Trouble coming. He rose and tossed the hide up on the roof for safety. Then he went to the spring to wash the blood off his hands—noticing, as he so often did, that the water seemed warmer in winter than it did in summer. He liked to think that was a secret sign of approval from the Gods, a private little blessing on the Place.
He strolled back to the door and seated himself on the bench to await the unwanted visitor’s arrival. Meanwhile, he could listen to the whisper of the leaves and the remarks of birds passing through, hunting nesting sites.
He did not know who the visitor would be. Frial would not, either, but clearly she had Felt unwelcome emotion on its way and they could both make guesses. There was an elderly widower who had lascivious ideas about Thaile; there were a couple of grouchy old women. None of those normally inspired Frial to quit the Place and none would likely come calling at this hour on a winter’s day at the dark of the moon.
Gaib never considered the possibility of violence or danger. He owned nothing worth stealing except perhaps food, all of which he would willingly share with a stranger. Any pixie would know that and none would outstay a welcome.
The visitor came into sight on the path—a man, tall and slim, striding with an easy, youthful gait. His jerkin and pants were green, as was his broad-brimmed hat; his cloak was brown with fur trim. He bore a recorder’s satchel slung on his shoulder. That was what Frial had feared, of course.
He stopped and looked around the Place before addressing the owner. ”Goodman Gaib?”
Gaib bowed awkwardly. He had spoken with recorders maybe five times in his life and felt ill at ease with them. “I am Gaib and welcome you to the Gaib Place.”
“I am Jain of the College.”
Gaib tendered the bench, or food, or refreshment. The newcomer accepted only the bench and a dipper of water. He praised the Place, as was to be expected, but briefly. He chose the far end of the bench, where he would not bloody his boots with the results of the pigskin scraping; he removed his hat and laid it beside him, revealing curly brown hair and ears as pointed as Gaib’s own.
“Please sit, Goodman Gaib. You will forgive me if I go at once to our business? You will forgive me also if I mention that your Place is far from my planned path. I envy you the solitude, of course, but I hope to return to the Grike Place by sundown.”
That was a long way, Gaib rejoined politely, repeating his offer of hospitality for the night. He salted his words with a hint of reproof at the unseemly impatience of youth.
“I hope that will not be necessary.” Jain’s eyes were less slanted than most people’s, amber colored and very bright. He smiled at his host for a moment, then tugged the satchel around to his lap and unlaced the cover.
Gaib knew that recorders were supposed to have strange powers, but he was not a worrying man. He waited placidly. Jain produced papers and perused them. Reading, that was called.
“I do not wish to disrupt your family life any more than needs must, but it would speed our talk if Goodwife Frial and the child Thaile could join us.” Again the bright amber inspection . . . “My goodwife has gone to visit our son and his family.”
“Ah? She left long ago?”
He was pushing a little too hard, even for a recorder. Gaib considered the question for a while.
“Some time ago. I don’t know if she’ll be back before tomorrow.”
Jain nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips tight enough to make grooves in the youthful smoothness of his face. “And the child?”
“She shouts when we call her a child. Loudly.”
“Come, now! I am sure you bring up your children to be more respectful of their elders than that.” The recorder took another look at his bundle of papers. They were shabby and well worn. “Not much over fifteen. Well, I shall be considerate of her feelings when we speak.”
“She went wandering off around lunchtime,” Gaib said truthfully. Thane might well have left for the same reason as her mother had; her Feeling had a much greater range. “She did not say where she was going. It is possible that she, also, has gone to visit someone.”
That last remark was so unlikely that it could be classed as a lie, and lying to recorders was unwise. The visitor was obviously trying to overawe him with his education and his wisdom. Gaib was very glad that the women had left. This was man’s business.
“You know what children are,” he added. “Always rushing off to call on one another.”
“A moment ago you told me she was not a child any longer.”
“I said she did not think she was, sir. Not that I did not think so.”
Oh, this smart-aleck youngster thought he was very grand, with his important satchel and his College ways. Maybe he did know a lot of things and maybe he even had occult powers, but had he ever skinned a pig, or delivered piglets, or laid out coffee to dry in the sun? Had he ever built a home or raised children? Ever buried a baby? What was he compared to a real man, a loving father, a provider? Had he ever planted a crop of anything?
Gaib could tell if a melon was ripe without cutting it open, and he had never met anyone else who could do that.
The recorder sighed, staring across the clearing to where a rooster had just emerged from the undergrowth near the midden pit. It looked up from its foraging and began strutting purposefully toward him. When it drew near, he held out a hand at knee level. The bird hopped up on his wrist and cocked its head to study him with an eye as bright and yellow as his own. He stroked the shiny mahogany feathers of its breast. Then it jumped off and streaked away in alarm, wings spread and head out in front, appalled at what it had just done.
Jain turned his gaze back on Gaib.
The afternoon seemed much colder than it had before that demonstration. Gaib could not recall having felt so uncomfortable in many years. Perhaps never.
“Where is she?” the visitor asked.
“Up the hill, I expect.”
Jain frowned and raised his eyes to the encircling banks. Gaib thought of the rooster, his heart beating fast.
“A long way!” the recorder muttered. “A very long way!” He stuffed the papers back in the satchel.
“A year ago she kept Death Watch for a woman named Phain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Her grandmother.”
“Great-grandmother.”
“Of course, forgive me.” The recorder looked annoyed at his slip. ”It is unusual to assign a relative for a Death Watch. A Watch is hard enough on a child without that.”
“She and her mother just happened to be visiting relatives nearby.” Gaib tried to make the matter seem unimportant. “When the old crone began to fail, there was the usual hunt for a suitable Watcher and she was the only one close. There are few Gifted families in the district. None of them had a child of the right age, except one boy, and he had already gained a word.”
Jain smiled. The smile was curiously sinister. “She just happened to be visiting? Whose idea was the visit?”
“I . . . I do not recall. It was a year ago.”
“You are quite sure you do not recall?”
“Quite sure. Her mother’s, I expect.” In spite of the chill, Gaib was sweating. Why did such trouble have to enter his life now, at his age? What had he done wrong? He thanked the Gods every morning for Their blessings; he aided the old and the sick as he could. He wondered if Thaile was Feeling his fear, in her secret place, far away up the hill. He wondered if Jain could Feel his very thoughts. Lying to recorders was unwise. Everybody knew that.
“And what talent did she manifest when she had been told the old woman’s word of power?”
“Nothing special, or we should have sent word to the College, of course. We would have sent word. I mean, if she had displayed any Faculty.”
“We judge who has Faculty!”
“But . . . Of course, sir.”
“What talent?”
“She seems to have her mother’s knack of Feeling. Not as strong, though!”
“Ah? Not as strong?”
“No. Not nearly as strong.”
Jain shook his head in bored disbelief. He pulled out his papers again and rustled them, like a snake rustling on dry leaves. “Goodwife Frial has a borderline Faculty—her talent is well developed. You have traces. Seeing the fertility of your Place, even in winter, I wonder if your ability was underestimated. Green thumbs are hard to gauge. The word is weak.”