Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [97]
As Boss Wain strode to the bow and stood with his thumbs in his green leather braces, grinning at them, Berry cupped her hands and shouted, “Hey, Wain! You’ve got muscle over there! How’s about a tow?”
He cupped his hands and yelled back, “I dunno, Berry—how’s about a kiss?”
Over on the bank, Whit, despite being mostly blue, flushed red.
“Daisy-goat’ll pucker up for you!” Berry shouted back. “You’ll think you’re back with the home girls!”
Wain shook his head. “Not good enough! What’s your cargo?”
“Mainly salt butter, Tripoint tools, and window glass!”
Wain’s grin stretched as the Snapping Turtle slid past. “Then I guess we’ll sell our tools and glass downstream before you!” He patted his lips in a broad gesture. “Unless you want to change your mind about that kiss?”
“Muscle-headed turkey-wit,” Berry muttered under her breath. “He never changes.” She raised her voice and shouted after him, “What, are all your fellers too weak and worn out with flipping those dice to pull a bitty flatboat anymore? All little girly-arms on the Turtle, so sad!” She flapped hers limply in mockery.
Wain raised his arm and slapped his massive biceps. “Nice try, Berry!”
Fawn considered volunteering a kiss in Berry’s place, in support of the Fetch, but looking over the rowdy keelboat men decided better of the impulse.
“I’ll play you over the bar!” Berry raised her arms back and mimicked fiddling.
This actually started a hot debate amongst the dozen or so men of the Snapping Turtle’s crew; before it could quite turn to mutiny, Wain shouted, “A concert and a kiss!”
Berry gritted her teeth. “I’ll wait for the rain!”
Moans of disappointment drifted back from the keelboat, but the river bore it inexorably on, and in a few more minutes it had floated out of hearing and then sight. Berry heaved a frustrated sigh. It had all been fairly good-humored, Fawn thought, but—they were still stuck on the sand bar.
Copperhead was turned loose to graze on the island, since, although he had jumped into the water readily enough under Dag’s practiced persuasion, getting him back aboard would be nigh impossible until they could again tie the Fetch to the bank bow-first and run out the gangplank. The men washed in the river and came back aboard, crowding the hearth where Fawn was trying to start an early supper, there seeming to be little else to do for the long evening. They stamped and shivered and rubbed their hands, all but Dag who tucked his under his left arm, but eventually settled down enough out of her way that she could make pies and stew. Dag asked if Fawn wanted him to catch her some fish, but for some reason this amiable suggestion was voted down.
In the night Fawn awoke to find their bedroll empty of Dag. At first she thought he’d gone to piss, but when he didn’t reappear after a reasonable time, she wrapped a blanket around herself and crept out to look for him. A light was seeping in from around the bow hatch, too amber to be the moon. She slipped out the door and closed it behind her. The night air was cold, damp, and smelled of fallen leaves and the river, with a whiff of warm goat and sleepy chicken, but overhead the stars burned bright.
The bench was pulled out from the wall, and Dag was sitting astride it, with a lantern glowing at the other end. He seemed dressed by guess, hair sticking up, and was without his arm harness. He was frowning down at two little piles of mixed oats and corn kernels on the board between his knees, although when she came to his shoulder he looked up and cast her a quick smile.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He ran his hand through his hair, to no good effect. “I’ve gone back to oats. Figured you’d approve.”
She nodded provisionally. “Are you planning to ground-rip some?” She didn’t see any little piles of gray dust, so perhaps she’d caught him in time. Which begged