“The patrol looks after its own,” said Dirla firmly.
Dag gave her a warm nod. “The patrol looks after everybody, Dirla.”
Her return smirk was quite Spark-like. “Then you’re still some kind of patroller. Aren’t you. Take care—Captain.”
They waved and turned away.
Dag waited till they’d stopped craning around and looking back, then hefted the bag and peeked in. “Huh. Not bad. Well, this gives us a direction.”
“How so?” Fawn asked.
“South,” he said definitely.
“I’ve been south,” she objected. “All the way to Glassforge.”
“Spark, south doesn’t even start till you get to Silver Shoals. I’m thinkin’…this season, passage on a flatboat going down the river isn’t too expensive. We could ride slow down as far as Silver Shoals, pick out a boat…load Grace and Copperhead in too. I could see a lot of farmer country and sit still at the same time. Very enticin’, that notion. I’ve always wanted to do that. Follow fall all the way down to the sea, and show you the sea. Ride back easy, come spring—you can make spring last a long time, riding north at the right pace. Bet my ground will be healed by then. What do you think?”
Her mouth had fallen open at this sudden spate of what were to her, he guessed, quite fantastical visions. She shut it and swallowed. “When you say travel,” she said, “you don’t think small.”
“Oh, that’s just a jaunt, by old patroller standards,” he assured her. He twisted in his saddle to tuck the leather purse away in his saddlebag, then frowned when his fingers, pushing through a fold of blanket cloth, encountered an unidentifiable lump. He traded off and pulled out the lump to hold up to the light, and gazed in some astonishment at a plunkin ear. “What’s this? Did you pack this?” he asked Fawn.
She blushed. “Them. Yes. I thought you should have your food, wherever we end up.”
“We don’t eat the ears, love.”
“I know that.” She tossed her head. “They’re for planting. Sarri told me the ears’ll keep good for two or three years, dry. I snuck round last night after you fell asleep and filched some out of the feed bin on Mare Island. Not the best, maybe, but I picked out the nicest-looking that were there.”
“What were you thinking, farmer girl?”
“I was thinking…we might have a pond, someday.” And at his look, “Well, we might!”
He couldn’t deny it. He threw back his head and laughed. “Smuggling plunkins! And horses! No, no, Spark, it’s all clear to me now. The only future for us is going to be as road bandits!”
She grinned in exasperation and shook her head. “Just ride, Dag.”
As they chirped their horses into a walk, a patrol of some two dozen wild geese flew overhead, calling hauntingly, and they both turned their faces upward to mark the beating wonder of those wings.
“A bit early,” Fawn commented.
“Maybe they’re out for a jaunt.”
“Or lost.”
“Not those fellows. It looks like a pointer to me, Spark. I say, let’s follow ’em.”
Stirrup to stirrup, they did.
About the Author
One of the most respected writers in the field of speculative fiction, LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD burst onto the scene in 1986 with Shards of Honor, the first of her tremendously popular Vorkosigan Saga novels. She has received numerous accolades and prizes, including the Nebula Award (for Falling Free), four Hugo Awards for Best Novel (Paladin of Souls, The Vor Game, Barrayar, and Mirror Dance), as well as the Hugo and Nebula Awards for her novella Mountains of Mourning. Her work has been translated into twenty-one languages. The mother of two, Bujold lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
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ALSO BY LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD
The Spirit Ring
Falling Free
Shards of Honor
Barrayar
The Warrior’s Apprentice
The Vor Game
Cetaganda
Ethan of Athos
Borders of Infinity
Brothers in Arms
Mirror Dance
Memory
Komarr
A Civil Campaign
Diplomatic Immunity
The Curse of Chalion
Paladin of Souls
The Hallowed Hunt
The Sharing Knife: Beguilement
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE SHARING KNIFE. Copyright © 2007 by Lois McMaster Bujold. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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