Keen Eyes sought additional information, but it was curiously lacking. A skilled hunter learned how to conceal his scent trail. Keen Eyes wondered just who had been here with Red Cliff—and had he proved a friend who bore the injured Red Cliff away or the enemy who had wounded him?
<Looking for your friend?>
The mocking mind-voice was familiar: Swimmer’s Scourge! It did not wait for Keen Eyes to reply but went on in the same taunting fashion.
<I took him back where he belongs. If you want to find him, don’t look in our lands. Look in your own.>
<Was he alive? Did you get him help? How badly was he injured?>
But there was no answer. Nor, no matter how determinedly Keen Eyes cast about, could he find the faintest trace of another’s mind-glow. Swimmer’s Scourge must have moved out of range as soon as he had issued his challenge.
Briefly, Keen Eyes considered going after him, but his concern for Red Cliff won out. Gathering all six limbs under him, he raced along the interconnected limbs of the netwood trees, his tail flowing behind like a banner.
* * *
The first place Keen Eyes checked was where the Landless Clan currently had gathered. It was easy to tell Red Cliff had not returned, even without drawing attention to himself. If he had, the news would have shone in the mind-glows of those present.
Wanting to keep his fears to himself, Keen Eyes stayed in the vicinity of the camp for as little time as possible. The mocking words of Swimmer’s Scourge had repeated themselves over and over in Keen Eyes thoughts as he ran.
<I took him back where he belonged. If you want to find him, don’t look in our lands. Look in your own.>
Keen Eyes thought he knew what that meant. He even thought he knew where within the wider range to look. If Red Cliff had been taken “home,” it would be to where the burned lands touched the lands of Trees Enfolding Clan. He knew, too, that this almost certainly meant that Red Cliff was dead. However, he would not rest until he knew for certain.
Although enough time had passed since the fires for the foliage to begin to shift color in reaction to the cooler temperatures, the air nearest to the fire ravaged areas still stank of burned matter. For once, Keen Eyes hardly noticed the smell. He was seeking an odor even less welcome. Before too long, he found it.
Red Cliff lay reduced to a crumpled heap of bloodied and torn flesh and fur. His mind-glow had long gone silent and his heart ceased to beat. Bereft of the fierce intensity that had filled him since his mate had been injured, Red Cliff looked small and pathetic.
Reaching out a hesitant true-hand, Keen Eyes patted the still form, wishing there was some way he could forget this broken creature and remember his friend only as he had been. He wondered if Beautiful Mind knew her mate was dead. He suspected she did. Would he return to the camp to find she had given up her fragile hold on life? He had sensed no such thing when he had checked in, but often the process took longer, the remaining partner simply wasting away in a terrible misery.
So the Landless Clan—already small—had now been reduced by not one but two. Anger replaced sorrow in Keen Eyes heart. Swimmer’s Scourge—for even with the smell of death and ashes he could catch traces of the same scent he had found in the bloodied glade—must have guessed that Red Cliff had a mate. Perhaps he’d even seen her image in Red Cliff’s thoughts. Had Red Cliff begged? Begged for mercy? Begged for passage? Begged for food for his starving kits?
But Swimmer’s Scourge had shown no mercy. Worse, he had not only killed, he had made a cruel joke of his killing by moving Red Cliff’s body so that there would be no doubt that in life or in death the members of Landless Clan were not welcome in the lands of his clan.
Very well. No mercy. No passage. Not even a handful of roots or a couple of tough old bark-chewers to ease the slow starvation Landless Clan faced with the coming of winter. Swimmer’s Scourge had made his point clear. The search for a new home for the Landless Clan had become something far grimmer. This was a declaration of war.
Chapter Twelve
“All right,” Jessica said, straightening from the inspection of a hearty seedling. “That finishes this area. Mom’s going to go nova over what we’re finding. There’s always been a lot of interest in the way crown oak puts out broad leaves for spring and summer, then generates filament leaves for the winter months. From what we’ve seen today, I’m guessing they’re also very adaptable in fire recovery. No wonder they’re becoming the dominant tree in this region.”
“Definitely,” Anders agreed. “Where next? Another crown oak grove?”
Jessica shook her head, which caused her thick, wildly curly hair to toss very attractively around her face. She was apparently unaware of the appeal. With an annoyed sniff, she dug a band from one pocket and corralled the curly mass into an abundant ponytail.
“Nope. Both Mom and Dr.Marjorie are really curious about how picketwood handles fire. Dr.Marjorie was already studying picketwood, because it has some interesting disease control mechanisms. It’d have to since what looks to us like a whole grove is actually one tree with lots of trunks.”
“Weird,” Anders said. “But from what I’ve seen, really useful if you’re a treecat.”
“Exactly!” Jessica said, miming applause before she gathered up her collecting gear and started walking toward the air car. “The treecats are super-dependent on the picketwood. Aerial imaging’s shown that the groves cross mountains, go all over continents.”
“That means,” Anders said excitedly, loading various buckets and bags into the back of Jessica’s air car, “the treecats can travel just about anywhere.”
Valiant leapt gracefully into the front seat, then moved so he could sit on the back of the seat behind Jessica’s head. He made a bleeking sound and tugged at her ponytail, clearly protesting that the abundant massive hair was crowding him.
Jessica sighed and undid the ponytail, sweeping her curls into untidy order with the tips of her fingers. “I wish Valiant wanted to stick his head out the car window the way Lionheart does. Instead, he likes to snuggle. Sometimes I think I’m going to have to cut my hair all off—wear it really short, like Christine does.”
“Oh, don’t!” Anders protested impulsively, then felt himself color.
“What?” Jessica looked surprised at his vehemence, then laughed. “My hair’s just so inconvenient. It always was, but now that Valiant likes to sit on it….”
Anders swallowed his embarrassment and tried to sound casual. “Oh, I just…I mean, it looks really pretty. I like the curls. It wouldn’t look the same all short.”
Jessica laughed. “I know. It was short when I was small. Mom said I looked like an angel, but I think I looked more like a frizzly-leone.”
“Frizzly-leone?”
“It’s a sort of plant they have on Sankar. Seedpods as big as my head that stick out in little parasols. They come in pink and pale blue. I think they’d be really popular, but the seeds get everywhere so they’re considered a weed.”
Relieved—though he wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so flustered—Anders hurried to ask, “What makes something a weed, anyhow?”
Jessica’ explanation—that basically the difference had more to do with humans than with plants—effectively got them off the subject of her hair. Jessica went on to tell a story about the time her family had been so low that they were making a living by pulling weeds in some rich man’s garden.
“Dad’s client didn’t want the sound of machinery to intrude,” she said. “What he didn’t ever guess was that we were taking about half of what we pulled home and cooking it. He was pretty greedy, I bet he’d have tried to dock—”