Bredon looked down at what he held. It was a shiny, bright red disk perhaps five centimeters across, made of some completely unfamiliar material that seemed as hard as metal, but with an odd slick texture like nothing he had ever felt before. “What is it?” Bredon asked, turning it over in his hands.

Mardon, who had been huddled silently throughout the conversation, suddenly sat up in the mud at the sight of this gift and demanded, “What about me?"

No one answered either question. Bredon looked up, and discovered that Geste and his platform had vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.

What's more, the horse was gone, leaving only a gentle rippling on the surface of the muddy pool.

“…the stranger said, ‘What? You haven't found it? Well, that's no surprise, for the truth is that I had it all the time, in my back pocket, and had only forgotten it.’ Then he looked about at the ruins, at the broken cupboards and tumbled walls, and he burst out laughing.

"The farmer and his wife were shocked that the traveler could laugh so at another's misfortune, and the wife began to berate him soundly, whereupon he laughed all the more, until he was gasping for breath, his hands clutching at his belly.

"This enraged the wife so that she forgot herself and snatched up a spoon and went to beat upon the stranger, but she found that the spoon itself refused to strike him, no matter how hard she tried. This is hardly in the nature of a spoon, of course, and that was when her husband realized that this stranger was no mortal man at all. But he could not stop his wife, for so great was her fury that she would neither listen to reason nor consider the spoon's actions for herself, but only tried the harder to bring it down upon the stranger's head.

"The stranger lifted a hand, and caught his breath enough to say, ‘Halt, enough!’ Then he waved a hand, and behold, the walls rose up from the ground and rebuilt themselves, as sound and whole as ever. The cupboards jumped back into their accustomed places, and the furniture flew back together and arranged itself as it had been before the traveler ever set foot within the door.

"The wife dropped the spoon in astonishment and watched as the miracle took place, allowing the stranger to recover himself. He stooped and picked up the spoon, and handed it to her, saying, ‘Here, my good woman, you may find this of use.'

"She took it, and saw that the ordinary wood had been transformed into solid gold.

"'My apologies,’ the stranger said. ‘I'm sorry for any inconvenience. I must go now, but you have the thanks of Geste the Trickster for your most enjoyable hospitality.’ And then he was gone, vanished as if he had never been.

"And the farmer and his wife looked around at their home and saw all that they had, that they had not appreciated-four sound walls and a warm roof, well-stocked cupboards and a comfortable home, and they saw how foolish they had been. And they did not sell the golden spoon, or melt it down, but hung it above the fireplace as a reminder of their encounter with the Trickster."

– from the tales of Atheron the Storyteller

“It's not fair,” Mardon insisted, as he sat poking at the dying cookfire with a broken turnspit.

Bredon sighed. He had heard this a good many times in the forty-odd wakes since he and his companion had arrived safely back in their home village. “Life is rarely fair,” he pointed out, without moving from where he lay sprawled on his blankets. “You could have spoken up, just as I did, instead of hiding your face in the mud."

“I thought he was going to kill you!” Mardon said, giving the coals a particularly vicious jab. Sparks sailed upward.

“According to the stories,” Bredon repeated wearily, “the Trickster never kills anyone.” He rolled over and looked at his comrade, toward whom he was feeling distinctly less comradely of late. “Look, Mardon, you wouldn't have gotten to keep the horse if we'd caught it, we agreed on that, so why do you care about this stupid trinket we got instead?” He sat up and pulled the disk from his pocket. “It's not worth anything. I don't think it will really work, if I ever decide to use it. That was the Trickster, remember? If the stories are true, he lies all the time! He just gave me this to shut me up. If I break it I'll probably just get a faceful of stinkweed or something.” He flipped the disk into the air with his right hand and caught it neatly with his left.

Mardon was not to be talked out of his sulkiness as easily as that. Abandoning the fire, he turned, still seated cross-legged, to face Bredon and asked, “Why do you keep it, then? Why not give it to me?"

“Mardon, he gave it to me, not you! Why should I give it to you? You're my friend, but that doesn't mean I need to give you everything I have. Look, you met Geste the Trickster, saw a Power face to face. You've got something to brag about to every girl in the village, a tale for your grandchildren if you ever have any you care to acknowledge. You can pretty up the story all you like and no matter what you say I won't contradict you, you know that. I haven't told anyone that you didn't dare talk to him, and I'm not going to, so no one knows what you did or didn't do. The trinket proves we met him, so no one can doubt that we did. Atheron said so, and everybody accepts that. It doesn't matter which of us has it, for that, and Geste gave it to me. He might not like it if I gave it away. You don't need it, and you wouldn't dare use it if you had it, so why do you care about this thing so much? Isn't the tale enough?"

“No. Maybe. Oh, I don't know. It's just not fair.” Mardon picked up the turnspit again.

Abruptly, Bredon felt he had had enough. His strained good humor fled completely. He rose suddenly, almost jumping to his feet, and shouted down at Mardon, “Then go call Rawl the Adjuster about it, but stop whining to me! I didn't make you a coward, and I'll be damned and my soul eaten by demons before I'll give you the stupid thing!” He strode out of the tent, leaving the flap hanging open and Mardon staring after him in dumb astonishment.

The sun was on the eastern horizon and the midwake darkness was fading rapidly; full daylight would arrive in minutes, and the population of the village was already out and about, abandoning the quiet conversation and indoor work of the midwake dark for the outdoor work that could only be done while the sun was up. The long lights of midsummer were past, and sunlight was not to be wasted.

Several of his fellow villagers saw Bredon emerge from his bachelor's tent. His brother Kredon smiled and waved from the steps of their parents’ house, and Bredon waved back perfunctorily. Kittisha the Weaver, on her way home from the village well, also waved, and changed direction, heading across the street toward him.

He growled quietly to himself. He liked Kittisha well enough, and had thoroughly enjoyed her company in his tent just two sleeps before, but in his present mood he did not care to talk to her. She tended to prattle on endlessly. When he was in the right frame of mind it was funny and endearing, but just now he knew it would only irritate him more. He pretended not to see her-just enough darkness remained that he could do that without risk of insulting her-and instead veered off to the right, around the side of his own tent and those of the other unmarried young men, headed out of the village by the shortest available route.

He marched on past the tidy herb gardens, past the cornfields-which, he recalled with annoyance, were the domain of Mardon's father, cultivated by the entire family-and well out into the surrounding grassland before he calmed sufficiently to think at all. His pace gradually slowed, and on a whim he turned his steps eastward.