain? Like having your throat lined with shards of glass? Experimentally, she swallowed, trying to imagine it. She succeeded so well that, for a hideous moment, she thought she might vomit. Curling into a fetal position on the bed, Mehcredi wrapped her arms around herself and rocked.

  Sister save her, she should have stayed at Lonefell. At least she knew what to expect there, horrible as it was. Rough, bruising hands, beery laughter and offhand brutality. C’mere, ye half-wit slut. There was a limit to the number of hidey-holes big enough to accommodate her, even in a rambling keep. One day, she’d be trapped.

  Sister save her, what if it was one of the baron’s guards, a man she couldn’t fight off, ruthless enough to kill her when he was done?

  Gazing blankly at the moonslight glancing off the dark wavelets in the canal, she compared the expression on Walker’s face with that of the baron’s men. Contempt and anger, nothing subtle, nothing she had to guess at. But—she frowned, grappling with thoughts that slid away like small slippery fish—surely there was some kind of difference?

  Walker had said he’d make her pay and she believed him absolutely. Whatever he had in mind was going to hurt. A lot.

  But when he’d stared into her eyes, he hadn’t been looking at a punching bag or a receptacle for his lust. Drawing a breath, she squared her shoulders. No, he’d seen an assassin, someone who mattered . She’d never mattered before, to anyone.

  Her stomach still aching, Mehcredi rose and began to pace. Three steps forward, a glance out of the window, turn, three steps back, another glance.

  Walker returned with the sunrise, appearing out of the dazzle on the water like a djinn, so she had to squint to make him out. Five interminable minutes later, the door opened though she hadn’t heard his footfall in the passage. He’d confined the rippling wealth of his hair at the nape of his neck with a leather tie. It exposed the grim severity of his jaw, highlighting the strong bone structure of his face. If possible, he looked even more formidable.

  Mehcredi hurried into speech before her nerve could fail her. “I’m ready,” she said. “Beat me, flog me, whatever. I promise I’ll leave Caracole straight after. You’ll never see me again.” She’d been beaten often enough. She could take it.

  Walker’s brows winged up. “It’s tempting, but no.”

  Her heart leaped into her throat. “You mean I’m free to go?”

  His mouth curved. “You can try, assassin.”

  Mehcredi knitted her brows. Clearly, he meant for her to understand something. But what? The familiar frustration welled up. Why didn’t people say what they meant straight out?

  “You’ll have to tell me,” she said bitterly. “I’m stupid, after all.”

  His eyes did that widening, narrowing thing again. Then, slowly, his lips pulled back from his teeth. He looked . . . hungry. “You’re mine,” he said. “I Marked you.”

  Mehcredi’s mouth fell open. “What?”

  Walker indicated her chest with his chin. “Have a look.”

  Almost light-headed with terror, she turned her back, ripping at the laces of her shirt. She stared down. On the inner slope of her left breast, beneath the curve of smooth, pale flesh, gleamed a pattern of intricate whorls and spirals, like ritual smoke trapped under glass. Except it wasn’t gray or black, but a deep greenish bronze.

  Mehcredi patted the sinuous shapes with frantic fingers. No pain. Her skin felt exactly the same, warm and smooth. It wasn’t a tattoo. She whirled around. “Damn you! What have you done? What is it?”

  “I told you.” His eyes glinted. “My Mark. To ensure you are mine for as long as I wish it. Your penance, assassin.”

  Every vestige of warmth bleached from the gold-tinted ivory of the assassin’s skin, leaving her the color of old bone. Grimly entertained, Walker watched her process the implications of the Mark, wondering if she might pass out with terror. No problem, the bed was right behind her.

  “You touched me!” Her husky contralto, already adversely affected by the brutal way he’d choked her, cracked on an ugly rasp.

  “Obviously. To do that, I had to.”

  Mehcredi scrambled back onto the bed, as far away from him as it was possible to get within the confines of the attic room. “I don’t like to be touched,” she whispered. “And what do you mean, yours?”

  “Not what you’re thinking.”

  Walker surveyed her from top to toe, taking his time over it, letting her see his scorn, his indifference. He needed to make his meaning clear because, judging by her face, the assassin was bracing herself to resist a rape. Which didn’t say much for her previous associates.

  He spoke with quiet deliberation. “Don’t flatter yourself. You are not appealing to me in any way whatsoever.”

  A painful flush scalded Mehcredi’s cheeks. He let his insolent gaze wander over her body, as if she were a beast at market. She shook so hard, the bed ropes creaked. Good.

  “Your skin is fine enough, I suppose. And your coloring is certainly unusual. Silver eyes are rare in the Isles and unknown in Trinitaria.” He made his face bland. “You’d bring good creds in a southern slave market.” She really was going to faint. “A novelty item.”

  “No. Please.” Her mouth shaped the words, but no sound emerged.

  Abruptly, the game lost its savor. “The Mark ensures you cannot escape.”

  Her brow creased with puzzlement.

  “As for your punishment . . .” He paused for effect, conscious of the fixed intensity of her gaze. “I want you to see what you did at close quarters, to feel the impact of it with every beat of what passes for your heart. You will care for what you damaged.”

  He pinned her with a steady glare. “If your touch is anything less than tender, the Mark will cause you unimaginable pain. I trust you believe me?”

  Mehcredi wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  “What, again? You really are stupid, assassin,” he said cruelly, and watched her flinch. It was strange though, because he could swear he saw intelligence, shining bright as a blade in those amazing eyes. And something that might have been childlike curiosity, swiftly veiled.

  When he leaned forward, she shrank away. “You will be Dai’s nursemaid,” he said. “You will feed him, wash him—sit by his bed and sing to him, if that’s what he wants.”

  “He’s not going to”—again, the tongue swiping across pale pink lips—“die?”

  “The healers say not.” Gods, he hadn’t talked so much in years.

  His hand on the latch, Walker turned back to face her. “When Dai doesn’t need you, there’s plenty of dirty work in the scullery, the laundry, the stable. Go see Serafina in the
kitchen, she’ll tell you what to do. Not an idle moment, assassin.”

  Her gaze flicked past him to the unlocked door. Whatever this woman’s gifts, subterfuge wasn’t among them. Unless she was diabolically clever and the ineptness was an act. But somehow, he didn’t think so.

  He said, “Dai is on the floor below, third door to the left, the room with the view over the water. I called in. He’s conscious, more or less, and he knows you’re coming.”

  After a frozen moment, she nodded. Smiling grimly, Walker closed the door quietly behind him. With his usual soundless step, he went downstairs, out to his favorite spot in the garden, a secluded nook where he’d built a small, irregularly shaped pond. Sitting on a bench in the thin morning sun, he waited, listening to the contented burble of running water. When a touchme bush nuzzled his shoulder, he smiled faintly, brushing his fingers over the silvery blossoms. Their happy chime melded with the sound of the fountain.

  Any minute now.

  From where he sat, screened by the bushes, he could see straight into the fighting salle, the large, airy space empty at this early hour, its sides open to the garden. A rectangle of darkness appeared at the far end, Mehcredi’s vague figure hovering uncertainly in the doorway. Go ahead, thought Walker. Get it over with and stop wasting my time.

  But instead of rushing, the assassin lingered, drifting around the perimeter of the room, her face alight with wonder as she examined the racks of weapons on the walls. The touchme bush tinkled mournfully when Walker moved it gently aside. What would she choose? The practice swords were all either wood or blunted metal, but there were throwing stars, a couple of maces, an entire wall full of quarterstaves. And out of reach, high on the opposite wall, a Trinitarian Janizar’s two-hander, consisting of a broad curved blade with a jeweled hilt and a poniard so thin it resembled a meat skewer.

  Mehcredi grabbed a quarterstaff and gave it an experimental swish. A huge grin bloomed on her face and she executed a funny little lockstep. When her eyes sparkled like that, she looked nothing like the sullen lump he’d just interrogated. Walker’s breath caught in his throat, Pounder’s rough bass echoing in his head. Who’d a thought it?

  The quarterstaff twirled, wobbled and collected the assassin smartly on the shin. “Ow!”

  Immediately, she glanced around, guilt and apprehension in every line of her. After a moment or two, she relaxed, dropped the staff and bent right over to roll up the leg of her trews, her rounded bottom hoisted in the air.

  Walker frowned. Mehcredi had to be the oddest assassin he’d ever encountered. She was certainly flexible enough, as she’d just demonstrated, but her coordination left everything to be desired. How in the Ancestors’ names had she passed the Circle tests? The Assassins’ Guild insisted on them.

  Gingerly, she limped over to the rack and replaced the quarterstaff. He knew the moment she caught sight of the Trinitarian blades on the wall because she went completely still. She thought for what seemed an endless time, one hand absently massaging the necklace of bruises he’d left on her throat. Then she rose on tiptoes, stretching an arm high over her head.

  Her fingertips scrabbled uselessly against the wall, at least a foot too short. Now what, assassin?

  Her gaze darted around the salle. Biting her lip, she crossed to the door and peered back down the silent passageway. Apparently satisfied, she flipped the lock. Walker shook his head. Any halfway decent sneak thief would have done that in the first place, let alone a Guildtrained professional.

  Mehcredi picked up a heavy wooden bench from under a window and wrestled it over to the wall. Now that was impressive. He didn’t know another woman strong enough to do that by herself.

  Stepping up easily onto the bench, she examined the curved sword, probably drawn by the glitter of gems if the way she was running her fingers over the hilt was any indication.

  A stifled yelp sharpened his attention. Still standing on the bench, Mehcredi glared at her forefinger. Then she wiped it on her shirt and stuck it in her mouth, looking so like a petulant child, he almost smiled. Favoring the curved sword with a last, accusing glower, she turned her attention to the thin wicked dagger. With the utmost caution, she lifted it from the supporting brackets, keeping the point well away from her body.

  But once she’d gained the floor, she didn’t know what to do with it. She had no sword belt, no scabbard or sheath, only the clothes she stood up in. When she tried to shove the blade into her waistband, she came within a hairsbreadth of disemboweling herself. Walker winced.’Cestors’ bones, didn’t she know to put it in her boot? What was the Assassins’ Guild teaching these days?

  Eventually, she worked it out for herself and slid the evil thing into her left boot. Despite the fact she was right-handed, thought Walker in irritation. Cautiously, she stepped out into the garden, her wary gaze passing straight over the touchme bushes that concealed him. On the other hand, she ignored the obvious, the path down to the water stair. Instead, she sidled to the rear corner of the building and peered around it. With an audible huff of relief, she headed toward the stable and the garden sheds.

  Silently, Walker rose and padded after her.

  Beyond was a small gate giving out onto the narrow street that ran behind all the buildings facing the canal. As the assassin swung it open, he saw her shoulders lift in a huge sigh.

  A sharp bark rent the silence. Mehcredi froze, glaring down at the shaggy mongrel capering around her knees. It was an indeterminate color, something between brown, gray and dirt, with a tail like a tattered flag.

  “Will you shut up?” she hissed, her voice carrying clear as a deep sweet bell in the still morning air. “And stop following me! This is all your fault!”

  Walker very nearly laughed aloud, which was a strange thing in itself. In general, he didn’t find life amusing.

  Unfazed, the dog continued to prance, its whole attitude one of cheerful adoration. Walker suspected there was a toothy grin hidden somewhere under the hair, although only the tip of a black quivering nose was visible.

  With a final furtive glance over her shoulder, the assassin stepped into the street.

  She stopped in midstride, as if she’d run into a wall. One hand flapped about in a vague sort of way, while the other clutched at her chest. Mehcredi crumpled, shrinking into herself. Her knees went from under her and she fell back through the open gate, landing hard on her backside in a mud puddle.

  Gods! Walker took two rapid strides forward, his hand extended.

  But the assassin was making too much noise to be dead, rocking back and forth, moaning and hugging herself. The dog nosed at her face, whining and licking.

  Walker exhaled carefully, fading back behind the sweeping branches of a convenient widow’s hair tree. The Mark was working as it should. For a second there, he thought he might have miscalculated and killed her. Setting his jaw, he told himself to enjoy the spectacle, and waited. An eternity later, she batted the dog out of the way, uncurled and sat up slowly, tears shining on chalk white cheeks.

  “Get out of it, you scrounger,” she muttered to the little animal, but without much venom. Slowly, she climbed to her feet and turned to stare at the House of Swords.

  Almost in full view save for the foliage of his tree, Walker froze and her gaze passed right over him. Again.

  Mehcredi wiped her face on her sleeve and sniffed loudly. Then she tugged ineffectually at her muddy trews. “Ah, shit!” she said with tremendous feeling.

  Satisfaction warmed Walker’s chest. The penalty for disobedience. Off you go now, assassin, do as you’re told.

  But to his surprise, she spun on her heel, hauled in a huge breath and charged the gate with her head down like a human battering ram.

  In the second it took him to reach her, she screamed and went down in the street as if poleaxed. Without ceremony, Walker wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and hoisted her bodily to her feet. “I told you,” he snapped, hauling her back through the gate.

  Gulping, Mehcredi leaned hard again
st his arm, her face a ghastly shade of gray.

  “Throw up on me,” he said, “and I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

  Huge silver eyes stared into his. “T-too late.” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and her next words came out muffled. “I already am—sorry I was born, I mean.

  Yanking the shirt away from her skin, she peered inside. Walker averted his gaze from what looked like smooth curves of finest-quality alabaster.

  “Gods, what have you done to me? What are you?”

  3

  “I was a shaman among my people once, long ago, before I took to the sword.”

  Walker’s mouth shut like a trap, as if he hadn’t meant to say even that much.

  For the gods’ sakes, where had he come from? One minute she’d been alone, save for the bloody dog, but making her escape easily enough. The next, her heart caught fire and exploded in her chest. Before the black spots cleared from her vision, Walker had materialized, seemingly out of thin air, wearing his hunter’s face.

  “A shaman?” Her bones were still rattling like a snow birch in a winter gale, her left breast burning as if she’d been branded. Mehcredi locked her knees. “Is that like a necromancer?”

  “No.”

  He was angry with her again—or perhaps he’d never stopped.

  “Are you a wizard?”

  “No.” Walker turned and strode toward the building, but because he hadn’t released his iron grip on her arm, she was dragged along behind him like a naughty child. Sweet Sister, he was strong, stronger even than the Lonefell blacksmith. He’d lifted her out of the mud as if she weighed next to nothing.

  The dog trotted at their heels with the jaunty air of one about to be entertained.

  Mehcredi tried to pull free without success. “You hurt me!”

  Walker slid her a stern glance. “Step outside the gate and you will die, assassin.”

  Atavistic terror raised all the small hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t doubt him.

  The Necromancer had swum into her dreams, descending on her like a foul cloud, his cruel, spectral fingers sinking deep into her body, tweaking and pinching her nerves. The violation had had a malicious intent to it, a kind of hideous relish. Walker’s Mark was just as lethal, but somehow, it felt impersonal. Like a tygre lying in wait to cut out the weakest in the herd, it was what its nature made it and no more. Only . . . she wasn’t the weakest, was she? Stupid might be stupid, but it had its own stubborn endurance.