And now there is a way to change that.
He strolled idly along the row of vendors who had laid out blankets and erected temporary ramadas along the western edge of the great plaza. As he inspected brightly colored fabrics, stacks of brownware pottery, piles of tanned deer, rabbit, elk, and bison hides, he wondered if his walk gave him away, if his hairstyle—the thick black locks wrapped around a wooden ball and tied—looked appropriately common.
Casting sidelong gazes at the milling people who chatted, perused the offered wares, and nodded pleasantly at the vendors, he could see no one sparing him more than a dismissive glance.
Is it really this easy to become faceless? The notion stunned him.
A cheer sounded behind him, and he turned, barely able to make out the Morning Star through the cluster of spectators watching his chunkey game. They came every day when the weather was nice. Nor did the Morning Star disappoint them, dressed in all his regalia, he descended the stairs from his palace on high. Trotting with the vigor of a yearling elk, his copper-clad lances and gorgeous white marble stones in hand, he’d meet whoever had won the honor of competing against him that morning. The bets would be wagered, and the game commenced.
No one ever beat the Morning Star. He would take his starting position, keen eyes on the chunkey court. For breathless heartbeats, he would stand, balanced, concentrating. In an instant he’d launch himself. As he sprinted forward, his right arm would extend behind him, the stone cupped in his palm. As he swept it forward and released, the stone would just kiss the smooth clay, shooting ahead like a shot. In the next pace, Morning Star would transfer his gleaming copper lance from left to right hand. Shoulder rolling back, he’d extend, and with a supple twist of his body, cast the lance after the fleeing stone.
High Dance had watched the living god’s skill in amazement, often when he—no mean chunkey player himself—had challenged the Morning Star. Invariably, Morning Star’s lance, like a thing alive would seek out the stone and impact within a hand’s distance of where it stopped.
The game was played to twenty. As points accrued ten “point” sticks were first twisted into the ground by the observing priest, and then removed until twenty points had been scored. The first player to have the last of his sticks taken down, won.
Morning Star always won. As was the tradition, the loser dropped to one knee, bowed low to expose the back of his neck, and offered the living god his head. Morning Star would raise his face to the heavens, arms held high, and grant the loser his life. As the crowd cheered his clemency, Morning Star would turn toward them and donate his winnings. At that point priests went through the anxious and milling crowd, handing out feathered wands to those they thought worthy. The wands, in turn, would be exchanged for one of the wagered items which generally included fine bowls, beautiful capes, decorative blankets, and the like.
“Does he ever lose?” an accented voice asked at High Dance’s shoulder.
Startled, he almost reacted like High Dance Mankiller instead of a common farmer. But, catching himself in time, he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “He is the Morning Star. How could the god lose?”
The man who’d stopped beside him was young, muscular, his face darkened with ash to obscure his tattoos. As tall as High Dance, he had the characteristic look of a noble. Instead of wearing his hair up, a single thick braid on the left side of his head hung down over his left breast. Now the man crossed his arms, one foot forward, and said, “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Do you have a name?” High Dance asked, keeping his voice low as he glanced around at the other spectators. They might have been but two casual strangers meeting amid the slowly moving throng inspecting the Trade goods the merchants had brought in.
“You can call me Bead.”
“Just Bead?”
“For the time being.”
“And what did you wish to speak to me about?” A tingling of unease began at the bottom of his spine. This could be a terrible trap, some machination of Blue Heron’s. She’d been known to attempt such things in the past.
“Someone tried to kill the Morning Star the other night.” Bead said it emotionlessly. “The attempt was audacious. From what I’ve finally been able to ferret out, it would have succeeded but for the unlikely arrival of Lady Night Shadow Star.”
A band of fear tightened around High Dance’s chest. “I’ve heard nothing of this.”
“No. I suppose you haven’t.” Bead’s voice hinted of indifference. “They’re keeping it quiet.”
“And the assassin?” Though he struggled to maintain an appearance of calm, he could feel fear sweat tingling in his skin.