Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [76]
“No luck?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “I tried not to repeat my mistakes. I told ’em my name was Dag Otter Hope, and made them think I was a private courier. I might as well have spared my pride. They didn’t have any extra knives. Well, it wasn’t a big camp, no surprise.”
“That’s a pity.” Fawn turned to stroll beside him. They were not only out of earshot of the Fetch right now, they were out of groundsense range. It seemed a good chance to ask. “Your Remo doesn’t look too happy. I wondered what you were thinking of doing about him.”
“He’s not my Remo.”
“He’s following you, it seems.”
“Just because we’re on the same boat doesn’t mean I’ve adopted him.”
“Is he going to be in a whole lot of trouble back at Pearl Riffle for deserting?”
Dag sighed. “Maybe. I’m not sure he grasps the difference between banished and resigned.”
“He doesn’t say much.” Fawn considered this. “Or anything.”
“He’s listening, though.” Dag cocked his head. “Think back to when I came to West Blue, before we were wed. It was the first time in a longer life than Remo’s that I’d ever slept in a farmer house, ate at the family table. Listened to farmers talk to each other. Remo’s never even been an exchange patroller, never been away from his home camp before, any more than Whit. I think it won’t hurt to just let his new impressions accumulate for a while.”
“Mm,” said Fawn. “Yesterday afternoon while he was on break from his oar, he went and stole Hawthorn’s raccoon kit. He huddled up in a little dark hidey-hole in amongst the stores, and coaxed it to curl up on his lap. And just sat, hunched up around the one little live thing that wasn’t mad at him. Till Hawthorn finally missed it, and found him and made him give it back.”
“Nobody on this boat is mad at Remo.”
“Nobody on this boat seems real to Remo, ’cept you. And you aren’t best pleased with him.”
Dag made a noncommittal noise.
Fawn lifted her chin and went on, “I don’t think it’s good for Lakewalkers to be cut off sudden from everything they know. They get to pining.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Dag sighed.
She cast him a sharp glance. Yeah.
“Hod’s looking better,” Fawn observed after a few more paces, trying for a lighter note. “His skin’s a nicer color, and he moves brisker, now he’s getting the good of his food. He hardly uses your stick. He watches you. He watches Remo watching you, too.” She bit her lip. Maybe not as light as all that. “Jealous isn’t quite the right word. Neither is envious. But…Hod does make me think of a dog with one bone, somehow.”
Dag nodded. “It’s the beguilement. Can’t say as I’ve had any fresh ideas about that, yet.”
“You trying? Because—ow!” Fawn grimaced and stopped. The branch she’d carelessly shoved out of her face had whipped back, proving to be from a thorny honey locust. After scratching her scalp, it had snagged in her hair.
“Hold up.” Dag reached over and gently detangled her, snapped the branch, and bent it down away from the trail. “I do purely hate these evil trees. Find ’em on patrol all over Oleana. They don’t bear fruit, their wood’s not good for much, and there’s just no excuse for those thorns.”
“I suppose a hedge of them would be good for stopping unwanted visitors.”
“Better for a bonfire.” Dag hadn’t released the branch; he had an absent look on his face that made Fawn suddenly uneasy. “Nobody would miss this tree. If a malice was to ground-rip a tree like this, it would be a positive good.” He paused. “Remember that mosquito I ground-ripped back in Lumpton Market?”
“Yes. It made you very sick.”
“I’ve been wondering ever since what would happen if I tried something else.”
“Dag, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.” Just what kind of mood was he in right now, after whatever frustrations he’d encountered up at that camp?
“Yes, but see—medicine makers. I’ve been wondering about medicine makers. The senior ones do have craft secrets.