“Well, if he isn’t a magician,” the first man said lightly, “he’ll wish he were, soon enough.” He sheathed his sword and bowed to Schmendrick and Molly. “I am Drinn,” he said, “and it is possibly a pleasure to welcome you to Hagsgate. You spoke of being hungry, I believe. That’s easily remedied‌—‌and then perhaps you will do us a good turn in your professional capacity. Come with me.”

Grown suddenly gracious and apologetic, he led them toward a lighted inn, while the three other men followed close behind. More townsfolk came running up now, streaming eagerly from their houses with their own dinners half-eaten and their tea left steaming; so that by the time Schmendrick and Molly were seated, there were nearly a hundred people wedged together on the inn’s long benches, jamming into the doorway and falling through the windows. The unicorn, unnoticed, paced slowly after: a white mare with strange eyes.

The man named Drinn sat at the same table with Schmendrick and Molly, chattering as they ate, and filling their glasses with a furry black wine. Molly Grue drank very little. She sat quietly looking at the faces around her and noting that none seemed any younger than Drinn’s face, though a few were much older. There was a way in which all the Hagsgate faces were very much alike, but she could not find it.

“And now,” Drinn said when the meal was over, “now you must permit me to explain why we greeted you so uncivilly.”

“Pish, no need.” Schmendrick chuckled. The wine had made him chuckly and easy, and had brightened his green eyes to gold. “What I want to know is the reason for the rumors that have Hagsgate full of ghouls and werewolves. Most absurd thing I ever heard of.”

Drinn smiled. He was a knotty man with a turtle’s hard, empty jaws. “It’s the same thing,” he said. “Listen. The town of Hagsgate is under a curse.”

The room was suddenly very still, and in the beery light the faces of the townsfolk looked as tight and pale as cheese. Schmendrick laughed again. “A blessing, you mean. In this bony kingdom of old Haggard’s, you are like another land altogether‌—‌a spring, an oasis. I agree with you that there’s enchantment here, but I drink to it.”

Drinn stopped him as he raised his glass. “Not that toast, my friend. Will you drink to a woe fifty years old? It is that long since our sorrow fell, when King Haggard built his castle by the sea.”

“When the witch built it, I think.” Schmendrick wagged a finger at him. “Credit where it’s due, after all.”

“Ah, you know that story,” Drinn said. “Then you must also know that Haggard refused to pay the witch when her task was completed.”

The magician nodded. “Aye,” and she cursed him for his greed‌—‌cursed the castle, rather. But what had that to do with Hagsgate? The town had done the witch no wrong.”

“No,” Drinn replied. “But neither had it done her any good. She could not unmake the castle‌—‌or would not, for she fancied herself an artistic sort and boasted that her work was years ahead of its time. Anyway, she came to the elders of Hagsgate and demanded that they force Haggard to pay what was due her. ‘Look at me and see yourselves,’ she rasped. ‘That’s the true test of a town, or of a king. A lord who cheats an ugly old witch will cheat his own folk by and by. Stop him while you can, before you grow used to him.’” Drinn sipped his wine and thoughtfully filled Schmendrick’s glass once more.