“About twenty,” Burning Smoke replied. “Most are Made People. They live along the ridge between Guest House and the Eagle’s Fist. We haven’t had any serious trouble.”
“And this visionary youth?” Whistle asked.
Water Bow started. “The Blessed Sun has already heard of this?”
“I am a spy,” Whistle returned somewhat arrogantly. “It is my business to know these things. As it is the Blessed Sun’s.”
Water Bow spread his hands. “He is but a foolish young hunter. He’s currently in our custody. We’re in the process of breaking him. By tomorrow night, he’ll either be dead, his body tossed down the slope, or he’ll be so broken we will let him go to whine among the lodges of his people like a clubbed mongrel. Either way, no one will believe his vision.”
“If he ever had one,” Larkspur added. She was giving Whistle’s muscular body a thoughtful appraisal. When she met his eyes, her brow lifted in the slightest hint of inquiry.
“What of Ironwood?” Whistle asked, meeting her questioning gaze with one of his own.
Burning Smoke snorted in derision. “He and his pathetic band of Outcasts are no threat. They lurk just over the mountains to the east of us. For the most part they hunt and live like barbarians. Night Sun, of course, being the former Matron of the First People, has some following as the legitimate heiress to the Red Lacewing Clan. She could no more be Matron than that whelp, Poor Singer, could be a Dreamer. The only real Power up there was Dune, the Holy Derelict. Recent rumor hints that he’s dead.”
“And good riddance!”Water Bow added.
“How many warriors can Ironwood muster?”
“Maybe thirty are still loyal to him or Night Sun,” Burning Smoke said dismissively. “Assuming they can take the time from scrounging their next meal to practice arms. But from the stories, Ironwood is a broken man. He lost an eye when Jay Bird had him, and, if we are to believe the gossip, his courage is turned to mud. If the Blessed Sun would just send a force up there, he could end it once and for all.”
Whistle barked a sharp laugh. “He has tried that three times now. Each time his warriors search the forests, streams, and valleys, and find nothing. But when the count is made before heading home, some five or seven are missing. Never heard from again.”
“It’s the Mountain Witch,” Larkspur said bitterly. “She sees the future. Warns them.”
“The Mountain Witch?” Whistle gave them a mocking smile. “The mythical Nightshade, supposedly stolen from Talon Town at birth, carried off to the east, to the land of the tattooed warriors and their piles of dirt?”
“The last living member of the Hollow Hoof Clan.” Larkspur steepled her slim fingers. “As a child I heard stories of the Hollow Hoof Clan’s legendary Powers. How Yarrow, Nightshade’s mother, could climb a column of smoke, turn herself into an owl, and converse with the dead.”
“Stories,” Water Bow said. “Silly stories. Nothing more.”
“Instead of a war party, I wish Webworm would send an entire army to root them out,” Larkspur growled. At Whistle’s questioning look, she added, “Webworm and Desert Willow sit down there at Dusk House, surrounded by their warriors and servants, feasting on tribute, hearing tales of their own greatness, and have no idea what we face out here on the edge of the world. We are all that stands between the barbarians and them! Don’t they understand? All it would take would be a symbol, a leader, someone who provided a spark that set the tinder of discontent ablaze, and we could lose everything.”
“Let’s not overreact.” Burning Smoke shot Whistle a sheepish look. “We’ve heard good things about Leather Hand since he took command. He has stamped out discontent like a hard yucca sandal.”
“Yucca can be burned,” Larkspur added hotly, then, as if rethinking, took a deep breath. “Yes, yes, perhaps you’re right. But Desert Willow and Webworm aren’t here. They don’t have to look these people in the face and see the festering resentment.”
Whistle adopted a pensive pose. “Upon my return, would you like me to suggest that reinforcement be sent?”
Burning Smoke licked his lips. “Perhaps another twenty? Good men? Not these simpering recruits Webworm has strong-armed into wearing the red. Most of these are callow boys who’ve never had blood on their hands. Some of the others enjoy the taste of authority only. They wear the red because it makes them into something they aren’t: men with courageous determination. Half of my command would panic if things ever looked grim.”