People of the Black Sun(38)

Jigonsaseh massaged her brow as she cursed herself for being a fool. “Atotarho knows that no matter how much food and water we managed to pack into the village before he arrived, it will run out eventually.”

“Yes, and the more mouths that need water and food, the faster it will run out. How long can we last?”

The fact that he’d said “we” interested her. Had he truly thrown his lot in with theirs? Wind flapped his hood around his face. He reached up to clasp it beneath his chin, holding it in place until the gust passed.

She answered. “If it was just food, we could last seven days with what we have stockpiled inside Bur Oak Village, and if we can get to our buried caches outside, we could last all winter. But—”

“How much water is there?” The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes deepened. He looked at the longhouses.

“Three or four day’s worth, but the marsh is ten paces away. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to send out teams in the night—”

“You won’t,” he cut her off. As he shook his head, firelight gilded the hook of his nose with an edge of flame. “Accept that fact now. The marsh provides excellent cover. He’ll have it surrounded by noon tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. Anyone who steps out of this village will be dead. The cover of darkness won’t matter.”

“Maybe, but the cover of darkness works both ways. The hunters can easily become the hunted.”

Jigonsaseh’s fingers tightened around CorpseEye until her hand ached. Of course, Atotarho had men to waste. If his warriors were killed, he had plenty more. She did not. She would have to institute drastic measures to conserve their water. Suddenly, every flake of snow drew her attention.

She lurched forward and called, “War Chief Deru?”

Deru, who stood ten paces away down the catwalk, tramped toward her with his red cape swaying around him. He was a big, muscular man with a squashed nose. His left cheek had been crushed by a war club many summers ago. As he walked passed Sindak, he gave his former enemy a slit-eyed glare. Clearly Deru didn’t trust Sindak.

Sindak just stared back, expressionless.

Deru bowed. “Yes, Matron?”

“I want you to organize teams. Find every pot in the village not already full of water and empty it. We need to dispatch people to the marsh to fill them. After that, as they are emptied, I want the pots placed along the drip lines of the longhouses to catch the snow runoff.”

“I’ll see to both immediately.”

He started to turn away, but she gripped his arm, forcing him to look back at her. They’d fought side-by-side for many summers. He’d once been her deputy war chief, yet she had no idea how he would respond to her next order. Quietly, she added, “I must discuss this with the Ruling Council before we can implement it, but I want you to begin making preparations. Mark every dying victim in the village. Consult with the Healers, Bahna and Genonsgwa. If they agree that there is no hope of the victim’s recovery, we need to stop wasting food and water on them.”

Deru’s jaw clamped. A swallow went down his throat. He briefly looked over her shoulder, out at the campfires. “You and I must talk soon. I need to know what you know.” He gave Sindak an unpleasant glance, as though blaming him for the order.

“Give me one-half hand of time, Deru, then meet me here.”

“Yes, Matron.” Deru strode away.

Jigonsaseh’s gaze must have been like a lance. As though in defense, Sindak folded his arms beneath his cape, shielding his vulnerable chest.

“The time for pleasantries is over, old friend. I need to know every detail of Atotarho’s army, every possible vulnerability, Atotarho’s quirks, his habits, every weakness of the new War Chief, every—”

“Matron, I’m not sure who the new War Chief—”

“Speculate.”

Sindak rubbed his jaw. He probably hoped that once Atotarho was dead, the Hills nation would reunite and he and his warriors could return home to take up their old lives. But if that did not happen, Sindak would become the most hated traitor in the history of his people, his name cursed forever. His actions would also cause all of his warriors to be declared Outcasts by Atotarho’s faction of the People of the Hills. None of them would be able to return home again.

He seemed to be thinking about that. After what seemed a long time, he replied, “Maybe Negano. He was in charge of Atotarho’s personal guards for five summers. The chief trusts him, but it could just as easily be—”

“Tell me about Negano.”

Sindak tightened his folded arms. Muscles bulged through the leather of his cape.