He stalked from the common room, circled the inn, and looked through the dim light toward the shed. “Ho there!” he called. “Tyzog? Krednip? Come forth!”
There was no response. Lodermulch went to peer into the shed. As soon as he had stepped within, Cugel came around from the rear, slammed shut the door, threw bar and bolts.
Ignoring the muffled pounding and angry calls, Cugel returned into the inn. He sought out the innkeeper. “An alteration in arrangements: Lodermulch has been called away. He will require neither his chamber nor his roast fowl and has kindly urged both upon me!”
The innkeeper pulled at his beard, went to the door, looked up and down the road. Slowly he returned. “Extraordinary! He has paid for both chamber and fowl, and made no representations regarding rebate.”
“We arranged a settlement to our mutual satisfaction. To recompense you for extra effort, I now pay an additional three terces.”
The innkeeper shrugged, took the coins. “It is all the same to me. Come, I will lead you to the chamber.”
Cugel inspected the chamber and was well satisfied. Presently his supper was served. The roast fowl was beyond reproach, as were the additional dishes Lodermulch had ordered and which the landlord included with the meal.
Before retiring Cugel strolled behind the inn and satisfied himself that the bar at the door of the shed was in good order and that Lodermulch’s hoarse calls were unlikely to attract attention. He rapped sharply on the door. “Peace, Lodermulch!” he called out sternly. “This is I, the innkeeper! Do not bellow so loudly; you will disturb my guests at their slumber!”
Without waiting for reply, Cugel returned to the common room, where he fell into conversation with the leader of the pilgrim band. This was Garstang, a man spare and taut, with a waxen skin, a fragile skull, hooded eyes, a meticulous nose so thin as to be translucent when impinged across a light. Addressing him as a man of experience and erudition, Cugel inquired the route to Almery, but Garstang tended to believe the region sheerly imaginary.
Cugel asserted otherwise. “Almery is a region distinct; I vouch for this personally.”
“Your knowledge, then, is more profound than my own,” stated Garstang. “This river is the Asc; the land to this side is Sudun, across is Lelias. To the south lies Erze Damath, where you would be wise to travel, thence perhaps west across the Silver Desert and the Songan Sea, where you might make new inquiry.”
“I will do as you suggest,” said Cugel.
“We, devout Gilfigites all, are bound for Erze Damath and the Lustral Rite at the Black Obelisk,” said Garstang. “Since the route lies through wastes we are banded together against the erbs and gids. If you wish to join the group, to share both privileges and restrictions, you are welcome.”
“The privileges are self-evident,” said Cugel. “As to the restrictions?”
“Merely to obey the commands of the leader, which is to say, myself, and contribute a share of the expenses.”
“I agree, without qualification,” said Cugel.
“Excellent! We march on the morrow at dawn.” Garstang pointed out certain other members of the group, which numbered fifty-seven. “There is Vitz, locutor to our little band, and there sits Casmyre, the theoretician. The man with iron teeth is Arlo, and he of the blue hat and silver buckle is Voynod, a wizard of no small repute. Absent from the room is the estimable though agnostic Lodermulch, as well as the unequivocally devout Subucule. Perhaps they seek to sway each other’s convictions. The two who game with dice are Parso and Salanave. There is Hant, there Cray.” Garstang named several others, citing their attributes. At last Cugel, pleading fatigue, repaired to his chamber. He relaxed upon the couch and at once fell asleep.
During the small hours he was subjected to a disturbance. Lodermulch, digging into the floor of the shed, then burrowing under the wall, had secured his freedom, and went at once to the inn. First he tried the door to Cugel’s chamber, which Cugel had been at pains to lock.
“Who is there?” called Cugel.
“Open! It is I, Lodermulch. This is the chamber where I wish to sleep!”
“By no means,” declared Cugel. “I paid a princely sum to secure a bed, and was even forced to wait while the landlord evicted a previous tenant. Be off with you now; I suspect that you are drunk; if you wish further revelry, rouse the wine-steward.”
Lodermulch stamped away. Cugel lay back once more.
Presently he heard the thud of blows, and the landlord’s cry as Lodermulch seized his beard. Lodermulch was eventually thrust from the inn, by the joint efforts of the innkeeper, his spouse, the porter, the pot-boy and others; whereupon Cugel gratefully returned to sleep.
Before dawn the pilgrims, together with Cugel, arose and took their breakfast. The innkeeper seemed somewhat sullen of mood, and displayed bruises, but he put no questions to Cugel, who in his turn initiated no conversation.
After breakfast the pilgrims assembled in the road, where they were joined by Lodermulch, who had spent the night pacing up and down the road.
Garstang made a count of the group, then blew a great blast on his whistle. The pilgrims marched forward, across the bridge, and set off along the south bank of the Asc toward Erze Damath.
2
The Raft on the River
For three days the pilgrims proceeded beside the Asc, at night sleeping behind a barricade evoked by the wizard Voynod from a circlet of ivory slivers: a precaution of necessity, for beyond the bars, barely visible by the rays of the fire, were creatures anxious to join the company: deodands softly pleading, erbs shifting posture back and forth from four feet to two, comfortable in neither style. Once a gid attempted to leap the barricade; on another occasion three hoons joined to thrust against the posts — backing off, racing forward, to strike with grunts of effort, while from within the pilgrims watched in fascination.
Cugel stepped close, to touch a flaming brand to one of the heaving shapes, and elicited a scream of fury. A great gray arm snatched through the gap; Cugel jumped back for his life. The barricade held and presently the creatures fell to quarreling and departed.
On the evening of the third day the party came to the confluence of the Asc with a great slow river which Garstang identified as the Scamander. Nearby stood a forest of tall baldamas, pines and spinth oaks. With the help of local wood-cutters trees were felled, trimmed, conveyed to the water’s edge, where a raft was fabricated. With all the pilgrims aboard, the raft was poled out into the current where it drifted down-stream in ease and silence.
For five days the raft moved on the broad Scamander, sometimes almost out of sight of the banks, sometimes gliding close beside the reeds which lined the shore. With nothing better to do the pilgrims engaged in lengthy disputations, and the diversity of opinion upon every issue was remarkable. As often as not the talk explored metaphysical arcana, or the subtleties of Gilfigite principle.
Subucule, the most devout of the pilgrims, stated his credo in detail. Essentially he professed the orthodox Gilfigite theosophy, in which Zo Zam, the eight-headed deity, after creating Cosmos, struck off his toe, which then became Gilfig, while the drops of blood dispersed to form the eight races of mankind. Roremaund, a skeptic, attacked the doctrine: “Who created this hypothetical ‘creator’ of yours? Another ‘creator’? Far simpler merely to presuppose the end product: in this case, a blinking sun and a dying earth!” To which Subucule cited the Gilfigite Text in crushing refutal.
One named Bluner staunchly propounded his own creed. He believed the sun to be a cell in the corpus of a great deity, who had created the cosmos in a process analogous to the growth of a lichen along a rock.
Subucule considered the thesis over-elaborate: “If the sun were a cell, what then becomes the nature of the earth?”
“An animalcule deriving nutriment,” replied Bluner. “Such dependencies are known elsewhere and need not evoke astonishment.”
“What then attacks the sun?” demanded Vitz in scorn. “Another animalcule similar to earth?”
Bluner began a detailed exposition of his organon, but before long was interrupted by Pralixus, a tall thin man with piercing green eyes. “Listen to me; I know all; my doctrine is simplicity itself. A vast number of conditions are possible, and there are an even greater number of impossibilities. Our cosmos is a possible condition: it exists. Why? Time is infinite, which is to say that every possible condition must come to pass. Since we reside in this particular possibility and know of no other, we arrogate to ourselves the quality of singleness. In truth, any universe which is possible sooner or later, not once but many times, will exist.”
“I tend to a similar doctrine, though a devout Gilfigite,” stated Casmyre the theoretician. “My philosophy presupposes a succession of creators, each absolute in his own right. To paraphrase the learned Pralixus, if a deity is possible, it must exist! Only impossible deities will not exist! The eight-headed Zo Zam who struck off his Divine Toe is possible, and hence exists, as is attested by the Gilfigite Texts!”
Subucule blinked, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it once more. Roremaund, the skeptic, turned away to inspect the waters of the Scamander.
