332

You ride slowly through the clammy fog which carpets the cobblestones of this ill-smelling lane. Clamped against the walls of the surrounding buildings are oil-soaked torches which serve to illuminate the signs of wine shops and taverns. They are crudely painted with emblems—a bloodied battle-axe, a winged horse, a watery sun rising from a broken skull. There is not one that resembles a crooked sage and you are beginning to lose heart when suddenly you hear the sound of drunken revelry coming from a two-storey building at the end of the street. Its oaken doors hang open and the vivid orange glare of its roaring hearth spills invitingly into the dank night gloom. Although it has no painted emblem, you sense at once that you have at last found the Crooked Sage Inn.

At your approach, a sallow-faced stable boy limps from a wooden hut which is leaning precariously against the side of the tavern wall. For one Gold Crown (erase this from your Action Chart), he takes charge of your horse and shows you to the taproom door.¹⁶

Turn to 21.