Way Walkers: Tangled Paths (The Tazu Saga)

by Leigh, J.

  “I brought the completed chart,” a grinning woman with sandy scales and brown hair proclaimed from the foyer. Wagging a large sealed envelope, the Way Walker clad in russet and pink robes asked in a peppy voice, “Can you believe I’ve already gotten requests for copies? Five days old and families are already considering future coupling. I tell you, I have never seen such a beautiful baby! And I… Oh.” She caught sight of Jathen, and her gleeful expression drooped. “Hello. I didn’t see you there.”

  “No one does.”

  Petalith rescued the blushing Beleskie Walker. “Her Highness is out and about. You can leave the life ladder with me, Mixith.”

  With obvious relief, Mixith relinquished her package to Petalith then hugged Thee and swiftly bid them all farewell.

  “Ruddy Bawans,” Jathen muttered.

  “Comments like that are how gossip gets started, sir.” Petalith unsealed the envelope.

  “You shouldn’t be so prickly anyway.” Thee returned to sit beside him. “She was just excited. To a Bawan, that’s what a life ladder is about—matchmaking. She didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Jathen shrugged, his views on life ladders as ambiguous as life contracts. The life ladder was not merely an abstract spiritual concept but a measurable blueprint of a person’s genetics, which not only included the physical traits and skills of an individual but also held a summary of a person’s spiritual journey, essentially a peek into the life contract. The secret of deciphering the blood to glean the life ladder’s information was closely guarded by Walkers of Feator, but they always shared the relevant portions with the other Walkers. Jathen had never seen his own life’s ladder and wasn’t even certain his mother had ever allowed it to be drafted out of fear Kyanith would find some minor point or flaw beyond the moot issue to permanently deny him his birthright.

  And yet, I shall never escape them, all because my dear Tazu brethren can think of nothing else when it comes to their precious breeding. Jathen bounced Dolomith on his knee. “Let me know his intellect level, Pet. He seems bright for a newborn. I’m betting it’s high.”

  “How would you know?” Thee demanded.

  “I saw you as a babe, remember? And you only drooled on an average level.”

  “Hey!” Thee giggled and poked him with her foot, making Dolomith squeak. “Pet, tell him my levels were as high as Dolo’s.”

  The request went unanswered as Petalith studied the document, squinting despite her glasses.

  Jathen asked, “How’s his life expectancy, Pet?”

  “Fine,” she replied without inflection. “His body’s got a good three hundred sixty-eight to it if he takes proper care of himself. No major disease risks until very late, though the actual bodily aptitude for physical activities is low. You were right. His intellect is high. Talented, too, though the exact Abilities aren’t determinable yet.”

  “Then why do you look worried?” Jathen asked.

  “Why are you asking bluntly about life expectancy?” Thee inquired.

  “He’s asking because he’s worried for your mother, who’s had to bury too many. The majority of his overall ‘conflict in life’ is situated in childhood.” She passed the chart to Jathen. “And though the damn Turinics only let you see three of the seven, he’s absolutely got an exit marker early in his lifespan. Very early.”

  Jathen studied the section. A marker was noted at the very beginning of Dolomith’s chart, though no clear determination as to where or when one of the seven exit markers—occurrences in a life where one ran the chance of ending their life contract and dying—would have a chance to claim the child. “That is really close to the start, Pet. And you said it was a tough delivery, that he wasn’t breathing. He could be past it already.”

  Thee snatched the paper from him. “Oh yes, Pet. That’s too early to worry about, and the markers are just a possibility anyway, at least, until the last one. Jathen’s right; he must be past it already.”

  Another knock interrupted them. Eglestonith entered a moment later, the guard dapper in a fresh uniform but wearing a sheepish expression. “Lord Clevelandith Freibergith Grandidieriss petitions to enter the royal chamber in the queen’s absence on the rationale that he desires to visit with his son, Prince Dolomith Monortith.”

  Jathen stood. “And that is my cue to exit.”

  “That’s what I figured,” the guardsman confessed as Jathen passed his brother to Petalith. “After that scuffle at the naming, I thought it best you two keep a distance.”

  “Thanks.” Jathen headed to the balcony, Thee not far behind him.

  “Scuffle?” Petalith snorted as they breezed by. “What scuffle?”

  Jathen paused. “It was nothing. I tripped on Lord Clevelandith’s tail.” What he failed to mention was that Skaniss had accused him of kicking the noble intentionally after overhearing a purposefully loud statement regarding Lord Clevelandith’s prowess in “finally fathering a real king.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Thee said as he slipped one leg over the balcony railing.

  “Thee, I’m climbing off a balcony to avoid a Grandidieriss, and you want me to voluntarily go to an Attieth party? No.”

  “You climb off balconies all the time!”

  “Invite the Chertith girl. She’ll be able to handle it.” He lowered himself to the nearest marble gargoyle.

  “Seren? I might as well be alone with my father, for all she talks in public.” She huffed before retreating inside.

  At least you have a father. Rhodonith never spoke of Jathen’s father. Most of the court assumed she kept her silence because the young princess had chosen some thin-blood with no written life ladder out of lust. Thee held her own Beleskie-induced fantasy in which their mother’s sealed convictions implied she’d loved the mystery Tazu beyond class and would not betray her beloved to a rueful court for ridicule. Jathen assumed that his sire was either dead or too ashamed to step forward to claim a moot as his child. In some ways, Jathen could not blame the Tazu, as a proven moot produced by one’s seed was as good as a coupling death sentence for a Tazu male. On other days, Jathen raged at his invisible specter of a father with more fury than he could muster even for Kyanith.

  Jathen continued the slow trek across balconies between royal bedchambers then climbed along the familiar line of dragon-faced rainspouts, five Tazu stories up and ascending. Heights bothered Jathen little due to his hatched-blood, and he had a natural aptitude for climbing. Ever since he was small, he’d been escaping out windows and shinnying up drainpipes, much to his mother’s initial horror. Rhodonith’s attempts to bar him from such activities ultimately proved futile and unnecessary. He always found a way to evade confinement, and Jathen never fell, even when bombarded by swooping, taunting tyrn.

  I need to get out and pass the time—at least until dinner. Thee or Mother should be back by then. But with Skaniss still prowling about, I’d best not test fate. If I keep to the palace complex, he can’t bar my movements without some of the other royal guards seeing him.

  Of course! Master Hatori! I’ve not bothered him in a while, and the workshop is a good place to go when one doesn’t want to think. “As I never get much of a word in edgewise,” he murmured.

  Jathen traveled across the palace roof, heading for one of the adjacent buildings. A few patrolling guardsmen called greetings, but most of the tyrn flying by only glanced at him. Making use of a renovator’s scaffolding, he descended directly into one of the interior courtyards. The buildings along the outer edge housed several of the personal craftsmen in direct Monortith service. Their homes and workshops were accessible from a side entrance to admit influential families petitioning for luxury craftworks. Bored-looking guards and children loitered outside while their masters and parents completed business within.

  Jathen’s destination was one of the only storefronts i
n the row lacking waiting patrons, as most had learned it was safest to simply relinquish their orders and be gone lest they bear witness to the infamous temper of its resident. The façade had only a single wooden sign above the door, the carved “Charm Master” painted yellow, lavender, and black. Inside, an opulent dark pink carpet of patterned flowers and matching white-striped wallpaper were reflected in the many mirrors. There were no display cases. Instead, a dark walnut counter ran along the rear wall, partitioning off a door leading to the backroom.

  From there, sounds of screaming echoed.

  Chapter 6

  The mirrors rattled.

  A tremendous boom reverberated against the wall as the door flew open, causing gilded frames to shiver nervously upon unsteady hooks. The intensified clamor of two voices shrieking was incomprehensible. Jathen assumed the language was either Lu’shun or Clan, but he did not speak either. A closing crescendo of wrath was exchanged before a flustered human stomped through and slammed the door. Normally only a shade tanner than Jathen’s, the foreign-born’s face was tinged an agitated crimson, while his lips were pursed tight enough to bleach them white.

  Jathen leaned on the countertop. “Lovers’ quarrel, Jephue?”

  The man went to one of the mirrors and straightened his blue velvet long-shirt and righted a few out-of-place hairs. The delicately swirled white-blond curls adorned his scalp to just above the ears. Jephue changed his hair on an almost daily basis. The last time Jathen had seen him, the tresses were waist long, curtain straight, and sepia brown. Over the years, Jathen and Thee had held secret debates as to whether the effect was achieved via a multitude of wigs, magic, or actual physical styling and dyeing. The ever-rotating color coordination made Jathen equate Jephue with Selenite Square. Redecorated monthly with new plants and banners, the massive pavilion was also ostentatious and open, supported by elaborate pillars of solid pink-gray granite.

  “That man is a bastard,” Jephue said. “You tell him so if you risk going in.”

  Jathen snickered. “No offense, but I’ve not got the backbone to call a five-hundred-year-old vampire a bastard to his face.”

  The man waved a ring-encrusted and silver-nail-polished hand. “Well, you would do best not to mention the V-word. He is a Clansman. Call him the other today, and he will kill you, no matter his fondness of you, young prince.” Jephue walked to the other end of the counter.

  “Fondness? He threw a soldering iron at me last time.”

  Jephue reached below the counter to retrieve a six-buttoned, heavy cotton coat the same deep blue shade as the granite in Jathen’s bedroom. “And yet, you are here, back again to hear his stories.”

  “Yeah, well…” Jathen jumped up and over the top of the counter. “It’s the only place I have to go in the royal complex that’s not full of faces I don’t match.”

  “See? And he lets you come and sit.” He donned the coat, smoothing out the sleeves. “Fondness between you two.”

  “That’s not what your lovers’ spat was about, is it?” Jathen half joked. “Because I couldn’t stand causing issues between you two.”

  Jephue gazed at him with piercing pale-blue eyes. “Do not flatter yourself.”

  “And don’t sell your own fondness short,” Jathen pointed out. “Bastard or not, you’ll be back.”

  Jephue muttered something under his breath that Jathen didn’t understand, but the tone implied a string of expletives in Lu’shun. Jathen laughed as the shopkeeper exited, then he proceeded into the workshop.

  While the front was pristine and affluent, the back was a cohesive madness. A myriad of shelves, drawers, boxes, and metal safes were stacked in what appeared at first glance an irrational system sprawled across two workbenches and a couple of freestanding tables. To Jathen, the towers were a personal city erected around an artist who roved seamlessly through his unconventional structure, crafting together magic and metal by fusing engineering and Ability. The charm master sat with his back to the door and head bent over some masterpiece, the sleeves of his cotton work shirt hoisted up past the elbows. The sight of him evoked the image of the fifteen-hundred-year-old library Jathen had seen in Tourmaline as a child. Though dark, spiky, and ominous on the outside, the interior contained yellow velvet-cushioned seats and a cozy atmosphere, stocked equally in both useful and useless information. So it was with Hatori Chann, if one could make it past the threshold.

  A heavy walking stick flew at his head. Jathen ducked and the black-lacquered cane crashed into the door then clattered to the floor. In visits past, Jathen had seen Hatori flick needle-thin etching tools to pin buzzing summer flies to the walls. If the charm master had wanted to hit Jathen, he would have.

  “Afternoon, Master Chann.”

  The Clansman looked human, except for his eyes. He had no slit pupils, but his irises burned silver-green around the circular black. “Damn it, boy! Time and again I tell you to knock if I am working! You can’t damn well shift by deviation of blood, but where is it written being a moot is a deterrent to recalling common courtesy?”

  Jathen stooped to retrieve the cane. “Why such bluster? And after Jephue just said you were fond of me.”

  “If you don’t like the abuse, then why visit?” Hatori shot a derogatory glance at him before lighting a flame-charm burner on the table. “Spirit knows you get enough flak for your appearance. While the Ways don’t disallow two men their amour, this culture is so obsessed with mating and breeding they just can’t seem to wrap their little reptilian brains around it. So why add to the mix of their disapproval by puttering around here?”

  “Honestly?” Jathen spun the ornate stick, admiring the obsidian inlay bisecting the light amber with a sliver of black much like the slit of an eye. He shrugged and returned the heavy piece to its home by the door, a low porcelain bin filled with umbrellas, canes, and walking sticks. “It’s because you two are interesting and different. And neither you nor Jephue have ever treated me like I was some second-class citizen.”

  “Yes, well.” Hatori batted a buzzing insect away from the magical blue flame. “If you notice, I don’t treat anyone as a first-class citizen, either.”

  “Yep.” Jathen grinned, slipping up to sit atop a table. “All are equal in this shop.”

  “Humph.” Pulling open several drawers from the multitude above the workbench, Hatori glanced in Jathen’s direction. “What did you do to your hand there?”

  “I punched a mirror.”

  “Didn’t like what you saw, eh?”

  “The new head Montage Walker asked me the same thing.”

  “Bah! Montage Walkers are so obsessed with noninterference. I bet he waited an hour after the fact before asking.” Master Hatori removed a chunk of gold and placed it on the table in front of him. “A Walker of the Protector would have gotten to you before you whacked the thing.”

  “My mother seems pleased enough with the Gold Way,” Jathen muttered, “and eager enough to see me take to it.”

  “Not everyone is meant is to follow the same Way, boy.” Hatori held up a chunk of the gleaming mineral. “Perhaps the only thing golden that suits you is your hair.” The small ingot was plopped into the awaiting crucible above the burner. “Spirit knows, your moods certainly aren’t. They are black enough to blot out the sun some days. Not that it isn’t always warranted, mind you.”

  Jathen snuffed a chortle at the energy-empathic Talent. “Are you saying obsidian might suit me better?”

  “Rhean?” Hatori chuckled, dropping more raw gold into the bowl. At supposedly over two hundred years older than Kyanith, the only outward sign of the short man’s age was a slight silvering of the hair near his temples. He increased the burner’s flame and shook his head. “No, I don’t think the patron Child of the Clan Lands would weigh well on you, little Tazu. The Protector is a harsh master and far more demanding than most outside his realm real
ize.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  Jathen watched the charm master pour the molten gold into a mold, where the insect buzzing about had unwittingly alighted. Hesitating too long upon the rim, the bug was inadvertently caught in the flow as liquid bullion poured over the side. Muttering a curse under his breath, Hatori returned the basin to its burner and fetched a pair of tweezers to remove the tiny body. He managed to snatch half the carcass before the gold gelled too much. Jathen flinched at the sight of the tiny legs twitching at the end of the tweezers.

  “Bloody hell,” Hatori grumbled, disposing of the mess. “To be honest, boy, I’m actually glad you stopped by today. I’ve been pondering something for a time now, and I wanted to talk it over with you.”

  “Oh?”

  Pouring the gold a second time, Hatori completed his task and returned the basin before answering. “I’m going to be closing up shop and leaving the Tazu Nation soon.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Clan are interesting creatures. I have heard monarchs say we are like an infestation which can never be purged. To some extent, it’s true, at least amongst us outlanders. My race will find foreign soil and dig their heels and fangs into the economy and social order, making ourselves indispensable to all the right families, lining all the right pockets, and killing all the right people. We can never be ousted, for our influence is then generations deep.” He snatched up a cloth to wipe his hands while the molds cooled. “Kyanith has put up with me all this time because he knows I keep no firm ties to my homeland and because I promised him I would leave within his lifetime. However, this extended stay and my friendship with you grates at his patience, and I’m not one to overstay my welcome. He’ll be glad to see me go, and his knowing I’ll not be whispering in your ear once he’s dead and gone will be at least one positive in your favor.”

  “That’s the reason you’ve decided to leave?” Jathen blinked, aghast. “You think it will help me earn my birthright?”