Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [123]
His brawny lieutenant put in, “Yeah, he told us to take them as a present. He begged so pitiful, we finally gave in.”
“That I just plain don’t believe,” said Berry.
“It’s true as I stand!” Wain cried in indignation. A sneaky grin stretched his mouth. “See, we passed this sheep pasture up the river a ways, and the boys allowed as how fresh mutton for dinner would go down good, but the farmer likely wouldn’t give us a fair price. And I said, no, I wouldn’t allow no sheep-stealing, a riverman should be above that, but I bet Saddler here a barrel of beer I could get us them there sheep for free, and he said, No, you can’t, which was as good as a red rag to a bull, you know me.”
Berry nodded, though her blond brows had a skeptical lift to them, which only seemed to encourage the other boat boss.
“So we tied up the Turtle, and me and a couple of the boys snuck up on some of those sheep—that was a job, let me tell you, sliding around that muddy pasture—and chucked a good slug of Graymouth pepper sauce in the mouths of the six slowest.”
“Or tamest,” Fawn muttered, suddenly not liking where this tale was going. She edged closer under Dag’s arm.
“You should’ve seen those sheep run around then, shaking their heads and drooling all orange at the mouth!”
Wain’s lieutenant, Saddler, wheezed with laughter and took up the tale. “Then Boss Wain, see, goes up to the farmer’s barn and calls him out, and tells him there’s something wrong with his sheep—that they’ve taken the Graymouth murrain, horrible contagious. The fellow was practically shakin’ in his boots by the time Wain got done tellin’ him how he seen it wipe out a whole flock in a week, down on the lower Gray. And the farmer asked, what’s to be done? and Wain says, There’s no cure and nothing for it but to cull the sick ones, quick, and maybe bury the carcasses in lime, miles away from the others. And this fellow was practically crying for his sheep, so when Wain suggested he’d take away the sick ones and dispose of ’em for him, the farmer was most pitifully grateful. Which we did do, and here we are.”
“And you owe me the next barrel!” Wain said, slapping him on the back in high good humor.
“That I do,” coughed Saddler. “But it was worth it, to see the thankful look on that farmer fellow’s face when we carted off his poor sick sheep. And you have to admit, Wain spoke true—they didn’t live the day!”
The gathered boatmen laughed, and even Barr and Remo smiled. The tale finished, the group broke up to tend to the dinner preparation, including tapping a new keg set up on a nearby stump. Dag went off to see the fellow with the bad foot. Fawn caught Whit’s eye and scowled the grin right off his face.
“What’s your trouble?” he whispered at her.
“Those could’ve been Papa’s sheep,” she muttered back.
His brow wrinkled. “I don’t think Papa would have been taken in by some smoky fiddle about the Graymouth murrain, Fawn. He knows his sheep better than that.”
“That’s not the point. That farmer may not be as smart as Papa, but I’ll bet he works as hard. Tricking’s same as stealing, in my eyes. And it was cruel on him.”
The smoke wafted their way, and Whit inhaled appreciatively. “Well, those sheep are beyond saving now, Fawn. Best anyone can do now is see they didn’t die in vain. Waste not, want not, as Mama herself says.”
“Well, I’m not eating any!” she declared. “And you shouldn’t, either.”
“Fawn!” he protested. “We can’t go complaining and being—being walking, talking blights and spoiling everybody’s party. These keeler men work hard; this is a pretty innocent pleasure, here. A picnic and a sing-song!”
“That farmer worked hard, too. Harder than rivermen, or you wouldn’t be thinking of switching, now would you?”
“That’s not why I—oh, crap anyways. Don’t eat that tasty-smellin’ mutton if that’s what pleases you, but don’t be ragging me.” He stalked off, to console himself pretty promptly with a tankard of the Turtle’s fresh