Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [54]
Fawn said, her voice tinged with doubt, “He could be a scullion, I suppose. How long till he could man a sweep, Dag?”
“If he could be taught, you mean? Couple of weeks. If he doesn’t do anything to reinjure the knee.” He looked at Fawn, his brows pinching harder. “In two weeks, we’ll be far down the river.”
“If it ever rains again,” sighed Berry.
“If he’s to be left behind, better here than in some strange place,” said Dag. “I can’t…see my way.”
Of how to un-beguile Hod, did he mean? And if Hod were left at Possum Landing, would he still try to follow Dag? How far? “Well…if we take him along, you may or may not figure it out. If you leave him here, you never will.”
He scratched his chin ruefully. “There’s a point, Spark.”
Fawn glanced at Berry, who was waiting with her brows up. No, the boat boss’s own situation was far too unsettled to ask her for undertakings or promises on behalf of Hod. It was up to them. Fawn said, “I’m willing to try with him if you are, Dag.”
Dag took a breath. “Then we’ll haul him along.”
Boss Berry gave a short nod. “The Fetch has itself a scullion, then.” She added, in mild regret, “I won’t charge nothing for his passage.”
In the warmest part of the afternoon, Bo led an expedition downstream to the Riffle, where the locals had gathered to salvage coal from a recently wrecked flatboat before the water rose again. Hod stayed on the Fetch with his leg up, supposedly keeping watch but probably, Fawn thought, napping. Whit’s interest was aroused when he learned that the wrecked boat’s boss was buying back coal retrieved from the river bottom by the bushel, albeit at a meager price. Some gatherers preferred to carry off the coal itself, and then, after some jawing, the meager price was paid the other way; Berry explained to Fawn that the going rate had been worked out a few days earlier, when the gatherers had dumped their baskets back in the worst part of the rapids before the boat boss saw reason. Whit stripped to his drawers and sloshed in after Bo and Hawthorn to duck and dive for the scattered cargo—or, contorting, grub it up with his toes. Fawn found herself drawn in along with Berry, skirts tucked up and feet bare as they waded out to receive dripping sacks and pile up the coal on the bank to dry. The water was growing chilly as the autumn waned.
Dag claimed blandly that his one-handed state barred him from the task, which made Fawn raise her brows and snort. He withdrew to sit with his back comfortably propped against a stump and watch. Fawn wondered if giving the ground reinforcement to Hod had set him back, again. He ignored the stares he drew from the handful of families working farther on down the riverside. There were no youths from the Lakewalker camp cashing in on the windfall, Fawn noticed, though clusters of village boys had turned out for the chance.
About an hour into this task, a gang of half a dozen brawny keelers from the boat trapped above the Riffle traipsed past. Some wore striped trousers, others had colored scarves around their waists or sometimes their heads, or feathers in their hatbands if they owned hats. They started to call something rude to Fawn and Berry, but then some recognized the boat boss and hushed the others. Berry waved back amiably enough. Dag opened one eye to observe, but when nothing untoward developed, closed it again.
“Where are they going?” Fawn asked Berry.
“Down to Pearl Bend. To drink, mostly, I expect.”
“Isn’t there a tavern at Possum Landing?” It was the first place Berry went to look for Bo whenever he vanished off the Fetch, Fawn understood.
Berry grinned, lowered her voice, and said, “Yeah, but there’s a bed boat tied up down at the lower end of the Bend, just now. Three sisters and a couple o’ cousins keep it. There isn’t one at the Landing. The ferrywomen won