The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(7)

Catches in Teeth answered her. “None that is spoken now.”

The tribe he’d given offense to had dealt with him on their own, then. Isobel nodded and let it go.

“And here you . . . farm?” Her voice lifted, making it a question, although there were no fields to be seen, save a small garden patch between the houses.

“We hunt,” Catches in Teeth said. “Enough to keep us. We welcome those who travel between the villages and the sacred lake. We keep the agreement here”—and his voice was like a rumble of thunder on a clear day, low, but sharp and clear. “Better than most.”

Isobel’s gaze went to his, but there was nothing in his eyes to suggest deeper meaning in his words. The Agreement had been made with long-gone tribal elders, back when the grandparents of Jumping-Up Duck’s grandparents had been young, to keep balance between natives and outsiders looking to make the Territory their home as well. Did he mean to say that there were those here who did not abide?

Uncertainty fluttered within Isobel’s stomach again. How was she to proceed? Were these folk settlers, to be held to the devil’s management? Or were they a tribal campment, outside of it? Was she the Hand here or visitor without authority?

In her silence, the conversation moved on, speaking of the next structure they hoped to finish before winter came around again, to house Karl and, eventually, the older boys.

Isobel let the words wash over her, hearing without listening, watching without looking too directly at anything. Native folk won’t tell you anything straight on, the boss used to say. At least not to us, but they’ll tell you what you need to know, if you only just wait on them; be patient. But there were winds here she could not quite catch, in who spoke of what and who did not. Native and settler, their edges overlapping, blurring. She was missing something, something important.

And so Isobel listened, watched, and waited, until the last battered tin spoon scraped the bottom of the last wooden bowl, and the children had been sorted and sent off to the creek to wash the food from their hands and faces. The women cleared the dishes away, while the men and Isobel remained at the table, Catches in Teeth taking a small, bright blade out of his pocket and resuming work on what looked to become a flute, the others simply resting after the meal. The scratch-scratch-scratch of Catches in Teeth’s knife would be soothing under other circumstances, but she could feel his gaze on her, judging and considering, and she was aware that her weapons were with Uvnee’s tack, too far away to do her any good.

When enough time had gone by to satisfy that they were all perfectly capable of going all day without speaking if they chose to, Isobel lifted her shoulders and placed her hands on the table, her left hand resting with the palm up, the sigil formed there clearly visible. And then she waited a little while more, until Duck’s husband laughed, a dry cackle.

“Why are you here?” Four Wolves asked.

“You know what I am.” They did not deny it. “I was woken this morning by a need for me to be here, a reason for me to be here, although I do not know what that reason or need may be yet. Something worries you. You may speak to me of it, or not. That is your choice.”

Isobel let the words rest between them and waited. Patience. They would choose to trust her, or they would not, and she could do nothing more.

A child laughed down by the creek. There was the scratch-scratch-scratch of the knife against wood. Beyond that, beneath that, there was silence that carried its own noise within it, the weight of breathing, of thinking, of strong emotion not yet ready to speak.

Briefly, she thought of Farron, the magician who had spoken merely to fill the air with noise, who had blathered as though afraid of the silence, and then disappeared into the silence without warning without farewell. Distracted a moment, she hoped he was all right, wherever he was.

“The bones sorrow.” Jumping-Up Duck’s voice was thin and quiet as she rejoined them at the table. “They sorrow, and we suffer.”

“Jumping-Up Duck worries too much.” Four Wolves’ words were dismissive, but her sense of him did not match his words; where Duck sorrowed, he was afraid. His brother remained impassive, quick, steady flicks of his blade hollowing and smoothing the tiny flute.

The two other women had also returned, reclaiming their seats without speaking. Margot’s jaw was clenched, her blue eyes clouded with worry; Elizabet’s were a calmer stillness.

“Jumping-Up Duck is my wife and wise.” Her husband hadn’t spoken before, and Isobel now understood why: like his laugh, his voice was a harsh, ugly scratch, breath forced out of a throat that did not wish to speak. She lowered her gaze and continued waiting.

“She says the devil’s hand will rest upon us, shelter against what comes.”

Isobel licked her lips once, and decided that yes, that had been a question. Apprehension shivered through her, cold prickles of doubt that made her bowels clench and her upper lip sweat. What was coming? The Spanish king had set loose a spellwork on the Territory months before. She and Gabriel had dealt with one creature that came of that; Gabriel was still recovering from the wounds he had taken, and she?—

No. She forced her emotions down, her thumb stroking the silver ring on her littlest finger, the surface fresh-polished, untarnished. She’d faced plague and monsters and Spanish monks who hated her, had forced a spell-creature into obedience with the Territory. If this was more illness from the spell’s influence, she would recognize it. All she had to do was look.