Woodduck turned back and glowered. Hanging Star grinned with rotting yellow teeth. His tunic bore a thick coating of soot and grease and he smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in a moon. Woodduck longed to knock those rotting teeth down his throat.
But he said, “Stay close. I may not be finished with you yet,” and surreptitiously tucked a fine chert scraper into Hanging Star’s grimy hand.
Hanging Star vented a low laugh, and said, “I’ll be here. Next time, bring dart points and fine blankets, I—”
“I wouldn’t raise my price too high, if I were you,” Woodduck whispered tersely as his eyes scanned the tens of people around them. “Cottonmouth might decide to slice the information from your hide a piece at a time, rather than buying it.”
Hanging Star’s ugly square face drooped. “Uh … tell the Spirit Elder I will be happy to help him in any way I can. At no charge.”
Woodduck smiled. “You are wiser than I remember, Hanging Star.”
Woodduck rose from the gambling circle and walked slowly toward Cottonmouth’s shelter. Sister Moon hung like a silver shell above him, her gleaming face wavering through a thin layer of clouds. Autumn leaves tore loose from the trees and swirled upward into the moonlight like ash blown from a huge fire. Woodduck’s gaze clung to Cottonmouth.
The Spirit Elder stood with his shoulder braced against the southeastern pole of his shelter. The horrible turtle bone doll hung from a cord on his belt. Cottonimouth had plaited his long graying black hair and left the braid hanging over his right shoulder. He wore a black breechclout and a marginella shell necklace. The shells looked very white against the deeply tanned background of his skin. His huge dark eyes gleamed in the flame of his oval face. But they did not watch Woodduck, rather they seemed glued to the stout warrior who prowled the edges of the plaza.
Woodduck stopped in front of Cottonmouth and waited until the Elder looked down at him. Nothing filled those eyes. Absolutely nothing. No emotion. No watmth. Emptiness. That’s all Woodduck saw there. “You were right, Elder,” Woodduck said. “Hanging Star told me many things.”
Cottonmouth’s deep voice sounded even more haunting tonight as he softly said, “Did you ask him about our inquisitive guest? The man has scouted our defenses thoroughly.”
“I did ask,” Woodduck answered.
“And?”
Woodduck’s hand dropped to the stiletto on his belt. “Hanging Star says his name is Beaverpaw. He is the former War Leader of Heartwood Clan.”
“Former?”
“Yes.” Woodduck snorted derisively. “He committed adultery with the woman shaking up the bones over there. She—”
“Dark Rain,” Cottonmouth said
“Yes.” Woodduck turned to look at the woman. Every time he did so, her extraordinary beauty stunned him. She wore a brilliant red tunic which accentuated her tiny waist and full breasts. Lustrous black hair fell over her shoulders. “Do you know her?” Woodduck asked.
Cottonmouth nodded. “Beaverpaw committed adultery and was Outcast by his clan?”
“Yes, that’s what Hanging Star says. He also told me,” Woodduck lowered his voice, “that Beaverpaw met Musselwhite in the forest and had a long talk with her. She—”
Cottonmouth did not move a muscle, but his eyes were suddenly on Woodduck’s face. “When?”
“This morning. No more than half a day’s walk to the southwest. I suspect, Spirit Elder, that Beaverpaw is a spy for Musselwhite.”
“Perhaps,” Cottonmouth said calmly.
Woodduck spread his feet, bracing himself. Despite the cool wind, he’d started to sweat. Looking into Cottonmouth’s face always affected him this way, making him wish he were anywhere but here—especially when Cottonmouth carried the turtle bone doll. He could go crazy at any moment, for no reason.
“What do you wish me to do?” Woodduck asked. “Shall I kill this Beaverpaw? It would be a simple matter. His camp is fifty paces west of the village. My warriors can have him surrounded before he suspects we are there.”
Cottonmouth did not answer for a while, then he used his chin to indicate Dark Rain. “How is her game going?”
“Badly.” Woodduck’s mouth pursed in disgust. “She is no gambler. She’s been losing steadily. Already she is covering her bets with her body, promising men she can bring them more pleasure than they have ever imagined. In one hand of time, I expect she will be forced to leave the game to pay off her debts—and it will take her all night. I doubt anyone will let her enter a game tomorrow.”
“Is her son, the White Lightning Boy, with Musselwhite? Did Hanging Star tell you?”