Blue Heron studied the youth—more of an urchin, actually—who crouched on the newly laid mat floor. If he tried to bow his head any lower, he’d leave a dent in the matting. Maybe just into his teens, he was mostly bones.
“And what brings you to my palace?” she asked.
“I … I…,” he croaked, shivering in terror.
“Speak, boy. Nothing here will hurt you.” Which, depending on what he said, might be an out-and-out lie.
“S-Seven S-Skull Shield says to tell you that a Natchez delegation has arrived at the canoe landing!” The youth, his body still streaked with clay from the workshop where he made pots, was nearly breathless. “He made me remember this: four canoes; each with twenty warriors; four emissaries, each carrying a staff of office, one red, one white, one black, one yellow. They should be on the way here now.”
The miracle was that Smooth Pebble had allowed the urchin inside the palace. In the old days, that would never have happened. Now the Deer Clan youth raised his head and was staring around with eyes so big they could have fit into a buffalo’s skull.
“Why did he send you?”
“I…” He swallowed hard. “I’m the fastest runner he knows.”
Four canoes of Natchez warriors? Just out of the blue?
Makes me wonder where the rest of my spies are.
No doubt they’d come trickling in moments after the Natchez delegation appeared at the base of the Morning Star’s mound and demanded a conference in the Council House.
Pus and blood! Tell me the Natchez haven’t heard about the Little Sun’s murder.
“Feed this boy and send him on his way with a blanket or something.” She stood, clapping her hands. “Smooth Pebble! Send word to the Tonka’tzi. I need a squad of warriors. I want them dressed and formal, and in perfect formation at the foot of the stairs. I want that done yesterday. Now move!”
Her entire household exploded into activity.
A finger of time later she thought she could have done a better job with her hair and dress, but rushed as she was, it would have to do. Her porters were carrying her posthaste onto the Avenue of the Sun, almost beating the crowd of pilgrims out of the way before they deposited her at the base of the stairs.
To her disgust, no warriors were present except the small guard that kept the gawkers from trying to climb up to the Council Terrace or from leaning on the great mound’s base. The usual throng of petitioners, messengers from distant colonies, Earth Clan chiefs, and sycophants were waiting for their turn to ascend and plague Tonka’tzi Wind with whatever petty grievance they might have.
She could hear the whispered comments as she spryly leaped from her litter and hurried up the stairs.
At the top, the two guards bowed and touched their foreheads. Then she was through the gate, wheezing and blowing from the climb as she hurried on trembling legs to where Wind sat on her litter beneath the ramada. Her sister was discussing something with representatives from North Star and Horned Serpent Houses. It couldn’t be too important since the recorders, with their strings and pots of beads, sat idle among the collection of advisors behind the Tonka’tzi.
“Leave us,” Blue Heron ordered as she puffed her way up to the tonka’tzi’s elevated seat. The shade provided a hint of relief after the blazing heat of the sun.
She barely allowed the bowing and scraping nobles to escape before blurting, “Natchez are coming. Four canoes of them.”
“They couldn’t know about the Little Sun this quickly.” Wind straightened in her seat.
“Sister, I don’t think we can call this a coincidence.” Blue Heron gestured toward the line of servants and recorders who sat in the shady overhang of the Council House a stone’s toss away. “You! We need a feast prepared. Black drink boiled.”
To the Morning Star’s representative she called, “Three Echoes, inform the Morning Star that a Natchez delegation is on the way. Four canoes of them, bearing staffs of office.”
“Not a coincidence,” Wind mused as she leaned her chin on a propped arm. Her eyes slitted as she considered it. “No, I’d think not.”
Blue Heron settled her weary bones on the pedestal to Wind’s right. “Casts the Little Sun’s murder in a whole new light, doesn’t it? Someone’s playing a deep game. The question is, did whoever murdered the Little Sun do it to put us off balance and give the Natchez embassy an advantage in negotiations, or was he killed to upset their plans?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time some Nation’s local politics were played out here,” Wind agreed thoughtfully. “Something tells me that we’ll have a better idea based on what they say when they get here. Righteous indignation, accusations, and demands for redress means they knew and were involved. Worry or dismay with sidelong glances and sudden insecurity tells us something else.”
“Or there’s a third party.”
“Always a possibility.” Wind shifted. “Nothing new on the murder? Anything to explain why the Natchez servants all killed themselves?”
“I could speculate all day, but so far I’ve nothing solid.” Blue Heron sighed. “We’ve been carting a stream of bodies to the charnel house. It’s quite the sensation. Murder and mass suicide? Proves the black witch wasn’t one of the servants. Witches don’t kill themselves.”
“The last thing we want is to be drawn into some internal squabble among the Natchez. They might be half a world away, but they could shut down the entire lower river if they wanted, and some of our colonies on the Tenasee are within striking distance of their war parties.”
Blue Heron closed her eyes, picturing the Father Water as it ran south to the gulf. A multitude of Nations, like beads on a string, clung to the great river’s banks: Michigamea, Casqui, Quiz Quiz, Pacaha, Nodena, Paski, Chactah, Quiguate, Anilco, Guachoya, and so many more. In the usual fractious political dynamic, if one of the southern river Nations began to dominate, the others inevitably overcame their dislike for each other and allied to knock the aggressor down a peg or two until equilibrium was restored. Like snarling dogs, the lower river Nations would fight amongst each other, but the moment a wolf appeared they’d form a pack and all pounce at once.
That distasteful tendency had always dissuaded Cahokia from trying to extend its political authority into the region.
“Something else is worrying you.”
Blue Heron pulled at her chin. “What really scares me is the Morning Star’s angle in all of this. He gave that cloak to the Little Sun, as if he knew it would upset the entire basket of corn. He’s in this, I swear to the ancestors. And so is Night Shadow Star and her soul-whispering Piasa. This is more than politics, Sister. This is Power, and once again, we’re like little gaming pieces right in the middle of it.”
Wind pursed her thin lips over pink gums. “Last time that happened, we barely survived.”
Blue Heron fingered the scar on her throat. “You don’t have to remind me.”
She turned as one of the Morning Star’s runners came pelting down the long stairs from the palace. She placed him as one of Matron Soft Bread’s sons, of the Hawk Clan. He held one of the staffs of office, indicating official business.
He trotted up, and dropped to one knee, bowing and touching his forehead. Then he glanced up, his dark eyes meeting the tonka’tzi’s as he said, “The Morning Star informs you that he will see the Natchez delegation in the palace and requires your presence.” He glanced at Blue Heron. “The Keeper is requested as well.”
Tonka’tzi Wind dismissed him with a gesture, and after he’d gone, added, “So, the Morning Star knows the Natchez have arrived? And we have just found out?”
“Feels like we’re treading in deep water, doesn’t it, Sister?”
“And the currents below our feet are most sinister.” She smiled bitterly. “You ready for a climb?”
“Did I ever tell you how much I hate those stairs?”