Nutcracker kept his gaze on the river ahead, adding, “It’s like he’s left the rest of us behind. But remember, he’s the most gifted war leader since Black Tail destroyed Petaga. The man is a master of planning, tactics, and field movements. We’ve always won because he had a better plan for defeating the enemy. For now, he’s fighting on a different battlefield, that’s all.”
“Of course.”
“That doesn’t sound like you really believe it.”
Blood Talon took a deep breath, lowered his voice even further. “Think back over these last couple of weeks. We’ve been following our old friend Spotted Wrist’s orders. Hopping, obeying, hardly getting time to catch our breath. We used to help him plan; we were the ones he tested his ideas against, used us to find the flaws. Now it’s Rising Flame he depends on. We’re not even consulted anymore, and what’s happened?”
“We’re on the river.”
“And nothing’s changed, Nutcracker. Every order he gave was for naught, right down to the burning of the warehouse. Old Blue Heron had the food replaced in a day. The only difference is that instead of us escorting Night Shadow Star and living in plush camps, we’re still chasing her. And probably doing it in defiance of the living god’s wishes. This isn’t like working with the Spotted Wrist we once knew.”
“So?”
“We’re going to follow orders. Bring her back. And then, I’m finished. Back to Snapping Turtle Clan. Offer my services to High Chief Kills Four and Matron Wide Swallow.”
“I see.”
“Yes, you should. This is my last mission for Spotted Wrist.” Blood Talon smiled warily. “Assuming it goes as easily as the war leader thinks it will.”
“Why shouldn’t it?” Nutcracker slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not so tough. Like you yourself said, all we have to do is run down a bunch of Traders, kill the Red Wing, and take a woman back to Cahokia. What could go wrong?”
Twenty-one
Here she was again. Back at the pus-sucking canoe landing. Blue Heron took a deep breath, blew it out, and watched it rise in the cold air. She was huddled on her litter, this time wrapped warmly in a hair-on buffalo robe. Her porters were standing, the weight of her conveyance spread between them as she watched from her vantage point high on the slope above the canoe landing.
Around her stretched the mass of humanity, perhaps a thousand people or more, all crowding down around the beached canoes, milling among the ramadas, calling among themselves, staring out for one last glance at loved ones, or gawking up at where Morning Star sat on his high litter, looking godlike in the midst of his perfectly dressed warriors. His eyes, too, were fixed on the departure.
In the river, like a school of slivers, the canoes were lined out on the lead-gray surface. The mighty expedition was finally, and hopefully permanently, on its way.
Blue Heron would have liked to have uttered a sigh of relief, gone back to her palace, and spent the coming days relaxing by her fire, sipping tea, and gossiping with Wind. Problem was, each time she fixed one problem, the doing of it created another couple of problems. Each ever more pressing in its own particular way.
She need only look past the far bank at Evening Star Town atop the bluff overlooking the river. Across the distance, Blue Heron couldn’t be sure, but one of those little figures at the corner of Matron Columella’s tall palace mound was no doubt Columella herself, having positioned herself on the high point of vantage to watch the departure of the grand expedition.
And to wonder if, by agreeing to supply it, she had become a participant in her own downfall, perhaps murder, but undoubted replacement as ruler of Evening Star House.
Unless that food could be replaced and her warehouses restocked.
Blue Heron turned her glance off to the right, seeing Wind. The tonka’tzi sat atop her own litter, her copper-clad staff of office held before her. Dull sunlight barely penetrated the cloud cover and reflected with a bloody tint off her headpiece. A bright red cape hung from her shoulders; her litter bearers were dressed in finery, each being a young noble from one of the Four Winds Houses. To serve as such was considered an honor.
Wind, too, had her concentration fixed on the flotilla of canoes as they slowly headed downriver.
Hope you’re thinking how to pry that corn, beans, and squash out of these Houses and clans.
Beyond her, Morning Star’s squadron beat their clubs against their shields, turned as one to face the rear, and began trotting back through the buildings that lay between them and the Avenue of the Sun. The moment the living god departed, people began to follow, pressing, ebbing and flowing up the slope.
“Shall we go, Lady?” her lead porter asked.
“Stay a moment. No need to get caught up in the press. Let the worst of it filter through River Mounds, otherwise we’ll contribute to the mess.”
As she waited, she watched the last of the canoes vanish to the south and idly wondered what could have possessed Night Shadow Star to undertake such a journey with only the Red Wing at her side. Not that anyone but a fool underestimated the man. Blue Heron had. Once. But once was all it had taken.
And, of course, her niece served Underworld Power. The Underwater Panther had to be playing his own game when it came to Walking Smoke.
“Lady?” A voice interrupted her thoughts.
She glanced down to see a messenger dressed in River House’s characteristic smock. The young man bowed low, touching his forehead. When he straightened, he said, “High Chief War Duck and Matron Round Pot send their greetings. They would like to offer you a fine meal, lodging for the night, and seek the pleasure of your company. They stressed that this is their most earnest invitation. If you can spare them the time, they will be most grateful.”
The young man’s eyes were pleading, as if, should she turn it down, he would suffer the consequences.
“A meal and a bed?” She let the options run through her head. Disaster had struck River House last year when someone—and yes, she knew exactly who—had knocked over a boiling pot that drowned the sacred fire. Taken as an affront to Power, and a token of terrible bad luck, War Duck and Round Pot had been hanging on to their authority by their very fingernails. Three Fingers had been gaining in influence and was turning out to be pretty good at intrigue.
Seemed to be a lot of that going around.
In no way, shape, or form had the rulers of River House ever been allies of Blue Heron’s. From her spies, she knew they’d been on the verge of letting loose mayhem last fall until their fire was put out. That they needed her now? Given that she was no longer Keeper? Was either a measure of their desperation, or they had something they wanted to barter for a favor. Probably wanted to use Blue Heron as an intermediary to get to Wind.
She was hungry.
The weather was blustery.
It would save her from arriving back at her palace after dark.
“I am happy to accept the High Chief and House Matron’s fine offer of hospitality. Lead forth.”
The young man led the way through a warren of warehouses, the passages clogged by people working through the buildings that packed the levy.
Breaking out into the elongated River Mounds plaza, they passed the Four Winds Clan House, the Men’s House, several Earth Clans Council Houses, and the famed chunkey courts where the finest of the river Traders and professional players battled for wealth. Today, with its bone-numbing damp, the courts were forgotten.
At the northeastern extent, War Duck and Round Pot’s palace stood atop a platform mound; Hunga Ahuito, the two-headed eagle that dwelled at the top of Sky, stared down from atop its guardian post, as did Falcon.
At the foot of the stairs, her porters laid her litter on the ground. She winced, mentally cursed her aches and pains, and rose stiffly to her feet. She made the climb up the wooden steps, touched her forehead reverently as she passed the guardian posts and the high World Tree pole in the cramped courtyard before the palace.
The steeply pitched roof looked shabby, covered as it was with gra
y thatch. Atop it, the ridgepole was adorned with weather-faded carvings of Snapping Turtle, Falcon, and Ivory-billed Woodpecker: all totems of war.
Blue Heron followed the young man through the carved double doors and into the delightful warmth of the great room. Maybe it was because of the disaster last fall or to make a statement, but the fire was roaring, flames shooting high, sparks winking out as they rose.
When it came to opulence, the lords of River Mounds House spared nothing in the decoration of their palace. They were, after all, perched above the canoe landing. That gave them first access to whatever Trade landed on their shores. Nor did War Duck shy away from nefarious dealings with unscrupulous Traders, let alone the city’s morally questionable habitués like Crazy Frog, Black Swallow, and their ilk. War Duck wasn’t too keen on bringing such miscreants to heel as long as he got a percentage.
As a result, the palace walls were hung with exotic artifacts, stunning textiles, weapons, copper embossing, shell, and statuary. Each of the sleeping benches was made of poles carved to resemble snakes, the uprights topped in renderings of deer, cougar, and bear heads, and leaping fish. The woven mat on the floor was stunning—a marvel of the weaver’s art second only to the Morning Star’s.
Behind the fire, seated atop the dais, War Duck’s litter was perched beside Round Pot’s. Most of the household servants were lined out along the walls, all seated in order, their hands resting on their knees in a posture of obedient readiness. The air was heavy with the odors of boiling hominy, venison, fish, and turkey. Through it all, Blue Heron could smell baking acorn, smilax, and goosefoot bread.
She followed her young guide up beside the fire, feeling the heat of it begin to roast the right side of her face. Felt good for at least a couple of heartbeats.
“Welcome, Blue Heron, of the Morning Star House, of the Four Winds Clan, of the Sky Moiety,” War Duck called in greeting. Then he began the traditional recitation of ritual. A pipe was brought, lit, and shared, the bowl and stem being carried back and forth between them by the houseboy. If Blue Heron remembered correctly, the lad’s name was Clicking Boy.
Finally, black drink was offered in ceramic cups, drunk in copious amounts, and the final prayers offered. This was no casual visit. Every bit of ritual was being attended to as if Blue Heron were a visiting chief from a foreign nation. By that time the right side of her face felt scalded, and she’d eased her way a couple of paces to the left to lessen the effect.
Ritual complete, War Duck and Round Pot rose, walked around the fire, and offered Blue Heron a seat on the matting back from the fire. In an unusual display of equality, they seated themselves to either side before clapping their hands.
As food was brought, Blue Heron gestured toward the fire and plates being set before her. “A bit dramatic, all this. It’s not like I’m some foreign lord.”
War Duck’s good left eye fixed on her. “After last fall? In all of Cahokia, you will find no more pious, observant, or humble practitioners of ritual than River House.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” she noted dryly.
“It’s not about what you believe,” Round Pot confided, dipping bean mash from a bowl with a bit of goosefoot bread. “It’s about everyone else.”
“I begin to see.”
War Duck gestured with a horn spoon full of hominy. “Right up front, we admit that we have not always been on the same side. But despite that, recent events dictate that perhaps you, the matron, and I might find some common ground. Our history is replete with stories about adversaries who once believed themselves locked in a battle to the death but, through better judgment, were able to find common cause, establish peace, and work toward some shared goal.”
“Why me? Spotted Wrist is the Keeper now. I’m just a discarded old woman.”
“A wealthy old woman with her own spy network and whose sister is the tonka’tzi. Not to mention that you have access to the living god any time you wish, or that your word can persuade some of the mightiest matrons to do your bidding.”
“A couple of those spies you refer to tell me that your brother, Broken Stone, has been in touch with Rising Flame. They are putting together a coalition of cousins led by Three Fingers and backed by his brother Waving Reed. Word is that they’re strengthening ties to Horned Serpent House and North Star House in preparation for the day when the two of you are politely asked to step down.”
Round Pot’s eyes were slitted as she absently fingered her long braid. “We hear these things, too. The fools are playing Horned Serpent House one way, North Star House another. Broken Stone has always been the affable host, the bluff and hearty teller of tales, exactly the sort to have around at a banquet. He’s never had a head for, let us say, the intricacies of deal making.”
“That’s where Three Fingers comes in. Problem is, gullible as Broken Stone is, I don’t think he realizes that Three Fingers isn’t planning for an instant to leave your brother on the high chair.”
War Duck ran a finger down the scar in his face. “I would hope not. Should Broken Stone become high chief, Wolverine, Slender Fox, and Green Chunkey will carve River House into pieces and devour them. Give it a year and one of them will have him assassinated. Then they will go to war over control of what’s left.”
“Which leads us to wonder, what’s Rising Flame’s interest in this? How does she gain if River House is destroyed?” War Duck arched his good left eyebrow.
Round Pot asked, “And most important of all, where does Morning Star stand in all of this? You, Wind, and Five Fists are close to him. You have his ear. That, in the end, might save Cahokia from a calamity.”
Blue Heron noted dryly, “Like the one River House would have precipitated if Morning Star had died last fall? You had your squadrons ready to march before the others could have called an assembly. So don’t play the righteous card.”
War Duck shared a hard glance with his sister.
Blue Heron continued, “Yes, Five Fists, Wind, and I have access to Morning Star. That has all the value of spit in the snow. Morning Star plays his own game, for his own reasons. Half the time we don’t have a clue what he’s about, or why. Decisions he makes, orders he gives seem completely illogical at the time. Like with that Chickosi wife he took last fall. Five Fists says Morning Star knew she was going to poison him. That he knew full well that he was going to die. Still, he did it without any kind of guarantee that Night Shadow Star and the Red Wing would travel into the Underworld to bring him back.”
War Duck continued to finger his scar, a sign of his worry. “Morning Star was responsible for Rising Flame being named high matron. Maybe he wants River House destroyed. But why? We send our share of wealth his way.”
Blue Heron scooped a bite-size chunk of boiled meat from the bowl in front of her and swallowed it before pointing a finger for emphasis. “I spent most of my life as Keeper. In those early years I made a lot of mistakes, played the game for my House instead of the city. Wasn’t until about ten years ago that I began to see that a balance had to be maintained. In the years since, when one House started to gain ascendancy, I’d work to chop it off, cut it down to size.”
“Except for Morning Star House.” Round Pot almost spat the words.
“Use your head,” Blue Heron shot back. “Morning Star lives in the middle of it. Whichever territory the living god calls home will ultimately dominate the other Houses. That’s just the way of it. Took me a while to learn, but the job of Clan Keeper is to keep the clans in balance. So I dedicated myself to making sure that Horned Serpent, River, and Evening Star Houses all had about the same authority and influence.”
“Even if it meant assassination?”
“Even then,” Blue Heron responded. “Now, knowing where I’m coming from, let’s get down to business. You want my help to save your skins, keep River House from being destroyed, and ensure that Morning Star comes down on your side.”
“What do you want in return?” War Duck asked.
“Beginning tomorrow morning, s
tart shipping food stores to Evening Star Town to replenish Columella’s warehouses.”
“That camp bitch has spent years trying to cut our throats,” Round Pot hissed.
“And you’ve spent years trying to cut hers. Sometimes she’s come out ahead, sometimes you have. You want me to fight for your survival? Fine. You need her, she needs you.”
Round Pot mused, “We might get a better deal from some of those cousins of hers who want to ascend to the high chair.”
“And she might get a better deal from Three Fingers than she’d get from you. It’s an obsidian flake that cuts both ways.”
“Stripping our warehouses could be the action that brings us down. Broken Stone, egged on by Three Fingers, will be the first to protest. He’ll be calling for our blood.”
“It’s your call. But if you want my help, Wind’s, and Five Fists’, that’s our price.”
The following morning, as Blue Heron’s litter was carried out of River Mounds City’s plaza and onto the Avenue of the Sun, the first canoe- loads of corn, beans, and squash were being paddled across the river headed for Evening Star Town’s empty warehouses.
On the way out, she’d seen Broken Stone, backed by five of the River House Earth Clans chiefs, headed for the palace. None of them looked happy.
So, I wonder if I just witnessed the end of River House, and with it, the beginnings of the end of Cahokia?
Twenty-two
Two hard days on the river. Night Shadow Star had stepped out of one existence and into an entirely different one. She might have shed lives the way she did a change of clothing. But this new woman she sought to become was totally alien. Uncomfortable. She might have changed identities and at the same time become a stranger.
The transition from Lady Night Shadow Star of Cahokia into a common Trader had proved more than unsettling. It wasn’t just the way she now dressed and the hard labor with the paddle. It felt like part of her was fading away that she would never get back again.
Piasa’s ridiculing laughter, echoing from the air around her, only added to her discomfort and the deep-seated fear of some terrible thing hovering just over the horizon.
Star Path--People of Cahokia Page 12