People of the Moon(155)
He thanked the gods he was smart enough not to meet their eyes, hoping desperately that they wouldn’t take him for the naive barbarian he was.
The tall wall before him curved ever so slightly. To his unease, a red-shirted warrior stood on the southeastern corner. Spots battled with the urge to turn tail and run. He wasn’t sure his legs weren’t shaking as he passed around the end of the wall past a young woman offering corn cakes for Trade and looked up at the high east room block of Dusk House. Yet another guard stood there, his bored eyes noting Spots, lingering for a moment on his scars, and passing on to the slave who walked past with a stinking pot of night earth in his hands.
Spots swallowed hard and hurried past. The plaza opened before him, and he stopped. To his right, the First People’s kiva rose waist high above the ground. To its left the huge cylinder of the great kiva gleamed in the morning light. But it was the splendor of Dusk House—rising four stories high and cupping the plaza like a mother’s arms—that took his breath away. For long moments he just stared, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Last time the size of the place hadn’t sunk in. Nightshade had been in a hurry—coming and going.
“Surprised?” asked a young woman who appeared at his elbow.
“I never suspected.”
“You have a strange accent.”
He spared her a glance. She was a little shorter than he, an odd weariness in her eyes. Her breasts stretched her too-tight dress, and her hips seemed to struggle for liberation against the restricting cloth.
“Tall Piñon,” he lied. “I’m of the Deep Canyon folk.”
Her knowing eyes fixed on his. “No, you’re not. First Moon, or somewhere up there in the north, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“No. You just here for the day?”
“I don’t know. I just came to see.”
“I’m called Cactus Flower.” She smiled. “I could guide you.”
“You could?”
She indicated his pack. “Depends on what you’ve got in there. I Trade for services. Let’s say for a jar of corn, I can take you around the plaza, show you the great kiva, point out the Blessed Sun’s quarters—”
“Up there.” He pointed to where he’d seen Webworm while in Nightshade’s company.
“You’ve been here before.”
“Once.”
Cactus Flower added, “For a shell comb, I could put you up for the night. I have a farmstead up on the terrace. The bed is nice, no fleas or lice. An abalone pendant? Well, I could make your stay most memorable.” She swished her hips in a suggestive way.
He tried not to gape. “Thanks, but I don’t have any of those things.”
“I’m always around.” Cactus Flower shrugged, took two steps, and matched stride with a Trader who entered between the walls. He laughed and shook his head, waving her off. She gave a saucy flip of her long black hair and retired to the shade of the wall to await new prey.
Spots felt his heart begin to settle into its normal rhythm. He’d just take a turn about the plaza, maybe look inside the great kiva, and slip out, assured that wherever Nightshade was, he didn’t need to …
He stopped short, seeing the stout wooden cage. The thing was as tall as a man. Lengths of wrist-thick lodgepole pine had been used for bars. These had been fitted into holes bored into larger ponderosa logs. Thick willow stems had been woven between them for strength. Through the bars, Spots could see something crouched inside. A group of small children were staring in, one little boy whacking at the bars with a stick. Others were making faces.
Spots followed the walls around, glancing up at the upper floors. Nowhere did he see Nightshade among the visible people. While some comfort came from the fact that no one gave him a second look, he could feel the faintest sense of something.
“Must be the Spirits of this place,” he muttered as he walked along under the west room block. A most notable man dressed in a bright red war shirt stopped to give instructions to a warrior who stood with a shield over his back. Then the fellow proceeded at a fast clip for the ladders leading to the upper stories.
“War Chief?” Spots wondered. What was his name? Wind Leaf? Or might that have been the dreaded Leather Hand?
At the thought, he whispered, “Check the kiva, and get your skinny self out of here.”
He turned, approaching the great kiva. The big cage squatted no more than fifteen hands before the kiva entrance. Spots took long enough to lean his head in, marveling at the huge timbers that made up the roof. The painted images between the illuminated vaults dazzled him. A smoldering fire sent fingers of smoke toward the massive ceiling.