“Though no one can find their trail.”
“Odd, isn’t it, that they seemed to simply disappear from the land?”
Flying Hawk watched him with flat, emotionless eyes. “Someone will talk.”
Smoke Shield shook his head. “Even the ghosts of the slain Albaamaha think they were killed by Chahta. As to my warriors, they have their own reasons to keep their tongues. These are men who followed me into White Arrow Town. They fully understand the Albaamaha threat. They understand the gravity of our situation here.”
Flying Hawk vented his irritation with a clenched fist. “You play with fire!”
“And I put it out with my piss when I am done.” Smoke Shield glared at the man. “The green shoot that started up when the Albaamaha sent that courier to warn the Chahta has been clipped off short. No leaves will sprout from this, Uncle. The Albaamaha have been paid back for the murder of the captives. They have been given a lesson on our strength and prowess. No one can lay this at the doorstep of the Sky Hand; meanwhile the plotters among the Albaamaha know that there is a price to be paid for treachery. Those who were innocent have been reminded that only our warriors stand between them and the enemy.”
“As long as none of your warriors talk.”
“They are my picked men. Their loyalty is to their people. But it would harm nothing if upon their leaving the Men’s House, their high minko rewarded their dedication to the people with a grand feast and gifts.”
“That will be done.”
“Good.” Smoke Shield smiled. “Because, Uncle, you have a stake in this, too. Each and every one of those warriors believe down in their souls that this Chahta raid was done with your blessing. They think you ordered it.”
Flying Hawk gave him a chilling look. “And why would they think that?”
“Because that’s what I told them.”
Flying Hawk was no one’s fool. He understood very well the trap Smoke Shield had laid for him. Wearily, he said, “Very well, I will go and make my report to the Council.” Flying Hawk pointed a finger. “But if any of this turns sour, you are on your own. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Nothing will go wrong, Uncle.” He smiled, feeling Power hovering in the air around him. “Nothing can stand in my way now.”
Not even you.
Fourteen
Amber Bead sat before his hearth. His house was dark—the fire burned down to coals. He watched the draft coming in from the door cast different patterns in the coals.
Flying Hawk had dismissed the Council after making his report. Warriors had combed the country to the west, some even skirmishing with the Chahta scouts watching vigilantly on their side of the divide, but no one had found the route taken by the raiders.
Twenty-three of my people are dead. The knowledge was like a splinter under the skin. It was as if the Chahta had known exactly where to strike. And then they killed Fast Legs and his captors.
Hearing that had been like a stab, followed by curious relief. Perhaps Power had balanced, removing his people’s greatest asset and threat, while claiming twenty-three lives as payment. Fast Legs would never reveal what had been done to Red Awl. That spear of revenge had been forever broken, and with it any possibility of an Albaamaha uprising stemming from Red Awl’s blood.
“A disaster averted, an opportunity lost.” He pulled at the loose skin under his chin.
For the moment, his people’s ardor was cooled, damped in the blood of twenty-three victims. This night, in the farmsteads, people lay in their blankets, wondering when the Chahta would strike again; who would their victims be next time? In contrast, they had seen grim parties of Chikosi warriors trotting past, searching relentlessly for the intruders.
He stiffened at the soft scratching at his doorpost.
“Who is there?”
“Mikko?” a woman’s voice called.
“Come in.”
He watched as the door hanging was pulled back, and then a furtive figure slipped in. In the dim light he couldn’t make out the woman’s identity. She carried a fabric bag that hung down almost to her knees.
“Are you awake?”
“I am. Just sitting here. Thinking.”
The woman walked forward, bowing respectfully. Her hair was shorn, the sign of a recently made widow. Walking up, she laid the bag carefully on the matting and seated herself.
He squinted in the faint light. “Lotus Root?”
“Yes, Mikko.”
“By the Ancestors, where have you been?”
“Taking the long way here, avoiding Chikosi warriors.”
He could see that she was filthy, mud spattered, and exhausted. The pretty young woman he had once known had vanished, replaced by this hard-eyed creature. Bursting with questions, he instead reached for a bowl of beans and lotus root, placing it on three stones to warm.