Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [109]
At Fawn’s faint gasp Hoharie’s eyes flicked up; she glanced from Dag to Fawn, and murmured, “Oh, sorry. Talking to myself, I’m afraid.”
“It’s all right. I want to know everything.”
“So do I, child,” Hoharie sighed. She levered to her feet and wandered off again.
Saun having gone off to the east camp to sleep after taking a night watch, it was Othan who came at noon to feed Dag broth. Fawn watched enviously and critically as he raised Dag’s head into his lap, wincing at every harsh click of spoon on teeth or muffled choke or dribble lost down over Dag’s chin. At least Dag’s face wasn’t rough with stubble; Saun had shaved it just this morning. Fawn had wondered at the effort, since Dag couldn’t feel it—but somehow it did make him look less sick. So maybe the use of it was not for Dag, but for the people who looked so anxiously after him. She had smiled gratefully at Saun, anyhow.
Othan, on the other hand, glowered at her as he worked.
“What?” she finally demanded.
“You’re hovering. Back off, can’t you? Half a mile would do.”
“I’ve a right. He’s my husband.”
“That hasn’t been decided yet.”
Fawn touched her marriage cord. “Dag and I decided it. Quite a ways back down the road.”
“You’ll find out, farmer.” Othan coaxed the last spoonful of broth down his patient’s throat, which moved just enough to swallow, and laid Dag’s head back down on the folded blanket that substituted, poorly, for a pillow. Fawn considered collecting dry grass to stuff it with, later. Othan added, “He was a good patroller. Hoharie says he could be even more. They say you’ve seduced him from his duty and will be the ruination his life if the camp council doesn’t fix things.”
Fawn sat up indignantly. “They say? So let them say it to my face, if they’re not cowards.” And anyhow, I think we sort of seduced each other.
“My uncle who’s a patroller says it, and he’s no coward!”
Fawn gritted her teeth as Othan—safely ground-closed Othan—stroked a strand of sweat-dampened hair back from Dag’s forehead. How dare he act as if he owned Dag, just because he was Lakewalker-born and she wasn’t! The, the stupid boy was just a wet-behind-the-ears apprentice no older than she was. Younger, likely. Her longing to shut Othan up, make him look nohow, was quelled by her sudden realization that he might be a lead into just the sort of camp gossip Dag had so carefully shielded her from. Also—this was half an argument. Just what all had Dag been saying back to Hickory Lake Camp? She recalled the day he’d made that poor plunkin into a porcupine with his bow and her arrows. Her spinning mind settled on, “I’m not a patch on your malices, for ruination.”
“They’re not our malices.”
Fawn smiled blackly. “Oh, yes, they are.” She added after a fuming moment, “And there isn’t any was about it, unless you want to say he was a good patroller, and he now is a really good captain! He took his company right through that awful Raintree malice like a knife through butter, to hear Dirla tell it. Despite being married to a farmer, so there!”
“Despite, yeah,” Othan growled.
Fawn took a grip on her shredding temper as Mari and Hoharie came up. Othan scrambled to his feet, giving over glaring at Fawn in order to look anxiously at the medicine maker. Hoharie looked grim, and Mari grimmer.
“Which one, then?” said Mari.
“Dag,” said Hoharie. “I’ve worked on his ground enough to be most familiar with it, and he’s also the most recent to fall into the lock. If that counts for anything. Othan, good, you’re here,” she continued without a pause. “I’m going to enter this groundlock, and I want you to try to anchor me.”
Othan looked alarmed. “Are you sure,