People of the Morning Star (18 page)

The same for Matron Round Pot at River Mounds City. Next to Columella, Matron Round Pot would have had the most to gain. But again, Blue Heron was aware of no machinations that would hint at the woman’s readiness to take advantage of the ensuing chaos. The signs would have been evident: accumulations of warriors; actions that would have raised her profile; feasts to increase her prestige among the other lineages, or feelers for support.

A yell went up. Blue Heron resettled herself on her litter and returned her attention to the stickball practice. Around her, her attendants shouted support and applauded with glee.

In the middle of the field fifty-some women battled ferociously. Naked to the waist, only short skirts clung to their hips. Night Shadow Star’s team wore red, the opposition black. A melee developed as the two teams struggled for control of the ball. Racquets clattered, long black hair flew as women collided. The hollow thumps of blows carried across the morning grass. Someone bellowed in pain.

The few rules were simple: An opponent couldn’t be struck with a racquet or hand; and a player couldn’t use her hands to so much as touch the ball, let alone catch or throw it. Anything else, including head-butts, body blocks, tripping, kicking, and elbowing, were legal. Black eyes, bloody noses, dislocated joints, sprains, and broken bones were normal. On occasion a dead player was carried straight to his clan’s charnel house when Power completely abandoned him.

The object was even simpler: toss the ball between the two tall goal posts at the end of the opposing side’s field.

Someone screamed in triumph; the crush of women broke apart. Breasts bouncing, feet hammering the ground, the red team charged forward. Sunlight glistened on muscular brown legs as the women sprinted. Night Shadow Star, the ball in the pocket of her right-hand racquet, sought to circle to the side, seeking an open player.

The blacks responded with shouts as they surged her way. Night Shadow Star’s arm went back, and twisting her body, she flung the ball. Blue Heron watched it arc through the air, bounce. A red-clad woman who had slipped around the mass on the east snared it with her racquet and sprinted south toward the goal that stood below the Four Winds Clan charnel house and burial mound.

Yes, that was Pretty Corn, a Snapping Turtle Clan woman from a farmstead over by Petaga’s tomb. She excelled at stickball, lived for it, and played almost as well as Night Shadow Star.

“It’s good to see the lady playing again,” Smooth Pebble noted. “If you ask me, she hasn’t lost her keen edge.”

“Given her close brush with the Spirit world, it’s a miracle,” Blue Heron agreed as she watched Pretty Corn’s flying heels, the horde of women racing in her wake.

From the angle, Blue Heron couldn’t see how it ended, but a shout went up from the reds, racquets clacking in celebration. The blacks bellowed in dismay.

“That’s the final score,” Smooth Pebble cried. “I win!” And promptly she trotted a couple of steps to claim the long-necked pitcher she’d wagered for with an Eagle Clan man.

The women broke into clumps, slapping one another on the backs, banging their racquets together.

Moments later, Night Shadow Star emerged from the mass and came trotting across the flattened grass, her two racquets glinting in the sun.

Blue Heron watched her approach. The muscles in her niece’s tight belly tensed with each stride. Long legs ate away the distance. Her black hair caught the wind, flipping behind her like a raven’s wing.

“Aunt,” she greeted, panting. She stopped before Blue Heron to brace her hands on her knees, lungs heaving as she caught her breath.

“Good game. You won by how many?”

“Two. It was only a practice.” She straightened and tossed her hair back. Filling her lungs with air, she exhaled and wiped at the sweat that beaded on her face. “That Pretty Corn, I’d like another ten of her kind.”

Blue Heron glanced at Smooth Pebble who’d returned with her pitcher, a beautifully burnished brownware piece of southern manufacture. “If you would be so kind, the lady and I need to talk.”

Smooth Pebble touched her forehead, and with a few gestures of her hands, formed the rest of Blue Heron’s servants and carriers into a loose ring just out of hearing. Even as they did, well-wishers, many bearing the fruits of their wagers, were waved away.

“You have seen the Morning Star.” Night Shadow Star lowered her racquets and seated herself on the grass beside Blue Heron’s litter. Flipping her hair back, she hugged her knees and cast a knowing look toward the great palace atop its steep-sided black mound. “… And now you are confused.”

“You’ve tickled my curiosity, niece. I’m to defer to you. And how is it that one minute you’re flat on your back in the healer’s temple, your souls flown away with Sister Datura? The next thing, you’re shooting Five Fists’ arrows into an assassin’s back in the Morning Star’s bedroom?”

She whispered, voice distant, “He didn’t leave me much time.”

“He? Who? Cut String?”

She shook her head, eyes locked on some painful distance. “Piasa.”

“We’re talking about the Spirit Beast?”

She nodded, eyes tightening. “He warned me you’d be skeptical, and that I was to tell you he enjoyed the Red Wing feast. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, it … Wait. You mean the ones we threw in the river?” Blue Heron shifted uneasily on her litter. “It was my suggestion to the Morning Star that, but for the Matron, her daughters, and that miserable war chief, the rest were to be executed, dismembered, and tossed into the river. Not only did it make a potent symbol of our Power, but there’d be no bodies for any survivors to mourn over.”

She watched Night Shadow Star for a reaction as she added, “But you could have heard that from anyone.”

Night Shadow Star’s eyes seemed to expand, a darkness filling them. She cocked her head, as if listening to someone, and nodded. “He says that for the moment, your belief isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, I believe.” But, just what, exactly, she wasn’t about to tell her niece. “So, the Water Panther himself told you Cut String was going to kill the Morning Star? Did he say why?”

“No. Only that if he succeeded, the resulting struggle would tear the world apart.” Her voice sounded hollow. “We dance with death, Aunt. A wondrous Power has filled Cahokia, but what frightens the Piasa is that it might burn out of control, unpredictable, and dangerous. Not just to us, but to the Spirit World as well.”

“And Piasa specifically chose you to deal with this?”

“Chose?” Bitter laughter exploded from her lips. “I was lucky to escape with what little I did. It cost me to come back, cost me … everything.” Her voice faded, expression falling.

“You’re not talking sense.” Blue Heron waved up toward the palace. “And why are those accursed Red Wings still alive up there? Because their kin were tasty?”

“When you dance in blood, Aunt, the ground gets slippery. You can no longer leap in exaltation, because when you do, your feet fly right out from under you. When you fall, you land in gore.”

“You’ve gone from talking nonsense to riddles.”

“They are alive because they have to be.” Night Shadow Star studied her with eyes possessed of an unearthly gleam. “Piasa demanded your involvement. Only you can weave the pattern. He has orders for you: find the thief known as Seven Skull Shield.”

“Find a thief called Seven Skull Shield? I can find anyone. But if you’re talking about the two-legged scum I think you are, I’d rather run a couple of hot copper needles through that slippery weasel’s eyes than—”

“And … And then…” Night Shadow Star’s eyes had lost focus as she struggled over the words.

“Then … what?”

“And then there’s the Red Wing war chief.”

“Bah! I’m going to Rides-the-Lightning. Your souls are still loose, flying around like some—”

“Enough!” Night Shadow Star half crouched, eyes slitted like some dangerous panther’s. “And you
will
listen to me, Clan Keeper. A whirlwind is gathering. Before this is over, you’ll cry tears of blood. And the souls of all you love will be forfeit.”

At the tone of her voice, alien, empty, Blue Heron felt a cold premonition run through her. “Who
are
you?”

“I’m the sacrifice, Clan Keeper. The one who has lost everything I once had … and everything I might be. Look at me, and you see a dead woman.”

Blue Heron barely deigned a glance at her niece’s lithe body, bursting as it was with vitality. “You’re a lot healthier, and certainly a lot less ‘dead’ than I am. And you still serve the Morning Star.”

Her weird other-worldly eyes seemed to enlarge. “Not anymore, Clan Keeper.”

“I wouldn’t tell Morning Star that.”

The twist of her lips was faint, amused. “I’ve already told him.”

“And he let you live?”

“He can’t kill a body that’s already dead.”

“You’re scaring me, Niece.”

The stranger’s eyes living in Night Shadow Star’s face reflected slivers of sunlight. “Good. Because you’ll be living true terror soon enough.”

The Fly

Flies are drawn to corruption and rot. Which is why, I suppose, I am drawn to the Four Winds Clan. Flies are creatures of the air and sky, as are the four swirls of the Four Wind Clan’s favorite design.

Flies are also innocuous, they go where they will, buzzing here and there, and no one notices. The same with me. I stand now, arms crossed, one leg thrust forward as I chatter aimlessly with Smooth Pebble. The
berdache
sees nothing but a fly, a harmless being, buzzing just enough to irritate him as he clutches the ceramic pitcher I wagered him over the outcome of the stickball game. It’s a Casqui piece I picked up for almost nothing.

Like a fly, I was able to stand within hearing distance of Blue Heron, and stare my eyeballs out as I watched every move my beautiful Night Shadow Star made. I could revel in the sight of her, fantasize about that spring-taut body. As she raced past, I could smile gleefully at her gleaming black hair, watch the muscles in her thighs and calves. In my imagination my hands were full of her breasts, fingers sinking into the softness as her nipples hardened against my palms.

One day, my love, I will look down into your marvelous dark eyes, watch your pupils expand as my shaft drives into your warm depths. At that moment, I’ll feel every muscle in your marvelous body tense, hear the breath straining in your lungs, and my love for you will explode like a thousand stars into a coal-black sky.

Soon, my love. Soon.

Meanwhile—and the reason that brought me here in the first place—something has gone wrong. That was readily apparent when I arrived at dawn toting a couple of Casqui pitchers in a sack to give the allusion I was but another Trader. I’d come to enjoy and revel in the spectacle. I couldn’t wait to see the panicked faces, hear the screams of dismay, and delight in the mass hysteria as the ignorant wretches tore their hair and clothing. Instead of news of the Morning Star’s heinous murder, only silence rolled down the long stairway to the plaza.

Glancing past Smooth Pebble, I can see and barely hear Blue Heron and Night Shadow Star as they talk. Tense, yes, and obviously plotting, but I’m not quite close enough to catch more than an occasional word.

My agents assured me that Cut String would act last night. I have assurances that the warrior was seen climbing the stairs to the high palace, and that he carried the ritual knife.

… And nothing!

The day proceeds as if Cut String never existed. The Morning Star plays chunkey, unconcerned, and my beloved Night Shadow Star wins at stickball.

This actually excites me. To have succeeded too easily would have been boring. A tingle, not unlike the sexual anticipation I have for Night Shadow Star, runs along my bones. Instead of simple victory, I must now apply all of my brilliance. Winning will boil down to who can keep whom off balance, plot and act the quickest, and seize unexpected advantages.

Either it is the incompetence of my allies, or Power has taken a hand in the game.

Which means I must now employ other weapons and strategies.

Beware, Blue Heron. I am about to raise the stakes!

I have preparations to make. It no longer seems that I can trust either the locals, or Power. I must take a more active role. I pack the last of my pitchers, take leave of Smooth Pebble, and saunter off into the crowd.

Wild Cat has been watching, now I catch his eye and nod. In an instant I have made the transition from a harmless fly to a stalking lion. Wild Cat is off to dangle a baited hook.

Me? I am off to challenge Power in a way that will shake the depths of the Underworld.