The ground between the plaza and tall palisade to the east was packed with thatch-roofed houses, granaries, storerooms, ramadas, and hollowed-log mortars with their associated pestles. A thick veil of blue smoke rose from around the roofs to trail off to the south. Along with the smell of wood smoke came the odors of cooking food. Everyone was busy preparing for the winter solstice. The high point would be the stickball game between the moieties on the final day. Wagers were being cast, with the fortunes of entire clans bet on the outcome.
They passed the Chief Moiety Council House—a high building behind a low palisade. The mound it was constructed on was capped with blue clay that shone in the sunlight. Across the plaza, they could see its opposite, the Warrior Council House atop a similar yellow clay mound. Both structures had been built to impress, but not so much as the great mound rising on the northeast corner of the plaza.
The palace there was the grandest building in Rainbow City. The mound itself was huge, a jutting earthen construction finished in bright red clay that glistened in the sunlight. The palisade at its margins rose straight and true, allowing glimpses of the palace beyond. The high walls were similarly plastered in the bright red of the mound with a white stripe surrounding the walls, and visible just below the overhanging roof. The roof itself rose high into the sky, with effigies of Bear, Wolf, and Ivory-billed Woodpecker protruding from the gray thatch.
“Not as impressive as Cahokia,” Old White granted.
“Nothing is.” Trader looked around. “Nevertheless, it gives a person an entirely new perspective of the Yuchi. These are a strong and healthy people.”
“Most of the southern chiefdoms are.” Old White replied. “It makes a person wonder if the Spirit of Cahokia has moved to the south. As if somehow the Power has shifted this direction. Corn grows better here. The Caddo, Natchez, Chikosi, and Chaktaw seem to have inherited Cahokia’s heart.”
“Go away,” Trader said, shooing one of the growling local dogs who approached Swimmer with stiff legs, its back hair on end. “That’s it, Swimmer. Relax. We’re on our best behavior here. I don’t want to end up on a square just because you think you can whip some upstart Yuchi mongrel.”
“Speaking of which”—Old White pointed—“there they are. And, blessed be Power, you’re not hanging in one.”
A series of squares stood along the northern boundaries of the plaza just ahead of them. Off behind them were society houses on low mounds. And behind them rose the city palisade that clung to the edge of the steep bluff.
Trader walked over, running his fingers along one of the poles, staring thoughtfully at the stained wood, knowing full well what gave it that dark hue. “It was a close thing.”
“Perhaps,” Old White granted.
“You weren’t the object of the Kala Hi’ki’s wrath.”
“It was only a matter of removal. I am still Chikosi, even if I’ve been gone longer.”
“You are going to have to break yourself of the habit of calling our people Chikosi, assuming we ever make it there. It’s considered derogatory.”
“The Natchez call us the Chikaza. The Chahta are called Chaktaw. It will all become one someday.” Old White scratched his chin. “People are funny that way.”
“Are you going to tell me your terrible secret now that we’ve dodged the Yuchi arrow?”
“No.” Old White smiled. “Some secrets are best kept until the moment of greatest import. And who knows, we are not at our destination yet. I might die with it, leaving you forever perplexed. That notion entertains me immensely.”
“Your idea of amusement is seriously ill,” Trader said, straightening from his inspection of the square.
“Greetings!” a voice called from behind them. The burly war chief who had captured them on the river emerged from one of the buildings. He descended the wooden steps fronting the low mound, muscles bunching in his thick legs.
“Greetings, War Chief.” Old White gave him a slight nod. “You are well, I hope?”
“Well indeed.” He glanced at Trader as he approached. “And sleeping well despite the lack of Chikosi screams coming from the square.” He offered a slight bow. “Forgive me. I am not known for my tact. My people find that my other talents offset my brutish manners. I am Wolf Tail, war chief of the Tsoyaha. I ask you to understand my reluctance to name myself the other night. Were you to be witches or dangerous sorcerers, that knowledge might have given you something to fasten your magic upon and done me ill. I have had occasion to deal with witches in the past. It wasn’t pleasant.”