It was all very homey and charming, but there was something about the place. The shadows were thick against the walls and seemed darker than they should have been; Gaby fancied that she saw deeper blackness rising and ebbing within them. She smoothed down the hair on her arms where it tried to stand.
Hedda shut the door behind them. “We will do this very slow, with tradition and care. But first, there is something important I must know.”
“What is it?”
“Would you like xioc? Tea? There is fresh pastry.”
Kneeling, Gaby read the words aloud, the ones Hedda had spelled out phonetically on the piece of paper before her. She kept her thoughts focused on the words, on the smell of jasmine incense, on her contented state of mind.
Around her was the conjurer’s circle she and Hedda had made together. The diminutive woman had told her to hold each piece of chalk, each little pot of paint. Only when Gaby had warmed it in her hands would Hedda take the item and begin working on the circle. The outer circle was of yellow chalk and an unbroken stream of yellow sand; the inner, the same but in red. The symbols between, carefully chalked in by Hedda and then painted by Gaby, each in a different color. It had taken nearly an entire bell to complete.
She reached the end of the last page. “Think of him as a smiling man,” Hedda had said. “The eyes of a wise man, the smile of a lover. Light shines from his face. Call to the light. Beg it. Ask for the wisdom behind it.”
She did, effortlessly holding the image in her thoughts, relaxed, clear-minded, waiting.
Nothing.
She heard Doc sigh. She opened her eyes. He and Alastair stared at her from their chairs outside the conjuration circle; Doc shook his head.
She looked at Hedda, unhappy. “I did it wrong.”
“No, sweet. You did it right. Every step true.” The woman looked apologetic. “What confused Doc confuses me. I could feel your strength when we put the circle together. You have Gift. I wish I had your strength. But it does not come out.”
“You’re having the exact same results someone like Harris or Noriko would,” Doc said. “But unlike them, you’re full of the Gift. Your well of power just seems somehow capped.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He rested his chin on his hand and stared morosely at her. “We’ve learned some things, today and in my tests. We know what you can’t do.”
“Such as?” Her tone was sharp.
“Don’t be annoyed.”
“I just don’t like being told what I can’t do.”
“So I gather. Gaby, your Gift doesn’t follow the traditional patterns. You have no Good Eye; you can’t see the residue of devisements. You don’t see the future. You don’t see events imbedded in the objects that have experienced them. There’s no sign of a cord between you and some twin, real or mystic. You can’t melt your flesh and reshape it.”
“People do that?”
“Not many. It’s a dying art.”
Hedda smiled. “Which is sad. It can be such fun.”
“Today, we learned that you can’t project your voice to the ears of the gods. You make no links between objects or places, even with conjuration circles. You do not weave patterns of your Gift into things you make with your hands. You do not send your sight away from your body. You do not affect fire, water, air, or earth.”
“Does that leave anything?”
Doc didn’t answer. Alastair said, “Well, yes, countless things. But they are so rare, and often—I will be frank—so irrelevant that there are no tests devised for them.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “For example, a few years ago, I tested a woman who showed sign of Gift but didn’t follow the usual patterns. I found that her Gift was directed inside her. All her sons grew up to look just like her father. Identical, to the last mole and birthmark. Except for the one who looked like Kiddain Ohawr, the star of stage and screen. You can’t imagine the trouble that caused with her family.”
She laughed, then sobered. “You’re saying that this Gift could be something totally useless.”
Doc nodded. “Yes. That would be a waste. You have so much of it. But you should prepare yourself for that possibility. Hedda, I’m sorry. I’ve taken up your whole afternoon.”
“But not wasted. You are always good company. And the young lady likes my pastries.”
On one Neckerdam broadcast channel, the talk-box showed square dancing. Not too different from similar stuff he’d seen on the grim world. On the other channel, it was the game they called crackbat—part baseball, part jai alai. Harris settled on it and concentrated on trying to figure out the rules.
The little talk-box, the one that acted as his telephone, rang. He picked up the handset without taking his attention off the screen. The runner in his padded suit, still holding the flat bat with the net at the end, charged the base and whacked the ball out of the net of its defender. He crashed into the defender and both landed on the base. “Hello.”
“Goodsir Greene?”
“Yes.”
“This is Brannach the Seamer. Three days ago, you brought in an order for demasalle trousers.”
“Oh, right. Hi. Grace on you.”
“And on you. They’re almost finished, but I needed to know if the lady’s trousers were also supposed to have buttons for suspenders.”
“Suspenders? No, no, no. Belt loops. They’re supposed to be worn with belts.” Another batter was up. The pitcher threw the ball and hit him with it. The crowd groaned; the batter walked dejectedly away from the base. The next batter up took his place. “Did you put buttons for suspenders on my trousers, too?”
“Of course, sir.”
“My fault for not explaining things better. All six pairs need to have loops for belts, but no attachments for suspenders. Is that going to cause any trouble?”
This batter ducked the first pitch. He managed to sway back and catch the second pitch in the net. He spun around, hurling the ball far out beyond the base defenders, and dashed for the first base, his bat still in hand.
“No trouble, sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to charge an extra four dec for the additional work. And they probably will not be ready for a couple of bells more. We are open until five bells, though, and they will certainly be ready by then.”
“That’s great. I’ll be by then for them.” He hung up, wondering why the runner on third base looked as though he were preparing to hurl his bat at the pitcher.
Harris hadn’t felt imprisoned since he’d begun his walks outside the Monarch Building. He did follow Jean-Pierre’s advice, not leaving at the same time or by the same door every day, varying his route, staying alert. Nothing ever happened.
It was time to further expand his options.
He stuck his head in the laboratory door. Joseph and Jean-Pierre were there. Joseph was lifting a barbell that looked impossibly heavy. Jean-Pierre, stretched out on a couch, took notes on a pad of paper. Harris waved to get their attention. “Hey, you guys, I’m going out to get my pants. Either of you want anything?”
“Hot xioc,” Jean-Pierre said. “Joseph?”
The giant shook his head. He set down the barbell and began adding weights to it.
“Be back soon.”
But instead of descending to the lobby, Harris went down two, to the garage. The mechanic, Fergus Bootblack, listened to his request.
“Take the Hutchen,” Fergus said. “You can drive, can’t you? Good. Are you carrying fire?”
“Fire? Like a cigarette lighter?”
“No, no, no.” Fergus pointed his finger, miming a gun.
“Oh, fire. Yeah.”