Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [139]
Dag had picked up his hickory stick, so she guessed they were in for a longish walk to this grove, since he’d stopped using it around the campsite a few days back. She brushed her skirts straight, slipped her shoes on, and followed him out of the tent.
Dag realized he’d walked for a mile without seeing a single thing that had passed his eyes, and it wasn’t because the route was so familiar. His mind seemed to have come to some still place, but he wasn’t sure if it was poised or simply numb. They were passing patroller headquarters when Fawn, uncharacteristically silent till then, asked her first question: “Where is this council grove, anyhow?”
He glanced down at her. The rosy flush from their walk in the noon warmth kept her from being pale, but her face was set. “Not much farther. Just past Hoharie’s medicine tent.”
She nodded. “Will there be very many people there? Is it like a town council?”
“I don’t know town councils. There are nearly eight thousand folks around Hickory Lake; the whole point of having a camp council is so they don’t have to all show up for these arguments. Anyone can come listen who’s interested, though. It depends on how many people or families or tents are involved in a dispute. It’s only Tent Redwing—and Tent Bluefield—today. There’ll be Dar and Mama, but not too many friends of theirs, because they wouldn’t care to have them watch this. My friends are mostly out on patrol this season. So I don’t expect a crowd.” He hesitated, swinging his staff along, then shrugged his left shoulder. “Depends on how they take our marriage cords. That affects most everyone, and could grow much wider.”
“How long will it take?”
“At the start of a session, the council leader lights a session candle. Session lasts as long as it takes to burn down, which is about three hours. They say of a dispute that it’s a one-candle or two-candle or ten-candle argument. They can spread over several days, see.” He added after a few more paces, “But this one won’t.” Not if I can help it.
“How do you know?” she asked, but then it was time to turn off into the grove.
Grove was a misnomer; it was more of a clearing, a wide circular space at the edge of the woods weeded of poison ivy and other noxious plant life and bordered by huge, flowering bushes people had planted over the years—elderberry, forsythia, lilac—some so old their trunks were thick as trees. Upended log seats were scattered about on grass that a couple of placid sheep were at work nibbling short. To one side rose an open frame nearly the size of patrol headquarters under a shingled roof, for bad weather, but today a small circle of seats was set up in the shade at the clearing’s edge. A few more folks were walking in as Dag and Fawn arrived, so apparently they were not late.
Fairbolt Crow, talking head down with Mari, arrived last. They split off from each other, Fairbolt taking the remaining unoccupied log seat at the end of a close-set row of seven backed up to some venerable elderberry bushes, branches hanging heavy with fruit. Mari strode over to the gaggle of patrollers seated to Dag’s right. Dag was not surprised to see Saun, Razi, and Utau already there; Saun jumped to his feet and rolled up a log for her. He was a little more surprised to see Dirla—had she paddled all the way over from Beaver Sigh for this?—and Griff from Obio’s patrol.
Clustered to the left of the councilor’s row were only Dar, Cumbia, and Omba, the latter plainly not too happy to be there. His mother looked up from a bit of cord she was working in her lap for habit or comfort, shot Dag one glance of grim triumph, which he scarcely knew how to interpret—See what you made me do? maybe—then looked away. The looked away part he had no trouble understanding, since he did the same, like not watching a medicine maker rummage in one’s wound. Dar merely appeared as if he had a stomachache, and blamed Dag for it, hardly unusual for