“Umm,” Dune said, and carefully examined Wraps-His-Tail. “What are you doing way out here?”
“The Blessed Sun is sick again, Elder,” Wraps-His-Tail answered. “We have been carrying the message around.”
Dune’s bushy brows plunged down. “That hardly seems the sort of duty Ironwood would give his two best warriors.”
Wraps-His-Tail shrugged. “We were at hand.”
Cone added, “Ironwood wished to ensure that we beat the rumors. You know how people panic when a Chief falls ill. They always say he is dying.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Well,” Wraps-His-Tail bowed again, “we must be going. We promised Ironwood we would be back by tomorrow.”
“Be off, then.” Dune waved a hand. “Tell Crow Beard I wished him well.”
“Indeed, we shall, Elder!”
Both men trotted on up the trail, heading toward the main road which led south. Dune watched them go, his eyes slitted suspiciously.
“What is it?” Poor Singer asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Not according to them.” Dune fingered his sagging chin.
The old man ducked back into his house and Poor Singer heard him talking to the mouse. The door curtain swung, flashing in the sunlight.
“Dune!” Poor Singer said. “I have something important to tell you! Wait until you hear what I did this morning. You won’t believe it!”
Poor Singer pulled back the curtain and saw Dune slipping on a tan shirt. His white hair shone in the firelight. Crouching, he added more wood to the fire, and asked, “What?”
Poor Singer swelled his chest. “I learned to be a newborn! On my first try!”
“Did you?” Dune’s bushy brows arched.
“Yes, but you were right,” Poor Singer quickly added, “it wasn’t easy. Not at all. I had to work very hard.”
“I see.”
Poor Singer shifted uncomfortably. “See … what?”
Dune got to his feet. The wrinkles around his small round nose twitched. “I see that you and your pride are still standing tall in the light.”
Ten
Six body-lengths wide, the road shimmered with crushed potsherds. Not all roads had such a surface, but many did, particularly those near sacred sites, or towns. Night Sun hurried, her black-and-white cape flapping around her like bat wings as she trotted past Kettle Town. Just to the east of Talon Town, it rose in stepped layers, its famous colonnade shining in the sun. Behind its north wall with its hanging porch, the rounded tower rose to the ladders and hand-holds that led to the stairway and the road north to Center Place.
Night Sun’s cousin, Moon Bright, was Matron of Kettle Town. When the people, who perched on the roofs of the multistoried building, yelled questions at Night Sun, she just waved and continued on. She could see Talon Town ahead, shining whitely in the afternoon sun. A nearly perfect half-circle, the flat east–west wall of the giant structure faced south, gleaning the winter sun’s warming rays. Slaves clustered around the single entrance in the western half of the flat wall, grinding corn in the mealing bins, carrying out the refuse, weaving brightly colored fabric on large looms. Two deerhides were being stretched on wooden frames. Women labored over them, scraping them with stone tools.
Young Swallowtail—fourteen summers old, muscular, and very tall for his age—knelt beside them, butchering a deer with a long obsidian blade. He took short, expert strokes, separating out each muscle, laying it on a flat stone to the side. The pile of rich red meat stood four hands tall. Each slave had specific duties. Swallowtail tended to cutting up animals and dusting the ceremonial masks in Talon Town. Both he and his mother, Mourning Dove, were extremely talented and loyal slaves. As Night Sun trotted up, Swallowtail smiled and greeted, “It is good to have you home, Blessed Matron.”
“Thank you, Swallowtail. I hope you are well.”
He beamed. “Oh, yes, better now.” The boy glanced at the bandage on his arm. “The poultice you placed on my cut is working. No evil Spirits have entered the wound yet.”
Night Sun smiled. He’d slipped and fallen down a hillside while carrying a large pot of water. One of the jagged sherds had slashed his upper arm. “I’m glad. I will look at it again tomorrow, just to make sure.”
“Thank you, Blessed Matron. I…” He looked up suddenly and pointed. “I think you are being hailed.”
Night Sun turned to the mounds that thrust up in front of Talon Town. Long, square, and flat-topped, they’d been built over old trash mounds, squared off, and heightened to allow the commoners to see above the south wall and into the plaza. During the ceremonial dances, those mounds were packed with spectators. But they served as more than viewing platforms. An enemy would have to sneak through a narrow defile about five body-lengths wide—between the mounds and the south wall—to rush the entry. Anyone so foolish would find Talon Town’s warriors raining arrows down upon him.