Fawn had lain down fully dressed in her lonely bed nook, despairing of sleep, but she must have dozed off, because she woke dry-mouthed and grainy-eyed. Grayness in the shadows hinted of dawn. A tall shape eased past, slipping through the stores—Dag, back? Her relief was so great that she relaxed again, almost letting her exhaustion draw her once more into precious sleep. But no, she had to hear his tale. She lay a moment more, listening to faint clinks from the kitchen. Muttering. The scrape of the rings of Berry’s bunk curtain being pushed back, the red flare of someone turning up the oil lantern burning low on the table. Berry’s voice, sudden and shocked: “What—!”
Fawn’s eyes flew fully open, and she started up in bed. Thumps, bangs, crashes, a wrenching groan—Bo? — a yelp from Hawthorn, Alder’s cry: “Don’t hurt her!”
A strange voice, curt and crueclass="underline" “No? How about this one?”
Fawn swung upright, uncertain which way to run. She darted toward the kitchen a pace or two, craning her neck, and skidded to a halt. Alder was loose, swinging around and onto his feet with his chains still dangling from his wrists. She saw the back of a tall man—a Lakewalker patroller, by his clothes and the dark braid down his back—but it wasn’t Remo. Bo had fallen to his knees, clutching his stomach with reddened hands, and Hod crouched with him, white-faced and frozen with fear. The tall man, she saw, held the squirming Hawthorn tight to his chest. A knife blade gleamed in his other hand.
“Don’t move, Berry, he’ll do it to Hawthorn same as to Bo!” cried Alder desperately. “He never bluffs!”
Fawn turned and sprinted.
She banged through the front hatch, sped past the animal pens, and thumped across the gangplank, drawing breath for a scream to wake the whole row of boats. A huge shape in the clinging mist lunged at her, smacking her so hard in her gut that she was thrown backward, and her scream sputtered out half-voiced. She wrenched and bucked violently as the man-mountain pulled her off her feet and whipped her through the air. One sweaty hand grabbed her face, spanning it nearly from ear to ear; the other clamped her shoulder. The grip tightened like a vise, and she realized he was about to snap her neck. Abruptly, she went limp.
A gruff voice growled, “Huh. That’s better.” Her captor felt down her body as he repositioned her. “Ah, a girlie! Maybe I’ll save you for Little Drum.” He strode forward, holding her half by her head, half under his arm, like a wet cat carried by its scruff. Over the gangplank and past Copperhead, who laid his ears back and snaked his neck but, alas, didn’t whinny or squeal.
Dag, Dag, Dag, help me! If he was within a mile, he must sense the terror in her ground. And if he isn’t, he won’t. She struggled for air against the pressing, stinking hand, thought of biting, thought better of it. The light of the lantern seeped around her blocked vision, then she was twisted upright and set on her feet, both hands held easily behind her back by just one of the big man’s paws. She managed one sharp inhalation before the other paw clamped over her mouth once more. The back of her head was jammed against a warm chest—barely winded, to judge by its steady rise and fall. She peered down over her nose at a log-like arm in a frayed sleeve stained brown and red-brown, reeking of sweat and blood.
Berry, Hod, and Bo had all been forced to kneel around the post that had lately held Alder, who was securing their wrists one to another with a length of line. He had to jerk Bo’s hand away from his stomach. Blood soaked the front of the old man’s shirt. His face had gone gray, looking worse than any hangover Fawn had ever seen on him, and he squinted as if in bewilderment, panting for air. Berry’s terrified glance jerked back and forth between him and Hawthorn, still held tight by the stranger.
The man turned half-around. He had black brows and a craggy face shadowed with beard stubble, and his eyes gleamed darkly. Fawn wondered if they would be a different color in daylight, like Dag’s. “So what’s this?” he inquired, nodding at Fawn.
“Two girlies!” said the man-mountain. “One for me and one for Little Drum, I figure.” He grinned, gap-toothed and sour-breathed.
The Lakewalker said wearily, “Haven’t you two had enough fun for one night?”
“Not the yellow-haired one!” said Alder urgently. He hesitated. “They can split the other if they want, sure.” He added after a moment, “She claims to be married to one of the Lakewalkers we surprised on this boat, but she’s really just a farmer.”
The black stare narrowed on Fawn. What the man was thinking she could not guess. “Seems to me they surprised you, Alder,” he drawled after a moment. “What happened here?”
“It was Skink’s fault,” said Alder, still knotting line. “We went up to check out this boat like usual, but the Lakewalkers were all inside and we didn’t spot ’em, except for the odd one that didn’t look like a Lakewalker, see. They got the drop on us. The odd one, he did something, some groundwork, and Skink began spewing like a waterspout. Told them everything about the cave, everything.”
Alder wasn’t telling everything, Fawn realized; he’d left out how he had been recognized by all the folks from Clearcreek. Did he imagine he could lie to—this had to be the renegade Crane, yes. And the man-mountain was Big Drum. So where is Little Drum?
“Those patrollers, they stopped every boat coming down the river and got up a gang to go jump the cave. Hours ago. They could be coming back at any time.”
“Only if they succeeded,” murmured Crane, raising his brows. He didn’t sound terribly disturbed by the news.
“They had sixty or seventy fellows. And that one-handed Lakewalker—he had to be at least a patroller captain. Acted like this was all in a day’s work, he did. It’s all up with us now.” Alder sounded almost relieved. “We’ve got to cut and run.” His voice went wheedling. “You told me yourself you didn’t expect the Cavern Tavern to last out the year. Those Tripoint fools was the warning, you said. Best we heed it.”
Crane sighed. “Well, at least it seems I get a new horse out of the deal…” He paused, his head turning toward the bow. His curiously chiseled lips pinched; his eyes narrowed. Consulting his groundsense? “Aw, what’s Little Drum stirred up now?” He wheeled and, quite without expression, struck Hawthorn in the face with his knife haft hard enough to knock him across the room. Hawthorn fell in a stunned heap, breath stuttering. Berry cried out; Hod whimpered. Fawn strained uselessly against the heavy grip that held her.
Crane drew a long breath. “We’re about to have company. Too late to get off this boat. Alder, go cast off the rear lines. Big Drum, drop the bow lines and then get yourself up on the roof and get an oar ready. You too, Alder. We’ll push out and take it down to the crook of the Elbow, instead—should give us enough of a start. Give me that spare girl.”
Reluctantly, Big Drum handed Fawn over to his leader; Crane grasped one arm with bruising pressure and turned her in front of him. The knife blade rose to her neck and pressed there, most convincingly.
“What about Little Drum?” Big Drum demanded.
“That’ll depend entirely on how quick he can run. We’ll see if she can buy him time to get here, but we’re not waiting long.” Following Big Drum, Crane shoved Fawn ahead of him out onto the front deck.
Dag’s legs jarred like hammer blows as he bounded downhill so fast it felt like falling. Fawn’s fear howled through his groundsense. He tried to make out what was happening on the Fetch through a cacophony of distress: Bo hurt bad, Hawthorn and Berry in terror, Hod distraught—Alder loose and moving. And two new grounds, both grossly knotted and distorted, the darker one half-veiled.