Still, as he had turned to start back, it was all he could do to keep from glancing over his shoulder at the hidden box with its wealth of copper inside. Gods, the thing was like a curse, forever tempting him to keep it close.
He continued to dwell on the copper as he sat behind his Trade goods in the plaza. The only relief from nagging worry was the Contrary’s assurance that it would be safe. Does Power really guard it?
Trader could only hope. But Power, as he had known since boyhood, was a fickle thing at best. One never knew when it might be tempted to teach the unwary some sort of cryptic lesson—like not to covet an incredibly valuable piece of copper.
He glanced across at Old White and scratched Swimmer’s ears as his latest Trade partner, a fisherman who had offered a pouch of freshwater pearls for an Oneota mat, walked away. Old White was demonstrating a Cahokian gorget, a beautiful thing made of wood with a chunkey player engraved on its surface. The clan chief he dickered with had shaken his head, unable to come up with an acceptable offer. The man walked away, a perplexed look on his face.
Trader had seen the like before. Time would tell, and the more the man thought about that Cahokian gorget, the sooner he would be canvassing his relatives, seeking a way of obtaining the necessary goods to finally make a bargain. Some relative, or friend, or in-law would have something that would finally meet Old White’s price.
Trader stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. The stories and feasting hadn’t ended until dawn was breaking. Now he yawned, aware that most of the people seated in a large semicircle were taking the opportunity to gossip, enjoy the sun, and socialize with their neighbors.
Trader closed the flap on his pack and rose to walk over to Old White. “Things have slowed. I might go up and catch a nap.”
Old White nodded. “Last time I looked, Two Petals was sleeping soundly on one of the benches.” He, too, climbed unsteadily to his feet, laying the cover back over his pack. Under the ramada, neatly arranged jars, baskets, and folds of hides were proof of his morning’s work. He called out, “Trader and I are taking a break. We will return after a rest.”
The people nodded and smiled. Some climbed to their feet; others remained sitting in the sun, happy for the chance to avoid their household chores. Most everyone had seen the goods, and most of the easily obtained pieces had been snatched up. When the Trade continued, it would be for the most valuable items, the ones that would necessitate a family or clan pooling their resources. It was an old game. Trade wasn’t the sort of thing that happened rapidly.
They walked slowly toward the stairway, Swimmer padding along beside Trader’s heel. At the steps they paused, seeing a warrior checking the posts that made up the two squares. He was inspecting the knots.
“Is someone going to be hung?” Trader asked.
“Two Albaamaha slaves that we found skulking in the forest.” The warrior frowned at the knots. “Mice like to chew the bindings. They crave the salt from sweat and blood. Once, when the lashing hadn’t been checked first, we hung a captured Yuchi, only to have the whole thing fall apart.” He gave them a wistful shrug. “I don’t think Power was impressed with us that day.”
“And the Yuchi?”
“Our Alikchi Hopaii set him free. We beat the Yuchi for good measure, then chased him naked from our lands with the promise that if he ever came back, we would double-check the knots before we tied him in the square.”
“Lucky Yuchi,” Old White said as they made the climb to the palisade gate, nodded to the guardian panthers, and stepped inside.
The shadowed great room was warm, its desultory fire burned down to coals. As they stepped in, it was to find two bound captives—an old man and a slim young woman—seated before Chief White Bear’s stool. To one side stood Great Cougar, his war club in his hand, a scowl on his face. At White Bear’s right sat his sister, Clay Bell. The Red Arrow clan matron was a gray-haired woman, her face lined with age. The faded tattoos around her mouth and chin were nothing more than smudged dots.
She nodded to the Traders, then turned her wary eyes back to the Albaamaha prisoners.
To Trader’s surprise, Two Petals was sitting bolt upright on her bed, feet firmly planted on the floor. She had fixed her knowing eyes on the captives. From time to time, the young Albaamo woman turned, meeting Two Petals’ gaze. In that instant, time seemed to slow. Trader shook it off and walked over to seat himself beside the Contrary.
“What’s happening?”
She shook her head. “They speak so fluently in Trade Tongue, I can understand everything.”
Trader studied the captives, then looked at Great Cougar. The man was caressing his war club, and from the red bruises on the old Albaamo man’s naked shoulders, he’d used it a time or two.