People of the Morning Star(139)
He nodded, hesitated. “The scorpion—that’s what they’re calling the assassin—he’s abducted your sister, Lace. The Keeper’s been turning the whole city upside down looking for her.”
“Lace?” She shuddered. “Of course. He’s going to want us all. Sun Wing, mother, even the Keeper if he can get her.”
“Do you know where he’s taken Lace? What he’s after?”
She nodded. “Now go. Grant me a moment of privacy, and bring me back whatever we have to eat. Piasa knows what kind of corn gruel they’ve kept burning, but I’m past complaining.”
And to her surprise, he shot her a crooked grin. “I’ll see what we’ve got.”
Then he was gone.
Wearily, stiffly, she climbed down and squatted over the chamber pot. Past her door she could hear Fire Cat snapping out orders, heard the quick assent of her slaves and servants. Not even Field Green, on her best day, had commanded that kind of respect.
When she had finished she set the pot outside, and peered around the door post. The place smelled of roast venison, cattail bread, baked squash, and steeping black drink. The great room appeared neat, blankets folded, the matting swept, everything in order as if for a visit from the Morning Star himself.
Her servants were glancing sidelong at her, a plea in their eyes, before they shot worried looks at the Red Wing where he crouched in his battle armor and filled a wooden plate with steaming food.
Retreating back into her room, she opened a box, withdrew a black dress with white lightning zig-zags down the sides, and hesitated. Counting the time she’d been in the Underworld, nearly four days had passed since she’d bathed, but her body was clean and smelled of yucca—a luxury imported from the western Plains.
Rides-the-Lightning, of course. He would have insisted. She slipped the dress over her shoulders and belted it with a leather strap. She then took a moment to refold the blanket and lay it on the bed.
Then the Red Wing was back, his eyes fatigued. Makes Three’s old helmet was pushed back on his head at an insolent cant. She seated herself. Famished, she dove into the food, almost burning her fingers on the hot venison. He stood, back braced against the door frame, muscular arms crossed on the armor breastplate.
“What else did I miss?”
“Your aunt’s pet thief caught one of the Tula. Apparently one of the men who tried to kill you that night.” He grinned. “The thief once told me he didn’t fight clean. I hear he spit tobacco in the Tula’s eyes, then mauled him like a mad bear. Bit the man’s lip off. Then smuggled him to your aunt’s palace in a canoe.”
“And what did the Tula tell them?”
“The word I got is that the scorpion had something on a Deer Clan chief named Right Hand. Used him and his sister to put pressure on Cut String to try and kill the Morning Star. Right Hand and this Corn Seed managed to swallow enough water hemlock to … Well, you know.”
She glanced down at the squash, nodded, and fingered it into her mouth. “The scorpion? Not inappropriate I suppose. He would have known Right Hand had never forgiven Chunkey Boy. He was probably part of the maiming.”
“Not the nicest of people, this brother of yours.”
She felt a dead emptiness inside, a hollowing that no amount of food would ever fill.
“No,” she whispered. “Not nice at all.” Memories, unvarnished, rose behind her eyes. Piasa whispered, causing her to glance to the side, as if she’d see him in the corner of the room. The flicker of his movement kept vanishing at the edge of her vision.
She ordered her thoughts and said, “The world would have been a better place if Mother had taken us one by one as we were born, and drowned us in the river.”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
She swallowed hard, took a big bite of succulent venison, and shook her head as she chewed. Swallowing, she washed it down with black drink, and told him, “We were doomed from the moment we took our first breaths. And along the way, so many others were going to have to suffer, bleed, and die because of us. If I hadn’t been allowed to live, Right Hand would be alive now, unmaimed, and probably a happy man. Perhaps my brother wouldn’t be crazed with Spirit voices as he seeks to destroy us all and become an even greater monster than he is.”
“What’s this? An admission of the truth about your beloved Chunkey Boy?”
She glanced at him, eyes fixing on his. “Chunkey Boy? He was the mild one. Your scorpion? I learned his identity in the Underworld. His name is Walking Smoke. My other brother. He’s the one driven insane with jealousy and rage, the one the voices are telling to destroy Cahokia, and sacrifice us all.”