“And…I’d rather not leave him with Alder.”
Her gaze flew up. “Dag! No matter how heartbroke he is for Berry, Whit’s not an assassin!”
“No, but Alder has as twisted a tongue as I’ve ever encountered. If he talks Berry into…anything, there’s as much danger of Whit being persuaded to some foolishness out of misplaced nobility as there is of his going to the other extreme. I’m as happy to remove him from the dilemma altogether.” He hesitated. “We’re all going to have to turn hangmen come morning, you know, if this goes as it should. Berry’ll need all the support you can give her through that.”
“Does Alder have to hang? I mean, he was beguiled by this Lakewalker Crane, wasn’t he? Is he guilty, if he did what he did under compulsion? Is Skink? Isn’t that going to be a real problem to figure out, come…come morning?”
Dag was silent for a long time, staring out across the river. “I’m not planning to bring it up if the others don’t. Please don’t you, either. They’re all guilty enough.”
“Dag…” she said reproachfully.
“I know! I know.” He sighed. “No matter what, first we have to capture the bandits. We need to get through that with a single mind. Argue after, when it’s safe to.”
Her lips twisted in doubt.
He held her, bent his face to her hair, and murmured into it, “I thought when I quit the patrol this sort of work would all be behind me, and I could turn my whole heart and ground to fixing folks instead of killing them.” And even lower-voiced: “And once I’d fixed as many as I’d ever killed, I’d be square. And then start to get ahead.”
“Does it work like that?”
“I don’t know, Spark. I’m just hoping.”
She gave him a hug for support and turned her face up. “Can’t you at least unbeguile Alder, before you boys go off tonight? It’ll be horrible for Berry to watch him fall to pieces like that Skink fellow, but at least he mightn’t be so dangerous.”
“I can’t unbeguile Alder.”
“Why not? You did the other. It’s not like ground-gifting, is it, where you can only give so much before you collapse yourself? Or is it like that piece of pie, too much at once?”
“No,” he said in slow reluctance. “I can’t unbeguile Alder because he’s not beguiled in the first place.”
A silence. “Oh,” said Fawn at last. Oh, gods. Poor Berry… “Just when were you planning to mention this to her?”
“I don’t know. I have way too much tumbling through my head right now to trust my judgment on that. Get the bandits, first. And their leader Crane especially. I know that much. It may well be the only thing in the world I know for sure, right this minute.”
It seemed old-patroller thinking to her: Get the malice first. Everything else after. She didn’t think he was wrong. But after was starting to loom in a worrisome way. She settled on reaching up to give a heartening shake to his shoulders and say, “You get those bandits good, then.”
He gifted her back a grateful smile and a jerky nod.
In the afternoon, another flatboat arrived, but it proved to hold a family. The papa and the eldest son volunteered, along with two boat hands, to the dismay and fright of the mama who was left with four youngsters and a grandpa. No one expected arrivals after nightfall, when most sensible boats tied to the banks, but at the last glimmering of dusk one more keelboat came, almost slipping past in the shadows. Its crew of tough-looking Silver Shoals men, when the awful litany of deceit, murders, and boat-burnings was recited yet again, made no bones about joining up. Then there was nothing to do but feed folks, talk over plans in more detail, and keep the men quiet and sober till midnight.
There was little work to getting Dag’s war kit ready, as he planned to be gone for mere hours, not weeks. Fawn had thought they were done with these partings in the dark when he’d quit the patrol; the returning memories unnerved her. But the crowd of river men assembled on the bank was encouraging in its numbers and bristle. Dag had set Barr and Remo and some of the Raintree hunters out ahead as scouts. The rest tramped away over the hill by the light of a few lanterns, doubtless noisier than a company of stealthy Lakewalker patrollers, but with determination enough.
Sleep was out of the question. Fawn and Berry turned to assembling on the kitchen table what bandages and medicines the Fetch offered, in readiness for the men’s return—at dawn, Dag had guessed. Fawn hoped there would be no need to break out any of Berry’s stock of Tripoint shovels for burial duty, at least not of folks on their side. It was likely much too optimistic a hope, but she had to fight the bleak chill of this night somehow. With nearly everyone gone off, the row of boats tied along the bank of the feeder creek seemed much too quiet.
Hawthorn had disappeared up amongst the nearby trees for a while, most likely to cry himself out in privacy. When he returned, he lay down in his bunk with his back to the room. As his hands loosened in deep sleep, the kit escaped his grip and went to hide in the stores. Bo went out to take a walk up and down the row of boats and talk with the few other men, some older like himself, one with a broken arm, left to watch over them. Hod, detailed as Bo’s supporter as well as boat guard, tagged along.
Alder’s head came up from an uncomfortable doze. He didn’t look crisp and handsome anymore, sitting on a stool with his back to his hitching post, just strained and exhausted. Fawn wondered if he’d often been sent out on decoy duty because his clean looks and glib tongue reassured folks. His eyes shifted in the lantern light, a furtive gleam, then focused on Berry.
“I couldn’t escape,” he said. “You don’t know what Crane does to deserters.”
Berry stared across at him from her place at the table, but said nothing. Fawn ceased fiddling uselessly with her sewing kit and wondering if she would have to sew up live skin and flesh with it, and turned in her chair to watch them both. “Just what does this Crane do to deserters?” she asked at last, when Berry didn’t.
“He’s clever, horrible clever. One or two he’s killed outright in arguments, but mostly, if a fellow or a couple of fellows demand to leave his gang, he pretends to let them. He lets ’em load up with their pick of goods, their share, the lightest and most valuable, then trails after ’em in secret. You can’t get away from his groundsense. Ambushes ’em, kills ’em, hides the goods for himself. Nobody back at camp even knows. You can’t get out alive.”
It seemed almost inadvertent justice to Fawn. With a few hitches. She glanced up, wondering if Berry spotted them, too. “If it’s so secret, how do you know? ’Cause it seems to me Crane wouldn’t be doing all this ambushin’ and buryin’ by himself.”
Alder shot her a glance of dislike.
“How come there’s any bandits left?” Fawn went on. “Or is that Crane’s plan, to be the last one left at the end?”
“Men drift in. Like the Drum brothers. Sometimes he recruits from captives. Like Skink.”
And like Alder? Fawn wondered if she wanted to ask how in front of Berry. Maybe not. She suspected Bo already knew, from that earlier interrogation that had left the men all so grim. And there would likely be other witnesses taken alive to tell the tale tomorrow.
“I tried to save you,” Alder went on, looking longingly at Berry. “Out there today, I tried everything I could think of to get you to go on. I always tried to save as many as I could, when I was put on catching duty. Boats with families, women or children, I waved them on.”
Likely they were also the poorer boats, Fawn suspected. “Bed boats?” she inquired.
Alder flinched. “We never got any of those,” he mumbled. Berry’s gaze flicked up.
If Crane was as clever and evil as Alder said, more likely he let the women in to ply their trade, loaded them up with presents, and disposed of them on their exit just like his deserters. Or else word of the lucrative Cavern Tavern would have trickled out in at least some channels before this, and Berry had not overlooked the bed boats in her inquiries. But it was undoubtedly true that Alder had tried frantically to convince Berry to go on.