PEARL HAND WAS UP BEFORE THE REST OF US; SHE DRESSED IN HER travel clothes again.
The hunters had scrambled at her every whim, cooking, filling her bowl, refilling it, offering her first servings of everything. They had taken the dishes, washed them, kept the fire, built her a small shelter, and one even offered his little cooking pot for a night jar. The fact that the bowl was empty and obviously unused in the morning erased a curious anxiety that had plagued my sleep.
Blood Thorn bore all this with a detached amusement. Nor could I tell who entertained him the most: me or Pearl Hand.
She didn’t let us linger but had us packed and on the trail by sunrise. As we worked out of the backcountry, we began encountering people. Each time we did Turkey Track called out, “Make way for the lady! She goes in service of the Cofitachequi mico! Make way!”
And they did, scurrying off the trail, dropping to their knees, palms uplifted, heads down, as we passed.
“So much for the chance to learn anything about what’s happening locally,” I growled to Blood Thorn. Traders thrive on the local gossip: Who’s squabbling with whom? What items are in demand? The personal habits of the leaders? Little fascinating facts and insights? These can make a big difference in a trader’s ability to profit.
Blood Thorn’s barely hidden smile proved more irritating than a blister beetle in my breechcloth. He smugly said, “Now you know how the rest of us felt in Toa and Apalachee.”
“At least I told you what we were up against.”
“Yes. And you always ended it with ‘trust me,’ even though it seemed incomprehensible at the time.”
“Worked out, didn’t it?”
He arched an eyebrow. “That’s why I’ve surrendered my souls to you . . . and Pearl Hand.”
Mollified, I continued to hurry along and kept an eye on Skipper. His pack was half-empty now. The poor old man was pushing himself just to keep the pace.
We began passing inhabited farmsteads. But when we crossed through a small village, the houses were empty, weeds growing in the gardens, grass thick around the barricaded doors. The ramadas had a ratty look, with strips of roofing hanging loose; water pooled in the mortars while grass grew at their bases.
A hand of time later we wound through a small town that was empty, forlorn, and weed-choked. Only the charnel house off the plaza showed any sign of maintenance, the weeds pulled, the paths leading to it heavily traveled. The stench revealed why: The place had to be full to the rafters with victims of the pestilence.
“I’m getting a bad feeling about Cofitachequi,” Blood Thorn said in Timucua.
“Whatever happened here, it’s bad.” I wondered what that meant for de Soto’s arrival. I’d been expecting the vibrant and thriving Cofitachequi I’d seen five years ago. Now I was wondering if even Telemico would be inhabited.
By late afternoon—after passing through two more abandoned villages—we broke out of the forest into a heavily farmed bottom on the south side of the Cofitachequi River: a winding brown barrier that curled and twisted, its banks clotted with cottonwood, bald cypress, water oak, and stands of cane.
Across the water I could see a prominent talwa and was told it was Tagaya town. I’d been there, but what I saw looked forlorn and run-down. The sepaya felt like dead weight in its pouch.
“We will find canoes,” Turkey Track announced, head bobbing respectfully. “We apologize for the lady’s inconvenience.” Then he touched his forehead and, his companions at heel, vanished into the rushes.
Pearl Hand waited, standing stiffly to one side. I took the opportunity to stroll over, placing a hand on my hip as I followed her distant gaze to Tagaya.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s our next play?”
She gave me a dull look, her expression pinched. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“What do you think?” she snapped.
“It’s not too late. We could try something different.”
She inclined her head at Tagaya. “The last time I was there the streets were crowded, people waving, bowing, offerings held before them. Those who looked up had a shining incredulousness in their eyes. They all thought I lived in a glorious world, the fools.”
I squinted across the river. “You know, a lot of people have died in this plague. Maybe half, if I can gauge from the empty farms we’ve passed. Their fields are choked with weeds. Even Tagaya over there looks like it’s in need of a major refurnishing. Chances are good that the man who owned you is dead.”
She fixed her worried eyes on mine and was about to say something when Turkey Track burst from the rushes, crying, “Oreta! We have canoes coming. I have sent Red Cat across the river. He will inform the mico at Tagaya of your arrival.”
And with those words, I saw Pearl Hand’s resolve tighten like a fist.
I pulled my trader’s staff from my quiver, uncertain whether to reach out with a reassuring hand. “Don’t worry, my love. I’ll take care of you.” One way or another.
“Promise”—her voice almost broke—“that you’ll follow my lead . . . do as I say. Remember: The important thing is stopping de Soto.”
“I—”
“Promise, Black Shell.”
“I promise.”
To my surprise, no less than six canoes arrived, all propelled by local men. The vessel they brought for Pearl Hand had been crafted by a master thin hulled, with decorative carving below the gunnels. I admired the wide beam and the way the interior had been sanded and waxed. Canoes like this weren’t paddled but towed by a rope—a sign of the occupants’ status and authority. Two young boys rode in it, each holding a colorful feather sunshade.
I saw to the loading of the dogs and packs in the other craft and managed to get a seat—along with Blood Thorn—in Pearl Hand’s boat. I sighed, centering myself. I thought I could get used to this kind of treatment.
Pearl Hand might have been carved of granite. She sat facing forward, smack in the middle; the boys held the shade over her head. I didn’t see as much as a flicker of emotion on her face.
We’d no more than left the bank, the rowers stroking in unison, when a delegation emerged from Tagaya. Several men walked in advance of a litter upon which rested what I assumed to be the local mico.
They were waiting when our canoes landed. The rowers sprang out and lifted our thin-walled craft out of the water before gently lowering it on high ground. This of course, was so that Pearl Hand wouldn’t get her feet wet.
Pearl Hand made a gesture, and the boys tilted the sunshade back. While Blood Thorn and I clambered out, Pearl Hand seemed to rise like smoke, elegantly stepping over the side.
I called the dogs over, asking, “Blood Thorn, could you see to the packs? That little wooden fish carving is for Turkey Track in return for his service.”
“And miss this?” he said, chiding me. “Sure.”
I raised my staff high, stepping up behind Pearl Hand. The mico’s chair was placed on the ground, his carriers fading back. The four elders—advisers and councilmen called ynahaes—stood behind. Ynahaes are a step below oretas in the Cofitachequi pecking order. Their expressions turned curious as they studied Pearl Hand. Obviously they didn’t know her, nor did the mico from his arching eyebrow.
We’d caught them by surprise; the usual finery wasn’t in evidence. Poor fellows, they were just in their normal everyday clothes.
But then, we weren’t looking any too impressive ourselves. And Blood Thorn was having his own trouble with the dogs. They weren’t used to taking his orders.
Pearl Hand bowed deeply, touching her forehead. “Mico Tagaya, I am Pearl Hand, once of the Chicora. I arrive with these traders bearing important news for the Cofitachequi mico. An army of Kristianos approaches from Ocute. Their leader goes by Adelantado Hernando de Soto. His army numbers around six hundred warriors, many of them riding cabayos—perhaps two hundred of the beasts. Unlike Ayllόn, they come not to build a town or simply raid for slaves. They come in the name of their high mico, el rey Carlos de España, to claim Cofitachequi as their own.”
At the news, the mico turned thoughtful, then asked, “You speak like a noble, but I do not know you. Nor do you introduce yourself with your lineage, clan, or moiety.” He shot a meaningful glance my way. “And you arrive in the presence of strangers.”
I stepped forward. “I am Black Shell, of the Chief Clan, of the Chicaza’s Hickory Moiety. The man who accompanies us is Blood Thorn, iniha of the Uzachile. We come under the Power of trade and bind ourselves by it. It is our request that we be granted passage to speak with the Cofitachequi mico and inform her about the arrival of the Kristianos and their army.”
He studied me a long moment, then studied Blood Thorn’s foreign tattoos and pom hairstyle. “Interesting.” His gaze went back to Pearl Hand. “But you still do not answer my questions.”
Pearl Hand gave him a cold look. “I am bound by service to the Cofitachequi mico herself. With respect, Mico Tagaya, that is enough.”
Bound by service! I kept my expression in check; my heart, however, was leaping around like a panicked frog. Pearl Hand had just made a bold move. Perhaps the only one she could . . . but to claim service to the high chair itself? How in the name of a blind piasa were we going to get out of that when they figured out it was a lie?
In Timucua, I whispered, “Careful.”
She ignored me. “Mico Tagaya, we require passage now! The Kristianos may arrive at any instant. Every moment we hesitate could have dire circumstances.” Her voice turned cold. “Do you understand?”
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to wince as the ynahaes’ eyes widened in shock.
Mico Tagaya narrowed an eye but nodded. “Ynahaes, see to packing my things.” Two of them touched their chins and left at a run for the town gates. Mico Tagaya looked at the paddlers who’d been standing by the side, heads down, and no doubt shocked to their bones. “You will bear the lady to Telemico with greatest haste. Yatika?”
The yatika—a man skilled in languages and oratory—stepped forward. “Yes, Mico.”
The mico glanced up at the sun, estimating the time. “You will leave now, taking a fast canoe and as many paddlers as you deem necessary. Bear the news of our arrival to the Cofitachequi mico.”
“Yes, Tagaya Mico.” The man touched his forehead again, turned, and began shouting orders. Within moments a slim canoe was removed from its rack and the yatika seated himself inside. I watched the muscular paddlers pick the thing up and carry it to the river, and with a push, they were gone, their long pointed paddles driving them away.
“Blood Thorn?” I turned, seeing where he was about to lace a pack onto Squirm. “Forget it. We’re back in the boats.”
He nodded, and not a finger’s time passed before we were on the river. This time, however, Tagaya Mico rode in the towed canoe. We were jumbled into the others. I’d managed to squeeze in with Pearl Hand. Bark—just ahead of me—perched on his pack, enjoying the ride.
Dogs can be so naïve.
“So,” I asked in Timucua, “we’re in service to the old lady herself now?”
Pearl Hand gave me a humorless smile. “You’re not, Black Shell.”
“I’m having trouble with all of this. Why are you taking such risks? What if good old Tagaya back there had decided to order us confined until he figured out who we really were?”
“He wouldn’t have dared.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“As sure as rain falls.” She stared out at the bank, hardly seeing the trees. “We know the stakes: De Soto is coming.” She shook her head. “What I didn’t count on was that half the Cofitachequi would be dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
She gave me a miserable look. “Think about the forest we just crossed. Then think about the Kristianos. We ate well every day, hunting, picking fruits and roots. But the Kristianos? How do you think they’re faring out there in the trees and swamps?”
“They’ll be hungry,” I muttered. “They’ll have eaten everything, maybe even their scurrilous puercos.”
She nodded. “And what kind of shape will they be in when they stumble out of the wilderness with their half-starved cabayos? What kind of formations can their soldados keep, wobbling on their feet?” She smiled wistfully. “If there has ever been a chance to beat them, it is now.”
“A cleverly planned ambush could smash them.” I took a breath. “But why didn’t you tell me how far you were planning to go with this?”
“I wasn’t sure. I mean, I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up everything I had . . . just to destroy de Soto.”
“What do you mean, give up everything?”
I was about to repeat the question when she said, “If de Soto’s destruction must come at the cost of my life and happiness, I’ll pay it.”
“The people you knew may not have survived the sickness.”
She looked sadly at the passing bank. “Some didn’t, no. But whatever happens, I will do what I must.” She met my eyes, her desperation building. “And you, my beloved husband, can you trust me? No questions?”
I was about to object, only to remember how she’d come out of the night at Uzita and the sacrifice she’d made there to save my life. And at Napetuca? Everything had depended on her, her knowledge of Kristianos and her insistence on bringing the dogs. “Of course.”
“Do you swear on that bit of sacred horn you carry?”
I grasped it, saying, “I do.”
She vented a defeated sigh. “Then we might have a chance after all.”
She turned her worry-hollowed eyes to the bank, watching the endless trees pass in the slanting late afternoon light.
“I just wish you’d tell me why you’re taking such risks.” I paused. “I thought we were past secrets.”
She sniffed, “So did I. Until we came here . . . until I realized what the stakes were. But for the moment, I need to do this my way. And you must bind yourself to your promise.”
“Pearl Hand—”
“It’s necessary, Black Shell.” The corners of her mouth quivered. “In this case, my love, what you do not know protects you.”
“How’s that?”
“In time, my love . . . In time.”
By Piasa’s teeth, she doesn’t think she’s going to get out of this alive.