Full-Blood Half-Breed (24 page)

Fox interrupted with all the politeness he could manage.

“Zwergfuchs!” Urbano said. “It is good to see you.”

“It is good to see you too, amigo. Call me Fox.”

Urbano nodded in approval and introduced Fox to his family. At any other time, Fox would have been thrilled to meet them all, but tonight he was on The One God’s business, and his patience for courtesy was almost nonexistent. Still, he managed to remain polite and gracious as Urbano introduced his attractive sisters, all tall, lean, and muscular with emeralds for eyes. They were cordial, but indifferent to him. Except for the middle sister, Enriqueta, who was a fellow competitor in the youngling trials. Fox took no offense. They were nobles of the Lupina Matriarchy and he was from an unknown Line in Eisesland. They were well above his station. And besides, the sooner he was done with introductions, the sooner he could tell Urbano of his idea.

After congratulating him on his archery win, Enriqueta joined her sisters, Paquita and Milagros, in conversation with an older, taller, prettier man that Fox did not know. Milagros was only eleven, but she had already mastered the coquettish art of eyelash batting. Perhaps nobles learned such things early in life, Fox mused. Their mother, Doña Moonhunter, led the shameless fawning. The One God may have judged all men as equals, but Doña Moonhunter clearly had other ideas, particularly when it came to the courting of her daughters.

Señor Don Efraín Próspero the Spicebringer gave Fox’s hand a vigorous shake. The
nobleman’s grip was robust. He was a strong man, though not through hard labor. He was blade thin with the musculature of one whose physical activity consisted of deliberated choices, none of them truly necessary. He was rich enough to live an extremely slothful life if he chose to. He moved like a man who was well trained in theoretical combat, but rarely exercised that training in actual battle. His face was unmarred by scars. His hands were baby-bottom soft. Yet there was nothing that could be mistaken for softness in the man’s gaze. It was as steady as iron, though his eyes were the exact swampy green of Urbano’s. The Próspero patriarchs looked as much alike as father and son ought to. Don Efraín had more height than Urbano, more creases in his face, but less hair, all of it silver and neatly trimmed, as was his mustache and
perilla-
style beard. The don was the picture of discipline. Everything about his dress, movements, and words was carefully contrived. “Hola, Señor Von Hammerhead. It is good to finally meet you. Urbano speaks well of you and often. He says you were the finest young warrior at Temple Seisakusha.”

“Young or old,” Urbano said. “Not even the monks could best him in kumite.”

Fox dipped his head respectfully, but his need to speak privately to Urbano nagged at him. “I am flattered that Urbano would say so, Señor Don Spicebringer. I am shamed that it is the lesser form of Ashi-Kobushi which I have studied, and not The One God’s gift of el Combatedanza.”

The don shrugged. “As I explained to Urbano, all gifts come from The One God. If your reputation is earned, you will prove as deadly with katana and wakizashi as any Oestean with sword and shield. Perhaps more so. The warrior is the weapon, the weapon but a tool.”

“Wise words,” Fox said, and excused himself, taking Urbano with him. He quickly explained his plan to sabotage the pagan’s horse.

“I would love to humiliate that híbrido pagan,” Urbano said. “But I just had the sin burned from my body. I am in no hurry to sully myself again.”

“I will pay you,” Fox said. “I will give you another corona from my archery winnings in addition to the money I owe you now.”

Urbano’s eyes lit up like Shimabito fireworks. “Make it three coronas and you have a deal.”

“Three gold coronas? I could have him killed for half that!”

Urbano shrugged. “You are asking me to commit sin, Fox. Surely you do not think I would imperil my soul cheaply.”

Fox cringed, but he could not rebut Urbano’s logic. “Three it is, amigo.” They shook hands, sealing the covenant.

Urbano said, “Are you not worried about offending The One God?”

“We do this to bring honor to The One God.”

“Sí.” Urbano nodded. “But after, we will pray for forgiveness as a precaution, to keep our
souls safe.”

In that instant, Fox came to understand what was truly The One God’s greatest gift. It was not fire or el Combatedanza or steel or industry. It was forgiveness.

What Fox planned to do to the pagan would be an almost irredeemable act of treachery in the eyes of the goddess Seisakusha. To earn Her forgiveness and keep his soul out of hell, he would have to spend every waking hour of the rest of his life—and live a long time—performing outrageous deeds of magnanimity to counteract this single wicked act. And he would not lie to himself; he would never possess such charitable aptitude.

But he no longer worshipped Seisakusha.

In fact, he no longer even believed in Her existence. He worshipped The One God now, and His forgiveness was much easier to procure than Seisakusha’s. He had only to ask for it.

Paladin leaned against the back wall of the dragón’s den and yawned, sucking in a mouthful of the foul, brimstone-tainted air. He coughed until he thought he might vomit, just barely managing to keep his breakfast down. Gods! What was that stink? Between the reek and his weariness, the day was off to a miserable start. He had suffered a second round of nightmares, though he couldn’t remember the specifics, just lots of fire and death. He woke up afraid and found it hard to shake the feeling. The heavy stink of sulfur fouling the air didn’t help. Still, he had no time for misery. Or fatigue. He made himself focus on Torneo.

Out on the game field, Enriqueta Del Moonhunter climbed onto her horse to ride for Rings. Paladin liked Enriqueta despite her being Urbano’s sister. He had danced with her once at Templo del Guerrero.

She wasn’t much older than him, but she had a sweetheart and wore his favor—a fancy blue sash—tied around the handle of her lance. It made Paladin feel childish that he had no lover of his own whose favor he might wear. He was a man grown and the closest he had come to playing the love sport was the kiss he had shared with Esmeralda, and she had only been trying to entice him into becoming a Vile.

Surely, Paladin mused, if he won the Black Spear, he could find some nice, non-Vile girls to woo. He laughed at himself and shook his head. He wasn’t going to win anything unless he stopped daydreaming about kisses.

He studied Enriqueta Del Moonhunter carefully, more than impressed with her skill. She spurred her Sangre Caliente gelding downfield at a full gallop, keeping her lance as steady as stone, spearing iron rings from their poles as if they were low-hanging apples. When her quick ride was done, Enriqueta had collected ten out of thirteen rings, an impressive number.

Riding for Rings was more difficult than it looked, though far less dangerous than actual jousting. The rider had to catch the rings on his or her lance while controlling a horse galloping
at full speed. It was a clever way to teach a warrior control of the lance and accurate targeting. It also built strength of arm, as the lance grew more cumbersome with each added ring.

Paladin believed Enriqueta had the skill to capture all thirteen rings. She simply lacked the strength of arm. By the time she had speared her ninth ring, her lance tip had begun to dip. Her grip lost its steadiness. Still, the skinny girl with the freckle-smattered face had performed well. She would have two more attempts at the rings, and her final score would be an average of all three tilts. She was off to a good start.

Isooba rode next from the Prosperidad younglings. His boasts had not been all empty wind. His skill had improved. He was just as impressive as Enriqueta, capturing ten rings. His lance work was not as precise, but he was strong enough not to let the tip of the weapon sink. When his ride was done, Isooba strutted and preened as if he had already won the trial.

Paladin could only laugh. Since his encounter with Esmeralda, his anger at Isooba had cooled considerably. Isooba was welcome to the girl if he wanted a Vile for a sweetheart.

And apparently Isooba did.

Paladin hadn’t noticed the tin bracelet on Isooba’s wrist until the posturing boy waved it at Esmeralda, sitting in the stands. If Isooba was wearing Esmeralda’s favor, it could only mean one thing. The fool had turned Vile as well. Isooba joined the Prosperidad younglings by the wall, and Paladin felt both pity and contempt for him. He had always known Isooba was dull-witted, but how could he have known the boy would be stupid enough to fall for the Vile doctrines? He turned away from his onetime friend and rival. Their friendship might have survived a contest for Esmeralda’s affection, but it could never endure Vile Creadorianism.

It was Drud’s turn to ride next, and if ever there was a man or woman meant to wield the lance and sit a horse, it was Drud von Wildboar of Hertz’s Line. Had Drud been as agile on his feet as he was from a horse’s back, he might already be an Eisenfaust meister.

Drud waited, poised and confident, for the stable-hands to bring up his horse, Schnelly. But Drud’s confidence, unlike Isooba’s, was unpretentious. He seemed unaware that thousands of eyes watched him. Drud had nothing to prove to anyone but himself, and Paladin felt a burst of pride for his
vato
. Drud had ever sought only the approval of Drud.

Though younglings only lanced rings and not each other, they were expected to compete while armored, and Drud looked like a heroic knight preparing for battle. He wore a surcoat of brown and green over his hauberk, and a steel helmet fashioned to look like a boar’s head, his face peering out from the open mouth. The helmet was old and had belonged to Drud’s great-great-grandfather, presumably the man who had earned the name Wildboar. It was a fine helmet—not of Darkdragón make, but it would serve. At Maga Cabróna’s signal, Drud kicked Schnelly into a full gallop and tore down the field.

Drud collected twelve rings. Only one shy of a perfect score, but Paladin had seen Fox
the Runt ride for rings many times in the grounds behind Temple Seisakusha, and the Nordling won perfect scores more often than not. The Runt would be hard to beat. Two more Prosperidad younglings went next, neither matching Drud’s nearly perfect score. And then it was Paladin’s turn.

Maga Cabróna called him up from the dragón’s den and escorted him to the start line. The disgust in her glare was tantamount to calling him a filthy half-breed with her eyes, but she kept her mouth shut. He was grateful at least for that. He donned his simple steel helmet while a pair of stable-hands led his horse, Tufani, up from the paddocks beneath the arena.

The regal black stallion really belonged to Rebelde, and was kept at one of Coltbreaker’s stables, but Paladin had assumed an informal ownership, exercising, grooming, and caring for the horse. Tufani, whose name was the Kikwetu word for “hurricane,” was an enyepesi, the most coveted breed in the Thirteen. The horse was bred almost exclusively in the Nchi ya Kusini to run fast and far. Paladin could not help but grin when he saw Tufani, more companion than mount.

And then he saw Urbano Del Spicebringer and his grin faded. As some sort of punishment from his father, Urbano was working as a stable-boy during this year’s Torneo, and just seeing him, especially handling Tufani, ignited a surge of hate so potent it eclipsed Paladin’s nervousness over the trial. He braced himself for whatever slurs Urbano would spit at him, but to his surprise, the pura-sangre boy was polite. Pleasant even. Urbano and a stable-girl helped Paladin into the saddle. Urbano smiled affably, handed Paladin his lance, and gave him a hearty “Good luck, Del Darkdragón!”

It was the first time Urbano had called him anything other than “híbrido,” “half-breed,” or “mongrel.” At any other time Paladin would have questioned Urbano’s new civility, but the moment his culo touched the saddle, Tufani whinnied nervously and shuffled fiercely beneath him, extremely agitated.

“Easy, chico,” Paladin comforted. “Be calm now.”

But Tufani didn’t calm and there was no time to comfort the horse further. Maga Cabróna signaled Paladin to ride.

“
Vámonos
, Tufani!” he shouted, leaning forward in the saddle.

Tufani bolted like the force of nature for which he was named, took seven powerful strides, then reared and bucked, shrieking in pain as he threw Paladin from the saddle. The lance tumbled from Paladin’s hands. He soared through space, his body pinwheeling end over end like a marionette with its strings cut, hurled through the air by a deranged puppeteer.

He crashed into the ground as though he meant to blast a hole through the heart of the world with the power of his body alone. Armor clattered against the ground like some primitive percussion instrument, and under that, the pop and snapping sounds of breaking bone. Agony
like a hundred daggers stabbed through his chest. Mercifully, his mind had but a moment to register his broken ribs before it shut down completely and all was blackness.