Lois Bujold - The Sharing Knife - Beguilement

“I don’t deny it. Not the fault of the song-maker—whoever it was did a fine job.

If it were less effective, it wouldn’t make me want to weep or rage so bad, I suppose. Which was why I left the room. My groundsense was a little open, in aid of the music-making. I didn’t want to blight the mood. Pack thirty-eight tired, battle-nervy patrollers into one building for a week, and moods start to get around fast.”

“Do you often make music, when you’re out on patrol?” She tried to picture patroller song and dance around a campfire; the weather likely didn’t always cooperate.

“Only sometimes. Camps can be pretty busy in the evenings. Curing hides and meat, preserving medicinal plants we pick up while patrolling, keeping logs and maps up to date. If it’s a mounted patrol, a lot of horse care. Weapons training for the youngsters and practice for everyone. Mending, of clothes and boots and gear. Cooking, washing. All simple tasks, but they do go on.”

His voice slowed in reminiscence. “Patrols vary in size—in the north they send out companies of a hundred and fifty or two hundred for the great seasonal wilderness sweeps—but south of the lake, patrols are usually smaller and shorter. Even so, you’re like to be in each other’s hair for weeks on end with no entertainment but each other. After a while, everyone knows all the songs.

So there’s gossip. And factions. And jokes. And practical jokes. And revenge for practical jokes. And fistfights over revenge for practical jokes. And knife fights over—well, you get the idea. Although if the emotions are allowed to melt down into that sour a soup, you can bet the patrol leader will be having a very memorable talk with Fairbolt Crow about it, later.”

“Have you ever?”

“Not about that. Although all talks with Fairbolt tend to be memorable.” In the shadows, he scratched his nose and smiled, then leaned his head back and let his eyes rest on the mellow windows across the yard. The singing had stopped, and dance tunes had begun again; feet thumping on the floor made the whole building pulse like a drum.

“Let’s see, what else? On warm summer nights, gathering firewood is always a popular activity.”

Fawn considered this, and the amusement underlying his voice. “Should think that would be wanted on cold nights, more.”

“Mm, but you see, on warm nights, no one complains if folks are gone for two hours and come back having forgotten the firewood. Bathing in the river, that’s another good one.”

“In the dark?” said Fawn doubtfully.

“In the river is even more the question. Especially when the season’s turned frosty. Walks, oh sure, that’s believable, when everyone’s been out slogging since dawn. Scouting around, too—that draws many selfless volunteers. Some dangerous squirrels out in those woods, they could mount an attack at any time.

You can’t be too prepared.” A rumbling chuckle escaped his chest.

“Oh,” said Fawn, finally understanding. Her lips curled up, if only for the rare sight of the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

“Followed by the breakups and the makeups and the people not talking to each other, or worse, going over it all again till you’re ready to stuff your head in your blanket and scream for the listening to it. Ah, well.” He vented a tolerant sigh. “The older patrollers generally have things worked out smooth, but the younger ones can be downright restive. It’s not as though folks’ lives stop for patrol. Walking the patterns isn’t some emergency where you can drop everything, deal heroically, and then go home for good and all. It all starts again tomorrow at dawn. And you’ll have to get up and walk your share just the same.” He stretched, joints creaking a bit, as if in contemplation of such an early start.

“It’s not that we’re all mad, you know, although sometimes it seems like it,”

he went on in a lower voice. “Groundsense makes our moods very contagious. Not just by speech and gestures; it’s like it gets in the air.” His hand traced an upward spiral. “Now, for instance. Once a certain number of people open their grounds to each other, there starts to be… leakage. Bow-downs are really good for that.

That building over there’s downright awash, right now. All sorts of things can start to seem like a good idea. Absent gods be thanked for the beer.”

“The beer?”

“Beer, I have concluded”—he held up an edifying finger, and Fawn began to realize that he was slightly drunk; people had kept the musicians well supplied with encouraging refreshment, earlier—“exists for the purpose of being blamed the next day. Very regrettable beverage, beer.”

“Farmers use it for that, too,” Fawn observed.

“A universal need.” He blinked. “I think I need some more.”

“Are you thirsty?”

“No.” He slumped down, staring at her sidelong. His eyes were dark pools in this light, like night condensed. The lanternlight made glimmering orange halos around his hair, and slid across his faintly sweat-sheened features like a caress. “Just considering the potential of regret…”

He leaned toward her, and Fawn froze in hope so strong it felt like terror.

Did he mean to kiss her? His breath was tinged with beer and exertion and Dag.

Hers stopped altogether.

Stillness. Heartbeats.

“No,” he sighed. “No. Mari was right.” He sat up again. Fawn nearly burst into unfathomable tears. Nearly reached for him.

No, you can’t. Daren’t. He’ll think you’re that… that awful word Sunny used. It burned in her memory like an infected gash, Slut. It was an ugly word that had somehow turned her into an ugly thing, like a splash of ink or blood or poison discoloring water. For Dag, I would be only beautiful. And tall. She wished herself taller. If she were taller, no one could call her names just for, for wanting so much.

He sighed, smiled, rose. Gave her a hand up. They went back inside.

In the entry hall Dag’s head turned, listening. “Good, someone’s using the tambourine. They can get along without me for what’s left of this.” Truly, the music coming through the archway seemed slower and sleepier. He made for the staircase.

Fawn found her voice. “You going up?”

“Yeah. It was good, but it’s been enough for one night. You?”

“I’m a little tired, too.” She followed after him. What had happened, or not happened, out on the bench felt a lot like that moment on the road, some turn she had somehow missed.

As they exited the staircase on the second floor, bumping and laughter echoed up behind them. Dirla and two young patrollers from Chato’s group burst out giggling, saluted Dag with cheerful hellos, and swung down the adjoining hallway. Fawn stopped and stared as they paused at Dirla’s door, for one fellow looped his arm around her neck and kissed her, but she was still holding the other’s hand to her… chest. Dirla—tall Dirla—extended one booted foot and pushed the door open, and they all fell through; it closed, cutting off some jest.

“Dag,” Fawn said hesitantly, “what was that?”

He cocked an amused eyebrow at her. “What did it look like to you?”

“Is Dirla taking that… I mean, them… is she going to bed with those fellows?”

“Seems likely.”

Likely? If his groundsense did half what he said, he likely knew very well.

“Both of them?”

“Well, numbers are generally uneven, out on patrol. People make adjustments.

Dirla is very… um… generous.”

Fawn swallowed. “Oh.”

She followed him up their hallway. Razi and Utau were just unlocking the door to their room; Utau looked, and smelled, distinctly the worse for beer, and Razi’s hair, escaping his long braid, hung plastered in sweaty strands across his forehead from the dancing. They both bade Dag a civil good night and disappeared within.