Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [169]
“Yeah, it’s all salvage at this point,” Dag said. He tucked the knife sheath out of sight in his shirt and leaned his head against the bark once more.
After a time, Remo and Barr came over the ridge and picked their way across the creek to Dag’s tree. They both looked gloomy.
Dag opened his eyes again. “Hangings finished?”
“Not quite,” said Remo. “We did get Crane laid out. I’m glad we didn’t have to butcher him.”
Barr made a face. “Who’d want a knife from Crane’s bones?”
“The boatmen dug a trench,” Remo continued. “He was the first to go in it.”
“It’s not very deep,” said Barr, “but I imagine they’ll pile some river stones on top. Some of the boatmen were for making the bandits dig it themselves, but finally decided it was more trouble guarding them than it was worth.”
Remo added morosely, “One of the keelers had kin on one of the boats the bandits took a month or so back. He found out just what exactly had happened to them, I guess. Wain let him cut off Big Drum’s head personally. Little Drum’s, too, even though he was dead already. They’re going to put them up on poles in front of the cave as a warning to others.”
“We left right after that,” said Barr.
Healthy young men or no, to Fawn’s eye both looked as shaken as she felt, and not just from the extra sensitivity lent by groundsenses possibly not closed tight enough during these proceedings. Barr wandered out into the meadow to pat a horse, too, a tidy piebald mare.
“Hey,” he called back over his shoulder after a moment, “this one’s in foal! Whoever takes her is going to get a bonus horse!”
Remo walked out to see, and Fawn tagged after. She was reminded of Grace, left back in West Blue, and was washed by an unexpected wave of homesickness. How could you be homesick for a horse? But she suddenly missed her own mare fiercely, wondering how she was getting along, and if Grace’s round barrel looked any rounder yet. She stretched her hands and ran them over the black-and-white belly, speculating how far along this mare was. Dag’s horse-raising tent-sister Omba could have told exactly, with her groundsense. Maybe Barr shared the talent.
Remo put his hand on the mare’s withers and looked across at Barr, who had started picking burrs out of her mane. Remo pitched his voice low. “Wain said we were due a share of the salvage rights. We could take a couple of these horses. Ride back to Pearl Riffle before the snow flies.”
Barr looked up in surprise. “Huh! When did you change your mind?”
“Crane…was pretty awful. I’m thinking now it’s not such a good thing for a Lakewalker to be exiled from his kin. Even if they do badger him half to death. Maybe we should just go take our lumps.”
Fawn, stroking the mare’s warm flank, observed, “I don’t think it’s good for anyone to become outcast, Lakewalker or farmer. Look at all those bandits.”
“Speaking of ending up in a pit of your own digging, yeah,” said Barr. He picked at another brown, spiky burr, carefully separating the coarse hairs from it. “I thought you wanted to see the sea. Or else go drown yourself in it.”
“Neither one, anymore.” Remo’s voice went lower. “The world is uglier than I’d ever dreamed. I’ve had enough. Let’s go home.”
This hopeless world, Crane had said. And Crane had certainly done more than his share to make it worse.
“Not all of it’s that bad,” Barr said mildly. He glanced across the meadow; Fawn followed his gaze to Dag, still leaning head-back, looking utterly spent. “Thing is…I think I’ve changed my mind, too. And even if I hadn’t, I don’t think it’d be so good to let him”—he jerked his head Dag-ward—“go walking around out there all by himself, either. In fact,” he added judiciously, “I think that might be worse than the worst snag-brained thing I’ve ever done.” He raised his eyes. “And you know I’ve done some champion snag-brained things.”
Fawn cleared her throat. “Dag does have a partner,” she pointed out. She held up her cord-wrapped left wrist, drawing their eyes and maybe