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 and 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 coroboration. 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 such that 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? Nol 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.”