Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [124]
Fawn’s jaw set, but truly, what right had she to blight the party? Especially if it was, more or less, Wain’s apology to the Fetch and its boss about that sand bar. But she remained determined to touch no tricked-away mutton. Remo was now helping Dag with the fellow with the hurt foot; she withdrew quietly to the Fetch and watched the camp on shore from a perch on the edge of the cabin roof. The sun set, and the firelight blazed brighter and more invitingly.
The noisiness of the boatmen grew more repellent. Bo was staggering already, grinning foolishly, though Hod seemed to be looking out for him. Hawthorn was showing off his raccoon kit’s tricks, such as they were, to an appreciative or at least tolerant audience. Barr and Remo were sitting together eating along with the man with the freshly bandaged foot, so even they weren’t being standoffish Lakewalkers. Wain, Saddler, and Whit were all grouped tightly around Berry. Fawn began to wonder what the point was of spurning the affair for principle’s sake if nobody was going to even take notice.
At least one person noticed. Dag walked across the gangplank and lifted himself up to the roof to dangle his legs over beside hers. “What’s the trouble, Spark? You feeling all right? I thought your monthly was past.”
“It is.” She shrugged. “I just keep thinking about that poor farmer that Wain robbed. Or tricked, whichever. It’s just not fair!” She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you going to eat that stolen mutton?”
“Er…I’m afraid I already have.”
“Well, don’t try and kiss me with those greasy lips,” she said grumpily.
He cleared his throat. “I actually came aboard to find my tambourine and a couple of buckets for the boys to thump on. Berry’s about to tune up her fiddle, and she allowed as how she’d like some help.”
“Oh, that’ll be good…” It had been ages since Dag had played music with anyone around a campfire, and she knew that had been one of his pleasures out on patrol. A tambourine was not much as a solo instrument. Blight that Boss Wain…
Up the bank in the shadows, a dim, white shape uttered a mournful m-a-a-a. It occurred to Fawn that not all of that poor farmer’s sheep were beyond saving. And a faint thump against the side of the hull reminded her that the Fetch’s skiff was presently tied to the stern down in the water, rather than onto the side of the cabin where it often hung in rougher weather. She could never have launched it by herself. Could she row it by herself? Upstream?
She eyed Dag sideways. Could he be roped into helping with her scheme? Maybe not. Sometimes, catfish notwithstanding, he could be a little too grown-up and responsible. That left Whit, maybe, but he seemed to have gone over to the other side. In any case, she now had good reason to cheer the party along merrily, with lots of food and beer all around. And any boatman or Lakewalker who was lagging—not that this seemed to be a problem—should certainly be encouraged to drink up. “I wouldn’t miss your music for all the mutton in the world.” She smiled at Dag, who looked heartened by her change of mood; she even let him kiss her brow with muttony lips as he swung her down from the roof.
And as for fickle brothers, well, when you’d watched someone all his life while he hardly noticed you, you ended up knowing a lot more about him than he might credit. A lot more. She almost skipped across the gangplank after Dag.
The moon rode high above the river valley, shedding silvery-blue light on the mist that wisped above the water. The night air was as silent as though some ancient sorcerer had cast a spell of enchantment. Clearly a midnight made for romance, although the chill suggested the kissing might better be conducted beneath a thick quilt. The one she’d left Dag snoring under would have suited Fawn fine. Instead, well…
“Fawn, this is crazy,” Whit hissed at her.
“Lift your end, Whit.”
“Someone will hear us.”
“Not if you shut up and lift. They’re all sodden-drunk over there, pretty much.”
“Wain’ll be mad.”
“I’m mad. Whit, if you don’t help me hoist this stupid sheep into this