Lois Bujold - Legacy

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.”

Fairbolt grimaced, and grumbled, “No,” as well.

Pakona stated, “Tent Redwing’s request is upheld. Camp council rules Dag Redwing’s camp credit is held aside until the Bearsford rehearing.”

A little silence fell, as it all sank in. Until broken by Saun, surging up to yell, “You blighted thieves…!” Razi and Griff both tackled him and wrestled him back into his seat. “After Raintree! After Raintree!” Mari turned and scowled at him, but seemingly could not force herself to actually chide. As she turned back, the look she shot at her nephew Dar would have burned bacon, Fawn thought.

Omba’s jaw had been working for quite some time. Now she snatched the speaking stick out of her surprised husband’s hand, waved it, and cried out, “Make him take his horse! Copperhead is a blighted menace. The beast has bitten three of my girls, kicked two, and torn more hide off his pasture-mates than I ever want to sew up again. I don’t care if Dag walks out bare to the skin, but I demand his horse go with him!” Which all sounded plenty irate, except that her eye away from Dar and toward Dag shivered in a wink.