People of the Moon(38)

The nature of the danger began to sink in. He shot a sidelong glance at a group of commoners who had stepped off the trail to allow them free passage. Again he noted their stoic expressions. The only acknowledgment he received was a slight nod from one of the middle-aged men bowed under a burden basket containing potsherds to be ground into temper for new pottery.

What would it take to hearten them into action against us? Could it be something as insignificant as the theft of some corn?

It was as if he were seeing the once-familiar terrain surrounding Tall Piñon Town through new eyes. Just within sight were twenty-some pit houses and several scatterings of small masonry room blocks. That meant how many people? Perhaps a hundred? Of them, over half would be children. Estimate it at somewhere around forty adults—and that was just in the short distance between him and the haven of his great house.

How many people actually live around here? He’d never given it a thought. Who cared? The fact was, until today he’d never taken them seriously. He was the strong right arm of the Blessed Sun, governor of a string of isolated great houses that ran from Windflower Village out west on the River of Souls to the Far View community where it stood defiantly atop the high brow of Green Mesa, then to Pinnacle Great House on First Moon Mountain to the east. Each great house had a garrison to ensure the safety of the Priests and Made People. Perhaps two hundred in all? They were so few to cover this vast territory.

Here, at Tall Piñon, his warriors numbered a full thirty. As he trotted, he tapped his fingertips against his callused thumb, counting them out. What a small number when one placed it against the uncounted masses of people living in the huge area encompassed by his administration.

“Gods,” he whispered under his breath. A cold shiver crept down his spine. True, his men were trained, elite fighters, but what chance would they have against a raging mob of angry farmers that numbered in the hundreds?

Pestered by the thought, he led his weary command past the southeastern corner of the great house and into the plaza. He took in the flat-roofed cylinder of the great kiva and looked around at the Made People’s towns. The blocky buildings appeared dusty in the hot light. Men lounged in the shade cast by the northern walls, some knapping flint, others working with wood, or weaving. But for a couple of extra desultory loiterers, nothing seemed to be amiss.

“Seven Stars?” he called, turning. “Will you accompany me?”

He watched as the litter bearers lowered the High Priest and helped him to his feet. Seven Stars walked forward, his snowy robe flowing about him in swaying folds. People were appearing now, hanging back, or standing on the rooftops across the way, eyes shaded with the flats of their hands.

Leather Hand took the stairs two at a time onto the first-floor roof. As he did a young man stepped out of Right Acorn’s room. He wore a clean tan shirt that hung down to midthigh. Freshly washed, his hair was pinned behind his head. New sandals shod his feet.

“Who are you?” Leather Hand demanded.

“I am called Thorn,” the youth said in a guttural voice thick with the local accent. “I am servant.”

Leather Hand glanced at Seven Stars, who added, “His family sent him to us when they could not make the Blessed Sun’s tribute.”

So, the boy was a slave. Leather Hand noticed that Thorn wore a fine red coral necklace under the collar of his tunic. A well-cared-for slave, at that.

“What happened here?” Leather Hand shot a glance at the storeroom doorway. The sandstone door slab lay canted to one side. He could see scattered kernels of yellow corn on the packed clay flooring. The pattern seemed to indicate it had leaked rather than been broadcast.

“We have touched nothing,” Thorn said quickly. “All is left as it was. I have only kept the flies off Right Acorn’s body.”

“Let me see.” Leather Hand stepped forward, aware of another spill of corn beside the doorway to the priest’s quarters. A smear of blood had baked black in the sun, and droplets marked a path back to the doorway. Unlike the storeroom’s, this doorway was T-shaped, wider at the top with a ledge midway along the side so the occupant could swing through on his hands.

He ducked inside, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust. The first thing that resolved itself was the body of the Priest, flat on his back, limbs akimbo. The eyes had dried open, slightly shrunken. Black hair matted with dried blood almost masked the wound.

Leather Hand was aware of Seven Stars as he entered. Together they bent down, studying the body. Looking like a desiccated mushroom, some of the man’s brains had oozed out through the cleft in his skull. The open mouth seemed to express surprise.