by Jeff Posey
Finally Tootsa swallowed, wiped his hands on his grimy loincloth, then crossed his arms and leaned back, eyeing the Fat Man.
The Fat Man laughed again. “I can see this is going to cost me,” said the Fat Man.
“It’ll cost you nothing because I’m already rich. Richer than you.”
“Oh, ho! You are, are you? Well then maybe I should make you pay me before you tell me anything.”
Tootsa looked thoughtful a moment. “Okay. It’s a deal. One tooth. But only one.” He dug out a bloody bag fashioned from what might have once been a man’s shirt. Then he shoved his fingers into the bag and pulled out one filed-sharp human tooth. He laid it next to a wing bone.
The Fat Man’s expression changed. He regarded Tootsa carefully. “Okay, young Tootsa, you have paid the price. Now you may speak.”
“Have you ever heard of a man with a red hat and a shirt with more little bells on it than anyone can count?”
The Fat Man looked at Tootsa gravely. “I have.”
“Well, he’s my friend. He made me rich. I hang around with him, and I get as many of these as I want.” Tootsa held up his bag of bloody teeth.
“He gives these to you?”
“No. I have to get them myself. But if you hit them hard enough with the right size rock, they come out pretty easy.”
“Out of warriors who are already dead, I take it.”
“Sure. Who else? Live ones!” Tootsa laughed.
“How does this man with the red hat kill the warriors?”
“They call him The Pochtéca. I don’t know why they call him that. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means a long-distance trader. How does he kill the warriors?”
“Well he hasn’t traveled any farther than I have since I’ve known him,” said Tootsa. “But he did trade me some bells. Want to see?”
Before the Fat Man could say yes or no, Tootsa pulled out a cleaner pouch and poured out three bells. He shook them and they tinkled. He grinned, and the Fat Man smiled with him.
“He has all these boys with him,” said Tootsa. “And one girl. But she’s like a boy.”
“They killed the warriors?”
“And now Lightfoot and the Wild Boys are with them. But we don’t like to fight. We just like to run and hide.”
“The other ones do the fighting?”
“Better than any fighters I’ve ever seen.” Tootsa counted on his fingers. “Seventeen last time. Plus a bunch of those stinky new recruits. Only one of them had a pointy tooth, though. Oh, and those two whole patrols that just killed each other for no good reason back near Black Stone Town. And then, oh, I’ve lost count. Counting messes me up. I used to have fifty-seven pointed teeth. Then I got more than twice that, but I still count fifty-seven. Counting doesn’t make any sense.”
“So you’ve seen all the warriors killed by children?”
“Well, sometimes I hide. I see it after. I like after much better. During there’s way too much yelling and hitting. You want to meet him?”
The eyes of the Fat Man dilated, then contracted.
“I told him all about you,” said Tootsa. “He said, ‘If he’s a man of trade then he’s my kind of man.’ Or something like that.”
“Where is he now?” asked the Fat Man.
“Well, I don’t know exactly. They said they’d move around a lot and that he’d just show up unless I give the signal for him to run away. Want me to?”
“No, my hummingbird man, I want to meet him,” said the Fat Man gently.
“Okay, I won’t, then.” Tootsa jumped up and ran to the doorway, but then came back. “Don’t tell anybody where you got that tooth. Understand?”
The Fat Man smiled. “It’s just between you and me.”
“Good. I’ll go wait for him.”
Such a short time later that it surprised the Fat Man, Tootsa returned with a man who, after he was safely inside and the bodyguard stood outside, doffed a red hat. Tootsa wanted to stay, but the Fat Man and The Pochtéca agreed he should hide.
“In the safe room,” said the Fat Man. “You know it. That’s where you come down the crack in the rocks.”
“Okay,” said Tootsa, drooping his arms as if they were too much to carry. “But only if I have to.”
“You have to,” said The Pochtéca. The Fat Man nodded.
When he’d gone, the Fat Man said, “You are The Pochtéca, I presume?”
“Yes, indeed. And you are…,” he hesitated.
“Yes, yes, call me the Fat Man. Everyone does. I have no other name. Should I ever get skinny again, I would have no identity.”
The Pochtéca chuckled. “Mister Fat Man,” he said, and gave a nod of his head. “I didn’t have a chance to see much of your operation, but I assume….”
“If you’ve traveled as I believe you have, there’s nothing here you haven’t already seen,” said the Fat Man.
“Yes,” said The Pochtéca. “In that case, could I trouble you for a mug of your best beer?”
The Fat Man laughed and gave a loud call for two corn beers. The Pochtéca removed his red hat before an old man brought in two large mugs filled to the brim with a cloudy liquid. He winked at The Pochtéca, and then left without a word.
Before they drank more than a sip, the bodyguard stuck his head in. “Pók is marching in. It looks like he’s lost half his guard, maybe more. And Tókotsi and his council are right behind him.”
The Fat Man eyed The Pochtéca when the bodyguard withdrew. “You don’t happen to know anything about how Pók might have lost half his guard, do you?”
“I might,” said The Pochtéca.
They stared at each other in silence. The danger of the situation could blow up for the Fat Man. He knew that. As it could for The Pochtéca. They both knew that.
The bodyguard stepped back in again. “A palace runner is coming.”
“Show him in,” said the Fat Man to the bodyguard. “Now, you,” he said to The Pochtéca, “step behind those curtains, please. And don’t make any sound.”
A few moments later, the bodyguard escorted a runner in full headdress into the room. The Fat Man had seen the young man, though he had never spoken to him. He remembered the runner preferred games of chance to the ladies.
“Greetings from Pókunyesva,” said the runner, using Pók’s formal name. “Your presence is requested. I am to escort you back immediately.”
“My presence,” said the Fat Man. “So Pók finally needs me for something. That seems to be suddenly on everyone’s minds. Very well. Give me a moment.” The Fat Man stepped behind the curtain and pulled a clean shirt off a peg. He changed into it while The Pochtéca crowded beside him. “This may have something to do with you,” whispered the Fat Man. “Want to join me?”
The Pochtéca shook his head and signed no.
The Fat Man raised his eyebrows, chuckled, and stepped back into his main room.
“Lead the way,” he said to the runner. He paused at his bodyguard and whispered, “Keep the man inside. And watch for trouble. Especially armed children.”
The Fat Man didn’t often walk outside into direct sunlight, and it pained him. He squinted until his eyes were slits, and he quickly soaked his clean shirt with perspiration. The runner didn’t stop or slow, and the Fat Man struggled for breath by the time they arrived at Pók’s doorway. The runner began to announce the Fat Man, but then hesitated. “What is your formal name?” he whispered.
“Most Honorable Fat Man,” he said, wheezing.
The runner looked perplexed, but announced him in that manner. A voice from within said, “Send him in.”
The Fat Man stepped inside, and looked at Pók sitting cross-legged while an herb healer worked on his hand.
“Since when have you been ‘most honorable’?” asked Pók.
“Since you asked me to visit you for the first time. You’ve lost part of your hand, I see,” said the Fat Man, still catching his breath.
“Only a thumb.” The healer finished tying h
is bandage, and Pók sent her away. Then Pók stood and walked around the Fat Man, inspecting him. “I’ve never seen you this close before. You are indeed very fat.”
The Fat Man felt intense dislike for this arrogant little man. He kept his eyes focused on the far wall, remembering Pók dancing on the altar and cutting out people’s hearts as if it were a game. The Fat Man had known people in line waiting for Pók’s knives. His sister had been in that line. He had no intention of being subservient to him.
“Your guard came back with their tails between their legs today. You lose a thumb. And now you call me, for the first time, to your quarters. You must need me pretty bad to let everyone see me enter this room.”
“Yes, I need you pretty bad. Bad enough to keep The Builder waiting, fuming I’m sure, in his chamber. Bad enough to cut short the attention my wound needs. Bad enough that I’ve not even had a bath or a woman or a nap since I’ve gotten back.” Pók continued to walk around the Fat Man. “Fat men have a peculiar stink to them. I hadn’t noticed before.”
“The smell from your hand will soon cover that.”
Pók picked up a flake-knife and twirled it in his left hand. He came close, the top of his head at the Fat Man’s chin, and looked up into his face. “You’re nothing without me. I let you live your miserable life in your miserable hovel for one reason only—to entertain my men. I could have you gutted, quartered, and roasted before this day is finished. So don’t think you’re in any position to bargain, because you’re not.”
“Oh, but I am,” countered the Fat Man, willing himself to ignore Pók’s knife. “I have something you want, or you wouldn’t keep The Builder waiting, and you would attend to your hand or have yourself a woman. You want something.”
Pók swiped his knife at the Fat Man’s bulging belly and cut a slice through his shirt. The Fat Man barely flinched.
“I could spill your guts right now,” said Pók.
“Then you’d have a mess. And you wouldn’t get what you want.”
“I don’t care for your arrogant attitude,” hissed Pók.
“And I’m not fond of the way you play with knives,” said the Fat Man.
Pók threw the knife against the wall and it shattered. “What is your price, then?”
“I don’t yet know what you want.”
“The traveling trader who wears a red hat. If he’s here, I know you will soon find out. I want him alive. And I don’t care what your price is, I’ll not bargain with you. If you don’t find him for me by nightfall, I’ll burn you out and kill everyone with you. The whole canyon will dine on you and I’ll burn Fat Man grease in my lamps.”
“So in exchange for the red-hat man, you will spare my life, is that your offer?”
“Yes. Live or die, your choice, I don’t care. Have him to me by nightfall and you’ll live to be fat another day.”
The Fat Man actually pitied Pók. The man knew nothing of trade, of incentives, of exchanging want for want. He knew only one thing. Live or die, all or nothing.
“If I hear anything of a man with a red hat, and if I decide to choose life over death, I will send word to you,” said the Fat Man.
“You will come yourself!”
“Ah, yes. I will run here as fast as my fat legs will carry me.”
Pók threatened to hit him with a war club, but the Fat Man stood his ground, never lost eye contact, didn’t twitch a facial muscle. Pók turned away and dismissed him.
The Fat Man emerged from Pók’s chambers and squinted in the sunlight. He shook and his heart raced. He wanted to hit and strangle more than he ever had. But he had held his line and didn’t cross it. Otherwise, he would not, at this moment, be alive.
He walked into the courtyard and every face turned to him. They’d never seen him inside the perimeter of the palace before. Because he had never been. Stonemasons’ helpers scurried up and down ladders carrying stone and mortar to the new rooms being added at the top. Women washed and stretched hides and smoothed mud into unfired pots. Near an outdoor kitchen he saw a half-dozen ragged warriors tied by their ankles to a log, the skeleton of what had been an extraordinarily tall man lay covered in flies next to them. Two guardsmen regarded him with sneers, and the runner who had summoned him dozed in shade near Pók’s doorway.
After a few moments, people ignored him and gave only an occasional curious glance. A servant boy emerged from an ornate doorway with the sign of The Builder painted on it. The Fat Man looked around. The guards harassed a pretty woman carrying a bundle and the runner’s chin lolled on his chest. No one seemed to be guarding the entrance, so he walked to it and peeked inside. Beside a raised platform, on a lower seat, sat a woman wearing a bluestone mask and a dress of many beads. He had never seen the fabled Goddess of the Future before. She worked her hands in her lap, and the Fat Man got the impression that something disturbed the woman.
A guardsman noticed him and stepped quickly to the Fat Man. He put a stick to his chest and pushed him backward out of earshot, away from The Builder’s doorway. “I’ve never seen you here before,” said the guard.
The Fat Man remembered him. He liked to watch the women, like the younger boys, but he never touched them. “Your Lord and Master Pók invited me up for a little chat.”
The guard scanned their surroundings, and then leaned close and whispered. “I would not like to be in his chambers today. We took a routing yesterday.”
“What happened?”
“This woman whose children we killed the day before attacked Pók and cut off his thumb.” The Fat Man nodded to encourage the guard. “And he went wild. We had already run at top speed from New Star Town, and then he made us charge into Last Trees Canyon.” The guard stopped and looked around nervously.
“You weren’t prepared properly,” prompted the Fat Man.
“Worse than that. A dozen new recruits, maybe more, were lying dead at the foot of Lost Trees. They were set up and left for us, leaning their backs against the rocks around the opening.”
The Fat Man glanced around. The boy looked as if he would become emotional. As if he had to get this off his chest. A private place would have been much better, but still, the young warrior talked.
“And the flute player was on the rim of the side canyon and he played and played, and we didn’t want him to kill us with his witchcraft, so we plugged our ears. A man wearing a red hat was up there with the flute player. Pók wanted him alive, he said. So he made us attack up the steep slope, and when we got near the top, archers jumped up out of the rocks, children, all of them just children, and they slaughtered us.”
“How many did you lose?”
“Half of us. I’ve never seen such a thing happen. I’d like to kill that red-hat man and his flute player with my bare hands.”
“How many guardsmen remain?”
“Thirteen. Two are so injured they barely made it here.”
“So what are your orders?”
The man looked around again as if he’d regained his senses. They’d gotten lucky. No one had noticed. “It’s hard to tell. Pók just screams and doesn’t make sense. The captain is one of the injured. Pók said if they’re not on their feet by tonight, he’s going to give them to the cooks.”
“What about the regulars?”
“I don’t know. I guess they’ll stick around a while. But they may not follow orders after this.” A call came from another warrior and the guardsman backed away. “I must go.”
Outside the palace, as they had for a couple days, regular warriors made a ring of camps with small fires. A constant flow of wood-carriers arrived from the western hills carrying firewood. The Fat Man had a deal and every fifth load found its way to his fires. The regulars manning the gate into the plaza harassed the Fat Man for free services. “How about a little two-for-one action tonight with your girls, Fat Boy!” said one. Other regulars laughed and crowded around. “We got two free ones doing business right under your nose, though they’re about used up by now. We need us some fresh ones.”
“Who needs to know?” asked the regular with the mouth.
“I do. So I can tell my people to give you everything in the house two-for-one. I’ll make the offer good until first light tomorrow morning.”
The man guffawed and looked around at his buddies, then shouted his name, which sounded like “Garr-oos.” He’d not heard a name like that, but he nodded. Other men began yelling, asking for their own deals, but the Fat Man put up his hands and shook his head. They finally let him through and he walked outside the palace walls. At a rear doorway along the curved side of the enormous structure, a line of men stood as if waiting their turn and the Fat Man suspected two of his missing girls ran their own shop inside, the two free ones Garr-oos mentioned. He pitied them. He wondered if he should send a man tonight to put them out of their misery, but decided the regulars used to the free service wouldn’t like that.
The Fat Man walked across the open space toward his buildings that hugged the base of the cliff, facing south for good winter warmth. They weren’t pretty, but they were comfortable. At the moment, they burst at the seams. People milled about everywhere. A much larger number gathered for this muster than for any the last three summers. Women, in particular, more than he’d ever seen before, which puzzled him a moment, but he didn’t dwell on it. He would have a few of his men recruit a few fresh girls. That was always good for business.
The Fat Man looked at a few faces, picking out the youngest, and wondered if they were part of The Pochtéca’s entourage of warrior-killing children. He thought a couple seemed unusually watchful, and suspected them, but he couldn’t be sure. Outside his own room where his bodyguard sat, he paused to think about how he could make the most use of the highly coveted red-hat man who had miraculously walked into his clutches.
Jab to the Throat
Nuva cradled Wooti like an infant while she warmed a jar of herbed corn mush for breakfast. After Wooti delivered her message from Black Stone, she stopped talking again. Nuva didn’t mind for the moment. The girl weighed no more than a baby. She needed to be fed as much as possible for a while. Nuva reminded herself to ask Cook for a big piece of the fattest meat she could smuggle out of the kitchen. Meanwhile, Nuva got a few bites of the mush down Wooti’s throat.