“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.
Chapter Twenty-eight
House of the Silent Warrior
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 l
ikely 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.”
Paladin was miserable. How could one little punch cause such misfortune? “I’m sorry to have caused all this trouble, Papá.”
“As am I,” Rebelde said. He sighed. “I wish you had heeded my warnings about Torneo, but wishes are wind. We must prepare for what is to come.”
“Urbano and I are younglings,” Paladin said hopefully. “Young men fight all the time. Surely Don Efraín will not take such great offense at a squabble between boys. Perhaps we are overreacting.”
Mbarika cronked, “Would you trust your life to a murderer’s mercy? Eres ingenuo? Well?”
“Mbarika, as always, speaks the ugly truth,” Rebelde said. “We will hope for the best, boy, but plan for the worst. Don Efraín is a proud, petty murderer. Thousands bore witness to his shame in the arena. Until we know differently, we must expect an attack from House Próspero. Wherever we go, we will do so armed and in numbers. Jambiax, Mbarika, and I have some skill at using the soul element to sense threats. At least one of us will always be in the presence of the others.
“I do not believe they will attack during Torneo, but the three of us will be in the arena, using animancy to detect any hostility directed at Paladin. It is not an infallible technique, but it is better than nothing.”
“Perhaps I should avoid the arena, Papá. Better to forfeit the Melee trial than place you all in jeopardy.”
“Is that what you want, boy?” Rebelde said.
“What I want is beside the point. It’s foolish to needlessly place ourselves in peril.”
Rebelde eyed him, smiling. “Is it what you want, son?”
Paladin shook his head. “Of course not. I do not want to forfeit, Papá. But it seems unwise to—”
Rebelde raised his hand, silencing him. “We will all go to the arena. We will watch and protect you. And you will teach that wicked little Nordling the price of treachery against Kamau—the Silent Warrior.”
Jambiax nodded. He placed his fist over his heart. “We Speak Steel.”
Paladin grinned and returned the salute. “We Speak Steel.”
“No,” Rebelde said. “Not yet we don’t.”
He got up and left the room.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Storm
Pía was stronger than she looked.
Fox was covered in a dense layer of muscle that made him heavy for his size, yet Pía threw him to the floor as if he were a sack of feathers. A single candle’s flame cast just enough light in the room for him to see the hungry look in her eyes as she pinned him like an Eisenfaust grappling meister and covered his face with kisses. Occasionally she murmured dreamily, “Mi caballero. The One God has sent me a caballero campeón.”
The meeting with the Prophet had left them too exhilarated to sleep. They were thrilled that the War of Judgment would begin in but a few short hours, but people died in wars, and though they had absolute faith, the only thing the Prophet could promise was that The One God’s will would be done. Not even the Prophet could say with absolute certainty what that will might be. They could all perish in the flames of war.
So tonight, they would live.
Fox placed his hands on Pía’s cheeks and met her hungry lips with his own. Their needful hands grabbed and groped until they were hopelessly tangled in an exquisite knot of arms and legs. The temperature in the room was cool, but their passions scorched them from the inside out. They were feverish. Their clothes sopped with sweat. Fox half expected they would spontaneously combust. It was as if The One God Himself sanctified their coupling with divine heat. Their union was providence. They were inevitable. “I love you, Pía. Marry me.”
The words had leapt from his lips as if independent creatures of willful mind. He had not planned to propose marriage, but there were times when rightness occurred of its own volition, and this was one of those moments.
At least he thought so.
“But we have known each other only a scant few days,” she said.
Her words speared holes through his heart. He had come to believe their few days together were the beginning of forever. “I—I—did not mean—I just thought …”
“You thought correctly,” she said. “You are mi querido. And I would marry you this very moment if that is your wish. But I fear that you, as a young man, may want to … know other women before settling on just one. I want you to be sure of me.”
He stood up and lifted her with him. “Pía Ximena Del Whitewraith, I have never been more sure of anything in my life. You are the only woman I will ever want. Yours are the only children I will ever father. I swear it on my life, my honor, and my devotion to The One God. May the Three take my soul if I lie.”
She giggled. “Sí, sí, and yes. Of course I will marry you.”
He took her into his arms and whirled her around the room, smothering her lips with his. She moaned with delight as his hands moved over the contours of her femininity. She wore a lusty mischievous grin as she pulled out of his arms. He reached for her again, but she slipped out of his grasp, giggling, teasing. Her hips swayed like a Kusini Watu veil dancer’s as she sashayed over to stand in a wash of amber candlelight. Her fingers moved deftly to untie her sash. “Tonight, I will make you a man, mi prometido.”
Her robe fluttered softly to the floor. She turned slowly, the light illuminating every supple curve of her red-brown body, allowing him to scrutinize every inch of her, at least every inch not covered by her underthings. “Am I not beautiful, beloved?”
“Ja,” he whispered. “I mean, yes. Sí.”
And she was beautiful. More than beautiful. She was flawless.
Except for a single, glaring bruise tarnishing the flesh covering her ribs.
He pointed at the violet mark. “What happened?”
She blushed. “It is nothing, mi querido. I told you how we tried to give holy attestation to the blended boy, Del Darkdragón …”
“What?” Raging war-drums pounded in his chest. “That pagan touched you?”
“Do not vex yourself, mi querido.” She fluttered her long lashes at him. “You may kiss it well if you wish …”
“I wish to know what happened,” Fox insisted, all thoughts of romance driven from his brain. “Why have you not told me of this before?”
She sighed. “He was only defending himself …”
“You attacked Del Darkdragón?”
“Several of us cornered him in an alley to attest to The One God’s truth. He said something blasphemous and Claudio attacked him. Del Darkdragón was only defending himself. He was frightened, I think. Old Señora Del Fishgutter was with us. May The One God forgive me for saying so, but that woman is a dreadful terror. She even frightens me sometimes. Please, let us not spoil this moment by worrying over Del Darkdragón. Come. Kiss me, mi querido.”
She was right, of course. This was the greatest day of his life, the day he would become a man. It would be foolish to let his hatred of the pagan ruin it. But every time his gaze settled on the angry purple smudged across Pía’s ribs, his fury heated. That something as repellent as the pagan had dared lay hands—or in this case his filthy foot—upon something as precious as Pía was an abomination to The One God.
The pagan had cheated and humiliated him at Temple Seisakusha. The pagan had stolen half of his archery victory. The pagan had assaulted Urbano, shaming him be
fore the eyes of his father and the world. And, with the Prophet’s holy love in his heart, Fox might have forgiven Del Darkdragón all those acts, as offensive as they were. But the pagan had touched Pía, hurt her, and that was unforgivable.
“Mi querido,” Pía said, “please, forget Del Darkdragón. Think of me and the life we will share, the children we will raise.”
He tried.
He took her into his arms and kissed her, but it was no use. He kissed her again, though his mind was far away. His desire was only for vengeance. “I am sorry, Pía.”
She snatched her robe from the floor and dressed in a huff. She took her cloak down from where it hung on the wall and strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“Out.”
“Pía, I—”
She waved him silent. “You must choose, Fox. Your love for me or your hatred of Del Darkdragón. Which is more important to you?”
With that, she stormed out of the apartment, leaving Fox alone with his ever-growing fury.
He cursed the pagan to hell.
Del Darkdragón had sullied Pía with his filthy touch, ruined Fox’s chance to become a man, and tainted the occasion of his marital engagement. But this would be the last time he ruined anything in this life. Come the morrow, Fox was going to kill the stinking pagan. By The One God’s will, Paladin Del Darkdragón of House Kamau was a dead man.
Rebelde returned bearing the sheathed sword he had repossessed after the fiesta de cumpleaños. A smile broke across Paladin’s lips. Rebelde’s eyes darted from the sword to him and back again, apprehension furrowing his heavy brow. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he marched around the hearth and table, approaching Paladin hesitantly, like a man going to the gallows.
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