“Beginnings and endings are always the same.”
“Gods,” Trader muttered. “You’re making as much sense as the Contrary.”
“Yes. I know.” He listened to his knees crack as he knelt down to the growing fire. Its heat soothed his fingers. Within moments, they were all crouched over the flame, letting the heat and smoke battle the chill.
Old White watched as Trader—ever vigilant about such things—finally straightened, picking through the packs and opening the precious furs. One by one, he sorted them, taking any that were damp and laying them out to dry before they could mold.
There lay the most valuable of their wealth, outside of the metals. Skins of wolverine, two arctic foxes, northern beaver, lynx, and pine marten. They had been well tanned, pressed, and, so far, had made the trip in perfect condition. Then Trader opened yet another pack, one Old White hadn’t seen. He stared in disbelief. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Something called ivory.” Trader lifted one of the two large teeth. “They were Traded down to the freshwater lakes along with the white fox skins. The Trader was from a northern forest people.” Trader looked at the tusks, and shrugged. “He said they could be carved. I just hope these Chikosi are smart enough to know what they’re worth.”
“We’re not supposed to say Chikosi. It’s derogatory.” Old White shook his head. “That ivory you hold, it comes from one of those walruses I was telling you about. And yes, they can be carved. Worked with the same tools as people use on stone.”
He cocked his head. Had any Trader ever brought wealth like this to the Sky Hand? He glanced at the square fabric covering the war medicine. “We should make sure the box doesn’t warp. It’s waxed, but this is a pretty hard rain. You might want to dry it before curious eyes come peeking this way.”
Trader muttered, glanced surreptitiously around, and removed the cloth bag from the copper-heavy box. He found a moderately dry cloth and soaked pooled water from the hollows of the engraving. Then they held the protective fabric over the fire, drying it.
Only after ensuring that all of their Trade was safe did they resume their huddled stance over the fire, hands out to the crackling flames. For a long time they were silent, each locked in his thoughts.
Trader finally mused, “So Great Cougar is coming with a war party, Born-of-Sun will be coming with a war party, and no one knows but us. What kind of joke is Power playing on us?”
Two Petals laughed softly, but said nothing.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Old White decided. “But perhaps the storm was a gift. No one has seen us arrive, and the people are distracted. We couldn’t ask for a better way to come home. We have time to blend in before anyone comes looking for us.”
Swimmer picked that moment to shake from nose to tail, spraying them with water.
People packed shoulder to shoulder inside the tchkofa—and these were just the chiefs and high-ranking personages who had been readily at hand. A great fire burned in the hearth, sending sparks toward the high smoke hole. Rain battled the heat, showering down from the opening, hissing as it met its adversary. Occasional gusts sent droplets this way and that, to sprinkle the occupants.
People tended to crowd back, away from the fire’s heat and unpredictable rain, making the press in the rear even more unbearable.
Pale Cat stood beside Night Star, trying to find some rational explanation to this sudden change of events. He glanced behind him, seeing Heron Wing, her damp hair hanging in strings over the shoulders of her wet dress. Her expression was pinched, concern behind her eyes.
Smoke Shield pranced out, unflinching as raindrops turned his way. A terrible rage seemed to fire his gaze as he glanced about the room. “The high minko could have been murdered! This is treachery most foul! And it was sent to us under a white arrow!” He lifted the bloody shaft, holding it up in the firelight for all to see. “The Yuchi weasels tried to assassinate our high minko! There can only be one response.”
War. Pale Cat glanced behind Smoke Shield to where Flying Hawk sat, his breast stitched by Pale Cat’s own hand. The cut had been deep, glancing off the bone in places. Flying Hawk would battle infection, and it would leave a nasty scar.
But something hadn’t been right. He could sense it. The fact was, Flying Hawk should have been enraged, but instead he simply sat like a lump. The man had appeared dazed, not even flinching as Pale Cat drove his copper needle into Flying Hawk’s flesh and closed the wound. As if numb, the high minko had stared off into the distance, seeing something long gone and wistfully lost.