“We call ourselves Busiacos,” responded the oldest of the men. “It is both our race and our family; we make no differentiation, being somewhat polyandrous by habit.”
“You are denizens of the forest, familiar with its routes and trails?”
“Such is a fair description,” admitted the man, “though our knowledge is local. Remember, this is the Great Erm, which sweeps on league after league without termination.”
“No matter,” said Cugel. “We require only transfer across the river, then guidance upon a secure route to the lands of the south.”
The man consulted the others of his group; all shook their heads. “There is no such route; the Mountains of Magnatz lie in the way.”
“Indeed,” said Cugel.
“If I were to ferry you across the river,” continued the old Busiaco, “you would be as good as dead, for the region is haunted by erbs and grues. Your sword would be useless: you carry only the weakest magic — this I know for we Busiacos smell magic as an erb sniffs out meat.”
“How then may we achieve our destination?” demanded Cugel.
The Busiacos showed little interest in the question. But the man next in age to the eldest, glancing at Derwe Coreme, had a sudden idea, and looked across the river as if pondering. The effort presently overwhelmed him, and he shook his head in defeat.
Cugel, observing carefully, asked, “What baffles you?”
“A problem of no great complexity,” replied the Busiaco. “We have small practice in logic and any difficulty thwarts us. I only speculated as to which of your belongings you would exchange for guidance through the forest.”
Cugel laughed heartily. “A good question. But I own only what you see: namely garments, shoes, cape and sword, all of which are necessary to me. Though, for a fact, I know an incantation which produces a jeweled button or two.”
“These would be small inducement. In a nearby crypt jewels are heaped as high as my head.”
Cugel rubbed his jaw reflectively. “The generosity of the Busiacos is everywhere known; perhaps you will lead us past this crypt.”
The Busiaco made a gesture of indifference. “If you wish, although it is adjacent to the den of a great mother gid, now in oestrus.”
“We will proceed directly toward the south,” said Cugel. “Come, let us depart at once.”
The Busiaco maintained his stubborn crouch. “You have no inducement to offer?”
“Only my gratitude, which is no small matter.”
“What of the woman? She is somewhat gaunt, but not unappealing. Since you must die in the Mountains of Magnatz, why waste the woman?”
“True.” Cugel turned to look at Derwe Coreme. “Perhaps we can come to terms.”
“What?” she gasped in outrage. “Do you dare suggest such a thing? I will drown myself in the river!”
Cugel took her aside. “I am not called Cugel the Clever for nothing,” he hissed in her ear. “Trust me to outwit this moon-calf!”
Derwe Coreme surveyed him with distrust, then turned away, tears of bitter anger streaming down her cheeks. Cugel addressed the Busiaco. “Your proposal is clearly the better part of wisdom; so now, let us be off.”
“The woman may remain here,” said the Busiaco, rising to his feet. “We walk an enchanted path and rigid discipline is necessary.”
Derwe Coreme took a determined stride toward the river. “No!” cried Cugel hastily. “She is of sentimental temperament, and wishes to see me safely on my way to the Mountains of Magnatz, even though it means my certain death.”
The Busiaco shrugged. “It is all one.” He led them aboard the raft, cast off the rope, and poled across the river. The water seemed shallow, the pole never descending more than a foot or two. It seemed to Cugel that wading across would have been simplicity itself.
The Busiaco, observing, said, “The river swarms with glass reptiles, and an unwary man, stepping forth, is instantly attacked.”
“Indeed!” said Cugel, eying the river dubiously.
“Indeed. And now I must caution you as to the path. We will meet all manner of persuasions, but as you value your life, do not step aside from where I lead.”
The raft reached the opposite bank; the Busiaco stepped ashore and made it fast to a tree. “Come now, after me.” He plunged confidently off among the trees. Derwe Coreme followed, with Cugel coming in the rear. The trail was so faint that Cugel could not distinguish it from the untrodden forest, but the Busiaco never faltered. The sun, hanging low behind the trees, could be glimpsed only infrequently. So they proceeded, through sylvan solitudes where not so much as a bird-call could be heard and Cugel was never certain of the direction they traveled.
The sun, passing its zenith, began to descend, and the trail became no more distinct. Cugel at last called ahead, “You are certain of the trail? It seems that we veer left and right at random.”
The Busiaco stopped to explain. “We of the forest are an ingenuous folk, but we have this peculiar facility.” He tapped his splayed nose significantly. “We can smell out magic. The trail we follow was ordained at a time too remote to be recalled, and yields its direction only to such as ourselves.”
“Possibly so,” said Cugel petulantly. “But it seems overly circuitous, and where are the fearsome creatures you mentioned? I have seen only a vole, and nowhere have I sensed the distinctive odor of the erb.”
The Busiaco shook his head in perplexity. “Unaccountably they have taken themselves elsewhere. Surely you do not complain? Let us proceed, before they return.” And he set forth once again, by a track no less indistinguishable than before.
The sun sank low. The forest thinned somewhat; scarlet rays slanted along the aisles, burnishing gnarled roots, gilding fallen leaves. The Busiaco stepped into a clearing, where he swung about with an air of triumph. “I have successfully achieved our goal!”
“How so?” demanded Cugel. “We are still deep in the forest.”
The Busiaco pointed across the clearing. “Notice the four well-marked and distinct trails?”
“This seems to be the case,” Cugel admitted grudgingly.
“One of these leads expeditiously to the southern verge. The others plunge into the forest depths, branching variously along the way.”
Derwe Coreme, peering through the branches, uttered a sharp ejaculation. “There, fifty paces yonder, is the river and the raft!”
