The Broken Land(56)

Ohsinoh must have moved, stepped closer, for the bar of light had moved from his chest to his face, where it glowed brilliantly off the white paint. The terrifying thing was that Atotarho had not seen him move. Shock froze his blood. To hide it, he clenched his fist on his walking stick. “If you will not sit, then let’s get on with our discussion. You accomplished the task well.”

“Have I ever failed?”

Atotarho reached beneath his cape, pulled open the ties on his belt pouch, and drew out a small bag of pearls. “Here is the remainder.” He held it out.

Atotarho had the momentary impression of amusement dancing behind Ohsinoh’s eyes. The man made no move to take the bag and was strangely immobile. Atotarho noticed for the first time the shell ring on one of Ohsinoh’s thick fingers, and the fact that the man’s earlobes had been stretched for earspools—though he wore none tonight.

Atotarho threw the bag at his feet. “There. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. Now, I wish to speak with you about another matter.”

Ohsinoh looked down at the bag, as though some brief moral struggle was going on inside him. Then he bent to retrieve it and tucked it into his belt pouch. “What matter?”

“There is a war chief who’s becoming a problem. Actually, he’s been a problem for some time. I need the problem to go away.”

The strange eyes held his. There was no movement in them, no expression at all, as though they were shiny obsidian beads. He regarded Atotarho with his head to one side. “Go away?”

“Yes.”

“You want him dead?”

“Not necessarily, just … compliant.”

The man’s soft laughter was little more than the pushing of air. “But you have not ruled out murder.”

“Not if he continues to be a problem, no. But I decide when that moment has arrived.”

The long hair over Ohsinoh’s cape snagged the bluebird feathers as he faintly shook his head, the gesture almost not there. “Then you just wish me to kill his heart, is that it? Take the fire from his words?”

“That would be acceptable.”

“Killing a man’s heart is more dangerous than destroying a village, and more difficult. What are you offering?”

“What do you want?”

The white painted lips smiled, but nothing else moved. “Who is this man?”

Atotarho shifted on the ice-cold rock, pulling his cape closed beneath his chin. He swore the air had grown colder. “War Chief Hiyawento. He’s currently vulnerable, alone, out on the trail headed for Bur Oak Village. So you must act quickly.”

Ohsinoh chucked. He didn’t say anything for a time. “Do you care how I kill his heart?”

Atotarho waved a hand. “Just make certain it cannot be tied to me.”

Ohsinoh walked forward, his stride oddly weightless. When less than two paces distant, he bent down, his white face glowing in the moonlight, and peered directly into Atotarho’s eyes. His gaze was snakelike, almost hypnotic. Atotarho couldn’t look away.

“The last Trader who was here, that filthy little beast from the Flint People, Tagosah, told me you Traded with him for many sheets of pounded copper from the Islanders’ Confederacy. I want them all.”

The Islanders lived north of Skanodario Lake. Their country was surrounded on three sides by huge lakes. The Islanders believed their world was an island floating in a vast primordial sea. Their confederacy was made up of four powerful nations, and they had Trade networks that spanned far greater distances than those of the People of the Hills. One of their networks brought them precious beautiful copper, which when properly worked, became magnificent pendants, bracelets, or breastplates. Each piece was worth a fortune.

“If you do the job well, what you ask is possible.”

Ohsinoh’s eyes narrowed. When he finally straightened up and turned away to gaze out into the dark trees, Atotarho subtly vented the breath he’d been holding.

“He is a skilled warrior. A very dangerous man. Getting close enough to shoot a charm into him will not be easy. I want half the plates in advance.”

Atotarho propped a hand on the rock and used his walking stick to shove to his feet. Ohsinoh seemed to be studying his hunched back and crooked body; then his gaze shifted to where Atotarho’s fingers clutched the head of his walking stick, perhaps studying the eyes tattooed on his fingertips … perhaps thinking they resembled knotted rawhide. “Shall I have it delivered to the usual place?”

Ohsinoh’s head dipped in a nod. “And soon.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, before Elder Brother Sun wakes.”

Atotarho lightly pounded his walking stick on the ground before he asked, “One last thing. What have you heard about Sky Messenger?”