“Daughter?” Hunting Hawk asked, her stomach oddly queasy.
Shell Comb shrugged, struggling to appear at ease. “The Great Tayac and I were talking the other day.”
More than talking, I’d say, from the look of you. Hunting Hawk straightened.
“With Red Knot’s death, we have no other eligible woman within our clan. Quick Fawn would be a candidate for marriage, but she is not yet a woman, and may not make the change for some time.”
“So, naturally, you thought of yourself.” Hunting Hawk decided to cut short the elaborate tale Shell Comb would have told.
“Copper Thunder is willing, Mother.” Shell Comb tilted her head, seeking to regain the advantage. “And so am I.”
The only sounds were the chatter of the slaves serving the warriors behind them, and the metallic rasp of the sandy leather on the copper spike.
Hunting Hawk studied the Great Tayac through half lidded eyes. He seemed completely at ease, careless of her response to so sudden a proposal. What game was he playing? Why did he wish a woman of Shell Comb’s age? She might bear him a child. Perhaps two, but her loins had almost dried up.
“Shell Comb would bring a great many advantages to my people,” Copper Thunder said at last, looking up from his work. “She knows the Independent villages, understands the machinations of the Mamanatowick. While Red Knot would have given me youth and many bearing years, Shell Comb brings experience.”
And you think she “II be Weroansqua after my death. Hunting Hawk felt the final piece fall into place. A marriage to Shell Comb would place Copper Thunder that much closer to the center of Greenstone Clan and its influence over the Independent villages. So, she wasn’t going to have to maneuver him into an agreement after all. Instead, his testicles were leading him right where she wanted him.
“I suppose I could appoint Yellow Net as Weroansqua in your absence,” Hunting Hawk said to gauge her daughter’s reaction. “You’d be too far away to serve here.”
Shell Comb nodded, apparently undisturbed, but Copper Thunder shot her a measuring glance. Hunting Hawk nodded to herself. Copper Thunder was playing a deep game that she still didn’t quite understand, but Shell Comb, as usual, was ruled by her passions instead of her head.
“I shall think about it,” Hunting Hawk said. “In the meantime, The Panther will stay and poke about under the rocks.”
In her heart, she wasn’t happy with this new permutation of an old plan. Using Red Knot hadn’t been as much a gamble as sending the impetuous Shell Cqmb off with Copper Thunder. The problem with summoning a storm was that you never knew where lightning would strike.
Twenty-one
Panther stepped into the dim interior of the House of the Dead and stamped snow from his feet. On the heels of the mild clear days had come a cold west wind that blew a bank of clouds down from the mountains. The temperature had plunged, and the first flakes of snow spun out of the sky.
Panther loosened his wet threadbare blanket before nearing the fire that burned in the central pit. He shook it out and rewrapped it over his shoulder. Glancing around, he could find no one in the anteroom, so he approached the mat divider and called down the hallway, “Hello? Anyone here? Kwiokos, could I have a word with you?”
Tall, lanky Lightning Cat appeared, trotting down the hall. The guardians watched him pass with expressionless faces.
“Elder?” Lightning Cat said. “May I help you?”
“I have come to see Green Serpent. Perhaps I might have a word with him. It’s about Red Knot, and what we found up on the ridge where she was murdered.”
Lightning Cat glanced around, uncertain, then bobbed a quick nod. “Come. This way.” He led Panther back down the hall. Oddly, Lightning Cat ignored the guardians, but Panther nodded to each in greeting. He could sense their appreciation that a stranger offered what a familiar servant did not.
Once past the storerooms with their piled goods, he was led again into the sanctum with its statue of Okeus and the platform of Greenstone Clan ancestors.
Okeus seemed to glare at him, his eyes shining with malice. His copper necklaces gleamed in the firelight, and his painted limbs seemed possessed of the strength to spring. The corn in his left hand looked wilted, brown, and desiccated—but the war club in his right, with its twin war heads, looked polished. A copper skewer glinted in the light where it ran through the hair bun on the top of his head. His mouth might have been mocking, or filled with humor. Panther couldn’t quite tell which.
“Greetings, Dark Lord,” he murmured ritually, and bowed to show his respect. Only then did he turn to the form laid out to the right of the fire.