Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [113]
But Barr had other matters on his mind. He muttered, “Can’t be her. Has to be the blonde.” Raising his voice, he said, “Remo’s after that Berry girl, isn’t he? That’s why he won’t turn around…taking after your Dag, maybe? Absent gods, he doesn’t mean to marry her, does he?”
Fawn stared over her stitches in increasing exasperation. “Berry’s betrothed to a farmer boy named Alder, who went missing on a downriver trip last fall along with Berry’s papa and brother. She’s going to look for ’em all, which is why she named her boat the Fetch. She carries on steady, because she’s that sort and it’s a long haul, but inside she’s anxious and grieving. You want to make yourself real unpopular with everyone on this boat in a big hurry, you try botherin’ Berry in any way.” Had she hammered in that hint hard enough to penetrate Barr’s self-absorption? Well, if not, she knew someone with a bigger mallet. Dag had been a company captain, twice. She doubted a patroller boy like Barr would present him an insurmountable challenge.
Barr looked down, finished treating the straps, and returned to reorganizing his pack.
Fawn stared at his sandy hair tied in that touchable fluffy queue down his back, shoved her needle through the heavy cloth with her thimble, and said abruptly, “Ha! I know who you remind me of! Sunny Sawman.”
Barr looked over his shoulder. “Who?”
Fawn smiled blackly. “Farmer boy I once knew. He was blond and broad-shouldered like you.”
Straightening up, Barr cast her a probing smile. Gleaming enough, but she wondered why it wasn’t as face-transforming as Dag’s or Remo’s. Not as genuine, maybe? Barr said, “Good-looking fellow, was he?”
“Oh, yes.” As Barr brightened further, she went on, “Also completely self-centered, a slanderer, and a liar. It wouldn’t quite be fair to call him a coward, because with those muscles he didn’t need to be, but he sure was eager to skim out of the consequences of his choices when things went sour.” She looked him over, pursing her lips in consideration, and added in a kindly voice, “It’s likely your hair color does it, but boy howdy, it’s not a recommendation. I’ll try not to let it set me against you. Too much.”
Barr cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and prudently closed it again. He made his way—or fled—out of the kitchen to pretend to check on his boat on the back deck. Fawn stabbed her cloth once more, satisfied.
At lunch, Remo stopped responding to Barr’s continued badgering altogether, which left Barr floundering. Fawn shrewdly followed Remo’s example, and Whit followed the crowd. Hod and Hawthorn didn’t talk to Barr in the first place, Hod because he was fearful, Hawthorn because he liked Remo and didn’t want him to go away, and so took Barr as an unwelcome interloper. Bo was bemused, Berry unamused, and Dag, well, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Nothing simple, anyhow.
It was late afternoon and forty river miles before they again came upon a village big enough to boast a wharf-boat and goods-shed. The Fetch tied on and most everyone trooped up to the goods-shed, if only to stretch their legs and enjoy a change of scene.
The goods-clerk, when he saw the three tall Lakewalkers shoulder into his shed, leaned under his counter and came up wearing an iron helmet fashioned from an old cook-pot with one side newly cut out, before turning on his stool to do business with these fresh customers. He adjusted the loop of handle comfortably under his chin. Remo choked, Barr nearly went cross-eyed, and Dag pinched the bridge of his nose in a