People of the Silence (68 page)

“I’ll be back.” Webworm slipped his bow over his shoulder. “In the meantime,
keep watch.
”

“Is something happening? Where are you going? What’s—”

Webworm made a closed-fist gesture demanding silence. “Just do as I say, Gnat. Let no one enter town unless you know them. Understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

Webworm walked through the entry and broke into a trot. His tan cape patted the backs of his knees as he ran. When he neared the place where Mourning Dove had disappeared, he dropped to a crouch and sneaked forward like Wolf hunting Mouse. The scent of damp earth rose strongly.

Straight Path Wash curved sharply at this point. Every spring huge chunks of earth cracked off and tumbled down, creating a narrow passageway for the water. Mist rolled in the bottom and boiled up over the lip. Webworm got down on his stomach and slid forward. Perfect beads of dew perched on the blades of grass. Fog coated his face. He eased forward and peered down into the drainage bottom. He could see Mourning Dove, but the man she spoke to had his back to Webworm.

He’s a warrior. Dressed in red.

Why the secrecy? If Snake Head wished to speak with a Straight Path warrior, why didn’t he just call the man up to his chamber and do it?

Webworm cocked his head, trying to hear their soft voices, but they spoke too low. And within less than fifty heartbeats, the man left, never showing his face.

When Mourning Dove started up the trail out of the drainage, Webworm rolled to his back and lay very still. She didn’t even glance his way, but ran up the path for Talon Town as fast as her legs would carry her. Webworm waited a short time, long enough that she—

“Hello, old friend,”
a soft voice said, and Webworm rolled over with lightning quickness, scrambling to his feet and drawing his stiletto in one smooth move.

Cone stood before him, his arms spread, hands empty. “Don’t kill me before we’ve had a chance to talk.”

“Cone?” Webworm whispered in disbelief, scrutinizing the man’s stocky body. “We thought you were dead! Where have you been?”

Cone walked forward, smiling. Dirt smudged his pug nose. His heavy moccasins were scuffed and travel-worn. The red shirt had seen better days; the hem hung in tatters. “Put away your stiletto, and I’ll tell you.”

“Oh,” Webworm said with a laugh. “Sorry. You startled me.” He tucked it back into his belt. He and Cone had fought side by side for many summers. That shared camaraderie … At that moment the image of Beargrass’ face filled his memory, and a cold shiver slipped down his spine.

Cone’s smile widened. “Blessed gods, it’s good to see you.” He stepped forward and embraced Webworm, pounding him on the back. “You are War Chief now, yes?”

“Yes,” Webworm said as he pushed back. “But Cone, what are you doing out here? You had duties, responsibilities to—”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “And one I don’t have time to tell you. Just know that I am working for the Blessed Sun, and my work is very important to the survival of the Straight Path nation.”

“I know you are working for Snake Head. I just saw Mourning Dove come out of his chamber, and down to speak with you. What’s going on, Cone? Is she carrying messages back and forth between you?”

Cone gave him a reserved look. “She is. No one pays much mind to the comings and goings of a slave.”

Webworm cocked his head suspiciously. “Why don’t you just come into town and deliver the messages yourself?”

“I can’t, Webworm.” Cone lifted his hands in frustration. “Snake Head doesn’t wish people in town to know that I’m alive. It would ruin his plans.”

“What plans?” Suddenly angry, Webworm said, “He may not wish our people to know, but I am War Chief! I should know what you are doing!”

Cone tilted his head. “Please, my friend, don’t blame me. I am following orders, that’s all. You know how that is. We are warriors. We must obey, whether we like the orders or not.”

Webworm propped his hands on his hips, still haunted by Beargrass, Lanceleaf Village, and the past few days. He sighed, “Yes, I do know. But I don’t have to like it.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Cone said, and glanced around uncomfortably, as though fearing to be seen, “this will all be over in a few days. And, now, if you aren’t going to kill me, I must be going.” He grinned in that irreverent way of his that always made people laugh.

Webworm suppressed his smile. “The only way I’ll kill you is if you don’t tell me what this is all about when it’s over.”

“I will, I promise. Good-bye, old friend.”

Webworm lifted a hand in farewell as Cone trotted down into the drainage and vanished in the swirling mist.

Webworm tramped back up the trail toward Talon Town. Why wouldn’t Snake Head want people to know that Cone was alive? Wind whipped his cape about his tall body. What did it accomplish to have people think Cone was dead? People couldn’t blame Cone for anything, or fear his actions. But what sort of secret task would be aided by such things? And why did it require leaving the War Chief in the dark?

Cone had disappeared while Ironwood was still War Chief.

Like a sparrow in a pond, Webworm felt as if he were floundering, completely out of his element.

If Cone had been telling the truth—and his work involved the survival of the Straight Path nation—Ironwood wouldn’t have forgotten to tell Webworm. The man, no matter how distracted, wouldn’t make a mistake like that.

Webworm growled to himself, blinking his tired eyes. He’d think about it later. For now, despite his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton, he had to begin the nearly impossible task of rounding up eighty warriors. Then, if he had the luxury, he’d speak with Ironwood.

I have a right to know what’s going on. I’m War Chief!

*   *   *

Snake Head held his door curtain back just enough to watch Sternlight, Dune, and the two youths who’d been helping them walk across the plaza. He scrutinized the young woman. Slender, with broad cheekbones, a pointed nose, and full lips, she wore a beautiful pale green dress. Probably something Sternlight had given her. The fabric was too fine, the dye too rich, to be anything from the outlying villages. Her long hair hung to her hips and swayed gently as she walked.

Slaves filled the plaza, grinding corn, folding clothes, and two old men sat before looms, weaving. Children raced about, chasing each other through a flock of horrified turkeys. The squawks and squeals—along with a few loose feathers—carried on the morning breeze.

“What do you think?” Mourning Dove asked anxiously. Since dawn, she’d asked to leave seven times. Her frustration had reached a fever pitch.

Snake Head let the curtain fall closed and turned to look at her. She sat against the wall by the macaw’s cage, throwing sunflower seeds at the bird. The macaw gripped its foot pole and watched her with malevolent interest, as if eager to sink its talons into her bright shining eyes.

“It’s possible,” Snake Head said. He walked over to stand in front of her. Clots of mud hung from the hem of her ugly brown dress, and dust coated her fat cheeks. “Creeper really thinks she’s my mother’s misbegotten child, eh?”

“Yes, and Webworm remembers the girl from Lanceleaf Village. Her name is Cornsilk.” Mourning Dove sounded tired. Snake Head had rousted her out of Creeper’s bed very early. The leader of the Buffalo Clan had not been happy about it, but neither had he dared to complain. Instead, Creeper had dressed and left them alone together as Snake Head had ordered.

Snake Head chuckled. “I should have known. Sternlight told me it was a boy specifically so he could save a girl. But if true, it leaves my mother in a very bad position. She can’t openly acknowledge the girl without risking her own life. Even more interesting, a true daughter of Night Sun would be the next Matron of Talon Town.” Snake Head rubbed his chin in thought. “If the truth came out, it might well result in my mother’s death, and the girl’s installation as Matron.”

“Matron? A woman with Made Person blood? She’s tainted, Snake Head.”

“No one would like it, that’s true.”

Mourning Dove studied the sunflower seeds in her palm as though she could read the future in their patterns and found it distasteful. “And what would you do?”

Snake Head smiled. “I don’t know. Do you think I could rule side-by-side with my half-sister? She is a pretty thing, and perhaps she isn’t opposed to incest. That would—”

“You won’t rule together for long,” Mourning Dove said spitefully. “The instant she marries, she can depose you and set up her husband as the Blessed Sun.”

Snake Head’s expression hardened. He walked over to his rumpled blankets and sank down, his gaze darting around the room. A warming bowl of fresh coals glowed in the middle of the floor, turning the white walls a pale red, reflecting with eerie brilliance in the macaw’s sinister eyes. The bird’s red, blue, and yellow feathers glittered.

“Even if the girl is mother’s spawn, she’d never acknowledge her. She couldn’t, after the deception she, Sternlight, and Dune pulled off in the kiva during her trial. Such news would outrage the Straight Path elders. They would certainly condemn them all to death—and Mother just wouldn’t do that to her precious nephew, or that old liar, Dune.”

Mourning Dove threw her handful of seeds into the cage and wiped her palms off on her dress. “Maybe not now, but Dune will be dead soon, and your mother and Sternlight are already old, over forty summers. They might live for another ten summers, but what will happen on your mother’s deathbed? Have you thought of that?”

A tingle of fear went through him. By then, he’d have seen thirty-four summers, and would be revered as the greatest Chief the Straight Path people had ever known. It would be just like his mother to let him claw his way to the top, and then snatch it all out from under him by elevating a misbegotten daughter with a husband—or for herself to marry some drudge from a nearby town.

Snake Head folded his hands in his lap. He smiled at Mourning Dove. “That,” he said in an intimate voice, “is why I keep you around.”

*   *   *

Kneeling by the teapot, Cornsilk refilled her cup. The fragrance of flower petals rose with the steam. She tested the golden liquid, and when it burned her mouth, gently blew to cool it. Steam twisted away in angry patterns.

Her gaze drifted around the room, lingering on their packs and rolled blankets where they rested against the opposite wall. If only they could leave, return to the Derelict’s little white house with its flaking plaster. If only, if only …

She closed her eyes, fighting the desperation that filled her. She hadn’t even had time to still the aching grief over the death of her family. Talon Town frightened her. Only after arriving here did she realize just how alone she really was.

Who can I trust? Sternlight?
He seemed nice.
But how can I know for sure?

Perhaps she could trust Dune, and she definitely trusted Poor Singer, but he was just one young man.

Poor Singer was still at the great kiva. He’d told her that he didn’t know what the final burial preparations entailed, but in Windflower Village they’d rarely taken more than three or four hands of time.

“Hello?” a voice called from the roof entry.

Cornsilk sat up straighter. “Hello. Who’s there?”

The Blessed Sun climbed down the ladder into the chamber.

Cornsilk dropped her teacup on the floor and rose to her feet, staring. He was extremely handsome, with large dark eyes and long eyelashes, tall and broad-shouldered. The copper bells on his purple shirt clinked. He’d twisted his black hair into a bun.

“It’s Silk, isn’t it?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’m Snake Head, the Blessed Sun of the Straight Path nation, and, of course, the chief of Talon Town. I welcome you. I’ve heard from the Made People that you’re from Turtle Village.”

“Was.” She backed away from him. “My village was destroyed.”

Snake Head smiled and looked her over carefully, studying the way her hips and breasts curved beneath the fabric of her pale green dress, the way her hip-length hair fell around her. “So I’ve heard. Yellowgirl also tells me that your parents originally came from Lanceleaf Village. Is that so?”

Cornsilk clasped her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. Her mouth had gone dry and thick. “Yes.”

Snake Head watched her anxious movements, then gestured to the sitting mats around the warming bowl. “May I sit?”

“I—I was just preparing to go out. I don’t mean to offend you, but…”

He sat cross-legged and pointed to the mat next to him. “Come and sit beside me, Silk. Let’s be friends.”

Cornsilk knelt across from him, as far away as she could get.

He peered into the teapot. “That smells very good.”

“Please. Help yourself. There’s a clean cup there by the warming bowl.”

Snake Head poured out the last of the tea and lifted it to sniff the fragrance. “Sunflower, eh? Very nice.”

Cornsilk laced her fingers tightly in her lap, waiting.

He swirled his tea. “Tell me, do you recall the War Chief of Lanceleaf Village? A man named Beargrass? His wife was named Thistle.”

A sudden rush of blood flushed her cheeks and ran like fire through her veins. She shook her head. “I—I’ve never been to Lanceleaf. My parents just came from there.”

He frowned down into his cup. “Well, then you wouldn’t know if they’d had a boy named Fledgling and a girl named
Cornsilk
”—he looked up—“would you?”

Her heart pounded so hard she feared it might break through her ribs. “No.” She could barely hear herself answer.

“That’s too bad. I’ve heard many interesting things about them. Especially the girl, Cornsilk. She was about your age.”

“I—I’m sorry. Was there something else you needed, Blessed Sun?”

As though suddenly angry, he slammed his cup to the floor. Cornsilk jumped as the cup shattered and thin sherds clattered across the floor.

Snake Head narrowed his eyes, watching her the way a rattlesnake did a cornered packrat. “No. There’s nothing else I need for the moment. I was hoping to speak with my misbegotten half sister. I think we have many things to talk about.”