“Time? Time for what?” He hated it when she did that.
“Time for us to meet them.”
“Them? Them who?”
“My sister comes,” she said reasonably.
He stared at her across the tiny fire. It put out just enough heat to boil the stew, not enough smoke to be seen, and the smell of it would be carried out over the valley in a way that wouldn’t alert any snooping warriors to their presence.
“Just once couldn’t you say straight out what you mean?”
“I always say it straight.” Her eyes seemed to expand. “You just aren’t ready to listen yet.”
“Try me.”
“When the time is right, I will.” She turned her head, looking to the north. “You are hearing with a clarity you have not had for a long time. Soon you will hear without letting your passions get in the way.”
He shot her a nervous glance. “My passions are just fine, thank you. I only hope that no one has placed any blame on Amber Bead.”
“He must be who he is.”
“As if he could be anyone else.”
“Oh, he could be. It’s just that he won’t.”
He grumbled to himself, wishing for a warm house and a bowl brimming to the top with squash, corn, and sunflowers simmering in a venison broth.
Thirty-two
Smoke Shield dabbed at his lip and made a face. The bite was healing; the scab starting to itch and peel. He glanced around at the fourteen chiefs who sat around the tchkofa fire. Twice a year the chiefs made the journey from their towns along the river to Split Sky City: once in the Moon of Greening Corn for the Busk, and then again for the winter solstice. This was their opportunity to air grievances, to collaborate on the divisions of labor necessary for town projects, to hear the high minko’s plans for the next six moons, and most important, to settle disputes.
Smoke Shield found the proceedings boring.
Flying Hawk had the floor and had disposed of several of the topics he wished to address.
“Finally,” Flying Hawk said, “we must discuss the condition of the Split Sky palisade. Many of the pine logs are rotted out. We have six sections that are in need of replacement.”
Groans came from the surrounding chiefs.
Flying Hawk made a calming gesture with his hands. “Yes, I know. The stocks of mature pitch pine have been already harvested from the surrounding forests. One of the tishu minko’s clansmen who understands such things has made a survey of the local pitch pine. He thinks only one-third of the necessary poles can be obtained from the pine groves. The other two-thirds, over two hundred logs, must come from somewhere else.”
“Where is the best stand?” Wildcat, from Great Corn Town, asked.
“The tishu minko’s cousin thinks that a stand in the hills below Alligator Town is the best source. The trees need to be felled, limbed, and carried down to the river. He figures it will take a crew of twelve men per tree a half day to fell, limb, and slide the logs down to the river. Then they have to be floated upstream. With five hundred workers we could do this in three weeks from the harvesting of the trees to their delivery here.”
The chiefs looked uneasily at each other.
“Assuming Split Sky could send two hundred and fifty Albaamaha, each of the towns would have to contribute somewhere around ten to fifteen men each, depending upon their populations.”
Wildcat frowned. “High Minko, you must know, the Albaamaha are going to resist sending that many men away for hard labor. If we have problems with weather, it could turn into over a moon away from their families.”
“And we are already looking at food shortages,” War Squirrel, the new chief of Alligator Town, added. “I am the first one here to know the advantage of good fortifications given what we just suffered, but, High Minko, can the palisades last another year? If so, it would reduce the strain on both the food resources as well as the political situation with the Albaamaha.”
Smoke Shield cleared his throat and stepped forward before Flying Hawk could find some way to avoid recognizing him. “The Albaamaha do not need to be treated as if they are somehow special. We tell them to send workers, and they send them. Or else.” He looked at the chiefs, one by one. “Somewhere along the line we have forgotten that the Albaamaha serve us. They are not here to send messengers to the enemy, or kill our captives under our noses. We tell them what to do, and they do it.”
Sun Falcon Mankiller, chief of Bowl Town, stood. “War Chief, perhaps you are unaware of feelings among the Albaamaha. Even as I was leaving, rumors were flying around the Albaamaha farmsteads in my territory. Stories that Red Awl—who comes from our town—was lured away, captured, and killed. I did not have time to discuss this with my Albaamaha chiefs to determine the source, but if there is any validity to it, I face a terrible problem.”