Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [49]
“That’s more or less what I said—don’t count on it. Farmers are fecund. But have you even thought it through, Dag? If a child or children survived, let alone their mother, what’s the fate of half-bloods here? They couldn’t make, they couldn’t patrol. All they could do would be eat and breed. They’d be despised.”
Dag’s jaw set. “There are plenty of other necessary jobs to do in camp, as I recall being told more than once. Ten folks in camp keep one patroller in the field, Fairbolt says. They could be among that ten. Or do you secretly despise everyone else here, and I never knew?”
Dar batted this dart away with a swipe of his hand. “So you’re saying your children could grow up to be servants of mine? And you’d be content with that?”
“We would find our way.”
“We?” Dar scowled. “So already you put your farmer get ahead of the needs of the whole?”
“If that happens, it won’t be by my choosing.” Would Dar hear the warning in that? Dag continued, “We actually don’t know that all cross-bloods lack groundsense. If anything, the opposite; I’ve met a couple who have little less than some of us. I’ve been out in the world a good bit more than you. I’ve seen raw talent here and there amongst farmers, too, and I don’t think it’s just the result of some passing Lakewalker in a prior generation leaving a present.” Dag frowned. “By rights, we should be sifting the farmers for hidden groundsense. Just like the mages of old must have done.”
“And while we’re diverting ourselves in that, who fights the malices?” Dar shot back. “Nearly good enough to patrol isn’t going to do the job. We need the concentration of bloodlines to reach the threshold of function. We’re stretched to the breaking point, and everyone knows it. Let me tell you, it’s not just Mama who is maddened to see you wasting the talent in your blood.”
Dag grimaced. “Yeah, I’ve heard that song from Aunt Mari, too.” He remembered his own reply. “And yet I might have been killed anytime these past four decades, and my blood would have been no less wasted. Pretend I’m dead, if it’ll make you feel better.”
Dar snorted, declining to rise to that bait. They had reached the point where the road from the bridge split to cut through the woods to the island’s north shore. At Dar’s gesture, they turned onto it. The earth was dappled golden-green in the late sun, leaf shadows barely flickering in the breathing summer air. Their pacing sandals kicked up little spurts of dirt in the stretches between drying puddles.
Dar gathered himself, and continued, “It’s not just your own family you put to shame. This stunt of yours creates disruption and a bad example in the patrol, as well. You’ve a reputation there, I don’t deny. Youngsters like Saun look up to you. How much harder will this make it for patrol leaders to prevent the next ill-fated farmer romance? I swear, you’re thinking only of yourself.”
“Yes,” said Dag, and added meditatively, “it’s a new experience.” A slow smile turned his lips. “I kind of like it.”
“Don’t make stupid jokes,” snapped Dar.
I wasn’t. Absent gods help me. In fact, it grew less funny the longer he thought about it. Dag took a long breath. “What are you after, Dar? I married Fawn for true—mind, body, and ground. That isn’t going to change. Sooner or later, you’ll have to deal with it.”
“Dealing with it is just what I’m trying to avoid.” Dar’s scowl deepened. “The camp council could force a change. They’ve ruled on string-cuttings before.”
“Only when the couple was divided and their families couldn’t negotiate an agreement. No one can force a string-cutting against the will of both partners. And no one of sense would tolerate the precedent if the council tried. It would put everyone’s marriage at risk—it would fly