From the bow, Flying Weir said, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the witch.”
“We’ve been working together on the matter of Red Knot’s death.” Nine Killer glanced at the shoreline, measuring the rising waves and wind against the distance they had to travel to the inlet below Flat Pearl Village, and safety. Could they make it?
“Well, what’s he doing? Everyone’s talking about it. The stories are rampant, that he’s accused the Weroans qua, that he’s going to challenge Copper Thunder, all kinds of things.”
“I’m surprised people haven’t said he’s turning himself into an owl at night and flying around.”
“They have.” Flying Weir shook his head. His eyes were riveted to the rough water.
“Well, he’s staying in Rosebud’s long house I’ve been there most nights. I haven’t seen him become any owl, and, to tell you the truth, for the amount of squash he eats every night, he couldn’t fly if he wanted to.”
Flying Weir chuckled. “Well, it isn’t often that we have a witch who’s looking into a murder to talk about. You’ve got to expect these things.”
“I know.” A wave sloshed water over the gunwale as they crested the peak. Many more like that, and their fish would be swimming again. Nine Killer paused to whack a rockfish as long as his arm. The paddle made a sodden sound as it thumped the purple-striped body.
“So, there’s nothing to report?”
“Not really, but I have a question for you.”
“For me?” Flying Weir Jooked back across the mass of writhing fish.
“That last night of the dance, a warrior should have been appointed to guard the palisade entrance. Do you know who?”
Flying Weir paddled in silence for a moment, and Nine Killer could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was suddenly tense, more so than the rough water would warrant.
“Yes, I know.” Flying Weir said at last. “Stone Cob was responsible for posting guards that night. He told me about it later, griping about Flat Willow …”
“Flat Willow?”
“The same—our bit of bright sunshine. Stone Cob told me that when he asked Flat Willow to guard the gate, he was almost insolent. I think Stone Cob’s words were “I thought I was going to have to smack him in the head. He said he had things to do.” Or something like that.”
“I see.”
Flying Weir spared a glance over his shoulder. “The Panther’s been talking to him, hasn’t he?”
“Just do me a favor, all right. Keep this between you and me.”
“Why would Flat Willow want to—”
“Flying Weir?”
“Yes, yes, between you and me.”
They crested a tall wave, the wind kicking spray to soak Nine Killer. The exertion of his body almost evened the cold bite of wind. Water trickled down his greased skin, slowly winning the battle for his body heat.
“Well, it looked like a good chance to fish, but we could have had a better day,” Nine Killer muttered. He glanced back, seeing the second canoe plowing along in their wake, their situation just as perilous with the heavy net mounded amidships.
“Good thing we didn’t go out into the bay, we’d be swimming. And in water this cold, not for long.” Flying Weir wiped spray from his face. “Do I need to take the gourd and bail yet?”
“No, but some of the fish are swimming again.” Nine Killer cracked another rockfish with his paddle. “I think if we push hard, we can make calmer water before we have to bail.”
If things became serious, they could pitch some of the fish, but Nine Killer decided he’d rather sink first. The catch had been as good as he could remember for a deepwater netting.
They made the shallows just as rain began to pelt them from the dull sky. Around his feet, half the fish floated on their sides; the others, smaller, splashed about in the shallow canoe bottom. The water was up above Nine Killer’s ankles, and his flesh was pebbled with cold. He suffered through his first shiver, and tightened his grip on the wet paddle. When he glanced behind him, he could see angry white caps on the water.
“You know, we just made it.” Nine Killer grinned in spite of himself. Fishermen plied open water at their own peril in winter. Rough water swamping canoes wasn’t the only risk. Fishermen had been known to grow so cold that their wits deserted them. Disoriented by shivers, they forgot to bail their boats, or would be swept out to sea on the tide. Some died, and others, luckily rescued, couldn’t even name their clans.
Flying Weir snared the bailing gourd as it floated by and scooped water over the side. Behind them, Many Dogs was doing the same.