Cutter leaned back, looking over the two young women and Whit, and asked, “So what do you have for muscle on your Fetch, ’sides this sawed-off boy here?” Which made Whit sit up and put his shoulders back, frowning.

“Two tall fellers and my uncle Bo, who’s canny when he’s sober. Couple of boat boys.”

Not mentioning, Fawn noticed, that the two tall fellows were shifty Lakewalkers. Was Berry actually growing protective of her unusual sweep-men?

Cutter’s mouth tightened in concern. “If I were you girls I’d find another flat or two to float with, so’s you can watch out for each other going down. If it’s river bandits, they’re more like to cut out a stray than tackle a crowd. There’s safety in numbers.”

Berry nodded acknowledgment of the point without precisely agreeing to the plan, and they took their leave of the Tripoint man.

Fawn, still fuming over Cutter’s slander of Lakewalkers, hadn’t been going to repeat that part to Dag when they all got back to the Fetch, but, alas, the excited Whit promptly did. Dag responded only with his peculiar expressionless expression, lowering and raising his eyelids, which Fawn recognized as his I am not arguing look that could conceal anything from bored weariness to silent rage. Dismissing the slur, however, Dag was a lot more interested in the news about the other lost boats. He agreed with Fawn’s hopeful suggestion that a river malice seemed unlikely due to the heavy patrolling in the region, but his hand, she noticed, absently rubbed his neck where a cord for a sharing knife sheath no longer hung.

Just before supper, finding herself briefly alone on the back deck with Whit, Fawn said, “You know, Berry’s still betrothed to her Alder, as far as she knows. What are you going to do if we find him downstream somewhere?”

Whit scratched his head. “Well, there’s this. I figure if we find out he’s died, she’ll need a shoulder to cry on. And if we find out that he’s run off with some other girl and don’t love her anymore—she’ll still need a shoulder to cry on. I got two shoulders, so I guess I’m ready for anything.”

“What if we find him and rescue him from, from I don’t know what, and they still want each other?”

Whit twitched his brows. “Rescue from what? It’s been too long. If he loved her proper, he’d have come back to her if he had to crawl up that riverbank on his hands and knees all the way from Graymouth. Which he’s had plenty of time to do, I’d say. No, I ain’t afraid of Alder.”

“Even if Alder’s out of the picture, one way or another, doesn’t mean you’re in.”

Whit eyed her appraisingly. “Berry likes you well enough. It wouldn’t hurt you to put in a good word for me, now and then.” He added after a moment, “Or at least stop ragging me.”

Fawn reddened, but replied, “The way you always stopped ragging me, when I begged or burst out cryin’?”

Whit reddened, too. “We was younger.”

“Huh.”

They stared moodily at each other.

After another moment, Whit blurted, “I’m sorry.”

“Years of tormentin’ to be fixed with one I’m sorry—when you finally want something from me?” Fawn’s lips tightened. She hated to be so weakly forgiving, but under the circumstances…“I’ll think about it. I like Berry, too.” But couldn’t help adding, “Which puts me in a puzzle whether to promote your cause or not, mind you.”

“Well”—Whit sighed—“maybe we’ll find her Alder, and you and me’ll both look nohow.” Turning away, he muttered dolefully under his breath, “I wonder if he’s tall?”

Dag sat on the edge of the Fetch’s roof in the dark, legs dangling over, gingerly testing his groundsense. The familiar warmth of Copperhead, Daisy-goat, and the chickens, the known shapes of the people near him: Whit and Hawthorn out back cleaning up after supper and amiably arguing, Spark’s bright flame collaborating with Berry on rebuilding a bed-nest after their stack of supporting hides had been sold out from under them today, Remo sitting in a corner with his ground wrapped up tight, a nearly transparent smudge. Bo had gone off, he said, to ask around the taverns after further news of the Clearcreek Briar Rose, a plan that had made Berry grimace; Hod had gone along.

Dag widened his reach to the other boats nearby, holding dozens of people more. Up to the line of goods-sheds, more comfortably deserted except for a night watchman or two, and a loiterer who might or might not be looking for an unlocked door. The river behind, lively with moving water, plants, a certain amount of floating scum suspiciously rich in life-ground, a few fish with their bright fishy auras, crayfish creeping and mussels clinging in the rocks and mud. Still wider, across the street to the buildings thumping with lives boiling in his perceptions—awake, asleep, arguing, scheming, making love, making hate, the warm ground-glow of a mama nursing a child.

That’s three hundred paces. Try for more. On the far shore of the river, ducks slept concealed in the scrub, heads tucked under their wings. In a barn up the bank, tired oxen dozed after a day of hauling boats up over the shoals along the well-beaten tow-path. A dozen houses were clustered around the towing station and ferry landing, and more goods-sheds; Dag could have counted their inhabitants. That’s over half a mile, yes!

He studied the ground in his own left arm. The five oats that he’d surreptitiously ground-ripped this morning, stolen from a handful fed to Copperhead, were all turned to Daggish warm spots. The ten he’d snitched at lunch were well on their way to conversion. His ground seemed healthy and dense, the old blighted patches fading away like paling bruises. He quietly extended his ghost hand, drew it back in. And again. Once so erratic and frightening, the ground projection was coming under his control, even fine control. Why did I fear this? Perhaps he’d try ground-ripping something even bigger tomorrow. Not a tree—impressed with Spark’s shrewd guess, he’d stick to food, for now.

The shadow of Remo’s closed ground, like a ripple in clear water, moved beneath him; the young patroller ducked out the front hatch and straightened by Dag’s knee, looking up at him. A brief flicker as he opened a little and found Dag open wide. Remo turned his head and stared back up the hill toward the many lights of Silver Shoals, scattered up the slope and over the slopes beyond. Even at this hour, there were a few wagons and people wandering the streets. Beyond the line of goods-sheds, light and laughter burst from the door of the mussel tavern as it swung open and closed, loud enough to carry down to the waterside.

“How can you stand the noise?” Remo asked, pressing his hands to his head in a gesture of pained dismay. He didn’t, of course, mean the sounds of the actually quite peaceful autumn night that came to their ears. Silver Shoals had to be the largest collection of unveiled humanity he’d encountered in all his short life.

Dag considered him, then gestured friendly-like to the space on the roof edge beside him. Remo clambered up easily. He’d pretty much fully healed from his beating, due to a combination of Verel’s earlier ground treatments, plenty of good food, and simple outdoor exercise, although mostly, Dag suspected glumly, due to youth.

“Farmer ground’s a bit noisy,” Dag said, “but you can get used to it. It’s good ground, just a lot of it. It’s blighted ground that hurts. Malice ground, now that hurts like nothing else in the wide green world.”

Remo looked appropriately daunted by this reminiscence; Dag went on, “Still, it’s a lot to take in. Even for townsfolk. If you study them, you’ll notice that they pass by each other in the street with a lot less looking or talking than village or hamlet farmers do. They have to learn not to look, because there’s no way they can stop and deal with everyone when there’s thousands. It’s not ground-veiling, but it’s something like, in their heads, I think. In a way, it makes big towns saf—more comfortable for Lakewalkers alone than tiny ones. Townsmen are more used to ignoring odd folks.”