“We will lose our way.”

“The sun hangs in the south: this is our guide.”

Derwe Coreme shrugged once more; they plunged forward into the shade. The trees stood tall overhead and the sunlight, filtered through the foliage, only exaggerated the gloom. Coming upon a stream, they walked along its banks and presently entered a glade where flowed a brimming river.

On the bank near a moored raft sat four men in ragged garments. Cugel looked Derwe Coreme over critically, and took the jeweled buttons from her garments. “These by all odds are bandits and we must lull their cupidity, even though they seem a poor lot.”

“Better that we avoid them,” said Derwe Coreme. “They are animals, no better.”

Cugel demurred. “We need their raft and their guidance, which we must command; if we supplicate, they will believe themselves to have a choice, and become captious.” He strode forward and Derwe Coreme willy-nilly was forced to follow.

The rogues did not improve upon closer view. Their hair was long and, matted, their faces gnarled, with eyes like beetles and mouths showing foul yellow teeth. Withal, their expressions were mild enough, and they watched Cugel and Derwe Coreme approach with wariness rather than belligerence. One of them, it so appeared, was a woman, though this was hardly evident from garments, face or refinement of manner. Cugel gave them a salute of lordly condescension, at which they blinked in puzzlement.

“What people are you?” asked Cugel.

“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 Magnate 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, and 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.”