Full-Blood Half-Breed Read Online Free PDF Page A

He would avoid the trap many folk fell into of choosing names that were flamboyant to the point of being ridiculous, like the butcher Señor Cleto the Tastybacon, who provided the temple with meat on the one or two times a year when the stingy monks would pay for it.
    Had there ever been a name as stupid as Tastybacon? Although, he had to admit, the man’s bacon had been very tasty. But could he not have imagined a less silly name?
    Even the mongrel’s mongrel parents’ surnames spoke of their inflated egos: the Darkdragón and the Cruelarrow. Fox the Runt rolled his eyes and shook his head just thinking about it. Seisakusha’s Tail, but it was obnoxious! No, he would avoid such false grandiosity. His name would speak to his strengths without being ostentatious or tawdry.…
    “Zwergfuchs the Ragingblades!” he declared. “What do you think of that name, Urbano?”
    “For the Niñero de Zurullo?” Urbano chuckled. “I was thinking of something more like Zwergfuchs the Stinkyfingers.”
    “Or,” Jorge said, “Zwergfuchs the Turdtender.”
    Urbano and Jorge were seized by a fit of laughter once more. Fox the Runt took deep breaths to control his building anger. He did not want to say anything to his friend that he might regret later. Urbano could be vexing, but he was also a trusted companion. It was rare for a noble of such a powerful House to befriend a poor foreign-born commoner like Fox the Runt. Urbano would be taking on debt to pay the Torneo entrance fee, charging Fox the Runt only a nominal rate of interest. Though Urbano came from a wealthy House, he had little money himself. His father had seen to that.
    The quarrel between Urbano and his father concerned Urbano’s handling of money. Don Efraín thought his son was careless and extravagant, an opinion Fox the Runt shared, though he would never say so to Urbano. The don had ended Urbano’s weekly stipend and insisted the boy take a job in the arena’s stables, a punishment designed to teach him budgetary responsibility. Urbano had taken an advance on his salary to pay the entrance fee for Fox the Runt. It was hard to be angry with Urbano after such a selfless act of friendship.
    “Burning Balls, Zwergfuchs,” Urbano said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We are only jesting. The year will pass before you know it, and the only piss pot you will have to clean will be your own.”
    “Sí,” Jorge said, chuckling, “and there is always the possibility you will be killed duringTorneo.
Mi padre
says there are no chamber pots in The After. Unless you go to hell. Then I suppose—”
    “Mind your tongue!” Urbano snapped. “If he is killed in the games, I will lose my investment. Besides, have you not seen him fight? There is no warrior in the Thirteen that can best him, certainly no youngling.”
    “What about the híbrido, Del Darkdragón?” Jorge said. “Did he not break his nose …?”
    “That mongrel is a stinking cheat!” Fox the Runt barked. “And he only bloodied my nose. He did not break it!”
    “Calm down, Zwergfuchs,” Urbano said. “Even if the mongrel could beat you—”
    “He cannot!”
    “I know that, amigo.” Urbano sighed. “But it does not matter one way or the other. The híbrido’s father will never allow him to compete in Torneo.”
    Fox the Runt wished the mongrel’s father would let him compete so he could prove once and for all which of them was the better fighter. He considered saying so to Urbano, but a couple of roughhousing boys rushed out of the crowd, chasing one another in a game of tag. Oblivious, they slammed into him. “Be careful, fools! You almost knocked me down!”
    The boys’ dirty faces were flush from hard play, and Fox the Runt could tell at once they were not of Santuario del Guerrero. Their clothes of shabby homespun and shaved heads marked them as rustics, probably farmers. Green-eyed and olive-skinned, they were Oestean. But they reminded him of himself when he had first come to the city: