Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [163]
Wain’s eyes narrowed. “But don’t Lakewalkers think that’s an honorable death? That don’t seem quite right, either, when hanging sure ain’t. Patroller.”
“It’s not about honor. It’s about saving something useful from all this, this river of waste,” said Dag.
Slate said, scratching his chin, “I admit, it don’t sound quite fair to me, either.”
All the boat bosses were frowning suspiciously at the Lakewalkers now. Dag sighed. “All right, then let’s talk about something you do understand. Let’s talk salvage rights, which you all were divvying up in prospect a while back. I claim this knife as my salvage share.” He fished the bone blade from his shirt, twisted the cord over his head, and held it up. “This knife, and its priming.”
Slate’s brows flicked up. “That alone?” he inquired, in a very leading tone. Quick to scent a bargain, these Silver Shoals fellows. Greenup, too, looked intrigued, as if mentally recalculating something.
Dag added hastily, as the other Lakewalkers stirred, “I don’t speak for Barr and Remo, who also put their lives in the balance for this last night—as some of you may yet remember. This is just for me.”
“Oh, sure,” said Slate brightly. “Give the patroller his knife, if that’s all he wants.”
“And its priming. Its priming,” Dag went on, “for any of you who don’t realize what I’m talking about—although when this day is over I swear you will understand it through and through—will be Crane’s mortality. Crane’s heart’s death, which he will pledge to it.”
Faces screwed up around the circle in deep misgiving.
Breaking the silence, Bearbait drew breath. “The other patrollers can make their claims as may be, but give that medicine maker whatever due-share he asks, I say.”
Boss Slate, perhaps reminded of his crewman with the cut throat, shrugged in discomfort. “Well…I guess it’s all right. Maybe. I do say that Lakewalker bandit should die first, though. Where all those fellows he tricked can see it.”
“That’ll be a lifelong lesson to ’em,” Barr muttered. At least a few around the circle quirked their lips in some slight sympathy to his exasperation.
“Briefly, aye,” Dag agreed wearily. Ye gods. But it wasn’t the bandits he wanted to take the lesson. It was the boatmen. And everyone else. Because tales of this day’s doings would go up and down the river as fast as a boat could travel. They would inevitably end up garbled. But Dag swore that they wouldn’t start out that way, not if he could help it. So you’d better get this right, old patroller.
Dag returned to the Fetch, trying to remember everything he’d seen Dar do to prepare himself for his knife-bindings. Sharing knife makers generally, he reflected, were sheltered in the center of most camps, in the most protected and private of spaces. In the very heart of Lakewalker life. He would be turning that heart inside out.
He told his shadows Barr and Remo to go find something to do for half an hour, because any hint less broad would not have been taken, and led Fawn out onto the back deck as the nearest they could manage for a scrap of privacy. There, he explained what he meant to try.
She merely nodded. “Anything Dar can do, I ’spect you can do better.”
He wasn’t sure if all that confidence was well-placed, but he had to admit, it was warming. He gripped her strong little hand in his. “The groundwork will be up to me, but the thing is, some parts of the task are going to need two hands. Bleeding Crane, mainly, to bring his ground into the knife blank when I set up the involution. Much like the way you led your ground into my marriage cord back when we wove them. I would—could—ask Remo or Barr to help me, except that I’d really prefer to keep them clear of this task. In case there’s trouble about it later.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Why should there be?”
“Because I’m not just making a knife. I plan to make it a demonstration of Lakewalker groundwork for every boatman here who I can get to look and listen.” He added after a moment, “You could leave before I actually, um,