Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [6]
“I hadn’t ever seen a mass grave before,” said Fawn quietly. “I don’t ever want to again.”
Papa gave her a sharp glance from under his gray brows. “I did, once, long time ago,” he said unexpectedly. “It was after a flood.”
Fawn looked at him in surprise. “I never knew that.”
“I never talked about it.”
“Hm,” said Aunt Nattie.
Papa sat back and looked at Dag. “Your people aren’t exactly forthcomin’ about these things, you know. In Raintree or Oleana.”
“I know.” Dag ducked his head. “Back when there were few farmers north of the Grace, it scarcely mattered. To the Lakewalkers in the hinterlands north of the Dead Lake—I’ve walked up that way, twice—there’s still no need to do anything differently, because there are no farmers there. Where it matters is in the border country, where things are changing out from under us—like Greenspring. And like West Blue.” He glanced around the table. The food on his plate had all gone cold, Fawn noticed.
Fletch said, “I never got the sense Lakewalkers wanted farmer help.”
“They don’t, mostly,” Dag admitted. “No farmer can fight a malice directly. You can’t close your grounds in defense, for one, you can’t make…certain tools.” He blinked, frowned, seemed to take aim like a rider trying to clear a fence on a balky horse, and blurted out, “Sharing knives. You can’t make sharing knives to kill malices.” Swallowing, he went on, “But even if you can’t be fighters, you might find better ways to avoid being fodder. Everyone alive should be taught how to recognize blight-sign, for one—as routinely as how to identify poison ivy or rattlesnakes or, or how not to stand on the wrong side of the tree you’re felling.”
“How would you go about teaching everyone alive, patroller?” asked Aunt Nattie, in a curious voice.
“I don’t know,” sighed Dag. “Laid out like that, it sounds pretty crazy. We came upon the Glassforge malice early, this past spring, only because of the chance of Chato’s patrol stopping there and gossiping with the local folks about their bandit problem enough for Chato to realize there was something strange going on. If I could only show folks, somehow…I wouldn’t have to talk.” Dag smiled wanly. “I never was much of a talkin’ man.”
“Eat, Dag,” Fawn put in, and pointed to his plate. Everyone else’s was empty. He took an obedient bite.
“Folks could show off that patch of blight you say is by Glassforge,” Whit suggested. “Then they’d all know what it looks like.”
Clover eyed him. “Why would anybody want to go look at a thing like that? It just sounds ugly.”
Whit sat back and rubbed his nose, then brightened. “Then you should charge ’em money.”
Dag stopped chewing and stared. “What?”
“Sure!” Whit sat up. “If they had to pay, they’d think it was something special. You could get up wagon excursions from Glassforge. Charge five copper crays for the ride, and ten for the box lunch. And the lecture for free. It would get folks talking when they got home, too—What did you see in Glassforge, dear? It could be a nice little business, driving the wagon, making the lunches—it would sure beat pulling stumps, anyways. If I had the cash I’d buy that blight, I would. It’d be better ’n a forty-acre field.”
Fawn didn’t think she’d ever seen Dag look so flummoxed. It was all she could do not to giggle, though she mainly wanted to hit Whit.
“Well, you don’t have any cash,” Fletch pointed out dauntingly.
“Thank the stars,” added Clover, fanning herself with her hand.
“You’d likely throw it down a well.”
“Quit your fooling, Whit,” said Papa impatiently. “Nobody thinks it’s amusin’.”
Whit shrugged, kicked back his chair, and rose to carry off his plate to the sink. Dag, slowly, started chewing again. His eyes, following Whit, had an odd look in them—not angry, though, which surprised Fawn, knowing how seriously Dag took all this.