“When you lose,” Born-of-Sun said seriously as he measured a hand’s breadth between his lance and stone, “you would be most welcome to Trade out of Rainbow City. Sometimes that gets in a man’s blood. I think it is in yours. You will always have a base here. I would be happy to have you come and go as you pleased. Consider yourself to be my agent, if you will. It would be good to have someone I trusted bring me information on other chiefs in other lands.”
“When I win, I will be happy to send runners to you every now and then. There will be problems between the Chikosi and the Tsoyaha. Not because we wish them, but because that is just the nature of people. When those problems occur, I would see us meet, discuss them, and find a solution that didn’t involve war parties, bloodshed, and retaliation.”
Born-of-Sun pulled his lance from the ground and picked up his stone. “I have several female cousins who are coming of age, and another, older, who was recently widowed. Perhaps I should introduce you. When Rainbow City becomes your home, it would be good to have a wife to make your life comfortable.”
“You’ve planned this right down to the last detail, haven’t you?”
Born-of-Sun looked back at Swimmer. “My brother has a black bitch. When she cycles again, we should put them together. By then I will be ready to raise another dog. I miss mine.”
Trader tried to judge their casts. “So far, I’m not sure either one of us is showing any advantage. Our casts seem to be particularly well matched.”
“And, I think, so are we.” Born-of-Sun looked up at the lightening sky. “I have to go now. On this very sacred day I must make my greetings to Mother Sun as she appears over the horizon. But I want you to think of this, Trader: Power brought you here to me under auspicious signs. Perhaps Rainbow City is truly where your destiny lies. Whatever will happen among the Sky Hand, you have no guarantees that you will survive it. As to the Contrary, I have heard that the Kala Hi’ki has been making good progress teaching her how to handle her Powers. She would be welcome among us, and we could care for her special needs. The Kala Hi’ki is old, and I think his wounds weaken him more with every passing season. The Seeker, too, would find a place among us, treasured for his knowledge of foreign peoples and events.” He glanced at Trader. “Perhaps, when we play for real at high sun, your hand might tremble just the slightest. Should you lose by no more than a finger’s width, you know what people will say.”
With that, Born-of-Sun gave a knowing smile, turned, and trotted toward the palace ramp to prepare his ritual greeting of the sunrise.
“If I lose by a finger width,” Trader mused as he bent to pet Swimmer, “people will say it was a close decision, made by Power, between perfectly matched equals.”
Morning Dew panted for breath, squeezing through the press of bodies like an eel through swamp grass. Didn’t these stupid Chikosi know anything? Scores were never made while being squeezed in the middle of a pile. The ones who scored were the fast ones on the outside. She broke free of the morass of pressing, kicking bodies and trotted backward, eyes on the mass of battling women.
“Go south!” Heron Wing called.
Morning Dew shot her a quick glance, understanding immediately. The south was unprotected, only a few Old Camp Moiety women there, and those the fat ones, out of breath, who didn’t like the notion of fighting for the ball.
Morning Dew turned, sprinting in that direction, her racquets clutched in her hands.
This is madness!
But then she had stared dumbfounded that morning when Heron Wing handed her two well-made stickball racquets crafted of fine hickory. “You do know how to use these, don’t you?” Heron Wing had asked, as if she already knew the answer.
I am Chahta, of the White Arrow Moiety. My mother’s blood runs in my veins, Morning Dew had asserted in her head as she took the racquets. What sort of matron would I be if I didn’t? More to the fact, she was Sweet Smoke’s daughter; and no woman descended from her mother’s loins could help but be trained in the use of stickball racquets. From the time Morning Dew could walk her mother had insisted that she not only know the game, but excel. “You will be the matron one day. Part of earning the people’s respect is being among the best.”
As a child she had had hours of practice and had been a cherished player in her moiety’s girls’ team. The women had cheered at the knowledge that she would be joining their ranks after her emergence from the Women’s House.
And now, here I am, playing for the Chikosi.
“You are a slave,” Heron Wing had said wryly, a secret amusement behind her expression. “Affiliated with our moiety. And, given the pitiful performance of our men this morning, we can use all the help we can get.” With that, Heron Wing had given Morning Dew’s body a careful appraisal. “I am hoping that you carry your clan’s legacy.” Then she had winked. “Let’s see if you can show us a thing or two.”