The boy had the distinct feeling that intruders might intend as much harm as they liked: yet, no harm would easily be done to these folk, not here in their nest-house. Only a fool would think otherwise.
The elderly Hob blinked at both him and Caewen–ponderously–with his piercing yellow-orange eyes. He then said, after clearing his throat, “Yes; speak.”
Caewen gave a clumsy sort of curtsy, as if she weren’t sure if she should bow instead, and so ended up performing a sort of half-action capturing a bit of both, and none of the grace of either. She said, “Caewen, Caewen of the Daingnith, of Dossel Town. That’s, um, a little to the south of the Snowy Mountains. If you haven’t heard of it.”
“And this,” said the old Hob, waving thin fingers to Caewen’s left, at the boy. “He has more of a localish cast to his features.” He narrowed his voice a little. “Might even be mistaken for a Sorthe spy.”
He thought that Caewen would answer on his behalf, but she just looked at him expectantly instead. He did his best to clear his throat, and felt as if he were about to choke on whatever he said. But he swallowed all the same, and managed to say, “I’m sorry, lord, if it does not offend you lord, I do not have a proper name. I am… I call myself, my own self only, though my father called me Rattlebladder and Worriehead and Clod and worse things.”
“You really don’t have a name?” asked the old Hob with one raised eyebrow.
“I’m used to being just my own self.”
“Hm.” He seemed to consider this, and said at last, “I don’t know if it suits you. We will dwell on it. We will consider the matter. Now come, and sit here in the warmth of the fire. Take of some black ale. Take of some roast nuts. I hear from my great grandson that you are poking trouble in the direction of the four princes in the north?” He stared at them both, as if he were staring right through their souls into the twisting knot of their secret inner thoughts. “I see,” he said cryptically. “I see. And also I worry. We have lived a very long time under the noses of that ugly princedom. None of us have much of a wish to bring swords and flame down on our secret canyon. But then… times are strange, and they are turning stranger. I worry just as much that swords and fire may come to us no matter what we may do about it, yes?”
“Strange, how?” said Caewen.
“There are troubles on the roads, in the air, in the waters. And not just lurking shapes in the forests, or the patrols of Sorthelanders on their riding-deer. There are rumours of a new folk of giant abroad, for one.”
“Troldes?” said Caewen. “There were some Troldes near my village. They took sheep occasionally.”
“Not Troldes, no. Troldes are creatures of the earth and rock and stone and moss: lumpish and animalistic. No, these giants look more like tall humanfolk, like you, but much bigger and they’ve great curving horns on their heads. They are full of cleverness and some of them are full of wizardry too. Three of my owlings, Glisthen, Glythe and Fleat–the last, who you have already met–strayed too close to one of these creatures. The beast put spells on the three owlings that made them come out of their owl-shapes, and so they fell to earth in a mess of feathers. They were hurt badly, and would not have got away at all except that all Hobbes are good at being quiet and quick, even without magic.”
“And these giants have come out of the north? With the Winter-King?”
“No. They wandered from the west.” He shook his head. “We have not seen them in the company of Sorthemen. Though it can only be a matter of time. The Winter-King is calling his servants. It will be as bad as the days of the Twins-within-Night, or the Lady-of-All-Sorrows.”
Those were other servants of Old Night who had come out of the north with plans of conquest and domination, but long ago. The boy dimly knew the stories, and yet more dimly knew the history of the Queen’s War that lay behind them–though he could not have recited much of it except in a muddled way, with a lot of backtracking and jumbled recounting. He liked stories a great deal. It was only that he has never been allowed to sit with the other children and properly listen to the storytellers and drollsayers when they came to town. His father had always felt there was work to be done, even when there was none, so that even the everyday stories of the village elderly were mere faint traceries to his understanding.
They both accepted the invitation to sit, and took platers of food too. Caewen looked intent as she picked at an extremely large roasted nut on her plate. It was the size of a fist. “What other servants, do you know?”
He shook his head. “The usual beasts of night, dark wood and fen, I expect. Men of the night-lands. Scarle, both great and minor. Perhaps some of your Troldes too.” He attempted a smile, but it looked fickle and thin. “And who knows what else. Beasts out of legend, no doubt.”
“Legendary things. Much like folks that change their skins for owl-feathers,” said Cawen, a smile on her lips.
“Much like,” agreed the old Hob.