Free The Lone Warrior by Denise Rossetti Page B

of her throat. She might not be very bright, but she had a feeling laughing at the swordmaster’s expense was an exceptionally bad idea.
    “The porridge is burning,” he said.
    By the time she rushed to the stove, he’d disappeared in the direction of the bathhouse.

    Mehcredi suspected she’d ruined everything with Dai. Each day, she stood outside his door, breathing hard, her belly aching, trying to force herself over the threshold. There were times she could swear there was an invisible barrier, as thick as glue. If it hadn’t been for the swordmaster and his godsbedamned Mark . . . Every time the swordsman fought to swallow, her own throat closed and she couldn’t breathe or think.
    Reminding herself she’d survived worse—a little voice in her head sneered, Really? And what might that be?— she knocked, shouldered the door open and maneuvered herself and the lunch tray inside. To her surprise, Dai wasn’t alone. A skinny boy sat cross-legged on a chair opposite the swordsman, frowning down at the small table drawn up between them.
    He twisted around, raising a belligerent chin. “You’re t’ fookin’ assassin,” he said, in the strangest accent she’d ever heard.
    Mehcredi shrugged, avoiding Dai’s knowing, ironic gaze. She began unloading her tray, putting the covered dishes on the dresser. “Who are you?”
    “Florien. From T’ Garden.” His chest expanded. “Rose an’ Prue sent me with stuff fer Walker.”
    “Really?” Questions crowded in her mind, so many, she didn’t know where to begin. “Is Erik all right? I heard the Necromancer hurt him. And what about Prue, how—?”
    “They’re fine now.” The boy scowled, a messy lock of hair falling into his eyes. “No thanks t’ you.”
    “Is the . . . the Necromancer dead?” Mehcredi barreled on, her heart drumming so hard she could feel it in her throat. Gods, she had to know. “Did Walker kill him?”
    “What are ye, daft? Didn’t ye hear?”
    Mehcredi flinched as if the boy had slapped her. “No,” she whispered.
    Florien went on, ignoring her. “Prue done fer him. Wit’ a shovel. Only . . .” The savage grin fading, he picked up what looked like the shell of a nut from the table and jiggled it in his palm. “They ain’t found a body yet.”
    “Shit.” Knees shaking with the visceral memory of terror, she leaned back against the wall, grateful for the support.
    “Yah,” agreed the boy. “That’s about right.” He exchanged glances with Dai, and after a moment, the swordsman nodded. Florien’s grin returned, full force. “Want t’ play?”
    “Play? Play what?”
    “T’ shell game.”
    Intrigued, Mehcredi drew closer. “How does it work?”
    They were both smiling now, but their eyes glittered. “Is t’ hand quicker than t’ eye? Dai never gets it.”
    The swordsman grunted his displeasure, but when he punched Florien lightly on the arm, the boy glowed.
    “I’ll give ye one fer free.” He held up a small black bead for her inspection, then placed it under one of the three shells and swiveled them about, his hands a blur. “Where is it, assassin?”
    Mehcredi chuckled. “Why, it’s there.” She pointed to the shell in the middle.
    Florien turned to the silent swordsman. “Dai?”
    He tapped the shell on the right, curling his lip at her, just as he always did.
    His face a careful blank, the boy lifted the center shell to reveal the bead.
    “Luck,” rasped Dai painfully, leaning forward. “Again.”
    “Nah,” said Florien, all serious purpose. “Not without a bet.”
    “I don’t have any money,” said Mehcredi.
    “What do ye have?”
    Her shoulders slumped. “Nothing.” Nothing at all, no skills, no future, no one to care.
    “Lunch,” said the boy with decision, favoring the dishes with a longing gaze. “I’ll play ye fer lunch.”
    “But that’s Dai’s,” said Mehcredi, shocked.
    Florien stared. “So where’s yours?”
    “Serafina’s rules. I only eat if he does.” She shrugged.