Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [59]
“And if I do badly?” Dag inquired, his voice very dry.
Fairbolt scratched his nose and grinned without humor. “Then we are all going to be having much more pressing problems than one patroller’s personal lapses.”
“And if I’m killed in the field, the problem goes away, too,” said Dag with false brightness.
“Now you’re thinking like a captain,” said Fairbolt affably. “Knew you could.”
Dag huffed a very short laugh.
Patroller humor, Fawn realized. Yeep.
Fairbolt sat back more seriously. “Not my first pick of solutions, though. Dag, when it comes to malices you’re known as about the most volunteerin’ fellow in camp. This is your chance to show ’em all nothing’s changed.”
Dag shook his head. “I don’t know what’s changed. Changing. More than…I sometimes think.” His hand touched his left arm, and while Fairbolt might take it to mean his marriage cord, Fawn wondered how much the gesture was for his ghost hand.
Fairbolt glanced at Fawn. “Aye, it’s a hard thing to ask a patroller newly string-bound to go out in the field under any circumstances. But this one’s bad, Dag. I didn’t want to give more details in front of Saun right off, but word from the courier is that they’ve already lost hundreds of people, farmers and Lakewalkers both. The malice has shifted from its first lair under that poor farmer town to attack Bonemarsh Camp. Most everyone got away, but there’s no question the malice captured some. Once our first company is dispatched, I’m going to start scraping up a second—absent gods know from where—because I have an ugly hunch they’ll be wanted.”
Dag rubbed his brow. “Raintree folks will be off-balance, then. Focusing on the wrong things, defense and refugees and the wounded. People will get frantic for each other, and lose sight of the main chance. Get a knife in the malice. Everything else is a distraction.”
“An outsider might be better at keeping his head,” said Fairbolt suggestively.
“Not necessarily. It’s been thirty years since I patrolled in north Raintree, but I still remember friends.”
“And the terrain?”
“Some,” Dag admitted reluctantly.
“Exactly. Never been out that way, myself. I figured, by the by, that I’ll pair Saun as pathfinder with the company captain.”
Dag did not respond directly to this, but touched his throat. “I don’t have a primed knife right now. First time I’ve walked bare in decades. I usually carried two, sometimes three. You wondered how I took out so many malices, besides the extra patrolling? Folks gave me more knives. It was that simple.”
“Not the captain’s job to place the knife. It’s his job to place the knife-wielders.”
“I know,” Dag sighed.
“And I know you know. So.” Fairbolt stood up. “I’m going to finish passing the word up this side of the island. I’ll ride back this way. You can give me your answer then.” He didn’t say Talk it over with each other, but the invitation was plain. He stared a moment at Fawn, as if thinking of making some plea to her, but then just shook his head. His horse came wandering over in a way that she suspected was not by chance, and he stepped up on his log seat and swung his leg over. He was back on the road in moments, setting the animal into a lope.
Dag had risen when Fairbolt had; he stood staring after him, but his face was drawn and inward-looking, as if contemplating quite another view. Her own face feeling as stiff and congealed as cold dough, Fawn rose too, and went to him. They walked into each other’s arms and held on tight.
“Too soon,” whispered Dag. He set her a little from him, looking down in anxiety. Fawn wondered whatever was the use of putting on a brave face when he could see right through to whatever wild roil her ground was in right now. She stiffened her spine