The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Immediately, Mehcredi pulled the veils off and threw them aside. She clawed at her braids, shaking them free. “Gods, that’s better! Would you really make me sleep on the floor?”

  Walker’s hard mouth twitched. “You could have had the blanket,” he said gravely.

  With a sneeze, the dog emerged from beneath her robes and the swordmaster’s jaw knotted. “No,” he said. “Hell, no.” He shot a measuring glance from the dog, now leaning against Mehcredi’s leg with his tongue lolled out in a canine grin, to the porthole and back again.

  “Please.” She wet her lips. “He’s clean, I promise. No bitemes.”

  “That’s not the point.” Walker stepped forward and the dog bounced to his feet, tail waving. “We’re still anchored. It’s a short swim.”

  Something in Mehcredi’s head went snick ! She heard it distinctly. Without knowing how she got there, she found herself standing breast to breast with the swordmaster, her fingers digging into his biceps. They were almost nose to nose. “He’s my friend—the only one I’ve got!” She shook him for emphasis, but it was like trying to shift a cedderwood.

  Walker said quietly, “It’s dangerous where we’re going, even for dogs. If he’s truly your friend, put him out the window. He’s a survivor.”

  Stubbornly, Mehcredi shook her head. “I’ll look after him. I promise.”

  Walker’s midnight eyes studied her features, one by one. After an endless time, he cupped her cheek in his callused palm.

  “You’ve finally learned to care, assassin.” One thumb brushed across her cheekbone in an unconscious caress. “I don’t recommend it.” His mouth twisted and the warmth of the touch fell away.

  “Are you angry?” Mehcredi pressed shaking fingers to the spot.

  Before he could reply, a huge rumble emerged from the bowels of the vessel. Every timber creaked in protest as the ship shuddered from bow to stern. “We’re weighing anchor,” he said. “Do you want to watch?”

  But Mehcredi had already twisted her hair into a knot and grabbed her veils. Exhilarated, she hurried to the door, only to feel hard fingers lock onto her elbow and spin her back into Walker’s chest.

  “Behind me at all times, woman. Remember?”

  “Are you angry?” she asked again.

  Walker shook his head, his face even more hawklike in the frame of the head cloth. “I will be if you or that misbegotten mongrel gets us killed.”

  “What are we doing in Trinitaria? You didn’t say.”

  He set his back to the door and fixed her with a level gaze. “I have a man to kill, that’s all you need to know for the moment.”

  With a finger under her chin, he closed her sagging jaw. “Come on.”

  12

  They stayed on deck until the dark shadow of Caracole disappeared below the horizon. The dog found a spot out of the way of traffic and dozed off, whimpering occasionally in his sleep. The sun shone, the water hissed merrily along the hull, creaming into a long frothing wake—the kind of day that made you glad to be alive. Unfortunately, the veils itched as if they were infested with bitemes. Mehcredi longed to rip the godsbedamned things off and let the wind snatch them away.

  Slim dark shapes sped along beneath the water, riding a bow wave that curved like a traveling wall of blue glass. When one, then two, then three, broke through, she gasped aloud. Gossamer wings, wider than the creatures were long, spread to catch the wind. Where sunlight hit the streamlined bodies, they sparkled with rainbow iridescence.

  “Skimwings,” said Walker’s voice in her ear.

  To speak would have spoiled it. Mehcredi hung out over the rail, only peripherally conscious of the strong fist that gripped the back of her robe and kept her safe.

  “Greetings,” said a voice from behind. “Calm seas today, thank Trimagistos.”

  Mehcredi spun around, but Walker didn’t move, and she realized he’d known the man was there.

  The captain had set aside a small area for passengers forward, with a small sail rigged for shade, a couple of chairs and a rug on the deck. Upended, a half barrel served as a makeshift table. The sailors gave the space a wide berth, their weathered faces dark with dislike.

  A small man, his swarthy face soft and round beneath a red- and white-striped head cloth, sat bolt upright in one of the chairs. He shrugged, smiling. “I confess I’m not a good sailor. Please.” Indicating a carafe and a couple of cups, he sighed. “Do join me. I long to hear a voice from home.”

  “My thanks.” With a nod, the swordmaster took the other seat. A hard hand on her shoulder pressed Mehcredi to her knees beside him. “I am Wajar.”

  “Vartan Vezil.” The little man’s chest expanded as he pronounced both the names. “You are returning home?”

  Walker gave a curt nod. “I have completed my task in the Isles.” Negligently, he caressed the hilt of the curved sword. “And you?”

  Vezil’s gaze dropped to follow the motion. “I’ve just come from the court of she-devil. Thanks to the Three my tour of duty is over.” He made a complicated gesture that traveled from forehead to chest to groin. “Faugh, the eunuch stink of it.” Turning his head to the side, he hawked and spat.

  Suddenly, his voice changed, grew sharp. “What are you waiting for, woman?”

  Mehcredi started.

  Walker nudged her leg with a casual toe. “Serve,” he said. “And be quick about it.”

  Biting her lip, she poured two cups of chilled wine. Her mouth was parched. But when she offered a cup to Walker, he frowned. “Not me.”

  Flushing, she turned to Vezil.

  “What’s wrong with her?” said the little man, frowning.

  Walker’s mouth shut like a trap. “Nothing.”

  Vezil stared at her hands, the only part of her exposed. “Not Trinitarian,” he said with certainty. “Too pale. Wife or slave?”

  Walker’s eyes flickered, and for the first time ever, Mehcredi had a flash of genuine insight. The swordmaster was weighing his options and he didn’t care for either one.

  “Slave,” he said, his lips barely moving.

  “Hmm.” Vezil’s stare felt sharp enough to penetrate the veils. Mehcredi’s skin crawled. “Looks exotic. Had her long?”

  “A few months.”

  “Stand up straight, girl,” said Vezil. “Let me look at you.”

  Startled, Mehcredi shot a glance at Walker and received the slightest nod in return. Very well. She’d show the little worm. Taking her time, she straightened her spine, squaring her shoulders and pulling in a deep breath. She took a calculated step sideways, knowing she was looming, blocking the Trinitarian’s sun, intending to do it.

  “Oh yes.” Far from being intimidated, Vezil’s eyes brightened. His tongue crept out to wet his lips. “She a strong ride?”

  Walker gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “It’s been too long.” Vezil lifted his cup in a toast and drank deeply. “Ah.” He smacked his lips. “Send her to me tonight, will you?”

  For the space of a few heartbeats, the world stopped turning on its axis. Then common sense returned and Mehcredi had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop the chuckle. She had to be a foot taller than this shrimp. Gods, she could snap his spine over her knee. With a grin beneath the concealment of the veil, she waited for Walker to wipe Vezil from the face of the earth.

  Sails flapped, water gurgled and rushed, hurrying on its way past. Sailors’ voices rumbled in the distance. No. Gods, no, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t—

  “I have not yet had my fill,” said the swordmaster calmly.

  Vezil set his cup down with a clink. “I don’t understand.” A frown creased his brow. “You’re a one-name. What’s the problem?”

  “This,” gritted Walker, “is the problem.”

  In a single smooth movement, he rose, grasped Mehcredi around the waist and swung her into his body, her back to the Trinitarian. The other hand flipped up her veil. Before she could blink, the swordmaster’s hard mouth descended on hers.

  “Mmpf,
” she said as their teeth clinked. Her fingers clutched spasmodically at his shoulders. She couldn’t breathe. This was a kiss, this . . . this invasion? Godsdammit, she was going to pass out for lack of air. She stiffened, pulling back.

  Walker’s fingers flexed against her cheek in an unmistakable signal, the pressure of his lips eased and she could breathe again, more or less. Sweet Sister, this was what he’d meant, a public exhibition. Deliberately, she relaxed, grounding and centering the way he’d taught her in the fighting salle, and he gathered her close again, one palm stroking up and down her spine, the way you’d soothe a nervous cat. She’d promised not to feed him his own balls, except that standing in the circle of his arms on the sunlit deck, breathing him in, she had not the slightest urge to do him harm. His body was so hard, her breasts were mashed against a wall of unyielding muscle, and gods, he was hot, his spicy smell filling her head and making it swim. Every nerve in her body quivering, she pressed closer, tilting her head to offer a better angle. The hilt of his sword pushed into her belly.

  Beyond that, she didn’t know what to do, so she softened her mouth and let him take the lead. He’d taught her everything, she thought muzzily, had given her the discipline and peace of the nea-kata. Walker had reshaped her life, he could teach her this too. Her head fell back against his arm.

  The swordmaster murmured something encouraging into her mouth and his hand slid down to grasp a buttock and pull her nearer, if that were possible. His lips gentled on hers, brushing to and fro across the cushion of her lower lip. Enthralled, Mehcredi turned her head to follow, but the fingers on her jaw held her still.

  To her astonishment, his tongue prodded at the seam of her lips. What? Then he licked, a hot wet flick across sensitive skin, and her knees went from under her. Without fuss, Walker took her weight as she sagged. But he didn’t stop. He nibbled on her lower lip, making her moan, then slipped his tongue right inside her mouth.

  Mehcredi’s eyes flew open. She hadn’t even been aware she’d closed them. At this range, all she could see were Walker’s magnificent lashes, black as ink, fanned across his cheekbone.

  Concentrate, Mehcredi, said his remembered voice in her head.

  All very well, but this wasn’t swordplay and what should she do with her tongue?

  Suddenly, she was looking straight into his eyes, so close, drowning in the rich dark brown of them, the pretty gold flecks.

  A pause, a blink, and he withdrew, no more than half an inch.

  “Wa—”

  “Sshh.” His thumb brushed her lips, his whisper so soft, the sound was no more than a breath in her mouth. “Shut your eyes.”

  Behind her, the Trinitarian spoke sharply, his tone huffy with offense, but her head was swimming and the words made no sense.

  Obediently, her lashes fluttered down. Warm and wet and confident, Walker’s tongue swept once, twice, over her lower lip. He paused, waiting.

  Oh. Tentatively, Mehcredi returned the caress. Gods, his lips were smooth and soft. How extraordinary for a man so hard.

  Walker slid his tongue over hers, but when she tried to reciprocate, he captured it, suckling gently on the tip. Mehcredi gurgled. Slowly, he raised one hand, brushing his knuckles up over her ribs. Giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch, she realized dimly.

  When his fingers trailed over the Mark, she cried out, the sound muffled by the swordmaster’s mouth.

  The Magick pattern flexed and caught fire, her nipples flaring with almost painful sensation. The world, the ship, the Trinitarian, the deck beneath her feet—everything went away. She’d felt this sensation of impending dissolution before, and been terrified. But this time, she had so much more than an empty shirt to hold on to; she had the real thing—Walker, solid and strong and infinitely reassuring. He wouldn’t let her fall, he’d never let her fall.

  Mehcredi released all coherent thought, abandoning herself to instinct. Nothing existed except Walker, his mouth, his hands, the hard body pressed against hers, the long unmistakable shape of an erection nudging her hip.

  It could have been a lifetime, it could have been mere seconds, but finally he pulled back. Mehcredi stood, eyes closed and face upturned, shaking with reaction. Random aftershocks tingled up and down her spine, chased over her ribs, her breasts, the soft flesh between her legs. Slowly, the swordmaster’s fingers slid away from her cheek. Shifting his palm to the back of her head, he urged her closer, until she could tuck her face into the curve between his neck and his shoulder and hide. She was beyond grateful.

  “Now, two-name,” he said, and the chill in his voice slid down her spine like a sliver of ice, strangely thrilling. “Is there any part of ‘mine’ you don’t understand?”

  “I’ll report you,” huffed Vezil, cheeks blotchy with outrage.

  Walker laughed. The first time she’d heard the sound, but he definitely wasn’t amused.

  Mehcredi nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply. She’d be content to stay right here for the rest of her life, she thought vaguely.

  “I won’t forget this, Wajar.” Footsteps receded across the decking.

  “He’s gone.” Walker gave her a little shake. “Wake up, Mehcredi.”

  Reluctantly, she peeled herself away.

  “You kiss like a novice,” he said.

  The last wisps of pleasure dissipated as if they’d never been. “What did you expect?” She yanked her veil into place, grateful for the concealment.

  Walker settled back in a chair and stretched out his legs. He pointed to a spot on the rug by his side. “Come and sit at my feet like a good slave.”

  Grumbling under her breath, Mehcredi sank down in a billow of fusty black. The dog sighed and padded over to nudge her hand with his nose. Automatically, she scratched behind one inside-out ear.

  “Vezil could be a problem,” he said softly. “Less indulgent masters whip their slaves.”

  He had to be joking. With an effort, Mehcredi pushed even the possibility of it to the back of her mind. “I couldn’t have been that bad at the kissing. He was convinced.”

  Walker lifted his face into the wind. Mehcredi watched it toy with the edges of his head cloth. It had come from Trinitaria, that bundle of warm air, a place even more alien than the familiar world that continued to hold her at arm’s length. She shivered, all the excitement leaking out of her.

  “You did improve,” he said.

  Mehcredi regarded him thoughtfully. “Really?”

  The swordmaster didn’t answer, just stared out to sea. Very gradually, she allowed herself to lean closer, until she was slumped against the side of his chair. With a rattling sigh, she exhaled, the thunder of her pulse slowing a little. Sweet Sister, she hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. A huge yawn caught her unawares.

  “Sleep if you want.”

  “I thought”—she swallowed another yawn—“you wanted to talk?”

  “That’s best kept for later.” Barely there, his fingers brushed the back of her head. Perhaps she’d imagined it. “Too many ears on deck.”

  “Mmm.” Half drugged with the comfort of it all, Mehcredi laid her cheek against a powerful thigh. No one to see her, no one to judge, save the swordmaster, and she was pretty sure she knew what he thought. Sails filled and flapped, the dog snuffled peacefully at her feet. Nice.

  She drifted off.

  His leg had gone numb, but something about Mehcredi’s confiding weight and the soft regularity of her respiration pinned him in the chair, watching the sun sink low and the surface of the water turn opaque, oily and mysterious. Walker didn’t much care for the sea; his spirit yearned toward the distant coastline, to the ch’qui, to the deep solid earth and growing things. But passage from Caracole to Belizare, the busy port across the Three-Pronged Strait, shaved a good week off travel time to Trinitaria. A galley would have been even faster, but that he refused to contemplate. Once experienced, the reek of a Trinitarian slave galley was unforgettable—an unholy mixture of unwashed bodies, piss and utter despair.

&nbs
p; 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.