Lois Bujold - The Sharing Knife - Beguilement

Papa and Mama were both listening seriously too, as if they were all three speaking the same language of a sudden. “And what would that be, patroller?”

said Papa, brows now pinched more in thought than in antagonism and not nearly as red in the face as he’d been at first.

Dag tilted his head as if in thanks, incidentally emphasizing his permission to speak without interruptions from juniors. “I of course undertake to care for and protect Fawn for as long as I live. But it’s a plain fact that I don’t lead a safe life.” A slight, emphatic tick of his wrist cuff on the table edge was no accident, Fawn thought. “For now, I would have her leave her marriage portion here, intact, but defined—written out square in the family book and in the clerk’s record, witnessed just as is right. No man knows the hour of his shari—of his end. But if ever Fawn has to come back here, I would have it be as a real widow, not a grass one.” He tilted his head just enough toward Fawn that only she saw his slight wink, and she was as cheered by the wink as chilled by the words, so that her heart seemed to spin unanchored. “She—and her children, if any—would then have something to fall back on wholly separate from my fate.”

Mama, face scrunched up in concentration, nodded thoughtfully at this.

“In the hope that such a day would be long from now or never, it would have to be attested by Fletch and Clover as well. Can’t help thinking that Clover would be just as glad to put off paying out that due-share, with all the work she’ll have here starting up.”

Fletch, opening his mouth, shut it abruptly, as it finally dawned that not only would he not be required to disgorge any family resources right away, but also that Fawn would be out of the house when he brought his new bride home. And only by the slightest brightening of Dag’s eyes did Fawn realize that Dag had hit Fletch precisely where he was aiming, and knew it.

A blessed silence fell just long enough to finish consuming pie. Fawn was reattaching Dag’s hook before Whit wiped his lips, and said in brotherly bewilderment, “But why ever would you want to marry Fawn in the first place?”

The tone of his voice alone threw Fawn back into a pit of unwelcome memories of youthful mockery. As if she were the most unlikely candidate for courtship in the whole of West Blue and for a hundred miles beyond in any direction, as if she were a cross between a village idiot and a freak of nature. What was that stupid phrase that had worked so well, repeatedly, to rile her up? Hey, Runt!

You must have been drinking ugly juice this morning! And how those words had made her feel like it.

“Need I say?” asked Dag calmly.

“Yes!” said Fletch, in his stern I-am-so-paternal voice that made Fawn long to kick him even more than she longed to kick Whit, and even made Papa cock a bemused eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, old man,” said Rush, scowling. Of all at the table but Nattie, the twins had said the least so far, but none of it had been favorable. “Give us three good reasons!”

Dag’s eyelids lowered briefly in a cool yet strangely dangerous assent; but his side glance at Fawn felt like a caress after a beating. “Only that? Very well.”

He held their attention while he appeared to think, deliberately clearing a silence in which to speak. “For the courage of her heart, which I saw face down the greatest horrors I know without breaking. For the high and hungry intelligence of her mind, which never stops asking questions, nor thinking about the answers. For the spark of her spirit, which could teach bonfires how to burn. That’s three. Enough for going on with.”

He rose from the table, his hook hand briefly touching her shoulder. “All this is set beside me, and you ask me instead if I want dirt? I do not understand farmers.” He excused himself with a polite nod all around, and a murmured,

“Evening, Aunt Nattie,” and strode out.

Fawn wasn’t sure if she was more thrilled with his words or with his timing.

He had indeed figured out the only way to get in the last word in a bunch of Bluefields—shoot it into the target and run.

And whatever comment, mockery, or insult might have risen in his wake was undercut to shamed silence by the sound of Mama, weeping quietly into the apron clutched up to her face. The debate didn’t end there, naturally. It mostly broke up into smaller parts, as they took on family members in ones or twos, although Fawn gave Dag credit for trying for efficiency, that first night. The twins cornered her the next afternoon in the old barn, where she had gone to give Grace and Copperhead some treats and a good brushing.

Rush leaned on the stall partition and spoke in a voice of disgust. “Fawn, that fellow is way too old for you. He’s older than Papa, and Papa’s older than rocks. And he’s all so banged up. If you were married, you’d have to look at that stump he hides, I bet. Or touch it, ew.”

“I’ve seen it,” she said shortly, brushing bay hairs into the air in a cloud.

“I help him with his arm harness, now his other arm’s broke.” And a great deal of other assistance that she was not inclined to bring to the twins’ attention.

“You should see his poor gnarly feet if you want to see banged up.”

Reed sat on a barrel of oats across the aisle with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them, rocking uneasily. He said in a thin tone, “He’s a Lakewalker. He’s evil.”

This brought Fawn’s irritated and vigorous brushing to an abrupt halt; Grace twitched her ears in protest. Fawn turned to stare. “No, he’s not. What are you going on about?”

“They say Lakewalkers eat their own dead to make their sorcery. What if he makes you have to eat corpses? Or worse? What does he really want you for?”

“His wife, Reed,” said Fawn with grim patience. “Is that so very hard to believe?”

Reed’s voice hushed. “What if it’s to make magic?”

He already does that would likely not be a useful answer. “What, are you afraid I’ll be made a human sacrifice? How sweet of you, Reed. Sort of.”

Reed unfolded indignantly. “Don’t you laugh. It’s true. I saw a Lakewalker once who’d stopped to eat in the alehouse in West Blue. Sunny Sawman dared me to peek in her saddlebags. She had bones in them—human bones!”

“Tell me, was she wearing her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck?”

Reed stared. “How’d you know?”

“You’re lucky you weren’t caught.”

“I was. She took me and shook me and told me I’d be cursed if I ever touched anything of a Lakewalker’s again. She scowled so—she told me she’d catch and eat me!”

Fawn’s brows drew down. “How old were you, again?”

“Ten.”

“Reed, for pity’s sake!” said Fawn in utter exasperation. “What would you tell a little boy you caught rifling your bags so as to scare him enough never to do it again? You’re just lucky you didn’t run into Dag’s aunt Mari—I bet she could have come up with a tall tale that would have made you pee yourself into the next week.” She was suddenly glad the sharing knife was stored with her own things, and wondered it she ought to warn Dag to watch his saddlebags.

Reed looked a bit taken aback, as if this point had never before occurred to him, but he went on anyhow. “Fawn, those bones were real. They were fresh.”

Fawn had no doubt of it. She also had no desire to start down some slippery slope of explanation with the twins, who would only ask her how she knew and badger her endlessly when her answers didn’t fit their notions. She finished brushing Grace’s flanks and turned her attention to her mane and forelock.

Rush was still mired in the age difference. “It’s sickening to think of a fellow that old pawing you. What if he got you pregnant?”