Way Walkers: Tangled Paths (The Tazu Saga)

by Leigh, J.

  Jathen shrugged. “If it keeps me from getting trampled, I’m glad to know I don’t smell strongly.”

  Esop barked a laugh. “This one will fit in nicely with the group. Aye, Setsu?” Not waiting for a reply, he started off, herding Jathen along in front of him. “Come on then. Let’s show you the big babies.”

  Jathen could not help wrinkling his nose once Esop brought him closer to the smallest of the bunch. “Do they always smell like that?”

  “Naw.” Esop patted the creature’s gray haunch affectionately. “They wash themselves in the river when we’re traveling. We’ve been holed up here for three days, so they be a bit ripe at the moment. Here. Come say hello.”

  Raising a shaking hand, Jathen tried not to flinch when the long trunk rose to inspect his arm. There was no whinnying or screaming, however, just the searching, seeking presence of a leathery nose. “Hey, it likes me.”

  “Told ya.” Esop grinned. “Nothing but big babies.”

  Jathen gathered his courage and patted the elefil’s side. The animal snorted, a loud trumpeting sound that made Jathen jump and Esop laugh.

  A slim boy wove through the massive beasts and approached them. “Hey, fur-ball! Why the two extra elefils and saddles? I thought we were using them for cargo this trip.”

  “Because we have a Tazu riding with us,” Esop replied. He turned back to Jathen. “This is our younger Clansman. Don’t let his age fool you, though. He’s a full-rank kasior and a hell of a shot.”

  Two years Jathen’s senior, the Clansman actually looked his age. Wearing a sleek outfit of dark brown leather, he had a shock of black hair was almost as thick as Esop’s fur, though far better managed. His eyes were a kind of grayed lavender, smoky but with a certain luminescence, like an amethyst held to the light. They lent him the bearing of being simultaneously both very old and very young. The clear wisdom that comes from purity, Jathen thought, oddly struck by the old Anganite quote.

  The Clansman scratched his head. “You sure don’t look like a Tazu. Where are your horns and scales?”

  “I’m a moot.” Jathen’s chest ember crackled, surprising him after its long period of dormancy.

  “Moot? What in Prothidian’s Red-mad head is a moot?”

  “Well done, kid,” Esop said. “You’ve managed to thoroughly insult the Monortith crown prince. Ruddy well done.” He snapped his head to the side and yelled, “No, no! Don’t load it like that!” He nudged the Clansman. “Apologize.” With a last nod to Jathen, he raced away.

  The Clansman grimaced. “I do apologize. Shooting a crossbow, I can do. Things like politics and biological stuffs, I don’t know much about, and honestly, I don’t want to know.”

  “How about manners?”

  “Not in the least.” He shook his head. “I am sorry, but really, I didn’t know. Still don’t, to be truthful.”

  Gritting his teeth, Jathen did his very best to keep from entertaining thoughts of doing severe bodily harm to the ignorant ass. “Whatever,” he muttered, dismal at the prospect of spending months on the road with an idiot.

  “Are you really going to hold a grudge over a simple misunderstanding? I said I was sorry. I’m man enough to admit a misstep, but I’ve got to question anyone who’s too sanctimonious to accept it.”

  The sheer absurdity of anyone referring to him as sanctimonious was enough to surprise Jathen out of his annoyance. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  A Msāfryan woman shouted, “Ass’shiri! Best not upset the commissions, you hear?” Her pronunciation of the name was odd—Zo’den accent biting hard around the A and losing the ‘ah’ sound on the separation mark—so the name sounded more like “Ass breath sheer-ree” rather than “Ass-ah-sheer-ree.”

  Jathen snorted. “Your name is Ass-shiri?”

  The Clansman’s ears turned red. “Don’t start, Moot.”

  After a moment spent glaring at each other, they both burst into laughter.

  “Yeah. Ass’shiri Tan of the Tan’cha clan, though not Tannesh.” Rolling his lavender eyes, he added, “And yeah, I know how my name sounds when Cy’shā murders Tar’cil. But it’s a very dignified forename when pronounced correctly.”

  “Jathen Cornetith Iridosmine Monortith, of the Tazu Royal House.” Jathen offered his hand. “Though Esop gives me too much credit. I’m not the crown prince, at least not officially.”

  Ass’shiri shook his hand. “Oh. Because of the moot thing?”

  Jathen smirked. “Yes, Ass, it is. I was born to two Tazu, but for the most part, I look human.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that! And you know, I can see it now. In your eyes—they’re slits, like a cat or lizard. Or some of the Ki’ra.”

  “Or a dragon?” Jathen offered with a touch of snide pride.

  “Well, yeah, but not as intricate. Wild dragons’ eyes are colder.”

  “Well, glad you could finally tell. Most would have noticed immediately just from the color.”

  “Ah, Moot, relax.” Ass’shiri laughed, patting Jathen’s shoulder. “When you come from the Clan Lands, gold and silver and metallic eyes are pretty normal. Hell, even a lot of the humans’ eyes have the flecks in them.”

  “Really?” Jathen was intrigued by the idea of a sea of pale faces with bright liquid eyes similar to his own. Monortith gold was rather distinctive even amid Tazu, whose eyes tended more toward an orange or burnished tone. “My shade of gold?”

  “Well, not exactly.” He stared into Jathen’s eyes. “Yours remind me mostly of Manna eyes.” Ass’shiri squinted. “But a bit different shade.”

  “Manna eyes?”

  “Yeah, the Mannachi clan’s First Family. Like royalty, but not quite. Think very high-level nobility. They’re a really old family, right down from the Originals Marin and Erin Manna. Most of them got these really bright gold eyes, and well, most of them are a little deranged, too.”

  “Thanks, Ass.” Jathen groaned. “I’ve got crazy people’s eyes. Wonderful.”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s a different gold.”

  “Sure.”

  “No, really, it’s like…” Ass’shiri sucked air through his teeth, a habit Jathen was beginning to suspect was a tendency amid the Clan race. “I don’t know how to describe it… like, yellower.”

  “Yellower?”

  Hatori came up behind Jathen. “Manna eyes are a different type of gold, older and more antique in color, like weathered bullion. They have burnt sienna and burnt umber shadows with flecks and highlights usually in canary yellow or occasionally some silver or green. Monortith eyes are a more luminous gold, cleaner with white highlights and raw umber shadows. They’ve not got flecks, but it’s such a shiny hue with the white highlights that their gold tends to reflect different colors in it, rainbow-like in the facets. Very pretty and very much a pain in the ass to recreate on canvas. If you screw it up, they come out all muddy.”

  “Wow!” Ass’shiri whistled. “Could you be any more specific?”

  “What did you expect?” Hatori raised an eyebrow. “You are debating color around a Bree follower. Far be it from me to offer a proper distinction between the two hues.”

  “As long as I don’t have crazy eyes, I’m content,” Jathen said.

  “Yes, well,” Hatori muttered, “he does have that one right. A good slice of the Manna bloodline doesn’t have all their morals in a row, so to speak.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re sadists,” Ass’shiri said, “and some don’t stay on the right side of propriety with it. Most Way laws state you can do whatever you want in the bedroom as long as everyone involved agrees and enjoys. Mannas sometimes go past that and only enjoy people who are in real pain.”

  “They are psychopaths,” Hatori said harshly.

  “I prefer the term ‘warped
’ over ‘psychopath,’” Ass’shiri said. “Denotes more of a subtlety.”

  “And I prefer we get off this subject,” Hatori announced, “and get back to packing. Come along, Jath, I want to make certain all your parcels have been accounted for before we depart tomorrow.”

  Chapter 20

  The crossbow released.

  Again and again the three-scale-long bolts shot out, a good half dozen plunging into their targets. Jathen and Ass’shiri were out in the brush a bit away from camp, scaring out durmats for dinner. The little weasel-like animals didn’t stand a chance against Ass’shiri’s vaunted skill, and not a single bolt was lost or wasted.

  “That’s impressive,” Jathen said as Ass’shiri loaded another set of rounds. Over the course of the last few days, he’d had gotten better acquainted with the young Clansman, learning a bit about the home he’d left behind and the training he’d undergone in Tar’citadel to become a kasior—a Rheanic crossbowman. “Your speed is incredible.”

  “It’s not all me.” He flashed Jathen a sideways glance. “Granted, being Clan helps, but the crossbow itself is set to be semi or fully automatic. I can fire up to twelve shots after one loading, and the training is a force in and of itself.” More bolts sped out, pinning another of the little mammals to the roots of a tree.

  Jathen walked over, removed the bolts, and threw them in a bag. He tossed the dead durmat into a second bag. “Do you have to be a Talent to do that?”

  “Naw, not really.” More of the little things scampered out of the brush, but Ass’shiri was ready. “Mostly it’s the crossbow, like I said. It’s got magnets and counterweights. I’ve been trained to assemble and disassemble it in a few seconds. It’s also extremely heavy, which is why you mostly see Clansmen as kasior. Holding down the trigger, we can get up to five clips off in a minute if we’re going full speed. That’s almost sixty shots; most non-Clan can only manage to load three clips at best. Though Clan can also go that fast even if we aren’t just holding down the trigger. And the hollow syringe bolts can hold all kinds of poisons, even antidotes to other poisons.” The clip ran out, and he beamed at Jathen before reloading. “Makes for a hell of a defender, the only way Rhean would want it!” He shot a durmat in the head. “Whoo!”

  “It is something.”

  Clicking the weapon, he held the sleek three-heads-long crossbow out to Jathen with a smile. “You want to try?”

  Jathen’s heart pounded. “Seriously? It doesn’t violate some Rheanic oath or anything?”

  Ass’shiri shrugged. “I’m not giving it to you. I’m just asking if you want to shoot a bolt or two at a tree.”

  “Sure!”

  The crossbow was heavy, far heavier than Jathen had anticipated, given how nonchalantly Ass’shiri handled it. Just lifting it up into the crook of his elbow took effort.

  Ass’shiri gave him a few quick tips on how to plant his feet and line up the shot, then stepped away. “Have at it, Jath!”

  With an almost spiritual reverence, Jathen took aim and squeezed the trigger. He heard a sliding sound and then a pop! Pain overtook his senses. The kickback of the crossbow was like an explosion into his chest, sending Jathen hurtling backward. He landed unceremoniously on his back. His vision spun with dots.

  “Oh, bloody shit!” Ass’shiri laughed. “Are you alive?”

  “Ass,” Jathen managed to choke out as he slowly shifted onto his elbows. “You are an asshole.”

  “Aw, come on. If it makes you feel any better, the same thing happened to me my first time.” He snorted. “Though I didn’t fly quite as far.”

  Jathen tried to move, but his head was spinning. Everything in him throbbed independently as he glared up at Ass’shiri. “You’re Clan. I’m not as strong as you. I’m a moot, practically human, remember?” He grabbed his head. “Were you trying to kill me?”

  “Aw, come now. You’re fine.” He crouched to help Jathen to his feet. “You just stunned yourself. Happens.”

  Oddly, getting up helped, though Jathen wished he hadn’t done it quite so fast, as his legs wobbled. “No, it happens when dumbass Clan makes dumb assumptions.”

  “Not that dumb, silly Tazu.” He laughed, leading Jathen to a nearby rock. Sitting down, he gave Jathen a sly grin. “Let me ask you, Moot, does your chest hurt? Or just your head?”

  “My head.”

  “Right,” Ass’shiri said, putting his forefinger on his nose. “If you hadn’t knocked your head, you’d be feeling nothing but a hit of pride right now. No human could have survived what you just did without breaking something, probably a neck, if not a shoulder or breastbone.” He winked. “I know humans, Jath. And I’m telling you, you are not in the same league as a normal, everyday, un-Talented human. You’re a moot, sir, and that means you are a step above.” He snickered. “Bet you never thought of it in that way, huh?”

  “No, I hadn’t.” Jathen rubbed the back of his head. “But next time you want to make a point, you think you could do it without inflicting bodily harm?”

  “Mmmm. Could be hard. Most lessons taught the Clan way involve some sort of pain.”

  “What happened to ‘Do no harm’?”

  “See, my father would argue, if you can heal from it, it ain’t lasting harm.”

  “Real nice.”

  “I know, right?”

  Later, Jathen wrote, I find it odd to discover what I think is a friend. But I also wonder if he really is a friend, not because I doubt his intentions, but because I’ve never had a friend my own age. I find myself asking questions I wouldn’t normally, speaking on things more easily than I have in the past. And instead of being rebuked, I’ve been rewarded with honest answers, bouts of humor, and a real interest in helping me for no other gain than I think Ass’shiri knows he can, and that I need it. If this is what a friend is, I’m glad for it.

  Ass’shiri had his own questions for Jathen, some of which were such blunt and blatantly do-not-discuss-in-polite-company remarks that Jathen had a hard time answering them with a straight face.

  “You aren’t like them, are you?” Ass’shiri asked one afternoon, eyeing Hatori and Jephue. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I’m just saying I’m not… you know, like that, so I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  “Oh, no.” Jathen shook his head while trying not to laugh. “I might be a moot, but I apparently decided to pursue females when signing my life’s contract.”

  “Oh good, then we can talk about women, too.”

  “What women?” Jathen snorted, gesturing at the brown and sage dry landscape. The only possible females besides Cy’shā were several large cats far in the distance, their sienna-tipped tails flicking. Rmlkoka, Cyaone D. Ja’han had written, are sand cats, cousins of the Lubreean leina, but they don’t change colors. “All I see are grass and rmlkoka.”

  “Well, when we find some, we can talk about them.”

  “Sure.” Jathen chuckled, uncertain how similar their taste in females might run, given he dreamt of scales and wings.

  “It’s been two weeks, and I finally have to ask.” Ass’shiri hooked a thumb in the direction of Jephue, who was twirling a platinum-blond braid during the morning breakdown of camp. “What is the story behind his hair?”

  Jathen snickered. “It’s been long debated, and at this point, I’m definitely leaning toward some sort of magic.”

  “Well, there are charms to make flesh heal faster. Maybe there’s something that can make hair grow.”

  Jathen happily recorded this theory in Thee’s next letter. You’d like Ass’shiri, Thee. He’s what I’d be like if I wasn’t such a miserable, cynical bastard.

  I’m beginning to wonder if arguing to express affection is somehow a cultural aspect of Clansmen in general. Setsuken constantly jibes back and forth with the Ki’ra Esop, but one can tell their frie
ndship runs deep. Ass’shiri joins as well whenever he can, insulting and squabbling with the large bear on everything from chores to women. The three of them are efficient as any set of clutch-mates, though, practically reading each other’s minds when work needs be done. And even the finest jobs efficiently completed are met with barking laughter and quips about “womanliness.” They also curse worse than a drunken thin-blood out of low market. It seems to seep into everyone—even I’m becoming crasser, though they seem to think better of me for it. If this is typical of Clan conduct, it would certainly explain Hatori and Jephue’s relationship over the years, though I suspect they spoke their profanities in Clan to spare the court.

  Our Msāfryan portion of the company are called Cy’shā and Hkym, a “mated pair.” Hkym is our ever-shifting Tyr’sat and, I suspect, a visual medium. He does not speak at all, and at first, I assumed it was for ignorance of a common language, until I was informed of the gruesome truth.

  “He has no tongue?” Jathen gasped. “How?”

  “Annarites cut it out,” Cy’shā said.

  “Why?”

  “They are Annarites.” She shrugged, the many turquoise beads woven into her braids clicking. “They raid. We war.”

  Cy’shā, with her cinnamon-stick skin encasing a leanly muscled fighter’s body, was a Precognitive. The first time they came to an overgrown portion of the road, she called the party to a halt. Standing a moment in silence, eyes closed and head cocked to the side, she seemed to be privy to some enchanted music only a Talent could hear.

  “There’s a rmlkoka ahead,” she finally said, opening her bottomless brown eyes. “Will attack.”

  They were ready when the sand cat burst from the tall grasses. Sweeping his long sword forward, Setsuken dropped to one knee, the momentum of the beast’s leap feeding a strike set to impact right between its open jaws. At least, that was what Jathen expected to happen, but in place of spattering blood and tearing tissue, the cat morphed, turning into sand. Its form went fuzzy, the grains of sand flowing harmlessly around the sword, as if Setsu had cleaved a sand dune. The animal landed as a solid cat, turning immediately to attack. Esop stepped from his own hiding place and swung the massive axe down upon the cat’s neck. Later, the party congratulated each other for a job well done over hot bowls of the delicious stew Jephue had made from the animal.