“You heard the Council.” Flying Hawk’s words lingered like the bitter taste of juniper berries. “You heard me. I am your high minko. We will wait, learn what we can, and then act. In the meantime, I do not want you kicking the Albaamaha anthill.”
“Oh, no, Uncle,” he whispered to himself. “But you did once tell me that the Albaamo traitor and the mysterious Paunch were mine to hunt.”
Hunt him, Smoke Shield would. In that process, who knew what might be uncovered?
Memories of the Council session replayed between his souls. They had humiliated him. To be sure, it was done with the Council’s usual polite tact, but they had thrown his insight to the dogs. How soon they forget. The victory at White Arrow Town was a thing of rapidly fading memory.
“How did I get in this position?” He frowned at the gray day. Once given, the high minko’s word was final. That the Council had gained such authority over the years was a weakness. How could a people maintain their strength if they succumbed to the notions of six different chiefs in addition to the high minko? That led the people in six different directions. In this case, they were pandering to the Albaamaha—the same Albaamaha who were plotting to cut their throats.
He frowned up at the scudding clouds. Flying Hawk would not be high minko for much longer. The man was old. The years now weighed heavily on him. Where had the fiery Flying Hawk Mankiller that Smoke Shield had once known gone to? He remembered his uncle stamping furiously around the palace. And, in those days of rage, people listened, nodded, and obeyed.
I always wanted to be like him: Strong. Sure of myself. Well, now I am. But what has become of him?
Leadership had faltered in the days after the great fire. Flying Hawk and his brother had been little more than boys. A cousin, Fire Sky, had been made high minko. He had been chosen because he was weak, easily manipulated. It was during his rule that authority had shifted to the Council. Then Flying Hawk had killed his brother. For years after he had finally come of age, the Council had rejected him for high minko. Only after a daring defense of Split Sky City, when Flying Hawk destroyed most of a Yuchi war party and captured their war chief, had Flying Hawk finally been considered for the position. That, and they were running out of old men in the Chief Clan to fill the position.
The Council didn’t want strong leaders sitting on the high minko’s chair. Only after offering assurances had Flying Hawk finally been installed as high minko. The Council had considered him as a short-term solution.
They wanted my brother. The memory stung Smoke Shield. He reached up to finger the deep scar in the side of his face, remembering the blow that had come with such fury. How he had tried to duck, realizing too late he had pushed too far.
For four days he had lain, his souls fluttering away into nothingness before returning to his body. Then had come the slow healing. He chuckled hollowly. All his plotting, his carefully laid schemes, and in the end all it had taken was a blow to the head. When he finally came to, it was to inherit everything that was due him.
He considered Flying Hawk. Was the old man still on his side? The Council session left him wondering. Gods, what could his uncle be thinking? Why—in the wake of Smoke Shield’s success against White Arrow Town—would the old man turn against him now?
A low chirp sounded in the cane.
Smoke Shield cupped hands around his mouth and chirped back, sounding like a mockingbird.
A canoe edged around the bend, Fast Legs paddling slowly forward. “War Chief,” he greeted softly.
“Is all ready?”
“It is. I found a stupid Albaamo farmer to deliver the message. Red Awl was packing when I left. If I’m any judge, he’s already headed upriver.”
“Then we should position ourselves. We don’t want to miss him.”
“Yes, War Chief.” Fast Legs glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re sure he had something to do with the traitor?”
“I have my sources. I am looking forward to speaking with Red Awl. Being the good Albaamo that he is, he’ll welcome our company on the way upriver. Then, at Clay Bank Crossing, we order him to shore. Most of the hunting parties have trickled back from the high country. Sandstone Camp will be secluded enough for our little visit.”
Fast Legs glanced up at the sky. “This weather is closing in. We’ll have a little cold rain, then who knows? Snow?”
“That will be fine.” Smoke Shield reached for his paddle. “Come, we don’t want to miss the loyal Red Awl when he passes.”
They took positions at the mouth of the backwater.
Smoke Shield could feel the cold settling on the river; a worried breeze blew down from the north. Rippling waves marched across the swirling water.