“Bad luck?” Bead chuckled to himself, his ferocity draining as a confused expression spread over his features. “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s them! I should have had panic. I needed panic. Expected it in fact for the ceremony.” He gave High Dance a conspiratorial glance. “That was Blue Heron’s work, no doubt. My assassin got close enough to leave a gash in her throat.”
His brow knit further. “Just not a deep enough one. The old camp bitch was saved by some commoner Night Shadow Star prompted her to find. A ruffian and thief.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, but Power is aware of what we’re about, High Chief. It has taken an interest in our struggle. But which Powers favor which side? That remains uncertain. My source has heard that Piasa favors Night Shadow Star, but is unsure if the claims aren’t just the lingering visions of Sister Datura.” He paused again, raising his hand to rub the side of his head.
High Dance noted dark outlines around the man’s nails. Blood?
“Why would Underworld Power care what we do to Morning Star? He’s of the Sky World.”
Bead’s lips twitched; he shot High Dance an evaluative glance, reading the thoughts in his head as if they were written in the beads. “Ah, yes, you’re imagining the opportunities, aren’t you? You see what I’m about. Look beyond the chaos you suddenly hope to exploit after the Morning Star’s murder. Myself, I have no problem with your House ascending the heights of authority and prestige. Supplant Matron Wind’s lineage for all I care.
“But for the Clan Keeper’s quick wits, half of Cahokia should be abuzz with the tonka’tzi’s assassination. Each of the Houses should be accusing the other … everyone looking up at the Morning Star’s palace, wondering why the reincarnated god remains impotent to anticipate, let alone stop, the murders.”
Bead smacked his hard fist into his palm. “But instead of chaos, what do I get? A simple funeral, a soft, sad mourning for a suddenly dead tonka’tzi instead of a boiling turmoil … or a stewing accusation that would take but one more good kick to spill into riots!”
“There will be other chances,” High Dance replied evenly as the pieces began to fit together in his head.
Bead seemed to tremble, then took a deep breath, nodding. “Yes, other chances. I gambled on their arrogance, on their belief that they were untouchable. They are alerted now. As good as my wolves are, our enemies will take precautions with their security.”
High Dance watched the interplay of expressions, the quick eyes, as the man’s agitation built. He was whispering softly to himself, head slightly cocked, as if searching for distant voices.
“Your … wolves?”
Bead’s train of thought seemed to snap, and he glanced suspiciously at High Dance. “It’s all about living gods, isn’t it? The miraculous ability of the Four Winds Clan to call souls back from the Land of the Dead? It’s supposed to be in the blood! Something unique to the Four Winds Clan’s ancestry … perhaps going back to the Creation? Perhaps being descended from Morning Star himself? The Power of resurrection is key, High Chief. You understand that, don’t you?”
High Dance frowned. “The Morning Star’s life-soul has been rekindled in two different men now. Had Cut String’s assassination attempt—”
“Exactly!” Bead frowned again, raising a hand to stop the conversation. For a moment longer he scowled at the floor. “It was such a simple thing. Bobcat’s life-soul hadn’t been separated from his body for more than a day. What could have possibly gone wrong? The cleansing? The painting? Or was it the lust. It’s not like I gave in to the temptation…”
“What are you talking about?”
Bead snorted and began picking at his fingers. The dark matter in his cuticles was definitely dried blood.
“High Chief?” Bead’s sidelong glance fixed on High Dance. “You understand that you are inextricably involved now, don’t you?”
High Dance felt a chill hand tighten around his heart. “My goals remain unchanged, Bead. Or whatever your name is. But remember, you contacted me. Beyond that, you really don’t want to challenge either me or Evening Star House.” He bent his lips into a frigid smile, and added, “Doing so wouldn’t be conducive to either long life or attaining whatever goal it is that you’ve set yourself with all your blood and barely rubbed-off paint.”
Bead’s expression flickered, his lips twitching. He gave a slight nod. “We understand each other.” A pause. “When you return later this evening, you will find your eldest son Fast Thrower still worried. He’s a handsome young man. You must be extraordinarily proud. The black granite chunkey stone he went to sleep with two nights ago remains missing. You will find it in a jar of corn meal. The jar’s a burnished brownware. Under the third bench from the right, I believe.”