People of the Silence (33 page)

Cornsilk thrust her sand-encrusted fist into her mouth to stifle the scream.

Webworm caught Fledgling’s head and tucked it beneath his good arm. “Gnat, take your men and finish this. Let
no one
live to tell this story.”

Gnat gestured to his warriors and returned to the smoke-stained village plaza.

Webworm looked at another warrior and cried, “Let’s go! That man was my friend.” He got to his feet. “We will make camp at the split in the road.”

He took off at a trot with ten or twelve men running after him.

Cornsilk watched them lope into the darkness.

She barely breathed.

More hideous shrieks split the night. Gnat and his men raced in front of the window. The howls of the killers mixed with the screams of her clan in a sickening roar. Old man Fat Cob stumbled in front of the window, his hands over his head, sobbing. A warrior ran up behind him with a club … and they disappeared from view. Little Snail’s childish voice shrieked,
“No, please, I haven’t done anything wrong! Please, don’t hurt me! NO—”

She saw a firelit war club lift and slam down, and heard the meaty snap of a skull.

Cornsilk rolled to her back and gasped for breath. The Evening People glimmered and twinkled. Her muscles began to spasm, limbs twitching like a wounded animal’s. She chewed her sandy fist while tears streaked her face.

Inside the shell of her body, her soul let out a silent scream.

Nineteen

Ironwood stood in the doorway of Snake Head’s personal chamber, arms crossed, watching Swallowtail deliver the new Chief’s supper. The Mogollon youth set the long wooden platter down beside the bowl of warming coals in the middle of the floor, then checked to see that the teapot suspended from the tripod was heating properly. As he backed away, he laced his fingers before him, awaiting instructions. He stood almost as tall as Ironwood. When Swallowtail gazed at Snake Head, hatred glinted in his dark eyes.

Snake Head stood with his back to them, preening before a pyrite mirror. Every now and then the mirror would flash and Ironwood would catch Snake Head watching him with a gloating smile.

Arrogant young fool. He knows the people have been talking to me. That’s why he’s keeping me waiting, as a reminder that I no longer have the right to speak to him of these things.

A torch of shredded cedar bark burned on the wall to Ironwood’s right, casting a wavering amber glow over the chamber. Four-by-five body-lengths across, the room had a high ceiling and gloriously painted walls. Swallowtail’s gaze was riveted on the northern wall to his left, where the dangerous Badger Thlatsina stood. The god had a black body, long muzzle, and sharp teeth. A circle of enemy scalps—mostly Mogollon—encircled him. Now that they were water and seed beings, these scalps gave Snake Head more Power than any young man his age deserved.

In its large cage, a bright red macaw walked back and forth on its foot pole, plucking piñon nuts from a small clay bowl and cracking them noisily with its big sickle-shaped beak. It had blue-and-yellow wings, a white face, and a long blue-and-red tail. Six hands from the tip of the tail to its head, it shimmered in the wavering torchlight. The bent willow cage stretched from the white-plastered floor to the ceiling and covered a space about fifteen hands square. Cracked nut hulls littered the floor of the cage.

Ironwood kept an eye on the macaw. Slaves whispered that it could speak in a human voice, but he had never … The bird cocked its beautiful head, gave Ironwood a malevolent look, and let out a low screech. Swallowtail went rigid, and Ironwood’s eyes narrowed. The macaw threaded its way back across its pole, picked up a sunflower seed and crushed it—but it watched Ironwood the entire time.

Swallowtail’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his shirt. Ironwood knew that the Fire Dogs believed macaws had human souls. Was the boy wondering whose?

The Straight Path people, on the other hand, feared that macaws
might
have human souls. Though gods occasionally adopted bird form to soar down from the skyworlds and check on human activities, witches frequently flew about as birds. Only the greatest shamans could tell the difference.

The macaw made a soft mournful sound, and Snake Head turned to see the bird watching Swallowtail through one eye. He said, “Even my bird hates you, boy. Get out of here. Go back to the slave chamber. And tell your mother I want her.
Now.
”

Swallowtail hesitated, his nostrils quivering, but said, “Yes, Blessed Sun,” ducked past Ironwood, and ran away.

Snake Head wore a buckskin shirt decorated with dyed porcupine quills. The flattened quills had been sewn down the sleeves in zigzagging lines of red and yellow lightning bolts. Shell bells clicked on his sandals. A bun of black hair decked the top of his head.

Snake Head studied Ironwood through slitted eyes, then walked across the floor and dipped himself a cup of pine sap tea. The sweet tangy scent filled the room. It had become a rarity. Once, many summers ago, there had been so many pines in the canyon that all of the First People could enjoy the treat every day. But now only a few could afford such luxuries.

Snake Head straightened, took a drink of his tea, and smacked his lips appreciatively. In a cold voice, he said, “What are you doing here, Ironwood? You are no longer War Chief. What business could you possibly have with me?”

Ironwood dropped his arms to his sides. “I had hoped, out of consideration for my many summers of loyal service to your father, that you might help me to understand what happened while I was away. People tell me that you sent Webworm—”

“Yes, I did.” A small gloating smile touched his lips. “And I gave
my
War Chief instructions to find my mother’s wretched spawn and kill it. I think that’s all you need to know, warrior. Now, if you’ve nothing more pressing, I’m very busy.”

“But I don’t understand why you would wish the boy dead. How could he possibly be a threat to you?”

Snake Head swirled the tea in his black-and-white cup. “My ‘wishes’ were not considered, Ironwood. It was my father’s last order.”

“And what of your mother? How long do you plan on keeping her imprisoned?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“I live here, Snake Head. Of course it is my concern. Don’t you realize that—”

“I realize everything that I need to, Ironwood!” Snake Head spun and crouched, suddenly looking like his namesake. “Now,
leave!
”

Ironwood impassively crossed his arms again. “Every moment that she’s locked up, the people grow more restless. I don’t believe you’re prepared to put down a revolt, Snake Head—not with your War Chief and thirty of your best warriors away on a raid.”

Snake Head glared.

“Please,” Ironwood pleaded, “listen to me. The people have stopped protesting in the plaza, but all that means is that they are at home, whispering over supper, telling each other everything they know and wondering what the truth is. If you don’t end this soon, the people will fill the gaps with speculation and create a whole new story. One that could tear this place apart.”

Snake Head brusquely sat down on the mat before his supper platter. He picked up a horn spoon and half a melon, and began eating. Their people buried melons, eggs, and certain types of gourds in deep piles of sand to preserve them through the cold winter. The melons grew sweeter, and the flesh of the gourds didn’t dry out as fast. Eggs would last seven or eight moons kept that way.

Ironwood shrugged. “If it comes to that, they’ll tear you down along with Talon Town. Is that what you want?”

Snake Head spooned more of the melon into his mouth and chewed, making no attempt to answer.

Ironwood sighed and gazed out the doorway.

As darkness settled over the desert, the jagged edges of the cliffs smoothed, and the color drained from the world. Evening People crowded the clear sky. Ironwood studied them and inhaled a breath of the cool breeze that roamed the canyon. It smelled of dry grass and dust. Once, it would have been tinged with the perfume of sage. The far-off whimpers of coyotes drifted in with the wind. No wonder the land was tired and refused to produce anymore.

“Did you know that my mother was a whore?” Snake Head asked.

For a long moment, Ironwood refused to take his gaze from the Evening People, then he looked back at Snake Head. The youth had finished his melon and picked up his teacup again. He had an odd expression on his face, curious, or testing.

“I pay no attention to gossip, Snake Head. I never have.”

“Well, it’s just that I know how often you talk with the slaves of Talon Town, and such vile people chatter. I thought perhaps you had overhead one of them—”

“No.”

Snake Head rose and walked toward Ironwood. A silver sheen of torchlight flowed into the folds of his buckskin shirt. The shells on his sandals clicked. He stopped one body-length away and cocked his head. “So you really have no idea who the father of my misbegotten half-brother is?”

“No idea.”

A secret smile, taunting and promising, curled Snake Head’s lips. “That is all I have to say to you, Ironwood. For now.” He walked back to his supper platter and picked up a cold corn-cake. “You may go.”

“Your new War Chief will see that the child is killed. You will have fulfilled your duty to your father. What use is it to keep your mother imprisoned? It only stokes the anger—”

“And what do you suggest I do, former War Chief? Let her go? She
betrayed
my father!”

Ironwood clenched his fists and stepped toward Snake Head. A crawling sensation had invaded his gut. Fear flashed in Snake Head’s eyes before he regained control of himself, and the new Chief haughtily lifted his chin.

“If that’s true, Snake Head, then your duty now is to decide her fate quickly. For the sake of your people. Either banish her, or kill her. But be done with it.”

An odd gleam lit Snake Head’s dark eyes. He bit into his corncake and chewed while he searched Ironwood’s face. Looking for … what?

“I think I shall kill her,” Snake Head announced emotionlessly, crumbs sticking to his lips. “Yes, that will resolve the problem.”

“Then do it.”

Snake Head held Ironwood’s fiery gaze for several instants. “I’ve never trusted you or your judgment, Ironwood.”

“That’s unfortunate. Your father did.”

“Yes. I know.” He laughed softly. “But then he never knew about my mother’s
fondness
for you.”

Ironwood’s stomach knotted. “Are you suggesting—”

“I’m suggesting she was fond of you at one time,” Snake Head answered through a mouthful of food. “That’s all.” He finished his corncake and brushed purplish blue crumbs from his hands onto the floor.

“Snake Head—”

“I have
finished
with you. I am the Blessed Sun. Leave, now! Or I shall call the guard and have you removed!”

Snake Head turned his back and walked to the macaw cage. He spoke softly to the bird. It answered him in a low hostile squawk.

Ironwood ducked out into the sharp night air and strode across the fourth-floor rooftop, his sandals rasping the plaster surface. He knotted and unknotted his fists as he went, jaw clamped tightly.

What could he know? Nothing … nothing at all. It’s a bluff, a baiting game, a way of toying with people to see what he can flush from cover.

He climbed down the ladder to the fourth story and walked warily to Sternlight’s chambers. Every nerve prickled, the way they did on a high ridge just before lightning struck.

He ducked beneath the door curtain. Sternlight glanced up from stirring the hot coals in his warming bowl. His white shirt flowed around his feet. Crow’s feet pinched the skin around his weary brown eyes, and loose black hair draped his hunched shoulders.

The room was painted with thlatsinas, and one of the beautiful masks—the Badger Thlatsina, with its raven feathers—hung over Sternlight’s bedding, as if gazing down fondly on him. Baskets and beautifully painted pots stood along one wall. Overhead, sacred herbs hung from the roof poles, bathed now in the dry incense of cedar smoke.

“Well?” Sternlight asked softly. “Does he know?”

“About the child? No. I don’t think so.”

Sternlight slowly rose to his feet. He had known Ironwood for far too long not to hear the unspoken words. A frown lined his brow. “But he knows about … what?”

Ironwood exhaled hard. “Perhaps about his mother and me.”

Sternlight’s facial muscles went slack. “Hallowed thlatsinas, then he might be able to guess the rest.”

*   *   *

“He shoved me into his warming bowl!” Mourning Dove turned to look over her naked shoulder at Creeper and damp black hair framed her round face. “He was like one of the Wild Men, throwing things, shouting, beating me!”

As soon as she’d been released by Snake Head, she had begged the warrior standing guard over the slave chambers to bring Creeper. He’d thrown on a blue shirt, gathered some Healing supplies, and run across the plaza.

Ten slaves in tattered brown clothes sat on the floor encircling Creeper and Mourning Dove, watching in silence. A few small bags, containing their pitiful belongings, rested beside their sleeping mats on the floor. In its wall holder, a single cedar bark torch sputtered, coating their worried faces with reddish light, highlighting knitted brows and clamped jaws. One old man, Lark, buried his face in his hands.

Swallowtail sat to Creeper’s left, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth like a wounded animal. The tall boy’s face resembled a wooden mask, but the look in his eyes, which had fixed on his mother’s injuries, was like a bludgeon. Creeper kept glancing at him. He could see the hatred growing darker, more violent by the moment; it was probably eating the boy alive.

“You’re safe now, Mourning Dove.” Creeper smoothed a salve of mallow and fat over the burns on her back. The fist-sized blisters oozed. He had to fight to keep his hands steady. Rage ate at every nerve in his body.

Snake Head is becoming more and more unpredictable and arrogant. For the sake of the Straight Path nation, someone should …