People of the Morning Star (55 page)

As he passed the charnel house mound, one of the Tula seemed to detach himself from the eagle guardian post. The man fell in behind him; sunlight glistened from a chert-studded war club in his right hand.

High Dance fought the impulse to say something. As if it would do any good; the accursed Tula couldn’t speak a word of civilized tongue.

As he passed behind the engineers’ mound and society house, yet another Tula stepped out and followed.

“Yes, yes,” High Dance muttered. “I’m coming.”

The broken bead might have been a hot pebble, burning against his skin.

At the warehouse, two more Tula nodded to his “escort,” as if giving their assent that he might enter.

“I’m a high chief of the Four Winds Clan, you barbarian pond scum.” A spear of anger warmed his breast. Then he glanced at the war clubs dangling from their hands. As quickly, any desire to protest drained away.

The warehouse door was painted with Four Winds design, marking it as his clan’s property. But the door was opened by yet another Tula who gestured him inside.

To his surprise, the Tula warriors within were clustered around the door, all in the process of checking weapons, inspecting arrows, some swinging war clubs as if to loosen their shoulders.

“You’re probably asking how you’ve come to this,” Bead told him as he emerged from behind a knot of warriors. He had a paint palette in one hand and was just putting on the finishing touches—radiating lines of blue—on a Tula’s face. To the side, a nervous-looking messenger held a copper-clad staff that looked suspiciously like those carried by the Morning Star’s messengers.

Bead had painted his own face to resemble Piasa’s. Both eyes were surrounded by yellow circles similar to the Water Panther’s; black, three-forked patterns surrounded them to designate the Underworld. Black lines on his cheeks evoked whiskers, and his nose, like a cougar’s, was pinkish brown. The black line drawn around his mouth mimicked the big cat’s, and was accented by a touch of white on his chin.

It came to High Dance that he’d never seen Bead’s face without some sort of paint on it.

“What do you want this time?” He glanced over to see Lace, still atop her platform, eyes closed as she breathed in and out in obvious agony.

He’d never cared for the Morning Star’s House, thought them all stuffed with shit and over-full of themselves. Nevertheless, watching young Lace’s misery touched something inside him. She was kin. And she, personally, had never done anything to offend him.

He pointed. “You might want to change her bonds. Seated like that can’t be good for her. She could end up crippled, perhaps lose that baby.”

Bead frowned and cocked his head as he considered her. “Yes,” he remarked thoughtfully. “She could.”

“Well?”

Bead, as if interrupted in mid-thought, asked, “Well, what?”

“Are you going to do something about lady Lace’s bonds?”

After more consideration, Bead told him a flat, “No.”

He turned back to the Tula he was painting and carefully finished the last blue line on the man’s left cheek.

“Why am I here?” High Dance demanded.

After a long enough pause to be irritating, Bead asked, “Have you seen your sons today? Fast Thrower and White Stem? I believe those are their names. Oh, and that cousin of theirs, Panther Call. He’s your irritating sister’s oldest boy, isn’t he? I’ve heard she rather fancies him.”

Cool premonition blew through High Dance. “No. I haven’t seen the boys today. Brown Bear Fivekiller, my war chief, is looking after them. He’s…”

High Dance stopped short as, at a gesture from Bead, one of the Tula reached behind a basket and rolled something round, heavy, and irregular across the packed clay. Loose hair flew in every direction, the spongy flesh giving. The stub of neck brought the thing to a halt at High Dance’s feet. Blood and fluid dripped from severed tissues.

Even though the angle wasn’t right, and the thing lay canted, High Dance could see half-lidded and sightless gray eyes; the lips were drawn back to expose blood-caked teeth. Familiar tattoos could be discerned beneath the wildly loose hair.

High Dance’s stomach clenched and knotted, his heart dropping like a rock in his chest. His knees went weak, and it was all he could do to keep from collapsing.

“You’ll recall my advice concerning him,” Bead said absently. He reached out, fingers under the Tula’s chin as he inspected his handiwork. The messenger with the copper staff stared owl-eyed at the severed head.

“My boys?” High Dance’s voice sounded like gravel rubbed on a board.

“Oh, they’re quite fine. A little nervous, but having an adventure the likes of which they’ll be able to talk about for years to come.” He turned loose of the Tula and went about securing his paints and returning them to a small carry box. “Or, well,
maybe
they’ll be talking about it for years to come. That’s the thing about a grand adventure, isn’t it? I mean, if you know you’re going to survive, that sense of urgency really isn’t there. Nor does that rush of relief run through you when you realize you’ve made it. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That sense of euphoria that you only experience when you’ve beaten the odds? Breathing is fresher, the blood racing in your veins warmer. Food tastes better … and driving your shaft into a woman?” He waggled his finger at High Dance, a knowing glint in his eyes. “That, my friend, becomes the ultimate reaffirmation of existence. A cry to the earth and skies of, ‘Here I am! Unstopped! Shooting my seed into the future!’”

High Dance reached out, imploring. “I’d like for the boys to have that moment.”

Bead glanced sidelong at him as he closed his paint box. “Good. It would make my life easier and simplify things if I could bring them home to you as soon as possible. Is that satisfactory?”

High Dance swallowed hard. “It is.”

“Excellent.” Bead clapped his hands in delight, a grin spreading across his face. He glanced at the messenger and the painted Tula. “Go. Be about it.”

As the two left, he walked up to High Dance, his dark brown eyes agleam with excitement. “Let’s see, we were … Yes, yes, bringing the boys home. Perhaps within the next hand of time? Would that be convenient?”

His gut churning like a whirlpool, High Dance said, “It would.”

“Good.” Bead rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “I’m sorry I’m not thinking quicker, but I was up most of the night. I get so irritable when I don’t get enough sleep. How about you?”

High Dance nodded, unsure where this was going.

“So, yes, I’d like to nap.” He gestured around. “But not here. Too many people know where it is. And, as you’ll see, there’s much to do this afternoon. Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you would stand down the guard. The boys will be right behind us.” He raised his finger. “Less chance of misunderstandings that way. I wouldn’t want them to accidently lose that future chance to relate the adventure of their kidnapping.”

High Dance, the sick feeling growing in his gut, shook his head. “No,” he whispered, “you wouldn’t.”

“See? You’re a very responsible father, concerned with the fate of his boys. I like that, I really do. My father?” He waved it away. “You really don’t want to know.”

“So, you’re bringing the boys? With us? Right now?” He shook his head. “I could just take them with me. Leave you to your—”

Bead’s clever eyes narrowed. “You do understand, Great Chief High Dance, that the boys will follow along behind, at the rear of my column of wolves. I will be with you, listening as you stand down the guard, and then order the entire household staff into the palace with us.”

“But why?”

Bead reached up, patting him reassuringly on the cheek. “Because I want to deliver a message to your sister, High Chief. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I do, I swear. But I certainly don’t trust her! Or that nasty little dwarf of hers.” He paused. “He will be there, won’t he?”

“It’s hard to say.” High Dance’s mouth had gone dry. “If it’s just a message, I could—”

“Some things, High Chief, must be delivered in person. This is one.” He shrugged. “Relax. She can say yes or no. And then I will be on about my business.”

“Then why take the boys hostage? Why do all this?”

“Did they really make you High Chief on purpose? Are you this slow? I told you, I don’t trust her! I have sixteen Tula to accompany me. Doing it my way, I deliver my message. It doesn’t end in a fight, people don’t die.” He extended a toe to rock Brown Bear FiveKiller’s head. “Well, but for him. Trust me, you truly, truly needed to replace him.”

“That’s it? Just deliver a message to my sister?”

“That’s it.” Bead smiled, as if in victory. “I just want to get in and out without any misunderstandings, betrayals, or complications.”

High Dance took a deep breath, wondering why it seemed as if he were suffocating. “Very well, I’ll ensure that you can deliver your accursed message, but this is the last time, Bead. Then, I’m done with you.”

The man narrowed his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “As you wish, High Chief.”

Fifty-one

To Sun Wing’s absolute delight, Hickory Lance’s body tensed, muscles knotting under his damp skin. He drove deep, a stifled cry in his throat. His shaft pulsed, seed jetting inside her. She cried out as yet another burst of tingling waves rolled through her pelvis, up her back, and down her legs.

His reassuring weight settled on her, trickles of his sweat mingling with hers to slip down her ribs.

“Blessed stars,” he whispered when he finally rolled off and smiled up at the soot-stained roof.

She reached for a cloth and propped herself on an elbow as she studied her husband’s muscular body. His skin seemed to glisten in the subdued light. She hadn’t thought marriage would be like this. The stories she’d heard had prepared her for the occasional satisfaction, but tended to emphasize more of a duty and obligation rather than the kind of insatiable explorations she and Hickory Lance experimented with. To his surprise, she was willing to try anything, and to hers, he was a master at coaxing and massaging until she was quivering like a plucked bowstring.

Best of all, the more they played, the quicker his seed would plant a child in her womb and secure her position as a true woman in the family.

“You caught your breath yet?” he asked with a grin. “I wasn’t sure you’d sing out like that with all these warriors standing guard around the palace.”

“They know to keep their distance.”

“But given what happened to Lace, you must surely be worried.”

If you only knew, Husband.

Hickory Lance was Green Chunkey and Round Pot’s oldest son, heir to the chieftainship at Horned Serpent town. And although she held nothing back when it came to her body, her thoughts, plans, and plots were inviolately her own.

To reassure him she said, “We must all be cautious, but you’re not Heavy Cane.” She patted his muscular chest to reassure him and play on his masculinity. “You’re a blooded warrior, honored at the Men’s House. I think he’ll leave you alone.”

And he would, of course. She’d demand it.

A slow smile crossed her lips, one that she was sure Hickory Lance would attribute to a much more physical satisfaction.

“Lady?” came a cautious call from beyond the door of her personal quarters.

“What?” she snapped, rolling her eyes. Pus and blood, was even this slight relaxation to be cut short?

“A messenger, Lady. He bears the Morning Star’s staff and would speak to you.”

“Coming.” She sat up, feeling the cooling sweat trickle down from where it had pooled between her breasts. She glanced at her husband, meeting his knowing eyes. “You’ll be here when I get back?” With a forefinger she tapped his flaccid shaft. “Maybe work this some more?”

“I might need a little help.” He grinned.

“You’ll get it.”

She quickly washed using damp cloths, and from her engraved boxes, chose a bright red skirt decorated with frog motifs. Frog being one of First Woman’s symbols of fertility, she hoped it would settle Hickory Lance’s fresh seed. Over her shoulders she draped a shawl crafted from the skins of over two hundred painted buntings. Her hair she quickly twisted into a knot before she pinned it with no less than three polished copper turkey tails.

“How do I look?”

“From top to toe, a proper and dignified lady.”

She giggled at that, given what they’d just been doing.

Her household staff was appropriately clustered outside the door on the veranda. She’d have to give that some thought. She didn’t want them in the next room, listening. On the other hand, every time they clustered on the porch, it was a symbol to the whole rotted city that she and Hickory Lance were “active.”

Stepping out she noticed with satisfaction that the warriors stood their posts in a solid square around her low mound with its thatch-roofed palace. Not that she had to worry, but to have refused them would have drawn the wrong kind of attention and questions.

At the bottom of her short stairway, two men knelt. One carried a copper-clad staff the length of his arm that bore a wooden sun symbol at the top: the Morning Star’s messenger.

The second man was taller, muscular, his face painted white with blue lines radiating from his eyes. His long black hair was braided and hung down over his left breast. Dark and predatory eyes fixed on hers.