Cugel turned the Busiaco a dire look. “What of all this?”

The Busiaco nodded solemnly. “Those fifty paces lack the protection of magic. I would have been scamping my responsibility to convey us here by the direct route. And now —” He advanced to Derwe Coreme, took her arm, then turned back to Cugel. “You may cross the glade, whereupon I will instruct you as to which trail leads to the southern verge.” And he busied himself fixing a cord about Derwe Coreme’s waist. She resisted with fervor, and was only subdued by a blow and a curse. “This is to prevent any sudden leaps or excursions,” the Busiaco told Cugel with a sly wink. “I am not too fleet of foot and when I wish the woman I do not care to pursue her here and there. But are you not in haste? The sun declines, and after dark the leucomorphs appear.”

“Well then, which of the trails leads to the southern verge?” Cugel asked in a frank manner.

“Cross the clearing and I will so inform you. Of course, if you distrust my instructions, you may make your own choice. But remember, I have vigorously exerted myself for a waspish, gaunt and anaemic woman. As of now we are at quits.”

Cugel looked dubiously across the clearing, then to Derwe Coreme who watched in sick dismay. Cugel spoke cheerfully. “Well, all seems to be for the best. The Mountains of Magnatz are notoriously dangerous. You are at least secure with this uncouth rogue.”

“No!” she screamed. “Let me free of this rope! He is a cheat; you have been duped! Cugel the Clever? Cugel the Fool!”

“Such language is vulgar,” stated Cugel. “The Busiaco and I struck a bargain, which is to say, a sacred covenant, which must be discharged.”

“Kill the brute!” cried Derwe Coreme. “Employ your sword! The edge of the forest cannot be far away!”

“An incorrect trail might lead into the heart of the Great Erm,” argued Cugel. He raised his arm in farewell. “Far better to drudge for this hirsute ruffian than risk death in the Mountains of Magnatz!”

The Busiaco grinned in agreement, gave the line a proprietary jerk. Cugel hurried across the clearing with Derwe Coreme’s imprecations ringing in his ears, until she was silenced by some means Cugel did not observe. The Busiaco called, “By chance you are approaching the correct path. Follow and you shall presently come to an inhabited place.”

Cugel returned a final salute, set forth. Derwe Coreme gave a scream of hysterical mirth: “Cugel the Clever he calls himself! What an extravagant joke!”

Cugel proceeded quickly along the trail, somewhat troubled. “The woman is a monomaniac!” he told himself. “She lacks clarity and perceptiveness; how could I have done else, for her welfare and my own? I am rationality personified; it is unthinking to insist otherwise!”

Scarcely a hundred paces from the clearing the trail emerged from the forest. Cugel stopped short. Only a hundred paces? He pursed his lips. By some curious coincidence three other trails likewise left the forest nearby, all converging to one near where he stood. “Interesting,” said Cugel. “It is almost tempting to return, to seek out the Busiaco and exact some sort of explanation …”

He fingered his sword thoughtfully, and even took a step or two back toward the forest. But the sun was low and shadows filled the gaps between the gnarled trunks. As Cugel hesitated, Firx impatiently drew several of his prongs and barbs across Cugel’s liver, and Cugel abandoned the project of returning into the forest.

The trail led across a region of open land, with mountains riding across the southern sky. Cugel strode along at a smart pace, conscious of the dark shadow of the forest behind, and not completely settled in his mind. From time to time, at some particularly unsettling thought, he slapped his thigh sharply. But what folly! He had obviously managed affairs to their optimum! The Busiaco was gross and stupid; how could it have hoped to trick him? The concept was untenable. As for Derwe Coreme, no doubt she would soon come to terms with her new life …

As the sun dropped behind the Mountains of Magnatz he came upon a rude settlement and a tavern beside the crossroads. This was a staunch structure of stone and timber, with round windows each formed of a hundred blue bull’s eyes. Cugel paused at the door, took stock of his resources, which were scant. Then he remembered the jeweled buttons he had taken from Derwe Coreme, and congratulated himself on his forethought.

He pushed through the door, into a long room hung with old bronze lamps. The publican presided at a short buffet where he poured grogs and punches to the three men who were his present customers. All turned to stare as Cugel entered the room.

The publican spoke politely enough. “Welcome, wanderer; what is your pleasure?”

“First a cup of wine, then supper and a night’s lodging, and finally such knowledge regarding the road south as you can provide.”

The publican set forth a cup of wine. “Supper and lodging in due course. As to the road south, it leads into the realm of Magnatz, which is enough to know.”

“Magnatz then is a creature of dread?”

The publican gave his head a dour shake. “Men have fared south never to return. No man in memory has come north. I can vouch for only so much.”

The three men who sat drinking nodded in solemn corroboration. Two were peasants of the region, while the third wore the tall black boots of a professional witch-chaser. The first peasant signaled the publican: “Pour this unfortunate a cup of wine, at my expense.”

Cugel accepted the cup with mixed feelings. “I drink with thanks, though I specifically disavow the appellation ‘unfortunate’ lest the virtue of the word project upon my destiny.”

“As you will,” responded the peasant indifferently, “though in these melancholy times, who is otherwise?” And for a space the peasants argued the repair of the stone fence which separated their lands.

“The work is arduous, but the advantages great,” declared one.

“Agreed,” stated the other, “but my luck is this: no sooner would we complete the task than the sun would go black, with all the toil for naught.”

The first flourished his arms in derisive rejection of the argument. “This is a risk we must assume. Notice: I drink wine, though I may not live to become drunk. Does this deter me? No! I reject the future; I drink now, I become drunk as circumstances dictate.”

The publican laughed and pounded the buffet with his fist. “You are as crafty as a Busiaco, of whom I hear there is an encampment nearby. Perhaps the wanderer met them?” and he looked questioningly at Cugel, who nodded grudgingly.

“I encountered such a group: crass rather than crafty, in my opinion. In reference once more to the road south, can anyone here supply specific advice?”

The witch-chaser said gruffly, “I can: avoid it. You will first encounter deodands avid for your flesh. Beyond is the realm of Magnatz, beside whom the deodands appear as angels of mercy, if a tenth of the rumors are true.”

“This is discouraging news,” said Cugel. “Is there no other route to the lands of the south?”

“Indeed there is,” said the witch-chaser, “and I recommend it. Return north along the trail to the Great Erm, and proceed eastward across the extent of the forest, which becomes ever denser and more dread. Needless to say, you will need a stout arm and feet with wings to escape the vampires, grues, erbs and leucomorphs. After penetrating to the remote edge of the forest you must swing south to the Vale of Dharad, where according to rumor an army of basilisks besieges the ancient city Mar. Should you win past the raging battle, the Great Central Steppe lies beyond, where is neither food nor water and which is the haunt of the pelgrane. Crossing the steppe you turn your face back to the west, and now you wade a series of poisonous swamps. Beyond lies an area of which I know nothing except that it is named the Land of Evil Recollection. After crossing this region you will find yourself at a point to the south of the Mountains of Magnatz.”

Cugel mused a moment or two. “The route which you delineate, while it may be safer and less taxing than the direct way south, seems of inordinate length. I am disposed to risk the Mountains of Magnatz.”

The first peasant inspected him with awe. “I surmise you to be a noted wizard, seething with spells.”

Cugel gave his head a smiling shake. “I am Cugel the Clever; no more, no less. And now — wine!”

The landlord presently brought forth supper: a stew of lentils and land-crabs garnished with wild ramp and bilberries.

After the meal the two peasants drank a final cup of wine and departed, while Cugel, the host and the witch-chaser sat before the fire discussing various aspects of existence. The witch-chaser finally arose to retire to his chamber. Before departing he approached Cugel, and spoke in a frank manner. “I have noticed your cloak, which is of quality rarely seen in this backward region. Since you are as good as dead, why do you not bestow this cloak upon me, who has need of it?”

Cugel tersely rejected the proposal and went to his own chamber.

During the night he was aroused by a scraping sound near the foot of his bed. Leaping to his feet he captured a person of no great stature. When hauled out into the light, the intruder proved to be the pot-boy, still clutching Cugel’s shoes which he evidently had intended to purloin. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” demanded Cugel, cuffing the lad. “Speak! How dare you attempt such an act!”

The pot-boy begged Cugel to desist. “What difference does it make? A doomed man needs no such elegant footwear!”

“I will be the judge of that,” said Cugel. “Do you expect me to walk barefoot to my death in the Mountains of Magnatz? Be off with you!” And he sent the wretched lad sprawling down the hall.

In the morning at breakfast he spoke of the incident to the landlord, who showed no great interest. When it came time to settle his score, Cugel tossed one of the jeweled buttons upon the counter. “Fix, if you will, a fair value upon this gem, subtract the score and give me my change in gold coins.”

The landlord examined the ornament, pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. “The total of the charges to your account exactly equals the worth of this trinket — there is no change forthcoming.”

“What?” stormed Cugel. “This clear aquamarine flanked by four emeralds? For a cup or two of poor wine, a porridge and sleep disturbed by the villainy of your pot-boy? Is this a tavern or a bandit lair?”

The landlord shrugged. “The charges are somewhat in excess of the usual fee, but money mouldering in the pockets of a corpse serves no one.”

Cugel at last extracted several gold coins from the landlord together with a parcel of bread, cheese and wine. The landlord came to the door, pointed. “There is but a single trail, that leading south. The Mountains of Magnatz rise before you. Farewell.”

Not without foreboding, Cugel set off to the south. For a space the trail led past the tillage of local peasants; then as the foothills bulked to either side, the trail became first a track, then a trace winding along a dry riverbed, beside thickets of prickle-bush, spurge, yarrow, asphodel. Along the crest of the hill paralleling the trail grew a tangle of stunted oak and Cugel, thinking to improve his chances for going unobserved, climbed to the ridge and continued in the shelter of the foliage.

The air was clear, the sky a brilliant dark blue. The sun wallowed up to the zenith and Cugel bethought himself of the food he carried in his pouch. He seated himself, but as he did so the motion of a skipping dark shadow caught his eye. His blood chilled. The creature surely meant to leap upon his back.

Cugel pretended not to notice, and presently the shadow moved forward again: a deodand, taller and heavier than himself, black as midnight except for shining white eyes, white teeth and claws, wearing straps of leather to support a green velvet skirt.