“Did you know them?”
“No. I’ve never seen them before, and believe me, you’d know that woman. I’ve never seen eyes like that. She wore an oddly cut dress.”
“Foreigners? Traders perhaps?”
Morning Dew wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know. Perhaps.” She stilled her hammering heart. “I just hope I never have to see her again. Once in a lifetime is enough.”
And those accursed squares have already cost me enough!
Nineteen
Trader sat in the sunlight before their house. Dealing with the endless thoughts, memories, and worries was like a whirlwind in his breast. Swimmer, sensing his disquiet, kept insisting that they play stick.
Trader would pitch it out, Swimmer charging after it, an occasional bark of joy bursting from him. The dog then leapt on the prize, turning, tossing the stick about and chomping it. As he pranced back—tail whipping back and forth—a look of pure glee shone in his eyes. Spitting the stick out at Trader’s feet, Swimmer would stare up with a hawkish intensity until Trader did the whole thing over again.
In the days after their arrival, Trader had spent most of his waking moments protecting his precious goods from the rain. During that time, he had little chance to consider the implications of where he was. Then they had moved, packing their load to the house. Now, for the first time, he had absolutely nothing to do but sit. Paunch was hiding inside, fearful that some passerby would stop, point, and scream at the top of his lungs, “There’s the traitor!”
Swimmer flung the stick at Trader’s feet. Or at least came as close as a dog could to flinging it. Now he crouched down, eyes fixed intently, his tufted ears pricked in anticipation. Even his whiskers were quivering.
“Don’t you ever give up?”
Swimmer tensed, quivering, eyes agleam, anticipating the throw as Trader picked up the chewed, slobbery stick and drew his arm back. Then Trader tossed it, sending it end over end. The dog’s feet hammered the ground like a running buffalo.
“So, here I am,” he mused. “And it’s entirely unlike I expected.” Nevertheless, he could feel his heart thumping with anticipation. He needed only scent the smoke, cooking food, the tang of the latrines, and the pungent aroma of the forest drifting in over the palisade to know that he was back.
What a difference he felt from that night he’d fled in panic. While he couldn’t remember the exact route he’d taken, it had been just over there, cutting past the corner of the Skunk Clan mound.
He looked up toward the high minko’s palace. “There, but for my brother’s plotting, I would be sitting today.” Except there would be no preparations for war with the Yuchi.
My fault. Why in the name of Power had he asked Born-of-Sun to send that messenger?
“How could I have known?” He glanced down as Swimmer dropped the stick on his foot.
What had changed since those heady days among the Yuchi? Some part of his courage had evaporated as he drew ever closer to Split Sky City.
A test? Perhaps. Power loved to test people, to see what they’d choose.
The problem was that nothing was working out like he’d planned. The idea had been to learn what the people were thinking, who was in charge, and then reveal himself in a grand show. He had imagined addressing the tchkofa, handing out wealth like some magical sorcerer, and seeing forgiveness in the eyes of his people. Instead, he was sitting in the sun, scared half to death at the prospect of facing anyone.
No, that was only part of it. The other part was knowing that Heron Wing was here, somewhere.
It’s been ten years. Why am I still terrified of seeing her? But he was. If she gave him the wrong look, it would be like driving an arrow straight through his breast.
I couldn’t stand that.
He should have been obsessed with Two Petals. He had never known a woman like her. Each night, she slipped into his blankets as soon as Old White had gone to sleep. She seemed obsessed. He simply couldn’t understand her desperation to please him. Insatiable. He made a face, amazed at the arts she had developed to coax his exhausted shaft into yet another frantic joining. In the moon since they had first lain together, she had developed techniques that brought him to a frenzy of release. Last night he’d almost bitten his tongue in two to keep from waking the others with his cries.
But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why she did it. It had nothing to do with love. When he awakened in the morning, she acted as if nothing had happened. He was just Trader, somehow peripheral to her life. Then, that night, she would become something else, another person.
“He’s a good dog.”
Trader looked up to see Squash Blossom walking over with another dish in her hands.