The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (24 page)

The Fat Man ate
two roasted prairie chickens for breakfast. He lingered over the bones, mashing and sucking them between his teeth to get all the goodness. After that, he thought a bowl of cooled corn mush would help fill his stomach, and then a big bowl of sour corn beer would top him off well. He liked planning his upcoming food intake.

A compact, muscular man stepped into his room and said, “Hummingbird?”

The Fat Man smiled. “Yes, send in the little hummingbird.”

Tootsa ran in, jumped onto the seat beside the Fat Man, and leaned over the pickings of the chickens. “You didn’t leave nothing for even the ant people,” Tootsa said, and the Fat Man laughed uproariously.

“You shouldn’t be out, little hummingbird,” said the Fat Man. “It’s not safe for children right now. The warriors are catching every child they can.”

“They can’t catch me. I’m invisible.”

“Oh, then I must being seeing the ghost of a little bird.”

“I’m just
letting
you see me.”

“I see. So what do you know, my little man?”

“More than you do.”

The Fat Man picked up a piece of skin glistening with fat from near the tail of the bird that he had been saving for last and handed it to Tootsa, who took it and sucked on it, then chewed it long and hard. The Fat Man watched him with a half-smile on his face.

Finally Tootsa swallowed, wiped his hands on his grimy loincloth, then crossed his arms and leaned back, eyeing the Fat Man.

The Fat Man laughed again. “I can see this is going to cost me,” said the Fat Man.

“It’ll cost you nothing because I’m already rich. Richer than you.”

“Oh, ho! You are, are you? Well then maybe I should make you pay
me
before you tell me anything.”

Tootsa looked thoughtful a moment. “Okay. It’s a deal. One tooth. But only one.” He dug out a bloody bag fashioned from what might have once been a man’s shirt. Then he shoved his fingers into the bag and pulled out one filed-sharp human tooth. He laid it next to a wing bone.

The Fat Man’s expression changed. He regarded Tootsa carefully. “Okay, young Tootsa, you have paid the price. Now you may speak.”

“Have you ever heard of a man with a red hat and a shirt with more little bells on it than anyone can count?”

The Fat Man looked at Tootsa gravely. “I have.”

“Well, he’s my friend. He made me rich. I hang around with him, and I get as many of these as I want.” Tootsa held up his bag of bloody teeth.

“He gives these to you?”

“No. I have to get them myself. But if you hit them hard enough with the right size rock, they come out pretty easy.”

“Out of warriors who are already dead, I take it.”

“Sure. Who else? Live ones!” Tootsa laughed.

“How does this man with the red hat kill the warriors?”

“They call him The Pochtéca. I don’t know why they call him that. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means a long-distance trader. How does he kill the warriors?”

“Well he hasn’t traveled any farther than I have since I’ve known him,” said Tootsa. “But he did trade me some bells. Want to see?”

Before the Fat Man could say yes or no, Tootsa pulled out a cleaner pouch and poured out three bells. He shook them and they tinkled. He grinned, and the Fat Man smiled with him.

“He has all these boys with him,” said Tootsa. “And one girl. But she’s like a boy.”

“They killed the warriors?”

“And now Lightfoot and the Wild Boys are with them. But we don’t like to fight. We just like to run and hide.”

“The other ones do the fighting?”

“Better than any fighters I’ve ever seen.” Tootsa counted on his fingers. “Seventeen last time. Plus a bunch of those stinky new recruits. Only one of them had a pointy tooth, though. Oh, and those two whole patrols that just killed each other for no good reason back near Black Stone Town. And then, oh, I’ve lost count. Counting messes me up. I used to have fifty-seven pointed teeth. Then I got more than twice that, but I still count fifty-seven. Counting doesn’t make any sense.”

“So you’ve seen all the warriors killed by children?”

“Well, sometimes I hide. I see it after. I like after much better. During there’s way too much yelling and hitting. You want to meet him?”

The eyes of the Fat Man dilated, then contracted.

“I told him all about you,” said Tootsa. “He said, ‘If he’s a man of trade then he’s my kind of man.’ Or something like that.”

“Where is he now?” asked the Fat Man.

“Well, I don’t know exactly. They said they’d move around a lot and that he’d just show up unless I give the signal for him to run away. Want me to?”

“No, my hummingbird man, I want to meet him,” said the Fat Man gently.

“Okay, I won’t, then.” Tootsa jumped up and ran to the doorway, but then came back. “Don’t tell anybody where you got that tooth. Understand?”

The Fat Man smiled. “It’s just between you and me.”

“Good. I’ll go wait for him.”

Such a short time later that it surprised the Fat Man, Tootsa returned with a man who, after he was safely inside and the bodyguard stood outside, doffed a red hat. Tootsa wanted to stay, but the Fat Man and The Pochtéca agreed he should hide.

“In the safe room,” said the Fat Man. “You know it. That’s where you come down the crack in the rocks.”

“Okay,” said Tootsa, drooping his arms as if they were too much to carry. “But only if I have to.”

“You have to,” said The Pochtéca. The Fat Man nodded.

When he’d gone, the Fat Man said, “You are The Pochtéca, I presume?”

“Yes, indeed. And you are…,” he hesitated.

“Yes, yes, call me the Fat Man. Everyone does. I have no other name. Should I ever get skinny again, I would have no identity.”

The Pochtéca chuckled. “Mister Fat Man,” he said, and gave a nod of his head. “I didn’t have a chance to see much of your operation, but I assume….”

“If you’ve traveled as I believe you have, there’s nothing here you haven’t already seen,” said the Fat Man.

“Yes,” said The Pochtéca. “In that case, could I trouble you for a mug of your best beer?”

The Fat Man laughed and gave a loud call for two corn beers. The Pochtéca removed his red hat before an old man brought in two large mugs filled to the brim with a cloudy liquid. He winked at The Pochtéca, and then left without a word.

Before they drank more than a sip, the bodyguard stuck his head in. “Pók is marching in. It looks like he’s lost half his guard, maybe more. And Tókotsi and his council are right behind him.”

The Fat Man eyed The Pochtéca when the bodyguard withdrew. “You don’t happen to know anything about how Pók might have lost half his guard, do you?”

“I might,” said The Pochtéca.

They stared at each other in silence. The danger of the situation could blow up for the Fat Man. He knew that. As it could for The Pochtéca. They both knew that.

The bodyguard stepped back in again. “A palace runner is coming.”

“Show him in,” said the Fat Man to the bodyguard. “Now, you,” he said to The Pochtéca, “step behind those curtains, please. And don’t make any sound.”

A few moments later, the bodyguard escorted a runner in full headdress into the room. The Fat Man had seen the young man, though he had never spoken to him. He remembered the runner preferred games of chance to the ladies.

“Greetings from Pókunyesva,” said the runner, using Pók’s formal name. “Your presence is requested. I am to escort you back immediately.”

“
My
presence,” said the Fat Man. “So Pók finally needs me for something. That seems to be suddenly on everyone’s minds. Very well. Give me a moment.” The Fat Man stepped behind the curtain and pulled a clean shirt off a peg. He changed into it while The Pochtéca crowded beside him. “This may have something to do with you,” whispered the Fat Man. “Want to join me?”

The Pochtéca shook his head and signed
no
.

The Fat Man raised his eyebrows, chuckled, and stepped back into his main room.

“Lead the way,” he said to the runner. He paused at his bodyguard and whispered, “Keep the man inside. And watch for trouble. Especially armed children.”

The Fat Man didn’t often walk outside into direct sunlight, and it pained him. He squinted until his eyes were slits, and he quickly soaked his clean shirt with perspiration. The runner didn’t stop or slow, and the Fat Man struggled for breath by the time they arrived at Pók’s doorway. The runner began to announce the Fat Man, but then hesitated. “What is your formal name?” he whispered.

“Most Honorable Fat Man,” he said, wheezing.

The runner looked perplexed, but announced him in that manner. A voice from within said, “Send him in.”

The Fat Man stepped inside, and looked at Pók sitting cross-legged while an herb healer worked on his hand.

“Since when have you been ‘most honorable’?” asked Pók.

“Since you asked me to visit you for the first time. You’ve lost part of your hand, I see,” said the Fat Man, still catching his breath.

“Only a thumb.” The healer finished tying his bandage, and Pók sent her away. Then Pók stood and walked around the Fat Man, inspecting him. “I’ve never seen you this close before. You are indeed very fat.”

The Fat Man felt intense dislike for this arrogant little man. He kept his eyes focused on the far wall, remembering Pók dancing on the altar and cutting out people’s hearts as if it were a game. The Fat Man had known people in line waiting for Pók’s knives. His sister had been in that line. He had no intention of being subservient to him.

“Your guard came back with their tails between their legs today. You lose a thumb. And now you call me, for the first time, to your quarters. You must need me pretty bad to let everyone see me enter this room.”

“Yes, I need you pretty bad. Bad enough to keep The Builder waiting, fuming I’m sure, in his chamber. Bad enough to cut short the attention my wound needs. Bad enough that I’ve not even had a bath or a woman or a nap since I’ve gotten back.” Pók continued to walk around the Fat Man. “Fat men have a peculiar stink to them. I hadn’t noticed before.”

“The smell from your hand will soon cover that.”

Pók picked up a flake-knife and twirled it in his left hand. He came close, the top of his head at the Fat Man’s chin, and looked up into his face. “You’re nothing without me. I let you live your miserable life in your miserable hovel for one reason only—to entertain my men. I could have you gutted, quartered, and roasted before this day is finished. So don’t think you’re in any position to bargain, because you’re not.”

“Oh, but I am,” countered the Fat Man, willing himself to ignore Pók’s knife. “I have something you want, or you wouldn’t keep The Builder waiting, and you would attend to your hand or have yourself a woman. You want something.”

Pók swiped his knife at the Fat Man’s bulging belly and cut a slice through his shirt. The Fat Man barely flinched.

“I could spill your guts right now,” said Pók.

“Then you’d have a mess. And you wouldn’t get what you want.”

“I don’t care for your arrogant attitude,” hissed Pók.

“And I’m not fond of the way you play with knives,” said the Fat Man.

Pók threw the knife against the wall and it shattered. “What is your price, then?”

“I don’t yet know what you want.”

“The traveling trader who wears a red hat. If he’s here, I know you will soon find out. I want him alive. And I don’t care what your price is, I’ll not bargain with you. If you don’t find him for me by nightfall, I’ll burn you out and kill everyone with you. The whole canyon will dine on you and I’ll burn Fat Man grease in my lamps.”

“So in exchange for the red-hat man, you will spare my life, is that your offer?”

“Yes. Live or die, your choice, I don’t care. Have him to me by nightfall and you’ll live to be fat another day.”

The Fat Man actually pitied Pók. The man knew nothing of trade, of incentives, of exchanging want for want. He knew only one thing. Live or die, all or nothing.

“If I hear anything of a man with a red hat, and if I decide to choose life over death, I will send word to you,” said the Fat Man.

“You will come yourself!”

“Ah, yes. I will run here as fast as my fat legs will carry me.”

Pók threatened to hit him with a war club, but the Fat Man stood his ground, never lost eye contact, didn’t twitch a facial muscle. Pók turned away and dismissed him.

The Fat Man emerged from Pók’s chambers and squinted in the sunlight. He shook and his heart raced. He wanted to hit and strangle more than he ever had. But he had held his line and didn’t cross it. Otherwise, he would not, at this moment, be alive.

He walked into the courtyard and every face turned to him. They’d never seen him inside the perimeter of the palace before. Because he had never been. Stonemasons’ helpers scurried up and down ladders carrying stone and mortar to the new rooms being added at the top. Women washed and stretched hides and smoothed mud into unfired pots. Near an outdoor kitchen he saw a half-dozen ragged warriors tied by their ankles to a log, the skeleton of what had been an extraordinarily tall man lay covered in flies next to them. Two guardsmen regarded him with sneers, and the runner who had summoned him dozed in shade near Pók’s doorway.

After a few moments, people ignored him and gave only an occasional curious glance. A servant boy emerged from an ornate doorway with the sign of The Builder painted on it. The Fat Man looked around. The guards harassed a pretty woman carrying a bundle and the runner’s chin lolled on his chest. No one seemed to be guarding the entrance, so he walked to it and peeked inside. Beside a raised platform, on a lower seat, sat a woman wearing a bluestone mask and a dress of many beads. He had never seen the fabled Goddess of the Future before. She worked her hands in her lap, and the Fat Man got the impression that something disturbed the woman.

A guardsman noticed him and stepped quickly to the Fat Man. He put a stick to his chest and pushed him backward out of earshot, away from The Builder’s doorway. “I’ve never seen you here before,” said the guard.

The Fat Man remembered him. He liked to watch the women, like the younger boys, but he never touched them. “Your Lord and Master Pók invited me up for a little chat.”