Up ahead was a crossroads. A building squatted on a low rise just beyond. Candlelight bled from its shuttered windows.

Kruppe smiled. 'Of course, an inn. Far has the journey been, clear the need for a place of rest and relaxation for the weary traveller. Such as Kruppe, wizened adventurer with more than a few leagues under his belt, not to mention spanning it.' He hurried forward.

A broad, bare-limbed tree marked the crossroads. From one heavy branch something long and wrapped in burlap swung creaking in the wind. Kruppe spared it but the briefest glance. He came to the path and began his ascent.

'Ill judgement, pronounces Kruppe. Inns for the dusty journeyman should not sit atop hills. The curse of climbing is discovering how great the distance yet to climb. A word to the proprietor shall be necessary. Once sweet ale has soothed the throat, slabs of juicy red meat and broiled yams eased the gullet, and clean, anointed bandages clothed the feet. Such repairs must take precedence over flaws in planning such as Kruppe sees here.'

His monologue fell away, replaced by gasps as he struggled up the path. When he arrived at the door Kruppe was so winded that he did not even so much as look up, merely pushed against the weathered panel until it swung inward with a squeal of rusty hinges. 'Alas!' he cried, pausing to brush the sleeves of his coat. 'A foamy tankard for this ...' His voice died as he surveyed the array of grimy faces turned to him. 'Methinks the business is poor,' he mumbled. The place was indeed an inn – or it had been, perhaps a century past. ' 'Tis rain in the night air,' he said, to the half-dozen beggars crouched around a thick tallow candle set on the earthen floor.

One of the fellows nodded. 'We will grant you audience, hapless one.' He waved at a straw mat. 'Be seated and entertain our presence.'

Kruppe raised an eyebrow. 'Kruppe is graced by your invitation, sire.' He dipped his head, then strode forward. 'But, please, do not think he is bereft of contributions to this honoured gathering.' He sat down cross-legged, grunting with the effort, and faced the one who had spoken. 'He would break bread with you all.' From a sleeve he withdrew a small rye loaf. A bread knife appeared in his other hand. 'Known to friends and strangers alike is Kruppe, the man now seated before you. Inhabitant of yon glittering Darujhistan, the mystic jewel of Genabackis, the juicy grape ripe for picking.' He produced a chunk of goat cheese and smiled broadly at the faces before him. 'And this is his dream.'

'So it is,' the beggars' spokesman said, his lined face crinkling with amusement. 'It ever pleases us when we taste your particular flavour, Kruppe of Darujhistan. And always are we pleased at your travelling appetites.'