Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [79]
“Bow lessons?” suggested Dag to Whit. “It’s been a few days.” Since before the distractions of Glassforge and Pearl Riffle.
Whit looked up eagerly, but said, “Isn’t it too dark? The moon won’t be up for a while, and even then it’s none too full.”
“The Fetch has plenty of lanterns, if Berry’ll lend us a couple.”
Berry nodded, looking interested.
“Set up one by the target, the other by us,” Dag continued. “Easy.”
“Sounds like a waste of good rock oil. And lanterns,” said Bo.
“Whit will aim by it, not at it. Or so we hope,” said Dag. Whit grinned sheepishly. “You need to learn to shoot in all kinds of light. If you were a Lakewalker, I could teach you to shoot in complete darkness, by groundsense. Those slow-moving trees in broad daylight are getting too easy for you. We’ll have to shift you on to peppier targets soon. But tonight we can borrow Copperhead’s and Daisy-goat’s spare straw bale and set it up above the bank a ways.”
Fawn said, “Wait, who has to go grope for the misses in the dark? We’ll be losing my good arrows!” Arrow retrieval had been her job in Whit’s prior camp-side lessons, mostly due to an understandable protectiveness of her craftwork.
“Not a one,” Dag promised. “You collect the hits, and I’ll undertake to find the misses.” He cast a mock-stern eye on Whit. “That means you’d better tighten your aim, boy.”
With Fawn carrying the lanterns, Whit thumped off to lug the straw bale onto shore. Berry followed after. Bo got up to poke the fire, then settled back with his feet to the hearth. Dag finished his tankard of cider in a more leisurely way.
Remo had listened to all this with a frown. Now he said, “You’re really teaching that mouthy farmer boy Lakewalker bow-work? Why?”
“That would be my tent-brother, yes, and because he asked.”
Remo hesitated. “I suppose it’s been a long time since you had a chance to handle a bow yourself,” he said more quietly. “Were you good, once?”
Remo hadn’t heard all the Dag stories from Saun, it seemed. Maybe it was the livelier Barr that Saun had struck up his acquaintance with. From his tone, Dag guessed Remo was attempting to apologize. Pity he isn’t better at it. Dag let a couple of tart replies go, including I was a fairly dab hand last week, in favor of “Come on along and make yourself useful, if you like. There are some things I just can’t show Whit about his left-hand grip, for one.”
Remo looked taken aback at the notion.
Dag added evenly, “You know, if you’re going to be living with farmers, it’s time you started learning how to talk to ’em.”
“I’m not going to be living with farmers!”
“Well, it doesn’t appear you mean to be living with Lakewalkers, either. What, do you figure to perch up a tree with the squirrels and eat acorns all winter? It’s got to be one or the other.”
Remo’s lips compressed. Dag just shook his head and rose to stroll after Fawn and Whit. He called over his shoulder, “If you change your mind, come on out.”
Whit had set up his bale on some deadfall a reasonable distance upstream, that being the direction with fewer trees and more level footing, and was arguing with Fawn over where to place the lantern. They compromised on a nearby broken cottonwood stump. Fawn pinned the increasingly tattered cloth target with the two concentric circles painted on it to the bale. The white fabric showed up well in the modest yellow glow. They returned to the boat, and Whit ran inside to get his bow and arrows. When he came back out, Remo followed slowly, though only as far as the boat’s front rail, on which he leaned.
The night was