“Minute!” came a shout from inside. Taleswapper waited on the porch. Toward one end were several hanging baskets, with the long leaves of various herbs dangling. Taleswapper recognized many of them as being useful in various arts, such as healing, finding, sealing, and reminding. He also recognized that the baskets were arranged so that, seen from a spot near the base of the door, they would form a perfect hex. In fact, this was so pronounced an effect that Taleswapper squatted and finally lay prone on the porch to see it property. The colors daubed on the baskets at exactly the correct points proved that it was no accident. It was an exquisite hex of protection, oriented toward the doorway.

Taleswapper tried to think of why someone would put up such a powerful hex, and yet seek to conceal it. Why, Taleswapper was probably the only person around likely to feel the whiff of power from something as passive as a hex, and so be drawn to notice it. He was still lying there on the floor, puzzling about it, when the door opened and a man said, “Are you so tired, then, stranger?”

Taleswapper leapt to his feet. “Admiring your arrangement of herbs. Quite an aerial garden, sir.”

“My wife’s,” said the man. “She fusses over them all the time. Has to have them just so.”

Was the man a liar? No, Taleswapper decided. He wasn’t trying to hide the fact that the baskets made a hex and the trailing leaves intertwined to bind them together. He simply didn’t know. Someone—his wife, probably, if it was her garden—had set up a protection on his house, and the husband didn’t have a clue.

“They look just right to me,” said Taleswapper.

“I wondered how someone could arrive here, and me not hear the wagon nor the horse. But from the looks of you, I’d guess you came afoot.”

“That I did, sir,” said Taleswapper.

“And your pack doesn’t look full enough to hold many articles to trade.”

“I don’t trade in things, sir,” said Taleswappe

“What, then? What but things can be traded?

“Work, for one thing,” said Taleswapper. “I work for food and shelter.”

“You’re an old man, to be a vagrant.”

“I was born in fifty-seven, so I still have a good seventeen years until I’ve used up my three-score and ten. Besides, I have a few knacks.”

At once the man seemed to shrink away. It wasn’t in his body. It was his eyes that got more distant, as he said, “My wife and I do our own work here, seeing how our sons are right small yet. We’ve no need of help.”