People of the Silence (67 page)

“Isn’t it worth the risk,” Thistle said, breaking into his thoughts, “to look upon Cornsilk with your own eyes, Great Chief? To see for yourself?”

Jay Bird turned away to study the shadows on the hills.

Ghosts haunted the hidden crevices of his soul. Moondance whispered,
“For both our sakes, my beloved husband, you must go and see. If she is not of our blood, she is not. But if she is…”

Young Fawn’s baby laugh rose. She peered up at him with shining eyes, and Jay Bird knew he could not chance that his granddaughter might suffer the way his daughter had. If Cornsilk were truly Young Fawn’s daughter, and she’d been captured by the enemy, he had to rescue her, no matter the cost. Perhaps, in a small way, rescuing his granddaughter would make up for his failure to save Young Fawn.

He turned back and noticed that Cone had weaseled his way through the warriors to sit by the young Straight Path girl. They spoke in low tones, Cone with his brow furrowed, the girl looking very frightened.

“Tell me again, woman. Why are you doing this?” He examined Thistle with an eagle’s alertness.

“Snake Head discovered what I have just told you. He sent Webworm, his new War Chief, to my village. There they murdered my husband and son, mutilated their bodies. Then they turned on everyone else, left no witnesses. They took Cornsilk away from me. Snake Head destroyed everything I ever loved, or lived for. The only thing I have left is my daughter—and he has her in his filthy grasp. I would rather see her die in a battle to save her than live as one of Snake Head’s slaves.”

“Do you hate your own Blessed Sun so much?”

He watched her face work, her shining eyes go hard. “He’s not
my
Blessed Sun. He betrayed me and my family. He murdered my entire village! All of the old people, even the little children! Snake Head has corrupted everyone and everything he’s ever touched. Only his death will ease my wounds.” Her voice filled with revulsion. “Oh, yes, Great Chief, I hate him.”

Yes … only the finest of actors could fill their voices with such passion.
Jay Bird lifted a hand and motioned for Howler to come forward.

The ugly warrior trotted up, his eyes narrowed. “Yes, my chief?”

“Bring Cone.”

Howler trotted back, spoke sharply to Cone, and returned with him. The short stocky Straight Path warrior stood erect, his red shirt flapping about his legs. His eyes darted back and forth between Thistle and Jay Bird, as though fearing what had happened.

“Cone,” Jay Bird said, “it is critical that we get a new message to Snake Head.”

“I can be there before dawn, Great Chief.”

“How will you signal him at night?”

“I can’t, Great Chief. But with the first rays of dawn”—Cone dug into the small bag he carried tied to his belt and pulled out a pyrite mirror—“I will use my mirror to send flashes through his window. The light blazes across his ceiling, and I guess it frightens his pet macaw. The bird always wakes him by squawking. What do you wish me to tell Snake Head?”

Jay Bird rose to his feet and scanned the faces of the warriors around his fire. They watched his every move, looking anxious, eager for a fight.

“Earlier this evening, Howler said you wished that we had more warriors because you feared Snake Head might come prepared for an ambush, is that true?”

Cone swallowed hard. “It is. Webworm is soft-hearted, and too trusting for his own good, but he’s not an imbecile. I worry that he might seek advice from Ironwood. Were I in his moccasins, I would. And if Webworm does that, Great Chief, we had better be prepared for battle.”

Jay Bird turned to Thistle. “The same Ironwood?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Jay Bird frowned, bits and pieces fitting together as he considered the situation. “Let us give Ironwood no reason for suspicion, then. We wish him, and everyone in Talon Town, to feel quite safe during their journey south. Cone, you are to tell Snake Head … tell him that I worry his people will suspect conspiracy if he only sends five warriors to guard Crow Beard’s body—and then it’s stolen. Rather, let him send Crow Beard’s body five bowshots in advance of the greatest procession of warriors he can assemble. Tell him that when I strike, and capture the corpse, his warriors will rush up. My warriors will engage his only long enough to skirmish. I will then withdraw my warriors and fall back. He will immediately recall his warriors into a defensive position, telling them he fears an ambush by a larger force.” Jay Bird watched Cone’s expression brighten. Indeed, any warrior would be happy with this plan. It didn’t look nearly as ridiculous as Snake Head’s first one.

Cone nodded warily. “So that it appears he won the battle.”

“That will appeal to his vanity, won’t it? And, Cone, he is bright enough to see the advantage of this plan, isn’t he?”

“If he isn’t, I’ll explain it to him.”

“Good. When he asks for your advice, tell him I am bringing perhaps forty warriors. You think he should bring eighty, just to be sure he can overcome my party if things get out of hand. Do you understand, Cone? We want him to bring as many warriors as he can.”

Cone glanced at Thistle, silently asking questions, then returned his gaze to Jay Bird. “Great Chief, we’re talking about warriors facing old enemies. What if Webworm loses control? You would be badly outnumbered.”

“If Snake Head brings eighty warriors, how many will that leave in Talon Town?”

Cone lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps twenty, if…” His voice dried up as his eyes widened with understanding. He stammered, “You—you’re going to—”

“Yes,” Jay Bird answered. “I am.”

Forty

Dawn resembled the inside of a seashell, pink and shining. Webworm sat in his place on the roof overlooking the entry to Talon Town and gazed out at the sunlit clouds sailing through the opalescent sky. They journeyed southwest, toward the arid lands of the Hohokam. Unusual in this land of westerly winds, a cool breeze flapped the hem of Webworm’s tan cape and wiggled strands of his black hair loose from his braid, fluttering them around his square jaw and broad face. He inhaled deeply of the wet earthy air. Pools of mist filled the drainages. When the wind gusted, white tendrils twirled up and away like ghostly dancers.

At this time of the morning, the colors of the canyon took his breath away. The irregular rim gleamed a blood red, while the walls, still cloaked in shadows, shone purplish. Capped by the golden clouds and pink sky, the vista seemed too beautiful to be of this earth. Surely, it belonged to one of the shining skyworlds.

Cold and sleepy, Webworm huddled inside his cape and listened to the sounds of the waking canyon. Across the wash at Streambed Town, people moved through the plaza, lighting fires, and talking. Someone laughed. The lilting melody of a flute drifted along the canyon wall from Kettle Town, rising and falling on the wind. Talon Town slaves had already begun heading down to Straight Path Wash with empty water jugs. Two of the women carried cradleboards on their backs, secured by a tump line that ran across their foreheads. The infants squinted at the morning as they passed beneath Webworm’s perch.

Webworm yawned. Gnat would be coming to relieve him soon. The past few days of preparing for the burial procession, and bickering with Snake Head, had wearied him. He thanked the Bear Thlatsina that he’d worked up the courage to speak with Ironwood. But he should have thought of taking a separate war party himself. Why hadn’t he?

“Because you’re not good at this,” he whispered to himself. Breath frosted before him.

Politics had never been his strength. He was a
very good
warrior, but he had no skills for manipulation or clever deceit. Either act left him riddled with guilt, feeling soiled.

Get used to it. A War Chief is expected to do both, and do them well.

He saw Mourning Dove coming up from the drainage with a basket of clothing on her hip. He frowned. She’d been down washing clothing before dawn? In this cold?

Webworm suddenly felt ill. Why didn’t he recall seeing her leave? She must have slept in Creeper’s chamber last night and crawled out through the window in the pitch darkness—a crime punishable by death—unless she’d had Creeper’s permission to go. Even if she had, it bothered him that he hadn’t seen her leave. Despite his fatigue, he’d been watching very carefully. She must have taken great care to slip away when his head was turned.

Tiny, dressed in brown, her plump cheeks glowing red, she walked through the entry. She lifted a friendly hand to him and smiled. Webworm returned the gesture.

Mourning Dove walked across the western plaza, through the gate, and past the other slaves cooking breakfast. Then she climbed the ladders to Snake Head’s chamber. Without even announcing herself, she ducked beneath the Chief’s door curtain. For a moment, Webworm stared with his mouth open. What presumption! It wasn’t like Mourning Dove to …
Fool. Snake Head must have been expecting her.

Webworm heaved a sigh of relief and drew up his knees, tucking them inside his warm cape.

Snake Head ducked through his door and hurried down the ladders to the first-story roof. He wore a dark green shirt with red-and-black slashes across the chest. His long black hair hung loose, framing his oval face and large dark eyes. His breath puffed whitely as he walked.

Webworm stood up. The sky had turned golden, but Father Sun had not yet cleared the canyon rim. Talon Town remained in a cold well of shadow, its white walls tinted a pale blue.

Snake Head smiled as he strode up to Webworm.

“A pleasant morning to you, Blessed Sun,” Webworm said with a forced smile.

“And to you, War Chief. How was the night? Anything unusual?”

“It was quiet, my chief.”

Snake Head folded his arms across his chest and shivered as he scanned the brightening cliffs. An eagle circled over Propped Pillar, flapping lazily.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Webworm. About five warriors not being enough to guard the burial procession.”

Webworm shifted. “Yes?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that you were right. I regret not having seen your wisdom to begin with, but I’m certain of it now. Five warriors would leave us open to attack by even a small war party.”

“Yes, my chief, it would.” Elation bolstered Webworm. His arguments had worked!

“How many warriors do you think are necessary?”

“Thirty or forty would be a good number. That way if we run into—”

“If forty is good, then seventy or eighty would be better, don’t you think?” Snake Head’s brows lifted. Against the pale walls of Talon Town, his hair looked very black, and his dark eyes as inhuman as a weasel’s.

Webworm shook his head. “No, my chief. I don’t. First of all, there are only forty warriors in the Bear Clan. To get eighty I would have to send for our backup warriors in the other clans, and they are not really warriors at all. They are farmers, builders, and Traders. Their services are necessary when the town is attacked, but none of those people has ever been in a fight out in the open. They wouldn’t know what to do. I think thirty or forty is plenty. We only need to make sure—”

“Well,
I
think we need more!” Snake Head’s eyes suddenly blazed with malice, as if Webworm’s words had been an insult to his authority. “We’re talking about the escort for
my
father. A man who was Blessed Sun—
your
Blessed Sun—for years. A leader of our people! Do you
dare
to stint on our final tribute to such a great man?”

“Snake Head, I meant no disrespect. I am your War Chief. It is my duty to advise you—”

“I’ve had enough of your advice, cousin. I’ve made my decision. We’re taking eighty warriors.
See to it!
”

Snake Head spun and left.

Webworm rocked from foot to foot, his hands clenching as he watched Snake Head climb the ladders and return to his chamber. Great Ancestors, if it wasn’t one extreme, it was another! How in the world could …

Less than twenty blinks later, Mourning Dove stepped out of Snake Head’s chamber with the same basket of clothes. She climbed down and nonchalantly started across the plaza.

But this time as she neared the entry, Webworm stopped her. “Wait, Mourning Dove.”

Webworm climbed down the ladder and gave her a hard look. She smiled nervously at him.

“What is it, Blessed Webworm?” Her chipmunk face had blushed, and he couldn’t help but notice her rapid breathing.

“Where are you going?”

“To the drainage. I have clothes to wash.”

Webworm stuck his hand inside the basket and felt the clothes. “These are wet. Didn’t you just bring them up from the drainage?”

“Yes, but,” she stuttered, “S-Snake Head was not satisfied with the job I—I’d done. He ordered me to wash them again.”

Webworm frowned. “Mourning Dove, tell me the truth. What’s going on? Why are you out washing clothes before dawn? And leaving town by windows?”

The color drained from her face. She looked faint. “Web-worm, I—”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Mourning Dove. I don’t wish to see you dead. I just want to know what you’re up to. Is this some task for Snake Head?”

She nodded miserably. “Yes, War Chief.”

“What?”

“I—I can’t say. Webworm, please, if he knew I was talking to you about this, he would
hurt
me.” Mourning Dove glanced up fearfully at Snake Head’s chamber, then whispered, “Please, let me go! I haven’t much time!”

Webworm flicked his hand. “Go. But when you return, we will talk.”

She ran through the entry and down the path to the wash, her brown dress flying. When she disappeared into the ravine, Webworm’s shoulders tensed. All of the other slaves had gathered near the slave crossing. Why would Mourning Dove wash clothes alone? It didn’t make any—

Steps sounded behind him, and Gnat said through a yawn, “Well, here I am. Ready for another day, War Chief. Are you ready for sleep?”

Webworm turned and scowled at the stocky, blunt-nosed warrior. He wore a turkey-feather cape over his red shirt and had twisted his black hair into a bun.

Gnat’s bushy brows went down. “What’s wrong?”