They rounded the southern rooms, passed under the guard, and entered the plaza. People were emerging, waving, calling greetings. Webworm waved back, his mind clearly on other things.
“I will see to it, Blessed Sun.”
Webworm gave him a dull, fatigued look. “That was only a wish, War Chief. Unfortunately, I’m sure that as soon as I hear your report, there will be a burgeoning list of things for me to do.”
Wind Leaf resisted the urge to speak, waiting as they climbed the stairways and ladders to the fourth floor. At the T-shaped doorway that led into the Blessed Sun’s private quarters, Wind Leaf hesitated, but Webworm waved him in.
The war chief ducked through the doorway after Webworm and took a deep breath of the cool air within the compartment.
The room was large, plastered in white, with large colorful drawings of the gods on the walls. Flute Player Danced on the north wall, his pack curving his back; the feathers on his head were bright red. A smaller doorway let out onto the balcony that hung from the north wall, and could be closed with a wooden-plank door. On the east, Spider Woman spun strands of her web into a net. On the west, the Blue God stared with hollow eyes that seemed to engulf Wind Leaf with unnatural longing.
A line of use-polished weapons were stacked below the Blue God, while decorated ollas, seed jars, and corrugated cooking ware lay below the Flute Player’s feet. A cleaned-out fire bowl rested in the center of the room. Two wooden boxes were heaped with turquoise, jet, and coral jewelry. A collection of carefully cleaned and polished human skulls hung along one wall in net bags. They watched Wind Leaf through empty eye sockets, their teeth bent in mocking grins.
Through another doorway Wind Leaf could see the sleeping quarters, where buffalo and elk robes were rolled and stacked against the wall. A single pallet made of cattail leaves over plaited willow stems lay on the swept clay floor. Several stacks of clothing, a paint box, and other personal effects lined the walls.
Webworm sighed, kicked off his travel-worn sandals, and sank down on a folded buffalo robe. He looked up wearily as he pulled his soiled shirt over his head, wadded it, and threw it into the corner. The necklaces looked dull against his sweat-streaked skin. He gestured to Wind Leaf, who handed him a bowl filled with corn cakes. Taking one, he bit a hunk out of it, and through a mouthful, said, “Report, War Chief.”
Wind Leaf laced his hands behind his back. “The relocation is progressing. Another fifteen families have moved from Straight Path Canyon and begun building a small row of houses up on the terrace. Given the drought in the canyon, they probably didn’t have much incentive to stay.”
“Yes, I know. We just passed through there. Expect more to arrive as the winter sets in. They’ll be desperate after the harvest.” Webworm frowned, reached for a ceramic canteen decorated with hatched black-on-white designs, and washed down a mouthful before taking another bite. “What about the north?”
“My deputy, Leather Hand, reports that several small rebellions have been put down. He expects the corn harvest to be spotty. Farmsteads on the rivers are looking pretty favorable, but they have irrigation. Dryland fields are another thing. Some have had rain, but it’s been hit or miss. The bottom line is that we can’t expect a surplus from the north.”
Webworm washed down more corn cake before asking, “Do they have enough to get through the winter?”
“Maybe. In some places. But Leather Hand warns that you should expect raiding by spring. He doesn’t think much of our chances for peace. Hungry bellies are going to stir resentment.”
“Um,” Webworm grunted. “And the reconsecration of the kivas and holy sites?”
Wind Leaf arched his back. “Leather Hand’s preliminary assessment is that it will proceed as planned, but there’s been a rather curious development.”
Webworm’s jaw stopped short, his eyes hardening into brown stones. “Such as?”
“The thlatsinas. The barbarians have started to believe in them.”
“What do they care? They have their own gods. Silly little spirits that live in rocks and springs. Why would they give so much as a thought to the thlatsinas? When Sternlight prophesied his heresy, it was for the First People, not subject peoples. Pus and blood! We’ve had trouble enough just getting them to respect our gods, let alone accept them.” He waved a hand at the images adorning his walls. “They’ve resisted for years, saying whatever will please us, and then traipsing off to their clan kivas to polish roots, rattle turkey bones, or whisper to their ancestors. Why the thlatsinas? Why now?”
Wind Leaf took a breath. “Because, Blessed Sun, many of the barbarians are starting to believe that the thlatsinas came to destroy us.”