Misty rain had fallen through most of the morning, soaking them, and now Green Spider sat humped over the red sheen of the coals, his vulture-like attention on a ceramic cook pot that Otter had placed on its four stumpy legs in the coals. Steam rose from the bubbling broth within, sending a mouthwatering aroma into the chilly air.
Waves slapped against the sandy shore, while wind whispered through the bare branches of the trees behind their camp.
Otter glanced down to where Wave Dancer rested on the shore to the south, the fox-headed prow barely visible in the fading light. Catcher was prowling the beach, sniffing here and there.
“This food is too cold to eat,” Green Spider observed. He wrinkled his nose. “Manure smells better than that stuff!”
“Going to be that good, huh?” Otter asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t trust you to cook a rock.”
“Good, I’ll cook you one tomorrow, assuming, that is, that we can find a rock.”
“We’ll find them everywhere!” Green Spider grinned down at the thick stew.
“Is that a fact?” Otter gestured with a piece of firewood.
“You know why people down here in the valley use cooking clays, don’t you? It’s because they don’t have any rocks bigger than sand. And besides, cooking clays can be molded to shape so they heat differently.”
“I never knew that.” Green Spider’s forehead lined. “This isn’t ready to eat yet.”
“All right, take your bowl and dip some out.” Then Otter cocked his head. “Better be sure to leave some for Black Skull.
He’s already looking for an excuse to pull off your arms and legs.”
Green Spider twisted around and grabbed his worn wooden bowl. He dipped hot stew from the pot, settled back on his haunches, and blew noisily to cool the boiling liquid.
Black Skull seemed to materialize out of the darkness, the only sound of his passage the grinding of sand underfoot. Like a menacing bear, he crouched opposite the fire and stared his disgust across the flames at Green Spider.
“Find anything?” Otter asked.
The warrior shook his misshapen head. “Only old tracks.
Whoever camped here before us spent just one night. It must have been the war party I saw when I was coming downstream with the Elders.”
“The Khota,” Otter grunted.
“They had a woman with them.”
Otter told him the story about Pearl and her betrothal to Wolf of the Dead.
“This Wolf of the Dead,” Black Skull said. “Is he a Powerful warrior?” Otter paused, staring at the ground before him. “In his country, he is as well known as you are around the City of the Dead.
He’s quite the killer—but beyond that, you and he are as dif ferent as night and day. He doesn’t have your warm and winning personality.”
Black Skull studied him with glittering eyes, while Green Spider slurped noisily at his stew. “You leave me puzzled sometimes, Trader, but I’ll ignore that for now. You don’t seem to like these Khota. You have dealt with them, I take it?”
Otter took his bowl and dipped out some of the stew. “They killed my Uncle. They’ve stolen from me. Given my way, I’d never have to deal with them again.”
Black Skull stared out at the night as he fingered his crooked chin. Then he shook his head. “To think that the Clan Elders passed so close to such a danger.” He gave Green Spider an acid glare.
Otter blew on his stew to cool it. “Sometimes, warrior, it is safer to travel inconspicuously.”
“I’ve never been inconspicuous in my life,” Black Skull growled.
Otter sipped his stew. That morning he’d been lucky enough to bring down a mallard with his bola. Now the rich, dark meat, coupled with goosefoot flour as a thickening agent, made a wonderful meal.
“Khota,” Green Spider muttered. “What lovely people. So friendly and hospitable. The finest pearls are fished out of the deepest waters. I’m looking forward to meeting them. Warm embraces … all the way around. And such lazy hunters!” Otter took a swallow and said, “We’re going up the Serpent River. We’re not going close to the Khota.”
“Not if we can help it,” Green Spider amended—or did he?
“See anything besides tracks?” Otter asked Black Skull in an effort to maintain the conversation.
“Nothing. Only a patch of bloody grass. It smelted like old deer blood. From the tracks, the Khota killed it. There are deer bones scattered around the other fire pits they left. Oh, and there’s this.” Black Skull produced a twist of grass that had been woven into a square, the knots intricate.
Otter took the piece and studied it curiously. “I’ve seen this before. It’s a prayer offering. The Anhinga make them. Most of the ones I’ve seen are larger. They’re generally placed on the burial mounds to ask for aid from the ancestors.”