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

by Jeff Posey

  “No. Oh, no. No reason to be alarmed just yet, though I’m glad to see you recognize the threat. Pók does not know you are here. But he thinks I will learn sooner than him where you are.”

  The Pochtéca settled and put his hands together. “Which you have.”

  “You came to me. I’ve done nothing. Yet.”

  “Did he make you a good offer for me?”

  “Pók prefers the ultimatum. And he likes to cook and eat people,” said the Fat Man. “It’s bring you to him or that.”

  “Ah. So, it’s a risky day for you as well.”

  “More risky for you.” The Fat Man eyed the red-hat man. He could so easily turn him over. Save himself. Elevate Pók. The thought made his appetite go away for a few moments.

  “I doubt it. For me it’s perhaps not as great as you think. Let’s just say I always have an alternative.”

  The Fat Man smiled and looked The Pochtéca up and down. The bluster of a salesman, or of a warrior who is prepared to attack or die—or escape? The Fat Man decided to presume the salesman. “You are a trader. I assume you have a proposition for me, a counter-offer to Pók’s?”

  The Pochtéca smiled. “I tend to work from a different direction than Pók. I prefer to attract than to force. Do you know the value of finely worked bluestone?”

  The Fat Man narrowed his eyes. He knew it looked pretty. That some people, the higher ranks of people, liked to wear pieces of it. Especially women. “I know if a commoner is caught with it, they’re next on Pók’s menu.”

  “Do you know how much finished bluestone is here, in this canyon, in the big palace?”

  “Are you here to ask questions or to trade?”

  The Pochtéca bowed his head to the Fat Man. “Quite right.” The cook, with two helpers, brought in heaping bowls of meat, a platter stacked high with flat corncakes, and two rough mugs without handles brimming with sour corn beer.

  “Buffalo hump?” The Pochtéca asked after the kitchen staff left, peering into the meat bowl.

  “Bear haunch, I think,” said the Fat Man before stuffing his mouth. He chewed loudly and swallowed. He nodded. “Bear haunch.”

  The Pochtéca tasted a small piece and smacked his lips. “You know the pouch that Tootsa carries full of pointed teeth?” he asked.

  The Fat Man nodded while chewing. He picked up the single tooth Tootsa gave him. “He paid me one this morning.”

  “The same size pouch full of bluestone beads would feed you this well twice a day through an entire winter in places not far south from here,” said The Pochtéca. The Fat Man slowed his chewing. He didn’t realize it was that valuable. “The farther south you go, the more they are willing to trade for it. There are places where winter never comes, where it is always summer. They grow corn twice as tall as a man. For Tootsa’s pouch of bluestone, you could live like a top man there for two years. Maybe more.”

  The Fat Man ate and watched The Pochtéca eat more slowly. The Fat Man found what he said interesting, but he had no intention of going to a place with all summers. He liked long winters if he could be warm and well-fed. But he also liked eating like this twice a day for a long time without having to do anything.

  “I hear they have some in a room or two in the big house. I’m not sure where or how much,” said the Fat Man. “I suppose you want all of it.”

  The Pochtéca continued eating slowly. “I do not want to steal it. I want to trade for it.”

  The Fat Man chuckled. He tried to put some menace into it. “That shirt you have. With the bells. Underneath your cotton shirt. Is that what you wish to trade for bluestone?” The Fat Man smiled. He knew The Pochtéca had that on from the beginning. Tootsa had mentioned it. “Now something like that would let me live like a top man north of here. For the rest of my life if I lived three times longer than I will.”

  “Yes, you could rather quickly earn a shirt like this one for yourself,” said The Pochtéca. “If we can convince whoever we need to that you will handle all bluestone trade inside this canyon. You will get rich from commission. First, we have to reach an understanding with the person who controls the bluestone.”

  The Fat Man knitted his brow. “Pók?” He hated himself for making it a question.

  “Who could tell Pók to let us take some of the bluestone?”

  “The Builder. No, Tókotsi. Nobody else.” The Fat Man scratched his nose. He felt The Pochtéca was angling to get away with something and cut him out of the deal.

  “That’s our man. I want you to take me to see Tókotsi. This morning. Right now.”

  The Fat Man leaned back in surprise. The red-hat man wants to see Tókotsi. Without paying anything up front.

  “Tókotsi has no bluestone stores. It’s all in the house of The Builder. Why do you want to talk to him?” asked the Fat Man, stalling while he came up with a way to guarantee some kind of profit for himself.

  “Because he is the most powerful person in this canyon at the moment. Am I right?”

  The Fat Man shook his head. “Until your army of children killed half his precious guard, I would have said Pók, though I don’t think he ever really believed it. Tókotsi had the political power, but Pók the physical. Now I’d say they were roughly equal, with slight odds in favor of Tókotsi. Unless you’ve killed off half his Southern Guard.” The Fat Man regarded The Pochtéca with respect and some pity. His chances were very low. The Fat Man decided he would have to grab his share whenever the opportunity presented itself. At a shout, he could have men in here and wrestled the shirt of many bells off The Pochtéca. Already, while talking and eating, he had snatches of daydreams about moving north and living like a rich man without having to run a string of sniveling girls, without having to manage the animal warriors who rutted them and drank and gambled and fought endlessly.

  “Tókotsi and I have never had the pleasure of meeting,” said the Fat Man. “He may not agree to meet us. My audience with Pók just now was the first time I’ve set foot on the grounds of their palace—at least officially.”

  “I have a feeling Tókotsi will want to meet the red-hat man, master of an orphan army. Don’t you?”

  “You realize, of course, that Tókotsi is surrounded by his own warriors? They could take you and your shirt—part of which should be mine—and leave me with nothing.”

  “I see your problem. If I get into trouble with this shirt on, you’ll never see your share of it. But I have an idea. I’m told there is a woman who lives in the big house. An albino woman. Do you know her?”

  The Fat Man nodded slowly. “I know of her.”

  “You can always trust an albino.” The Pochtéca cited the line from a common children’s story. “We will leave my shirt with her.”

  The Fat Man knew the tale. It involved two children arguing over a toy. An albino walked by and promised to keep the toy safe while they ran a race. The albino gave the toy to the winner. Albinos were trusted to hold things of value until a winner emerged. He became amused. This red-hat man is sly, he thought.

  “I might bring myself to trust the albino. But can I ever trust a trader?” asked the Fat Man.

  “As much as I can trust a man who runs a house of pleasure.”

  The Fat Man laughed at that. “Now I suppose you want me to introduce you to the albino woman. Who I’ve never met. Or even seen. But who I’m pretty sure would not turn down the opportunity to meet the red-hat man.” The Fat Man struggled to his feet. “I’m willing to let her hold your shirt while you try to make a deal with Tókotsi. As long as you instruct her to give it to me if you fail.”

  “I will instruct her to give you no more than half if I fail to return. The other half I will tell her to give to someone she knows from long ago.”

  The Fat Man eyed him. He hated wasting the other half of the shirt. But even half would last him longer than the rest of his life. He agreed.

  Once again, the Fat Man found himself walking in harsh morning light to the palace, this time to a back door where he suspected two of his form
er girls ran their own shop. A knot of regular warriors stood waiting. The Fat Man walked to the front of the line, The Pochtéca following.

  “Hey,” said a warrior. “No cutting ahead, even for you, Mr. Fat Man.” Other warriors laughed. They were all regulars, unkempt and sarcastic. Not like the more dignified guard.

  “Yeah,” said another regular. “And these girls are a lot cheaper than yours—they’re free!” Men laughed and hooted.

  “We’re not going in for the women,” said the Fat Man. The warriors seemed surprised and able to think of no further argument.

  The Fat Man pushed his way through, and they walked into a room that stank. Two men were having sex with two women, one of whom appeared dead. Both had been his girls. The other one looked near death. He shook his head, and motioned for The Pochtéca to follow him into a dark inner hallway.

  The Fat Man stopped and The Pochtéca ran into him.

  “Let our eyes adjust,” said the Fat Man. “The kitchen is that way, I think. I smell it.”

  They crept down the passageways, running their hands along the gritty stone walls and pausing at each opening to listen and watch for light. Kitchen sounds came from a distance, and they crept toward it. When the flicker of a substantial fire appeared, they hurried and emerged into the bustling heart of the palace kitchen. When Cook saw them, she gasped. All her helpers stopped and stared at the two men.

  “We’re here to see the albino woman,” said the Fat Man. He scanned the kitchen and marveled at the quantity of food, the number of big cooking pots around a roaring fire, bowls of ground meal and piñon nuts and animal fat. As full as his stomach was with bear haunch, he licked his lips. When he had his half of The Pochteca’s shirt, he would set up a kitchen like this for himself.

  Cook put down her jar and placed her shaking hand to her throat. She led them down a dark hallway and told them to wait. She went to a corner and coughed. The Fat Man heard whispers, then Cook hurried past them back to the kitchen and they stood in the gloom. In diffused light flickering from the kitchen fire, a white-skinned woman faded into view like a ghost appearing at its leisure. The Fat Man went weak in the knees and backed against the wall. He would rather be cooked and eaten by Pók than have his spirit taken by an albino witch.

  The Pochtéca stepped toward her. “Nuva?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” the white woman asked. Cook appeared carrying a single-flame lamp, set it on the floor in front of Nuva, glanced with a frightened face at both men, and then left.

  The Pochtéca pulled his hat out of his vest and put it on his head.

  Nuva gasped and put her hands to her mouth. “He is with you?” Nuva asked.

  “He is very close. But safe. He has long hoped the albino woman in the palace was you. And he hoped about another woman, too. The one in the bluestone.”

  “Yes,” Nuva said, grasping The Pochtéca by his hands. “She is here.”

  “I’m sorry we cannot linger, but we have only a few moments.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Nuva, locking suspicious eyes on the Fat Man.

  “We have a favor to ask.” He explained they wanted her to hold his shirt of many bells, even lifted his cotton outer shirt to jingle it for her.

  Nuva looked back and forth from The Pochtéca to the Fat Man. She agreed.

  “If I do not come for this shirt in a half-moon,” started The Pochtéca.

  “A half-moon!” interrupted the Fat Man. That weasel is trying to cheat me, he thought.

  “Yes, a half-moon,” said The Pochtéca. “If you cannot survive for a half-moon to wait on your portion, then it’s of no use to you anyway.”

  The Fat Man didn’t like it, but he backed down.

  “If I do not come for this shirt in a half-moon, take it apart into halves. One half to the Fat Man if he comes for it. The other to the boy you raised.”

  “Yes,” said Nuva. “Of course.”

  “Your boy is very close,” said The Pochtéca. “I will tell him of you and the one with you. It will give him strength.”

  “And we have the sister here of someone you may know. Wooti. Lightfoot’s sister.”

  “You know Lightfoot?” asked the Fat Man.

  “Yes,” said The Pochtéca with a smile. “Things are about to change here. Today. I hope events keep you well, madam.” He nodded to Nuva.

  “I hope so for you, too,” she said. “Just watch for those you don’t expect to help you. Even the weakest are not without power.”

  The Pochtéca bowed, and turned away. The Fat Man hurried so he wouldn’t be left alone with the albino ghost woman.

  “What boy did she raise?” asked the Fat Man.

  “The grandson of a skywatcher,” said The Pochtéca. “Unless I am mistaken, he may become the most powerful man in the canyon before the day’s last light.”

  Tuwa saw The Pochtéca enter a back entrance to the palace with the Fat Man, and started running. He didn’t care if it attracted attention, he had to follow. But something big ran past him. Choovio charged to the front of the line.

  “Hey, where are you going, little prick?” shouted a warrior.

  Choovio tried to push into the room with the girls. The warrior pushed him back.

  “I need woman,” Choovio said in a childish boy voice. “Need woman.” He rocked back and forth and looked from the warrior to the door of the room. “Need woman now.”

  The men laughed uproariously. “Hey, Garr-oos! He’s going to spurt in his loincloth!” a man yelled, and other men whooped.

  “Well, now, boy,” said Garr-oos, putting his hand behind Choovio’s head, which reached as high as his. “Aren’t you a little young to be out and about around here? We have orders to catch and cook tender little things like you.” The men roared. Some smacked their lips.

  “If I can’t have a woman,” Choovio said, “then I’ll fight. You. Now.” Choovio took a fighting stance. Men screamed in delight. A crowd gathered around.

  Tuwa realized what Choovio was doing. Nobody paid attention to the doorway where The Pochtéca entered. Tuwa began to sidle his way to it.

  “You want to fight me?” asked Garr-oos, doubling over in laughter.

  “Fair fight,” said Choovio. “Hands only. Fair fight.”

  Garr-oos shook his head, but began dropping his club and stone knives. “If I win, we cook and eat you.”

  “And if I win, we cook and eat you!” said Choovio, punching the warrior in the mouth. The man staggered back, and Choovio flashed a look to Tuwa. He hoped Choovio could get out of the scrape, and dashed into the room, where two girls lay naked, spread-eagle. One raised her head and looked at him with dull eyes. In the dark hallway, he crashed headfirst into a stone wall and fell to the floor in a heap, pinpricks of light scurrying like an upset nest of baby mice.

  He heard sounds and crept in the opposite direction, one arm outstretched in front of him, the other dragging the wall. At every intersection, he turned away from any dim light or noise. He thought maybe he could somehow come upon The Pochtéca from a different way than he went in, and not be noticed by the Fat Man. But after creeping for what seemed a long time in the dank, dark hallways, he became hopelessly lost. He turned round and round, wondering which way to The Pochtéca, even where Nuva and Chumana might stay.

  He caught a whiff of smoke, thought it must be from the kitchen, and slowly moved in that direction, sensing more than seeing a light, a soft glow of a single-flame lamp in a far corner. He walked to it, stopping often to listen. After a few moments he passed an opening into a room where a low fire smoldered. Tuwa saw the coals. And smelled the smoke. Piñon wood. He stood at the doorway and breathed the scent deeply.

  From behind, something soft hit him hard between the shoulder blades and he fell into the room.

  “Out of here!” said a woman. She kicked him in the behind. “Get out of here. Now!”

  Tuwa rolled to his back, crossed his arms in front of his face, and saw an albino woman, fine white hair floating around her like smoke, he
r face pinched in rage.

  “Nuva!” he said.

  She froze. Her eyes widened. She leaned close and studied his face and then let out a sound of joy and agony so full of emotion Tuwa could make no response except for burying himself in her arms like he used to do when he was a small boy.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I followed someone. I’m supposed to be guarding him.”

  “The Pochtéca. With the Fat Man,” said Nuva. “I just met them.”

  “You met them? They’re already gone?”

  “You can always trust an albino,” she said. “You remember how often I got that when you were growing up. They want me to hold a shirt for them, with lots of tiny bells sewn onto it. I have it right there.”

  Tuwa saw The Pochtéca’s shirt on the ground where she dropped it. Tuwa laughed. It felt good to be in her arms again. She hugged him hard and combed his hair with her fingers.

  “I thought I might never see you again,” she murmured.

  “Me too,” he said. “I had heard of a woman who looks like you here and I hoped it was you.” Tuwa saw movement in the dark corner of the room and tensed. Nuva turned around.

  “That’s just Wooti,” she said. “Come here, Wooti.”

  The stick-thin girl Tuwa had seen in Black Stone Town with Grandmother Haki crept out of the darkness and hid behind Nuva.

  “I remember you,” he said. “Grandmother Haki gave you a message and sent you away. You delivered it here, didn’t you?”

  The girl just stared at him.

  “Yes, she did,” said Nuva, trying to scoop the girl into her lap, but she twisted away. “She even spoke it to us, several times. She’s an amazing young woman.”

  “I know Grandmother Haki thought the same thing about her,” Tuwa said.

  Wooti leaned around Nuva. “Is she…?” She whispered it so softly, Tuwa barely made it out. He didn’t like telling her.

  “I’m sorry, Wooti. Ihu came back. She didn’t make it. But she spoke of you at the end, and her wisdom guided us greatly in standing against the warriors.” He wanted to touch her hand or comfort her somehow, but doubted she would let him.