Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [128]
“Yeah,” sighed Dag, dutifully lying flat. “Well, we’re all home now.”
Sarri and Utau took themselves out with an offer of dinner later, which Fawn gratefully accepted. She fussed briefly over Dag, kissed him on the forehead, and left him not so much dozing as glazed while she went to deal with unpacking their gear. She glanced up at the lately contested awning of little Tent Bluefield as she began sorting.
Home again.
Was it?
Fawn brought Dag breakfast in bed the next morning. So it was only plunkin, tea, and concern; the concern, at least, he thought delicious. Though he had no appetite, he let her coax him into eating, and then bustle about getting him propped up comfortably with a nice view out the tent flap at the lakeshore. As the sun climbed he could watch her down on the dock scrubbing their clothes. From time to time she waved up at him, and he waved back. In due course, she shouldered the wet load and climbed up out of sight somewhere, likely to hang it all out to dry.
He was still staring out in benign lassitude when a brisk hand slapped the tent side, and Hoharie ducked in. “There you are. Saun told me you’d made it back,” she greeted him.
“Ah, Hoharie. Yeah, yesterday afternoon.”
“I also heard you weren’t doing so well.”
“I’ve been worse.”
Hoharie was back in her summer shift, out of riding gear; indeed, she’d made a questionable-looking patroller. She settled down on her knees and folded her legs under herself, looking Dag over critically.
“How’s the leg, after all that abuse?”
“Still healing. Slowly. No sign of infection.”
“That’s a blessing in a deep puncture, although after all that ground reinforcement I wouldn’t expect infection. And the arm?”
He shifted it. “Still very weak.” He hadn’t even bothered with his arm harness yet this morning, though Fawn had cajoled him into clean trousers and shirt. “No worse.”
“Should be better by now. Come on, open up.”
Dag sighed and eased open his ground. It no longer gave him sensations akin to pain to do so; the discomfort was more subtle now, diffuse and lingering.
Horarie frowned. “What did you do with all that ground reinforcement you took on last week over in Raintree? It’s barely there.”
“It helped. But we crossed some more blight on the way back.”
“Not smart.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your groundsense range right now?”
“Good question. I haven’t…” He spread his senses. He hardly needed groundsense to detect Mari’s noisy grandchildren, shouting all over the campsite. The half-closed adults were subtler smudges. Fawn was a bright spark in the walnut grove, a hundred paces off. Beyond that…nothing. “Very limited.” Shockingly so. “Haven’t been this weak since I lost my real hand.”
“Well, if you want an answer to, How am I recovering? there’s your test. No patrolling for you for a while, Captain. Not till your range is back to its usual.”
Dag waved this away. “I’m not arguin’.”
“That tells a tale right there.” Hoharie’s fingers touched his thigh, his arm, his side; he could feel her keen regard as a passing pressure through his aches. “After my story and Saun’s, Fairbolt reckoned he’d be putting your peg back in the sick box. He wanted me to tell him for how long.”
“So? How long?”
“Longer than Utau, anyway.”
“Fairbolt won’t be happy about that.”
“Well, we’ve talked about that. About you. You did rather more in that Bonemarsh groundlock than just take hurt, you know.”
Something in her tone brought him up, if not to full alertness, which eluded him still, then to less vague attention. He let his ground ease closed again. Hoharie sat back on the woven mat beside the bedroll and wrapped her arms around her knees, regarding him coolly.
“You’ve been patrolling for a long time,” she observed.
“Upwards of forty years. So? Cattagus walked for almost seventy. My grandfather, longer than that. It’s a life.”
“Ever think of another? Something more settled?”
“Not lately.” Or at least, not until this summer. He wasn’t about to try to describe how confused he’d become about his life since Glassforge.
“Anyone ever suggest medicine maker?”