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Seventy-seven

Notched Cane had the fire going outside; a pot filled with ground goosefoot seed, sunflower seeds, and little barley bubbled on the flames. Being too hot to cook inside, he had chosen to cook the meal in the protection of the ramada.

A soft night breeze carried cool air, though it smelled of smoke and city. Between the smoky fire and the concoction of crushed fir needles, gumweed, and puccoon he had rubbed on his skin, the mosquitoes weren’t much of a bother.

He had the stock boiled down to just the right consistency and fished out the two shredded lengths of sassafras root, having boiled them long enough to impart just the right flavor. From within a wrapping of grape leaves, he took long strips of white sturgeon meat and tossed them into the pot. After they’d cooked he would add fresh chokecherries and wild plums.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog began barking, only to be answered by several others. But beyond that, the night was quiet.

He glanced again toward the east, not even seeing the first hint of false dawn. He had plenty of time. Everything would be cooked to perfection by the time the Keeper rose to greet the day.

He scratched at his jaw before slipping another stick of firewood under the pot. The Keeper was worried. He’d seen it in her before and knew the extent to which she was punishing herself. This time it wasn’t just the political situation, or the fact she’d almost been mobbed on the avenue. The problem of the Itza was bad enough, but he and Smooth Pebble knew it was the thief who’d really gotten to her.

Seven Skull Shield had been gone too long without word. Nor had any of her spies been able to locate him.

“So … did he walk off and leave her? Or did someone collect Horn Lance’s reward?”

Notched Cane made a face. The Keeper would see the first as a betrayal, the second as her fault. Either way she’d suffer for it.

He used a horn spoon to stir his stew and straightened. Bats fluttered just over his head, their clicking peeps fading into the night.

Making sure that everything was under control and the fire just right, he took the opportunity to retrieve his old brownware chamber pot from inside the door, and walked around the side of the Keeper’s palace. Dropping his breechcloth, he squatted, thankful for the night. During the day, the avenue below would have been thronging with people.

Straightening, he pulled up his breechcloth and stepped around the front of the palace. A dark shadow moved behind the ramada.

“Who’s there?” he called.

The shadow seemed to flatten itself as the fire flared up.

Running forward, Notched Cane peered into the darkness, seeing and hearing nothing.

So, had that been a person? Or just the afterimage of the fire?

Walking to the stairway, he called down, “Did you see anyone pass?”

“No. All’s quiet here. We’ve got guards on all four corners.”

“Awful dark out there,” Notched Cane insisted.

“Guard check!” the warrior called out.

“Here.” “Here.” “Here.” “Here.” The warriors chimed in from all directions.

“You can inform the Keeper that you not only checked, but we were all awake,” the commander called up jocularly.

“She’ll be delighted to know that.”

“Go back to your cooking, Notched Cane, and know that you’re torturing us. It smells wonderful.”

He chuckled to himself and walked back to the pot. Reaching for the spoon, he was going to stir the stock again, when he noticed what looked like a chip of wood floating on the surface.

Frowning, he used the spoon to lift it out, then glanced up at the roof, wondering if it had fallen from the thatch.

Sniffing, he caught a curious odor, lifted the spoon to his mouth, and tasted. The stew had a pungent tang, a sort of musty fullness that coated the tongue. Not unpleasant, but surely nothing that would have come tumbling down from the ramada roof. Taking the chip he held it up in the firelight. It looked like it had been cut out of something, perhaps a piece of root.

Shrugging, he touched it to his tongue, then nibbled at it, determining it was the source of the pungent taste.

But where had it come from?

He glanced up again, slowly shaking his head.

Seating himself with his back to one of the ramada posts, he glanced again at the eastern horizon. Dawn would be coming soon.

When he decided that the stew needed stirring a finger of time later, he was surprised to discover that his legs had gone numb. Nor would his fingers work.

“Help!” His voice came out as little more than a croak, his body suddenly as distant as the faint pale glow in the eastern sky.