The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Walker arrived in the bailey in time to watch the flitter descend, its buzz becoming a deep whine. It hovered for a few moments as if making a decision, then landed with pinpoint precision. His brows rose. It was a big one, a twenty seater, its wings barely clearing the stone walls of the keep.

  Mehcredi was completely enthralled. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, silver eyes wide with wonder.

  With a polite series of clicks, a rectangular aperture opened in the smooth gray surface and a ramp extended until it reached the grass. A bulky figure broke away from the group of white-clad Technomages framed in the opening. He—it was obviously male with those massive shoulders—strode down the ramp, transplas boots thumping decisively. After a swift glance around the assembled crowd, he demanded, “Who is the first here?”

  “I am.” The baron stepped forward. “And you are?”

  “The Quintus.” Cold hazel eyes surveyed the other man from top to toe, traveled over the Pentacle group, inspected Yachi’s guards and the baron’s men. Then it flicked back to Deiter, who was leaning on Rose’s arm. “You are Purist Deiter of Concordia?”

  The wizard harrumphed. “Yes. And you’re late.”

  “Come,” said the Quintus, obviously a man of few words. He turned back to the flitter. “We can talk on the flight. I have room for a dozen, no more.”

  “The flight?” asked the baron, recovering. “You only just got here. Where are you going?”

  “Back to the Tower.”

  The baron inhaled sharply. “But that’s in Caracole.”

  Walker’s heart lifted. A flitter could do in a couple of hours what would take him days on horseback.

  “It is.” The Quintus sounded bored.

  “We need time to pack,” Rose said suddenly.

  “Twenty minutes,” said the Quintus, favoring her with a long thoughtful glance.

  The solidity of him was deceptive, thought Walker, summing up the Technomage with a swordmaster’s experienced eye. Yes, he appeared to be foursquare and stocky, his shoulders and arms thick and well muscled, but he moved well, neat and quick. More brawler than swordsman though. His sandy hair was cropped brutally short. Walker fingered the end of his own thick braid. To each his own, he supposed.

  When the Quintus turned to address the baron, the numeral five on his collar showed crisp and dark against the pristine white. “Where is the woman who claims to be a colleague?”

  Walker frowned. By the bones of Those Before, this man was fifth in the Technomage hierarchy. The attention of a Scientist of such high rank was both reassuring and a little disquieting. In fact, odd though the Technomages might be, there was no mistaking the Quintus for anything save a warrior. The intensity of the man’s focus was formidable.

  “Bring her closer,” the Quintus snapped to the baron’s men emerging from the keep with a shambling figure in dusty black robes. Whoever it was appeared to be so weak they were obliged to half carry her. Looming over the woman, the Technomage gripped her chin and tilted her face to the light.

  She whimpered, screwing up her eyes. The Quintus stared in silence for a long moment. Then he dropped his hand and took a step back. “This is the Technomage Primus of Sybaris,” he said.

  “What?” Prue rushed forward. She reached out, gripping the front of the woman’s robes in clawed fingers. “I have a score to settle with you, bitch.”

  “Let me help,” purred Erik, looming over them both. His smile gave Walker the chills.

  Cenda elbowed Prue aside, only to recoil into Gray’s arms. “Great Lady, it is!” When she straightened, rills of flame burst from her fingertips.

  The Primus shrank back. “I’m Dotty,” she said. “Just Dotty. I lost my brother.” Tears trickled from faded blue eyes. “Or he lost me.”

  “Stop the bloody playacting,” said Gray sharply. “Or I’ll let her singe you.”

  “There will be no singeing.” The Quintus had gone very still, his eyes on Cenda’s hands. “Put down your weapon.” His fingers rested on the worn hilt of the lasegun on his hip. “That means you too,” he said to Prue and Erik. “Stand back.”

  Cenda gave a sharp bitter laugh, and the flames winked out, though Walker noted the tiny salamander in her hair still hissed and spat. With a huff of disgust, Prue shoved the Technomage back into the Quintus’s arms.

  “The Primus was convicted of crimes against Science,” the Quintus said. “By her own Conclave no less. She was sentenced to Repair.” He waved a couple of his Technomages forward.

  “What does that mean?” asked Rose. “Exactly.”

  A sandy brow lifted. “Precisely what you think it means. Fifteen minutes.”

  “Cenda and Gray would be more merciful.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Fourteen minutes.”

  The Primus reached out to finger the Quintus’s collar. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I see.” Her spine straightened with a snap. “Well, come on.” She snarled at her escort. “I haven’t got all day. Science doesn’t do itself, you know.”

  “Uh, yes, Primus,” said one of the Technomages, a stout woman with three digits on her collar. Immediatedly, she went scarlet. “This way,” she snapped.

  Her head high, the former Primus allowed herself to be assisted up the ramp and into the flitter.

  “Now just a minute,” barked the baron.

  He set his hands on his hips, and for the first time, Walker noticed that he wore a fine coat, fashioned of maroon brocade. Involuntarily, he shot Mehcredi a sideways glance and caught her staring. She appeared to be fascinated, her expression suitably grave, but inside, she was alight with laughter, he knew it in his gut. He’d bet his life she was thinking of that fine handkerchief. What if the baron decided to mop his brow? Walker had to breathe hard through the strange, poignant mix of his feelings, the sweetness mingled with the pain. ’Cestors’ bones, this . . . this . . . connection was going to kill him.

  “What about the safety of my people?” said the baron. “What about the djinns?”

  “Oh, you’re safe enough—for the moment at any rate.” The Quintus regarded him without much interest. “Preliminary analysis shows the thing is definitely dormant. We detoured north to the ice to gather data. We’ll return for further observations in the summer.”

  “Summer?”

  The ripple of amusement that passed over the Technomage’s face was so fleeting, Walker almost missed it. “When it’s warm enough for the creature to rise. I’d suggest you make plans for an evacuation.” He raised his voice to be heard over the baron’s protests. “Ten minutes, Rosarina.”

  She paused in midstep to look over her shoulder. “You know who I am?”

  “I have dossiers on all of you.”

  Walker stepped forward. “Then you know I am Walker from the House of Swords.”

  The deep-set gaze shifted to focus on his face. “The swordmaster. Yes.”

  “I have business in Holdercroft. Can you let me off there?”

  “Yes, but I have work to do at the Tower. I will not wait for you.”

  “That’s fine, I—”

  “Me too,” said Mehcredi, appearing at Walker’s elbow. Curiosity radiated from her. She was almost quivering with it.

  The Technomage’s brows drew together. “Who are you?” he said. “I have no data on you.”

  “Mehcredi,” she said impatiently. “And Scrounge comes too. He won’t pee or anything. I promise.”

  “Scrounge?”

  Mehcredi pointed to the dog, who grinned toothily at the Technomage, ragged tail waving gently.

  “No,” said the Quintus with decision.

  “I can’t go without him.” Panic flashed across Mehcredi’s face. “But I can’t stay here, I can’t!”

  Rose walked back over the grass to lay a hand on Mehcredi’s shoulder. “We won’t leave you behind,” she said quietly.

  “Speak for yourself,” snapped Deiter. Suddenly, he sagged. “I’m an old, old man,” he said plaintively, clutching
his heart. “I’ve been wounded. Can we board so I can sit down?”

  Cenda patted his arm. “She risked her life for the boy, Purist.”

  “Yah,” said Florien, curling his lip in the wizard’s direction.

  “All of us or none,” rumbled Erik and, beside him, Prue nodded. “Take your pick, Quintus.” Though the air wizard didn’t as much as glance at Deiter, a freezing wind tugged at the old man’s robes. He drew his collar closer about his scrawny neck, glaring.

  “Very well.” The Quintus sent Mehcredi a cold level glance. “The animal is your responsibility. If it misbehaves, I’ll put it out the hatch myself.” He ignored Mehcredi’s muttered curse. “Five minutes.”

  Turning on his heel, he vanished into the flitter. A few seconds later, it began to whine, straining against the ropes that held it hobbled to the earth.

  “Sister in the sky, my things!” Rose lifted her skirts and sprinted for the keep.

  “Five-it!” gasped Cenda, catching up in a couple of strides and speeding past. “Gray,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t just stand there!”

  Shrugging, Gray followed at a more leisurely pace. One by one, the members of the Pentacle group disappeared, while the baron and his men watched open-mouthed. Walker took his time. No need to rush, he traveled light. Pausing at the entrance of the great hall, he looked back.

  Clearly giving orders, Yachi concluded an intense low-voiced discussion with her corporal. The man nodded, snapping off a salute. Squaring her shoulders, the guard captain marched toward the Technomage craft. With a sigh that came from his pointy-toed boots, Deiter hobbled in her wake, the very picture of a harmless old coot.

  Walker wished the Quintus the best of luck with him.

  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 chub
by 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.