Passage

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Fawn herself took to sewing, spinning, and unambitious cooking, hugging the hearth. Her monthly had begun last night, and she dared to hope that Dag’s new treatments were helping her to heal, because today’s pain was merely uncomfortable, not crippling. Other hopes rose in her mind as the dull tasks filled the hours. Dag had used a number of Lakewalker tricks to avoid starting a child in her half-healed womb, but it sure would be nice someday not to need those tricks. What was wanted, Fawn decided, was not time, but a place.

  She pictured it in lavish detail while she jammed her needle through the tough oilcloth and occasionally her fingers—she preferred cooking to sewing, generally. The new Bluefield place would need to be near a farmer town big enough to give Dag steady medicine work, but not so big or near as to overwhelm him. There ought to be a little lake, or at least a big pond, to grow those Lakewalker water lilies with the edible roots. A kitchen garden, of course, and room for Grace and her foal and surly Copperhead. She spent considerable time working out the garden plan, and what other sorts of animals to have. If they weren’t to follow the migrating seasons of a Lakewalker camp, she could have a house with four real walls. And an iron cook stove like the one she’d seen at Silver Shoals.

  She mulled over all the names she’d ever admired, and not just for children, because they did grow up and what was pretty for a baby might sound downright silly in a mother or grandmother—Fawn, for example. Whatever had Mama and Papa been thinking? She and Dag would have more than one daughter, anyhow, that was for sure…Dag would like that. Should they be close to some Lakewalker camp, too? Would any Lakewalkers want to be close to them? What if any of those children with the dignified names turned out to have strong groundsenses…?

  She was just considering whether to pick out a name for Grace’s foal, too, when a distant hail from the river broke up her daydreams. Bo, who had been dozing in his bunk during his off-watch, rolled over and slitted open one eye, listened a moment, and rolled back. Fawn set aside her sewing and rose to venture out on the cold front deck to see what was happening.

  A keelboat was rapidly overhauling them. On this long, straight reach the wind was coming more or less from upriver for a change, and the keel had its sail up to push it along even more briskly than the heavy current drew the Fetch. The name Tripoint Steel was painted on the prow in fancy letters, with all the Ts in the shape of drawn swords. As the gap closed between the two boats, Boss Cutter and Boss Berry bellowed the news back and forth across the moving waters.

  Berry reported the names of the boats that had been seen by the helmeted goods-clerk from their stop yesterday. Cutter mentioned a man who knew a man who’d seen the Briar Rose at a town still forty miles downstream, which made Berry narrow her eyes and wave especial thanks; it would save stopping before then. Berry wished Cutter luck, and Cutter called back, as the gap again widened and the Tripoint Steel splashed bravely on, “You girls be careful now!”

  “We’re not all girls,” Fawn heard Whit mutter from the roof. “The Fetch can look after its own. Blight it.”

  Dag came out to cloak Fawn in his arms and listen carefully while this was going on, and Barr leaned on the rail to watch in curiosity. Fawn explained to him about Cutter’s quest for the missing boats. “Like a river patrol, sort of. They’re looking for trouble, and armed for it.”

  Barr just shook his head.

  That afternoon, Barr jittered around the Fetch as restlessly as a bedbug at a family reunion, swearing under his breath at each passing mile. Fawn would have bet that kidnapping schemes now revolved behind his silvery-blue eyes, but how to bring them off in a crowded flatboat in the view—and groundsenses—of all those aboard defeated him at least till bedtime. When she trod across the bunkroom after her last visit to the back deck for the night, his open eyes still gleamed from his nest of blankets in the fading firelight.

  The next morning, when she came out to start tea, she found him up and dressed before anyone else. As Fawn cut bacon and calculated how to stretch limited eggs over unlimited potatoes, Berry’s bunk curtains stopped moving. She yanked them back and rolled out dressed in her usual shirt, vest, and leather skirt, shoving her sock feet into her waiting boots. When she came in from the back deck after a brief morning wash, Barr was waiting by the door.

  He lowered his voice. “Boss Berry, can I speak with you—in private?” He waved vaguely toward the bow.

  She put a hand on one hip and regarded him without favor. “Might it get you off my boat?”

  “Maybe.”

  She looked dubious, but led him through the stores, tying her hair in its horse-tail with a scrap of cloth on the way.

  Whit sat up on one elbow in his bunk and blinked. “What was that all about?”

  “Barr wanted to talk to Berry. Alone. They went up to the front deck.”

  Whit frowned, rose, and padded over to peer out the window. “No, they went ashore. They’re walking upstream. He’s kinda got his arm…huh.” His frown deepened to a scowl, and he went back to the bunk rack and shook Remo awake. Remo sat up looking less than delighted, but after a whispered consultation, both drew on trousers, boots, and jackets and went out as well. Hawthorn and Hod, wakened by the rustling, followed curiously.

  Dag wandered into the kitchen from their bed-nook amongst the stores and sat at the table, smiling as Fawn handed him a mug of strong tea. “What’s the parade?” he asked, nodding toward the bow. He sipped gratefully and opened his second eye. In the bunk rack, Bo rolled over and groaned, then stumbled out to the back deck.

  “It’s a little hard to say,” said Fawn, standing on tiptoe at the window to look up the shore. Dripping trees, gray mist, muddy bank, and no one in sight. She went back to cracking eggs and cutting onions, cheese, and bread.

  She almost sliced her hand when sudden shouts broke out in the distance. Dag sat up, his head turning, brows drawing down. He tensed, but did not rise. The yelling diminished, then rose again, then stopped. Fawn certainly made out Whit’s voice, and probably Barr’s and Remo’s both.

  “What’s all that ruckus?” Bo asked, coming back in and helping himself to tea.

  Fawn stretched up again, squinting out into the mist. “They’re all coming back. Uh-oh. Barr’s holding one hand to his face, and Remo has the other arm twisted up behind his back. Really hard. Whit’s got hold of a big stick, and is waving it and talking. Berry’s kind of…stomping. Wow, she looks mad. Hod’s bringin’ up the rear as usual, and Hawthorn’s running ahead.”

  Dag rubbed his forehead and took a long, preparing breath. Fawn took heart that he did not, himself, jump up; but then, it seemed the emergency was coming to him. Hawthorn’s thumping feet across the gangplank announced his excitement even before he burst into the kitchen to cry: “Dag! Barr’s tried to magic Berry, and Whit and Remo says they’re gonna kill him!”

  More shuffling footsteps crossed from shore, the boat dipped as many feet thudded onto the deck, and the rest of the party arrived on a wave of raised voices too mingled to make out the words, except for some You dids, an I didn’t!, and rather a lot of Dag! Dag! Dag winced and took a long swallow of tea, then turned in his chair as the whole mob piled into the little kitchen-bunkroom.

  The left side of Barr’s face was deeply reddened; his eye was already swelling shut. Any other damage Fawn could not see, but both Remo and Whit were out of breath, and Hod, of all people, was rubbing his knuckles and looking ready to burst into tears. Barr’s voice broke briefly above the babble: “I did not! Use some sense! Is this the time of day for that sort of thing? Ow, stop that, blight you!” He rose on his toes as Remo hoisted him higher.

  Dag pitched his voice, Fawn noticed, really deep: the rumble somehow cut through the noise. “One at a time, please. Boss Berry?”

  The uproar died as Whit and Hod poked each other for attention to Dag, and even Hawthorn swallowed his squeaks. Berry stepped forward, grim and angry.

  “That patroller of yours”—she pointed a shaking finger at Barr—“tried to do somethi
ng to my head. Some sorcery.”

  “Yeah, and we know what it was, don’t we?” said Remo, hoisting again.

  “Ow, no, blight it!”

  “Dag?” said Fawn uneasily from the place of safety she’d sought behind his shoulder. “Can you tell who’s telling the truth?”

  Dag looked around, pursed his lips, and dipped his chin. He cleared his throat. “Boss Berry, may I touch your head?”

  She hesitated a long moment, then looked up to seek Fawn’s eyes: Fawn nodded vigorously. Berry shrugged and stepped forward. Dag leaned back and collected Fawn in the circle of his arm, not for his own reassurance or hers, but for Berry’s, Fawn realized. Very carefully, Dag touched the back of his hook to Berry’s pale forehead. He had to have done something with his ghost hand, because Barr’s mouth dropped open and even Remo’s eyes widened.

  “I thought he was just a patroller!” Barr whispered to his partner.

  “You thought wrong,” Remo growled back.

  “Well.” Dag sighed without pleasure. “There’s a new bit of ground reinforcement here. It’s trying to be shaped as a persuasion, but it isn’t very well made, so I’m not quite sure what it was intended to do if it had been finished.”

  “Can you get it back out o’ there?” said Berry nervously.

  “I can release any beguilement, and undo the shape so it’s no more directed than any healing reinforcement. Your own ground will convert it in a couple of days. There shouldn’t be any other effect than, well, you won’t be getting any headaches for a bit. Shall I do this now?” His voice, Fawn realized, had gone very gentle.

  “Yes!” said Berry. “I don’t want no one puttin’ things in my head I can’t see.”

  The little bit of absence in Dag’s eyes passed faster than a blink. “There,” he said, dropping his left arm. “All undone now.”

  Berry rubbed her forehead. “I suppose I have to take your word for that.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I didn’t—” began Barr.

  “What?” said Dag.

  Just that word, with a faint twist of astonishment, but the look that went with it was like nothing Fawn had ever encountered in Dag’s eyes before. She’d never seen his waking face so absolutely wiped clean of any humor whatsoever.

  Barr flinched. “I wasn’t trying to seduce her,” he got out, in a much smaller voice.

  “What were you trying, then?” said Dag, still in that dead-level tone.

  Barr’s teeth clamped.

  “I know where Berry keeps the rope, up in the stores,” said Whit grimly. “We could hang him. Plenty of trees back in those woods.”

  “I wouldn’t stop you,” said Remo. Barr winced.

  Berry pressed her temples uncertainly. “It seems I took no harm. Thanks to you boys,” she added a little gruffly, with a nod all around at her crew. The young men all stood a bit taller. “Hanging might be too much.”

  “Too much, or too good?” said Whit.

  Hod offered helpfully, “My sister made me drown some extra barn kittens once—tied ’em in a sack with some rocks, see. We got some feed bags up front, and there’s plenty of rocks on the bank. We could do that.”

  Barr’s eyes shifted toward Hod in deep uncertainty.

  “Dag?” said Whit, and “Dag?” echoed Remo and Hod.

  “Wait, how’d I get elected judge, here?” said Dag. “It’s Berry’s boat. She’s boss; any decision’s hers.”

  “You’re the expert in Lakewalkers,” Berry said. The only trusted one, she did not add aloud, but it sort of hung in the air implied, Fawn felt.

  “I’m not Barr’s patrol leader. I’m not even a member of Pearl Riffle patrol. Dag No-camp, indeed. Closest thing Barr has to a senior officer here would be Remo.” Dag tilted his head invitingly at the dark-haired patroller.

  What are you thinking, Dag? Fawn wondered. Besides ahead…

  Barr said desperately, “Remo, Amma’s holding me responsible for you, and I can’t make you do anything! It’s not fair!”

  “Now you know how I’ve always felt about you.” Remo took a breath, nostrils flaring. “It’s Berry’s boat. Whatever she decides, I’ll abide.”

  “It wasn’t what you think…”

  Berry stalked up to Barr, sweeping her blistering gaze from his boots up to his blond hair. “You are about the most worthless sack of skin I ever met. You ain’t payin’, you ain’t workin’, and you ain’t welcome on my boat. So git!”

  “No!” cried Barr in ill-considered defiance. “Not without my partner!”

  Dag’s brows went up. “You heard the boat boss. Hod, Whit, get his boat in the water. Fawn, Hawthorn, fetch his things and bung them in. Remo…” Dag stood to his full height as Barr started to struggle. “I’ll lend you a hand.”

  The crew of the Fetch scattered into action. Fawn brought the bedroll, conveniently already rolled up, and the bow and quiver, and flung them any which way into the rocking narrow boat right after Hawthorn tossed down the pack and the sacks.

  Dag and Remo manhandled the struggling Barr through the door, although he stopped fighting and froze once Dag’s hook eased around and pressed into the corner of one eye. “Don’t move sudden. That’s better. Now, you got two choices,” Dag advised. “You can climb down into your boat from the deck, here, or you can climb up into it from the water, over there.”

  The water was black and utterly opaque this morning, and even here by the shore the current raced, making strange patterns on the surface. And it looked so cold Fawn would not have been surprised to see little skins of ice jostling, but it was likely still too early in the season for that.

  “I’ll climb down,” Barr choked. The two released him, and he scrambled over the rail, bitter fury in every jerky motion. The narrow boat rocked only a little as he sank, balanced, into his seat. Remo bent down and gave it a hard shove out into the swirling current.

  Barr looked around him. “Hey!” he said indignantly. “Where’s my paddle?” He held up both empty hands in protest as his boat drifted farther from the bank.

  “Oh, leave him go, just like that!” cried Whit in delight. “Downriver bass-ackwards!”

  Berry, lips clamped, stalked over to retrieve one of the narrow boat’s paddles from where they lay by the cabin wall. She strode to the back rail and launched it endwise; it landed a good thirty feet downstream of Barr’s narrow boat, and was caught by the current. If she’d thrown it the same distance upstream, it would have drifted right to Barr’s reaching hand.

  “There’s your paddle, patroller boy! Chase it!” she yelled after Barr.

  “Nice,” said Whit, leaning on the rail with eyes aglow.

  Barr, with a lot of choked muttering in which Blight! was the most frequent word Fawn could make out, leaned from side to side and began clawing the water with his hands in an effort to overtake his paddle’s head start.

  “Who gave Barr the shiner?” Fawn asked, leaning beside Whit.

  “Remo. And me. And Hod, but he was too scared to hit him very hard.”

  “Ow,” said Fawn.

  “He earned it.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  The clinging river mist closed around the narrow boat, although the disembodied cries of Blight it! drifted back for a while longer.

  Berry squinted out in satisfaction. “Right. That should make the Fetch a sight more peaceful.” She dusted her hands and led her crew back in to find breakfast.

  Fawn hesitated by Dag, who stood with his hand on the rail looking out into the layer of gray damp, but seeing, she suspected, much more than she did. There was scant satisfaction in him, only close attention. “There,” he said at last, straightening. “He’s got his paddle back.”

  “Is that the end of him?” Fawn asked hopefully.

  Dag smiled down at her. “Well, there’s this. He’s a Lakewalker boy away from home for the first time, all alone. He’s not going upstream by himself, that’s for sure. His only choice is to keep going down, like us. So we’ll see.�
��

  She frowned at him in doubt. “Do you want him to come back?”

  “I don’t like losing patrollers.”

  “You kept Remo. That’s one.”

  “I don’t like losing two patrollers ’bout twice as much as I don’t like losing one.”

  “Well, I hope you can find more value in Barr with your groundsense than I can with my eyes and ears.”

  “I hope I can, too, Spark,” he sighed.

  17

  Though the weather stayed cloudy and chilly, the Fetch made steady downriver progress all that day. The enclosing hills flattened out, sign, Berry explained to Fawn, that they were passing west out of the hinterland of Oleana into level Raintree. The riverbanks were drained of color, sodden brown with gray tree boles broken only by an occasional glum-looking river village, or sometimes dun farm fields open down to the water. No longer autumn…not yet winter.

  Berry kept Remo on the sweeps with her—possibly, Fawn figured, to avert another grounding, since she encouraged Remo, in a way Bo had not, to offer warnings. At least Bo did not ignore Dag’s laconic remarks. Clearly, river pilot could be another job for Lakewalkers amongst farmers, in addition to medicine maker. When Fawn started sorting through the possibilities with an open mind, it seemed to her that farmers and Lakewalkers offered vast possibilities to each other, for all that Lakewalkers scorned any task that diverted them from hunting malices. Yet someday the last blight bogle ever had to emerge and be destroyed. What would patrollers do when there was no more need for patrols? Not in my lifetime, Dag had said. Maybe Lakewalkers were better off not dwelling on an end none of them would live to see.

  She glimpsed Barr’s narrow boat ahead of them a couple of times that day, and what might have been a campfire on the far shore that night, till the rains came again and doused the distant glow. The following day she saw his boat trailing far behind, an ink-stroke on the gray water, before the Fetch rounded another curve and the shifting shoreline hid it.