The place was on the outskirts of the village, a single-story house of whitewashed wattle and daub with thatched roof. The whitewash needed renewing and the thatch was turning black in spots. It was surrounded by a rather weedy garden and all enclosed by a ramshackle fence. The cottage wasn’t exactly run down, Wiz decided, but it looked very much like the owner had other things on her mind than the condition of her property.
They came up the flagstone pathway to the door and Philomen rapped sharply upon it with his staff.
“Keep your britches on, I’m coming,” came a cracked voice from inside. Then the door was flung open in their faces.
“What the . . .” She stopped dead when she saw her visitors in wizard’s cloaks with staffs in their hands. She blinked once and her whole manner changed.
“Merry met, Lords,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. “I am Alaina, hedge witch of this place.”
She was older than Moira, but how much Wiz couldn’t tell because people aged so fast here on the Fringe. Her hair was gray and a greasy wisp had escaped the bun on the back of her head. She was shaped like a sack of potatoes. Her skin was coarse and her teeth, what were left of them, were yellow. From this distance it was obvious she hadn’t bathed recently.
On the whole, she didn’t look much worse than the average middle-aged peasant woman, but to Wiz the contrast with the hedge witch he knew best was striking.
Well, Wiz thought, it would be too much to expect all hedge witches to be like Moira.
“Merry met, Lady,” Wiz and Philomen chorused.
“What brings you to Leafmarsh Meadow?”
“We were sent by the Council in answer to your request,” Philomen said.
The hedge witch looked blank. “Request? Oh, yes, the request. Well, what can I be thinking of to keep such guests standing in my garden? Come in, Lords, come in and be welcome.”
The place was even more run down and messier on the inside, but it managed to be homey at the same time. The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end and an unmade bed in the corner. At the opposite end was a low work table with rows of shelves above it. Dried herbs and other less identifiable things hung from the rafters, giving the place an odor like hay with anise overtones.
“Please excuse the clutter,” Alaina said and she moved piles of things off chairs to give them places to sit. “The girl only comes in three days a week and things do pile up in between times.
“Can I offer you refreshment? I have some very good mead. But of course gentlemen such as yourselves from the Capital do not drink mead.”
There was an undercurrent of resentment, Wiz realized. As if she didn’t want them here.
“Mead would be most satisfactory,” Philomen said.
“None for me, thanks,” Wiz said and from the way they both looked at him he realized he had committed some kind of social error in refusing the hospitality.
“I can’t drink just now,” he said quickly.
Alaina’s expression smoothed. “Ah, a vow. I understand those things, of course. You are saving power for a special spell.”
“More like doing penance,” Wiz said wryly.
Once they were settled into the somewhat dusty chairs and Philomen and Alaina were clutching cups of mead Wiz decided it was time for serious talk. Alaina was keeping up a steady flow of conversation on inconsequential topics, as if she was trying to ward off discussion. Philomen was responding to her with bored civility, but making no move to come to the point.
“Your pardon, Lady,” Wiz said, cutting off an anecdote about the profusion of dragon weed this year, “could you tell us about your problem?”
“My problem, ah yes,” Alaina said, draining the rest of her mead in a single gulp. “It is nothing, really. Nothing at all.” She reached over for the pitcher and refilled her cup.
“I am honored that you have come to us, do not misunderstand me,” she waved an admonitory hand. “But it really was not necessary. Not necessary at all to send two such great wizards from the Capital for this.”