unconsciousness.
So now, as he entered the Vulgar Unicorn, he muttered under his breath the
bitter advice he had given on those special occasions for what his father had
called ailments of the spirit. The words, heard only by himself, were: ‘What you
need, Alten, is a good stiff drink.’ It was the ancient prescription for calming
the overwrought or the overemotional. In its fashion, however, liquor in fact
was a concoction of brewed herbs, and so within his purview.
The smell of the inn was already in his nostrils. The dimly lit interior blanked
his vision. But Stulwig could see sufficiently well so that he was aware of
vague figures sitting at tables, and of the gleam of polished wood. He sniffed
the mingling odours of hot food cooking. And already felt better.
And he knew this interior sufficiently well. So he strode forwards confidently
towards the dividing barrier where the brew was normally dispensed. And he had
his lips parted to give his order when his eyes, more accustomed to the light,
saw who it was that was taking the orders.
”One-Thumb!’ The name was almost torn out of his lips; so great was his
surprise and delight.
Eagerly, he reached forwards and grasped the other’s thick hand. ‘My friend, you
had us all worried. You have been absent-‘ He stopped, confused. Because the
time involved even for a long journey was long. Much more than a year. He
finished his greeting with a gulp, ‘You are right welcome, sir.’
The owner of the Vulgar Unicorn had become more visible with each passing
moment. So that when he gestured with one of his big hands at a helper, Stulwig