Full-Blood Half-Breed (26 page)

“Urbano!” Paladin yelled, though Urbano didn’t hear him. Or pretended not to. “Take your hands off that horse!”

Blood and Thunder! He was a fool. He should have realized Urbano was up to something when he had been so cordial. Urbano was the Runt’s accomplice! Paladin was seized by sudden fear for Tufani’s safety. What would Urbano do if he were allowed to take the horse below ground, away from the eyes of the Red Cloaks and the arena patrons? It was an irrational fear, part of him realized. Urbano had already accomplished his wickedness. Still, Paladin could not abide the thought of Tufani being in Urbano’s care for another instant.

Clutching the cloven arrowhead so hard it cut into his palm, he dashed after Urbano and Tufani. The Red Cloaks, his mother, and grandparents called after him, but he barely heard them over his booming heartbeat. He was certain of Urbano’s guilt, but certainty wasn’t enough and he could think of no way to get proof short of beating Urbano into confession. And that he would not do. It would be madness to start a feud with House Próspero. Urbano may have fallen from favor with Don Efraín the Spicebringer, but the don would certainly not suffer his son to take a beating at the hands of a híbrido.

Paladin would avoid a fight. He would just rescue his horse. He would personally see Tufani into Don Felipe’s care. After what had happened, no one would fault him for wanting to ensure Tufani’s safety. He caught up with Urbano and Tufani just outside the entrance to one of the tunnels.

“Urbano.” The sound of his voice surprised him. He felt on fire with emotion, a walking conflagration in armor and boots. But his voice was ice. “Give me my horse. I will take him to the don.”

Urbano sneered. “You will do no such thing, híbrido. I was directed to deliver this horse to Don Felipe and that is what I will do. Besides, competitors are not allowed in these tunnels. If you want your horse, you must go through the competitor’s passage in the dragón’s—”

“I want no trouble. Just the horse, Urbano.”

“You may have your horse. Just go through Prosperidad’s dragón’s den. Only sanctioned horse handlers may enter through here.”

“I will not leave Tufani in your care, Urbano.” He opened his palm, revealing the
arrowhead. “You know why.”

Urbano’s face twisted with hate. “Are you accusing me of something, half-breed?”

Paladin clenched his jaw.

Mbarika, hovering a few feet above them, was not so discreet. “Is water wet, fool? Is fire hot? Does muck stink?
Eres un tonto?
Well?”

“Please, Mbarika!” Paladin yelled. “Be silent!”

The raven landed gently and, thank the gods, silently on Jambiax’s shoulder as he arrived on the scene with the others, but Paladin paid them little heed. “I’m accusing no one of anything. I just want my horse.”

“Do you suspect this stable-boy?” the Caller asked. “Has he some grudge against you?”

Mbarika croaked, just loud enough to be heard above the growing rumble from the crowd. “Can you not see guilt in his wicked eyes?
Estás ciego?
Yes?”

Maga Cabróna said, “This boy is Urbano Del Spicebringer of House Próspero. If you accuse him, you had better have more evidence than silly bird prattle.”

Mbarika cocked her head and eyed Maga Cabróna with disturbingly human contempt.

“I make no accusations,” Paladin said. “But someone placed the arrowhead beneath my saddle. I simply want to escort my horse to Don Felipe so that I know he is safe.”

“This is reasonable,” Jambiax said.

“I agree,” the Caller said to Urbano. “Señor Del Spicebringer, why not let this young man—”

“Because it is against the rules and an indictment of my honor!” Urbano’s face was as red as a blister. “I am the heir of House Próspero! My father watches from the stands. I will not be shamed before his eyes by this stinking little half-breed!”

“Just give me the reins, Urbano,” Paladin said. “Give them to me now.”

“Filthy little híbrido!” Urbano snarled, spraying spittle into Paladin’s face. “Who do you think you are speaking to?”

The back of Urbano’s hand flew at him, a slap meant to humiliate more than hurt. But Paladin’s response was instinctive, a reflex honed by years of study and training so intense it had become his life’s obsession. He skirted Urbano’s clumsy slap even as he watched his gauntleted fist clang into Urbano’s face. Urbano dropped to the ground, knocked cold, a fat purple bruise blooming on his chin.

“Seisakusha’s Tail!” Walküre cursed.

“Muumba’s Lute!” Jambiax said.

“Good punch!” Suki grinned. “Your form is perfect, Magomusuko.” The arena patrons roared, delighted by the unexpected violence on a day when the sport should have been bloodless. But two patrons were mute, their silence speaking louder even than
the combined shouts of thousands. Urbano’s parents, Señora Doña Agota the Moonhunter of House Lupina and Señor Don Efraín the Spicebringer of House Próspero, had been seated with the sovereign Houses in
la Caja de Majestades
, the Royal Box, a section of the arena set aside for kings, queens, and other important dignitaries. Both don and doña stood now. They stared bald hate down at Paladin.

The king of Prosperidad, Honestus the Ironbear of House Bernardo, leaned in close to the Spicebringer, speaking into his ear. It appeared as if the king was trying to calm the don, but Paladin could not be sure. King Ironbear was said to be a fair man, but Paladin could only hope he spoke on his behalf. The king’s son, Prince Veraz, remained seated, his hand clasped over his mouth as if trying to disguise laughter.

“Gods be good, niño!” Walküre said. “What are you thinking?”

For true, he hadn’t been thinking. He had been reacting, as he had been trained, to a threat to his person. Besides, Urbano had not been too badly hurt. Already Maga Cabróna was bringing him to consciousness.

“Take your horse and go, chico,” the Caller said. “You are disqualified from this trial and there is no reason to exacerbate Señor Don Spicebringer’s humiliation with your lingering. Return on the morrow for the Melee if you must, but for now, it is best you leave.”

“Maga Doña Makewell!” Maga Cabróna shrieked, cradling the rousing Urbano as if he were her own son. “The híbrido has committed a crime! We must deliver him to the Guard.”

“Do not be a fool, Teófila,” the Caller said. “The boy acted in self-defense and every soul in the arena will testify to it.”

Mbarika cawed, “What Healer speaks with a fool’s tongue? Teófila? Fool?”

Maga Cabróna burned crimson, her frown so severe she looked like a red raisin. Paladin could not help but laugh at the sour old woman. As did Mbarika. And Jambiax. And Suki.

Walküre grabbed Paladin by his new surcoat with one hand and took Tufani’s reins with the other. She nearly dragged him to the gated carriage entrance in the western quad of the arena, speaking not a word. She led them all through Círculo del Triunfo as if a covey of banes were on their heels. When they turned down the avenue leading to Westgate, she finally slowed and grabbed him by the collar. “Are you mad, niño? You have insulted House Próspero and House Lupina, and goddess only knows how they will answer that affront.”

“Do not blame the boy, Musume!” Suki said. “Should he allow some noble’s brat to assault him simply because the pura-sangre jackass is of a powerful House?”

“No, Okasan,” Walküre said. “Of course he should defend himself, but Próspero and Lupina are dangerous Houses to cross. This will go very bad for all of us.”

“
Perdón
, Mamá,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Walküre sighed. “I know, niño. But one day, sorry will not be enough. Seisakusha knows
you attract trouble like dead fish lure flies.”

That was for true. He began to wonder if the gods had cursed him. Perhaps his blended martial technique had indeed offended Them. He had done something to fall from divine favor. No matter how noble his intent or honorable his purpose, all he attempted came out horribly wrong. His list of foes grew daily and now included the Houses Lupina and Próspero. Both were infamous for their retaliation against enemies, as petty in their vengeance as they were powerful and influential, and next to the royal Houses, they were the most powerful Houses in the West.

Those who offended House Próspero or Lupina had been known to vanish along with their entire households. Spouses, servants, children, even the pets of their enemies would be murdered, bodies hidden gods only knew where, and their property burned to the ground. Houses did not achieve the kind of wealth and influence wielded by Próspero and Lupina through beneficence or probity. They held their power through naked ruthlessness. At Temple Seisakusha, Urbano had often boasted of his Patriarchy’s vindictiveness. More than once he had said, “The fool who offends House Próspero cloaks himself in a target.”

The recollection of Urbano’s words, and the certainty with which he had spoken them, made Paladin cringe. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He, and everyone he knew, now bore bane’s-eyes painted across their backs.

Shock. Rage. Anxiety. The emotions flashed across Rebelde’s sweaty, soot-streaked face like the volatile movements of a thunderstorm as he listened to Walküre describe Paladin’s confrontation with Urbano and the reactions of Don Spicebringer and Doña Moonhunter. Rebelde shifted his culo back and forth in his chair, agitated, as if an army of fire ants had settled in his drawers. Jambiax and Suki inserted details they thought important, but this was chiefly Walküre’s tale to tell, and her words were stained grim, painting a complete and extraordinarily dire picture of the day, much clearer than the fragmented scenes in Paladin’s memory.

For Paladin, being thrown by Tufani, discovering the sabotage, and incurring the anger of Don Efraín and Doña Moonhunter had all been worrisome, but hearing those events from Walküre’s perspective was chilling. He felt naive and stupid for not having greater concern about his safety regarding Torneo in general and House Próspero specifically. Walküre and Rebelde were the bravest people he knew, and Walküre was terrified. Terrified for them all.

“…  Don Efraín made no threats,” she said, drumming her fingers nervously on the dining table. “He did not speak at all, but he did not need to. He is pura-sangre. His House is Great. His precious heir was knocked cold with a single blow from a híbrido, and thousands of people watched it and laughed. He will not let this humiliation stand.”

Rebelde was silent for a moment. The taut muscles of his body relaxed as the shock of the news lapsed into acceptance. He drained his cup of tea before speaking. “We cannot change what is. But we can prepare for what will be.”

“And what do you think will be?” Jambiax asked.

“A shit storm,” Rebelde said. “They will come to murder us in our sleep and throw our corpses in Black Claw Bay.”

“That is ridiculous,” Suki said. “There are laws! And even in Santuario del Guerrero, there are punishments for breaking them.”

Jambiax took a puff from his pipe and said, “The laws you speak of apply to common folk and those without influence. There are different rules for the Great Houses, and punishment for assassination is not included among them.”

Suki’s mouth hung open like that of a child who had just learned fairies and duende and merfolk were all make-believe. “Surely the king will not allow this. King Ironbear is a good man.”

“He is highborn and pureblood.” Rebelde shrugged. “He will protect his own. Rumor is he despises Don Efraín, but they are longtime allies. Their Patriarchies’ association goes back hundreds of years. Many believe it is that single alliance which has allowed House Bernardo to hold the throne for so long.”

“That union has kept House Próspero in power also,” Walküre added. “Though Bernardo sits on the throne, the whisperers say it is Próspero and Lupina that wield the true power in Prosperidad. They have all the influence but none of the responsibility that comes with governing a kingdom.”

Suki was incensed. She pushed her chair away from the table, stood, placed her hands on her bony hips, and shouted at Rebelde, “Bah! You have power as well. Turn them into toads. You are witches, after all!”

“We are mancers, woman,” Jambiax growled, “not witches!”

“Of course we will defend ourselves with elemancy if it comes to that, Suki-san,” Rebelde said, considerably calmer than Jambiax. “But House Próspero will not attack us directly. Their assassins will most likely come quietly, unexpected, under cover of night, and silently slit our throats while we sleep. Or they will find a way to poison our food. They might contaminate our water with a sleeping draught and then burn down the house while we doze. There will be nothing to connect them to our murders. Likely, there will be no murder to be connected to. Once we are dead, they will quickly, cleanly, and quietly dispose of our remains. We will simply disappear.” Rebelde smiled confidently. “At least that is what they will attempt.”

Jambiax chuckled. “Yes. They may attempt it, but we are Kamau, the Silent Warrior, and we will answer any treachery in the language of our choosing.”

Rebelde said, “And We Speak Steel.”