Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [134]
Fairbolt’s grim headshake did not deny this. “We can’t push farmers back south to safety by force. We haven’t got it to spare.”
“Then they’re here to stay, eh? I’m not suggesting force. But what if we had their help, that power, instead of feeding it to the malices?”
“We cannot let ourselves depend. We must not become lords again. That was our fathers’ sin that near-slew the world.”
“Isn’t there any other way for Lakewalkers and farmers to be with each other than as lords and servants, malices and slaves?”
“Yes. Live apart. Thus we avert lordship.” Fairbolt made a slicing gesture.
Dag fell silent, his throat thick.
“So,” said Fairbolt at length. “What is your plan for dealing with the camp council?”
Dag shook his head.
Fairbolt sat back in some exasperation, then continued, “It’s like this. When I see a good tactician—and I know you are one—sit and wait, instead of moving, as his enemy advances on him, I figure there could be two possible reasons. Either he doesn’t know what to do—or his enemy is coming into his hand exactly the way he wants. I’ve known you for a good long time…and looking at you right now, I still don’t know which it is you’re doing.”
Dag looked away. “Maybe I don’t either.”
After another silence, Fairbolt sighed and rose. “Reasonable enough. I’ve done what I can. Take care of yourself, Dag. See you at council, I suppose.”
“Likely.” Dag touched his temple and watched Fairbolt trudge wearily away through the walnut grove.
The next day dawned clear, promising the best kind of dry heat. The lake was glassy. Dag lay up under the awning of Tent Bluefield and watched Fawn finish weaving hats, the result of her finding a batch of reeds of a texture she’d declared comparable to more farmerly straw. She took her scissors and, tongue caught fetchingly between her teeth, carefully trimmed the fringe of reeds sticking out around the brim to an even finger length. “There!” she said, holding it up. “That’s yours.”
He glanced at its mate lying beside her. “Why isn’t it braided up all neat around the rim like the other?”
“Silly, that’s a girl’s hat. This is a boy’s hat. So’s you can tell the difference.”
“Not to question your people, but that’s not how I tell the difference between boys and girls.”
This won a giggle, as he’d hoped. “It just is, for straw hats, all right? So now I can go out in the sun without my nose coming all over freckles.”
“I think your nose looks cute with freckles.” Or without…
“Well, I don’t.” She gave a decisive nod.
He leaned back, his eyes half-closing. His bone-deep exhaustion was creeping up on him, again. Maybe Hoharie had been right about that appalling recovery time after all….
“That’s it.” Fawn jumped to her feet.
He opened his eyes to find her frowning down at him.
“We’re going on a picnic,” she declared roundly.
“What?”
“Just you wait and see. No, don’t get up. It’s a surprise, so don’t look.”
He watched anyway, as she bustled about putting a great deal of food and two stone jugs into a basket, bundled up a couple of blankets, then vanished around behind Cattagus and Mari’s tent to emerge toting a paddle for the narrow boat. Bemused, he found himself herded down to the dock and instructed to get in and have a nice lie-down, padded and propped in the bottom of the boat facing her.
“You know how to steer this craft?” he inquired mildly, settling.
“Er…” She hesitated. “It looked pretty easy when you did it.” And then, after a moment, “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“It’s a deal, Spark.”
The lesson took maybe ten minutes, once they’d pushed off from the dock. Their somewhat-wandering path evened out as she settled into her stroke, and then all he had to do was coax her to slow down and find the rhythm that would last. She found her way to that, too. He pushed back his boy’s hat and smiled from under the fringe at her. Her face was made luminous even beneath the shadow of her own neat brim by the light reflecting off the water, all framed against the deep blue sky.
He felt amazingly content not to move.