People of the Mist (17 page)

 
          
Nine
Killer chanced a look at Copper Thunder, and found he’d fixed his gaze on Yellow
Net. That amused conceit had vanished and now a flat intensity filled his
lidded gaze.

 
          
No
good will come of this, Nine Killer assured himself.

 
          
The
slim canoe rose and fell with the swells, reminding Panther just how vulnerable
these small dugouts were. Crossing the Salt Water Bay always carried (he chance
of disaster, even on a calm day like this. While the canoes were safe enough in
the narrow inlets, and along the rivers, a sudden wind, or even a relatively
modest shower, could swamp a dugout in the open water.

 
          
Hands
braced on the gunwales, Panther looked over his shoulder at Sun Conch, who
paddled rhythmically, resignation in the set of her young face. Well, bat dung!
The girl figures she’s mine now and already dead, so why should she fear
drowning? After the scare I put into her, she might even be looking forward to
it.

 
          
And
to think, some people thought The Panther to be incredibly clever!

 
          
Overhead,
billowing clumps of cloud alternated with the pale blue winter sky, but on the
water, sunlight sparkled across the rolling surface, belying the murky depths.
What possessed the sunlight to dance on the bay? It was as if sun was so
completely incompatible with water that the beams bounced off it.

 
          
In
the distance a flock of terns sailed low over the swells. To Panther it was a
temptation of fate that they should dip so fearlessly to skim the crests.

 
          
Mysteries.
Mysteries everywhere.

 
          
Panther
took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool air. The bay’s damp musk
lingered in his nostrils, salty, its special tang familiar to him, if not
reassuring today.

 
          
He
half-turned, careful not to rock the boat. “Just where exactly are we going?”

 
          
“Flat
Pearl Village,” Sun Conch answered.

 
          
“No.
We will go to Three Myrtle first.”

 
          
“Elder,
the people of Three Myrtle don’t wish High Fox dead. The problem is in Flat
Pearl. I will take you there.”

 
          
Panther
gave her a flinty squint. “Girl, we’d better get some things straight. You do
not order me …” At that moment, the canoe lurched and bobbed. As water slapped
against the hull, cold droplets spattered on Panther’s skin. Despite his death
grip on the gunwales, he glared down into the water. “You stop that! I’m
putting Sun Conch in her place right now, but I’ll deal with you later!”

 
          
Was
it imagination, or did the swells lose some of their violence? Panther lifted
an eyebrow, satisfied, and turned his attention back to Sun Conch. “You want me
to save High Fox, don’t you?” She gave him a puzzled look. “Yes, Elder.”

 
          
“Then
you will take me to Three Myrtle Village. Before I deal with Hunting Hawk, I
must talk to High Fox, hear his side of the—”

 
          
“High
Fox isn’t at Three Myrtle Village, Elder.”

 
          
“Then,
where is he? You said he’d fled after he found the girl’s body. He didn’t go
home to the protection of his family?”

 
          
Sun
Conch paddled methodically, each stroke driving the canoe diagonally across the
waves. “No, Elder. Well, I mean, he went home, but only long enough to tell me
his trouble. Then he was supposed to leave. He knew Hunting Hawk would be hunting
him. He didn’t think he’d be safe in Three Myrtle.”

 
          
Panther
tensed as the canoe bobbed precariously and slid down into the trough of a
swell. Water ran over the heat-stained wood in the bottom, coursing around his
feet, mocking him with his own mortality. “Think we ought to bail? It’s getting
deep.”

 
          
Sun
Conch asked mildly, “You’re not afraid, are you?”

 
          
Panther
screwed his face into a mask of resolution and turned to glare. “No! Now, just
where is High Fox? I need to speak to him. I can’t do a blood-rotted thing for
him until I hear his words about what happened.”

 
          
“Very
well, Elder. He is hiding on a small island. I will take you to him.”

 
          
“Good.”
But Panther’s heart quaked as another swell slapped the side of the canoe,
spattering him with droplets. When he looked down, the water ran over his toes.
Corruption take all canoes. This was no way for a man to travel. He looked
around for the bailing cup.

 
          
And,
if I live long enough to see this High Fox, and if I think the boy is lying to
me, by Okeus’ balls, I’ll wring the very soul from his body!

 
          
A
chill wind blew out of the moonless night, down from the northwest, over the
hilly Conoy Peninsula, and across the leaden waters of the Fish River. It
moaned through the bare trees, stirred the brown leaves, and whistled around
the palisade posts of Flat Pearl Village. As it came swirling across the
palisade it shook the houses, and scoured bits of sand, charcoal, and shell,
spattering them against Nine Killer’s squinting face as he crossed the plaza to
his sister Rosebud’s house.

 
          
His
nerves were bothering him. To relieve them, he’d been pacing the length and
breadth of the village. He’d even gone to the extent of placing Stone Cob and
Crab Spine—to their disgust—on guard. Now, as he ducked into the sheltered lee
of Rosebud’s long house he drew his feather cloak tightly about his shoulders.

 
          
Not
even ghosts would be out on a night like this.

 
          
He
shivered: a mixture of cold and the unknown. Protected from the worst of the
gusts, he leaned against Rosebud’s thatched wall and listened to the wind roar
through the night.

 
          
Unease
had been stalking him since the day of Red Knot’s death, staring at him from
the wind-whipped darkness with invisible eyes. That morning, his world had
started to come apart, and he felt powerless to prevent it. But where did the
root of this evil lie?

 
          
Murder,
in itself, was horrifying to his people. If it really was murder. He cocked an
eyebrow, hearing faint laughter from inside. His niece, White Otter, probably.
The girl was always bubbling and laughing, even when taking care of her
siblings: Slender Bark, Little Shell, Two Birds, and Sea Rice.

 
          
If
Winged Blackbird, or one of his warriors, had killed Red Knot, it wasn’t
murder, but war. A tactical move in the deadly game played by the Weroances and
the Ma manatowick. Were that the case—and Nine Killer wished desperately that
he could believe it—the response would be simple: he needed but marshal his
warriors, slip his forces into White Stake territory, and extract revenge. If
he escaped without significant losses, and managed to blunt Winged Blackbird’s
inevitable counterattack, then the equilibrium would have been maintained in
the age old manner.

 
          
But
what if that was what he was supposed to believe? What if Winged Blackbird
hadn’t killed Red Knot?

 
          
Then
my raid will sting Corn Hunter into a crazy rage. He’ll lose all of his sense
and throw everything he’s got at us. The last time that had happened, it had
taken every warrior in the Independent villages to stem the attacks.

 
          
Mine
Killer rubbed the back of his neck. Three Myrtle

 
          
Village
wouldn’t join them, not until an apology had been made to Black Spike. The
careful balance between the Independent villages had been upset, and now
wobbled about like a wounded warrior struck upon the head.

 
          
Perhaps
that had been the plan from the beginning. Nine Killer tucked his arms tightly
under his feather cloak. Throughout his life, the Independent villages had been
as constant as the tides. Petty squabbles had been solved by select delegates
from the other villages, driven by the ever-present need for unity against the
growing influence of the Mamanatowick.

 
          
Red
Knot’s murder played right into Water Snake’s hand, the first great crack in
the alliance that had stymied him to the north. But was he this sophisticated?
How could he have orchestrated such a subtle and effective strike? He would
have had to know precisely when Red Knot would be on the trail to Oyster Shell
Landing, and how to kill her.

 
          
Nine
Killer stiffened, a wind colder than that of the night freezing his soul. He
would have to have someone here, a traitor in Flat Pearl Village, to accomplish
it.

 
          
If…
If Water Snake was the key to this. If, however, Copper Thunder was
responsible, the murder made a great deal more sense. With his many warriors,
the Great Tayac had the opportunity, as well as the means to have the girl
followed and ambushed. But his marriage to Red Knot gave him access to the
Independent villages. He was getting everything—and with a minimum of risk.
Sort it out as he might, Nine Killer saw no advantage accruing to Copper
Thunder by killing Red Knot.

 
          
Nine
Killer smiled grimly into the night. Too bad he couldn’t blame Copper Thunder.
How pleasing it would be to break a war club across the Great Tayac’s teeth!

 
          
He
bent his head back to stare at the dark sky. Every now and then the wind
brought him the scent of wood smoke, teasing him with images of sitting inside,
warm and cheery by the fire. It had been at least a week since he’d seen his
wife, White Star. Normally, he’d be inside her long house on a night like this.
He’d be playing with his sons Rabbit, Lance, and Cricket, and swapping lies
with his brother-in-law and old friend, Half Moon. Because of his friendship
with Half Moon, he’d married White Star, and, over the years, they had come to
love each other.

 
          
Later,
when you’ve wrestled your way through this. And that left him with the final,
and most likely, solution to the problem: Maybe, as a girl, Red Knot had
promised High Fox she would marry him; but life changed when a girl became a
woman—as it did when a boy went through the Blackening death during the
Huskanaw. Perhaps Red Knot had run off that morning to tell High Fox that she
was going to marry Copper Thunder. High Fox couldn’t accept that, and enraged,
he killed her.

 
          
That
made the most sense. He had known where she would be. His tracks led to the
girl’s body. Flat Willow had seen him, talked to him. What more proof did they
need?

 
          
But
Nine Killer knew well that if he went to claim High Fox, Black Spike would
resist. If he attacked, the alliance would split as surely as if hacked apart
with a stone-bit ted ax.

 
          
It
was only a matter of time before honor would compel Hunting Hawk to act. He was
sure of it. Her granddaughter had been murdered, and no matter the cost, such a
thing could not be allowed to pass uncontested.

 
          
Nine
Killer looked southward, beyond the palisade through the darkness. There, three
days’ hard run across ridge, forest, and stream, the Water Snake lay coiled in
his lair, his head raised to this same cold wind that blew the smell of
destruction to Nine Killer’s keen nostrils. If war broke out between Flat Pearl
and Three Myrtle, the

 
          
Independent
villages would be sending their tribute to Water Snake by spring.

 
          
And
I, my warriors, and the rest of Greenstone Clan will be dead. He lowered his
head. His wife and sisters, and their children, would be taken as slaves, the
women forced to bear other men’s children, all made to work in the fields, and
live little better than dogs.

 
          
“Okeus
help us,” he whispered. “Isn’t there some way out of this?”

 
          
Two
days in a canoe were more than enough for The Panther. Crossing the open water
of the Salt Water Bay had terrified him. He’d spent the first night on an
exposed beach, half-frozen despite the small fire that he and Sun Conch had put
together. They’d camped up in the woods last night, but the fierce wind had
robbed them of any warmth the trees might have furnished.