Dag surveyed the room and guided Fawn toward a square table on the far side where only two patrollers sat, the Utau and Razi she’d met earlier. The two waved encouragement as they approached, and Razi shoved out a spare chair invitingly with his boot.

Fawn was not sure which patrollers were Mari’s and which were Chato’s; the two patrols seemed to be mingled, not quite at random. Any sorting seemed to be more by age, as there was one table with half a dozen gray heads at it, including Mari; also two other older women Fawn had not seen at the well-house, so presumably from the Log Hollow patrol. The young woman with her arm in the sling was at a table with three young men, all vying to cut her meat for her; she was presently holding them off with jabs of her fork and laughing. The men patrollers seemed all ages, but the women were only young or much older, Fawn noticed, and remembered Mari’s account of her life’s course. In the home camps would the proportions be reversed?

Breathless serving maids and boys weaved among the tables lugging trays laden with platters and pitchers, rapidly relieved by reaching hands. The patrollers seemed more interested in speed and quantity than in decorum, an attitude shared with farmhouse kitchens that made Fawn feel nearly comfortable.

They sat and exchanged greetings with Razi and Utau; Razi leaped up and acquired more plates, cutlery, and glasses, and both united to snag passing food and drink to fill them. They did ply Dag with questions about his adventures although, with cautious glances, spared Fawn. His answers were either unexcitingly factual, vague, or took the form that Fawn recognized from the Horsefords’ table of effectively diverting counterquestions. They finally desisted and let Dag catch up with his chewing.

Utau glanced around the room, and remarked, “Everyone’s a lot happier tonight. Especially Mari. Fortunately for all of us downstream of her.”

Razi said wistfully, “Do you suppose she and Chato will let us all have a bow-down before we go back out?”

“Chato looks pretty cheerful,” said Utau, nodding across the room at another table of patrollers, although which was the leader Fawn could not tell. “We might get lucky.”

“What’s a bow-down?” asked Fawn.

Razi smiled eagerly. “It’s a party, patroller-style. They happen sometimes, to celebrate a kill, or when two or more patrols chance to get together. Having another patrol to talk to is a treat. Not that we don’t all love one another”—Utau rolled his eyes at this—“but weeks on end of our own company can get pretty old. A bow-down has music. Dancing. Beer if we can get it…”

“We could get lots of beer, here,” Utau observed distantly.

“Lingerrrring in dark corners—” Razi trilled, catching up the tail of his braid and twirling it.