Full-Blood Half-Breed (15 page)

“De nada,”
Walküre said with forced ambivalence.

Pride in the superior artistry of the bow shone through her icy exterior, and also, Paladin thought, she was glad that he liked the gift. She quickly masked those bits of warmth. She looked away from him, saying, “I suppose you will get use of her on the morrow.”

“Beautiful work as always, Walküre,” Jambiax said. He rubbed his hands together expectantly and nodded to Rebelde. “Now, Kibwana, show us the sword!” He flashed a grin at Paladin. “Tonight, my mjukuu, you may be the luckiest person in the Thirteen. Sixteen years in the forging! Surely this will be among the most magnificent weapons ever created. The night of your birth, Mjukuu, your father was like a different man. Giddy with happiness. Consumed with inspiration …”

“Yes.” Suki nodded wistfully. “Your father stormed out of the house like a madman. Claimed Muumba Himself had inspired him to create a proper weapon for a son of the Silent Warrior, Kamau.”

“I have traveled a long, hard road to share this important day with you, Mjukuu,” Jambiax said, “and to behold this grand creation that my kibwana has spent so many years
forging in secrecy. End this great mystery, Rebelde. Show us what the greatest smith in the Thirteen has created for his only heir!”

For a sliver of a second, Paladin thought his grandparents’ eagerness might change Rebelde’s mind about the birthday present. But he recognized the stubborn resolve in his papá’s eyes. He had made up his mind and nothing short of divine intervention would move him.

“I am truly sorry to disappoint you, Baba,” he said. “And you, Suki-san. But the boy is not ready. Perhaps next year …”

Suki placed her hands on her narrow hips and scowled at Rebelde. “
This
is the boy’s sixteenth year! Have you no present for him?”

Rebelde cut his eyes at the old woman. “I have offered him the most valuable gift of all, though he has yet to show the wisdom to accept it. I will teach him a trade.”

Jambiax’s face sank in disappointment. “But, Kibwana, I have waited sixteen years to see this sword.”

“And you must wait a bit more, Baba.” Rebelde sounded almost as disappointed as Paladin felt. He waved contemptuously at Paladin. “But I have created a weapon for a man to wield. It would be irresponsible to allow an untrustworthy boy to handle it …”

A surge of anger shot through Paladin’s body, making him shudder, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“…  Still,” Rebelde said, “with a little dedication and hard work, perhaps the boy will soon earn my trust. Assuming he survives the youngling trials.”

The gladness drained out of the room like piss from a full bladder.

“Muumba’s Ninth Arm, Rebelde,” Jambiax said. “When did you become such an
aondoshaji furaha
?”

Rebelde glowered at Jambiax. Paladin spoke more than a little Kikwetu, but he had never heard this expression. Neither had Suki, apparently.

“A what?” she asked. “What is ‘aondoshaji furaha’?”

“A killjoy,” Jambiax said, grinning his wolf’s grin. Suki chuckled.

Rebelde waved the remark away. “It is time the boy took his future seriously. He is nearly a man grown, after all.”

“If you believed that,” Paladin said, trying to keep anger and hurt from his voice, “you would trust my judgment.”

Rebelde shrugged as he took out his pipe. “I did. You betrayed that trust.”

“I didn’t betray anything,” Paladin said. “And that’s not how it works, anyway. Did it ever occur to you that I might have a good reason for enrolling in the games?”

“I know your good reasons, boy,” Rebelde said, ticking them off on his fingers “Glory. Acclaim. Fame. It is all you talked about your whole life.”

“You don’t know everything, Papá.”

“Enlighten me,” Rebelde said. “What reason could be good enough to imperil your life and defy my rules?”

Paladin clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. A thousand sassy retorts ran through his mind, competing to be first to spring from his lips, but he kept his mouth closed. Rebelde was being stubborn. Anything Paladin said now would just make things worse.

“Can we not finish screaming at each other on the morrow?” Jambiax said. “It is late. I have traveled far. And I am tired.” He yawned for emphasis.

“I agree with the silly south-man,” Suki said. “Let us to bed. This arguing has given my head such ache!”

“Of course, Okasan,” Walküre said. “You and I will share the bedroom upstairs; Jambiax and Rebelde will take Paladin’s bed in the back room.” She gave Paladin a toothy grin with just a touch of lighthearted mischief. “And you, niño, will sleep here, on the floor by the hearth.”

Awkward good-nights were exchanged, and Paladin found himself alone with the dying fire.

He threw a handful of kohl onto the smoldering embers and stoked them, thinking fondly on the gifts from Walküre, Suki, and Jambiax, and lamenting Rebelde’s repossession of the sword. Gods be good, he could have at least allowed him a peek.

He heard Rebelde’s giant footsteps behind him and rolled over to face his father. Rebelde tossed bedding carelessly on the floor at Paladin’s feet and walked away. He got as far as the corridor by the stairwell, then stopped, turned, and glared.

In a quiet, careful voice, he said, “Even in a city with as many different kinds of folk as Santuario del Guerrero, there are many who hate us because we are blended. The pura-sangre may smile to my face when they want a Darkdragón sword, but they laugh behind my back and call me the híbrido blacksmith knight. They will call you worse when they see your blended martial system.

“I killed my best friend in Torneo, and I hate the games because of it, this is true, but that is not the reason I disallowed you from competition. I forbade you from Torneo because I knew you could not help but employ the blended system, and may the gods bear witness to my words, if you use that martial form during Torneo you will be despised by all who witness it. Muumbans, Schöpferites, Creadorians, and Seisakushans will all condemn you as a profaner. You will become a pariah.” He exhaled, easing the tension from his knotted shoulders. He grimaced. “My anger will pass. I love you dearly, and will forgive your willfulness in time, doubt it not. But the hatred you will bring upon yourself with the blended system will follow you to your grave, Paladin. I wish you victory in your trials, but I cannot bear to watch you bring such woe upon yourself. I will not go to Torneo this year. I will not watch you destroy what little
future you have left.”

Fox the Runt stood just outside the Temple Seisakusha’s doors and stared into the street beyond. “Are you sure it is safe?”

Pía nodded. “Have faith, Zwergfuchs. Prelado Scrupulous himself has handled the matter. You have been absolved of all wrongdoing.”

He nodded, trusting that he had been cleared of any crime, but still hesitant to leave the temple. He would miss the stingy old monks. But Pía flashed him a dazzling white grin and he somehow knew that everything would be all right. He did have faith. In the Prophet and The One God. And Pía.

He surrendered to that faith and gave her his hand. Her grip was firm, protective, as she led him away from Temple Seisakusha. They ducked beneath the branches of the sakura trees, heavy with white blooms. He grimaced. He would never see the beautiful grove again. He nodded a final farewell to the temple guards and stepped out of the compound gates. As much as it pained him to leave the only home he had known since coming to Santuario del Guerrero, he did not look back. The carnival-like atmosphere generated by Torneo blurred around him as he recalled the many kindnesses Sensei Quicksteel and the other monks had shown him. He felt Pía next to him, her golden, concern-filled eyes fixed on him. But she respected his contemplations and kept her peace.

He would be staying at the Painted Lady Inn, sleeping on the floor of Karl’s room until he could make other arrangements. He carried his meager belongings in a sack slung over his back. He owned little more now than when first he had come west: a single change of clothes, a winter cloak of Seisakushan blue, his bow, and two quivers of arrows. He had left his copy of the Seisakushan holy book, the
Nyusu
, with Sensei Quicksteel. He would have no more need of it. He had thought of selling it. Books fetched high prices, especially religious tomes, but it would be sinful to profit from the sale of heretical lies. A few coppers in his pocket would not be worth
the knowledge that he had helped deliver some poor soul to hell.

He would never forget the look of shock on Sensei Quicksteel’s face when he had announced he was leaving Temple Seisakusha to join the Santosians. The monk had taken Fox the Runt’s enlightenment as a personal affront. In a way, Fox the Runt supposed, it was. But he had not meant it to be so. Despite everything, his respect for the sensei bordered on genuine fondness. Both he and Pía had attested to the truth of the Prophet and The One God in an attempt to save the monk’s soul. But Sensei Quicksteel would hear none of it. He had spat at them and sent them away.

Fox the Runt would continue to pray for the monk’s edification. Only the devoutly wicked could hear the truth of The One God and turn their back, and Sensei Quicksteel was not wicked. He was just another dupe of the Three, doomed to hell if he did not come to The One God’s light.

As they approached the Painted Lady, Fox the Runt saw that the folk gathered outside were rowdy and drunk, so he and Pía stopped a few viviendas away and stood within the darkened doorway of the tenement house to say good-night. He regretted his confrontation with Sensei Quicksteel, but the smile that stretched Pía’s lips and twinkled in her eyes lifted his spirits.

“There is no shame in grieving the loss of Temple Seisakusha and the monk Quicksteel,” she said.

He sighed. “Sensei Quicksteel was the closest thing I have ever known to a real father, and Temple Seisakusha was the closest thing I have ever known to a home. But is it not offensive to The One God that I am saddened by the loss of them?”

“You are like Prince Regio,” Pía said.

He frowned. “Prince who?”

“Prince Regio. King Ironbear’s firsborn son.”

“You mean Prince Veraz?”

“No,” Pía said. “Veraz is the king’s second son, born to steal Regio’s heirdom. Prince Regio Del Ironbear of House Bernardo is the rightful heir to the throne of Prosperidad and one of the greatest Santosians ever to have lived.”

Fox the Runt felt a strange sense of pride that the heir to the throne of Prosperidad should be a Santosian, even if he had never heard of Regio. “King Ironbear’s son is one of us?”

“Indeed,” Pía said. “Which is why his father disinherited him. When I was but a
bebé
, Prince Regio was a champion for the Santosians. He stood against his father when the king sought to corrupt Prosperidad by legitimizing the sham religions. It was bad enough that the kingdom accepted the inaccurate interpretation of Creadorianism put forth by the misguided Creadorians. At least we all worshipped The One God. But King Ironbear insisted that the sham
religions be allowed to flourish. He even allowed foreigners and heretics into the ranks of la Orden Majestuosa de la Lámina Incendiaria. Prince Regio protested and proclaimed himself Santosian.

“King Ironbear demanded the prince renounce the teachings of Vicente Santos. That was thirteen years ago. Prince Regio refused, of course. He and many of his followers, my family included, left Prosperidad and traveled east in pilgrimage. We followed the path Vicente Santos took thousands of years ago, searching for his lost writings and the holy knowledge said to be hidden in the Malaroca Mountains, knowledge that would aid us in our holy crusade to save the duped folk of the Thirteen from their own ignorance.”

Pía stopped speaking abruptly, as if her passion had led her to say more than she meant to. “
Perdóname
, Zwergfuchs. My anger makes me prattle selfishly when you are upset about your old friend Sensei Quicksteel. I only meant that you are like the great prince, Regio. He chose righteousness over his misguided father. You chose righteousness over your misguided mentor.”

Fox the Runt nodded. “It was not much of a choice. I pray that Sensei Quicksteel finds enlightenment. I fear for his soul.”

“I will pray for the monk as well.”

“Thank you, Pía. Gracias.”

They lapsed into silence, and he contemplated kissing her. He was desperate to taste her lips, and searched her face for clues as to how she might respond. He thought she might be open to it, but he had no idea how to proceed. He had never kissed a girl before. Did he ask permission or simply lean in? If he did lean in, should he pause for her to pucker or simply press his lips against hers? And if he didn’t pause and she didn’t pucker, then what? He would look like a fool with his craned neck and pursed lips kissing at nothing but the rotten-smelling air. Creador’s balls! It was a wonder anyone ever got kissed at all. His face heated from both embarrassment and want.

“Well,” she said bashfully, her tone indicating the moment had passed, “
buenas noches
, Zwergfuchs. I know you must rise early for Torneo.”