Lois Bujold - Legacy

Dag tilted his head, half-conceding, half-resisting. “Farmers are untrained. The answer is to train them, not to scorn them.”

Fairbolt passed on this with a quirk of his lips and continued, ticking off his fingers, “Anyone who has ever had a relative or friend harassed or ambushed and beaten or killed by farmers over misguided fears about Lakewalker sorcery.”

“If we kept less to ourselves, there wouldn’t be such misunderstandings. Folks would know better.”

Fairbolt ignored this, too. “More closely still, any patroller or ex-patroller who has ever been made to give up a farmer lover themselves. Some pretty bitter anger, there. A few wish you well, but more wonder how you’re getting away with it. Those who have had the ugly job of enforcing the rules aren’t best pleased with you, either. These people have made real sacrifices, and feel justifiably betrayed.”

Dag rubbed his fingers gently back and forth along the wood grain, polished smooth by the passage of many feet. “Fawn slew a malice. She shared a death. She’s…different.”

“I know you think so. Thing is, everyone thinks their own situation was special, too. Which it was, to them. If the rules aren’t for everyone, a system for finishing arguments turns into a morass of argument that never ends. And we don’t have the time.”

Dag looked away from Fairbolt’s stern gaze and into the orange disk of the sun, now being gnawed by the black-silhouetted trees across the lake. “I don’t know what Dar imagines he can make me do. I made an oath in my ground.”

“Aye,” said Fairbolt dryly, “in conflict with your prior duty and known responsibilities. You sure did. I swear you look like a man trying to stunt-ride two horses, standing with one foot on the back of each. Fine if he can keep ’em together, but if they gallop up two separate paths, he has to choose, fall, or be torn apart.”

“I meant—mean—to keep my duties yoked. If I can.”

“And if you can’t? Where will you fall?”

Dag shook his head.

Fairbolt frowned at the shimmering water, gone luminous in the twilight to match the sky. A few last swallows swooped and wheeled, then made away for their nests. “The rules issue cuts another way. If it’s seen that even so notable a patroller as Dag Redwing can’t evade discipline, it makes it that much easier to block the next besotted idiot.”

“Am I notable?”

Fairbolt cast him a peculiar look. “Yes.”

“Dag Bluefield,” Dag corrected belatedly.

“Mm.”

Dag sighed and shifted to another tack. “You know the council. Will they cooperate with Dar? How much has he put to them privately already? Was his talk today a first probing threat, or my final chance?”

Fairbolt shrugged. “I know he’s been talking to folks. How fast would you think he’ll move?”

Dag shook his head once more. “He hates disputes. Hates getting his knife-work interrupted. It takes all his concentration, I know. By choice, I don’t think he’d involve himself at all, but if he has to, he’ll try to get it all over with as quickly as possible. So he can get back to work. He’ll be furious—not so much with me, but about that. He’ll push.”

“I read him that way as well.”

“Has he spoken to you? Fairbolt, don’t let me get blindsided, here.”

This won another fishy look. “And would you have me repeat my confidential talks with you to him?”

“Um.” Dag trusted the fading light concealed his flush. He leaned his back, which was beginning to ache, against a dock post. “Another question, then. Is anyone but Dar like to try to bring this to a head?”

“Formally, with the council? I can think of a few. They’ll leave it to your family if they can, but if the Redwing clan fails in its task, they might be moved to step forward.”

“So even if I smooth down Dar, it won’t be over. Another challenge and another will pop up. Like malices.”

Fairbolt raised his eyebrows at this comparison, but said nothing.

Dag continued slowly, “That suggests the road to go down is to settle it, publicly and soon. Once the council has ruled, the same charge can’t be brought again. Stop ’em all.” One way or another. He grimaced in distaste.

“You and your brother are more alike than you seem,” said Fairbolt, turning wry.

“Dar doesn’t think so,” Dag said shortly. He added after a thoughtful pause, “He hasn’t been out in the world as much as I have. I wonder if banishment seems a more frightening fate to him?”

Fairbolt rubbed his lips. “How’s the arm?”

“Much better.” Dag flexed his hand. “Splints have been off near a week. Hoharie says I can start weapons practice again.”

Fairbolt leaned back. “I’m planning to send Mari’s patrol back out soon. A lot of time lost at Glassforge to make up, plus her patrol isn’t the only one that’s run late this season. When will you be ready to ride again?”

Dag shifted, unfolding his legs to disguise his unease. “Actually, I was thinking of taking some of my unused camp time, till Fawn’s more settled in.”

“So when will that be? Leaving aside the matter of the council.”

Dag shrugged. “For her part alone, not long. I don’t think there’s a camp task she can’t do, if she’s properly taught. I have no doubt in her.” His hesitation this time stretched out uncomfortably. “I have doubt in us.”

“Oh?”

He said quietly, “Betrayal cuts two ways as well, Fairbolt. Sure, when you go out on patrol you worry for your family in camp—sickness, the accidents of daily life, maybe even a malice attack—there’s a residue of danger, but not, not…untrust. But once you start to wonder, it spreads like a stain. Who can I trust to stand by my wife in her need, and who will fold and leave her to take the brunt alone? My mother, my brother? Clearly not. Cattagus, Sarri? Cattagus is weak and ill, and Sarri has her own troubles. You?” He stared hard at Fairbolt.

To Fairbolt’s credit, he did not drop his gaze. “I suppose the only way you’ll find out is to test it.”

“Yeah, but it won’t exactly be a test of Fawn, now, will it.”

“You’ll have to sooner or later. Unless you mean to quit the patrol.” The look that went with this remark reminded Dag of Hoharie’s surgical knives.

Dag sighed. “There’s soon and there’s too soon. You can cripple a young horse, which would have done fine with another year to let its bones grow into themselves, by loading it too soon. Young patrollers, too.” And young wives?

Fairbolt, after a long pause, gave a nod at this. “So when is not-too-soon, Dag? I need to know where I can put your peg. And when.”

“You do,” Dag conceded. “Can you give me a bit more time to answer? Because I don’t think I can leave the council aside.”

Fairbolt nodded again.

“Mind, I can only answer for myself and Fawn. I don’t control the acts of anyone else.”

“You can persuade,” said Fairbolt. “You can shape. You can, dare I suggest, not be a stubborn fool.”

Too late for that. This man, Dag was reminded, had six hundred other patrollers to track. Enough for tonight. The frogs were starting their serenade, the mosquitoes were out in companies, and the fat double-winged dragonflies darting over the lake were giving way to the night patrol of flitting bats. He levered himself to his feet, bade Fairbolt a polite good evening, and walked into the gathering dark.

T hey were making ready to lie down in their bedroll before Dag reported his conversations with his brother and Fairbolt to Fawn. From the brevity of his descriptions, compared to the time he’d been gone, Fawn suspected he was leaving a good bit out; more than these clipped essentials had cast him into his dark mood. Brothers can do that. But his explanation of the camp council was frightening enough.