Fawn, her lips pressed tight, cast a look up at Dag: But you’re a maker, too! He gave her a small headshake. He was letting himself get distracted, wound up in side issues. This wasn’t about their cords.
Very canny of Dar to try to make it so, though. It dropped the whole smoldering issue of threatened banishment against a, what was that word Fairbolt had used, notable patroller, into the lake. Was that part Cumbia’s doing—shaken by doubt of her son’s allegiance despite her harsh words to Fawn? A reaction to whatever reputation Dag had won in Raintree? It certainly avoided complicated and possibly ferocious campwide debates over the council’s right to force a string-cutting. If Dar could make it stick, it made everything simple and the problem go away, without anyone having to change anything.
And if Dar couldn’t make it stick, there was still the other strategy to fall back on. But Dag doubted there was a person on council who wouldn’t prefer the simpler version, Fairbolt not excepted.
“But if you rule the girl’s cord is invalid,” said Laski Beaver, scratching her head, “yet Dag’s is not, does that mean he’s married to her but she’s not married to him? Makes no sense.”
“Both are invalid,” snapped Dar. Pakona, with admirable even-handedness, gave him the same quelling glower and headshake she’d given Dag, and he subsided.
Pakona turned back, and said, “Bring those things up here, Dag. We need a closer look.” She added reluctantly, “The girl, too.”
Dag had Fawn roll up the soft fine fabric of his left sleeve and dutifully rose to walk slowly down the row of councilors. Fawn followed, silent and scared. The touches, both with fingers and groundsense, were for the most part brief enough to be courteous, although a couple of the women’s hands strayed curiously to the fabric of his shirt. Tioca, Dag was almost certain, detected his fading ground reinforcement being slowly absorbed in Fawn’s left arm, but she said nothing about it to the others. Fairbolt, at the end of the line, waved them both away: “I’ve seen ’em. Repeatedly.”
Dag and Fawn recrossed the circle and sat once more. He watched her head bend as she straightened her skirts. In the green dress, she looked like some lone flower found in a woodland pool, in a spring-come-late. Very late. She is not your prize, old patroller, not to be won nor earned. She’s her own gift. Lilies always are. His only-fingers traced her cord on his arm, and fell back, gripping his knee.
“There’s our vote, then,” said Pakona. “Is this unusual cord-making to be taken as valid, or not?”
“There’s this,” said Laski, slowly. “Once word gets out, I’d think others could repeat this trick. Acceptance would open the door to more of these mismatches.”
“But they’re good ground constructions,” said Tioca. “As solid as, well, mine.” She wriggled her left wrist and the cord circling it. “Are cords not to be proof of marriage anymore?”
“Maybe all cord-makings will have to be witnessed, hereafter,” said Laski.
A general, unenthusiastic hm as everyone envisioned this.
“I suggest,” said Pakona, “that we set the future actions of future folks beyond the scope of this council, or we’ll still be arguing as the hundredth candle burns down. We only have to rule on this couple, this day. We’ve seen all there is to see, heard from the only ones who were there. Whether the idea for the thing was Dag’s or the farmer girl’s seems to me not to make a great deal of difference. The outcome was the same. A no vote will see it finished right now. A yes vote will…well, it won’t. Dar, is this agreeable to Tent Redwing?”
Dar leaned back for a low-voiced exchange with their frowning mother. Cumbia had run out of cord to play with; her hands now kneaded the fabric of her shift along her thin thighs. A grimace, a short nod. Dar turned back. “Yes, we accept,” he replied.
“Dag, you?”
“Yes…,” said Dag slowly. He glanced aside at Fawn, watching him in trusting bewilderment, and gave her a little nod of reassurance. “Go ahead.”
Dar, expecting more argument, looked at him in sharp surprise. Dag remembered Fairbolt’s word picture of the sitting tactician. Wise man, Fairbolt. He settled back to watch the candle burn down as Pakona started down the row.
“Ogit?”
“No! No farmer spouses!” Well, that was clear.
“Tioca?”
A slight hesitation. “Yes. I can’t reconcile it with my maker’s conscience to say that’s not a good making.”
Rigni, called upon, looked plaintively at Tioca and at last said, “Yes.”
Laski, after a bit of a struggle, said, “No.”
Pakona herself said, “No,” without hesitation, and added, “if we let this in, it’s going to be every kind of mess, and it will go on and on. Dowie?”
Dowie looked down the row and made a careful count on her fingers, and looked appalled. A no from her would finish the matter. A yes would create a tie and throw it onto Fairbolt. After a long, long pause, she cleared her throat, and said, “Yes?”
Fairbolt gave her palpable cowardice a slow, blistering, and ungrateful glare. Then he sighed, sat up, and stared around. A longer silence stretched.
You know they’re good cords, Fairbolt, Dag thought. Dag watched the struggle in the captain’s face between integrity and practicality, and admired how long it was taking the latter to triumph. In a way, Dag wished the integrity would pull ahead. It wasn’t going to make a bit of difference in the end, after all, and Fairbolt would feel better about himself later.
“Fairbolt?” said Pakona, cautiously. “Camp captain always goes last to break the tie votes. It’s a duty.”
Fairbolt waved this away in a Yeah, yeah, I know gesture. He cleared his throat. “Dag? You got anything more to say?”
“A certain amount, yes. It will seem roundabout, but it will go to the center in the end. Makes no never mind to me whether it’s before or after you have your say, though.”
Fairbolt gave him a little nod. “Go ahead, then. You have the stick.”
Pakona looked as though she wanted to override this, but thought better of annoying Fairbolt while his vote hung in the breeze. She crossed her arms and settled back. Dar and Cumbia were frowning in alarm, but Dag certainly had all their attention.
Dag’s mind was heavy, his head ached, but his heart felt light, as if it were flying. Might just be falling. We’ll know when we hit the ground. He set the speaking stick aside, reached down, gripped his hickory staff, and stood up. Full height.
“Excepting the patrollers who just came back from Raintree with me, how many folks here have heard the name of a farmer town called Greenspring?”
An array of blank looks from the center and left, although Dirla’s aunt Rigni, after a glance at her patroller niece, hesitantly raised her hand for a moment. Dag returned her a nod.
“I’m not surprised there are so few. It was the town in Raintree where that last malice started up, unchecked. No one told me the name either, when I was called out to ride west. Now, partly that was due to the confusion that always goes with such a scramble, but you know—partly, it wasn’t. No one knew, or said, because it didn’t seem important to them.
“So how many here—not my patrollers—know the numbers of dead at Bonemarsh?”
Ogit Muskrat said gruffly, “We’ve all heard them. ’Bout fifty grown-ups and near twenty youngsters.”
“Such a horror,” sighed Tioca.
Dag nodded. “Nineteen. That’s right.” Fairbolt was watching him curiously. No, I’m not taking your advice about boasting, Fairbolt. Maybe the reverse. Just wait. “So who knows how many died at Greenspring?”
The patrollers to his right looked tight-lipped, holding back the answer. The majority of the councilors just looked baffled. After a stretch, Pakona finally said, “Lots, I imagine. What has this to do with your counterfeit wedding cords, Dag?”
He let that counterfeit slide unchallenged, too. “I said it was roundabout. Of a thousand townsfolk—roughly half the population of Bonemarsh—Greenspring lost about three hundred gr
own-ups and all—or nearly all—of their youngsters. I counted not less than one hundred sixty-two such bodies at the Greenspring burying field, and I know there were the bones of at least three more at the Bonemarsh mud-men feast we cleaned up after. Didn’t mention those three to the townsmen doing the burying. It wouldn’t have helped, at the time.”
He glanced down at Fawn, glancing up at him, and knew they were both wondering if some of those scattered bones might have been the missing Sassy. Dag hoped not. He shook his head at Fawn, to say, no knowing, and she nodded and hunkered on her seat.
“Does anyone but me see something terribly wrong with those two sets of numbers?”
The return stares held discomfort, more than a twinge of sympathy, even pity, but no enlightenment. Dag sighed and plowed on. “All right, try this.
“Bonemarsh died—people slain, animals slaughtered, that beautiful country blighted for a generation—because we failed at Greenspring. If the malice had been recognized and stopped there, it would never have marched as far as Bonemarsh.
“It wasn’t lack of patrollers or patrolling that slew Greenspring. Raintree patrol is as stretched as anyone else’s, but there would have been enough, if only. It was a lack of…something else. Talking. Knowing. Friendships, even. A whole lot of simple things that could have been different, that one man or another might have changed, but didn’t.”
“Are you blamin’ the Raintree patrol?” burst out Mari, unable to contain herself any longer. “Because that isn’t the way I saw it. Seems the farmers were told not to settle there, but they didn’t listen.” Pakona made her hand-wave again, though not with any great conviction.
“I’m not blaming either side more than the other,” said Dag, “and I don’t know the answers. And I know I don’t know. And it’s stopped me, right cold.
“But you see—once upon a time, I didn’t know dirt about patrolling, either. And half of what I thought I did know was wrong. There’s a cure for ignorant young patrollers, though—we send ’em for a walk around the lake. Turns ’em into much smarter old patrollers, pretty reliably. Good system. It’s worked for generations.
“So I’m thinkin’—maybe it’s not enough anymore just to walk around the lake. Maybe we, or some of us, or one of us, needs to walk around the world.”
The circle had grown very quiet.
Dag took a last breath. “And maybe that fellow is me. Sometimes, when you don’t know how to start, you just have to start anyway, and find out movin’ what you’d never learn sittin’ still. I’m not going to argue and I’m not going to defend, because that’s like asking me to tell you the ending before I’ve begun. There may not even be an ending. So Fairbolt, you can cast that last vote any way you please. But tomorrow, my wife and I are going to be down that road and gone. That’s all.” He gave a short, sharp nod, and sat back down.
19
F awn let out her breath as Dag settled again beside her. Her heart was pounding as though she’d been running. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, looking around the circle of formidable Lakewalkers.
From the restive pack of patrollers to her right, she heard Utau mutter, “You all were asking me what it felt like to be ground-ripped? Now you know.”
To which Mari returned a low-voiced, “Shut up, Utau. You don’t have the stick.”
Razi said under his breath, “No, I think we’ve just been hit with it.” She motioned him, too, to shush.
Both Pakona and Fairbolt glanced aside, not friendly-like, and the patrollers subsided. Fairbolt sat back with his arms folded and glowered at his boots.
Dag murmured to Fawn, “Give this back to Pakona, will you, Spark? I won’t be needing it again.” He handed her the little length of wood they’d called the speaking stick.
She nodded, took it carefully, and trod across the circle to the scary old woman who looked even more like Cumbia’s sister than Cumbia’s sister Mari did. Maybe it was the closer age match. Or maybe they were near-related; these Lakewalkers all seemed to be. Neither of them wishing to get as close to the other as to pass it from hand to hand, Fawn laid the stick down next to the candle-lantern and skittered back to the shelter of Dag. Despite the prohibition on her speaking here, she swallowed, cupped her hand to his ear, and whispered, “Back at the firefly tree, I thought if I loved you any harder, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I was right.” Gulping, she sat back down.
His crooked smile was so tender it pierced her like some sweet, sharp blade, saying better than words, It’s all right. All wrong and all right, mixed together so confusingly. He hugged her once around the shoulders, fiercely, and they both looked up to watch Fairbolt, as did everyone else.
Fairbolt grimaced, scratched his head, sat up. Smiled a little Fair-boltish smile that wasn’t the sort of thing anybody would want to smile along with. And said, “I abstain.”
A ripple of dismay ran along the line of his fellow councilors, punctuated at the end by an outraged cry from Dar, “What?”
“You can’t do that!” said Dowie. She swiveled to Pakona, beside her. “Can he do that?” And less audibly, “Can I do that?” which made Fairbolt rub his forehead and sigh.
But he answered her, “I can and do, but not often. I generally prefer to see things settled and done. But if Dag is taking his farmer bride away regardless, I fail to see the emergency in this.”
“What about Tent Redwing?” demanded Dar. “Where’s our redress?”
Fairbolt tilted his head, appearing to be considering this. “Tent Redwing can do as any other disputant can in the event of a locked council decision. Bring the complaint again to the new council next season. It’s only two months now to Bearsford Camp.”
“But he’ll be gone!” wailed Cumbia. It was a measure of her distress, Fawn thought, that she didn’t even grab for the stick before this outburst. But for once, Pakona didn’t wave her down; she was too busy gripping her own knees, maybe.
Fairbolt shook his head. “This marriage-cord redefinition is too big and complicated a thing for one man to decide, even in an emergency. It’s a matter for a campwide meet, separate from the emotions of a particular case. Folks need time to talk and think about this, more careful-like.”
Fawn could see that this argument was working on the camp council. And it was plain enough that to some, it didn’t matter how Fawn went away, as long as she went. The mob of patrollers was looking downright mulish, though—if not as mulish as Dar.
Dar turned around for a rapid, low-voiced consultation with Cumbia. She shook her head, once in anger, once in something like despair, then finally shrugged.
Dar turned back. “Tent Redwing requests the speaking stick.”
Pakona nodded, picked it up, and hesitated. “You can’t ask for another vote on the same matter till Bearsford, you know.”
“I know. This is…different but urgently related.”
“That string-cutting idea, that’s for a camp meet as well. And as I’ve told you before, I don’t think you’ll get it. Especially not if she’s”—a head jerk toward Fawn—“already gone.”
“It’s neither,” said Dar. She shrugged acceptance and passed the stick along to him.
Dar began, “Tent Redwing has no choice but to accept this delay.” He glowered at Fairbolt. “But as is obvious to everyone, by Bearsford season Dag plans to be long gone. Our complaint, if sustained, involves a stiff fine owed to the camp. We ask that Dag Redwing’s camp credit be held against that new hearing, lest the camp be left with no recourse if the fine is ordered. Also to assure he’ll show up to face the council.”
Pakona and Ogit looked instantly approving. Laski and Rigni looked considering, Tioca and Dowie dismayed. Fairbolt had hardly any expression at all.
Pakona said, in a tone of relief, “Well, that at least has plenty of precedent.”
Dag was smiling in a weird dry way. Fawn dared to push up on one knee and whisper in his ear again, “What does that mean? Can they make you come back?”
“No,” he murmured
to her. “See, once in a while, some angry loser receives a council order to make restitution and tries to resist by drawing out his camp credit and hiding it. This stops up that hole, till the settlement is paid. But since Dar will never be able to bring the complaint to Bearsford Council—or anywhere else, since I won’t be there to answer it—this would tie up my camp credit indefinitely. Stripping me like a banishment, without actually having to push through a banishment. May work, too, since no one likes to see the camp lose resources. Right clever, except that I was ready to walk away stark naked if I had to. I won’t be rising to this bait, Spark.”
“Brothers,” she muttered, subsiding back to her hard seat.
His lips twitched. “Indeed.”
Pakona said, “Tent Redwing’s request seems to me reasonable, especially in light of what Dag Redwing said about his intention to leave camp.”
“Leave?” said Ogit. “Is that what you call it? I’d call it plain desertion, wrapped up in fancy nonsense! And what are you going to do about that, Fairbolt?” He leaned forward to glare around the council at the camp captain on the other end.
“That will be a matter internal to the patrol,” Fairbolt stated. And the iron finality in his voice was enough to daunt even Ogit, who sat back, puffing but not daring to say more.
Breaking his intent to speak no further, Dag gave Fairbolt a short nod. “I’ll like to see you after this, sir. It’s owed.”
Fairbolt returned the nod. “At headquarters. It’s on your way.”
“Aye.”
Pakona knocked her knuckles on the log candle table. “That’s our vote, then. Should Dag Redwing’s camp credit be held till the Bearsford council? Yes will hold it, no will release it.” It was plain that she struggled not to add something like, To be taken off and frittered away on farmer paramours, but her leader’s discipline won. Barely, Fawn sensed. “Ogit?”
“Yes.” No surprise there. The string of three more yesses, variously firm or reluctant, were more of a disappointment; the vote was lost before it even came to Pakona’s firm Yes. Dowie looked down the row, seemed to do some mental arithmetic, and murmured a safely useless, “No.”
The Sharing Knife 2 - Legacy Page 33