Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [32]
She received a grunt and a grudging nod in return. “Where’s Dag?” he asked.
“He went off.” She added warily, “He told me to wait here for him till he got back.”
Another grunt. Dar inspected his lathe, wet but undamaged by the storm, and went around the cabin fastening open the shutters. He trod up the steps, stared down at her, slipped off his muddy shoes, and went inside; he came back out in a few minutes looking faintly frustrated, perhaps because she’d left nothing to complain of.
He asked abruptly, “You didn’t couple in there last night, did you?”
Fawn stared up in offense. “No, but what business is that of yours?”
“I’d have to do a ground cleansing if you did.” He stared at the firewood stack. “Did you collect that, or Dag?”
“I did, of course.”
He looked as though he was reaching for a reason to reject it, but couldn’t come up with one. Fortunately, at that point Dag came striding up the path. He looked reasonably cheerful; perhaps his errand had prospered?
“Ah.” He paused when he saw his brother; they exchanged equally laconic nods.
Dar waited a moment as if for Dag to speak, then when nothing was forthcoming, said, “That was a clever retreat last night. You didn’t have to listen to the complaints.”
“You could’ve gone for a walk.”
“In the rain? Anyway, I thought that was your trick—patroller.”
Dag lowered his eyelids. “As you say.” He nodded to Fawn and hooked his saddlebags and hers up over his shoulder. “Come along, Spark. G’day, Dar.”
Fawn found herself trotting at his heels, casting a farewell nod over her shoulder at Dar, who by the opening and tight closing of his mouth clearly had wanted to say more.
“Were you all right?” Dag asked, as soon as they were out of earshot. “With Dar, I mean.”
“I guess. Except that he asked one really rude question.”
“Which was?”
Fawn flushed. “He asked if we’d made love in his cabin.”
“Ah. Well, he actually does have a legitimate reason for wanting to know that, but he should have asked me. If he really couldn’t trust me to know better.”
“I hadn’t worked round yet to asking him if your mama had softened any overnight. Didn’t you want to ask?”
“If she had,” Dag said distantly, “I’m sure Dar was able to stiffen her up again.”
Fawn asked more quietly, looking down at her feet pacing along the muddy, leaf-and-stick-strewn path, “Did this—marrying me—mess things up any between you and your brother?”
“No.”
“Because he seems pretty angry at you. At us.”
“He’s always annoyed at me for something. It’s a habit. Don’t worry about it, Spark.”
They reached the road and turned right. Dag barely glanced aside as they passed his family’s clearing. He made no move to turn in there. The road followed the shoreline around the island and curved south, running between the woods and more groups of cabins hugging the bank. The dripping trees sparkled in the morning light, and the sun, now well up above the farther shore, sent golden beams between the boles through the cool, moist air, which smelled of rain and moss.
Not a quarter mile along, Dag turned left into a clearing featuring three tent-cabins and a dock much like all the others. It was set a little apart from its neighbors by a stand of tall black walnut trees to its north and an orchard of stubbier fruit trees to its south; Fawn could see a few beehives tucked away among the latter. On a stump in front of one of the cabins sat an aging man dressed only in trousers cut off above the knees and held up by a rope belt, and leather sandals. His gray hair was knotted at his nape. He was carving away with long strokes on what looked to be some sort of oar or paddle in the making, but when he saw them he waved the knife in amiable greeting.
Dag dumped their saddlebags atop another stump and led Fawn over to the fellow. By his gnarly feet, she suspected he was an old patroller. He’d clearly been a big man once, now going a little stringy with age, except around his—for a Lakewalker—ample middle. He eyed Fawn as curiously as she eyed him.
Dag said, “Fawn, this is Cattagus Redwing, Mari’s husband.”
Making