At least one person noticed. Dag walked across the gangplank and lifted himself up to the roof to dangle his legs over beside hers. “What’s the trouble, Spark? You feeling all right? I thought your monthly was past.”
“It is.” She shrugged. “I just keep thinking about that poor farmer that Wain robbed. Or tricked, whichever. It’s just not fair!” She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you going to eat that stolen mutton?”
“Er…I’m afraid I already have.”
“Well, don’t try and kiss me with those greasy lips,” she said grumpily.
He cleared his throat. “I actually came aboard to find my tambourine and a couple of buckets for the boys to thump on. Berry’s about to tune up her fiddle, and she allowed as how she’d like some help.”
“Oh, that’ll be good…” It had been ages since Dag had played music with anyone around a campfire, and she knew that had been one of his pleasures out on patrol. A tambourine was not much as a solo instrument. Blight that Boss Wain…
Up the bank in the shadows, a dim, white shape uttered a mournful m-a-a-a. It occurred to Fawn that not all of that poor farmer’s sheep were beyond saving. And a faint thump against the side of the hull reminded her that the Fetch’s skiff was presently tied to the stern down in the water, rather than onto the side of the cabin where it often hung in rougher weather. She could never have launched it by herself. Could she row it by herself? Upstream?
She eyed Dag sideways. Could he be roped into helping with her scheme? Maybe not. Sometimes, catfish notwithstanding, he could be a little too grown-up and responsible. That left Whit, maybe, but he seemed to have gone over to the other side. In any case, she now had good reason to cheer the party along merrily, with lots of food and beer all around. And any boatman or Lakewalker who was lagging—not that this seemed to be a problem—should certainly be encouraged to drink up. “I wouldn’t miss your music for all the mutton in the world.” She smiled at Dag, who looked heartened by her change of mood; she even let him kiss her brow with muttony lips as he swung her down from the roof.
And as for fickle brothers, well, when you’d watched someone all his life while he hardly noticed you, you ended up knowing a lot more about him than he might credit. A lot more. She almost skipped across the gangplank after Dag.
The moon rode high above the river valley, shedding silvery-blue light on the mist that wisped above the water. The night air was as silent as though some ancient sorcerer had cast a spell of enchantment. Clearly a midnight made for romance, although the chill suggested the kissing might better be conducted beneath a thick quilt. The one she’d left Dag snoring under would have suited Fawn fine. Instead, well…
“Fawn, this is crazy,” Whit hissed at her.
“Lift your end, Whit.”
“Someone will hear us.”
“Not if you shut up and lift. They’re all sodden-drunk over there, pretty much.”
“Wain’ll be mad.”
“I’m mad. Whit, if you don’t help me hoist this stupid sheep into this stupid skiff, not only will I tell Berry what you and the Roper boys did with Tansy Mayapple in Millerson’s loft, I’ll wake her up and tell her right now.”
“M-a-a-a,” bleated the confused sheep, its hooves slipping and splashing in the mud and stones of the bank.
“You shut up, too,” Fawn whispered fiercely. “Now, lift!”
A grunt, a swing, and the last sheep was rocked over the thwart to join its two companions. Twelve cloven feet thumped and clattered, echoing on the planks of the boat’s bottom. Round yellow eyes rolled in long white faces. Fawn leaped to thrust back the front legs of one trying to struggle out again, soaking her shoes.
“We better get in and start rowing,” she said. “You don’t think they’ll try and jump out when we’re out on the water, do you?”
“They might. And probably get their fleece waterlogged and drown, to boot. Sheep are stupider than chickens.”
“Whit, nothing’s stupider than chickens.”
“Well, that’s true,” he conceded. “Almost as stupid as chickens, then.”
Fawn scrambled aboard after Whit, to find that the boat’s end was now stuck in the mud from the added weight. She climbed back out and prepared to give it a push off the bank, only to freeze when a puzzled voice behind her spoke: “Why are you taking sheep for a boat ride?”
She spun around to find Barr standing in the moon-striped shadows of the bare branches, scratching his head and peering blearily at them.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” she hissed at him.
“I was asleep. I got up to piss,” he replied. “Good beer those keeler boys had. What are you doing?”
“None o’ your business. Go back to your bedroll.”
Barr ran a hand over his jaw and squinted at them. “Does Dag know you two are out here?” The absent look of a groundsense consulted slipped over his face. “No, he’s asleep.”
“Good. Don’t you dare wake him up. He needs his sleep.” Fawn stuck one already-wet shoe into the mud and gave them a hard shove off. The skiff slid away from shore.
“If you don’t want Dag to know what you’re up to, then I’m definitely curious,” said Barr stubbornly, beginning to follow them up the bank.
“We’re un-stealing sheep,” said Whit. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Won’t Boss Wain be mad?”
“No,” said Fawn. “He’ll think they chewed through their ropes and ran off. I made sure to leave the ends ragged and all over sheep spit.” She rubbed her hands on her skirts and took up her oar. Unfortunately, Whit’s pull, once they got coordinated, was about twice as strong as hers, which resulted in the skiff turning toward shore unless he waited for her to stroke again. And in the pause the down-bound current pushed them back. Barr was having no trouble keeping up, even with the need to pick his way across the rocks and fallen logs.
“You two are never going to make it upstream against this current,” he observed.
“Well, we’re gonna try, so get out of our way.” Not that Barr was actually in the way, but he was being very annoying off to the side.
Barr continued walking up the bank. Very slowly. A passenger said M-a-a-a.
“You’re not making much progress,” he said again.
“Let’s try farther out in the channel, Whit,” suggested Fawn.
“That makes no sense,” said Whit. “Current’s stronger out there.”
“Yes, but it’ll be more private.”
M-a-a-a. M-a-a-a.
“Dag’d flay me if I let you two babies go drown yourselves in the Grace,” Barr complained.
“So don’t tell him,” said Fawn through her teeth. Her hands were beginning to ache.
After a few more minutes, Barr said, “I can’t stand this. Give over. Come inshore and I’ll take Fawn’s oar.”
“We don’t need your help,” said Fawn.
“Yes, we do,” said Whit, and rowed harder. Fawn splashed madly, but was unable to keep the skiff from turning in.
“No, the stupid sheep’ll try and jump out!”
“Well, go nab ’em. You herd sheep, Barr and I will row.”
Fawn gave up. Barr edged past, and he and Whit pushed the boat out into the river once more. Fawn settled irately on the next seat and shoved a sheep face out of her lap. But she slowly grew consoled as their upriver progress became more visible. Whit’s muscles were on the whippy side, but a farmer son’s life had left them harder than they looked, and he kept up with Barr’s broader shoulders well enough.
The sheep dropped dung, trampled it around the bottom of the boat, and bleated. One attempted suicide by leaping into the river, but Fawn lunged and pulled it back with her hands dug into its greasy fleece. Another tried to follow the first’s example.
“Can’t you settle these sheep down with your groundsense?” Fawn asked Barr. “I bet Dag could.”