Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [64]
A whimper from Cress became a stuttering groan. Fawn grabbed her hand and held it hard as it tried to jerk defensively toward her belly. Fawn was afraid to touch Dag lest she spoil his concentration, but the color draining from his skin made her think he was chilling down awfully fast. The night air was growing raw despite the torches and lanterns held up by their spellbound audience.
The minutes crept by, but in not nearly so many as it had taken for Hod’s knee, Dag sat up and blew out his breath. He stretched his shoulders, rubbed his face. Cress had stopped crying and was staring up at him with her lips parted in awe.
“I’ve done what I can for now. The pocket drained well and the swelling’s eased.” Dag’s brow wrinkled. “I think…maybe Cress and her sister and Mark had best stay the night here on the boat. That infection’s still pretty warm, could do with another ground reinforcement in the morning. A Lakewalker who’d had gut work, they’d give him boiled water with a little sugar and salt in it to drink, and then maybe tea, but nothing else for a couple of days. Rests up your sore innards while they heal, see. Wrap her up warm by the fire tonight, too.”
“But I didn’t see you do nothing,” said Boss Wain, in a tentative voice that contrasted remarkably to his earlier bellowing.
“You can take my word or leave it, for all of me,” Dag told him. He glanced down at Cress, and the ghost of a smile tugged his lips. “If you’d been a Lakewalker, you’d have seen plenty.”
He was shivering. Fawn said firmly, “It’s time to get you inside and warmed up, too, maker mine. I think you might do with some of that hot tea inside you.”
He bent his head to smile at her, then held her tight with his left arm and swooped in for a long, hard kiss. His lips were cold as clay, but his eyes were bright as fire. Clay and fire makes a kiln, Fawn thought woozily. What new thing are we shaping here?
Despite all the excitement, their exhaustion assured that the boat’s visitors were asleep on hides and furs in front of the hearth almost as soon as they’d been tucked in. Dag fell into the bedroll in their curtained retreat as if bludgeoned, and was soon snoring into Fawn’s fluttering curls. In the morning, after tea, Dag laid one more ground reinforcement in Cress, then sent the couple and their supporters on their way. Bleary, hungover keelers in the gray mist of dawn were much less threatening than drunken, wound-up keelers by torchlight, though to their credit, they repeated their good deed with the door in the opposite direction without audible complaint.
As soon as the much-reduced parade was out of sight, Dag told Fawn, “Pack up a picnic lunch, Spark. We’re going for a ride.”
“But it looks to be a nasty, chilly day,” Fawn pointed out, bewildered at this sudden scheme.
“Then bring lots of blankets.” Dag lowered his voice. “The Pearl Riffle Lakewalkers made it real clear yesterday that they didn’t favor me rocking their boat. I think I just turned it turtle. I expect Captain Osprey will hear all about it by breakfast at the latest. I don’t know if you ever saw Massape Crow in a real bad mood, but Amma puts me horribly in mind of her. By the time she makes it across on the ferry, I aim to be elsewhere.”
And at Fawn’s protest, added only, “I’ll explain as we ride.” He went off to saddle Copperhead.
With Fawn perched on the saddlebags and her arms tight around his waist, Dag sent Copperhead cantering south for a good two miles down the straight road, which was exhilarating but blocked conversation. Despite the double burden, the horse seemed more than willing to stretch his legs after his days of idleness. It wasn’t till Dag turned left and began a winding climb up into the wooded hills designed to thwart trackers that he explained about his fruitless first visit to the Lakewalker camp, and how the tavern gossip and its dangerous aftermath with the medicine maker had drawn yesterday’s hard-eyed