Moon Hunt

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  But tonight it might hold the key to Winder’s whereabouts. Make no mistake: Time was everything. Seven Skull Shield and his old friend were now locked in a deadly race. Winder and the Quiz Quiz couldn’t let the Keeper’s rescue go unanswered. And the only way Seven Skull Shield could stop that was to find them and figure a way of destroying them.

  “By Piasa’s balls, I’m an idiot.” And so saying, he bunched his muscles, found a purchase in the weathered clay, and began scrambling up the long slope. Behind him, Farts climbed in pursuit, paws and claws finding much better footing on the crumbling surface.

  Forty-seven

  The fire had mostly burned down to coals when Matron Round Pot bid the last of her clansmen good night and walked them to the palace door.

  Turning, she was satisfied to see Clicking Boy, her twelve-year-old house boy, toss a couple of thick lengths of cottonwood onto the fire. Together they would burn long enough to ensure the fire didn’t go out during the night. She always checked to make sure. Once, as a girl, the eternal fire had been allowed to burn out. Not so much as a hot coal could be found the next morning. In a panic, a runner had been sent to the Morning Star’s palace for a replacement ember to reignite the sacred flame.

  Even before it could arrive, her mother, Waving Stem, had complained of pains in her chest, retired to her bed, and was found dead not a hand of time later.

  That was the way of it. Allowing the eternal fire to go out brought disaster and ruin in its wake. In the aftermath of that event her family had barely managed to maintain control of River Mounds—and from that day forward, her father, Cutting Stone, had suffered setback after setback, until his death when War Duck took over as high chief.

  Since then, River House had prospered and grown in prestige within the Four Winds Clan. Bit by bit they had undermined Horned Serpent House and held their own against Evening Star House despite Columella’s adroit politics and her despicable dwarf spy.

  Right up until that accursed Walking Smoke precipitated disaster. Only after Walking Smoke’s destruction had she and War Duck figured out that the miscreant had rented their warehouses to hide his perversions. That—but for luck—he might have unleashed his madness in River Mounds City rather than across the river. But for Round Pot’s quick action the scandal might have brought down River House. As it was, they’d been left with a bit of a taint that hadn’t fully dissipated by the time the Four Winds leaders assembled to pick a new matron.

  “I came so close to winning,” she whispered.

  The burning frustration of her failure was like acid in her stomach. First she’d been outmaneuvered by cunning old Blue Heron and Columella. And then—after Five Fists made the Morning Star’s wishes known—had come the realization that even if she had managed to accumulate the votes, the living god would have whisked the matron’s chair right out from under her.

  But the part that stung the worst was War Duck’s ultimate betrayal. That he had sided with Slender Fox just because the woman had bedded him? The memory of her humiliation, her outrage, sent a frothing bile burning in her belly.

  War Duck, one day, would pay for that. So, too, would that suppurative sheath, Slender Fox.

  But that could wait. She would bide her time. And if tomorrow’s desperate gamble worked, revenge would come sooner and harder than even War Duck imagined it might.

  She sighed and stared up at the soot-darkened roof overhead. Around her, her household was preparing for bed and seeing to her guests. Several of them were influential cousins, others prominent Earth Clan chiefs upon whom she and War Duck would have to rely in the event of the Morning Star’s death.

  Her slaves were unfolding blankets on the sleeping platforms surrounding the walls. Others were seeing to the chamber pots or stowing personal items in the storage beneath the beds. Ensuring the guests were happy.

  So much depended upon being perceived as a superb hostess. And appearance was everything. She watched as the big corrugated boiling pot was placed next to the fire and filled with jar after jar of water. By morning it would be steaming, perfect for brewing huge draughts of black drink for her guests.

  Her palace was a showpiece: the walls covered with exotic shields, weapons, weavings, and relief art. Not as gaudy as the Morning Star’s palace, but impressive because of the diversity and rarity of the collection. Some of the fabrics had been imported from the distant Palace Builders in the far southwest. Other woven sealskin pieces came from islands in the cold ocean in the far-off northeast. And a favorite carving of hers was an elongated mask said to have come from a people called Taino who traded with the Calusa and Tequesta peoples down on the tip of the peninsula.

  Her family had been building their collection for three generations now, and Traders knew that the more distant a piece’s origins, the more River House would Trade for it.

  War Duck still sat on his dais behind the fire, chin propped on his palm as he stared—deep in thought—at the new flames licking up the sides of the cottonwood lengths.

  She walked over, crossed her arms, and stared at him. He raised his disfigured face and fixed his remaining eye on hers. “Think he’ll still be alive come morning?”

  She shrugged. “If he isn’t, we’ve laid our plans. Everyone knows their duties. The Earth Clan chiefs have ordered the assembly. We’ll have enough warriors in the squadrons to keep order. I think we can keep the rioting to a minimum, and we don’t have the numbers of dirt farmers to deal with as the other Houses do. The craftspeople and the Traders will be little trouble, and who will notice the extra chaos at the canoe landing?”

  “I wish we had had some warning, but no one else had any either. And that fool Rising Flame has the rest of the clan paralyzed. Was the Morning Star mad to pick her?”

  “Perhaps. Whatever his reasons, this is our opportunity. Rising Flame is weak, and dismissing Blue Heron has made the Morning Star House vulnerable in a way they haven’t been since Black Tail first surrendered his body to host the living god. This is our time.”

  “We have the wealth, we control the Trade, and most of the manufacturing is centered here. Our only weakness is defending the city if several of the Houses ally to attack us.”

  “Blood in my piss,” she muttered. “We sound the same as Petaga did back before the wars turned against him.” But then, defense had always been River Mounds City’s greatest vulnerability. Not long after the Morning Star’s resurrection, the palisade walls had been torn down to make room for rapid expansion as River Mounds grew from a town into the elongated city it had become. Hemmed by marshy lowlands, Cahokia Creek, and the river, every plot of elevated ground was filled with buildings and cramped farmsteads. No room remained to maneuver defensive squadrons. Combat would quickly descend into disorganized chaos as warriors battled among the buildings.

  Thinking about it, part of her actually hoped the Morning Star would survive—despite that meaning she couldn’t move on the other Houses.

  “I’m going to bed,” War Duck said through a yawn. He stood, adding, “Lot of people here tonight. Couldn’t tell who was coming and going. Look at it. Every bench is full and some are sleeping double.”

  She watched him go, took one last look around to assure herself that the palace was in order, and walked back to her personal quarters. She didn’t bother with a lamp, knowing by feel where her possessions were stacked. Nor did she have to worry about Grass Seed’s things, as her husband was out organizing the Earth Clans and overseeing their call-up of warriors.

  With a sigh, she undid the bun at the back of her head and let the long braid fall until it tickled the backs of her calves.

  She unclipped her cape and let the skirt fall before she climbed under her blanket. For a long time she replayed the night’s conversations, picking at the strategy sessions she’d moderated. If only there were some certainty; but then, that lack of information had always been one of their weaknesses compared to Blue Heron’s and Flat Stone Pipe’s spy networks.

  In the process, she drifted off
to sleep and troubled dreams.

  Sometime in the night, she was startled awake when a hand clapped hard onto her mouth. A jolt of terror caused her to jerk and curl. Something sharp pressed against her throat; her guts went runny at the feel.

  “Not a sound, High Chief,” a whispered voice ordered.

  She swallowed hard. Then asked against the fingers, “What do you want?” It came out garbled.

  “You promise not to shout?”

  She nodded, wishing the uncontrolled shivers weren’t betraying her absolute terror.

  The hand eased, although the sharp edge on her throat remained. “What do you want?” she whispered dryly.

  “Snot and shit,” the voice hissed back in annoyance. “Where’s the high chief? Who are you? His wife?”

  “He’s in his room. What do you think? That we’d commit incest?”

  “Matron Round Pot?”

  “If you are going to murder me, be about it!”

  “Of all the shit-heeled bad luck. How was I supposed to know which room…?” She heard the man sigh. “Listen. All I need is for you to tell me where the Quiz Quiz are hiding. I figure you know which warehouse Winder is renting.”

  She swallowed against the knife at her throat. “What Quiz Quiz?” She need only play for time, keep him talking. As she did, she balled the blanket in her fists, slowly drawing it up off of her feet and wadding it in her grip. If she could break free, it wouldn’t be much protection. Maybe just enough to foul his knife and keep it from killing her as she screamed for help.

  “The ones who stole the Surveyors’ Bundle, the ones Winder helped, and the ones who took Clan Keeper Blue Heron. Now, tell me where Winder hid them, and I’ll be on my way. Simple, huh?”

  Something about the man just wasn’t right, his tone full of irritation. “You snuck in here to find a party of Quiz Quiz?”

  “Go to the source; that’s what I always say.”

  “Are you a lunatic?”

  “It has been brought up in conversation a time or two, yes. And by some of the most remarkable of people. You wouldn’t believe.” The sharp edge pressed a little harder against her throat. “Now, just tell me where the Quiz Quiz are hiding. It’s got to be a warehouse or temple—someplace busy where they won’t draw too much attention.”

  “You think I know this?”

  “Actually, I figured that War Duck did, but since I picked the wrong door, I’m going to have to get the information from you. So, Matron, if you want to wake up alive tomorrow morning, you’d better tell me.”

  Her mind racing, she struggled to understand, but beneath it all a building anger began to brew. “I haven’t a clue as to where your Quiz Quiz are.”

  “Sorry, doesn’t work. They’re here somewhere.”

  “If anyone knows, it’s War Duck. He attends to most of the Trade and commerce. If he rented to some Quiz Quiz—”

  “Most likely to Winder.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A rather well-known Trader.”

  “Like I said, Trade is War Duck’s responsibility.” The anger burned free. “So kill me and get it over with!”

  “Oh, by Piasa’s balls! You mean to tell me that you don’t know what goes on in your own House? Even when it means Cahokia is going to be shaken right down to its roots?”

  At her silence, he asked, “Could this get any worse?”

  “Lady?” Water Ant’s worried voice called from beyond her door. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s worse,” the assailant whispered to himself.

  She felt as well as saw his head swivel. When he did she had balled up enough wadded blanket to take her chance. Thrusting upwards with the blanket in an attempt to shove the knife away, she jerked sideways from under the blade, flipping her entire body at the same time.

  “Help!” she screamed from the bottom of her lungs. “Assassin!”

  And in an instant, her assailant tossed the “blade” onto her chest, and in a flash he was gone. Pounding through her door, he knocked Water Ant out of the way.

  “Assassin!” Round Pot cried as she fumbled for the blade he’d left on her chest, fingers recognizing nothing more dangerous than a large potsherd. “Grab him! Don’t let him get away!”

  She heaved herself off her bed, staggered past the squalling Water Ant, and out into the great room in pursuit. The fire had burned down to a glowing bed of coals that cast a faint reddish light across the room. Just enough to see, but not enough to make out details.

  Screams erupted to her right, and she whirled. Instead of fleeing across the open center of the room, the big man had leaped onto the sleeping benches and was tromping his way across the tops of the recumbent sleepers. In time to their screams, he was ripping her precious ornaments from the wall, flinging them out to bounce on the floor matting.

  At the same time—mixed with the shrieks, screams, and wailing of the people he was stomping his way across—he was bellowing “Farts! Farts! Farts!” like a madman.

  The entire room burst into pandemonium.

  She watched in amazement as the big man swayed and staggered his way onto Heavy Toad’s bed—the footing not exactly good atop wiggling bodies and blankets. Her clumsy and overweight servant sat bolt upright in his bed; with a loud crack the pole frame gave way under the combined weight. She heard Heavy Toad’s high-pitched wail of fear over the popping and snapping of the stored seed jars beneath as they shattered and spilled a winter’s worth of reserves onto the matting.

  The whole mess of bedding, bodies, and mayhem rolled onto the floor, where the assailant scrambled nimbly to his feet. Heavy Toad huddled into a ball, head back, squealing his terror.

  Two of her guards had charged in through the front door, throwing it wide. She could barely hear their calls of “What’s wrong?” over the screams and shouting.

  Something dark and fast hurtled through the door behind them. Whatever the four-footed apparition was, it knocked both startled guards off their feet. The warriors hit on the flats of their backs, feet flying high.

  “Wooo haw!” the assailant called, grabbing War Duck’s heavy litter by one handle and upending it into the path of three of the Earth Clan chiefs who had leapt off their beds and were charging his direction. It caught them in a body block, dropping them in a mess of flailing arms and legs.

  Around the room her slaves were screaming in terror, stumbling out of their beds, rushing for the door. Frightened and disoriented guests milled about frantically, shouting questions, demanding protection. A tangle of people were grabbing for clothing and personal items. She could hear the crash of something wooden as it splintered.

  The beast that had burst through the door was bounding through the confusion, howling and barking, bowling people off their feet to sprawl this way and that.

  She had a single glimpse of the assailant, his silhouette outlined in a reddish glow as he lurched toward the fire. Saw his leg go back, and watched him kick over the big pot of hot water, spilling its contents into the coals. The fire reacted with a roaring hiss—the eternal and angry sound of flame meeting water. A curling puff of crimson steam billowed up in the instant before the room went suddenly and opaquely black.

  “Someone catch him!” Round Pot shouted with all her might.

  “Who?” a voice answered through the chaos.

  “The assassin, you dolt! Grab him!”

  More screams. The sound of tearing cloth. A woman was bawling in pain or terror from somewhere by the door.

  A dog began barking in what sounded like delighted excitement.

  “I’ve got him. I got the—” A meaty smacking sound cut it short.

  “Here! He’s here!”

  “That’s me, you idiot! Turn me loose!”

  “Over here!”

  “Help!”

  “Guard! Guard!”

  “Ouch!”

  “You hit me!”

  Something else broke with a crash followed by the sound of shattering pots.

  Round Pot stopped short,
unable to see anything, hands raised, ordering, “Stop it! Silence. Bolt the door!”

  “Someone get a torch!”

  “That’s my leg!”

  “Touch me again like that, and I’ll smack you one!”

  More screams.

  “Someone help me find my fire bow!”

  “Where are the pus-rotted torches?”

  A flailing black shadow slammed into Round Pot; the impact knocked her off her feet. Her body hit the floor with a painful thump that blasted lights through her vision.

  Someone stepped on her hand, and she realized the futility of trying to make sense of the madness. On all fours she crabbed off to one side, pulled herself up onto the sleeping bench. There she dropped her head into her hands as more curses, yips, and thumps disrupted the darkness.

  She was still shaking her head when the realization hit her that her palace was a wreck, the eternal fire was out, the door was again gaping wide to the lighter night, and the assassin had to be long gone.

  Who would threaten her with a potsherd? Cause all this, just to find some Quiz Quiz?

  “War Duck? You rotted well better be able to explain this!”

  Forty-eight

  With her pack on her back, Night Shadow Star strode purposefully down the narrow cavern. Her feet barely sank into the soft mud, and her long black hair trailed out behind her like strands of moss in the current.

  Around her, roots emerged from cracks in the dark limestone walls to wind down along the stone in tangles. An occasional fish would dart past, and she often had to step around concentrations of freshwater mussels where they clumped together in the mud.

  She barely flinched when Piasa—accompanied by a blue glow—flashed into existence at her side. The great Underwater Panther’s wings were folded atop his back; the snake’s tail with its rattles kept swishing back and forth. The Spirit beast studied her through deadly yellow eyes, the black pupils like pools of emptiness. He wrinkled his cougar face in what might have passed for a smile had it not exposed his long and curving fangs.