“No one can find this Paunch. His entire family has vanished like smoke.” Flying Hawk scrubbed his face. “I’d give a copper gorget to find whoever warned him.”
“There is always his lineage. If we put the coals to some cousin’s balls, I bet he’d sing loud and hard. Then he’d tell us where Paunch went to, or at least who would know.”
Flying Hawk ducked his head, rinsed his face, and sputtered as he wiped the water away. “I considered that. Too much chance of spreading animosity. We’d get too many innocent … Correct that. We’d get too many who weren’t part of the plot. Doing so would just incite their relatives and drive more Albaamaha into the ranks of the dissatisfied.”
“We have to do something.”
“In time, War Chief. For the moment, the Albaamaha are satisfied. We have done what we are supposed to: We killed the people who killed their people. And, you did it in a most impressive manner. Any doubts the Albaamaha had about our strength, cunning, and prowess are laid to rest. The tishu minko has had warriors seeing to the redistribution of food to Alligator Town. Depending on the length of the winter, some bellies might be pinched, but we’ll do what we can.” He wagged a finger back and forth. “Even if it means emptying some of our own granaries to put food in Albaamaha bellies.”
“And the traitor?”
Flying Hawk studied him with keen eyes. “You want him, don’t you?”
Smoke Shield narrowed his eyes. “He could have gotten us all killed. He could have spoiled everything.”
“Ah. Then I give him to you. Find him and do what you will with him. But quietly, Smoke Shield. I said, quietly. You’re the clever plotter. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t set off the Albaamaha in the process.”
Smoke Shield grinned. Oh, this would be grand fun. “What do you think about this Red Awl? I’ve always had my suspicions about him.”
“Why not Amber Bead, if you’re going to look that close to the Council?” Flying Hawk wiped water from his face.
“I think he’s an old fool. He has been part of us for so long, I think he considers himself half Sky Hand. No, if I had to choose between the two of them, I’d suspect Red Awl.”
“Just be careful.”
“Always.” Smoke Shield cupped water in his hands to rinse the last of the sand away. Then he stood and sloshed to shore, using the blanket to dry himself. He fought shivers as he wrapped his clothing around him. How odd. He should be tingling with excitement. Instead, a calm assurance possessed him. Had that come with age? Or the knowledge that now, having won, he could take his time, anticipate every delightful joy that Morning Dew was going to provide him?
And then there was the matter of the traitor. That would take some thought. Hate it though Smoke Shield might, Uncle was right: It would have been far better to have kept Crabapple alive for the moment.
He watched Uncle dry and dress himself. Only when one saw him naked like this, shorn of his finery, did the old man seem frail. Skin sagged from muscles gone slack. The old man’s ribs could be seen, and his belly had sagged. Not like on some, but it hung out far enough to hide his genitals. The legs, once muscular, looked more like desiccated juniper, curving and angular.
Someday soon, I will be high minko. And when he was, changes would be made. Certain members of the Council had served beyond their time. And yes, Uncle might counsel patience for the moment, but there was no reason Sky Hand chiefs couldn’t eventually sit atop Chahta mounds. And I will appoint them.
What was hereditary leadership for, if not to use?
He turned, staring up the trail where yellowish sandy dirt was exposed in the cuts. How much time would Thin Branch need? From long experience the slave would see to the chamber pot, fire, and feast first. Only when he knew everything was just so would he send for the slave.
When she arrived, he would be waiting.
“War Chief,” Flying Hawk said after he draped the buffalo hide over his shoulders, “I was thinking. About the—”
“Uncle, if you will excuse me, I have to go.”
“I see.” Flying Hawk was watching him through knowing black eyes.
Smoke Shield turned. As quickly as the excitement built he was on his way, legs pumping as he started up the trail to the great mound.
He cast a glance back, aware that Uncle was still watching him. The old man’s sharp gaze had never wavered. He knew that look. It had always communicated disapproval.
Twenty-one
Sunset cast dying light over Split Sky City. The palaces, high atop their mounds, glowed in the ruddy light. Smoke from a thousand fires rose into the still air, creating a haze. A chill had spilled over the city, rolling down from a cloud bank in the north. The high thunderheads had been painted with yellow, orange, and deeper purples.