“Oh, no. You heard about her?”
“It was quite the topic of conversation among the Pensacola down at Bottle Town.”
“That’s a story, let me tell you. For a while she was Blood Skull’s, then she was Smoke Shield’s, and finally Heron Wing won her. Bet against her . . . What’s the matter? Something in the bread?”
Trader managed to swallow the mouthful, rasping. “No, bread’s fine.”
To cover himself, he bent down, pitching the stick so the woman couldn’t see his face. As carefully as possible, he asked, “So, some woman named Heron Wing has her?”
“Some woman?” Squash Blossom made a futile gesture. “She’s a clan leader among the Panther Clan. Her aunt is chief, the only female one we have. And a dwarf. You’ve seen dwarves?”
“There are more around than you would think.” He took a deep breath, trying to still his beating heart.
“Heron Wing is also married to the war chief. Though how any woman could put up with Smoke Shield is beyond me.”
Married? Well, what did you expect, you simple idiot? That she’d wait, pining for you for the rest of her life?
“What’s wrong with Smoke Shield?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as hoarse as he was.
“Personally—and you didn’t hear it from me—I think he’s the meanest man alive.”
Trader threw Swimmer’s stick. Unthinking, he pitched it with such power it sailed over the adjacent house roof. Swimmer fortunately lost sight of it, whirling, ears pricked, wondering where it went.
A distant clatter sounded. An angry voice shouted something obscene.
As they followed a very nervous Paunch through the growing gloom, Old White glanced at Trader. For reasons of his own, the younger man had insisted on taking his war club. Now, as they stepped out through the south gate, Trader seemed to relax, breathing easier.
“Are you all right?” Old White asked in Natchez.
“I’m just glad it’s a big city. Lots of people.”
“I’d really like to know what’s worrying you.” Old White had switched back to Trade Tongue.
“His heart,” Two Petals replied. “It’s the very beating of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Bless the Spirits that I don’t fall in love. Makes a man lose his focus. Like watching the world through water.”
Love? Old White glanced at Trader, seeing him well enough in the gloom to know disgusted irritation when he saw it. In Natchez, he asked, “Who is she?”
“No one.”
“Ah, I see. So that’s why you’ve been so peculiar since we’ve come home. Is there anything I need to know about her?”
“She currently owns Morning Dew. You’re going to have to approach her if we’re going to Trade for her.”
“I am going to have to approach her?” Old White smiled and sighed. “For a single man, Trader, you seem to have the most interesting entanglements with women. Is there a reason this one is such a problem for you?”
“I was to marry her.”
Love . . . and an unfulfilled marriage. He could see Trader’s upset in the bunched muscles of his shoulders. The man was flicking the heavy war club as if it were a willow wand.
“All in time, Trader. That was the distant past.”
“Turns out she’s married to this Smoke Shield. The war chief everyone talks about.”
Old White bit off a curse. He still hadn’t found the right situation to tell Trader what he suspected. But certainly, he wouldn’t do it now, not in advance of such an important meeting.
“If you would prefer, I will approach her.”
“It would make my life easier.”
“But someday, if you stay here . . .”
“That’s for another time, Seeker.”
“What are you babbling about?” Paunch asked anxiously. “That turkey talk is driving me crazy! You’re not going to do that in front of the mikko, are you? He’s going to be suspicious enough as it is!”
“Our apologies, Paunch,” Old White soothed. “It was personal business between Trader and me.”
They were making their way past Albaamaha houses, most with dormant gardens. The way wound through the village. Occasional dogs barked at them, and now and then a person would look out, sometimes calling a name, as if expecting someone who was late.
“This way.” Paunch led them to one side, stopping before a large house set off from the others.
“This is it?” Old White asked.
“Yes.” Paunch stepped forward, scratching at the door. “Mikko?” he whispered. “Are you there?”
“Who comes?” The voice was strained, as if worried at the interruption.