Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [100]
“And?”
“And her only reaction was to try to recruit me for a medicine maker. On the spot. Till I pointed out my little problem with fine hand-work.” He waved his stump. “Later, she came up with the idea of partnering me with Othan’s brother, for my spare hands. If she’d offered to partner me with you, I might have taken her up on it, and we’d still be there instead of here. But she shied off from that suggestion.”
Fawn couldn’t decide if that would have been good or not, so only tilted her head, I hear you. But she pounced quickly on the important point. “That was well before you ground-ripped the malice in Raintree, right?”
“Yes…?”
“So these new abilities”—she leaned back and gripped his left arm—“can’t be some sort of malice-contagion you picked up then, because you developed them before. I don’t think you’re turning into a malice.” Or you would be more scary, instead of just more aggravating. “If that’s what’s worrying you.”
From the play of expression on his face—first dismay, then relief—she realized she’d just spoken his most secret fear. And that, once dragged out into open air, it shrank hearteningly. “It…was a passing thought, I admit.” He ducked his head, then smiled crookedly and held her closer. “So if I turned into a malice, would you still love me?”
“If you really turned into a malice, you’d just eat me, and the question wouldn’t arise,” she said a bit tartly.
“That’s how we’d know, I suppose,” he allowed.
“You’d know, anyhow.” She thought about it. “Or maybe you wouldn’t. You’d be too stuck inside your own torment to even see mine.”
“Ah. Yes. You did look one straight in the eye, that time.” His fingers brushed the scars on her neck, not to say I forgot so much as I should have realized. His eyes darkened with his own memories. “From what I’ve seen of the inside of a malice, you’re right. You have an uncomfortably acute way of looking at things sometimes, Spark.”
Fawn just shook her head. This conversation was spiraling into the dark, or at least into the creepy, in a way that suggested it was time for bed, because no further good could come of it tonight. She picked up the lantern and led the way.
15
Dag was reassured early the next morning of the health of the raccoon kit, as it woke him by nosing curiously in his ear. It also conveniently left a scat on the end of their blankets, not for the first time, as the creature seemed to have a partiality for their bed-nook. Dag took the pellet outside to the goat pen in the gray light to squash open with a stick. He would not have been surprised to find that the ripped grains had passed through whole, or even some odder effect, but they appeared to have been digested normally, with no sign of blood or blight to the kit’s gut. So it seemed he could leave a trail of sterile seeds in his wake and do the world no harm. Though he was still deeply suspicious of their reuse as feed; perhaps he would buy his own chicken at the next stop to test them upon in a more methodical way. And put Fawn in charge of it, as he was by no means sure of his ability to keep a chicken alive in the first place, and he wouldn’t want to make a mistake, here.
He leaned on the boat rail and watched the sky lighten from steel to silver to gold in a pure autumn sunrise, color seeping into the low hills lining the mist-shrouded river. It looked to be another brisk blue day like yesterday, which did not bode well for getting the Fetch off the sand bar. But a day of rest would be welcome. Perhaps he and Fawn could take a two-person picnic to the other end of the island. He extended his groundsense to check the chances of privacy, assuming they could successfully lose Whit, Hod, Remo, Hawthorn, and the raccoon. The island was a good two miles long, rich in natural ground, free of blight-sign, and, he found, unpeopled.
His breath drew in sharply, and he tested that range again, turning slowly. To both ends of the island, yes; he could clearly sense the head and tail where the stolidity of land met the melting motion of water. He cast his inner senses up along