Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [150]
Dag, Dag, Dag, help me! If he was within a mile, he must sense the terror in her ground. And if he isn’t, he won’t. She struggled for air against the pressing, stinking hand, thought of biting, thought better of it. The light of the lantern seeped around her blocked vision, then she was twisted upright and set on her feet, both hands held easily behind her back by just one of the big man’s paws. She managed one sharp inhalation before the other paw clamped over her mouth once more. The back of her head was jammed against a warm chest—barely winded, to judge by its steady rise and fall. She peered down over her nose at a log-like arm in a frayed sleeve stained brown and red-brown, reeking of sweat and blood.
Berry, Hod, and Bo had all been forced to kneel around the post that had lately held Alder, who was securing their wrists one to another with a length of line. He had to jerk Bo’s hand away from his stomach. Blood soaked the front of the old man’s shirt. His face had gone gray, looking worse than any hangover Fawn had ever seen on him, and he squinted as if in bewilderment, panting for air. Berry’s terrified glance jerked back and forth between him and Hawthorn, still held tight by the stranger.
The man turned half-around. He had black brows and a craggy face shadowed with beard stubble, and his eyes gleamed darkly. Fawn wondered if they would be a different color in daylight, like Dag’s. “So what’s this?” he inquired, nodding at Fawn.
“Two girlies!” said the man-mountain. “One for me and one for Little Drum, I figure.” He grinned, gap-toothed and sour-breathed.
The Lakewalker said wearily, “Haven’t you two had enough fun for one night?”
“Not the yellow-haired one!” said Alder urgently. He hesitated. “They can split the other if they want, sure.” He added after a moment, “She claims to be married to one of the Lakewalkers we surprised on this boat, but she’s really just a farmer.”
The black stare narrowed on Fawn. What the man was thinking she could not guess. “Seems to me they surprised you, Alder,” he drawled after a moment. “What happened here?”
“It was Skink’s fault,” said Alder, still knotting line. “We went up to check out this boat like usual, but the Lakewalkers were all inside and we didn’t spot ’em, except for the odd one that didn’t look like a Lakewalker, see. They got the drop on us. The odd one, he did something, some groundwork, and Skink began spewing like a waterspout. Told them everything about the cave, everything.”
Alder wasn’t telling everything, Fawn realized; he’d left out how he had been recognized by all the folks from Clearcreek. Did he imagine he could lie to—this had to be the renegade Crane, yes. And the man-mountain was Big Drum. So where is Little Drum?
“Those patrollers, they stopped every boat coming down the river and got up a gang to go jump the cave. Hours ago. They could be coming back at any time.”
“Only if they succeeded,” murmured Crane, raising his brows. He didn’t sound terribly disturbed by the news.
“They had sixty or seventy fellows. And that one-handed Lakewalker—he had to be at least a patroller captain. Acted like this was all in a day’s work, he did. It’s all up with us now.” Alder sounded almost relieved. “We’ve got to cut and run.” His voice went wheedling. “You told me yourself you didn’t expect the Cavern Tavern to last out the year. Those Tripoint fools was the warning, you said. Best we heed it.”
Crane sighed. “Well, at least it seems I get a new horse out of the deal…” He paused, his head turning toward the bow. His curiously chiseled lips pinched; his eyes narrowed. Consulting his groundsense? “Aw, what’s Little Drum stirred up now?” He wheeled and, quite without expression, struck Hawthorn in the face with his knife haft hard enough to knock him across the room. Hawthorn fell in a stunned heap, breath stuttering. Berry cried out; Hod whimpered. Fawn strained uselessly against the heavy grip that