Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [137]
Alder drew breath. “It took me months to get stronger, and then I owed the camp fellows for their help, and then I thought—I went down the river to get us a grubstake, and I didn’t want to come dragging back to you with my hands full of bad news and nothing. I meant to at least replace the value of the Rose for you. But it’s took longer than I thought it would.”
Remo whispered urgently in Dag’s ear, “Dag, he’s—”
Dag held up his hand and murmured back, “Wait. Let him finish.” He stared down intently at the anguished people on the front deck, groundsense as open as he could bear. Which was not wide, at this point.
Berry cried, “Alder, you’re making no sense! You know me better, you must! How can you think I’d put a bag of coin above my kinfolks’ lives, or even the knowing of their fates?”
“I’m sorry, Berry,” Alder repeated helplessly, hanging his head. “I was wrong, I see that now. I never dreamed you’d come after me.”
A variety of expressions had moved across the listening Bo’s face, from muted pleasure to muted grief; now he was simply mute, chewing gently on a thumbnail. Fawn had tumbled out onto the deck almost as excited as Hawthorn. Her face had fallen in mirror to her friend Berry’s. Now she stood by Bo with her arms folded, listening hard. On the whole, Dag was glad she did not seem to be swallowing all this down as readily as Berry, but then, she had less reason to: Alder had sworn no heart-oaths to Fawn, and any hopes she held for Berry’s happiness teetered on a balance against fears for Whit’s. My Spark’s shrewd; she feels the twist in this.
Berry went stiff. “Alder—you’re going to have to tell the truth sometime, so it may as well be now. If there’s another girl, you’ll have to betray one of us or t’other, so you can’t win that toss nohow. If she—maybe—nursed you back to health or something, I don’t suppose I can even hate her…” Berry stared beseechingly at him. They were standing wholly apart now.
“No!” said Alder in surprise. “No other woman, I swear!”
Remo whispered, “Blight. S’ the first true thing that fellow’s said.”
“Aye,” replied Dag. And sorry he was for it; it would have been a tidy wrap for the tragedy. He added softly, “Keep an eye on that beguiled fellow. He’s getting ready to bolt.” Skink was edging toward the skiff. Remo nodded and slipped quietly down past the chicken pen. Skink stopped and edged back, looking furtively around the crowded bow.
Berry searched her betrothed’s face and decided—however wishfully, even Dag could not tell—that he spoke true. “Then come with me now! We’ll sell the Fetch in Graymouth and have all the grubstake we need. The house in Clearcreek is waiting.” Her voice skipped a breath. “I had it all ready for us.”
Alder ran a harried hand through his hair. “I can’t run off with no word to the camp fellows as helped me.”
“Of course not!” said Berry. “We can stop around the bend. I’d want to thank them myself for their care of you. Or”—she paused as a new realization apparently overcame her—“if you have debts to them, well, I have some coin as will clear them. It’s not much, but it’s enough to cover a sick man’s keep and nursing.” She hesitated again in unwelcome suspicion. “Unless they were gambling debts that got all out of hand on you…?”
“Berry, they’re a pretty rough lot. Better I should deal with them, and you take your boat straight on. I’ll…collect my things and meet you at the Wrist.”
Bo’s slow voice broke in. “You never found any bodies to bury proper?”
Alder shook his head. The roil in his ground was growing frantic.
“You don’t have to soften it for me,” said Berry in a low voice. “I know what this river can do.”
Was this Dag’s business? He glanced at Fawn, who was anxious for Berry but more anxious for the stricken Whit. At Bo, at the bewildered Hawthorn. Dag was not above supporting lies to shield someone from futile pain, but