Free Copper Falcon by W. Michael Gear Page B

services should you, or your warriors, need
any
kind of special consideration.”
    At that, Father turned his attention the man’s way, a wary smile on his face. “And let me guess? Such services would include women with warm beds? The finest of Cahokian artifacts to take back to Trade with our bucolic and rude townsmen at home? Statuettes of Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies crafted in the one true temple? Or chunkey stones used by the Morning Star himself in his ritual morning game?”
    Seven Skull Shield bowed his head, touching fingers to his forehead. “The very same, good Four Winds lord. If I might ask, how many years has it been since—?”
    “Not so long that I’ve forgotten the tricks played by weasels like you and your sort.” Father gave a dismissive toss of his hand. “Be away with you.”
    “As you command, great lord. But should you find need, just send word through the fish-seller in yonder—”
    “I said,
Go
.”
    Seven Skull Shield touched his forehead again and vanished into the crowd.
    “Cahokia draws his sort the way a dead elk draws flies and maggots. They get away with things they’d never be able to anywhere else: thievery, abduction, smuggling.”
    “And the Morning Star doesn’t strike them dead?” I asked.
    Father gave me his familiar condescending squint. “Seriously? Do you think gods care about what goes on in the world of humans?”
    “But, I—”
    “Come on.” He motioned me and our following warriors forward. Then I heard him growl under his breath, “Whose war are we fighting, anyway?”
    Unless you’ve been to River City, seen what I have, my description will border on fantasy. The levee is packed with a throng of warehouses, specialized craft workshops, and manufactories. You’ll find potters and their wares, rope makers, stone and shell carvers, coppersmiths, woodworkers, arrow makers, weavers, and tanners. Temples dedicated to every god and spirit helper stand atop mounds or are guarded by spirit poles. Here, too, are Traders who deal in shell, stone, copper, thatch, building poles, firewood, fish, meat, corn, exotics from distant lands, and every other good. Palaces rise above tightly packed houses.
    The run from the canoe landing to Horned Serpent Town takes half a day—and all of it through unending city. The high ground along the River Road is marked by clusters of mound-top temples, society houses, storerooms, and granaries. Surrounding those are concentrations of houses with ramadas and cramped gardens. Small farm plots are squeezed in between plaster-walled buildings. As you continue south, the road crosses marshy bottoms denuded of reeds and riparian grasses where the raised track streams with people, many of them plodding under cumbersome loads. Porters carry litters bearing seated nobles, priests, and high-born; immigrants bear burdens of stone, timbers, quarters of meat, or the carcasses of turkey, ducks, or other fowl. Some pack tall bundles of cane or thatch, or tightly folded bolts of colored cloth. If it can be eaten, worn, or used for any purpose, you will see it on the roads of Cahokia.
    Used to the scents of Copper Falcon Town—of our fields, river, and forests—my nose quivered at the medley of odors ranging from fly-filled-and-sour latrines, to the onion acridity of fired shell, to the marvelous odors of baking spiced breads. Never far from the nose, smoke hung low in the sky, giving the city a constant brownish haze.
    And the people, the
endless
people. From all corners of our world they flocked to Cahokia to share in the miracle of the reincarnated Morning Star. Speaking every language, wearing all manner of clothing, their hair in peculiar styles, with tattoos of impossible design on their faces, they occupied every arable plot of soil. Had I not just spent two full moons on the rivers passing town after town, I would have believed that every person on earth lived in sprawling, bustling Cahokia.
    Finally, panting and exhausted, we trotted between