Trader sat in the sunlight before their house. Dealing with the endless thoughts, memories, and worries was like a whirlwind in his breast. Swimmer, sensing his disquiet, kept insisting that they play stick.
Trader would pitch it out, Swimmer charging after it, an occasional bark of joy bursting from him. The dog then leapt on the prize, turning, tossing the stick about and chomping it. As he pranced back—tail whipping back and forth—a look of pure glee shone in his eyes. Spitting the stick out at Trader’s feet, Swimmer would stare up with a hawkish intensity until Trader did the whole thing over again.
In the days after their arrival, Trader had spent most of his waking moments protecting his precious goods from the rain. During that time, he had little chance to consider the implications of where he was. Then they had moved, packing their load to the house. Now, for the first time, he had absolutely nothing to do but sit. Paunch was hiding inside, fearful that some passerby would stop, point, and scream at the top of his lungs, “There’s the traitor!”
Swimmer flung the stick at Trader’s feet. Or at least came as close as a dog could to flinging it. Now he crouched down, eyes fixed intently, his tufted ears pricked in anticipation. Even his whiskers were quivering.
Swimmer tensed, quivering, eyes agleam, anticipating the throw as Trader picked up the chewed, slobbery stick and drew his arm back. Then Trader tossed it, sending it end over end. The dog’s feet hammered the ground like a running buffalo.
“So, here I am,” he mused. “And it’s entirely unlike I expected.” Nevertheless, he could feel his heart thumping with anticipation. He needed only scent the smoke, cooking food, the tang of the latrines, and the pungent aroma of the forest drifting in over the palisade to know that he was back.
What a difference he felt from that night he’d fled in panic. While he couldn’t remember the exact route he’d taken, it had been just over there, cutting past the corner of the Skunk Clan mound.
He looked up toward the high minko’s palace. “There, but for my brother’s plotting, I would be sitting today.” Except there would be no preparations for war with the Yuchi.
My fault. Why in the name of Power had he asked Born-of-Sun to send that messenger?
“How could I have known?” He glanced down as Swimmer dropped the stick on his foot.
What had changed since those heady days among the Yuchi? Some part of his courage had evaporated as he drew ever closer to Split Sky City.
A test? Perhaps. Power loved to test people, to see what they’d choose.
The problem was that nothing was working out like he’d planned. The idea had been to learn what the people were thinking, who was in charge, and then reveal himself in a grand show. He had imagined addressing the tchkofa, handing out wealth like some magical sorcerer, and seeing forgiveness in the eyes of his people. Instead, he was sitting in the sun, scared half to death at the prospect of facing anyone.
No, that was only part of it. The other part was knowing that Heron Wing was here, somewhere.
It’s been ten years. Why am I still terrified of seeing her? But he was. If she gave him the wrong look, it would be like driving an arrow straight through his breast.
I couldn’t stand that.
He should have been obsessed with Two Petals. He had never known a woman like her. Each night, she slipped into his blankets as soon as Old White had gone to sleep. She seemed obsessed. He simply couldn’t understand her desperation to please him. Insatiable. He made a face, amazed at the arts she had developed to coax his exhausted shaft into yet another frantic joining. In the moon since they had first lain together, she had developed techniques that brought him to a frenzy of release. Last night he’d almost bitten his tongue in two to keep from waking the others with his cries.
But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why she did it. It had nothing to do with love. When he awakened in the morning, she acted as if nothing had happened. He was just Trader, somehow peripheral to her life. Then, that night, she would become something else, another person.
“He’s a good dog.”
Trader looked up to see Squash Blossom walking over with another dish in her hands.
“I pulled him out of the river. He was half-drowned, clinging desperately to a raft of driftwood.” He reached down, managing a single pat on the shoulder before Swimmer wiggled away, taking another position to alternately watch him and the stick.
“I’ve made squash bread,” she said, beaming proudly.
“I’m still stuffed from breakfast.” He sniffed, catching the odor of it over that of the city. “But I’d share some.”
Needing no other invitation, Squash Blossom seated herself in the Sky Hand fashion, knees together. She was a little heavy, probably because all she did was cook. Her husband, Trader had learned, was a stone carver who left early each morning and returned late. Maybe to keep from blowing up like an overinflated fish bladder? They had three children, two boys and a little girl who peeked shyly around the house at him.
Trader took a piece of the hot squash bread, ripping it from the loaf and juggling it to keep from burning his fingers. He blew on it for the space of several heartbeats, and managed to pop it into his mouth without frying his tongue.
“Excellent,” he said between chewing. “I can’t tell you the times on the river when I would have given anything for bread like this.”
“I thought all you Traders lived well,” she remarked, smiling with satisfaction.
“At times, yes. I’ve enjoyed some spectacular feasts. The ones among the Natchez are best. I think it’s because the Great Sun rules completely. He orders something and his people comply. If he says to empty the granaries for a feast, they do it. Right down to the last corn kernel.”
“You must have seen some remarkable things.”
“And some miserable ones, too.” He ripped off another piece of bread. “Days alone on the river, the weather foul, and at every campsite the wood is wet. Sometimes a meal is whatever is in a jar. I’ve stooped to chewing raw cornmeal and washing it down with cold water.”
“Is that why you’ve come here? For the food?”
“Well . . .” He took a bite of the bread, chewed, and tossed Swimmer’s stick. “That wasn’t the original plan, but I could live with it.”
“What was the original plan?”
“The Trade,” he said, swallowing. “Split Sky City is away from the Father Water. Old White and I thought we’d give it a try. You see, in Trade, we look for special items.”
“What’s special in Split Sky City?”
“Woodwork for one.”
“And our stone carving?”
He could see her apparent interest. “Among the best. Especially paint palettes. The Sky Hand stonecutters have developed better saws for cutting the slabs.”
“And our stone statues?”
“If you promise to keep bringing me bread like this, I’ll let you know that as good as the Sky Hand work is, the Caddo are better.” He winced. “But it’s hard to beat the Ockmulgee. They do things with granite you’d have to see to believe.”
She nodded. “My husband says the same thing. About the Ockmulgee, that is.”
“I don’t know, though. If all the men march off to war, it may close the northern routes. We were thinking of heading back up through the Tenasee.”
She shrugged. “There’s Trade in the south.”
“We’d have to save some of our goods.”
She glanced at the door, lowering her voice. “That bald-headed man, is he mute?”
“Because he never speaks?”
She nodded.
“No. He’s my partner’s slave. We may Trade him off here.”
She whispered, “You could do better. Koasati make much better slaves.”
“That’s what he is,” Trader said, feeling relief. Since Koasati spoke the same language as the Albaamaha, when she did hear Paunch speak, it wouldn’t make her suspicious. “We got him downriver from some Pensacola.”
She considered that. Voice still low, she added, “I hope you didn’t give much for him.”
“You’d be surprised,” Trader said dryly. Then he asked, “What kind of slaves would be available here?”
“We have lots of different kinds. Our warriors are among the best. They can take captives from anywhere.”
“So I heard. I even heard that you captured some Chahta ones recently.”
“Someone killed the men. Walked up in the middle of a foggy night and stabbed them right in the squares.” She shook her head. “There was a terrible squabble about that.”
“I’m sure. What about the women?”
“They’re around. One was killed when she ran. Another had her tendons cut.”
“Was that Morning Dew?”
“Oh, no. You heard about her?”
“It was quite the topic of conversation among the Pensacola down at Bottle Town.”
“That’s a story, let me tell you. For a while she was Blood Skull’s, then she was Smoke Shield’s, and finally Heron Wing won her. Bet against her . . . What’s the matter? Something in the bread?”
Trader managed to swallow the mouthful, rasping. “No, bread’s fine.”
To cover himself, he bent down, pitching the stick so the woman couldn’t see his face. As carefully as possible, he asked, “So, some woman named Heron Wing has her?”
“Some woman?” Squash Blossom made a futile gesture. “She’s a clan leader among the Panther Clan. Her aunt is chief, the only female one we have. And a dwarf. You’ve seen dwarves?”
“There are more around than you would think.” He took a deep breath, trying to still his beating heart.
“Heron Wing is also married to the war chief. Though how any woman could put up with Smoke Shield is beyond me.”
Married? Well, what did you expect, you simple idiot? That she’d wait, pining for you for the rest of her life?
“What’s wrong with Smoke Shield?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as hoarse as he was.
“Personally—and you didn’t hear it from me—I think he’s the meanest man alive.”
Trader threw Swimmer’s stick. Unthinking, he pitched it with such power it sailed over the adjacent house roof. Swimmer fortunately lost sight of it, whirling, ears pricked, wondering where it went.
A distant clatter sounded. An angry voice shouted something obscene.
As they followed a very nervous Paunch through the growing gloom, Old White glanced at Trader. For reasons of his own, the younger man had insisted on taking his war club. Now, as they stepped out through the south gate, Trader seemed to relax, breathing easier.
“Are you all right?” Old White asked in Natchez.
“I’m just glad it’s a big city. Lots of people.”
“I’d really like to know what’s worrying you.” Old White had switched back to Trade Tongue.
“His heart,” Two Petals replied. “It’s the very beating of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Bless the Spirits that I don’t fall in love. Makes a man lose his focus. Like watching the world through water.”
Love? Old White glanced at Trader, seeing him well enough in the gloom to know disgusted irritation when he saw it. In Natchez, he asked, “Who is she?”
“No one.”
“Ah, I see. So that’s why you’ve been so peculiar since we’ve come home. Is there anything I need to know about her?”
“She currently owns Morning Dew. You’re going to have to approach her if we’re going to Trade for her.”
“I am going to have to approach her?” Old White smiled and sighed. “For a single man, Trader, you seem to have the most interesting entanglements with women. Is there a reason this one is such a problem for you?”
“I was to marry her.”
Love . . . and an unfulfilled marriage. He could see Trader’s upset in the bunched muscles of his shoulders. The man was flicking the heavy war club as if it were a willow wand.
“All in time, Trader. That was the distant past.”
“Turns out she’s married to this Smoke Shield. The war chief everyone talks about.”
Old White bit off a curse. He still hadn’t found the right situation to tell Trader what he suspected. But certainly, he wouldn’t do it now, not in advance of such an important meeting.
“If you would prefer, I will approach her.”
“It would make my life easier.”
“But someday, if you stay here . . .”
“That’s for another time, Seeker.”
“What are you babbling about?” Paunch asked anxiously. “That turkey talk is driving me crazy! You’re not going to do that in front of the mikko, are you? He’s going to be suspicious enough as it is!”
“Our apologies, Paunch,” Old White soothed. “It was personal business between Trader and me.”
They were making their way past Albaamaha houses, most with dormant gardens. The way wound through the village. Occasional dogs barked at them, and now and then a person would look out, sometimes calling a name, as if expecting someone who was late.
“This way.” Paunch led them to one side, stopping before a large house set off from the others.
“This is it?” Old White asked.
“Yes.” Paunch stepped forward, scratching at the door. “Mikko?” he whispered. “Are you there?”
“Who comes?” The voice was strained, as if worried at the interruption.
“It is Paunch, Elder. I have news.”
“Paunch?” the voice asked in surprise. “One moment.”
Old White could hear shuffling sounds inside the house. A moment later, the wooden door was opened and an old man peered out. He stared for a moment at Paunch. “Is that you?”
“Of course!”
“What happened to your hair?” He looked past him, voice hardening. “And who are these people?”
“Just let us in!”
Old White stepped forward. “We need to talk, Elder.”
“Come back later.”
“No,” Trader said forcefully, stepping forward. “We will speak now. In private. I think you would prefer that to having this discussion before the entire Council.”
Old White nodded to himself. The timbre in Trader’s voice brooked no refusal.
“Paunch,” the old Albaamo growled, “so help me, when this is over . . .”
“He is doing only what we ask him to,” Old White said in Mos’kogee, glancing around. “But I would suspect that the longer we stand out here discussing it, the sooner someone is going to get suspicious.”
The door opened, the old mikko reluctantly making way.
Old White followed Two Petals inside to find a doubled hanging of thick fabric. Just the sort of thing to let a man slip out without flashing the light from inside.
The room was neat, the matting clean. Benches lined every wall. The fire was burning brightly, illuminating wall paintings of the Albaamaha World Tree, the Long-Tailed Man, and other culture heroes.
On the floor, no less than six plates lay, food partially eaten. Cups, half-full of liquid, stood beside the plates.
Old White glanced at the doorway leading into the back room. So, were five or six hiding back there? And, more to the point, were they armed and waiting to spring out and kill the intruders?
“Paunch,” the old man cried, “what are you doing here?”
“You must be Amber Bead, the Albaamaha representative to the Council.” Old White stepped forward. “And if we hear correctly, the leader of the Albaamaha resistance against the Chikosi.”
The man’s ashen expression was answer enough. Old White saw the door hanging to the back room sway the slightest bit. He gestured. “The rest of you need not interrupt your suppers. If you are part of Amber Bead’s conspiracy, we would speak with you also.”
“In Abba Mikko’s name,” Amber Bead almost pleaded, “who are you?”
“Ah! Yes. Poor manners on my part.” Old White pointed as he spoke. “This is Trader, and this is Two Petals, the Contrary. As for myself, I am known as Old White.”
“The Seeker,” Paunch added reverently.
Amber Bead’s frown deepened. “I’ve heard something of a man called the Seeker.”
“I am he.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Power has sent us. But we need a little more information.” Old White seated himself calmly on a bench, lacing his fingers around his left knee. “Specifically, we need to understand how relations have grown so bad between the Albaamaha and Chikosi that people are considering open revolt.”
“I’ll tell you,” a sharp voice came from the back room. A woman burst through the doorway, her hair shorn in mourning. Behind her, four muscular men, each with a knotted wooden club in his hands, followed. Nothing in any of their expressions boded for a peaceful evening discussing politics.
Old White reached out, laying a restraining hand on Trader as he started forward. Paunch had crouched down, looking anything but happy.
With his other hand, Old White fished in his belt pouch, producing a small cloth sack. This he held out over the fire, saying, “Easy now. You don’t want me to drop this.”
“What is it?” the woman demanded.
“Poison ivy. It’s nasty stuff when it burns. Within moments, everyone in this room will be hacking and coughing. In some people—as I’m sure you know—it makes the throat swell shut. It would be a shame, but Amber Bead’s house would be uninhabitable for a time. People would wonder why he moved out after so many people ran gagging from here.”
All eyes went to Old White’s sack.
“Now,” he said pleasantly, “we’ve just arrived here. The last we heard, poor Paunch and Whippoorwill were being hounded through the forest like driven deer. So why don’t you introduce yourselves and fill us in on all the events that have transpired since?”
The woman glared, a boiling anger behind her eyes. This one, Old White decided, was going to be trouble.
Amber Bead threw up his hands. “Who are you people?”
“Traders,” Trader said simply. “But very important Traders.” He gestured. “Please, have a seat. We need to know all there is about Split Sky City politics. Then, as a gesture of good faith, we’ll be happy to leave Paunch here with you.”
“And what is his purpose?” the woman asked, hard eyes fixing on Paunch.
“Well, we needed to find you, it seems. So we Traded a gorget for him from Great Cougar,” Old White explained. “You see, if he’d hung Paunch and Whippoorwill on his squares, we’d never have been led here to interrupt your suppers. So please, be seated. The food is getting cold.”
“If you are just Traders then I am the high minko,” Amber Bead muttered.
“Might as well lie down and go to sleep,” Two Petals said, her eyes fixed on the woman. “This is going to be a most boring night.”
Trader looked up at the faint light graying the eastern horizon. The air was cool as they stepped out of Amber Bead’s house. He kept glancing behind him, anxious lest one of the distrusting young Albaamaha men sneak up and brain them from behind. Two Petals, however, seemed oblivious. With her foresight, she’d warn them, wouldn’t she?
“Smoke Shield, Smoke Shield, Smoke Shield,” Old White mused. “That’s all you hear about. He must be a madman. And to think, he’d actually dress his warriors as Chahta? What a cunning war chief he is. Twisted, evil, but cunning.”
“One thing’s sure, he’s got the Sky Hand fooled. How could he do it, Seeker? It seems like every lie and plot can be laid at his door. To hear the Albaamaha tell it, he’s an evil Spirit in human form.”
“I have potions, powders, poisons. We could send him food laced with a concoction of water hemlock, night-shade, sacred datura, and death camas. And then there are the mushrooms. I have some green fungus scrapings. The slightest inhalation will make a man vomit his guts out. You name it, I have it . . . concentrated.” Old White patted his pack. “Of course, if he is guarded by some malignant Power, it might warn him.”
“My heart aches for Lotus Root. She has suffered so much. Now she’s running, unsure of which course to take.” Trader frowned. “On top of everything else, she has to wonder who we really are, and how we found them.”
“It must have been something of a shock,” Old White agreed. “One minute, you’re plotting a meeting with the mikkos, the next, three strangers walk in the door and want to know everything.”
Trader glanced at Two Petals. “You know, Seeker, if you hadn’t Traded that gorget for Paunch, we would have known none of this. He’s been like a thorn in a blanket on the river; but he led us to just the right people, at just the right time.”
“Next time the Contrary suggests buying slaves, I won’t haggle for so long.” Old White made a sucking sound with his lips. “This is a prickly knot to pick. It makes me even more suspicious about that Yuchi messenger’s death. There has to be someone . . .”
“Yes?” Trader glanced at him.
“If the Albaamaha are organizing an uprising, they can’t be the only ones.”
“Then who else?”
“Surely you know enough of politics to realize that there’s always an opposition. It’s the nature of men, be they Sky Hand, Azteca, Zuni, or Kaskinampo.”
“You’re right. Someone must be against Smoke Shield.”
“And don’t forget, he could do none of this without Flying Hawk’s approval.”
Trader nodded. “Don’t I know? He raised me. I’ll never forget his rages and poor judgments. In my later years, I have come to believe that killing his brother changed something in him. You wouldn’t believe the fits he’d fly into over the smallest things. We were jumpy as grasshoppers around him.”
“It goes back to his youth.” Old White glanced at him. “Did he ever speak of his boyhood?”
“Rarely. I think it was too painful. Everything led back to the fire. Something terrible happened that night. Both of us were smart enough to never ask. Even at the mention of it, his face would cloud; if the subject wasn’t changed, there would be a storm.”
“He had a very difficult childhood.”
“You knew him?”
“Oh, yes. He and Acorn both. My memory is of frightened, dead-eyed boys. Bear Tooth used to beat them unmercifully. I think their souls were both broken during those days.”
Trader frowned; then his eyes widened. “Breath Giver take me, you’re Kosi Fighting Hawk!”
“Who? Oh, the boys’ uncle. No. He was Raccoon Clan, the tishu minko married to Midnight Woman’s sister, Rose Bloom. He was a good man, but never up to facing down Bear Tooth. After Makes War’s capture and death, Midnight Woman married Bear Tooth because he was an able warrior. You must understand: The people were stunned. Their high minko had been captured and tortured to death—the war medicine had been lost. Bear Tooth brought a new Spirit to a wounded people. He restored the Power, but by the Horned Serpent, he was a brutal and abusive man.”
“People didn’t talk much,” Trader added. “At least not when I was around. But I did hear enough to know that while they missed Bear Tooth as war chief, not many missed him as a man.”
“And your mother?” Old White asked. “What happened to her?”
“Childbirth. After my brother and I were born, the bleeding didn’t stop. The story is that we were both large, the birth difficult. I came first, my brother sometime later.”
“Did you ever hear what the fight was about? The one where Flying Hawk killed his brother?”
“A buffalo.” Trader looked up as they slowed before the gate. A yawning warrior stood there, almost weaving on his feet.
“A buffalo?”
“Buffalo are rare in this country. They were both hunting, so the story goes, and both shot it at the same time. By the time the animal died, they had shot their quivers empty. Somehow they got into it over who had actually killed the buffalo. It turned to blows, and as they were rolling around on the ground, Flying Hawk picked up a handy rock and brained his brother. He has punished himself ever since.”
“The passions people can get themselves into.” They nodded at the guard, reaching back to pull Two Petals after them. She was staring at empty space over the warrior’s head, whispering about the fireflies.
Since it was too early in the year for fireflies, and since the guard—who didn’t speak Trade Tongue—didn’t know what she was saying, it was easier to simply pull her away than explain why she wasn’t a witch.
“I’m starting to have a passion of my own: Smoke Shield. Who is he?” Trader racked his brain. “I have gone through all of the cousins I can think of. Obviously he took a man’s name that I don’t recognize. Is he someone from one of the outlying towns? A boy I never met, or only heard of and have forgotten after all these years?”
“Close,” Two Petals whispered, turning her intense eyes on him. Her lips had parted in anticipation. “The truth Dances around like wind-whipped leaves.”
Old White shot her an irritated look. “I’ve asked around . . . subtle questions.” Then he said softly, “Trader, I think he’s your brother.”
Trader gave him a hard look. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Trader felt his heart skip. “Gods, you’re serious?”
“Don’t do anything rash. Think this through before you go pounding off to kill him again.”
Trader blinked, refusing to believe. “I hit him hard, Seeker. Crushed the side of his face. He wasn’t moving, not even breathing. His eyes were fixed.”
“Or so you thought.”
“What do you mean, thought! I was there!”
“You told me it was the middle of the night. How well could you see? The man known as Smoke Shield is Flying Hawk’s nephew. He hovered near death for four days after his brother hit him with a war club and fled into the night.” Old White pointed a hard finger. “You have been punishing yourself for years for something you didn’t do.”
Trader stared, his souls reeling. But when he glanced at Two Petals, he could see the truth of it in her eyes, in the eager expression on her face.
He stood, wavering on his feet. Rattle isn’t dead. I didn’t kill my brother.
The first hot trickle of a tear slipped down his face.