“Learned Ana, do you remember meeting me at Tanis one night?”
I shook my head, though I guessed well enough what night he meant.
“Your memory weakens, learned Ana, or rather is confused, for we met often, did we not?”
Then he stared at the staff in his hand. I stared also, because I could not help it, and saw, or thought I saw, the dead wood begin to swell and curve. This was enough for me and I said hastily:
“If you mean the night of the Coronation, I do recall——”
“Ah! I thought you would. You, learned Ana, who like all scribes observe so closely, will have noted how little things—such as the scent of a flower, or the passing of a bird, or even the writhing of a snake in the dust—often bring back to the mind events or words it has forgotten long ago.”
“Well—what of our meeting?” I broke in hastily.
“Nothing at all—or only this. Just before it you were talking with the Hebrew Jabez, the lady Merapi’s uncle, were you not?”
“Yes, I was talking with him in an open place, alone.”
“Not so, learned Scribe, for you know we are never alone—quite. Could you but see it, every grain of sand has an ear.”