Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [7]
He fell quiet for a time, and Fawn, daunted, said nothing. Though maybe the listening had been all he’d needed. She wondered, suddenly, if Dag was doubting whether he could sire children. Fifty-five years was a long time to go without doing so, for a man, although she had the impression that it wasn’t that he’d been with so many women, before or after Kauneo, as that he’d paid really good attention when he had. In the light of her own history, if no child appeared when finally wanted, it would seem clear who was responsible. Did he fear to disappoint?
But his mind had turned down another path now, apparently, for he said, “My immediate family’s not so large as yours. Just my mother, my brother, and his wife at present. All my brother’s children are out of the tent, on patrol or apprenticed to makers. One son’s string-bound, so far.”
Dag’s nephews and nieces were just about the same age range as Fawn and her brothers, from his descriptions. She nodded.
He went on, “I hope to slip into camp quietly. I’m of two minds whether to report to Fairbolt or my family first. It’s likely rumors have trickled back about the Glassforge malice kill ahead of Mari’s return, in which case Fairbolt will want the news in full. And I have to tell him about the knife. But I’d like to introduce you to my brother and mother in my own way, before they hear anything from anyone else.”
“Well, which one would be less offended to be put second?” asked Fawn.
“Hard to say.” He smiled dryly. “Mama can hold a grudge longer, but Fairbolt has a keen memory for lapses as well.”
“I should not like to begin by offending my new mama-in-law.”
“Spark, I’m afraid some people are going to be offended no matter what you and I do. What we’ve done…isn’t done, though it was done in all honor.”
“Well,” she said, trying for optimism, “some people are like that among farmers, too. No pleasing them. You just try, or at least try not to be the first to break.” She considered the problem. “Makes sense to put the worst one first. Then, if you have to, you can get away by saying you need to go off and see the second.”
He laughed. “Good thinking. Perhaps I will.”
But he didn’t say which he believed was which.
They rode on through the afternoon without stopping. Fawn thought she could tell when they were nearing the lake by a certain lightness growing in the sky and a certain darkness growing in Dag. At any rate, he got quieter and quieter, though his gaze ahead seemed to sharpen. Finally, his head came up, and he murmured, “The bridge guard and I just bumped grounds. Only another mile.”
They came off the lesser track they’d been following onto a wider road, which ran in a sweeping curve. The land here was very flat; the woods, mixed beech and oak and hickory, gave way to another broad meadow. On the far side, someone lying on the back of what looked to be a grazing cart horse, his legs dangling down over the horse’s barrel, sat up and waved. He kicked the horse into a canter and approached.
The horse wore neither saddle nor bridle, and the young man aboard it was scarcely more dressed. He wore boots, some rather damp-looking linen drawers, a leather belt with a scabbard for a knife, and his sun-darkened skin. As he approached, he yanked the grass stem he’d been chewing from his mouth and threw it aside. “Dag! You’re alive!” He pulled up his horse and stared at the sling, and at Fawn trailing shyly behind. “Aren’t you a sight, now! Nobody said anything about a broken bone! Your right arm, too, absent gods, how have you been managing anything at all?”
Dag returned an uninformative nod of greeting, although he smiled faintly. “I’ve had a little help.”