On the ridgetop a half hand’s run to the north, the signal observatory stood. From its top, Thunderbird Mountain, Tall Piñon, and all the northern settlements could be observed. By means of a complex system of mica mirrors, different colored smokes, or signal fires, any of the northern great houses could immediately communicate with the Blessed Sun at Dusk House on the River of Souls. Within moments orders could be given, questions answered, or a party dispatched in relief of whatever sort of disaster loomed.
Lot of good that does. Leather Hand smiled wryly at the notion. Only yesterday had come word that a fire seen at Pinnacle House had been accidentally set. A prank, said the runners dispatched by an embarrassed Matron Larkspur.
The event left a sour aftertaste. With all the potential for trouble looming around them, didn’t the Blessed Larkspur have her people under control up there? And worse, was Burning Smoke slipping, losing his ability to inspire the barbarians to obedience?
He let his brooding gaze settle on the faint southern horizon. There the fires at Center Place, the high northern town above Straight Path Canyon, could be seen flickering on a clear night.
The beating heart of my people. He thought about the canyon that lay just below that horizon, considered what it meant to the Straight Path Nation. A thousand souls had traveled there to take the Great North Road in search of the doorway to the Underworlds. For generations the First People had marched out of Straight Path Canyon, their red-shirted warriors and thick-set masons following, to slowly but surely bring order to the surrounding peoples. During those generations, the world had changed. True, the Blessed Suns ruled with a stone fist; but such policies were necessary to ensure that the subjects remained compliant. The cost of peace might have been broken bodies, a couple of fired towns, and occasional bloody massacres here and there—but during the Straight Path rule, the land had flourished. Stories still told how in the old days, people lived in constant fear of their neighbors. How after the coming of the Straight Path peace, they could move out, establish small farmsteads on isolated patches of fertile soil, and know that no footloose party of raiders was going to steal in during the night to murder them in their beds for the crops in their fields.
Why on earth would the malcontents threaten that?
As he mulled the thought he turned his gaze farther to the southwest. In the midday haze, he could just make out the Rainbow Serpent, a dirty smudge rising from the horizon. Why, of all times, had the Powers of the Underworlds picked this moment to emerge? Just what did it mean for them?
He was brooding over that when the Sun Priest known as Moon Knuckle walked down from the reservoir. An old friend—and the only one who apparently refused to shun Leather Hand—he carried one of the tall black-on-white ceremonial Straight Path mugs in his hand. He squinted in the bright sunlight as he approached, nodded, and stepped into the ramada’s shade. Sighing with relief, Moon Knuckle settled on a stump beside Leather Hand’s hammock and sipped his tea, smacking his lips.
“What a perfect day,” the Priest began. “Shade, a slight breeze to cool the skin, and a refreshing beverage.” He lifted the tall mug to display the fine-lined hatching design of the Red Lacewing Clan.
“Mint?” Leather Hand asked casually.
“Indeed,” the Priest answered. He was a middle-aged man, his face lined and weathered. Gray streaked his hair, now pulled into a severe bun at the back of his head. His flabby breasts hung down like an old woman’s, and his rounded sides challenged the belt that kept a white cotton kilt around his hips. “The women have brewed another large batch. I was fortunate enough to dip this from the pot.”
“It’s still warm?” Leather Hand asked. He’d taken his from a sweaty olla that had cooled in the breeze.
“Better that than just water. The children were playing in the reservoir earlier. It’s muddy, and may the Blue God chase them, they’re still children. You never know when they might have peed in the pool.”
Leather Hand grunted. “We don’t have that problem at Tall Pinon. Of course, our reservoir isn’t as large as yours, but the Deep Canyon People keep a pretty close eye on it.”
The Priest rested his hands on his knobby knees where the brown flesh stuck out from his kilt. “In that case, they let the little boys pee in your water jar before they cart it up to your rooms.”
“Should I ever discover that such a thing had occurred, I would skin one of the little brats, gut him, and pour the contents of his bladder down his lifeless throat so that it coated the inside of his gaping gut cavity.”
Moon Knuckle chuckled, his brown eyes searching the southern horizon. “Is that how you deal with all of your troubles?”