People of the Silence (35 page)

“I will do whatever you wish, Ironwood.”

“Thank you, Blessed Night Sun.”

Then he turned and climbed the ladder. When he replaced the roof cover, he left it slightly ajar. Night Sun stared at the starlight that arced across the far wall like a slash of blue-white paint.

He spoke quietly to Blue Corn, then his steps faded.

She leaned her head back against the wall and breathed.

*   *   *

Warm rain fell.

Ironwood pulled his red cotton cape closed and tipped his face to the drizzle. He crouched in his old familiar place outside the dead Chief’s chamber where, over the summers, he had worn a hollow in the sun-hardened clay plaster. His soul hurt from seeing Night Sun. He could not get her out of his thoughts. He had to do something, but had no idea of what. Though some warriors obeyed his commands, he had no real power here. Not anymore.

Misty silver veils wavered over Talon Town, shifting and twisting in the wind. His gaze fixed upon them. If it would only rain like this during the growing season, perhaps some of the tension would ease. The Straight Path people would begin planting corn, beans, and squash in a little over a moon, depending upon Sternlight’s solar observations. He prayed the thlatsinas would send the rains then.

Inside the chamber, Dune and Snake Head spoke in low, strained voices. All day they had been arguing over Crow Beard’s dead body, and Ironwood had grown tired of it. He was here because Dune had asked him to stand guard, and Snake Head had agreed—but only until Webworm returned.

Wind Baby gripped Ironwood’s cape and flapped it around his shoulders like red wings. He tugged it closed again. Long ago, Wind Baby had been his Spirit Helper, but many summers had passed since he’d heard whispers in the wind.

In a voice too low for those inside to hear, he said, “I need you, Spirit Helper. Come. Speak with me. Advise me. I beg you.”

In the stormy sky, Thunderbirds growled and soared, leaping from cloud to cloud. Lightning flashed and Ironwood saw a group of slaves huddled in the plaza five stories below. Ordinarily, at dusk, all slaves were confined in the circular windowless chambers on the edges of the plaza. For them to be caught outside at night, without the permission of a clan leader, or one of the First People, was a crime punishable by death. Snake Head must have assigned this group a special task. They sat in a small circle with blankets pulled over their heads. A tiny fire burned before them.

Ironwood wondered what they discussed. He knew so little about their lives. Slaves were taken by warriors during raids. As one of the spoils of victory, warriors could keep as many as they could guard, though most were given away to First People. In exchange, the warriors received the blessings of the gods, and curried the more secular favors of their rulers.

Slaves almost never spoke a civilized tongue, and they worshiped alien gods. Ironwood had owned as many as thirty slaves at a time, but he’d found that the expense of feeding, clothing, and guarding them required more than he gained in status. And, if the truth be known, as he grew older, slavery became more than his heart could bear. He often heard little children weeping in their chambers, and knew without needing words that they cried for home and their lost families. As a matter of honor, he still took slaves. But he sold them all to pay for Cornsilk’s protection.

He gazed down at the Cage, where Night Sun remained imprisoned. The slaves worshiped her. Once a sun cycle, generally during the holy days of summer, she freed her most loyal slave and sent her home with a pack of riches. Cloud Playing had always done the same. It made them heroes to the captives. It also made Snake Head indignant. Crow Beard had never seemed to care, but Snake Head stamped about every solstice celebration, grumbling and complaining about
his
share of the wealth they were throwing away! He’d been especially adamant when Night Sun had wanted to free Mourning Dove.

Ironwood remembered the day well. Snake Head had been a boy, eleven or twelve. He’d thrown a tantrum so violent he’d lost consciousness and collapsed in the plaza. The event had shaken Night Sun, and she’d given Mourning Dove to Snake Head as his own personal slave.

Ironwood had always wondered why Mourning Dove didn’t strangle Snake Head in his sleep.

Dune’s reedy old voice rose from within the torchlit chamber.
“What was that, boy?”

Ironwood leaned into the room and saw Dune hobbling across the chamber swinging his walking stick. Snake Head backed before him, hands thrown out for protection. His long purple shirt glimmered in the orange gleam. On the floor, Crow Beard’s body lay under his blankets. His lips had drawn back into a strained grin that exposed the few stubby incisors left in his mouth.

“I meant only,” Snake Head defended, “that you are old! Age affects the memory!”

“Not mine it doesn’t.” Dune backed Snake Head against the wall and cracked the boy on the elbow with his walking stick. Snake Head yipped, and Dune said, “I remember very well what your father wished of me. And I plan on doing it, whether you like it or not!”

Snake Head’s large dark eyes and full lips pinched. He’d coiled his black hair into a bun. “If you smash my father in the face with your Bashing Rock, here, in this room, then his soul will fly free before it is ready! We must carry him to the sacred Humpback Butte and the ladder to the skyworlds! Surely my father would not have told you he wished to have his soul floating around Talon Town rather than climbing the ladder to become one of the thlatsinas!”

“Surely your father would have … and did.” Dune scowled menacingly.

It made a strange picture. The tall handsome Snake Head in his regal purple clothing, trapped by little white-haired Dune dressed in a threadbare brown shirt. Dune’s deep wrinkles looked cavernous in the pale torchlight.

“Dune,” Snake Head said, “
I
am the new Chief. As Blessed Sun, I order you to carry out
my
wishes, not my—”

“What have you got planned, boy? Hmm?”

Snake Head’s handsome face went rigid. “I wish my father’s body to travel unharmed to the Humpback Butte. Don’t you realize that there will be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who will wait alongside the road to see his body pass? Worshipers who will wish to look upon the glorious face of the Blessed Sun? But not if he doesn’t have a face, Dune!”

“You slug!” Dune jabbed his stick into Snake Head’s belly. “I didn’t come here to be ridiculed by a mere boy who has just discovered the hidden life of his private parts!”

Snake Head’s mouth gaped, and anger flashed in his eyes.

Ironwood rose and entered the room.

Snake Head glanced at him apprehensively. “I did
not
intend to anger you, holy Derelict. I only wished to show you the error—”

“Error!”

“That was—that was perhaps the wrong word.” Snake Head squirmed against the wall. The thlatsinas behind him seemed to be peering down with great curiosity. “Let me try putting it another way.”

Dune’s busy white brows lowered, and he raised his walking stick into striking position. “What way?”

“I was wondering if it would be possible for you to smash my father’s skull after we reach the sacred butte? That way anyone who wishes to see his face can do so.”

Dune cocked his head warily. “Why do you want your father’s soul in his body when we walk the road? Why is that so important to you?”

“Because,” Snake Head said through gritted teeth, “I—”

“You’re planning on hiring raiders to steal your father’s body, aren’t you?”

“What?”
Snake Head blurted.

“It would make you a big man with Crow Beard’s enemies, wouldn’t it?” Dune glared up at Snake Head. “Who are you trying to establish an alliance with? Surely not the Tower Builders. They have nothing to offer but moldy pine cakes and ugly pottery. The Mogollon Fire Dogs? Now, there’s a traitorous possibility.”

“You’ve lost your wits, old man!” The veins stood out in Snake Head’s neck and his fingers worked as if he were on the verge of strangling the holy Derelict.

Ironwood’s blood went cold. Could it be true? The Mogollon despised the Straight Path nation, though they exchanged goods with them through neutral Traders. Why would Snake Head wish to forge a relationship with such insolent predators? They couldn’t be trusted. And they had enough cold-blooded warriors that when the alliance fell—and it would—they could use the event as a justification for full-scale war.

When Snake Head saw Ironwood’s livid face in the doorway, his hands dropped to his sides, and he said, “You don’t believe that, do you? It’s ridiculous! Those people are our enemies! I would never—”

“It would be extremely dangerous, Snake Head.” Ironwood threw his red cape over his shoulders and propped his hands on his hips. “We presently have an uneasy agreement with the Fire Dogs. We raid each other, take slaves, disrupt communication and trade, but none of us wishes outright war—and such an alliance would surely lead—”

“I don’t want war!”

Ironwood tilted his head apologetically. “I’m sure that’s true. Forgive me for interfering in your conversation.”

He bowed, and walked away, bracing his shoulder against the doorway to look out at the storm. The bellies of the clouds had turned silver. He studied them, and wondered. Dune never said anything by chance. What had his purpose been?

“Dune,” Snake Head began again, voice reasonable, “what may I give you to allow me to take my father’s body to the Humpback Butte in one piece?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“Not even a dozen beautiful slave women? Perhaps a hundred baskets of precious jewels, turquoise, jet, malachite, coral?”

“Especially not jewels.”

Snake Head spread his arms wide in a placating gesture. His hair shimmered blue-black in the light. “Tell me what you wish, and I will provide it. You have only to name your price!”

Dune’s eyes narrowed. “And where would you get the goods? Nothing belongs to you. Not yet. By imprisoning your mother, you’ve taken away her right to distribute Crow Beard’s meager possessions. That means the duty falls to Cloud Playing. Until she gives you something with which to bribe me, you’re hardly worth my time, Snake Head.”

“Dune, this is silly—”

“No. You’re silly. I’ll keep my promise to your father, boy.”

Snake Head dropped his arms. “My father is doomed, then.”

“Your father is saved.”

“His soul will be wandering—!”

“His soul will be free.”

“But, Dune, you—”

“
Enough!
”

“Dune, I’m the Blessed—”

“Do you truly wish to cross me, Snake Head?” Dune’s eyes had taken on a frightening gleam.

Snake Head glared for the briefest of moments, then he swallowed hard and turned away.

The fire went out of Dune’s faded eyes. His shoulders hunched forward. As if each step hurt, he slowly made his way back to Crow Beard’s side and slumped to the floor, staring at the dead Chief’s emaciated face.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Snake Head promised as he stalked from the room, passing Ironwood without a glance. He ducked through the door, glared up at the rain, and climbed down the ladder to the fourth story.

Ironwood watched the rain fall.

It splatted the roofs and stippled the wet plaza where the slaves sat before their spluttering fire. A pleasant whisper of raindrops filled the night, and the fragrance of soaked cedar wafted on the wind.

Ironwood turned. “Did you mean what you said? About Snake Head and our enemies?”

“I mean everything I say.” Dune pulled Crow Beard’s blanket up and tucked the edges around his throat.

“Did you Dream it? How do you know that he—”

“I don’t have to have visions to know the boy is treacherous, Ironwood. All I have to do is draw up the worst possible thing I can imagine, and surely Snake Head has thought of it.”

Ironwood stared somberly at the dead Chief. “Is Crow Beard truly dead? Or on another Soul March to the afterworld?”

Dune braced a hand on the floor and met Ironwood’s eyes. White hair blazed orange around his head. His deep wrinkles rearranged themselves. “Dead as a soulless rock.”

Ironwood exhaled hard. “Do you really think you can free Crow Beard’s soul against his son’s wishes? Snake Head is, after all, the new Chief, and he has warriors to enforce his…”

Dune reached for his pack, pulled it close and rummaged around inside. He drew out a big chert cobble. With a grunt, he lifted it and slammed it into Crow Beard’s face.

The crunching of bone made Ironwood jump.

Dune hefted the rock again and brought it down hard a second time. Bone snapped and grated. He left the cobble in the pulped hollow where Crow Beard’s nose had been. “There,” Dune said as he wiped his hands off on the blanket. “That ought to do it.”

Ironwood studied the rock in the caved-in face. “Yes.” He nodded. “I wager it will. One way or the other.”

Dune rose on rickety knees and hobbled across the room; the holes in his brown robe revealed patches of wrinkled skin. “Tomorrow, I’ll need to send a messenger to Poor Singer. Since you never managed to tell me I’d be responsible for caring for Crow Beard, all of my burial herbs and tools are at my house. Someone will need to bring them to me.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Can you arrange a runner for me?”

“At dawn, if you wish.”

“I do wish, Ironwood.”

“I’m sure Sternlight will allow us to use his slave Swallowtail. He’s a reliable boy.”

“Good.”

Dune placed an aged hand on Ironwood’s arm, squeezed weakly, and ducked outside into the misty shower.

Anxiety gnawed Ironwood’s nerves. Somewhere close by, Crow Beard’s ghost walked.

Ironwood exited the chamber and turned right, walking westward across the rooftop. Pools of water glistened in every irregularity in the plaster. The cliff rose like a black wall to his right, and above it, thunderheads billowed, blotting out most of the stars. Another dove-colored veil of rain swept down into the canyon. The little fire in the plaza wavered and hissed. The slaves huddled closer together, extending their blankets to protect the flames.