Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [112]
“You wouldn’t need two,” said Remo.
Whit, falling back into his old bad habits of pot-stirring, put in cheerfully, “And who says it has to be a good horse?”
Barr clenched his teeth and eyed him unfavorably.
Boss Berry’s drawl cut across the debate. “There’s this, Remo. You hired on as my sweep-man. If you jump my boat now, you’ll leave me shorthanded in the middle of nowhere, and that’s not right. Now, this ain’t my argument, but if you want to quit, at least do it at a village or town where I can hire on your replacement.”
“That’s only fair,” Remo allowed, looking at Barr in a challenging way. Barr didn’t have an immediate answer, although by his grimace Fawn thought she could see him mentally adding the upstream miles.
“Sky’s lightening,” said Bo. “Time to get out on the river.”
Berry nodded. “Me, Remo, and Whit for the first watch.”
Which ended the squabble for the next two hours at least. Breakfast broke up, and Remo and Barr went out to get the water emptied from Barr’s boat, hoist it up, and tie it down across the back deck, where, Fawn thought, it was going to be mightily in the way. Hod and Hawthorn turned to their scullery duties. Dag went ashore to collect Copperhead, who had been standing amongst the dripping leafless trees and whinnying plaintively since predawn, answered by bleats from Daisy-goat. Copperhead actually seemed glad to scramble back onto the boat, and touched noses with Daisy; the two animals had become unlikely friends. The lines were untied, the top-deck crew took to their sweeps, and the Fetch pushed off from the muddy bank, turning slowly downstream. The river was dark and fast and scary this morning, the wind funneling up the valley cold and raw, whipping the mist to tatters. Fawn put her mind to sewing up more rain cloaks and retreated inside to find her work basket, glad for an indoor task.
Fawn had her oilcloth pieces laid out on the table near the window for the light, stitching industriously, when Barr came into the kitchen, shot her a guarded look, and began puttering around setting his dried gear back in order. Patrollers were doubtless taught to travel tidy, she reflected. She returned him a nod, in case he wanted to talk but wasn’t sure he was allowed. Although maybe that was more for rigid Remo; Barr apparently had found no trouble talking with farmer girls in the past. Except not farmer brides inexplicably married to other Lakewalkers, it seemed, for when he finally opened his mouth, what came out was hardly smooth.
“You’re pretty stuck on Dag, aren’t you?” He’d sat down in front of the hearth with his knees up, to oil some leather straps, incidentally blocking the heat. But perhaps he was still core-cold from yesterday.
For answer, Fawn held up her left wrist and the marriage cord wrapped around it. “What does your groundsense tell you?”
His nose wrinkled in wonder, but not denial. “Can’t imagine how you two did that.”
“We wove them together. As partners, you might say. I made my ground follow my blood into the cord that Dag wears, which Dag’s brother Dar said was a knife-making technique. It worked, anyhow.”
Barr blinked. “Saun said you two had jumped the cliff at Glassforge, which surprised him right off, as he hadn’t thought Dag was the sort—stiffer than Remo, even—but nobody ever…Lakewalkers don’t usually marry farmers, you know.”
He was actually being sort of polite: don’t ever would have been more accurate. “Dag’s an unusual man.”
“Do you realize how old he likely is? To farmer eyes I know he looks thirty-five or forty, but I can tell you he has to be a good deal more than that.”
What are you on about? “His fifty-sixth birthday was yesterday. We had a real nice party. That was the leftovers you bolted last night.”
“Oh.” Barr squinted at her in increasing puzzlement. “Do you realize he has to have beguiled you?”
“Do you realize you are amazingly offensive?” she returned in a level tone.
By his discomfited head-duck, that wasn