“High Minko? Is something wrong?” Black Hand called from the doorway.
“The high minko is attacked!” Smoke Shield bellowed before Flying Hawk could gather his wits. “Quickly! Run and fetch the Hopaye! Go now, man! Hurry!”
Black Hand turned and vanished.
“But, I am not wounded.”
Smoke Shield bent down, peering into his eyes. “It will have to be a flesh wound, enough of a gash to enrage our people.”
“Why?” He was shaking his head. Green Snake? He is alive among the Yuchi? Coming home, after all these years?
“Because we were looking for a reason to make war on the Yuchi, remember?”
The Yuchi? I thought we wanted them to attack the Chahta.
Smoke Shield closed his eyes as if struggling for control, his shoulders trembling. “Green Snake! Gods, what evil is he spinning against us?” Flying Hawk could hear the man’s teeth grinding. “Why now, of all times?”
“He still lives,” Flying Hawk whispered. “After all these years without word . . .” He glanced at Smoke Shield. “I honestly had come to believe that you killed him that night. That somehow you had hidden his body.”
“I only wish, Uncle.”
“Green Snake lives.”
“No!” Smoke Shield thrust a hard finger in emphasis. “You will say nothing of this. Not yet. This is our secret, Uncle. No one is to know until the time is right.”
The smoldering anger in Smoke Shield’s eyes was warning enough. He’s thinking of killing me. Blaming it on the Yuchi. “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Fear focused his wits. “Quickly, go through the Yuchi’s things. Yes, there, that knife. Someone will be here soon.” He pointed. “Here, across the chest.” He met Smoke Shield’s hot eyes. “But not too deeply, Nephew, or I shall scream loudly enough that they will know I died long after the Yuchi did.”
A faint smile crossed Smoke Shield’s lips. “Does that mean you don’t trust me, Uncle?”
“You shall be high minko soon enough without rushing things along. Crushing the Chahta will leave no opposition to your confirmation.”
The slash was lightning fast. It didn’t even begin to sting until Flying Hawk looked down. Blood was welling from a deep but clean cut across his breast.
Oh, yes, we shall have our warriors. Once again, Power has played right into Smoke Shield’s hands.
Flying Hawk considered, a slow smile growing. “I am glad I am not your enemy.”
“Yes, Uncle. I know.”
Then feet pounded outside, accompanied by rising shouts. Flying Hawk looked at the dead Yuchi. The man’s blood was soaking the white arrow. He came here under the white Power of peace. May Breath Maker help me. What have we brought down on ourselves?
But then Flying Hawk had no time to worry about offended Power. He looked up to see the great room filling with angry people.
“Yuchi treachery!” Smoke Shield bellowed. “The high minko is wounded!”
As Flying Hawk was lifted, he thought, Green Snake is alive!
But what did it mean?
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, as though the heavens were enraged.
Homecoming was not what Old White had anticipated. They rounded the final bend to see Sky Hand City rising at the end of a southerly loop of the Black Warrior, its high palaces obscured by sheets of falling rain. The gray skies continued to pelt them with the misty downfall. Even Paunch put his back to the paddle, anxious to reach the shelter of the ramadas at the canoe landing.
All those years of deserts, forests, mountains, and seacoasts, and here he was, wet, cold, and miserable, wishing only to reach that place and stand under a shelter with a fire to warm and dry his old bones.
They followed the backwaters, catching occasional glimpses of farmsteads where the roofs could be seen above the banks. Then Trader’s canoe pulled ahead, angling across the lazy current toward shore. Two Petals, sitting backward, looked glum under a bark rain hat. Swimmer, perched high atop the forward packs, appeared more like a drowned wood rat than a dog.
Old White and Paunch dug in with their pointed paddles, shooting their craft across rain-stippled waters to the bank.
Home. “Gods,” he mumbled, shivering. “Get me out of here.”
Trader stepped over to offer him a hand. Old White’s cramped legs almost folded under him. He braced himself on the gunwale. “Just a moment. Let me get some blood back in my legs.”
“Paunch,” Trader ordered, “move those packs up to that ramada there. No one seems to be using it for the moment.”
Two Petals was looking around the landing, seeing the long rows of canoes, some inverted to keep the rain out. Irregularly placed ramadas had been built for just such occasions as this. Most had packs, baskets, jars, and other wares beneath. Under a few, people were tending fires, avoiding the leaks in the roofs and staring out at the rain and the newcomers.