THE FOLLOWING MORNING WE WAITED WHILE THE KRISTIANOS broke camp and started up the steep mountain pass. Meanwhile, one of Wind Cat’s warriors had searched out a series of deer trails that would allow us to parallel the main trail. Our small party proceeded slowly; our route on the steep slopes proved rugged, winding, and often treacherous. Fortunately, we traveled under old forest, weaving among the boles of trees that spread a high canopy over our route.
As we made our way, Wind Cat detailed five of his warriors to shadow the Kristiano column. They’d race ahead, pick a point of vantage, and try to keep an eye on White Rose.
For most of the morning, Blood Thorn and I fumed. Pearl Hand stalked and cursed, slashing the air with her knife. Myself, I confess to an evil in my souls that sincerely wished de Soto would spot White Rose trying to leave, clap her in chains, and provide her the future she really deserved.
But White Rose didn’t leave. From high in the trees we watched her and her lover enter the tent her women put up that night. And the following morning, we watched her step out, still in the company of the man.
White Rose didn’t make her escape until we were well down from the pass. She chose one of the partially open valleys the Cherokee periodically burn to encourage fruit-bearing brush. To our surprise, almost a hand of time passed before the Kristianos realized she was gone. By the time they fanned out, searching for her, White Rose had actually managed to escape.
That evening she showed up with one of Wind Cat’s warriors, her lover, and a servant woman bearing a heavy pack box on her shoulders.
White Rose might have been the high mico, all right. She began by issuing orders, telling Wind Cat to have his warriors build her and her man a shelter. I didn’t see a great deal of enthusiasm on the part of the warriors as they fanned out into the darkening forest to find building materials.
We kept to our adjacent camp, having nothing to say but feeling incredibly sorry for Wind Cat and the future of Cofitachequi. Well, Blood Thorn and I felt sorry. Pearl Hand just smiled to herself, a wry twist of the lips having replaced the scowl I’d flinchingly become accustomed to.
The next morning, Wind Cat appeared out of the dawn, crouched by our fire, and stared woodenly at the dancing flames.
“I have been ordered to proceed to Joara. There, as soon as the Kristianos pull out, White Rose wishes to meet with the Cherokee chief and his council. She considers this an opportunity to solidify relationships with them in anticipation of becoming the Cofitachequi mico.”
We gave him a sympathetic look, but it was Blood Thorn who asked, “What are you going to do? Continue to serve her?”
Wind Cat returned his stare dully. “I will deliver her safely to Telemico. That is my duty as tastanecci. But after that, no. I will go home to my family. She can find another to serve her.”
“What of Cofitachequi?” I asked.
He smiled sadly. “I think its greatness is past, Black Shell. First the Death killed the majority of our people. Then the Kristianos came, disrupting things even more. The subordinate micos will seek to break away. Perhaps there will be war. But I just want to find a farmstead, take my wife, and raise my family.” He looked up. “And you?”
“We will race ahead, see if we can enlist the Chiaha mikko to fight the Kristianos.”
His weary smile went flat. “I think you are too late. At the request of the Kristianos, White Rose has already dispatched runners to relay the Kristianos’ message of peace to the Chiaha mikko and asked him to relay it to the high mikko of the Coosa Nation. De Soto informed the Chiaha that he wishes only to pass through their territory and on to Coosa itself. White Rose claims that the messenger returned, saying the Chiaha people will meet the great lord of the Kristianos in peace and, in return for trade, help them cross their territory.”
I glanced around the fire, seeing Pearl Hand and Blood Thorn’s expressions. Our chances, once again, dashed by White Rose.
“Then we will go on,” Pearl Hand said woodenly. “Perhaps the Tuskaloosa mikko will be more amenable.”
I nodded.
Wind Cat asked, “Will you travel with us as far as Joara town?”
“No, Tastanecci. The way we feel . . . Well, White Rose has done enough as it is.”
He stood then, offering his hands. “It has been an honor to know you. May Power bless your journey and keep you well.”
“You, too, my friend.” To the others I said, “Come. We must pack.” Fact was, as wretched as the future looked, I’d have been tempted to strangle White Rose if she so much as looked crossways at me.
We were miserable in paradise. After saying our farewells to Wind Cat—and somehow managing to control our passions by not driving an arrow through White Rose—we took the lesser trails through the mountains.
The country is stunning, jutting slabs of mountain rising to the sky, the view itself a compensation for the steep climbs, the necessary fording of swift creeks, and the constant scramble over roots, rocks, and poor footing.
These mountains—what the Coosa call the “Backbone of the World”—stun the imagination. On the high trails we looked down at cloud-filled valleys below, sunlight washing the tree-matted heights. Though carpeted with forest, mighty stone outcrops gleam in the sunlight, and a blue haze shrouds thrusts of high country as the mountains fade into the distance.
In the Beginning Times, Vulture was said to have smoothed the newly formed earth. Here, he’d been beating his wings mightily, and the notion of just how great the bird had to be to pile such monuments of rock and earth defied my poor souls.
But stop to catch your breath and you can enjoy wooded slopes covered with oak, maple, and hickory, the bottoms resplendent in beech, basswood, and elm. The rivers here run clean and clear, the rocky bottoms with their fish and mussels cloaked by strands of green moss that waver with the current.
Afternoon rains—mostly gentle showers that cooled the already delightful weather—followed our path. I couldn’t help but think back to last year in the peninsula and the sapping heat, muggy air, and sticky sweat. But here, walking in cool temperatures, enjoying a vista of towering outcrops of limestone, granite, and hard rock peering down over lumpy forest, it might have been but a fantasy.
For five days we worked our way down the valley, along the edge of the settlements, spending the night at lonely farmsteads. There we traded small items with the locals for an evening meal. Our remaining five porters found themselves treated as royalty, liberally fed, and housed in return for stories about Telemico and the splendor of Cofitachequi.
Through secondhand means and an occasional scout, we learned that the Guasili mico had given de Soto his town for a couple of days and that the Kristianos were planning on marching to Chiaha. There, it was said, they intended to rest and allow their half-starved cabayos to graze and recover.
Meanwhile small parties of soldados were scouting the countryside.
From a high point, we studied the Kristiano occupation of Guasili, and Blood Thorn asked, “What are you thinking? The porters are about to leave, and there’s no way we can carry all the trade.”
“Hate to leave it behind,” Pearl Hand growled.
“I thought you’d become canny traders, full of tricks and crafty ploys,” I told them, my eyes on the river that ran just below Guasili.
“I thought we were high minkos and a nicoquadca,” Blood Thorn shot back. “Rich ones with no way to carry their goods unless we pay some Cherokee to carry it down to Chiaha. Which, if you will recall, is where the Kristianos are headed to receive a warm welcome.”
I nodded and pointed downstream. “There’s a town down there about three hands’ travel distance. The porters will take us that far before we pay them off and send them home.”
Pearl Hand gave me her questioning arch of the eyebrow. “It’s a nice place for us to dump all of our trade? Lots of important people? The kind we can talk into killing Kristianos?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why are we going there?” Blood Thorn asked.
“Because if you were real traders, you’d know they have something else,” I replied.
“No doubt it’s a delightfully relaxed atmosphere in which to trade for fish, corn, and mussel stew?” Pearl Hand muttered sarcastically.
“Something real traders cherish,” I told them. “Canoes.”
Translated from the Cherokee, the town was called “Clam Shoal Place.” It was a collection of perhaps thirty houses on a terrace above the river. The local chief—currently off bowing to de Soto in Guasili town—was a subordinate of the Guasili mikko, who in turn was a bellicose subordinate to the Chiaha mikko, who paid homage to Coosa itself. But we weren’t there for the politics. White Rose had already seen to ruining that.
After we’d made our entry, my trader’s staff at the fore—and through signs and a Mos’kogee trade pidgin, managed to rent a house for the night—I ran down the local fishermen, who in turn were delighted to offer us their canoes for inspection.
The vessels I settled on were two large, thin-hulled, and shallow-draft dugouts. These were not the usual blunt-nosed half logs; they’d been expertly hollowed and thinned, the bottoms flat and wide of beam. We could probably have found better in Guasili, but, well, the Kristianos were there, and we doubted they’d take kindly to seeing us.
The next morning, we paid off our porters and warned them to keep away from the main trail and any chance of capture. After watching them head off for the forest, we stood on the landing, our two new canoes ready for loading.
The local Cherokee had gathered; they joked among themselves, offered gifts of food, and smiled as they chattered and pointed.
“How far do we go in canoes?” Blood Thorn asked as he saw to loading his share of the packs.
I studied the broad, rippling water. “This takes us past Chiaha, Coste, Tali, Satapo, and Chalahumi, then down to Hiawasee town, and finally to Napochies.”
“What’s at Napochies?” Pearl Hand and Blood Thorn asked in unison.
“Porters to carry our trade south over the divide to Coosa.” I laid a pack in the bottom of the canoe I was going to share with Pearl Hand. This was the slightly larger vessel, and the craftsman who’d built it had carved the likeness of a raccoon out of the bow.
“Why the river?” Blood Thorn asked as he stowed the last pack.
“Because it’s faster.”
Pearl Hand grinned for the first time in days as she laid her crossbow and its attendant quiver atop the packs. “Meanwhile the Kristianos, burdened by their cabayos and puercos, have to take the trails.”
“Exactly.” And besides, even though the dogs had been carrying light packs, the rest would do them good. Especially poor old Skipper.
Together we dragged the canoe out, and I called for Bark and Squirm to jump in. I showed them their places and made them lie down. Bark was the only worry since he occasionally forgot that jumping up on the gunwales would roll a canoe upside-down in an instant. I hoped he remembered.
After dragging Blood Thorn’s canoe out, I got Gnaw and Skipper settled.
We had just pushed Blood Thorn out and he’d taken a couple of strokes with his paddle when I heard a call. All it took was a glance to make my blood run cold.
A line of cabayeros was winding its way through the houses, the riders looking about with their usual arrogance. While their armor no longer reflected the burnished magnificence of the early days, it had taken on a hard-used look, more ominous in its own way.
The cabayos looked beat, as if they didn’t have a good run left in them. They were sweaty, plodding forward as if in misery. The tips of the lances the riders carried, however, sparkled in the sun—recently sharpened.
“Let’s go,” I called, almost toppling Pearl Hand into the bow as I pushed off.
Kristianos. Who’d have thought? Not that they’d have known who we were. But had they been a finger’s time earlier, or seen the crossbow or the swords, that might have led to questions we didn’t want to answer.
The river was more than a bow-shot across, the current moderate. I’d no more than managed to line us up when I heard a shout and saw the lead cabayero trot his animal down to the landing. People scattered this way and that. The rider pulled up at the edge of the bank, five of his fellows stopping just behind. Had they carried crossbows, or perhaps thunder sticks, their arrival might have caused us grief.
I took a second glance at that thin face with its stringy beard. At first he didn’t recognize us, but as my eyes met his, I saw surprise, immediately followed by a consuming rage.
“Alto!” The cry carried across the water. “Es el Concho Negro!”
“Antonio!” I called, giving him a farewell wave. “Too late again, you skinny little slug!”
He actually forced his bone-racked cabayo out into the river, but the animal balked as the current reached its chest.
Pearl Hand shouted, “Antonio! Tienes un pene como un gusano. Adios, idiota!”
By then we were in the main current, canoes lining up. The dogs perched to watch and growl at the cabayeros.
The fool actually tried to follow us, shouting orders, paralleling the bank for as far as he could. Then he tried to force his half-starved cabayo through a marshy area. I saw the animal buck and thrash, sinking in the rushes and goo. Rather than fight it, the tired cabayo just collapsed on its belly.
A bend in the river carried us safely out of his sight.
“That was close,” Blood Thorn called.
Pearl Hand agreed. “Way too close.” Then, to my delight, she threw her head back and whooped like a Chicaza lord.
“Do you think they’ll get his cabayo unstuck?” I asked.
“Not without the lot of them wading through that black stinky mud.” Pearl Hand flashed me a smile. “And even better, the story is going to be carried back. We’ve managed to humiliate him once again.”
Just the sight of him stuck in the mud proved enough to lighten my mood. It was a little thing; sometimes the little things can mean so much.
Pearl Hand, it turned out, wasn’t an accomplished hand at canoeing. She’d spent most of her life residing in palaces or walking. The previous times she’d paddled had been on still water, not a swift river. Still, she was young and muscular, and before long she managed to get the rhythm of working with the current.
We kept to the thread of the river, its current bearing us along at a steady clip. Blood Thorn chortled with delight.
“What’s the matter? Don’t they have rivers in Uzachile?” I called.
“Not that I’ve had the chance to ride like this,” he answered. “And we’re doing this for how long?”
“Maybe seven days. It will depend on the current, on the rapids. There are places we may have to get out and drag the canoes over shoals.”
And that got me to thinking. I had two apparent novices when it came to rapids. How were they going to handle fast water? Would they know where to steer, how to avoid the rocks?
Oh, Black Shell, there’s always something, isn’t there?
We didn’t even stop in Chiaha. The town and its mikko were already committed to the peaceful arrival of de Soto and his vermin. Instead, I held up my trader’s staff as we passed the palisaded walls, seeing the palace where de Soto would soon be sleeping while feasting on their corn. People on the banks waved, as did the fishermen in canoes that we passed.
We camped at a small fishing village a couple of hands’ travel below Chiaha and enjoyed roasted catfish, baked freshwater clams, and corn bread seasoned with sassafras root. I traded a bracelet for the use of a ramada since the night seemed warm.
Pearl Hand traded a couple of pieces of shell for a pot of unguent made from spruce needles, boiled pine needles, and red root. This served to keep the mosquitoes off.
We spent a pleasant evening talking with the locals, though most of it was through sign language. Traders were a novelty, and everyone wanted to know about the Kristianos and what their coming meant. We told them the truth, that their safest bet was to be far away.
When I finally left the fire and walked back to the shadows of our ramada, I realized that my bedding was enlarged. “Pearl Hand?”
“Come to bed, husband.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think that nasty old woman knocked my souls loose. They may not be entirely returned, but I want to try something to coax them back. Are you willing?”
Oh, yes.
The following morning we were on the river by sunrise and made good progress most of the day. Pearl Hand and Blood Thorn survived their first encounter with rapids.
“What’s the plan?” Blood Thorn asked that night. We’d pulled into a small fishing camp, having passed Coste talwa earlier that day.
I looked up from our fire to see the stars; it looked as if an endless frost were sprinkled upon the black. “From here on the game changes. We’re in Coosa now, and not even Cofitachequi before the Death compares. When we reach Napochies, we’ll hire porters to carry us to the capital.”
“Do you think Coosa Mikko will even receive us?” Pearl Hand asked.
I squinted at the fire. Would he? “I think so, especially given the wealth of our trade. And I’ll be carrying the copper mace. It’s the symbol of noble blood going back to the Beginning Times.”
Blood Thorn laughed. “Just don’t take this high minko thing to extremes. You’ll start to put on airs.”
I grinned at that. “I’ll save them for Coosa. You’ve got to understand. This is the biggest Nation in our world. Populous and vibrant, controlling more subordinate mikkos than Uzachile had villages. The Coosa mikko is considered by his people to be a living god, descended directly from the sun itself. And getting in to see him? That, my friends, might prove impossible were it not for the kind of trade we carry and who we pass ourselves off as.”
“Which is?” Pearl Hand asked.
“Nobles.” I looked around at them. “We’ve already had practice at Telemico. Pearl Hand, you’ve lived all your life among nobles. Blood Thorn, you’re an iniha from a foreign people. You’ll be given a little leeway, but try to learn from your mistakes.”
He gave me a hooded look. “How do you see this working? Emissaries have already been sent. De Soto is entering Coosa lands as a potential friend. Remember when White Rose gave the Cofitachequi mico’s word of safe passage?”
I nodded. “She was Sun Clan, heir to the Cofitachequi mico’s chair. The mikko at Chiaha has no such authority. He’s not even Wind Clan, from which Coosa rulers are descended. All the Chiaha mikko can do is advise—and from a very subordinate position at that.”
Pearl Hand mused, “I liked it better in the old days. This new peace of theirs is a thorn in our butts.” She paused before asking, “Then we have a chance to rally Coosa against the invader?”
“Maybe. Our best hope is that the Kristianos will prove to be their own worst enemies. All it will take is a couple of rapes, the desecration of the wrong temple, and too much abuse of the local people.”
“And if they don’t?” Blood Thorn asked.
“Can a fox become a rabbit?” I asked mildly.