The path up from the shore along the hillside was slick with damp yellow leaves, in need of pruning, and unpeopled. A half-mile up it, she met Dag coming back through the gray-brown woods. From his set face, she guessed his errand had not prospered.

“No luck?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “I tried not to repeat my mistakes. I told ’em my name was Dag Otter Hope, and made them think I was a private courier. I might as well have spared my pride. They didn’t have any extra knives. Well, it wasn’t a big camp, no surprise.”

“That’s a pity.” Fawn turned to stroll beside him. They were not only out of earshot of the Fetch right now, they were out of groundsense range. It seemed a good chance to ask. “Your Remo doesn’t look too happy. I wondered what you were thinking of doing about him.”

“He’s not my Remo.”

“He’s following you, it seems.”

“Just because we’re on the same boat doesn’t mean I’ve adopted him.”

“Is he going to be in a whole lot of trouble back at Pearl Riffle for deserting?”

Dag sighed. “Maybe. I’m not sure he grasps the difference between banished and resigned.”

“He doesn’t say much.” Fawn considered this. “Or anything.”

“He’s listening, though.” Dag cocked his head. “Think back to when I came to West Blue, before we were wed. It was the first time in a longer life than Remo’s that I’d ever slept in a farmer house, ate at the family table. Listened to farmers talk to each other. Remo’s never even been an exchange patroller, never been away from his home camp before, any more than Whit. I think it won’t hurt to just let his new impressions accumulate for a while.”

“Mm,” said Fawn. “Yesterday afternoon while he was on break from his oar, he went and stole Hawthorn’s raccoon kit. He huddled up in a little dark hidey-hole in amongst the stores, and coaxed it to curl up on his lap. And just sat, hunched up around the one little live thing that wasn’t mad at him. Till Hawthorn finally missed it, and found him and made him give it back.”

“Nobody on this boat is mad at Remo.”

“Nobody on this boat seems real to Remo, ’cept you. And you aren’t best pleased with him.”

Dag made a noncommittal noise.

Fawn lifted her chin and went on, “I don’t think it’s good for Lakewalkers to be cut off sudden from everything they know. They get to pining.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Dag sighed.

She cast him a sharp glance. Yeah.

“Hod’s looking better,” Fawn observed after a few more paces, trying for a lighter note. “His skin’s a nicer color, and he moves brisker, now he’s getting the good of his food. He hardly uses your stick. He watches you. He watches Remo watching you, too.” She bit her lip. Maybe not as light as all that. “Jealous isn’t quite the right word. Neither is envious. But…Hod does make me think of a dog with one bone, somehow.”

Dag nodded. “It’s the beguilement. Can’t say as I’ve had any fresh ideas about that, yet.”

“You trying? Because—ow!” Fawn grimaced and stopped. The branch she’d carelessly shoved out of her face had whipped back, proving to be from a thorny honey locust. After scratching her scalp, it had snagged in her hair.

“Hold up.” Dag reached over and gently detangled her, snapped the branch, and bent it down away from the trail. “I do purely hate these evil trees. Find ’em on patrol all over Oleana. They don’t bear fruit, their wood’s not good for much, and there’s just no excuse for those thorns.”

“I suppose a hedge of them would be good for stopping unwanted visitors.”

“Better for a bonfire.” Dag hadn’t released the branch; he had an absent look on his face that made Fawn suddenly uneasy. “Nobody would miss this tree. If a malice was to ground-rip a tree like this, it would be a positive good.” He paused. “Remember that mosquito I ground-ripped back in Lumpton Market?”

“Yes. It made you very sick.”

“I’ve been wondering ever since what would happen if I tried something else.”

“Dag, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.” Just what kind of mood was he in right now, after whatever frustrations he’d encountered up at that camp?

“Yes, but see—medicine makers. I’ve been wondering about medicine makers. The senior ones do have craft secrets. They have such dense grounds—it’s pretty much a marker of the gift. Not necessarily long groundsense ranges, mind. Hoharie would never make a patroller, but she can give ground reinforcements day after day. I always thought that was a natural ability, but what if it’s something else? I never saw…”

“No more mosquitoes,” said Fawn firmly. “No more bugs of any kind. Mind what happened to your arm?”

“Yes, but what about this here tree? It never would be missed.”

“It’s about a hundred million times bigger than a mosquito.”

“I grant you, that mosquito did make me itch. Maybe this would make me all thorny and sessile.”

“What, are you saying that no one would be able to tell?” And at his bland look, added insincerely, “Sorry.” His lips twitched.

Fawn couldn’t imagine what taking in the ground of a whole tree would do to a person. Neither could Dag, she suspected. But he was getting an alarmingly intent look on his face, eyeing the thorn-studded branches and bole. The spines were three-pronged and stuck out in jagged packs from every possible part of the repulsive thing.

“Use some sense,” she begged. “At least don’t start with a whole tree. Start with something smaller.” She scrabbled in the pocket of her skirt, found a few tiny lumps still stuck in the seams, and freed one. “Here.”

Dag held out his hand to receive the gift. “An oat?”

“I was feeding Daisy and Copperhead earlier.”

“One oat?” He stared down at his palm.

“If you ate an oat it wouldn’t make you sick, even if you ate a whole bowl of oats. Not like a big bowl of mosquitoes. Or of nasty thorns. Even Copperhead wouldn’t eat off that tree!”

“That’s…an interesting parallel. Huh. We do take in the ground of our food and convert it—everyone does. Lakewalkers, farmers, animals, every living thing. Natural ground reinforcement.” He glanced up and down the trail. They were quite alone. He closed his palm, rubbed his hook across the back of his hand, and opened it again. The oat was gone. He wiped a faint gray powder off against the seam of his trouser leg. “Huh,” he said again. His face was suddenly very sober.

“What did it do?” Fawn asked anxiously.

He rubbed his left arm. “Well, I can feel that bit of ground stuck in me. Not near as unpleasant as the mosquito’s. Got any more oats in your pocket?”

“Remember, your fever and swelling didn’t come on right away. Give that one a day. Then try another. Maybe.”

“Berry’s got a whole barrel of oats on the Fetch,” Dag said thoughtfully. “There’s a notion to test. If you can eat it safely, can you ground-rip it safely? I think I’d rather just eat my food, but I can see where this might be faster in some emergency.”

“I don’t know, Dag. I think maybe you need a Lakewalker partner for this sort of experiment.” Someone who could tell if he was doing dreadful things to his ground—and warn her, so she could put her foot down. Because, remember that catfish. “Do you think Remo would be any help?”

Dag let his breath trickle out through pursed lips. “I’m not sure I would want to try this in front of young Remo. This is a pretty disturbing sort of groundwork for any Lakewalker who’s seen a malice operate.”

“Has Remo?”

Dag’s brows twitched up. “Maybe not, Spark. There’s been no reports of malice finds in the Pearl Riffle patrol area for quite a few years. If he’s never exchanged, then no, he’s not had that chance yet.”

“So he wouldn’t know malice magic if he saw it.”

“Maybe not.”

Leaving the thorny honey locust unmolested, to her intense relief, Dag started back down the trail. He hugged Fawn close to his side as they dodged hindering branches.