Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [77]
“No more mosquitoes,” said Fawn firmly. “No more bugs of any kind. Mind what happened to your arm?”
“Yes, but what about this here tree? It never would be missed.”
“It’s about a hundred million times bigger than a mosquito.”
“I grant you, that mosquito did make me itch. Maybe this would make me all thorny and sessile.”
“What, are you saying that no one would be able to tell?” And at his bland look, added insincerely, “Sorry.” His lips twitched.
Fawn couldn’t imagine what taking in the ground of a whole tree would do to a person. Neither could Dag, she suspected. But he was getting an alarmingly intent look on his face, eyeing the thorn-studded branches and bole. The spines were three-pronged and stuck out in jagged packs from every possible part of the repulsive thing.
“Use some sense,” she begged. “At least don’t start with a whole tree. Start with something smaller.” She scrabbled in the pocket of her skirt, found a few tiny lumps still stuck in the seams, and freed one. “Here.”
Dag held out his hand to receive the gift. “An oat?”
“I was feeding Daisy and Copperhead earlier.”
“One oat?” He stared down at his palm.
“If you ate an oat it wouldn’t make you sick, even if you ate a whole bowl of oats. Not like a big bowl of mosquitoes. Or of nasty thorns. Even Copperhead wouldn’t eat off that tree!”
“That’s…an interesting parallel. Huh. We do take in the ground of our food and convert it—everyone does. Lakewalkers, farmers, animals, every living thing. Natural ground reinforcement.” He glanced up and down the trail. They were quite alone. He closed his palm, rubbed his hook across the back of his hand, and opened it again. The oat was gone. He wiped a faint gray powder off against the seam of his trouser leg. “Huh,” he said again. His face was suddenly very sober.
“What did it do?” Fawn asked anxiously.
He rubbed his left arm. “Well, I can feel that bit of ground stuck in me. Not near as unpleasant as the mosquito’s. Got any more oats in your pocket?”
“Remember, your fever and swelling didn’t come on right away. Give that one a day. Then try another. Maybe.”
“Berry’s got a whole barrel of oats on the Fetch,” Dag said thoughtfully. “There’s a notion to test. If you can eat it safely, can you ground-rip it safely? I think I’d rather just eat my food, but I can see where this might be faster in some emergency.”
“I don’t know, Dag. I think maybe you need a Lakewalker partner for this sort of experiment.” Someone who could tell if he was doing dreadful things to his ground—and warn her, so she could put her foot down. Because, remember that catfish. “Do you think Remo would be any help?”
Dag let his breath trickle out through pursed lips. “I’m not sure I would want to try this in front of young Remo. This is a pretty disturbing sort of groundwork for any Lakewalker who’s seen a malice operate.”
“Has Remo?”
Dag’s brows twitched up. “Maybe not, Spark. There’s been no reports of malice finds in the Pearl Riffle patrol area for quite a few years. If he’s never exchanged, then no, he’s not had that chance yet.”
“So he wouldn’t know malice magic if he saw it.”
“Maybe not.”
Leaving the thorny honey locust unmolested, to her intense relief, Dag started back down the trail. He hugged Fawn close to his side as they dodged hindering branches.
“So,” said Fawn, “if dense ground marks a medicine maker, and long groundsense range marks a patroller, what do you call someone who has everything?”
“Knife maker. Sir. Or ma’am.”
“There are women knife makers?” She had only met Dar, Dag’s hostile knife maker brother. Hostile to farmer brides, anyhow.
“Oh, yes.”
“So what do you call someone who hasn’t got either density or range?”
“A farmer,” Dag replied with a twitch of his lips, then looked down. “Sorry.”
Except that he actually