Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [39]
The skirted woman gestured at herself. “Nicie Sandwillow. Pearl Riffle Camp council leader, this season.”
Therefore a senior tent head, that being the pool from which council members were selected by various sorts of rotations, depending on the camp. With the patrol’s camp captain always a permanent member. Dag wondered if the ferry boss was also a permanent member, here. It seemed likely. Making this morning’s inquiry doubly efficient, serving the patrol and the council at once. But it meant that one of Nicie Sandwillow’s tasks was to receive and pass along critical council news from around the hinterland of Oleana, just as Captain Osprey received patrol news. Dag said carefully, “The Hickory Lake council was deeply divided on my case—”
“So there was a charge.”
Dag overrode this. “Pakona Pike, our—Hickory Lake’s council leader this past summer—was not on the side favorable to my arguments. But I can’t believe she’d twist the facts that much.”
“No, not if the facts are that you came in alone, late from a leave, dragging some farmer girl with the pair of you wearing Lakewalker wedding braids that you’d somehow cooked up together, claiming she was your wife and not just your whore. The letter warns all camp councils to watch out for similar trickery.”
Grimly, Dag rolled up his left sleeve. “I say they’re valid cords, and so did a lot of others. Including Fairbolt Crow. See for yourself. Fawn made this one.”
A flicker of grounds touched him, felt the spark of Fawn’s live ground in her cord, drew back. The women looked nonplussed, the two sagging young patrollers confused. It was like the hearing at Hickory Lake all over again, and Dag was bitterly reminded of why he’d left.
“And Fawn isn’t just some farmer girl,” Dag went on, growing more heated. “It was her hand slew the Glassforge malice, with my knife. Or I wouldn’t be alive now to tell it. It was a scramble, I admit, but I can’t believe the tale you had was this distorted, because Saun knew the truth of it, and so did Reela.”
“Hm.” Amma Osprey rubbed her chin. “I believe the scramble part.”
Dag bit out, “This is beside the point. Do you have a spare knife to lend, or not?”
“Good question, Dag Redwing-Bluefield-whoever,” said Amma. “Are you still a patroller, or not?”
Dag hesitated. He could claim to be on the sick list, or pretend to be on long leave. Or disciplinary leave, they’d believe that! But in the midst of all these aggravating half-truths, he refused to lie. “No. I resigned. Although Fairbolt made it clear that if I ever wanted to un-resign, he’d find a place for me.”
“And your farmer, ah, woman?” asked Nicie Sandwillow.
“That was the sticking point. One of them.”
Amma eyed the gaping, hurting young patrollers, now leaning on each other and looking ready to cave on their feet. Dag was sorrier than ever for their witness of this, because Amma would certainly trim her judgment with an eye to making an impression on them. At least, Dag would never have missed such an opportunity, when he’d been a patrol leader. She said, “Such knives are bequeathed in trust for the patrol, specifically the Pearl Riffle patrol. I can’t very well ask the dead if they want to make an exception. As their guardian, it’s my duty to conserve them—especially as they seem to be needed here.”
Remo flinched.
Them, implying she was not down to her last primed knife. She might lend one and still not strip her patrol’s reserve bare. But not to me. Not today. Dag had the frustrating sense, watching her face set, that if he’d arrived with the same request yesterday, before this trouble with the boatmen had broken out over at Possum Landing, the balance of her decision might well have tipped the other way. He let his gaze cross the two miserable miscreants with new disfavor.
There were other sources, other Lakewalker camps downriver. He would simply have to try again elsewhere. “I see. Then I’ll not take more of your time, captain.” Dag touched his hand to his temple and